Chapter 20

I was aware that I was dreaming.

Or at least, I knew my surroundings couldn't possibly be real. But they felt real—and I desperately wanted them to be real.

I was back in the house I'd lived in between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. No, not house. Home. This place was my home, more than any foster home, group home, or apartment I'd ever lived in.

It was a slender townhouse, two stories with a basement, and squished amongst a row of identical residences. I was in the living room, a space so small I could almost touch both walls if I stretched my arms out wide. Despite its size, it still managed to fit an old, soft couch with a tacky brown and orange floral pattern.

It creaked happily as I sank into it. A warm cup of chai tea sat on the coffee table. On the table's other side was a pastel pink recliner.

And in it was Gillian.

Gillian had the most beautiful soul of any person I've ever met. She was seventy-six years old when I came to live with her. After her husband's death a decade earlier, she'd started taking in foster children. Only one at a time and only teenagers.

Nobody wants teenagers. Nobody wants to take in a kid who's already been so thoroughly screwed up that they can't find a permanent home.

Nobody except Gillian.

After I'd run away from Dwayne, a.k.a. Baron von Foster-Douche, for the fourth time, he and his wife refused to take me back. I didn't complain, though the uncertainty of moving to a new home had filled me with anxiety.

But the moment I stepped foot into Gillian's house and she greeted me with her rosy smile, I knew I was in a good place.

Some people just ooze warmth and acceptance; Gillian was exactly that kind of person. She was a churchgoing lady, and every Sunday morning she would invite me to attend a service with her, and every Sunday morning I would politely decline, which never bothered her in the least.

"The invitation is always open," she'd tell me lightly.

On the coffee table, she kept a large, leather-bound Bible—the very same one I'd rescued from my apartment, let Lienna take, and would never see again. Sometimes, Gillian would read from it, but most of the time, it had simply waited there, looking pretty.

It was on the table now, beside my cup of tea and within arm's reach of Gillian, who was sipping her own hot drink.

"I'd rather cook my own food anyway," she said. "Hospital food is the worst."

We'd talked about that more than once.

Not long after my sixteenth birthday, Gillian developed a bad cough. Just a virus, we thought at first. But it lingered, then got worse, and eventually, the doctors confirmed it was terminal lung cancer. Just like that. One minute she had a cold, the next she was only a month away from the graveyard.

I was devastated, but Gillian refused to feel sorry for herself. She was more concerned about what would happen to me than to her.

She knew the system and she knew me. She understood that the foster system had trouble placing older teenagers, and that meant I'd likely wind up in another group home or something crappy like that. She also knew my predilection for running away.

The Gillian of my dream set her tea down on the coffee table and gave me that gentle smile I remembered so well.

"If I go to a hospital and die there," she murmured, unafraid of the word "die," even though I could never bring myself to say it, "they'll take you away right then."

"But if you go to the hospital, they can help," I replied, unable to say anything but the words I'd uttered the day we'd had this conversation. "Maybe they can save you."

"Oh heavens, I don't think anyone except the Lord can save me at this point, Kit."

"But they can help. For a little while, at least."

"Sure, they could. I could be hooked up to machines with tubes down my throat and needles in my arm. And I could live like that for a little longer." She picked up her tea again. "Or I could stay in the comfort of my own home with you and enjoy what time I have left."

A deep ache grew in my stomach—the same pain I'd felt during the original conversation. That sickening feeling of inevitable loss. The helplessness, the fear, the overwhelming sadness. But it was layered in with something new. A regret that stuck through me like a long, thin pin. A yearning to hold on to the past.

"You're a beautiful boy," she said softly. "I've never told you this before, but it's your compassion that makes you beautiful. Do you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You hurt when you see others hurt. You want to help them so badly it drives you crazy. That's a beautiful quality. I won't be around much longer to remind you of that, so I want you to promise me that you won't forget it." She took another sip of her tea, as if that would punctuate her statement. "Do you understand, Kit? Promise me you won't forget."

I picked up my tea and held it close to my face to hide the way my lips trembled. "I won't. I won't forget."

