My eyes meet the Mogadorian’s, and he bursts into a heap of ash. For a crazy moment I think the intensity of my own thoughts is what killed him, but then I see that standing just behind him is the Mogadorian from the café. The one with the book, the one I’ve been running from. I don’t understand. Does their selfishness run so deep that they’ll kill one another to be the one who kills me?

“Marina,” he says.

“I, I can kill you,” I say in a shaky voice full of sorrow. The blood continues flowing from my shoulder and runs down my arm. I look over at Adelina’s body and start to cry.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he says, jogging over to me and reaching out his hand. “Time is extremely short,” he says. “I’m one of you, and I’m here to help.”

I take his hand. What other choice do I have? He pulls me up, and from the nave before any others arrive. He leads me down the northern hallway and to the second floor, heading towards the belfry tower. My shoulder screams in pain with each step.

“Who are you?” I ask. A hundred different questions race through my head. If he’s one of us, then why did it take him so long to tell me? Why torture me into believing he was one of them? Can I even trust him?

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Keep quiet.”

The musty hallway is silent, and as it narrows, I hear dozens of heavy footsteps on the floor below us. Finally, we reach the oak door. It opens just a crack, and a girl’s head sticks out. I gasp. Auburn hair, curious brown eyes, small features. She’s older by years, but there’s no mistaking that it’s her.

“Ella?” I ask.

She looks eleven years old, maybe twelve. Her face, which brightens at the sight of mine, is more slender now. Ella pulls the door open so we can enter.

“Hi, Marina,” she says in a voice I don’t recognize.

The man pulls me in, shutting the door. He wedges a thick wooden board between the door and the bottom stair, and the three of us rush up the circular stone steps. When we get to the belfry, I take another look at Ella. All I can do is stare at her, wide-eyed and confused, no longer feeling the blood rolling down my arm, dripping from my fingertips.

“Marina, my name is Crayton,” the man says. “I’m sorry about your Cêpan. I wish I had gotten there sooner.”

“Adelina’s dead?” the older version of Ella asks.

“I don’t understand,” I say, still staring at Ella.

“We’ll explain it all to you, I promise. There isn’t much time. You’re losing a lot of blood,” Crayton says. “You can heal people, correct? Can you heal yourself?”