I rap my knuckles against the door a little harder, and this time the door gives a little, like it’s unlocked. I try the knob, which turns easily, cold in my palm.

Something icy crawls up the chambers of my heart.

With sickening ease, I push the door open.

“Hello?” I call, praying I find Oliver napping in bed, waking surprised and delighted to see me.

But I don’t.

The room is dim, the sun is sinking lower by the minute. I would light the lamp, but it’s smashed all over the floor.

The whole room is in disarray, like a tornado tore through it only seconds ago. The coatrack is tipped over, clothing strewn across the floor, one shirt with a muddy footprint planted directly on it. The red quilt Oliver’s mother made him for his fifth birthday is rumpled in a corner, as if tossed. The mirror is shattered, shards of it everywhere. One piece reflects my stunned face back up at me from the floor.

It’s a horrible moment of stillness, like the lights have been flicked on and the music stopped at a three a.m. party. All at once, with shattering clarity, every ounce of hope leaves my body. Like it was all an illusion to begin with. Nothing today was real, but this is.

Something terrible has happened.

Someone put up a fight.

But against who?

Why?

When?

And most importantly, where is Oliver?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I want to collapse to my knees in fear. The warmth I felt moments ago dies in my chest, leaving nothing but the prickling cold of pure terror.

I scan the room for clues but there is nothing distinctive to be made out of the chaos.

I don’t have time to search. All I have is instinct and the awful feeling this can’t be a coincidence.

I think of the dead boys, splayed out on the altars of churches across the city, of the veil, of Finn walking away from Maxine’s flat this evening.

I turn for the door, and I run.

If anything happens to Oliver, I’ll kill Finn with my bare hands. I don’t know how I’ll go on. Maybe I’ll fling myself into the veil to join him.

I sprint through the campus and down the sidewalk. I’m not far. I’m on the right side of the river, it’s a straight shot up Boulevard Saint-Germain. But my legs feel like sandbags after climbing the Eiffel Tower today. Every slap of my boot against the pavement is accompanied by a horrible image: Oliver dead, his green eyes unseeing, his body laid out on an altar.