Meditate, he’d said.

Jingo Jingo was such a joker.

I had to clear my mind. Had to direct—no, channel—no, Ground. I was supposed to Ground, and they were going to direct the magic that ricocheted and fractured, leaping above me, above us, above St. Johns, striking wild, random arcs of lightning and wild glyphs that would tear us all to shreds.

We might be using magic, but it was going to use us right back.

I cleared my mind. Sang my “Miss Mary Mack” song. Lost the line when thunder rolled and rolled, and lightning hit so low I felt it in my molars and thought we’d all go up in a crisp. Picked up at the “silver buttons, buttons, buttons” line and held tight to the disk, which hummed with magic, in my hand over the pile of disks.

The wild magic was not me. The wild magic could not change me. It could pour around me, fill the disk in my hand, and fill the other disks on the ground. It could follow the marks, the paths, the ribbons, magic had painted in my skin, my blood, my bones, and use me as a conduit. Magic could slide through me, soft, gentle, and return to the soil, the stones, the heart of the earth, where it belonged.

The reason St. Johns had been chosen for this suddenly made sense. St. Johns was an empty sieve. Magic would flow through it, and into the channels beyond this neighborhood, and fill all the rest of Portland.

That was, if I could Ground it.

I inhaled, exhaled, tasted the burnt wood and hot ozone of fire. The wind lifted, buffeting, hot in the cold, cold rain.

Grounding wasn’t a difficult glyph to draw, but making magic follow it, and standing there, steady, calm, and completely focused while the magic used me, was what made Grounding hard. I set a Disbursement, hoping to push off some of the pain for later. Maybe I’d catch a flu in a week or so.

If I survived.

I looked up, at the sky roiling with metallic, psychedelic clouds, stirred by the winds like oil on water, pushed into new shapes, into unnamed hues and colors. Lightning struck, and all the colors of magic flashed gold against the black sky. I’d never felt so much magic so concentrated. At least, not that I remembered.

Even the rain tasted of the oily, metallic heat of wild magic, striking sour on the tip of my tongue, and so sweet at the back of my throat.

Lightning struck again. Thunder roared.

Now. I knew I had to cast it now.

I focused, pushed away the awareness of the magic users around me, most of them chanting over the rush of rain and wind, pushed away my awareness of the storm, of the rain, of the wind buffeting my body.

Raised my hand.

This one stroke, this one line, this one curve—I cast each part of the glyph for Grounding with precise, purposeful motion. Nothing wrong, not a tremor, not a pause.

Then I drew upon the magic from the disk in my hand. It hesitated, and for a second, I thought I had screwed up and was going to suck all the magic in the disk into me, into my bones, blood, and flesh. But the magic sprang free of the disk, and I guided it to fill the glyph for Grounding.

Magic poured into the Grounding, and shot ropes of magic over me. Even though I expected that and braced for it, I jerked. The thick, cold cables of the magic clamped over my shoulders and fell like hundred-pound anchors into the soil, where they plunged deep and hooked. I could not move if I wanted to.

I was now officially Beckstrom the storm rod. And I hated it.

Have I mentioned I am claustrophobic? I tried to push my fear out of the way, tried to ignore the clamping restraints of the Grounding holding me down.

This is why I am no good at Grounding. I freak out within the first three seconds or so. Trapped. Too trapped.

I exhaled, focused on the disk in my outstretched hand. I could do this. Not only that, I would do this. Everything depended on me doing this one thing. One thing wasn’t hard. I could do one thing.

Magic leaped into the hands of the users in the circle. I recognized directional glyphs, drawn to attract and guide the magic down out of the sky and into me—or rather into the framework of magic around me, the Grounding I’d just cast.

I breathed evenly, bracing for the onslaught.

Magic would not burn me alive. So long as I didn’t take it into me. So long as I didn’t lose my concentration. These magic users were professionals. They knew what they were doing.

I hoped.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a figure leap out of the shadows. Two figures. Magic flared. Glyphs turned to flame. The pile of disks at my feet caught fire, magic bursting free.

A wall of heat hit me and I yelled, thinking, Ground, Ground, Ground.

