Dampness beneath my fingers, dampness flowing up through the fabric of his shirt. I pulled my hand away, and it was red with something I wanted to pretend was wine, but it wasn’t wine, no, it had never been wine. The smell of blood was suddenly heavy in the room, so similar to seawater, so unmistakably not. I raised my head to stare at Connor.

He shrugged, looking sheepish and sad. The blood was spreading rapidly through his shirt, dyeing it a deep, almost purple shade of crimson. I wanted to look away. I hate the sight of blood. “I’m sorry, Toby,” he said. “I died. You were there. You loved me, and I died, and I can’t kiss you anymore, because I’m not the one you’re meant to be kissing. I would have stayed with you forever, if I’d had the chance. I would have given you a million kisses. But that didn’t happen. I died, and all those kisses died with me.”

“What . . .” The room suddenly seemed wrong. I hadn’t lived in my mother’s tower for years. Connor had never been there at all, not the first time we were dating, and not the second time, either. I looked down at myself. I was wearing a long black T-shirt with the logo for the Bourbon Room on the front. I hadn’t owned that shirt in twenty years. I didn’t even remember what had happened to it. “What’s going on?”

“You need to wake up now, Auntie Birdie.” Karen again. I raised my head, unsurprised to find her standing there. Equally unsurprising was the fact that the room had changed. Now it was my room at the house, comfortable in a way that neither the apartment nor the tower had been, because it was mine. It was the home I had made, not a home that had been made for me.

“What do you mean? I didn’t go to sleep.” My fingers were sticky. Unthinkingly, I wiped them on the blanket.

Karen’s eyes followed the gesture. “Even in dreams, blood has power for you,” she said.

It was clearly a suggestion. That didn’t make it an appealing one.

Still: if I was hallucinating and Karen was telling me to wake up, maybe whether or not something was appealing didn’t get to matter just now. I licked my palm, filling my mouth with the coppery taste of Connor’s blood—although, because this was a dream, it brought no memories with it. The blood was just blood, empty of anything but power. I shuddered, swallowed, and licked my hand again before looking around me, trying to force the situation to start making sense.

The room didn’t change. Maybe that meant the blood was helping: things were actually letting me look at them now, instead of shifting as soon as I tried. I slid out of the bed, standing unsteadily. “What’s going on? Karen, why do you keep saying I need to wake up?”

“Because you’re dreaming, even though you didn’t go to sleep.” Her expression was grave. “You have to wake up. This is what she wants. I’ve walked in her dreams. I know this is what she wants. You can’t give it to her.”

“What who wants?” I rubbed my face, trying to clear it. The taste of the blood in my mouth was changing, saltiness turning sweet, until it filled everything. Until it filled every little crack and crevice and . . . oh. Oh. I lowered my hand, looking at it. The blood was gone, replaced by the dark purple stickiness of jam. There were seeds under my fingernails, like proof that a crime had been committed.

When I raised my head again, the room was dark. Everything was gone, except for Karen, standing in the nothingness. I took a step toward her. She remained just as far away.

“The pie . . .”

“Yeah.” She grimaced sympathetically. “You need to wake up now.”

“Quentin. Is he all right?” I looked around, trying to tease details out of the dark. “Oh, root and branch, where is he? And where’s Tybalt?” I remembered him leaving me to go to the Court of Cats, but had that really happened, or was I trying to imagine him safe and far away?

“Wake up,” commanded Karen. She took a step toward me, her eyes seeming to glow white through the gloom. When she moved, we actually wound up closer together. “You want answers, you can’t find them here. Wake up, now, before it’s too late. Wake up.”

She was close enough to touch me, and she did, reaching out with both hands and shoving me. I wasn’t braced. I fell, arms pinwheeling as I struck the spot where the floor should have been and then kept falling, down, down, down into the darkness that seemed like it would never end. I screamed. It didn’t change anything. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath—

—and I wasn’t falling anymore. I was flat on my back on what felt like a feather mattress, and I wasn’t moving at all. My mouth still tasted like berry juice and blood, a mixture of salty and sweet that was disturbingly reminiscent of Chex Mix. I cracked open one eye, wondering what room I was dreaming myself into now.

It was one of the guest rooms at Shadowed Hills. The walls were painted white, and the single window looked out on the eternal twilight of the Summerlands sky. This wasn’t the first time I’d woken up here; as I opened my other eye and sat up, I looked down at myself. I was wearing a cotton nightgown with the Ducal arms stitched on the right breast. Then I raised my head, and collapsed back into the bed as the room began to spin.

“Oh, Maeve’s ass,” I groaned. My voice came out weaker than I liked. I groaned again, and rolled back into a sitting position, waiting with my head bowed until the room was still.

So far, so good. I swung my feet around to the floor and stood. The room remained still. Emboldened by my success, I took a step toward the door and promptly collapsed, like my skeleton had been replaced with pipe cleaners. There wasn’t time to roll with the fall; I hit the floor hard, absorbing most of the impact on my knees and palms, although I also cracked my forehead. The hot smell of blood filled the room again, now emanating from my skinned hands.

The spinning of the room was joined now by the throbbing in my head, but I had just enough remaining coherence to bring a hand to my mouth and start sucking on it, trying to get as much blood as I could before the wound healed. My thoughts cleared as soon as the blood hit my tongue. Not enough for me to stand, but enough for me to realize that the last thing I wanted to do was stop drinking my own blood. I was prepared to reopen the wound on the floor if I needed to . . . but I didn’t seem to need to. I was still bleeding.

Huh. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, still sucking. I was definitely awake this time—asleep didn’t hurt this much—and the pie that I’d been hit with in the parking lot was definitely baked with goblin fruit. Nothing else explained my dreams, or my disorientation.