Unearthly

Chapter 12 Shut Up and Dance

By Monday, everything starts to get back to normal. I walk the halls of Jackson High with the same students, and I attend the same boring classes (except for Brit History, of course, where I watch Christian and Brady do a presentation on William Wallace and entertain a brief fantasy of Christian in a kilt) and soon enough, the Black Wing seems like a bad dream, and I feel safe again.

Still, I decide I need to take the whole purpose thing more seriously. No more playing at being a normal girl. I’m not. I’m an angel-blood. I have a job to do. I need to quit whining, quit stalling, quit questioning everything. I need to do it.

So Wednesday after school I catch up with Christian at his locker. I go right over to him and touch him on the shoulder. A small zing passes through me like a static shock. He turns and fixes me with those green eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s in any mood to talk.

“Hey, Clara,” he says. “Can I help you?”

“I thought I could help you. I noticed you were out of class last week.”

“My uncle took me camping.”

“Do you want to borrow my notes for British History?”

“Sure, notes would be great,” he says like he couldn’t care less about British History but he’s humoring me. He’s not acting like himself at all, no jokes, no confidence, no subtle swagger in his step. There are shadows under his eyes.

I hand him my notebook. Right as he takes it, a group of girls pass by, popular girls, Kay’s friends. They whisper and shoot him dirty looks. His shoulders stiffen.

“They’ll forget,” I tell him. “You’re front-page news today, but give it another week. It will all settle down.”

“Yeah? How do you know so much?”

“Oh, you know. I’m queen of the rumor mill. It seems like there’s been a new rumor about me every week since I got here. Comes with being the new girl, I guess. Have you heard the one where I seduced the basketball coach? That’s a personal favorite.”

“The rumors about me aren’t true,” says Christian heatedly. “I broke up with Kay, not the other way around.”

“Oh. In my experience, rumors aren’t usually—”

“I was trying to do the right thing. I couldn’t be what she needed, and I was trying to do the right thing,” he says, a fierceness in his eyes that reminds me of how he looks in the vision, this combination of intensity and vulnerability, which only makes him impossibly hotter.

“It’s really none of my business,” I say.

“I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

We stand in the hallway as the other students stream by. On the ceiling, practically dangling over Christian’s head, hangs a banner for prom. MYTHIC LOVE, it reads in bright blue letters. Saturday, seven to midnight. Mythic Love.

My mind is suddenly spinning a million miles an hour, like the wheel on Wheel of Fortune. Then it stops.

“Do you want to go to prom with me?” I blurt out.

“What?”

“I don’t have a date, and you don’t have a date, so maybe we should go together.”

He stares at me. If my heart beats any harder I will pass out. I try to keep cool, act casual like if he says no it’s no big deal.

“No one’s asked you?” he asks.

Why does everyone keep saying that? “No.”

A light comes on in his eyes. “Sure, why not? A date with Queen Elizabeth.” He smiles.

I can’t help but smile back. “Apparently it’s Saturday, seven to midnight.” I gesture at the banner. He turns and looks up at it.

“I don’t even know where to pick you up,” he says. I quickly rattle off my address and start to explain how to get there. He stops me by doing this thing where he laughs by exhaling. He shakes his head and reaches into his locker to pull out a pen. Then he grabs my wrist, and instantly the back of my neck prickles with electric heat.

“Email me your address,” he says. He uncurls my fingers and writes his email address across my palm in green ink.

“Okay,” I say, my voice suddenly ridiculously high and quivery. A strand of hair falls across my face, and I swipe it behind my ear.

He clicks the pen closed and swings his backpack over his shoulder. “Seven o’clock?”

“Okay,” I say again. It seems that I’ve been reduced to single syllables by a single touch. Maybe Angela’s right. Maybe the swoony hand-holding in my vision means that part of my purpose means getting this really hot guy as my boyfriend. That wouldn’t suck.

“Okay, I’ve got to bail,” he says, startling me out of my reverie.