No, my dad said. Let go, Allison, let go! He shoved at me, tried to take control, but I was nothing if not made of stubborn. I held my place, kept my cool, even though I was being roasted to the core.

Look, Dad said. Look around you. Look at the battle.

Battle? My ears were already ringing from the pounding thunder and magic. I couldn’t hear him over all the screaming.

Wait. Screaming?

I hesitated. I was not good at doing what my father wanted me to do. But there was something very wrong.

I looked away from the disk in my palm, holding my concentration in the Grounding spell.

Chaos. The circle was broken. And it wasn’t because of the storm.

Magic user fought magic user in a blur so confusing, I couldn’t make out who was where.

I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. Magic poured over me, hot, heavy, cold, biting, rushing down the cables of the Grounding spell that I somehow still held.

Go, me.

But all around me the Authority battled.

I searched for Shame in the melee.

And instead saw Greyson and Chase.

No, no, no. Absolutely no. They could not be here. Who would have told them we were going to be here?

Greyson was more beast than man, on all fours, wide head, fangs, and claw, bone and sinew for legs and arms, and burning eyes. Chase cast magic for him, with him, his Soul Complement and his hands. She was tall, but thinner and paler than just a day ago. Working magic with Greyson, or maybe being Soul Complement to a man who was half alive and half dead, carried a hard price—her humanity.

Her hair hung around her shoulders like a black cape, glimpses of her skin flashes of moonlight in a dark night. Her eyes and her lips were bloodred. She no longer wore jeans and flannel, but instead had on a black dress that skimmed her knees and black boots with heels low enough to make running easy. Or fighting.

And that was exactly what she was doing.

And doing very well.

Just like back at Officers Row, Chase was chanting and weaving glyphs in the air and filling them with magic she pulled out of the storm. Multicolored ribbons wrapped down her fingers and up her arm, where tendrils shot out to anchor in Greyson, feeding him. He was headed my way.

Romero, the family-man killer, launched himself at Greyson, the machete in his hand a blur of magic channeled from the sky.

Greyson fought him, fangs bared, then unhinged his huge jowls and sucked down the magic Romero threw at his head.

Chase clapped her hands together once and a gate sprang up. Greyson leaped through it. Chase slammed her hands together again, and the gate disappeared in a blast of black smoke.

I didn’t know how she was doing it. Those gates weren’t allowing any of the creatures that haunted the other side, the Hungers, to break through. But Greyson used them as easily as stepping though an open door.

One more clap, and the gate was open again, this time on the other side of the circle. Near Sedra and Maeve. And me.

Greyson tore out of the gate, and ran fast, too fast, a nightmare of bone and fang and claw. He launched at Sedra.

Sedra stood, cool and angry, hands raised in a block I’d never seen before. Greyson hit the block, and I swear I felt the thrum of that impact at the base of my skull, over the thunder, over the wail of magic in the storm, over the sounds of battle.

Maeve stepped up to Sedra’s defense. She wielded a long knife in each hand, blood covering her fingers and the blades as she cut glyphs into the air. She threw magic at Greyson. It wrapped him in dark lightning, filling the air with the sweet smell of cherries. Greyson sucked the magic down. Which was exactly what Maeve had wanted. Still connected by blood to her blade, and her will, Maeve yanked on the spell, tearing a brutal scream out of Greyson.

Greyson stumbled. Gave up his advance on Sedra and turned on Maeve instead. He leaped.

“No!” I yelled. I tried to take a step. The Grounding spell rooted me, anchored. I couldn’t let go of the spell, couldn’t break it.

Lightning struck, so close, rain sizzled. Thunder popped an ear-busting explosion and I tasted blood at the back of my throat.

Wild magic filled me, licked across my skin, catching fire down the ribbons of my arm and hand. Wild magic grew roots in me, different from the Grounding spell. I had felt this before. I suddenly remembered it now. The last time I’d tapped into a wild-magic storm and nearly died.

The crystal, my dad said. Or I think he said it. It was hard to hear anything over the thunder, the yelling, the fighting—worse because someone, I think the Georgia sisters, was supporting the dome of magic, keeping all the sounds we made inside.

