His breath hitched, copper filling his mouth, and then he was back on the floor of a darkened apartment at Lockland, sitting in a pool of blood, carving lines into his arms and asking God to tell him why, to take the power when he didn’t need it anymore.

Now, as he looked up from the hole in his chest, he saw the girl, her white-blond hair and ice blue eyes, so familiar, beyond the barrel of the gun.

Serena?

But then Eli was falling—

He never hit the ground.

XXII

THE LAST NIGHT

Exodus

SAFE

SYDNEY stood at the mouth of the storage locker, still gripping the gun.

Dol whined behind her, pacing nervously, but Sydney kept the weapon trained on Eli, waiting for him to get back up, to turn on her, to shake his head at her weapon, her futile attempt to stop him.

Eli didn’t rise.

But Victor did. He struggled to his feet, one hand to the shallow wound at his throat as he said, “He’s dead.”

The words seemed wrong, impossible. Victor didn’t seem to believe them, and neither could Sydney.

Eli was— forever. An immortal ghost, a monster who would follow Sydney through every nightmare, every year, plaguing her until there was no one left to hide behind, nowhere left to run.

Eli Ever wouldn’t die.

Couldn’t die.

But there he was on the ground—lifeless. She fired two more shots into his back, just to be sure. And then Victor was there, guiding the gun from her white-knuckled grip, repeating himself in a slow, steady voice.

“He’s dead.”

Sydney dragged her eyes away from Eli’s body, and studied Victor.

The ribbon of blood running from his throat. The hole in his shoulder.

The arm he’d wrapped around his ribs.

“You’re hurt.”

“I am,” said Victor. “But I’m alive.”

Car doors slammed nearby, and Victor tensed. “EON,” he muttered, putting himself in front of Sydney as footsteps pounded down the hall.

But Dol only watched, and waited, and when the door rose the rest of the way, it wasn’t soldiers, but Mitch.

He paled as he took in the storage locker, the makeshift operating table, the bodies on the floor, Victor’s injuries, and the gun in Sydney’s hand. “EON’s not far behind me,” he said. “We have to go. Now.”

Sydney started forward, but Victor didn’t follow. She pulled on his arm, felt instantly guilty when she saw the pain cross his face, and realized how much of the blood in here must be his.

“Can you walk?” she pleaded.

“You go ahead,” he said tightly.

“No,” said Sydney. “We’re not splitting up.”

Victor turned and, cringing, knelt in front of her.

“There’s something I have to do.” Sydney was already shaking her head, but Victor reached out and put a hand on her cheek, the gesture so strange, so gentle, it stopped her cold.