His mouth lifts into that lopsided half-smile he pins on all the girls. He seems himself all of a sudden, the thing about Kay forgotten for the moment.

“See you Saturday,” he says.

“See you then.”

As he walks away I close my hand into a fist around his email address. I’m a genius, I think. This is a genius idea.

I’m going to prom with Christian Prescott.

Mom’s crying again. I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom a few minutes shy of seven o’clock on prom night, and she’s crying, not sobbing or anything because that would be too undignified for her, but tears spilling down her cheeks. It’s alarming. One minute she’s helping me pull two silver ribbons through my hair, something Greekish, she said, and the next she’s sitting on the edge of her bed silently weeping.

“Mom,” I say helplessly.

“I’m just so happy for you,” she sniffles, embarrassed.

“Right. Happy.” I can’t help the disconcerting feeling that she’s unraveling lately. “Get it together, okay? He’s going to be here any minute.”

She smiles.

“Silver Avalanche coming up the driveway,” calls Jeffrey from downstairs. Mom stands up.

“You stay up here,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “It’s always better for him to have to wait.”

I go to the window and covertly watch Christian pull up to the house and park. He straightens his tie and sweeps a hand through his tousled dark hair before he comes to the door. I give myself a last once-over in the mirror. The theme Mythic Love is supposed to bring to mind the myths of gods and goddesses, Hercules, that kind of thing, so my Greek-inspired dress is perfect. I’ve let my hair hang in waves down my back so I won’t have to wrestle it into a style. I’ll have to dye it again soon. My gold roots are starting to show.

“Here she comes,” says Mom when I appear at the top of the stairs. She and Christian look up at me. I smile and carefully descend the steps.

“Wow,” says Christian when I stop in front of him. His gaze sweeps me from head to foot. “Beautiful.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about me or the dress. Either way, I’ll take it.

He’s wearing a sleek black tux with a silver vest and tie, white shirt with cuff links and everything. He is, in a word, mouthwatering. Even Mom can’t take her eyes off him.

“You look great,” I say.

“Christian was telling me that he lives close by,” says Mom, her eyes sparkling, no trace of the earlier tears on her face. “Three miles directly east of here, did you say?”

“Give or take,” he says, still looking at me. “As the crow flies.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asks.

“No, it’s just me.”

“We should be going,” I say, because I sense that she’s trying to figure out how my vision will finally come together, and I’m afraid she’ll scare him off.

“You look so wonderful together,” says Mom. “Can I take a picture?”

“Sure,” says Christian.

She runs to the office for her camera. Christian and I wait for her in silence. He smells amazing, that wonderful mix of soap and cologne and something all his own.

Pheromones, I guess, but it seems like more than simple chemistry.

I smile at him. “Thanks for being so patient. You know how moms can get.”

He doesn’t respond, and for a moment I wonder if he and I will ever have a chance at a breakthrough tonight. Then my mom’s back and she has us stand against the door while she takes our picture. Christian puts his arm behind me, his hand lightly touching the middle of my back. A tiny tremor ripples through me. There’s something that happens between us when we touch, something I can’t explain, but it makes me feel weak and strong at the same time, aware of my blood moving through my veins and the air moving in and out of my lungs. It’s like my body recognizes his. I don’t know what it means, but I kind of like it.

“Oh, I forgot,” I say after the flash goes off. “I got you a boutonniere.”

I dash off to the kitchen to get it out of the refrigerator. “Here,” I say, walking back to him. I step up to him to pin the boutonniere — a single white rose and a bit of greenery — to his lapel and immediately stab myself in the finger with the pin.

“Ow,” he says, flinching as if the pin has pierced his finger instead of mine. I hold my finger up and a single drop of blood forms on it.

Christian takes my hand and inspects it. My breath catches. I could get used to this.

“Think you’ll survive?” he asks, gazing into my eyes, and I need to close them to keep my breath from shaking.