I pushed my left hand into my pocket and pulled out the crystal. Deep fuchsia, the crystal was hot, glyphs carved inside it fluctuating with the magic I carried. I didn’t know how the crystal was going to help.

Direct the magic into it; use it to Ground. It is organic, unlike the disks, Dad said. It can act as a Grounder.

Okay, so all I had to do was recast the Grounding spell onto the crystal. One crystal to handle what me and a hundred disks were barely managing?

It’ll explode, I said.

It will hold long enough, Dad said.

Maybe that was his idea of success. As a matter of fact, it probably was. I didn’t know what his stake in this was, except Violet’s safety.

Put the crystal on the disks, he said.

And that made sense. The excess magic in the crystal would bleed off into the disks, and they could help carry the load of wild magic.

But the Grounding spell wrapped me in concrete. It took everything I had to bend my knees and hold my hand out over the pile of disks. I opened my fingers, tipped my palm. The crystal fell, tumbling down and down. It struck the disks and a sweet, harmonic tone echoed back from the rain.

And then the world exploded.

My hands flew up without thought. Well, without my thought. Dad took over and cast a hell of a Shield spell. That kept me from burning to the bone. But it did not keep me from being thrown back ten feet, and landing flat on my back.

Someone above me, in the light, shadows, rain, wild magic, held a hand down for me.

“Move!” It was Victor, my teacher, Zayvion’s teacher. He grabbed my hand and rocketed me onto my feet.

All the training I’d done on the mats came into play. I found my balance and footing in the wet and confusion, and got out of the way fast. Victor had pulled me to one side of the battlefield.

I hurt—my skin stung from the magic burns, or, for all I knew, from lightning strikes. But even with all hell coming down, I did not draw Zay’s blade and go in swinging.

I didn’t know whom we were fighting, other than Greyson and Chase, and I didn’t know why. Everyone was throwing magic and weapons around. This had gone from a fight against the storm to a fight against one another.

“Stay out of the way.” Victor turned and ran into the fray.

I wasn’t going to do anything until I knew my hands, my body, were my own. I shook my hands, making sure my dad was not using them. It creeped me the hell out when he did that.

You’re welcome, his sardonic voice said in the middle of my head.

This isn’t your battle, he said. There is so much more you were meant for. So much more you and I could do to make this right. Death isn’t the end, nor life the beginning.

Save it for the encore, I thought. I am a part of this. My friends are in there.

I ignored him because, really? Busy trying to figure out how to lend a hand here, and the last time I’d let him tell me who my friends were, I was six. I set a Disbursement, headache, and traced a glyph for Sight. The entire field opened up like I’d just flipped the switch on a floodlight.

The scene was gruesome.

Several things were happening at once. On the compass points of the field, four people had backed off, and now stood with their hands above their heads and forward, feet spread for balance, in some kind of weird yoga pose that was actually sustaining the flow of magic into the shield. The Georgia sisters were three of them—I could tell because they each stood with one hand on their staff, and one extended skyward—and I think Carl, the brother twin, was the other. They were wet, shaking, and chanting, though I couldn’t hear their words, and held their focus and concentration with grim robotic determination.

Inside that circle that reached to a domed height maybe six stories above us, at least as high as the trees, was magic. Wild magic pounded in the sky beyond the bubble and fluttered around the bubble like a bee to nectar.

I didn’t know what it looked like on the outside, but I could guess. I guessed that it looked like a storm, a regular thunderstorm. Even the best magic users wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to tap into the wild magic to cast spells like Sight. So all they’d see was multicolored lightning rolling across the sky in vaguely glyphlike shapes. There were probably strikes in other parts of the town, caught by the Beckstrom Storm Rods, but the flow of magic here would be mostly invisible. Magic is so fast, it cannot be seen by the naked eye. And with plain old ordinary lightning blasting through the sky, I doubted anyone even knew what was going down behind the dome of Illusion in St. Johns.

So long as the four magic users held their concentration and kept the dome intact, this would never hit the news.

Inside the circle was a battlefield. Mostly, it looked like the magic users had chosen two sides. The one against Chase and Greyson and the one for them. With this many people fighting for Chase and Greyson, it was no wonder Greyson had escaped.

