By nightfall the fog is so thick that I can’t see more than twenty feet in front of me. The streetlights glow amber in the haze, reminding me of minerals in a fire. Cyrus once charmed me with colored fire instead of a bouquet of flowers, the pale powders in his palm giving little clue to the hue they brought to the flame. It seemed like magic, those little flames glowing red, glowing violet, the color of cat’s-eyes lapping at the dark. But it was only science—borax, copper chloride, potassium sulfate. I know that now.

It’s just before ten PM when Charlotte and I arrive at Emerald City; the others have been at the club all day preparing. A large crowd of people is gathered outside the doors, bouncers holding them at bay while they check the guest list. Jared gives me an appreciative glance and parts the crowd for us to go inside.

I shiver in my oyster-colored silk shift dress, a modern version of the one my real body died in so many years ago. I’ve always valued symmetry, and this feels like a fitting tribute to my original incarnation. A small car key is pinned to the underside of my bra strap, laying flat against my heart. I wear no jewelry except for my poison ring, the hidden compartment of which contains my parting gift for Cyrus.

The second I step inside I’m overwhelmed by the thumping bass and loud voices. I walk slowly up the stairs, my heart pumping weakly. Charlotte places a steadying hand on my lower back.

“Sera, you really shouldn’t wait this long to take a new body,” she whispers in a worried tone. “You’re pushing it.”

“You know me,” I say with a forced laugh. “Always living on the edge.”

Cyrus is waiting for us just inside the door. His eyes flicker with purpose under the low tracking lighting. “Seraphina, you look so beautiful,” he murmurs, pulling me close. I am enveloped in his herbal scent, his strong arms. A memory of the masquerade ball rises in my mind, but I push it down. Nostalgia is my enemy tonight. I can’t look backward.

“This is amazing,” Charlotte says, smoothing down her green sequined dress. “I’ve never been inside Emerald City before.”

The interior of the club is all shades of green—velvet couches the color of damp pine needles, intricate stained-glass chandeliers in chartreuse, wallpaper in turquoise. Waitresses cross the crowd with trays of absinthe and Midori in small crystal glasses.

Not long ago I would have loved a party like this—dancing till dawn, slipping through the crowd with purpose, making eye contact with Cyrus as we decided, together, who my victim would be. There is something undeniably thrilling about this part. The promise that, no matter what, I can change my body. That I can walk out a new person, presenting a brand-new face to the world. If only my memories were as easy to shed.

“You fit right in with that dress,” I tell Charlotte. “But in the first Oz book, the Emerald City isn’t really green. The Wizard makes everyone wear green-tinted glasses, so that’s what they see.”

Cyrus frowns, as though I’ve insulted his choice of venue. I put my hand on his arm. “I think I’ll get myself a glass of champagne.”

He brightens. “Yes, go get a drink, and don’t forget to . . . look around.” He finishes this statement with a sly grin and a knowing look. My stomach turns, but I make myself return his smile.

Charlotte and I cross the dance floor, which pulses with bodies dancing to electronic beats. The DJ is playing a remix of the old Neil Young song “Heart of Gold.” It makes me unaccountably sad.

I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold. And I’m getting old.

Charlotte looks behind her to make sure I’ve followed. “Let’s dance after this?” She has to shout to be heard. I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. Yes.

She asks the bartender for two Midori sours with wedges of watermelon, and we toast. “To new beginnings, and old friends,” she says.

“Cheers.” I smile, and we clink glasses. “Friends forever.”

The cold melon-flavored sweetness of the Midori trickles down my throat, and I am reminded of the summer we lived in Alabama. Cyrus found us a broken-down farmhouse with a brilliant red barn out back and a massive watermelon patch. Charlotte and I spent hours in the cool shade of the barn, the smell of hay and horses all around us, eating watermelon after watermelon and making wishes on the sticky black seeds.

I wish to fall in love.

I wish to live forever.

I wish to be friends until the end of time.

I have only one wish for Charlotte now. I take her wrist, suddenly urgent. “Charlotte you need to tell Sébastien how you feel. Promise me this.”

Charlotte’s smile falters. “Sera, you know what Cyrus would say.”

“Screw Cyrus.” When I see the stricken look on her face, I soften my tone. “What is eternal life without love?”

Cyrus appears behind us at the bar and encircles my waist with his arm. I twist to the side so he won’t notice the folded note in my pocket. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he murmurs. He must have already made his choice. It didn’t take long.

I take a deep breath and pluck the empty wineglass from his hand. “Let me refill that for you, then I’ll be right there.” He kisses the side of my neck, then nods toward a girl standing alone under a chandelier, light falling in lacy patterns on her gleaming chestnut hair. She looks almost exactly like me, a minor variation on a theme.

When he’s gone, I pull Charlotte toward me in a tight hug. “Thanks for being my best friend, Char. I mean it.” When I pull back, my eyes are filled with tears. I blink them back.

“My sensitive Seraphina.” She pushes my hair back and holds her palm to my icy cheek for a moment. “I will see the new you soon enough.”

I swallow hard as the bartender places a full glass of red wine in front of me. I pick it up and make my way through the crowd toward Cyrus and the girl. When I’m confident no one is looking, I flick open my poison ring and, in one practiced movement, dump its contents into the glass. Then I stride forward, catching Cyrus’s eye. He looks pleased.

I feel a flash of sadness for him. Cyrus, my alchemist love, the one who made magic real, the one who lives for illusion, who says, Yes, the fire only burns violet for you, Seraphina. Cyrus, who grips me so tightly I feel like I’m choking, who made me a killer, who would rather kill me himself than lose me. He’s told me so, many times. But after tonight, I’ll be gone—and for the first time in hundreds of years, we’ll both be alone.

four

I walk toward Cyrus, my strides matching the incessant thump of the music. My heart hammers in my chest, and I am careful not to let the wine slosh over the edge of the glass. I don’t look at it, knowing from long experience that I am more graceful when I don’t try to be. Trust yourself, Sera. Don’t think, just act.

“Hi, I’m Sera,” I say to the girl, handing Cyrus his wine and taking her hand in mine. She’s stunningly beautiful, with rich, espresso-colored hair and warm brown eyes framed by inky lashes. A rosy flush on her prominent cheekbones sets off the light olive hue of her skin. Apart from our coloring, we could be sisters.

“I’m Claudia,” she responds, with a hint of a German accent. “Cyrus tells me you’re a photographer?”

Cyrus catches my eye, urging me to follow his lead. “I was telling Claudia about the photo shoot you’re working on—you’re still casting models, right?”

“Right—yes, we’re still looking.” The girl is watching me with hopeful, innocent eyes, and I picture how this night could progress in some alternate reality. We’d go upstairs and talk. I’d draw her in, build her trust in me, tell her about the months I spent in Munich and about Café Frischut, my favorite coffee shop there, until she came willingly to my arms. My cold mouth would close over hers and in a flash of violet light, I would feel a surge of power and claim her body for my own.

Suddenly my resolve slips. My soul may be ready to die, but there is a part of me that only knows how to keep living, no matter the cost. I can still change my mind, I think. I can take her body, find Charlotte and dance with her, lose myself in the unrelenting music. I can go home with Cyrus. I can stay his.

But then I look at Claudia, at the way she nervously twirls the marcasite ring on her index finger, and remember exactly why I must hold firm.

Cyrus takes a sip of wine and furrows his brow. “Is this the Pinot Noir?” he asks. My heart starts to slam in my chest—I can’t decide if I’m more terrified that he’ll taste the sedative, or that he won’t.

“No,” I reply as innocently as possible, “the Cabernet.”

He takes another sip. “It’s good,” he says, flashing me a dazzling smile.

“It’s so loud down here.” I turn to Claudia. “Why don’t we go somewhere more private, where we can talk about the shoot?” Cyrus tips the wineglass to his lips again, and I silently will him to slow down. I’ve got to get him out of here before the powder takes effect.

“Yes, that would be fantastic,” she agrees. I lead them to the back of the club, where a heavy green-velvet drape obscures a stairway.

“There’s a private lounge up here.” I glance behind me. The girl is sure-footed, confident, while Cyrus misses a step and nearly drops his glass. But hundreds of years of existing in human bodies have granted us an effortless, feline grace, and he recovers easily.