“I think so. It’s not even bleeding anymore.” I take a tissue from Mom and hold it on the spot of blood on my finger, careful not to touch my dress.

“Let’s try this again,” I say, and this time I lean close, our breath mingling as I carefully fasten the boutonniere. It’s the same feeling I had when we were lying in the snow on the ski hill, a breath apart. Like I could lean in and kiss him, in front of my mother and everything. I take a quick step back, thinking things are either about to go very right tonight, or very wrong.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down at my handiwork. “I got you one, too, but it’s in the truck.” He turns to Mom. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gardner.”

“Please, call me Maggie.”

He nods cordially.

“Be home before midnight,” she adds. I stare at her. She can’t possibly mean that.

The dance doesn’t even end until midnight.

“Shall we?” asks Christian before I can think of a reasonable argument. He extends his arm, and I tuck my hand into the crook.

“We shall,” I reply, and then we get the heck out of there.

At the door to the art museum in Jackson where prom’s being held, they give the girls delicate laurels made from silver spray-painted leaves and the boys long sashes of white fabric that they’re supposed to wear over one shoulder of their tuxedos, toga style. Now that we officially look like ancient Greeks, we’re allowed to enter the lobby, where prom is in full swing.

“Pictures first?” says Christian. “The line doesn’t look too long.”

“Sure.”

A slow song begins to play as we make our way over to the picture area. I watch Jason Lovett ask Wendy to dance. She looks like a bona fide princess in my pink dress. She nods and then they put their arms around each other and start to sway awkwardly to the music. It’s adorable. I also spot Tucker in a corner dancing with a redhead I don’t know. He sees me, almost starts to wave, but then he sees Christian.

His eyes flick back and forth between us, like he’s trying to figure out what happened since last Saturday when I said I didn’t have a date.

“All right, you two, you’re up,” says the photographer. Christian and I shuffle onto the platform they’ve set up. Christian stands behind me and puts his arms loosely around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I smile. The camera flashes.

“Come on, let’s dance,” says Christian.

Suddenly happy, I follow him onto the dance floor, which is covered in fog and strewn with white roses. He takes my hand and twirls me, then catches me in his arms, still holding my hands lightly in his. I’m swamped with that electric awareness, which buzzes through me like I’ve had a shot of espresso.

“So you can dance,” I say as he moves us deftly through the crowd.

“A bit.” He grins. He really knows how to lead, and I relax and let him take me where he wants me to go, making an effort to look at his face instead of at our feet sweeping through the fog and roses or the people I can feel watching us.

I step on his foot. Twice. And here I call myself a dancer.

I’m trying not to stare at him. Sometimes it’s still a shock to see him from the front. It reminds me of a story my mom used to tell of a sculptor whose statue suddenly came to life. That’s how I feel about Christian now. He’s alive in a way that seems impossible, as if I’ve created him from the sketches I drew when I first had the vision.

From my dreams.

But this isn’t a fairy tale, I remind myself. I’m here for a purpose. I need to try to understand what will bring us together in the forest.

“So, you said your uncle took you camping? Was your campsite close to here?” I ask.

He looks confused. “Uh, it was in Teton. An out-of-the-way kind of place.”

“So you didn’t drive there?”

“No, we hiked.” He’s still thrown by my choice in topic.

“I just ask because I want to get into camping this summer. I want to try hiking, too.

Sleeping under the stars. We never did that in California.”

“You’ve moved to the right place then,” he says. “There are entire books written about the awesome places to camp here.”

I wonder if we’ll be together at one of these campsites when the forest fire starts.

We dance closely through the final chorus, then the song ends, and we step back from each other a little awkwardly.

“You know what I’m suddenly craving?” I say to break the silence. “Punch.”