And with this many people on their side, I considered them against me, and responsible for Zayvion’s lying unconscious. I knew which side I belonged on. The side with Maeve, Victor, Hayden, Sedra, Dane, Shame, and Terric.

Chase and Greyson worked together, Liddy standing close by them, and not doing anything to stop them.

Over and over Chase called up gates for Greyson to leap through. He tore into magic users, pinning them, and drinking the magic out of them. He was mostly man now, wearing pants and no shirt, but still a wild thing, all muscle and pale skin, his hair long, his eyes more human than they had been, but still filled with an animal’s intelligence. No, the intelligence of a killer.

He attacked La, the other twin. She swung her scythe and magic so hard, it should have cut his arm off. But it didn’t even nick him. He shoved hands into her chest like he was digging for bones. He tipped his head back, the disk pulsing silver green at his throat, and howled over her screams as he sucked the magic out of her. Her twin, Carl, holding the east side of the dome, yelled out too, but the dome did not waver. He endured.

Big Hayden was having nothing of it. He wore the bomber jacket, but the shotgun and broadsword were no longer over his shoulder.

He fired the rifle at Greyson. Missed his head by an inch. Greyson ducked and rolled, using the unconscious La as a shield. Hayden swung his sword, and a sound wave pushed against my skin as if a hundred voices were calling out in a chant, a prayer, a force. There was magic in that sword—I don’t know what kind, but it was old. It wrapped around Greyson, dug into his muscles as he ran, slowing him and leaving lines of blood behind. Then there was a gate, and Greyson was through it.

Hayden was hot on his heels. Before the gate closed, Greyson grabbed a handful of it—of the magic Chase used to create the gate—and threw it like a hand grenade at Hayden.

Hayden sheathed his rifle, and caught most of the magic with his hand, diffusing the magic so that it froze into a cloud of shattered glass that fell and burned the grass at his feet.

Magic should not do what Greyson and Chase were doing with it. They were using so much magic, they should be unconscious by now. Someone had to be bearing the price of their magic use, but I didn’t know who it was, although it could be the other magic users on their side acting as Proxy.

Or maybe more magic users somewhere else in the city were standing Proxy. How far did this break in the Authority run? Were they fighting in Salem? In Eugene? Was there an uprising in Washington? California? Or was this just a local war?

I glanced at Chase. Stop her to stop Greyson. The flaw of that plan was that Greyson had now drunk enough Life magic, light magic, to transmute back into the form of a man. Which meant he had hands, and could cast magic as well as any of us. But I knew he wouldn’t stay a man for long. Not without a constant intake of magic.

Chase worked the southern end of the fight. Liddy had shifted to stand behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other drawing spells. Liddy whispered and traced glyphs, pouring magic into Chase, providing her with the magic to give to Greyson.

Liddy was a bad guy. Great. How was I going to get past the teacher of Death magic to get to Chase?

We don’t need the Closer, Dad said in my head. All we need is the beast, to take back what is mine.

Wrong, I said. We get the Closer, we get the beast. They’re Soul Complements. They’re one. And she’s going to be easier to take down.

I glanced around for Jingo Jingo. He might be a freak, but he was good at what he did.

Jingo Jingo was in a deadlock with Maeve. Jingo’s Death magic absorbed the Blood magic Maeve threw at him, sucked it down like a well with no end. He strolled toward her, almost as easy as a Sunday walk, nodding as if he understood why she was fighting him, and maybe would regret killing her. I think I heard him humming a song, an old gospel about babies and the devil and bones. Maeve wove spells with blood and blade, not about to back down.

Sedra, nearby, was locked in a cage work of magic like nothing I’d ever seen. It had to be technology, something my dad would have built.

Maybe it wasn’t just the disks the Authority had broken into the lab for. Maybe they’d come in and demanded that cage too.

That wasn’t in the lab, Dad said. I developed it years ago. It was taken from me years ago.

Like something out of Victorian clockwork, the cage was a collection of gears and glyphs and metal twisted into the shape of holding spells. It hinged in every section, as if it could be shaped into any spell, and shaped around any person.

Holy shit. It was a physical carrier of magic, like the disks, but specific to single spells.