The walls of the stairwell are lined with jade-and-gold-striped wallpaper, and dim rose-colored bulbs flicker in copper sconces. At the top a long hallway leads us to our destination. Jared and Amelia stand guard outside but move aside to let us pass. I float by them on a nervous cloud. Amelia gives me a strange look, as though she can see deep inside me, her avian eyes wary and her head cocked to the side. I want to say I’ll miss her, but it is actually a relief to know that I will soon be free of her.

Claudia and Cyrus enter the lounge, and I close the heavy walnut door behind us, locking it. Cyrus is surprised—I know he wants it open for Jared and Amelia in case anything goes wrong—but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s beautiful,” Claudia says breathlessly, taking in the walls made of milky green glass, backlit by twinkling lights. The ceiling is covered with gossamer fabric, billowing softly in the breeze wafting in from the open balcony doors. This private room with its balcony is exactly why I asked Cyrus to hold my party here.

“Glad you like.” Cyrus’s voice is slightly slurred as he steers her toward a cluster of couches and sits down. He rubs his eyes as if to clear his vision. I take a nervous gulp of air and hand Claudia a glass of absinthe, trying to find a comfortable position on the pillows piled on the floor. I try not to look at the balcony doors. Even in his impaired state, I’m terrified that Cyrus can read my intentions. My good-bye note feels heavy in my pocket.

“So, Claudia, tell me about yourself. You’re not from San Francisco, are you?” I lace my fingers together to keep from tapping them impatiently. Cyrus’s wine is half gone.

“No,” she replies. “I am from Munich.”

“Traveling with friends?” I ask.

“Oh no, traveling alone. I adore it. I’ve been all over, but San Francisco is an amazing city. That’s why I want to get a job here, so I can stay.”

Even though Claudia will ultimately survive the night, rage courses through me. Cyrus knows my one criterion—that I only take bodies ready for death, either physically or spiritually. But Claudia is clearly healthy and happy and looking forward to her future. She is alone and beautiful—all that Cyrus needs to know to decide she deserves death.

Cyrus, pale and with dilated pupils, shoots me a smile devoid of any trace of remorse. I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself not to give in to the anger that’s sparking in my heart.

Claudia smiles shyly. “So tell me about the photo shoot.” She crosses her legs and touches her hair. “I have done some modeling.”

I stand up, needing to dispel my anger somehow, and the effort causes the room to swim briefly in misty gray. I walk slowly over to the bar, feeling their eyes on my back. I pull a bottle of water out of the minifridge. “The shoot, right.” My voice sounds thick. “It’s an editorial piece. It should feel like a fairy tale.”

“Like Snow White?” she asks. “That is my favorite story.”

I glance at Cyrus. “You remember that story. Is it like that?” I ask him.

His expression is dreamy. “The wicked queen demands Snow White’s heart,” he whispers, and something snaps inside of me. I walk over to the leaf-green sofa where he sits.

“But she doesn’t get it!” I say. “Snow White tricks her and sends her the heart of a deer instead.”

He sees my rage, but just smiles and drains his glass in one swallow. Suddenly I realize just how much I’m going to enjoy what’s about to happen.

One, I count silently.

His eyes, which had begun to close, fly open, and his hand snakes out and grabs my wrist.

“What’s going on?” asks Claudia.

Two.

I lean close to Cyrus, ignoring the pain in my wrist. “She doesn’t deserve to die. None of them did.”

“Sera?” His voice is weak and his grip on my wrist loosens.

“Good-bye,” I answer.

Three.

His eyelids flutter, then close, as he slumps forward. I plunge my hand into my dress and pull out the note, slipping it into his pants pocket. I feel his hand fall away from my arm as he crumples onto the low table, his head making a loud thump as it hits the glass.

Claudia lets out a scared gasp. “Run!” I whisper. Then I dash toward the balcony doors, and like a bird taking flight, I am free, out into the night.

five

The balcony swirls with fog. I swing my legs over the railing, slippery with marine air. I lose my grip and force myself to focus. One misplaced hand and I will tumble to the concrete below. I do intend to die tonight, but not here. Not like this.

I can hear Claudia yelling inside and grit my teeth. I should have spiked her drink too. One of my shoes slips off. As it disappears into the fog, I picture it bouncing on the sidewalk. I struggle to find a foothold. Amelia had trained me as an acrobat, but that was a long time ago, and my body is very weak.

Breathing hard, I kick off the other shoe and ignore a pounding sound above—Jared and Amelia kicking in the door. I can’t afford to dwell on it, so I keep moving. Bit by bit, I make my way down.

Once on the sidewalk, I can’t hear anything else from above; all other sound is swallowed by the dance music pouring from the club. I shove through the crowd still waiting to get in to Emerald City, then start running up Spear Street.

Each time my foot lands on the pavement, hot pain shoots up through my body. My breath comes in rasps and my lungs feel as though they’re collapsing. But I know what I’m running toward and push myself forward. It’s 11:17 PM; I have ten minutes before the next train leaves the BART station.

I hear a shout behind me and whip my head around, nearly losing my balance. It’s only an old homeless man having an argument with a street sign. After that I keep my gaze focused straight ahead, too terrified to glance backward.

“Sera! Stop!” Jared yells. I run even faster, my dress swishing against my thighs and my hair lifting high behind me in the damp wind. It feels like my skin is falling off my bones, and I know my bare feet are probably bleeding. My failing heart beats erratically in my chest, fluttering like a trapped bird. I pray I have the strength to reach my getaway car. That’s all I need, I plead with my body. Please.

Finally daring to look behind me, I see Jared gaining on me, Amelia only a few steps behind. He would love nothing more than to drag me back to Cyrus like a puppy who’d gone off leash. Amelia, on the other hand, would probably be happier if I disappeared forever, though loyalty to Cyrus is all the impetus she needs to join the pursuit.

The BART station sign looms in the distance, its black-and-blue logo illuminated but out of focus in the fog. There’s more foot traffic as I get closer to the Embarcadero stop, and I shove people out of my way. “Watch it!” I hear as I blaze by.

It’s a game night, and every other person is wearing the Giants’ colors. A woman decked out in an orange-and-black jersey pushes an empty stroller. I misjudge her direction and trip over the stroller, falling to my knees on the sidewalk.

“Sera! Stay there!” Jared’s voice has an undercurrent of panic. If he goes back empty-handed, Cyrus will surely “have words” with him. I know all about the very real scars those words can leave.

Scrambling to my feet, I take off again, Jared and Amelia only a block behind me now. I look back once more and make sure they’re watching as I finally reach the BART station entrance, shoving through drunken baseball fans down the escalator. I hop the turnstile without paying, hurrying toward the rising wind and industrial screech of the trains rumbling into the station.

The platform is packed with Giants fans, all orange and disorganized and jubilant. The arriving train is headed for the East Bay, and the crowd struggles to board. I catch sight of my reflection in a window: wild-eyed, hair a tangled mess, dress torn, blood dribbling down my knees.

“Seraphina! You need. To. Stop!” Jared’s voice is urgent and close. I turn around and catch his eye, then push my way onto the East Bay–bound train. People give me a wide berth, and I feel someone touching my hand. I gasp and look down—but it’s only an older woman sitting near the doors. “You okay, honey?” I nod wordlessly, eyes trained on the platform. Amelia and Jared dash into a car two down from mine.

“The doors are closing. Please stand clear,” says the conductor.

That’s my cue. I spring into action.

The rumble and horn of an approaching train—heading in the opposite direction—are the only sounds I hear. I dart out of the car just before the doors close and dodge across the platform, sidestepping people and slipping toward the front of the crowd as the San Francisco–bound airport train opens its doors with a sigh. Pinned by the window, I turn and look behind me, where the East Bay train has yet to depart. Jared and Amelia are still on the other train, scanning the crowd.

Amelia’s eyes lock with mine. I’ve been seen. It doesn’t matter. Their train is already chugging to life and sliding out of the station. They’ll be stuck on it for the long ride under the bay, between the Embarcadero and West Oakland stations, giving me a good twenty-minute head start if they decide to come back after me.

I ride for only two stops and exit with the crush of people at Powell Street. No doubt Jared and Amelia will think I’m headed deeper into the city, toward the airport. But when Cyrus wakes up, he’ll find my note and realize I haven’t boarded any planes.

The rush of adrenaline has worn off, and I’m exhausted. But still, I am free to follow this night’s course of action to its dark finish. The wind has stopped, allowing the fog to settle thickly over the neighborhood. It turns city blocks into something more private, like small, silent rooms. Through the haze the fractured beam of a streetlight glints off a metal surface. I squint—it’s the car. I had kept it hidden near our apartment and driven it over earlier today. Two soggy parking tickets are plastered to the windshield, but I say a prayer of thanks that it hasn’t been towed.

