Eternity

her. Em looked over and saw Skylar, panting from exertion.

“I’m fine,” Em said with an edge, wondering if Skylar had been sent to check on her. “Everyone can call off the rescue mission.”

Skylar swung her leg over the bike seat to dismount. “I’m just coming home from the movies,” she said. “Late show.” She looked up at Em through long, light brown lashes; without heels on, she seemed tiny.

“Sorry.” Em crossed her arms. She felt bad that Skylar was the innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of Em’s foul mood. “I just had a bit of an . . . incident over at Noah Handran’s house. It seems I have a doppelganger. And she’s ruining my life.” She found herself choking a little on the words.

There was a moment of silence. The moonlight on Skylar’s scars created white stripes on her cheekbones and forehead. Skylar shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Then she pointed down the road. “Well, we’re right by my house. Want to come in for a minute?”

It was true; Nora’s house was just down the block. ?And while it felt strange for Em to be accepting offers of comfort from Skylar McVoy, her options seemed pretty limited right now. Plus, if Nora was home, maybe Em could tell her about these symptoms and see if she had any advice. . . .

“I—I don’t know who else to talk to,” Em admitted, and they started walking, Skylar wheeling her bike alongside Em’s steps. Their footfalls echoed on the empty street. Em focused on taking deep breaths to ease the tightness in her chest.

“You can survive very terrible things,” Skylar said quietly.

Em didn’t answer. She didn’t know if she could—not anymore.

Aunt Nora’s driveway was lined on both sides by well-maintained hedges and planters that would soon be full of flowers. Skylar stood hesitantly there, as if she was reconsidering bringing Em inside.

“There’s something you should know,” she said finally.

“Yeah?” Em asked.

“I’ve done stuff I regret too.” Skylar hugged herself. “I—don’t think I’m a good person.”

Em looked up, sniffling. “We all do things we regret, Skylar,” she said quietly. “That doesn’t make us bad.”

Skylar nodded and led Em to the front door of the big Victorian house. “We have to be kind of quiet,” she said apologetically. “My aunt’s probably asleep by now. She goes to bed at, like, eight.”

Em didn’t blame her. She would have slept through the darkness, if she could have.

The door was heavy, old, and squeaky, and the foyer was dim. Em didn’t know how Skylar could stand living here—not after what she’d been through and seen. The very first thing Em saw when she entered was a long ivory-colored robe. It was just hanging there on a coat tree in the foyer. Gossamer and gauzy, billowing in the gust of wind they’d created just by coming in the door.

What had Crow said? A robe—long and white and flowing.

She pointed at it shakily, letting the door close behind her. “What’s that?”

“That?” Skylar asked as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on a hook. “That’s my costume for the play.” She walked over and took it off its hanger. “I have to remember to bring it to dress rehearsal tomorrow.” When she held it up to her body, it practically engulfed her. Its creases and shimmering ripples had the odd effect of mimicking Skylar’s still-healing face. It probably looked incredible under the stage lights. Em wondered if Gabby was planning to put makeup on Skylar’s scars. . . .

No. It couldn’t be. Em stood there dumbstruck. The robe . . . the striped scars . . . This was her—the tiger-faced woman.

“Skylar,” she said nervously, trying to recall the rest of Crow’s vision, “have you ever heard the phrase, ‘Someone is plotting vengeance’?”

“Of course,” Skylar replied. Her voice got slightly deeper. “?‘For this I declare—someone is plotting vengeance.’ It’s one of Cassandra’s lines in the play.”

“The play . . . ” Em could barely speak. “When does the play start?” Em asked.

Skylar nodded. “Tuesday night—one night only. Just a reading. Do you want some water or tea or something?”

Tuesday. Three days away. Crow had seen Em consumed by fire just after hearing those words. Was it possible that Crow’s vision did mean something? That it meant a when, a final date when Em’s transformation would be complete? If so, Em would die in three days. She would be swallowed into the Fury world after Skylar’s play on Tuesday night.

A pounding drumbeat began to thunder through her body. She hadn’t taken one step since they’d been in Skylar’s house; she knew Skylar had asked her a question but she couldn’t remember what it was.

“Are—are you okay?” Skylar reached out tentatively to touch her arm.

Em’s head felt uncomfortably light, and there were flashbulbs popping in her peripheral vision. She thought she might faint. And then, a momentary distraction—Em heard a faint, tuneless humming coming from another part of the house. She looked at Skylar, whose mouth was set in a grim line.

“What’s that?” Em asked. “I thought you said your aunt was asleep.”

Skylar opened and closed her mouth twice without saying anything. Then she said flatly, “It’s . . . my sister.”

“Your sister? I thought you were an only child.” Back when Skylar was following Gabby everywhere like a lost puppy, she’d never once mentioned a sister. The humming started again, and Em sensed it was coming from upstairs. ?All of a sudden this place seemed more like a haunted house than ever before. She took a step or two away from the staircase, toward the hallway that led to the kitchen.

“Well, I’m not,” Skylar snapped. “And she’s none of your business.”

Em caught the thread of a few words. She wasn’t just humming. The girl was saying something that Em could hear only faintly. If she listened closely, she could even pick out a word here and there.

They’ll never stop, she heard. She’s here.

“I’m sorry,” Em said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine. She’s just . . . She’s visiting, and she’s sick, and I’m not used to talking about her.” Skylar looked anxiously toward the stairs. The barely intelligible monologue continued from somewhere on the second floor.

“She’s sick?” Em felt the strangest sensation that the girl was talking to her. The words she could hear stayed stuck in her head like wisps of cotton candy on a child’s fingers. It was sticky-sweet and unsettling. Hypnotic even.

“It’s brain damage. From a fall . . . ” Skylar’s fragile voice broke through the spell and pulled Em back.

“Oh.”

“And it was my fault,” Skylar’s continued. She was shaking. “Her name is Lucy, and it’s my fault she’s like this.”

So that’s your mistake. Em turned to look at Skylar. She looked so young. ?And so sorry. ?That more than anything else.

“Is that why the Furies came after you?” Em asked. Skylar had babbled something along these lines when Em visited her in the hospital after her accident, but this was the first time she’d truly come clean.

Skylar was shaking. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Then she nodded. “And they made me . . . They brought out the worst in me,” Skylar whispered. “You would hate me if you knew.”

“It’s okay,” Em said. The truth was, Em didn’t care about the nitty-gritty of Skylar’s mistakes—not as much as she wanted the key to saving her own soul. “We all make mistakes.” And some pay for them more than others.

She could still hear strains of Lucy’s babbling. God, it was creepy, yet melodic and relaxing. Em had to fight competing urges to run up the stairs or out the door. Everyone wants to be good, Em heard her say.

“Can I talk to her?” Em said suddenly. She knew it was forward, but there was something about that voice. Those words.

Skylar looked at Em suspiciously. “You want to meet her?”

“If it’s okay with you,” Em said, but she was already moving toward the stairs.

“Okay,” Skylar relented. “But we have to be quiet. I don’t want Aunt Nora to wake up.” She motioned for