This was part of what my dad had been working on. Not just the conduits of magic that could fuel the city. Not just the disks that worked as batteries. But a metal or some other compound that could be shaped into a spell and become that spell until the day the magic died.

Using this would permanently change the world.

The cage was constricting, pressing in on Sedra’s clothes and moving closer. It was going to crush her to death.

What the hell kind of tech were you making? I thought at my dad.

The cage had Sedra frozen completely. She didn’t so much as move a hand or speak a word.

Dane, her bodyguard, was doing what he could to hold a slowing spell around her. It kept the cage from collapsing in on her, but he couldn’t do anything else.

Shame and Terric fought back-to-back, moving as if they could read each other’s minds. It was not just Greyson and Chase and Jingo Jingo and Liddy causing problems. Mike wore the glowing glyph gloves and threw lightning around like it was rice at a wedding. Shame and Terric were counteracting his constant barrage.

La was down. So was Romero. Hayden had finally pinned Greyson back against the wall of magic where Chase couldn’t get to him. Greyson was no slouch. He cast magic, light and dark, Life and Death, at the big man. He forced Hayden to spend so much effort blocking, Grounding, or containing magic, he was not making any headway against Greyson.

If it hadn’t been real, if it hadn’t been my friends’ lives on the line, this scene might be beautiful for the amazing skill. Greyson was liquid silver and shadow dancing with the saber he’d found, Chase, his pale, blood-lipped lover, feeding him the power to fight.

Hayden, a mountain of power and precision, took blows that would cripple a lesser man. Dane wove incredible, complicated lacework spells to keep Sedra from being crushed, while Jingo Jingo supped on Maeve’s Blood magic like a man with a hunger that had no end.

Maeve’s spells painted quick, sensual strokes of Blood magic that wrapped deadly vines around Jingo’s soul. Shame and Terric, brothers, Complements, warriors, blades, ax, magic, shouted curses and synchronized death.

It was Jingo who broke the stalemate between the two factions.

He stopped strolling toward Maeve, stopped singing.

He lifted his hand from his heart and pointed the disk at Maeve.

He twisted the spell she had anchored into him, and sent it back on her. Mixed with his blood. Mixed with Death magic. Mixed with the magic in the disk. All the souls of the ghostly children who clung to him were set free.

They screamed through the air, rabid, feral, tearing into Maeve like a mob of crows. They covered her, clawing, biting, and lifted her off the ground.

Jingo slashed the disk downward. The ghosts dropped Maeve to the ground, but clung to her with tiny hands and hungry mouths.

Maeve yelled. Pain. Agony. She could not move to break the spell. Could not free herself of the children’s souls. And those souls were drinking her dry.

Shame saw it. Terric saw it. Hayden saw it.

And so did I.

Shame ran for her.

So did Hayden.

Greyson ran too. To Chase. To the gate she opened for him. Closed for him. Then opened again. Behind Maeve.

Greyson leaped out of the gate and was on Maeve. He drank down the magic around her, lapped up the children’s souls and all the magic they contained.

Hayden and Shame yelled out. They were almost there. Almost close enough.

Greyson stood, faced Jingo Jingo. And disgorged the children’s magic, and more—all the magic he had taken from all the people he’d been fighting—straight at Jingo Jingo.

For a second my heart soared. Maybe Chase had told Greyson that Jingo was a freak. Maybe they were on the good guys’ side. Our side.

But Jingo Jingo took that magic, all of it, into the disk in his hand, mixed with his blood, and every discipline and expression of magic. His eyes were wide, desperate, as if this one thing, this last thing, was his only chance. He pointed the disk at the pile of disks and the crystal in the center of the field.

He chanted a spell that made my ears hurt.

Light seared through the air—a hot talon carving a hole through space. Light burst out of the opening, swirled with metallic colors reflected on my arm. A gate between life and death opened.

More than opened, the gate had been made real. Solid. It was made of iron and stone and glass. And magic.

I glimpsed a figure standing in the gate, ghostly thin. A fair-haired boy with eyes as blue as summer. Cody Miller. The Hand who had pulled magic through my bones, the boy who was still alive, and currently living with my friend Nola on her farm in Burns. The boy who had eyes too much like Sedra’s eyes. Too much like the eyes of Mikhail, the dead leader of the Authority.