We make our way over to the refreshments table and pile a few Greek olives, crackers, and a little bit of Feta cheese on tiny plastic plates. I don’t get a lot because I’m not sure what it would do to my breath. We find an empty table and sit. I spot Angela gyrating around in a dance with a tall, blond boy I’ve seen in the hall a few times. Tyler something, I think she said his name was. The bloodred dress that her mother sewed for her looks fantastic. She’s lined her golden eyes with heavy black that tips up in the corners like an ancient Egyptian’s. If this dance is about Mythic Love, then she’s a goddess, all right. Only she’s the kind of goddess who demands blood sacrifices. She catches my eye and gives me a quick thumbs-up, then dances suggestively around the boy while he simply stands there bobbing in time to the music.

“You’re friends with Angela?” asks Christian.

“Yeah.”

“She’s kind of intense.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I say, laughing because he has no idea how crazy intense Angela can be. He hasn’t heard her discussing the mind-reading abilities of the Intangere. “I think people get intimidated by how smart she is. Like people get intimidated by you—” I stop myself.

“What? You think people are intimidated by me? Why?”

“Because you’re so. perfect and popular and good at everything you try.”

“Perfect,” he scoffs, and he has the grace to look genuinely embarrassed.

“It’s annoying, actually.”

He laughs. Then he reaches across the table and grabs my hand, making all my nerves light up.

“Believe me, I’m not perfect,” he says.

From that point on things go really well. Christian’s a model date. He’s charming, attentive, thoughtful. Not to mention hotness personified. For a while I forget all about my purpose. I just dance. I let that magnetic feeling of being near him fill me up until everything else falls away. I’m literally having the time of my life.

Until Kay shows up. Of course she’s gorgeous in this lavender lace gown that hugs her shoulders and accentuates her tiny waist. Her dark hair is pinned up, curls cascading down to brush the back of her neck. Something in her hair catches the light and sparkles. She has one elbow-lengthwhite- satin-glove-covered arm curled around her date’s waist as she walks in, laughing up into his face like she’s having a marvelous time. She doesn’t even look in our direction. She pulls her date onto the dance floor as the next slow song begins to play.

Christian draws me closer. Our bodies come together. My head fits perfectly against the curve of his shoulder. I can’t help but close my eyes and breathe him in. And suddenly I’m having the vision again, the strongest I’ve ever had it.

I walk down a dirt road through the forest. Christian’s truck is parked at the road’s edge. I smell smoke. My head feels clouded with it. I start to move away from the road, deeper into the trees. I’m not worried. I know exactly where to find him. My feet take me there without me even having to direct them. When I see him, standing there with his back to me in his black fleece jacket, his hands in his pockets, I’m filled with that familiar grief. The intensity of the sadness makes it hard to breathe. I’m so fragile in that moment, like I could be shattered into a million pieces.

“Christian,” I call.

He turns. He looks at me with a mix of sorrow and relief.

“It’s you,” he says. He starts to walk toward me. Behind him, the fire crests the hill.

It’s raging toward us, but I don’t feel afraid. Christian and I walk toward each other until we’re standing face-to-face.

“It’s me,” I answer. “I’m here.” I reach out and take his hand, which feels easy, like I’ve been with him all my life. He lifts his other hand to touch my cheek. His skin’s so hot it’s like a burn, but I don’t pull away. For a moment we stay like that, standing still as if time has stopped, as if the fire isn’t coming for us. And then we’re suddenly in each other’s arms, holding each other tightly, our bodies pressing together like we’re becoming one person, and the ground is falling away beneath us.

I’m back at the dance, gasping for breath. I look up into Christian’s wide, green eyes.

We’ve stopped dancing and are standing in the middle of the dance floor staring at each other. My heart feels about to beat out of my chest. A wave of dizziness crashes over me, and I sway, my knees suddenly wobbly. Christian’s arms steady me.

“You okay?” He glances around quickly to see if people are watching us. They are.

Over his shoulder I see Kay, who looks at me with open hatred in her eyes.

“I need some air.” I break free and run toward the door onto the balcony, bursting out into the cool night. Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes and try to calm my racing heart.

“Clara?”

I open my eyes. Christian’s standing in front of me, looking as shaken as I am, his face pale in the lamplight.

