The domed room. From the book. The supernatural plane. Holy shit! It’s real. My blood races with excitement, but I try to appear calm.

“She said she could practice altering reality and everything all night and never be tired in the morning. It wasn’t somewhere I could go, so I can’t help you with it, but try it and if you’re dedicated, I know you’ll get stronger.” He clenches his jaw. “And you’re going to need to be strong to beat this guy.”

“I just wear it and go to sleep?” It sounds too easy.

“Think about going there before you go to sleep. It’ll feel a lot like a dream, but one where you’re completely in control and can move about at will.”

“Won’t I . . . change things?” I ask, nervous about doing something to make everything even worse than it already is. Not to mention getting caught by Sierra. This is so beyond rule-breaking that I have no idea what she would do.

“Not while you’re sleeping,” Smith says, pulling my attention back. “You won’t be entering a specific vision—it’ll be the supernatural plane in general. Shelby said it was like seeing every possible future all at once. And because she knew she couldn’t actually change the future in her sleep, that’s where she would practice.”

I can hardly even comprehend such a place, but then, Shelby probably couldn’t either before she went. “Okay,” I say, slipping the necklace case into my deepest pocket. “And thank you.”

“Whatever you do, don’t let your aunt see it. Promise?” Smith asks.

I chuckle bitterly. “Believe me, Smith, that is one thing you do not have to worry about.”

“Okay.” He opens the door and steps out, tucking his scarf back into the front of his coat. He starts to swing the door shut, then stops and leans down so I can see his face again. “And be careful, just like the other teens are supposed to be. I know all you Oracles supposedly find out ahead of time when your deaths are and everything, but if anything should happen to you—” He closes his eyes and shudders. “No one here knows it except me,” he says soberly, “but we’re all depending on you. You are the only person standing between that monster, and your friends. And if you die . . .”

His voice trails off, but instead of finishing his sentence after a few seconds, he stands and pushes the door closed.

“Message received,” I whisper to his back as he walks away.

SEVENTEEN

I’m not feeling especially cheery as I walk up to Linden’s door—thanks, Smith—but at least Nicole is safe. She’ll live. The sickening display of carnage in the workshop will never happen.

And her parents will never have to find it.

I give one last little shiver at that thought and ring the doorbell. It opens scarcely two seconds later. “I saw you coming,” Linden says with a grin, “but I wasn’t quite fast enough.”

I’m staring; I’m sure of it. His smile practically radiates sunlight as he stands in the foyer, backlit by floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, loose jeans balanced on his hips and a long-sleeved black T-shirt hugging his perfect ribs. For years, I’ve watched with envy as he flirted with other girls—but this, this is something else entirely. Linden at home. Casual and at ease.

“You want to come in?” he asks, holding the door wide.

“S-sure,” I stutter, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. “I brought these for you,” I say, proffering the tray of cinnamon rolls once the door has closed the chill out of the room.

Linden’s eyes widen. “Dude, are these cinnamon rolls?”

“My mom and I make them every year.”

“Wait, wait, you made these? Like, from flour and sugar and stuff?”

I eye him strangely, and he bursts out laughing. “Sorry, that sounded weird.” He leans in closer and whispers, “My mom doesn’t make anything except French toast. And I mean, she uses store-bought bread and dips it in Egg Beaters she put some cinnamon in. It makes her feel domestic.”

I smile back and follow Linden into the kitchen—one of the rooms I didn’t get to see last night. I guess I’m not really surprised that everything is sparkling clean less than twenty-four hours later, but I do wonder how many people it took.

Linden puts the tray on the counter and stares at it for a few seconds before looking up at me with a guilty expression. “Is it really six-year-old of me to ask if I can eat one of these now? They look amazing.”

“No, please do!” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “You have to do it right though.”

He peers at me dubiously. “There’s a right way to eat a cinnamon roll?”

“Yes! Hot roll, cold frosting, eat with your fingers,” I say with a laugh. In the end, I cave and let him use a fork, even though I inform him that he is missing the best part of the experience.

He puts a big bite in his mouth and then closes his eyes and groans. “Oh, man, this is so good. I’m not just saying that because you’re here. These are amazing.” His eyes fly open and he swallows. “I’m such an ass, let me get you one.” And he’s turning to grab a plate before I can stop him.

“No, no, no,” I say, putting my hand in his way as he tries to fork me a cinnamon roll. My stomach is still clenching from the horrific experience I’ve just had. At this rate, I won’t be able to eat for the rest of the day. “I swear I’ve eaten a whole dozen in the last two days. I honestly don’t want one.” That sounds convincing, right?