It wasn’t all of Cody—his mind had been Closed by Zayvion because he had been deemed too dangerous to use magic. So while his body, and part of his mind, did live with Nola, this part of him, a piece of his soul, a piece of his spirit, his mind, that could use magic, was in this gate between life and death. He’d jumped into the gate when I had been tested into the Authority. He had sacrificed himself to keep the gate closed. And to keep Mikhail, the Hungers, and other horrors of magic out of the living world.

He looked out across the scene. And locked eyes with me. I can’t, he mouthed. I am good at reading lips. His eyes were filled with sorrow, but also with anger. I can’t stop this anymore. You have to do it.

He rocked forward, as if something huge had hit him from behind, but all I could see behind him was a swirl of colors that matched the light from the gate.

He rocked again. And then I saw what bore down upon him. Eyes. Fangs. Claws.

The Hungers.

He was holding them back. Keeping them from entering our world, just as he had kept the gate closed. But now the gate was open, and real, he couldn’t hold on any longer.

We’d fought the Hungers before, when the gate had opened during my test. Even with all the magic users gathered and on the same side, thank you, we’d nearly lost. I didn’t have any hope we would win this time.

All this, all the things I’d seen, had taken up maybe a minute. But it felt like years. I was running, to save Maeve, to try to pull Greyson off her. Shame was still running too.

Hayden got there first. He’d sheathed his sword. Grabbed Greyson by the throat and tore him off Maeve’s still body. Pinning Greyson to the ground, Hayden pounded the hell out of him.

Chase yelled out. And Greyson smiled through bloody lips and broken face. Another gate opened—one of Chase’s gates. Not beside Greyson. Below him. It swallowed Greyson and Hayden. Chase closed it. I did not see where they reappeared. I didn’t have time to look.

Shame, at a dead run, threw everything he had at Jingo Jingo. Jingo, his hand still extended to keep the gate open, staggered.

Shame was good. A master. Even though he had been Jingo Jingo’s student.

Jingo turned, faced Shame. Looked surprised. Maybe he didn’t know that his student had become so skilled. This would be the end of one of them—that, I knew.

Shame still looked like hell. He’d added a cut across his cheek and a bruise over one eye, and his skin was still sunken against bone. He looked like the walking dead. Like at any moment he would fall. But his eyes told me that it was not the strength of his body that was fueling him.

Yes, one of them would fall. But from the fury pouring out of Shame, it wasn’t going to be him.

Shame chanted. He pulled his hands, a blade in each, across his chest, his head tipped down so that only his eyes burned through the ragged, bloodstained curtain of his hair. He looked like a dark angel, head bowed in prayer. And maybe he was. The grass at his feet crackled and seared brown, dead, and began to smoke. He was drawing energy, life energy, out of everything in his range. It was the way of Death magic, a transference of energy.

Jingo Jingo knew it too. He’d taught him.

“Don’t, boy,” he shouted. “You don’t know what’s at stake here. You don’t understand what we could lose.”

“Fuck,” Shame said, “you.”

He pulled his arms open, as if embracing all the life, all the pain, all the death and magic, in the circle.

I made it to Maeve. I had to pull her out of the way before Shame drank her down too.

I touched her face. She was cold. Too cold, even in the falling rain. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing and didn’t have time to wonder whether moving her would kill her. I picked her up, not easy, but I was in shape, and adrenaline gave me strength and desperation. Good enough.

I dragged her away, though there was no safe place, finally stopped near one of the Georgia sisters who was holding the east side of the Illusion barrier. The sister, the youngest, I thought, did not look down at me. Did not break out of her hypnotic trance.

That kind of focus was crazy. They should have had her Ground for the group. It was a good thing Sedra hadn’t asked me to hold the Illusion. I would have dropped that shit long ago.

I knelt and placed my hand on Maeve’s chest. Flashbacks rocked through me. Of Zayvion lying still, of a fight I could not win raging around me, of watching him cross into death. I tried to push it away, tried not to panic. Maeve’s heart beat, strong and even. She was breathing.

I didn’t know if I could heal her. With the wild magic pouring through the air, I wasn’t sure if I should even try. I might kill her.