“I’m okay,” I say, smiling to prove it. “It just got a little stuffy in there.”

“I should get you something to drink,” he says, but he doesn’t go anywhere.

“I’m okay.” I feel stupid. Then a flash of anger. I didn’t ask for any of this. So I will fly away with Christian in my arms. And then what? Gorgeous Christian Prescott will go off to save the world, and my part will be done. I’ll have completed — and served — my purpose.

It’s like I’m a prop in someone else’s life.

“I’ll go get that punch,” says Christian.

I shake my head. “This was a bad idea.”

“What?”

“You don’t want to be here with me,” I say, meeting his eyes. “It’s still all about Kay.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I thought I felt this connection between us but. I wanted you to like me, that’s all, really like me. What you and Kay had — have — whatever, I’ve never had that.” To my horror there are tears in my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, moving to lean against the wall next to me. He looks over at me earnestly. “I do like you, Clara.”

I’m starting to get whiplash from the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on all night.

I’m also getting a headache.

“You don’t even know me,” I say.

“I’d like to.”

If only he knew how important this is. But before I have a chance to reply, the door opens. Brady Hunt steps out.

“They’re announcing the prom king,” he says, looking at Christian expectantly.

Christian hesitates.

“You should go,” I tell him. Brady looks at me curiously before going back inside.

Christian goes to the door and holds it open for me, but I shake my head.

“I just need another minute, okay?” I close my eyes until I hear the door close. The air is suddenly cold. One by one Mr. Erikson announces the king’s court, who are nearly all from the athletic crowd.

“And the prom king is.,” says Mr. Erikson. The room is absolutely silent. “.

Christian Prescott.”

I step back inside in time to see Miss Colbert, my French teacher, hand Christian a gold scepter. Christian smiles graciously. He handles attention so well, like a movie star or a politician. Maybe he will be president someday. Miss Colbert takes a bit too much pleasure in making him kneel down so she can put the crown of gold leaves on his head. He thanks her and stands up to wave at the crowd, who cheer wildly.

Then he stands to one side while Mr. Erikson reads off the court for prom queen, and that’s when I start to get nervous. Of course I’m not named. I wasn’t even nominated.

I’m Bozo the Clown. But every single one of the girls in the queen’s court is Kay’s friend. Which can only mean.

“And now the prom queen,” says Mr. Erikson. “Kay Patterson.”

The room reverberates with the thunderous applause of the students who voted for her. Kay approaches the stage with infinite grace and poise. She takes the bouquet of white roses under her arm, and leans down as Mr. Erikson replaces her little silver laurel with a big gold one.

“Now, as is customary, the king and queen will share a dance,” says Mr. Erikson.

A string of very un-angelic curse words come to mind.

Kay looks at Christian expectantly. He glances down as if deciding something, then looks up and smiles again. As the music starts to play he walks over to Kay and takes her hand. She puts her other arm on his shoulder. They start to dance.

Everybody around me begins to chatter excitedly, watching them move so beautifully together to the music. Christian and Kay, together again.

I feel like I’ve slipped into the hell dimension.

“Hey, Carrots,” says a voice.

I cringe. “Not now, Tucker. I can’t deal with you right now.”

“Dance with me,” he says.

“No.”

“C’mon, you look pathetic standing here watching your date dance with someone else.”

I turn and glower at him. But one thing I will say for him: He cleans up nice. The white shirt against his neck sets off his tan. In the tux his shoulders look broad and strong. His short tawny hair is combed and styled. His blue eyes blaze under the lights. I even smell cologne.

“Fine,” I say.

He holds out his hand, and I take it, then stalk over to the edge of the dance floor with him and put my arms around his neck. He doesn’t say anything, just moves his feet from side to side, looking at my face. All the anger drains out of me. He’s doing me a favor, or so it seems. I scan the ceiling for the telltale bucket of pig’s blood he’s about to douse me with.

“Where’s your date?” I ask.