I bought the dusty old Ford off Craigslist a few weeks earlier. I gave the seller a fake name and paid his price without complaint, though I knew it was high, handing over an envelope filled with cash. I’d been saving money bit by bit for years—ten dollars here, twenty there—small enough amounts that Cyrus would never notice. I didn’t even start saving it consciously—it was more instinctual. One day after buying a coffee I slipped the change into the book I was reading, then told Cyrus the cashier must have shorted me. It gave me a small thrill to disobey him, to finally have something that was mine.

I reach into the bodice of my dress and unpin the key I’d affixed to my bra strap. In the trunk I find my getaway bag—it holds a change of clothes, Cyrus’s book, and the rest of my emergency money. I’m going to drive down to Big Sur tonight. I want to be among the redwoods and waterfalls when I die.

I tug on my jeans and sweater, dropping my soiled dress in the trunk and slipping my bruised feet into a pair of sneakers. My hands shake as I slide into the driver’s seat and press the key into the ignition. The throbbing in my temples and the blue hue of my fingers tell me I may not make it to Big Sur. But I have to try.

The engine starts and I pull out into traffic, heading toward the bridge. I shake my head with disbelief—after six hundred years with Cyrus, I am finally free. I will never again, I promise myself, kill an innocent. I press harder on the accelerator as the car rumbles onto the bridge, leaving San Francisco—and my past—far behind.

six

I drive with the windows wide open, drinking in the world and fresh air while I still have time. The pavement thrums under the wheels, carrying me forward, and I feel a flush of excitement. I know it’s morbid, but death is unexplored territory. Not even Cyrus knows what happens after we die.

With every mile I put between me and Cyrus, I feel a weight lifting. Even in the rain, California has never looked so beautiful and alive. I glance up at the stars, pinpricks pushing through the clouds, like they might fall into the bay.

I hope you’re out there, Mother, I think, because I’m coming.

But my euphoria comes at a high price, quickly sapping my remaining energy. My hands shake on the steering wheel and my vision blurs, turning the oncoming headlights into long yellow ribbons. I barely have enough energy to push the gas pedal. A car honks and swerves around me, and I fear that I’m no longer in charge of my body.

I let out a little sigh and tighten my grip on the wheel. I had wanted to go all the way to Big Sur, to be deep in the pines, listening to nothing but the cold wind and the hooting of owls on gnarled branches, but I’m fading—fast. I won’t make it to Big Sur. Even if I tried, I would probably get into a car accident and end up killing someone else in the process.

Oakland, I decide, is as good a place as any to die. The road turns sharply as I begin the descent from Treasure Island toward Oakland, passing a tattered and faded billboard advertising a judgment day that never came. Beyond that, an eerie cluster of shipping-container cranes look out over the Oakland port like ancient guardians of the city.

I guide the car down Franklin Street, toward Jack London Square. A lone light shines on the loading docks of Second Street, illuminating the small droplets of mist that hang in the night air. I pull over on a side street, holding my head in my hands. The wave of weakness crests, then recedes. Trembling, I pull the key from the ignition, hoist my bag on my shoulder, and set off silently through the gloom. Sidestepping slicks of oil and crumbling potholes, I make my way toward a neon sign that reads SALOON, tucked under a termite-gnawed eave.

I know my time is short, but still, I’m not going to die sitting in my car. Though our original bodies die a human death, our stolen bodies collapse into dust when we leave them, exhausted from the energy it takes to host a foreign soul. I want my dusty remains to return to nature, not add to the layer of grime in this old Ford.

I decide to go in and get something to drink. I have to admit I’m scared, and wine will take the edge off my nerves, make me brave, before I chase my destiny into the great beyond.

Once inside I set my getaway bag on the ground and slide onto a heavy oak bar stool, smiling briefly at the two older men who sit next to each other not talking. After a moment I feel their eyes fall away, and they return to their beers. Catching sight of my high cheekbones and espresso-colored hair in the mirror behind the bar, I understand why they were looking. Even this close to death, I am beautiful.

The bartender mops the area in front of me and tosses down a napkin. He is skinny, with tattoos snaking up his arms, and eyes that suggest too few hours of sleep. He reminds me vaguely of Jared. “What can I get you?” he asks in a flat tone.

“Glass of red wine, please.”

“I’m going to have to see some ID.”

I look up and meet his eyes. “Is that really necessary?” I hold his gaze for several long seconds. When he holds firm, I sigh and dig out the ID that matches my face: Jennifer Combs, age twenty-two. The bartender studies the ID and for one giddy second I imagine telling him my real age, just to see his reaction. But I hold myself in check. The last thing I need is to draw attention to myself.

The bartender passes the laminated card back to me before pouring my drink. I stick Jennifer Combs—a name Cyrus made up when I took this body—back into my purse. I won’t be needing her anymore.

“Thanks.” I take a long sip of what will be my last drink ever, then sit back and survey the room. The bar is old, with an intricately detailed tin ceiling covered in multiple coats of chipping paint. Booths upholstered with cracked blue vinyl line the walls, and several wooden chairs are strewn haphazardly across the linoleum floor.

In the corner a thin girl with shaggy black hair and feather earrings is locked in a heated conversation with a dark-haired boy. She wears a bright red T-shirt; on her arms are telltale track marks. My stomach sinks.

The girl pushes the boy’s shoulder. “Let me out!” she demands.

“Taryn, please,” he pleads in a low voice, grabbing her arm. “Just calm down.”

Taryn sets her jaw, an angry vein throbbing in her temple. “I mean it, Dan. Let me out.”

The boy sighs heavily, but after a moment he slides over and lets her out. Taryn ducks her head, hiding her face behind her lank hair as she stalks across the bar.

“That girl has a death wish,” the bartender observes, worry lines creasing his forehead.

I watch as Taryn shoves open the door and disappears into the night. “Looks like it,” I say.

The bartender turns to refill someone’s drink, and instantly I am gone, out into the foggy night, my bag in my hand. Standing so quickly makes me dizzy, but my head is clear, and I am suddenly so glad I came inside the bar.

I’ve known a thousand Taryns—the girls who have nothing left to live for, no will to stay alive. I can spot them anywhere, can smell their desperation. I used to prey on them; without the Taryns, I would not have survived all these years. But only one person will die tonight, I vow. And it won’t be her. Saving Taryn will be a small penance for all the lives I’ve taken.

seven

Taryn is just ahead of me, slipping in and out of view in the thick fog. Lights, flashing red and orange, illuminate her thin frame from behind. She is stumbling, off-balance—drunk, at the very least.

Keeping to the shadows, I silently follow her as the streets grow closer to the Oakland estuary. There are no other people around, despite the brand-new condos that loom, unsold, over rotting produce warehouses.

The girl unsteadily approaches one of the steel shipping-container cranes. They look more animal than machine, with four legs and an extension over the water that resembles a head, looking out to sea.

Taryn begins climbing the ladder, slipping as she grabs the rungs before finally making it to the top. She approaches the edge of the crane, high over the murky water. After a beat I follow, the effort nearly unbearable.

The wind is strong at the top. It whips my dark hair around my face and muffles my footsteps. I feel unsteady on my feet, but I am determined to get her down.

“Taryn?” I say softly when I reach the girl. In the past I would have stalked this girl, but now I hope to save her.

She jerks around, her face registering slight surprise. Her cheeks are sunken, but her eyes are wide-set. She was probably pretty at some point.

“What do you want?” Taryn asks, hugging her arms around her torso.

I wait a moment before replying. “Are you going to jump?”

Taryn exhales, her shoulders slumping. “Why do you care?” Tears shine in her green eyes.

I search my heart, wanting to say the right thing. But all that springs to mind are six hundred years of platitudes, so I settle on the same question I asked myself when I decided to let myself die: “Do you have a good reason?”

She turns away from me, and I follow her gaze across the water. The twinkling lights of downtown San Francisco are barely visible through the fog, swirled and smudged like the Milky Way. When I was little, my mother and I used to lie out in the grass behind our house in London and spell my name in the stars, like a celestial connect-the-dots. “Seraphina” means “angel,” she would tell me. Can’t you see it written in the heavens?

“Do you have any family?” I ask, stepping close enough to touch her.