I glanced back at Shame.

Things were not going well. Jingo Jingo smiled, a flash of white across his dark face, and I added another image to my nightmare list. He shook his head slowly, pitying Shame.

Shame’s hands shook as he cast the next spell. A spell Jingo Jingo batted aside and countered with something that sent Shame to his knees.

Where was Terric? Where was the cavalry? There didn’t seem to be any end to the storm, to the magic, to the fallen.

I didn’t know what to do.

Listen to me, Allison, Dad said in my head. This battle is not the war. Those who fall will be remembered. But there will be more, many deaths, hundreds. I saw a flash of Davy’s face, of Bea, of Violet, of Stotts, of Zayvion, then a blur of people whom my father knew, some of his ex-wives and business partners, and for one brief, sweet moment an image of my own mother’s laughing face; then the images were gone. Thousands could die if you do not listen to me.

The Authority will kill him. Destroy his soul if they find out, maybe even kill the living Cody too, I said.

My dad pointed in my head—a strange feeling that made me want to scratch the roof of my mouth. I looked up to the right.

Mama stood on the other side of the wall of magic, all five-foot-nothing of her. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she wore a secondhand raincoat that was two sizes too big, the green hood tightened around her face like a corn husk.

“Mama?”

She couldn’t hear me. She was outside the Illusion. Wait. What was she doing there? From her perspective, she was standing in the middle of the field at night in a downpour. Why would she do that?

She owes me a favor, my dad said.

Okay, that was fucking creepy. I didn’t know how my dad had gotten her to show up. Didn’t know if he’d left something about it in his will, or if he was somehow talking to people when I didn’t know it. Like at night when I was sleeping or something. I tried to think if I had done any sleepwalking and came up with nothing.

You are not the only vessel I fill, he said. You are not the only one who can hear me.

Holy shit. Could he get any more creepy?

Who? I asked. Greyson? Oh, I hoped I was wrong.

It has not been easy, he said. The beast fights me, but I found a way. He sounded proud about that.

It made me want to barf.

Dad, or Greyson, or some combination, had somehow talked to Mama. Which meant she knew my undead dad was undead. And she’d agreed to do him a favor.

I didn’t know if I should break through the shield and tell her to go away somewhere safe fast, or if getting my body, and my possessed brain, closer to her would let Dad jump the ship. He was stronger here, with the wild magic and the disks. Stronger ever since Greyson had attacked Zayvion.

Was he a part of Chase and Greyson’s betrayal?

What do you want? I asked him. Cold sweat washed over me, and I shivered in the rain, even though it was tropical hot inside the shield. Fear, of him manipulating me all this time, of the frighteningly real possibility that he was the one behind the attack on Zayvion, made me want to run far and fast.

But how could I escape that which was inside me?

Two things he’d told me before. If they were lies, they were lies he was sticking to.

I looked at Shame again. He was still on one knee, the other foot braced, his hand sunk deep to clutch the grass, the soil, the other raised toward Jingo Jingo, so much magic pouring through him that Jingo was having to take hard steps backward, even though he leaned with all his strength, with all his bulk, into Shame’s spell.

Shame shook with fury. He wasn’t chanting. He was cursing. And every word drew blood from Jingo’s thick skin, sending Jingo’s blood to pour down with the rain, and into the soil, where Shame drew the energy and strength out of Jingo’s blood, draining Jingo’s life energy and throwing it back at him to cut him again.

Holy fuck, that boy was ruthless.

I didn’t need my dad. I didn’t need to do what he wanted. Shame was taking care of Jingo Jingo. Dane still held the cage from crushing Sedra, though he hadn’t broken it yet. Victor was hot in battle with both Liddy and Chase, and Terric had knocked Mike out—with fists, not magic. I couldn’t see Greyson or Hayden.

I needed to deal with Cody and close the gate so the Hungers couldn’t get through.

Jingo Jingo yelled.

Shame was on his feet now, magic still hammering Jingo’s Shield. But Jingo wasn’t yelling in defeat. He swung his huge arm to one side and directed the disk and magic at the gate.

