I’d put my cell phone into my pocket—just in case—and I’d begun to walk toward my bedroom door. But with each step I’d taken, the door had gotten farther and farther away. My bedroom had expanded exponentially until the door was just a small rectangle in the distance. My heart had pounded in my chest, and my vision had narrowed until everything was fuzzy at the edges and the door was a tiny glint at the end of a tunnel.

That was when the yelling had begun.

I’d reached out for the door, but it was too far away. I’d begun to run, but each step felt like I was running through molasses. And even though I wasn’t going anywhere, my chest tightened like I’d been running a marathon. With no means to get to the door, I’d turned around and stared at the window like it was my only means of oxygen.

I’d run to the window—which stayed in place—and thrown it open. The men had walked outside again. One man had gotten back into the car on the driver’s side. The other had stopped and looked up at me. Our stares had locked, and there had been an evil glint in his narrowed eyes. He’d mouthed something I couldn’t catch—but there’d been no mistaking the symbol on the side of his car.

It was a quatrefoil—four circles stacked together like a curvy cross.

The symbol of the Reapers—of the Dark Elite.

The entire scene played in my mind like a movie. Just as real—the sounds and sights and smells of home the same. And that was the scariest part. Something about the dream felt familiar—familiar enough that I wasn’t sure if it had been a dream . . . or a memory. But I couldn’t remember seeing two men in black suits in an old-fashioned car arriving at the house. I didn’t remember yelling on the first floor or being unable to check on my parents. But still, something rang true. And I was afraid that something had something to do with the Reaper symbol on the car.

Shaking it off, I pulled on my robe, grabbed my shower kit, and headed down the hallway to the bathroom. I stood under the spray for a good, long while, but I couldn’t erase the feeling that I was still in the dream. That I’d try to turn the shower handle but it would move out of reach, or I’d return to the suite and find the man in black outside my door.

When I was dressed—skirt and St. Sophia’s polo under a hoodie—I walked across the suite to Scout’s room and knocked on the door. She answered with a “Yo!”

I opened the door and found her standing beside her bed, stuffing books into her messenger bag. At the sight of me, her expression fell. “Geez, you look awful. What happened?”

“Nightmare.”

Frowning, she glanced at the clock, then patted the bed beside her. “We’ve got a couple minutes. Bring her in for a landing.”

We both sat down on the bed. I told her about the dream. She listened patiently while I rehashed the details, occasionally patting my knee supportively. When I was done, I let out a slow breath, trying to remind myself that it had been just a dream . . . except it didn’t really feel that way.

“I think that’s the thing that bothers me the most,” I told her. “I mean, I know I didn’t see any of that stuff. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone yell at my parents. But it felt real.”

“Dreams can do that, you know. This one time, I dreamed I was being booed off the stage at this outdoor concert where I was playing the French horn. I don’t play the French horn, nor do I aspire to play the French horn. Couldn’t even pick one out of a lineup, probably. But when I woke up, I still felt like I was up there. I’d been humiliated in that dream, and the whole rest of the day I felt like I’d just walked off that stage.”

“French horn in hand?”

“Exactly.” Scout stared blankly ahead for a few seconds, like she was reliving the memory. “I knew it was just a dream—I mean, logically I knew it. But that didn’t make it feel any less real. It took a while to, like, shake off the psychic funk or whatever.” She grinned a little and bumped me with an elbow. “You just need to shake off your psychic funk.”

“You know, you are a pretty good friend. Those things they say about you are hardly true.”

Scout snorted, stood up, and shouldered her messenger bag. “They say I’m fabulous. And it’s crazy true. Now let’s go chow.”

It was just common sense that Adepts who spent their evenings fighting evil needed a good breakfast to start their day. Unfortunately, there was only one route to breakfast, and that was in the cafeteria through the horde of teenagers already in line for their own breakfasts.

Scout and I muscled into line.

Okay, that might be overstating it. Our evening adventures were one thing. Down there, we ruled the night with magic and firespell and flirted with werewolves. We had supernatural muscle.

But up here, we were the weirdish girl and her weirder friend—just two high school juniors trying to get enough credits for graduation while avoiding as much brat-pack drama as possible.

Not that that was easy.

Scout and I had just taken breakfast (hot tea and giant muffins) to a table when they walked in, Veronica in the lead, M.K. and Amie behind. They wore the same skirts that we did, but you could still tell they were different. They had swagger. They sauntered across the room like every eye was on them—and they usually were—and like there was no doubt in the world who they were, what they wanted, or what they were going to get.

The attitude aside, you kinda had to admire the confidence. Even Amie, who was a worrier, moved like the cafeteria was her personal catwalk.