“I don’t have anyone,” she says, the wind lifting her hair behind her.

I reach out for her thin shoulder. I look deep into her green eyes. “Not even the boy at the bar?”

“Especially not him,” Taryn says fiercely.

I nod, understanding. “You won’t find any comfort in death,” I promise her. “It’s a void. It’s nothing. You only want to die if you desire that nothingness. If you don’t want to be alone, that means you’re still alive. There’s hope.”

“Who are you?” she asks. I can barely hear her voice over the wind.

I think back over my unnaturally long life—my childhood in London, swimming in the sea in the south of France, arriving in San Francisco in the 1960s—and scroll through all the names I’ve gone by, starting with Seraphina and ending with Jennifer. I look her in the eye. “I am no one.”

She takes a step away from me, closer to the edge. I look down at the hard, glittery pavement, some forty feet below. The surface glistens with moisture.

“Taryn,” I say urgently. “You can’t fly. The stars aren’t your friends. Climb down. Go back to the bar. Find some people.”

She hesitates, chewing her lip. I see her resolve softening. “I can’t promise I won’t be back here later, though.”

“That’s fine. You decide to live one moment at a time. When it’s time to die, really time, you will know.”

Taryn walks back toward me and I again put my hand on her shoulder. For the first time I see fear in her eyes. Good. Fear indicates a desire to live. “Get down,” I tell her with a little push. And she does, her small hands gripping the ladder, moving slowly, trying not to fall.

I hold my hand to my brow, watching Taryn fade into the foggy night, her red T-shirt slipping away like a heart. When she’s gone, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I saved a life tonight. Two, if I count Claudia. It doesn’t erase all the lives I’ve taken, all the borrowed time I’ve lived on. But it’s something.

I take a step closer to the edge, retracing Taryn’s footsteps. If I run and jump, I should be able to hit the water. But first, I fish in my bag and pull out Cyrus’s book and a lighter. This knowledge dies with me. The cover is leather, dyed a brilliant shade of blue. It reminds me of Cyrus’s eyes—I have seen them in every shade of blue. Currently, they’re an icy blue, like the snow-covered part of a glacier. But when I first met him, they were this exact shade. The rich color of the morning sky before the sun rises. In one smooth motion, I bang the book against the metal platform beneath my feet, and the lock breaks away.

The pages are thick, smooth vellum. The smell transports me back in time, when I used to sit with my father in his study as he scratched away at his balance sheets. But I realize, my heart sinking, that they won’t burn quickly. My father told me that vellum is made from animal skin—not plant fibers, like modern paper. It’s why the book, at least as old as Cyrus, has lasted.

I run my hand over the surface of the pages. They are a jumble of Latin, Greek, and Old English, plus other languages I don’t recognize, mixed in with astrological and scientific symbols: the output of Cyrus’s alchemy studies. One page has a rough sketch of two people facing each other, a braided cord joining them at the navel. It’s been painstakingly shaded with metallic ink. I know instantly what it is: the silver cord that binds the soul to the body.

I don’t have time to burn it, but I can take it with me into the sea. The water will do its job, eventually, washing all the ink away. Hugging the book to my chest, I squeeze my eyes shut, a few tears escaping their corners as I say my final farewells—to my coven, the Incarnates; to Charlotte; to my mother, whom I never got to say good-bye to the first time. I savor the moment as the wind whistles through the crane like a hymn.

I am ready.

But before I can send myself into the air, I hear the squeal of tires shredding across asphalt and the sound of shattering glass pierces the night like a gunshot. A girl’s terrified voice screams out. I whip around. Only one thing makes these sounds: a car accident—a deadly one.

Taryn.

eight

The ensuing silence yawns around me, a dark formless presence that pushes me toward the ladder. I have to see if it’s Taryn, to see if my penance, my last act on Earth, has failed.

Time is of the essence and my strength is waning by the second, so I throw the book in my bag and leave it on the crane, then begin to climb down. My sneakers slip on the rungs and my breath comes in ragged waves. I stagger toward the deserted streets.

The smell of smoke and acrid burnt rubber assaults my nose, mingling with spilled gasoline. My pulse is rapid, my legs are shaky, and my vision is blurring again. I turn a corner and stumble over a pothole in the slick asphalt. My ankle buckles beneath me.

“Damn,” I mutter. Ahead of me, I see the car. Flames lick through a gap in its hood, casting strange orange shadows on the rusty, rippled loading dock doors. The car is upright, but a spiderweb of cracks on its windshield tells me it flipped at least once before landing here. I smell a coppery wash of blood. Dizzying, overwhelming—it is everywhere.

I grab the door handle, gather what little strength I have left, and yank. It won’t budge, and for a split second I have the sensation that I am not here, that I am dead, a ghost girl trying, laughably, to move objects in the physical world. I close my eyes, picturing the windswept crane, and steel myself for one final tug. Metal scrapes metal and sends a jarring reverberation up my arm the door finally opens.

My breath catches in my throat, relief mingled with horror. It is not Taryn, but a young girl, maybe sixteen, with tangled blond curls and a silver bracelet around her tanned wrist. Blood runs down the side of her face, soaking the embroidered neckline of her white peasant blouse like a bloom of red flowers.

She isn’t dead—a vein still pulses weakly in her neck—but she is close to it. Her right arm and leg appear to be broken, as does her neck, and blood seeps from a wound in her head. Up and down, up and down, her chest rises and falls, her breaths small and pitiful. She coughs, and a ruby drop of blood escapes from the corner of her lips. She takes another breath. And then, with chilling finality, she goes still.

In a fog I hold two fingers to her neck. There is no pulse. A little voice in the back of my head tells me she is beyond help, but I wrap my arms around her waist and pull. I hear a metallic snap as I manage to get her out of the car and lay her down on the street, and I can only hope I haven’t broken something else in her. She’s small, but I am so weak that I nearly black out from the effort. Kneeling, I tilt her head back. I lay my hands over her heart, her blood sticky on my skin, and push down hard, pumping rapidly. Moving to her face, I pinch her nose closed, put my mouth over hers, and blow.

I have every intention of saving her, however unlikely her recovery is, but the second my cold, dying lips touch her warm ones, the sudden urge to take her body overwhelms me, as strong as a riptide.

No! I tell myself, jerking myself away from her lips and beginning to pump her chest again. But the smell of her jasmine perfume is so heady and I am so light-headed that when I lock my mouth back on hers, instinct takes over. Instead of blowing into her lungs, I hungrily breathe in again and again. Power surges through my veins, a feeling of simultaneous falling and rising up, like a playground swing. After a few minutes I taste something sweet: her life essence.

I try to stop, but it is beyond my control. Tears stream down my face as I draw out her soul, her life force flowing through my mouth, its sweetness expanding, then finally beginning to wane as it makes its way into the ether. A sensation like thousands of static shocks pierces my body, small blue sparks dancing between her forehead and mine. I think of heat lightning, those far-off strikes in the night sky. They are so common in summer, flashes unaccompanied by thunder. I see waves crashing on the beach of a lonely planet, deep in space. Small silvery chimes, the voices of stars singing a hymn. My mother’s face appears in my mind, but she looks different from what I remember. Her skin is smooth, glassy and glittery, celestial dots of light making up her irises. Her dark hair, a mirror image of my own, is made up of the void of space, comets trailing through its ebony tresses. Her mouth opens, but there is no sound when she speaks. It doesn’t matter; I can read her starry lips. Not yet, Seraphina, she’s saying. Not yet.

Purple, then white, the little lights move at ever more dizzying speeds, and I realize with a jolt that I have badly miscalculated. I have never inhabited a body this broken and close to death, and fiery agony shoots up and down my broken limbs, even as I feel them being slowly repaired by my immortal essence. I roll over on the asphalt and see my old body has already turned to dust and is quickly dissipating in the breeze.

The far-off wail of sirens penetrates my consciousness. I need to get out of here before the police show up. And I need to get my bag—it’s got my ID inside, the one with the name Cyrus gave me, as well as the book that can never fall into human hands.

Knees buckling, I push myself to standing and take a wobbly step forward. Just a few more feet. But the smell of blood and gasoline makes me sick, and I fall to my knees, and that’s when I realize that Taryn is there, watching.