Cody screamed. The incorporeal shrill felt like someone had shoved hot peppers in my eyes. His voice, his pain, filled the dome.

For a breath—just that long—everyone stopped.

Except me.

I stood. Ran. Straight at the gate. And caught Cody’s spirit as he fell free into this world again. Caught him, not in my arms, but rather, confusingly, horrifyingly, in my mind.

For a moment, I was three people, three lives, three memories. I remembered painting with magic, carving with magic, creating beautiful, beautiful things that broke barriers between life and death, ways for magic to be all disciplines at once.

I remembered inventing technology, formulating glyphs, standardizing spells with a mix of metal and glass that broke barriers between life and death, and made magic follow all disciplines at once.

I remembered my eighth birthday party and the purple sweater my dad bought me. I loved that sweater.

Too many memories, too much. Too crowded. I whined and stumbled backward, trying to get away from the people inside me, trying to escape my own skin, flee my crowded, crowded brain.

People can’t possess people. People can’t possess people. Zayvion had said it was rare. Said my dad was in my head only because we were the same blood. Cody and I were not related. And yet his spirit—or at least this part of it who could make magic do beautiful, beautiful things—was curled around my brain stem.

There wasn’t any room for me to breathe, to think.

My back brushed the spongy wall of the Illusion, and I finally heard my father’s voice.

I exhaled, blinked. Magic swirled around me, a curtain of ribbons and fire, a maelstrom all my own.

I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t listen to him. Shouldn’t trust him. But I had loved that purple sweater. He had canceled a business trip to Europe and stayed home for my birthday. He had brought me a birthday cake. And the purple sweater I had secretly loved and mentioned to him only once when we walked by the store.

I did as he said.

Dad used me to cast a spell. It felt like a gentle stroke over my hair, except it was inside my head. And then the awareness of Cody, his life, his memories, his soul, was gone. Instead, Cody’s spirit, pale as watercolor, stood beside me.

“Tired,” he said in a voice little more than a child’s. He was transparent, rain falling through him. He looked like the watercolor people who usually showed up when I cast magic. Or usually showed up if my dad didn’t block them when I cast magic.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I could fix this.” He frowned, his voice drifting away on the wind. Destroyed by thunder.

“You’re okay now.” I was surprised at how calm I was. Apparently some part of my brain still functioned. Now that Cody was out of my head, I could think again, breathe again, and not panic again.

Mama stepped forward, just enough that she was through the Illusion. She squinted. It must be brighter in here. It was certainly a bloody mess.

“Come with me now, boy,” she said to Cody’s spirit.

Which meant she could see Cody’s spirit. Which meant she was using some kind of magic to see him. Which meant she could use magic. A fleeting memory of her hand on my chest, glowing, snapped bright in my mind, then was gone. But the sense that she had more to do with magic than I knew lingered.

“Wait,” I said. “Mama, what are you going to do with him?”

“He’s safe with me, Allie girl. I’ll keep him hidden. Have my own ways, and you won’t ask me nothing about it. Tell your father I don’t owe him no more.” She held out her hand for Cody.

Cody looked at me. “I like her.” He smiled.

I had no idea what to say to him. Had no idea what was the right thing to do. Maybe I should try to keep him somehow and return him to his living self.

Cody took Mama’s hand, and for a second, I thought I saw her hand glow white, just as lightning struck. I blinked away the flash and Cody was stuck to her by a stream of white light, like the ghost children had been stuck to Jingo Jingo, only Cody didn’t look sad about it. He looked relieved, walking to the end of the length of light, then back close to her again. I couldn’t help but think of a balloon being caught safely before it floated away.

Mama stepped toward the wall of Illusion, out to the outside world.

Just before he followed her, Cody turned back toward me. “Zayvion,” he said. Thunder drowned out his words.

“What?” I asked.

Allison, my father warned.

“Zayvion . . . ,” Cody started, the stream of light between him and Mama tugging on him.

Allison, Dad said again.

Shut up, I thought at him.

“. . . says he loves you too,” Cody said.

“When did he say that?”

“In there.” Cody pointed at the gate. “Today.”

I looked over at the gate.

And saw a wave of monsters, Hungers, and horrors I had no name for pouring through the gate and onto the field.