Those words twisted the needle of remorse.

"Life will be hard on you," she continued. "We both know that. You're going to run away again. You're almost a grown man, so I think you should." Her eyes, framed by softly wrinkled skin, met mine. "Run, Kit. Find a place in this world and claim it. You have incredible gifts, and you should use them to make your way."

I'd never fully divulged my abilities to Gillian, partly because I couldn't shake the fear that it would scare her away and partly because I hadn't understood them well enough to explain what I could do. But she'd known me better than anyone and she'd accepted it all, weird quirks and possible supernatural abilities included.

She sipped her tea. "But no matter what happens, you won't lose your compassion, will you?"

"No," I promised solemnly, "I won't."

"That makes me so happy to hear. You will always be such a beautiful boy." She perked up at the thought. "Oh, a beautiful man someday too!"

She laughed delightedly, and all I could think was that she hadn't lived to see me grow into a man.

I wanted her to keep talking. Hearing her voice, that light, youthful cadence sprinkled with the odd crack that betrayed her age, was inexplicably warming even as it drove spikes of anguish into my chest.

Seeing her hurt. Dreaming this memory hurt so much because I knew she was gone. Three weeks after this conversation, I said my last goodbye to her.

In her final moments, when her lungs were failing and she struggled for every gasp, I sat beside her bed, gripped her hands, and gave her a hallucination to comfort her.

A sun-bathed beach in Hawaii. Aquamarine water rushing across white sand with that soft sound that only waves meeting a gentle shore could make. I made the sun hot, the sand cool, and the sky the clearest crystal blue I could imagine. A handsome cabana boy stood nearby with a palm frond, offering us shade and providing a view that Gillian unabashedly admired.

She'd always wanted to go to Hawaii but could never afford it because she'd spent all her time and money taking care of dumb runaways like me. So, I took her there.

It was the only time in my life I'd created a hallucination like that. Immersive and complete. I've tried to replicate it since but have always failed.

We sat there together, basking in the hallucination and enjoying the weather and the beauty, until her mind faded… and no matter how far I stretched my psychic senses, I couldn't find her again.

* * *

I came to with a violent start.

Bittersweet grief and guilt churned in my gut, left over from the dream—but those emotions were cut short by the realization that I was falling.

A fraction of a second later, I hit the ground, landing on my shoulder and hip. I groaned from the impact, but my mouth was so dry that only a scratchy whisper came out. The familiar interior of Vera's boat greeted my eyes, the bed beside me with blankets twisted across it.

Two important details struck me: first, the boat was bouncing up and down and side to side, which meant we were no longer tied up at the dock in Deep Cove; and second, I was wearing nothing but my underwear.

Thankfully, my clothes were hanging off a nearby chair. The same clothes I'd been wearing for several intense days. I needed a washing machine.

I picked up my shirt and gave it a cautious sniff. A faint hint of citrus surprised me. I got dressed, chugged a bottle of water I'd found in the mini-fridge, and made my way up to the deck. The sun was low in the sky, but between the misty weather and landmark-free open water surrounding us, I had no idea if it was just past dawn or almost dusk.

Vera was in the captain's chair, hand on the wheel as she watched me take a few uneasy steps toward her on the rocking deck. "Hey there. How're you feeling?"

"Groggy. How long was I out?"

"About five hours. It's just after six p.m." She eyed me with concern. "I tried to wake you up a few times, but you weren't having it. Do you normally sleep like that after using your abilities?"

No, but I'd never pushed myself that far before. I'd only just learned how to make another person invisible, and I'd never needed to hold a halluci-bomb for so long either. Also, my life didn't usually depend on my projections.

Thanks to those special circumstances, I'd found out my limits weren't where I'd thought they were—and I'd also discovered that shooting past my psychic ceiling came with consequences. Such as sleeping like the living dead and experiencing painfully vivid memory-dreams.

Instead of admitting all that, I took a few more awkward steps and plunked myself in the seat next to Vera. "Did you wash my clothes?"