I’m dizzy and frantic—just how much has she seen?—and try to call out to her. But the flickering lights from a police car round the corner and she takes off down the alley. I will myself to move, to get to the crane and retrieve my bag, but again the pain takes over, pulling me down. My eyes flutter closed and I sink into blackness.

nine

Through the faint pink of my eyelids, I see fluorescent lights overhead. The air is sharp with antiseptics. The feeling of terror, of something being off, seeps in from the edges of my mind, but I can’t remember why I’m scared. Tentatively, I open my eyes. The windows reveal a hazy afternoon, the sun pushing its way through the approaching fog and shining on the palm trees. Muffled voices blend with a clattering of wheeled carts and heels clacking down a tiled hallway.

Reaching up to my temples, I feel a bandage and circular sensors connected to wires. I touch my hair, which falls just above my shoulders in loose curls. What the—? I shake my head, trying to clear it of the dizzying panic that is beginning to take hold. A white plastic bracelet stands out on my tanned arm: Kailey Morgan, F, age 16.

In an instant, the events of the previous night come flooding back: the crash, the blood, the moment when I ceased being Jennifer Combs or Seraphina Ames or whoever I truly was and instead became Kailey Morgan. Bile rises in my throat as I sit up in the hospital bed and scan the room. The monitor to my right beeps rapidly, echoing my thudding heart.

A nurse enters through the propped-open door. “You’re awake!” I regard her with wide eyes, too alarmed to speak. “I’ll go get your parents.” The woman exits as quickly as she came, leaving me in stunned, frantic silence.

An experimental wiggle reveals that my broken arm and leg have already healed. I only hope that happened before the ambulance came for me. I wonder how close the doctors came to figuring out that I’m not quite like any other human patient—that I’m something more: a body snatcher, an immortal, a killer.

With horror I remember my bag with Cyrus’s book in it. Is it still on the crane? What had I been thinking, leaving it behind? I have to get back to the docks and find the book.

I swing my legs over the side of the hospital bed and stand. I will have to run—What choice do I have? Kailey’s parents will realize immediately that there is something horribly different about their daughter. As I rip the sensors off my temples and wrists, I hear voices coming closer.

“. . . concussion . . . needs rest . . . might be a little confused . . .”

I look down at the hospital gown—white with a pale-blue daisy print—and realize how ridiculous I will look running past the nurses’ station, out the door, and down the street. Grimacing, I slip back into bed and rearrange the sensors on my skin.

Moments later a woman rushes through the door. She is pretty, though the dark circles under her eyes call attention to the shallow lines at their corners. Following her is a rugged-looking man, blond hair mixing well with the gray threads in his sideburns. He looks as sleep deprived as the woman.

“Kailey! Oh, thank God!” The woman pulls me into a tight hug, then leans back to look at me. I recoil slightly. “What happened?” The couple, along with the nurse, waits for my answer.

“Um . . . there was . . . a dog. I didn’t want to hit it.” My new voice is high-pitched, a far cry from my last body’s throaty cadence.

Kailey’s father winces. “Oh, Kailes.”

The woman tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “Your brother’s down in the cafeteria. I don’t know how he can think of food right now—” Her voice breaks off as a boy enters the room. He is lanky and looks slightly older than Kailey, with the same dark blond hair and bronzed skin.

“Thanks for trashing my car, sis,” he says. His tone is casual, but I can tell from his bloodshot eyes that he’s been crying.

“I’m sorry,” I say distractedly, my mind fixed on the untenable situation I’ve woken up to and on my bag, vulnerable and exposed, with its dangerous secrets.

“Bryan,” Kailey’s mom says warningly.

He holds up his hands and grins. “Kidding!” Then his expression turns serious. “What were you doing in Jack London anyway? It’s dangerous down there. I thought you had that art gallery thing in Berkeley.”

My eyes dart between Bryan and Kailey’s parents, who lean in expectantly. What can I say? I was trying to end my unnaturally long life, then when I tried to save your daughter, I accidentally took her body? “I . . . yes. I did. And . . . I—” The heart-rate monitor beeps at a faster pace.

Just in time, a young doctor in a white coat knocks on the doorframe, then comes in without waiting for a response. I lean back on the bed and force myself to take deep, calming breaths. “I’m sorry. I feel really dizzy right now.”

The doctor elbows past Kailey’s mother and waves a pen flashlight quickly in front of both of my eyes. He returns it to his pocket with a blank expression and consults my chart.

“When can we take her home?” Mrs. Morgan asks.

My heart sinks. Home? The only place I want to go is back to the cranes to get my bag. After that . . . I shake my head. Then what? Waking up as a teenager with a loving family is so far out of my plan, I can’t even begin to contemplate my next move. Hot tears sting the back of my eyes, and I look up at the ceiling, forcing them back.

I’d been so ready to let go, but here I am, in the body of girl whose family doesn’t even know she’s dead. The rational part of me knows that there was no way Kailey could have survived that crash, but the guilt that I have taken yet another life is overwhelming. The heart-rate monitor picks up once more with my swell of emotion, and I focus on taking deep, calming breaths.

“Normally I’d want to keep any patient who’d been in a serious crash overnight,” the doctor says with a frown, “but all her tests have come back normal. There’s nothing physically wrong with your daughter.” He checks my pulse. “To be in an accident like that and come away without a scratch, it’s . . . unbelievable. Do you know what a miracle it is that you are alive?”

I blink my new eyes. “Trust me, I know.”

ten

I stare through the station wagon window as the Morgans’ car pulls up to a single-story Craftsman house in North Berkeley. It looks like a fairy-tale cottage, set back from the street and surrounded by redwood trees, a colorful herb garden poking up in front of its old, leaded-glass windows. As Bryan and his parents walk through the heavy oak front door, I pause on the porch, listening to the low tones of junk-sculpture wind chimes jingling in the breeze. The chimes are beautiful, made of antique silver spoons, pieces of jewelry, skeleton keys, and dried bones.

Entering Kailey’s house feels horribly wrong. I’ve taken more lives than I can count in the years since I left my original body, but never have I stayed around to see the life the person left behind.

Bryan turns and looks at me. “What’s up? You waiting for a hand-delivered invitation?”

I force a weak smile. “Give a concussed girl a minute to smell the roses,” I say lightly as I step through the threshold onto a vintage hardwood floor inlaid with a dark walnut border. In front of me is the living room, where well-worn velvet couches sit on an artfully clashing selection of Persian rugs. Beyond that is a kitchen that is welcoming in its messiness. Kailey’s mother sets her purse on the counter. “You should go lie down, honey. Doctor’s orders.”

I pause. To my right and left are two hallways, each leading, I guess, to bedrooms. But which way is Kailey’s? I take a chance and head to the right, taking a few cautious steps before Bryan clears his throat.

“You think just because you’re a medical marvel, you get the master bedroom?” His tone is still lighthearted, but the look in his eyes is not. I can tell that he’s worried about me. Well, not me—he’s worried for his sister. I am gripped by the sudden urge to tell him the truth, but I am fully aware that the Morgans won’t believe me. At best they would think my concussion was worse than the doctor said. At worst they’d suspect I needed to be in a mental institution.

“Just checking to see if you were paying attention,” I say, smoothly exiting down the other hallway. My voice sounds hollow, the veneer of playfulness utterly false.

The first open door reveals an unmade bed strewn with jeans and hoodies. A multicolored jumble of Chuck Taylors spills out of the closet.

I continue down the hallway to the next room. The scent of jasmine perfume hangs heavy in the air and I know it’s Kailey’s room even before I look inside. I shut the door behind me and exhale deeply. You’re almost there. Just wait for them to fall asleep tonight, then you can go to the cranes, get the book, and figure out Plan B—whatever that is.

The room is painted a vivid shade of dark turquoise, and the bedspread is a silk quilt in a lighter green, closer to lime. Purple throw pillows with black beaded fringe are piled at its head. The effect is that of being surrounded by giant peacock feathers.

I’m drawn to a violin case that leans against the desk. The violin is one of my favorite instruments. Was Kailey a musician? Looking more closely I see that it’s covered in a thick layer of dust. But in the corner is an easel with a half-completed painting of a girl standing on a beach, staring out to sea.

The scene is all gray: cloudy sky, fog bank rolling in over choppy whitecaps. The girl looks like Kailey, her sparkling eyes the most colorful spot on the canvas. Despite the bleakness of the scene, she looks happy, as though she can see something, just out of view, that gives her hope. Looking closely I see that she’s outlined the shapes of mermaids just visible beneath the surface of the choppy sea. She never had a chance to fill in their details, but they are undeniably there.

