Heat blossoms through my shoulder and I look down to see blood. My sight swims but the sound of a second shot jolts me into action. I roll and he misses through some feat of sheer luck. I charge into him, throwing my noninjured shoulder into his belly and he brings the butt of the gun down on my back with a crack.

Once, twice, three times and I feel blood trickling from where my skin breaks under his pummeling. Every part of me hurts but when I hear the gun click and realize Smith is going to shoot again, I know I can’t simply avoid his blows. He’s going to kill me on this supernatural plane.

And the only way to save myself is to kill him first.

As soon as that conclusion gels in my head, I feel the long stick that’s somehow still clenched in my fist turn into a knife.

A very familiar knife.

Without hesitating, I swing the blade at him, hacking at anything I can find. I’m waiting—bracing myself—for another bullet, but my knife connects with something harder than skin, and Smith lets out a gasp of pain. The clatter of the heavy gun on the floor is the sweetest sound I’ve heard all day.

I don’t know how soon Smith can make another weapon. So I keep jabbing blindly at him, accidentally stabbing the knife into my own thigh at one point and forcing myself to ignore the sizzling pain.

At last, I tear myself free. Almost blinded by agony and anger, I jump on top of Smith as he stumbles and I grip the slick, bloody knife in both hands and bring it down to his chest where it sinks to the hilt. Yank it out, trying to block out the bone-chilling, sucking sound it makes. Plunge again. Yank, plunge, yank, plunge, ignore the tears falling like rain as my innocence is truly stripped away, and Smith slowly stops writhing, then stills beneath me.

THIRTY-TWO

I blink and even though my physical eyes can vaguely see the bright blue sky, I remain somehow in my second sight. But not on the dome of my supernatural plane; I’m in what I would normally classify as a vision, except that I don’t feel the pressure in my head, or the storm in my brain.

I’m in the same scene I was in with Smith a few minutes ago. But this one is real—it’s Smith, sitting in jail in the physical world. There are no specific indications, I just know.

I look over and for a second, I expect him to jump up and attack me.

But he sits, slumped against the wall, his eyes unfocused, just like before. I’m confused for a moment until I see that blood is pooling out of his ears. Not like in the memory of him with Sierra—not the trickle he somehow managed to live through. It gushes. Somehow, their connection years ago wasn’t as strong. They both survived.

Not today. He’s dead. For real. He tied our minds so closely in my second sight that he literally could not exist without me. By cutting him out of my world on the supernatural plane, I severed his life force.

The words my aunt said to me as I held the knife to Linden’s throat rush back: He’s feeding off of you. He’ll never be as strong as you are. You have to cut him off.

She knew this would happen. That he would actually die if I defeated him. That must be why she was so worried when she heard I’d been to his world—she knew the connection was stronger this time.

But she spared me the knowledge beforehand. If I had known—truly known—I don’t think I could have done it.

The vision fades and my physical sight takes over again. The sky is so bright I cringe against it after the darkness of Smith’s world.

“Oh, thank heaven,” I hear Sierra whisper, and then I see her face right above mine. My fingers fly to my shoulder where Smith shot me, but just like after the attack on Clara, I’m whole.

“Linden,” I croak. My eyes fly to where he’s lying in a snowbank, the bloody knife beside him. Although there’s a red mark on his neck it doesn’t look like I actually cut the skin. But the blood from the wound on his side has soaked through his coat.

“We have to help him,” I say, crawling over. I pull off my scarf and wad it up and press it against the gushing cut. “Linden,” I say, as his head lolls to the side. I pull his face toward me, leaving bloody fingerprints on his cheek, and he opens his eyes slowly. “Just look at me, Linden. Sierra, what do we do?” I shout, not taking my eyes from his.

“The ambulance will be here any second,” Sierra says quietly, her tone back to the calm timbre I’m used to. “I called them just before you came to. As soon as you dropped the knife,” she adds, and guilt churns in my stomach. She protected me—even at the risk of Linden’s life. “I think he’ll be okay,” Sierra says, as though reading my thoughts.

I hear the faint sound of a siren. “They’re coming, Linden,” I say, and his eyes open again. “They’re almost here. Stay awake.”

Less than a minute later, we’re surrounded by blue-garbed EMTs. I step back, letting them work. “Are you okay?” one of the EMTs asks.

“What?” I reply, wondering why the hell he even cares about me.

“You’re covered in blood—is it all from him or do you have an injury as well?”

I look down at myself. I am covered in blood. It seems particularly fitting that Linden’s blood covers my hands.

If he dies, I’ll be a murderer.

“I’m not hurt,” I say, and the EMT looks at me funny. I don’t understand why until I vaguely recognize him from last night. I said the same thing then, over and over. I wonder what he thinks of me.

And realize I don’t care.

“Can I go with him?” I ask, starting to panic when the EMTs begin to close the ambulance doors. What if I never see him again?