I climbed on top of an unmarked gravestone, found a foothold in the crumbling stone wall, and pulled myself up as far as I could. On top of the crypt was a statue, some kind of angel, with part of her body broken off. I grabbed onto its—I don’t know what, it felt something like an ankle—and pulled myself over the edge.
Hurry, Ethan! I need yo
u.
That’s when I found myself face to face with Sarafine.
Who plunged a knife into my stomach.
A real knife, into my real stomach.
The end of the dream we had never been allowed to see. Only this part wasn’t a dream. I know, because it was my stomach, and I felt every inch of the blade.
Surprised, Ethan? You think Lena’s the only Caster on this channel?
Sarafine’s voice began to fade.
Let her try to stay Light now.
As I drifted away, all I could think was if you stuck me in a Confederate uniform, I’d be Ethan Carter Wate. Even down to the same stomach wound, with the same locket in my pocket. Even if all I had ever deserted was the Jackson High basketball team, rather than Lee’s army.
Dreaming about a Caster girl I would always love. Just like the other Ethan.
Ethan! No!
No! No! No!
One minute I was screaming, the next, the sound was stuck in my throat.
I remember Ethan falling. I remember my mother smiling. The glint of the knife, and the blood.
Ethan’s blood.
This couldn’t be happening.
Nothing moved, nothing. Everything was frozen perfectly in place, like a scene in a wax museum. The billows of smoke remained billows. They were fluffy and gray, but they went nowhere, neither up nor down. They just hung in the air as if they were made of cardboard, part of a backdrop in a play. The tongues of flame were still transparent, still hot, but they consumed nothing and made no sound. Even the air didn’t move. Everything was exactly as it had been a second before.
Gramma was hunched over Mrs. Lincoln, about to touch her cheek, her hand hanging in the air. Link was holding his mother’s hand, kneeling in the mud like a scared little boy. Aunt Del and Marian were crouched on the lower steps of the crypt passageway, shielding their faces from the smoke.
Uncle Macon lay on the ground, Boo crouching next to him. Hunting was leaning against a tree a few feet away, admiring his handiwork. Larkin’s leather coat was on fire and he was facing the wrong direction, halfway down the road toward Ravenwood. Predictably running from, rather than toward, the action.
And Sarafine. My mother held a carved dagger, an ancient Dark thing, high above her head. Her face was feverish with fury and fire and hate. The blade still dripped blood over Ethan’s lifeless body. Even the drops of blood were frozen in the air.
Ethan’s arm was stretched out, over the edge of the crypt roof. It hung, dangling, down toward the graveyard below.
Like our dream, but in reverse.
I hadn’t fallen through his arms. He was ripped from mine.
Below the crypt, I reached up, pushing aside flame and smoke, until my fingers interlocked with Ethan’s. I was standing on my toes, but I could barely reach him.
Ethan, I love you. Don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you.
If there was moonlight, I could have seen his face. But there was no moon, not now, and the only light came from the fire, still frozen, surrounding me on every side. The sky was empty, absolutely black. There was nothing. I had lost everything tonight.
I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe and my fingers slipped through his, knowing I would never feel those fingers in my hair again.
Ethan.