It reminds me of our voyage from Barbados to New Amsterdam. I had been furious with Cyrus for killing our servant in a fit of rage and had spent as much time as possible alone on the upper decks, the ocean breeze whipping my hair across my face. The opaque surface of the Atlantic frustrated me. I wanted to see beneath. I wanted to believe there was another world below us, where mermaids combed their hair under a permanent drift of golden silt and played music on a sunken harpsichord.

Turning away from the painting, which fills me with inexplicable sadness, I regard a mirrored vanity that hugs one wall, postcards and ink sketches tucked between the glass and the frame. I pick up a stack of photos of Kailey and her friends: on a camping trip, at a school dance, lounging next to a gleaming pool. One girl appears in several of them; the magenta streaks in her dark hair make her easy to spot. Kailey’s eyes stare out at me in photo after photo, shining with life.

I regard my new body in the mirror and furrow my brow. This is the first time I’ve been a teenager since my original body died, and the feeling is jarring. My eyes are a grayish green, with long, thick lashes, and my hair meanders from light brown to a shimmery gold where the sun has bleached it. It hangs past my jaw in loose curls, with a swoop of wavy bangs. My nose is a bit too pert for my liking, and my lips are a dark shade of coral, striking against Kailey’s tanned skin.

There is no tangible difference between the face that I see in the mirror and the face in the photos, nothing I could point to with certainty to prove that everything has changed. And yet I don’t think I look like her, that smiling girl that Kailey was.

“What do I do now?” I ask the stranger in the mirror. “Do I keep being you? Or do I go back to the cranes and jump?” Kailey doesn’t answer me.

The choice to die had been easy when my body was falling apart around me. If I follow the same course now, I will be actively killing a human body. But if I don’t follow through on my plan, where will I go? I have no ties to the world, no real skills. Cyrus always made sure I was dependent on him for everything.

I tear my gaze away from the mirror. The most important thing now, other than the bag, is Cyrus. By now he knows I’m gone. But will he accept my letter at face value or will he wonder if I am still out there, on my own, away from him? He knows me so well—he used to even be able to predict my dreams. Will he somehow instinctively know what happened? Will he feel my presence and come searching for me? Will he read a news report about an accident and wonder if, in a misguided attempt to save a teenage girl, I switched into her body? With Cyrus, anything is possible, and being dragged back to the coven is the worst thing that can possibly happen. I’d be under constant surveillance. And Cyrus would make me very, very sorry for tricking him.

On the desk is a laptop computer. I swipe my finger over the track pad and the blank screen is replaced with an Internet browser window. I pull up the San Francisco Chronicle website. There were plenty of murders and car accidents reported in Oakland over the weekend, but thankfully, nothing about Kailey’s incident.

I click back to Google and type “jack london car accident,” which brings a slew of results. Narrowing by date, all but one disappears.

It’s a hit on the police blotter page on the Oakland Tribune’s site. “October 16th, 12:38 AM, Alice and Second Streets, Oakland: Police were called after a Berkeley minor was involved in an injury accident. No fatalities and no arrests were made.” I let out the breath I had been holding—the report wasn’t too bad and didn’t stand out among all the other incidents in the area.

Google Maps tells me it’s only two miles from the Morgans’ house to the downtown Berkeley BART station, and then a straight shot to downtown Oakland. Studying the map, I realize that Berkeley High School is right next to the BART station.

Kailey’s backpack is slouched on her desk, next to her purse. I take a rapid inventory of their contents, keeping her wallet and cell phone, but disabling the GPS. I add a change of clothes and, on impulse, a slouchy hat and oversize sunglasses.

A knock at the door startles me—I barely have time to dart to the bed before Kailey’s father comes in, carrying a tray. He still looks tired, but he doesn’t have the same anxious expression that he did in the hospital. He doesn’t know his daughter is dead; he thinks everything will be okay.

“Your mom wanted me to bring you dinner. Tortilla soup, your favorite.”

“Oh . . . thank you,” I say cautiously, wondering what the real Kailey’s response would have been.

“Listen, kiddo.” He sits down next to me on the bed. “Don’t worry about explaining where you were last night. I told your mom to leave it alone. If you’ve got a boyfriend or something . . . well . . . you can tell us later.” He gives me a hug, his voice cracking with emotion. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

My heart twists painfully in my chest. Of everything I’ve done over the years, this is the worst. Kailey’s death would have destroyed this family, but at least they would have the finality of knowing she was dead. And when I disappear tonight, will they think their daughter ran away? That Kailey killed herself? Either of those options feels so much worse than a tragic car accident.

I ask myself, for what feels like the millionth time since I woke up in the hospital, what was I thinking? I knew CPR would be fruitless. Why did I try, when the risk was so great? I should have let nature take its course. Did I interfere because, as an Incarnate, I have learned that nature’s course can be altered? Or was there some small, unconscious part of myself that still wanted to live?

I turn away from Mr. Morgan to hide the tears in my eyes. “I am so, so sorry for making you guys worry. I feel terrible.”

“Hey, I’m a dad. Worrying is my job. See you in the morning, kiddo.” Mr. Morgan gives me a small smile before closing the door with a soft click, leaving me alone with my guilt and sadness.

eleven

I wait several hours until the house is swathed in silence and the darkness outside is thick. Slinging Kailey’s backpack over my shoulder, I open the window and hop out onto the brick path below in one smooth motion. I can’t deny that it feels invigorating to be in a new body after months of painfully inhabiting a dying one. But that realization is followed by a wave of crushing remorse that hurts more than my old body ever did.

I creep softly by the side of the house and head to the street. At the edge of the driveway, I turn back and look at the house once more. I’m sorry. I really am.

A deep growl startles me out of my silent farewell. I whip my head around and peer through the darkness, eyes flashing, prepared to run. Or fight.

“You look pretty active for a girl who just got out of the hospital.”

I freeze. The voice belongs to a tall, dark-haired boy standing in the shadow of one of the redwood trees. He holds the leash of an enormous dog. The dog growls, straining against its chain.

“I mean,” the boy continues, “did you really need to go out the window? Or was that for added drama?”

“You were watching me?” Fear makes my voice tremble slightly. “Who are you?”

“Very funny, Kailey.” Then a worried look crosses his face. “Wait, do you really not remember?”

I exhale. So this is one of Kailey’s friends. For a moment I had been certain that it was Jared in a new body. Or, even worse, Cyrus.

“Just a little concussion humor,” I reply, forcing myself to smile. “Who told you about the accident?” I ask, keeping my tone light even as panic rises in my gut. Had I missed something in the news after all?

“Bryan. I ran into him earlier.”

I nod with relief, regarding the boy again. His hair is dark and long enough to fall into his face. He rakes it off his forehead with strong-looking, well-shaped hands. His eyes are a surprising color of turquoise, staring at me from under thick brows. A camera dangles from his neck. There’s some-thing about him that feels familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“It was no big deal. I’m actually pretty embarrassed about it, so if you can keep it on the down low, that would be great.” If word of my accident isn’t out there yet, I have to do my part to keep it quiet. Cyrus has unraveled mysteries with far less information.

The boy’s dog snarls again, baring its teeth at me. Animals are tougher to fool than people. I’ve always wondered how they know something isn’t quite right about me. He jerks on the leash. “Harker! Stop it!” Harker whimpers and stops growling, though he continues to regard me with a baleful glare. The boy’s eyes lock on mine, and I see him noticing my backpack. “That’s cool. I can keep a secret.”

I exhale and take a step back. There’s an awkward pause. “So what are you doing out?”

An anxious look flashes across his face, but quickly disappears. He’s hiding something. We have that in common. “I love being out at night,” he says, tipping his face to the sky. “It’s quiet. You can see the stars, if the fog will let you. You know. Obvious reasons. What about you? Going AWOL?” He nods toward my bag.

“I just . . . needed some air. I guess I should go back inside.” There is no way I can escape now. I’ll have to wait another hour, until the boy is home and asleep.

“Sleep is probably a good idea.” He bends to scratch Harker’s ear as the dog lets out another low growl. “Hey, if you need a ride to school tomorrow, I can give you one. I hear your ‘no big deal’ totaled Bryan’s car.”

School. Of course Kailey would have to go to school. How would her friends handle her disappearance? “Um, sure. Thanks. G’night . . . Harker . . . and . . . g’night . . .” I finish weakly.