"They were getting ripe. I didn't do your underwear, though. I don't know you well enough for that."

"That's fair. You got all your artifacts?"

"Yep."

That's all she said, and I let the silence take hold. No point in bringing up how she'd tried to ditch me, then I'd tried to ditch her, then we'd somehow both escaped certain death despite the odds being stacked against us in the biggest way.

I looked out at the grayish-blue waves. We were speeding through choppy water, but the mist obscured everything more than fifty yards out. If I squinted, I could make out what might be the faint silhouette of land.

"Where are we going?" I asked after a minute.

"I'm delivering you to a cargo ship a few miles off Bowen Island. They'll take you across the Pacific and connect you with my guy in the Philippines, who'll set you up with a new identity."

My gut flip-flopped unpleasantly. "The Philippines?"

"Yeah, but you don't have to live there. My guy can advise you on your options. Australia is trickier, but you could make it happen."

I nodded slowly. Australia didn't sound so bad. I could totally learn an Aussie accent and blend in like a local in no time.

"Vera…" I hesitated. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"Why?"

"Need to Google something."

She fished her cell from her pocket and handed it to me. I typed a quick search query, then waited an agonizing thirty seconds for the results to load.

Moonphases.org gave me the answer I was looking for: the next "waning third crescent moon," the only night each month that Rigel's uncrackable vault could be opened, would happen… tonight.

Tonight, Quentin would have Maggie open the secret vault she'd created for Rigel, in which was stored the terrifying artifact Blue Smoke had stolen from Cerberus five weeks ago. I'd thought Quentin had planned to complete the theft, but he didn't need to. Blue Smoke had already done it.

All Quentin had to do was claim the prize for himself.

I looked up. Through the fog, the shadow of an enormous cargo ship took shape. The ship that would take me away from all of this insanity, out of the grip of the MPD, and thousands of miles from my old life.

This was it. Safety. No more jail cells, sentencing hearings, or possible dates with an executioner. I had successfully survived the collapse of KCQ, escaped the MPD, and negotiated transport with a smuggler. I'd swum naked through the ocean and stolen from an illegal artifact dealer to get here.

My freedom was on the horizon, but…

I couldn't believe that sentence contained a "but." Yet there it was. A big one.

My freedom was on the horizon, but it came at a price I hadn't expected. No, not risking my life to steal Vera's artifacts. These costs weren't ones I had to pay.

Lienna Shen, who against her better judgment had shown me kindness, respect, and the beginnings of trust when they were entirely scarce in my life, would pay for my freedom with her career. I'd undermined her position as an agent, betrayed her faith in me, and left her at the mercy of her vengeful, authoritarian captain.

Maggie Cook, who'd befriended me when I was new to the city and completely alone, who'd invited me over for Christmas, and who'd given me gentle guidance in this dangerous new world of mythics, would pay for my freedom with her life. She'd fallen into Quentin's psychopathic hands, and I'd done nothing to help her. After tonight, he wouldn't need her anymore. With the prize he was about to claim, he wouldn't leave any loose ends alive.

And finally, an unknown number of nameless, faceless people would pay for my freedom once Quentin, the most powerful empath anyone had ever seen, held an artifact that could amplify his powers twentyfold. He'd be unstoppable.

I was the only one who knew his plan.

My eyes slid closed. The urge to run, to flee, to get on that cargo ship and never look back pounded through me. Gillian had told me I would run away. She'd accepted it. She'd been okay with it.

But no matter what happens, you won't lose your compassion, will you?

Hard years had followed her death, each one full of people who'd rejected me, deceived me, used me, or just flat out didn't give a damn about me. And at some point between then and now, I'd broken my promise. I'd stopped caring about anyone but myself.

I opened my eyes. The shadow of the cargo ship had grown clearer.

"I can't," I groaned miserably.

Vera looked over. "Can't what?"

"I can't do this. I need to go back."

Her jaw dropped. "You're kidding, right?"

I took one last look at the ship—at my escape—and shook my head. "I wish I was."