“Take care, Kailey,” the boy says, briefly putting his hand on my shoulder in a friendly gesture. I can feel the heat from his palm through my sweatshirt. I turn and make my way back through Kailey’s window.

Back in Kailey’s room, I lie on the green silk coverlet and stare at the ceiling. It’s covered in tiny glow-in-the-dark stars. If I squint my eyes, I can imagine they’re real, except they aren’t arranged in actual constellations. This is a sky of Kailey’s own creation, the pretend universe she slept in, the safety and stillness she sought in her small world.

My eyes are heavy, and I close them—just for a second, I promise myself—hoping that wherever Kailey is now, she’s at peace. In my mind I still see the stars, rearranging themselves in brand-new patterns, their gentle light flickering down to Earth, shining on the neighbor boy’s crow-black hair.

twelve

I’m awoken by the clatter of dishes and the scent of coffee and food. Ruby-tinged light floods through the lace curtains. I jolt upright, my heart racing, sure that Cyrus has found me. Then I see the green bedspread and realize where I am. I groan, berating myself for having missed my opportunity to sneak out. It’s far past dawn and the Morgan family is most definitely up.

I hear the sound of approaching footsteps, and moments later Mrs. Morgan’s face appears in the open door. “Morning, sweetie. How do you feel today?”

“Um, okay,” I stammer. Truthfully, I feel like hell. I tossed and turned all night, my mind churning with nightmares. In them I was chasing my mother through a dense forest, her dark hair streaming out behind her. I couldn’t see Cyrus, but I knew he was near. Little piles of powder kept erupting into colorful flames around me, dizzying violet and red, pale starlit yellow and lime green, and Cyrus’s voice rang out through the trees: Sera, I told you death was only an illusion. Just as I finally caught up to my mother, her hair turned a shocking blond and Cyrus’s voice boomed from her mouth. I’m coming for you, he said with a snarl.

Mrs. Morgan sits on the bed and looks at me with concern. I realize I’d fallen asleep in jeans and a sweatshirt. “I think,” she says firmly, “that you need to stay home from school today. I’ll stay with you.”

I’m not sure how to respond. I imagine Kailey would be psyched to stay home from school, but the thought of spending the day with the mother of the girl I killed makes me feel physically ill. I need to get to the docks, and it will probably be easier able to slip away between classes than to escape from Mrs. Morgan’s watchful eye.

I manage a weak smile. “I think I should go to school. Honestly, I feel fine.”

Bryan sticks his head in the door, a piece of toast in his hand. “Are you seriously asking to go to school? Kiss ass.”

“I’d really rather go,” I tell him.

“I know.” He grins. “Just giving you a hard time.”

Mrs. Morgan looks between the two of us, hesitating. “Okay. You can go. But you need to eat first. I’ll go make you something.” She heads back to the kitchen, and Bryan turns to follow her.

“Hey, Bryan?” I push myself into a sitting position.

“Yes, O spoiled one?”

“Could you . . . not say anything to anyone at school about the car accident? I don’t want this getting around.”

Bryan looks shocked. “I thought your life goal was being in the limelight.”

I feel my cheeks growing hot. “I just don’t want to make a big deal about it.”

He stares at me. “You’re blushing.”

I turn away from him. I’ve always been a blusher, no matter what body I’m in.

“Bryan, please.”

“Okay. Whatever you want, weirdo.” He pops the rest of his toast in his mouth.

After he’s gone I look through Kailey’s vintage armoire for something to wear. It smells of oiled cherry wood and laundry detergent, and the neatly hung clothes are organized by color, like an artist’s palette.

I wonder what she would pick to wear, running my hand along a purple cashmere sweater and a deep fuchsia dress covered with a blue geometric pattern. I ultimately settle on a pair of cropped, rust-colored jeans and a burgundy, lace-trimmed tunic. The scent of jasmine has entwined itself in the fabric, reminding me with each inhale just whose clothes I am wearing.

I race through breakfast—eggs over easy with chicken sausage—as Bryan enters the kitchen.

“We’ve gotta go. I think I hear Noah’s car out front.”

Noah. I wonder if that’s the neighbor boy’s name. I grab Kailey’s backpack and stare at Mrs. Morgan. Her hair is combed neatly back into a ponytail and the dark circles that had been so prominent under eyes yesterday have vanished. After a moment’s hesitation I pull her into a hug. “I love you,” I say softly, wishing I could ease the pain she’ll feel when her daughter doesn’t return home tonight.

“Love you, too, Kailes,” Mrs. Morgan says in a slightly surprised voice. She kisses my cheek, then shoos me out the door.

Bryan is waiting next to Noah’s ancient VW Bug, tapping his foot. “Finally,” he says, pointing toward the backseat. “Invalids have to ride in the back,” he explains with a grin.

I feel Noah’s eyes on me as I climb into the car. In the sunlight they are a warm turquoise, the same color as Cyrus’s had been two bodies ago. I pull the seat belt across my lap. The boys thankfully fill the silence and ignore me, though I catch Noah glancing back at me in the rearview mirror now and then. I place my forehead against the cool window, letting Noah and Bryan’s conversation wash over me as I pray over and over again that my bag is still on the crane.

We pass a line of small houses—Craftsman, A-frame, and a squat shingled one that would have been more at home in Cape Cod. Wildflowers grow chaotically all around it, Queen Anne’s lace mixing with bright yellow goldenrod and purple sage. My mother would have loved it. My father allowed her a small patch of garden that the servants weren’t allowed to touch. She spent hours out there, teaching me the Latin names of each seed: lilium, rosa, cosmos, and orchis. She would weave me halos of daisies and belladonna, always warning me how dangerous flowers could be. “Never put these in your mouth, my little angel. But atop your pretty hair they do no harm.”

Soon we pull into the parking lot, joining a stream of beat-up cars jockeying for spots close to the front entrance. The school looms large, all glass and curved walls. I wonder if Kailey liked it here, if she looked forward to gossiping with her friends between classes or if she spent her time staring out of windows, counting the hours until she was free again. I have never been to school. My parents had hired tutors for me when I was young; everything else I know I’d learned from Cyrus.

Noah comes to a stop next to a green Volvo with a BERKELEY HIGH WOMEN’S SWIM TEAM bumper sticker and turns off the sputtering engine. Bryan pushes his seat down to let me out, and I stand up in the dim sunlight.

“See you in bio,” Noah says, and departs, holding a book over his head as he dashes toward the school.

Bryan looks at me expectantly, and I follow him across the parking lot. “See ya,” he says when we reach a covered walkway.

I watch as he walks away, nodding and high-fiving friends as he passes. He has the same easy smile as Kailey, the same buoyancy and happiness I saw in her pictures. No doubt his sister’s death will change that.

This is it. I swear my hammering heart must be audible to those milling around me.

“Good-bye, Bryan,” I whisper, then, making sure no one’s looking at me, I dart back across the parking lot against the wave of arriving students. I try to appear casual yet purposeful, and avoid eye contact with everyone I pass. When I turn the corner and am out of sight of the school, I break into a flat-out sprint for the BART train that will take me close to Jack London Square, where I will have to decide what—if anything—comes next.

thirteen

I get off the train in downtown Oakland, and the scent of fetid water and rotting produce surrounds me as I walk toward Jack London Square. The area is much busier during the day—trucks parked in front of loading docks, men hoisting boxes of melons, tourists gingerly making their way down to the waterfront. The sun has broken through the clouds and warms the top of my head, and I’m surprised to find myself smiling—it has been so long since I’ve felt anything other than cold.

My pace quickens as I near the docks. In the distance I see the bar where I’d met Taryn; it looks even more dilapidated during the day. Paint is peeling off the storefront in long strips and the sunlight catches on windows covered in a film of dust. Just beyond that is the side street where I parked my car and the crane where I so stupidly left my bag.

Just as I reach the intersection, I realize with a start that a police car is parked at the curb about fifty feet in front of me. I freeze, blood draining from my face. Rationally, there’s no reason for the police to be looking for me—for Kailey—but still. In my mind there is a giant sign over my head proclaiming MURDERER.

You were trying to save her! I remind myself, pleading with my feet to take casual strides. I feel a prickling sensation as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t turn around, even though I’m certain the officer is following me. Instead, I walk faster, just short of a run. A glance in the side mirror of a parked car confirms my fear: The police car is trailing behind me.

I duck into an alleyway and hide in the doorway of an industrial garage. I hold my breath and cross my fingers, hoping the cop will drive past. After a beat he does, and I exhale with relief.

A hand falls on my shoulder. “Do you need something?”

My heart in my throat, I whirl around and find myself staring at a thin-lipped construction worker. “N-No,” I stammer, and take off once more. But when I reach the side street where I had parked my car, I stop short. There are dark brown drips on the asphalt, drips that might look like oil stains to anyone else. But I know they’re blood. Kailey’s blood. And the black tire tracks are still there, like scars, on the surface of the road.

The car is gone.

Panic courses through my veins, but I force myself to take a deep breath. It was probably just towed, I remind myself. There was nothing in it that tied it to you, except fingerprints from a body that is now dust.

These thoughts aren’t reassuring, and dropping all pretenses, I sprint to the crane and start climbing the ladder. My foot slips on the second rung from the top, and I let out a loud gasp as I nearly lose my grip. Clinging to the bars, I regain my footing and hoist myself onto the top of the structure.

The wind up here is forceful, bringing with it a far-off giggle and a loud, catcalling whistle. But I hear nothing, feel nothing, because just like my car, the bag is gone.

At that moment a gray cloud blots out the sun and it begins to rain. As the steady stream soaks through Kailey’s hair, dampening her loose curls, panic fills my body. This cannot be happening. That bag had everything in it—my old ID, my money, Cyrus’s book.

Taryn.

I sink to my knees. She was an addict and after six hundred years of observing human behavior, I can picture the scene too well. After seeing my body disintegrate into dust—something she would not be sure was a drug-induced hallucination—she climbed back up the crane, looking for the angel who tried to save her. Instead she found the bag, which contained car keys, money, a brand-new identity, and a strange old book.

The horn of a boat in the harbor emits a mournful cry, a crane nearby groans to life, and the smell of rotting lettuce assaults my nostrils. What will Taryn do with the book? My mind catalogs a million possibilities. She could try to sell it to a rare-books dealer when she runs out of money and needs her next score. It could end up in police custody if she’s arrested—or dies from an overdose.

Or worse, maybe she already tweeted a picture of it, along with a post about how someone in Jack London Square gave a teenage girl CPR, then turned to dust, giving Cyrus a roadmap to find me in 140 characters or less. No doubt Cyrus would be prowling the Internet for any mention of me, for any hint that I could still be alive. And Jared, as penance for losing me in the crowd, would go to the ends of the Earth to bring me back.

I don’t know what it means that I am still alive right now and whether I should keep this new, healthy body or dive into the harbor to finish what I started last night. But I do know one thing: I am never, ever going back to Cyrus. And if I can help it, Cyrus will never find his book.

I scale back down the ladder, jumping onto the pavement when I’m still four rungs from the ground. Ignoring the burning pain this ignites in my shins, I push my legs fast, making a sharp right onto Second Street and dashing toward the bar. Maybe the bartender there knows Taryn, and if I could get her last name, I could track her down.

I am thirty feet from the saloon when the wail of police sirens pierces the air. My forehead is covered in a fine mist of sweat, my stomach clenches, and I feel the precursor to an anguished cry choke my throat. I consider making a break for it, but I’ll never be able to outrun a police car. So I stop in my tracks, panting as I watch the officer who had been following me earlier get out of his vehicle and walk toward me.

“Excuse me, miss,” he says, “but shouldn’t you be in school?”

Bending at the waist to catch my breath, I swallow a stream of curse words. I had forgotten how young I look in this sixteen-year-old body. The backpack isn’t helping, either.

“N-No, sir,” I stammer. My mouth feels stuffed with cotton. “I’m on my way to work. I don’t have class at the university until tomorrow.” It’s a plausible lie—UC Berkeley isn’t far and being a college student would certainly explain the backpack.

“Sure you do,” he says, with a withering smile. “Let me see your ID.”

“Oh. Um, I don’t have it with me,” I try.

“I mean it, miss. Hand it over.”

I feel my face go hot and have no words as I open the bag and hand over Kailey’s driver’s license. He looks at it for a long time, then shakes his head.

“Get in.” He nods toward the police car.

“Why?” I ask.

“I won’t make you ride in the back, but we need to go to the station where we’ll call your parents.”

Oh my God, the Morgans. The last thing they need is to think their daughter, who they almost lost yesterday, has turned into a delinquent overnight.

“Please, sir,” I beg. “Please don’t call them. I promise I’ll never skip school again.”

The officer smiles ruefully. “Do you know what your problem is, Kailey?”

My problems would fill his citations notebook and make him question everything he thinks he knows about the world, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Your problem,” he continues when I don’t respond, “is that you’re a terrible liar.”

fourteen

The station smells like old coffee and men’s cologne, and the fluorescent lights overhead turn my hands a sickly shade of yellow green. I am sitting on one of the hard plastic chairs behind the reception desk when the entire Morgan family walks in. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan won’t look at me, but Bryan raises his eyebrows with grudging respect.

The officer pulls Kailey’s parents into a private room to talk to them, and Bryan takes a seat next to me. “I had no idea you were such a badass,” he whispers.

I don’t say anything—I just shake my head slowly. He elbows me in the side, and I allow a small smile.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan exit the conference room, both of them tight-lipped and still refusing to make eye contact. Mr. Morgan’s face stands in flushed contrast to Mrs. Morgan’s ashen pallor, but I can tell they’re both furious.

As soon as we pull out of the parking lot, the floodgates open.

“First we have to come pick you up at the hospital, and then at the police station. What’s next? The morgue?” Mr. Morgan explodes, banging his hands on the steering wheel for emphasis.

I flinch at the word “morgue,” where this body should be right now. Before I can answer, Mrs. Morgan sighs. “Honestly, I blame myself. We’ve been entirely too permissive.”

“No!” Mr. Morgan snaps. “This is not our fault. Kailey, the officer told me you lied to him. Sneaking off is one thing, but I thought we raised you to always tell the truth.” He frowns. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Where were you even going?” Mrs. Morgan demands. “Does this have something to do with why you were there on Saturday night?”

“I, um,” I hesitate. Why would Kailey have been down there that night?

I glance at Bryan, who’s enjoying this way too much. I shoot him a poisonous look, but he just smiles wider.

“I’m painting the cranes,” I finally finish. “It’s my new project.”

“At night?” Mr. Morgan says skeptically.

“You’re grounded, of course,” says Mrs. Morgan, watching us in the rearview mirror. Bryan smirks. “For two whole weeks, if not longer.”

Mr. Morgan nods vigorously. “No going anywhere but school. And no TV.”

They continue to berate me the entire way home, but I tune them out, instead focusing on the whisper of an idea that’s taken root ever since the police officer slammed the door of his car on me.

Every push I’ve made to end my life has been thwarted. Every single one. It could be simple incompetence—after all, I’ve been with Cyrus for six hundred years, and I should expect some hiccups making my way through the world alone. But then I think of the night I switched into Kailey’s body, of the vision of my mother whispering, Not yet, and it feels like something, or someone, doesn’t want me to die.

I think of the disgusted expression Cyrus would wear if I said such a thing to him. Cyrus doesn’t believe in fate or anything at all beyond the physical world that he moves through so certainly. Modern science is the child of alchemy, he’d say. All magic has a rational explanation.

The hairs on my arm stand up as I consider that the universe might be trying to tell me something. As much as I think Cyrus is close minded in his staunch rejection of anything resembling spirituality, I have to admit that I’ve never actually witnessed anything to convince me otherwise. I’ve never seen a ghost, never heard a prophecy, never really believed in anything beyond this life. But now, as I’ve tried to leave it, I feel as if I’m brushing up against an invisible hand that is steering my course.

And though the body I’m in now is completely different from any other I’ve ever occupied, its heart beats as surely as any other’s, reminding me with each thud that I am very much alive. Maybe, the voice whispers, you should stay that way.

I shift in my seat, the seat belt scraping my neck, and train my eyes out the window. I pull Kailey’s hat down over my ears and close my eyes, letting the sun wash over my eyelids. I don’t know the specifics of my plan, but I’ve come to a decision.

I’m not going to end my life. Not right away. I am not this family’s daughter, but I owe them a debt. I will stay here, pretend to be Kailey, and figure how I can bring the Morgans peace. I will try to track down Taryn so I can find and destroy the book. And I will work on my plan of escape. Today’s events tell me it won’t be easy—My car is missing, I have no money, and I have no idea if Cyrus is on my trail, but thanks to Kailey’s healthy body, I have some time to figure it all out.