“Well, that’s a complicated question. Depends on what you mean.”

“Who did you come with tonight?”

“Her,” says Tucker, gesturing with his head to the redheaded girl standing over by the punch table.

“And her,” he says, looking over toward the DJ where a brunette I don’t know, a senior I presume, is putting in a request.

“And her,” he says finally, and points to a blonde who’s dancing very close to the second runner-up for prom king.

“You came with three girls?”

“They’re on the rodeo team,” he says as if that explains it. “None of them had dates, and I figured I was the only one man enough to handle the three of them.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you came with Christian Prescott,” he says. “Your dream come true.”

At the moment it seems like more of a nightmare. I cast a look at Christian and Kay over my shoulder. Predictably, Kay is crying. She’s clinging to Christian’s shoulders and sobbing.

Tucker turns to follow my gaze.

Christian leans closer to Kay and whispers something. Whatever it is, she does not take it well. She starts crying even harder.

“Man, you couldn’t pay me to be in his shoes right now,” says Tucker.

I glare at him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll shut up.”

“You do that.”

He stifles a smile, and we finish out the song wordlessly.

“Thanks for the dance,” he says.

“Thanks for asking,” I say, still looking at Christian. He has his arms around Kay. Her face is buried in his chest. I don’t know what to do. I just stand there watching him.

He pulls back from Kay and says something to her gently, then leads her over to a table and pulls a chair out for her to sit down. He even goes to get her some punch, but she waves it away. Lines of mascara are drying on her face. She looks exhausted. At first I thought this might be a ploy, an act like her slutty rogue routine, but seeing her slumped in that chair it’s impossible not to believe that she is genuinely devastated.

Christian walks over to me, clearly flustered.

“I am so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know this would happen.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “It’s all right. Where’s Kay’s date?”

Let him comfort her, I think.

“He left,” says Christian.

“He left,” I repeat incredulously.

“So I was thinking,” says Christian, red in the face now, “that I should take Kay home.”

I stare at him, stunned.

“I’ll come right back and get you,” he says quickly. “I thought I’d get her home safe and then I’d take you home.”

“I’ll take Clara home,” says Tucker, who’s been standing next to me the whole time.

“No, it’ll only take a minute,” protests Christian, standing up straighter.

“The dance will be over in ten minutes,” says Tucker. “You expect her to wait for you in the parking lot?”

I feel like Cinderella sitting in the middle of the road with a pumpkin and a couple of mice, while Prince Charming charges off to rescue some other chick.

Christian looks sick with guilt.

“Go ahead and take Kay home,” I say, practically choking on the words. “I’ll ride home with Tucker.”

“That’s all right with you?”

“Sure. I have to be home by midnight, remember?”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says.

I swear I see Tucker roll his eyes.

“Okay.” I look at Tucker. “Can we go now?”

“You bet.”

After I find Wendy and Angela and say good-bye, I wait at the door as Tucker rounds up his other dates. They look at me with something like pity, and for a moment I actually hate Christian Prescott. We ride crammed together in Tucker’s rusty pickup, four girls in formal wear, squeezed into the cab. He drops off the blonde first, because she lives in Jackson. Then the redhead. Then the brunette.

“Bye, Fry,” she says as she gets out of the truck.

Now it’s just him and me in the cab. It’s quiet as he drives out to Spring Creek Road.

“So. Fry, huh?” I tease after a while, unable to stand the silence. “What’s that about?”

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head as if he still can’t understand it. “In junior high they called me Friar Tuck. Now it’s just Fry. But my good friends call me Tuck.”

When we pull into my driveway, I’m already fifteen minutes past my curfew. I open the door, then stop and look at him. “Can you. not mention this whole fiasco to anybody else at school?”

“They already know,” he says. “One thing about Jackson Hole High, everybody is in everybody’s business.”

I sigh.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“Yeah, they’ll forget by Monday, right?”

“Right,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say. “Fry.”

He groans, then grins. “My pleasure.”

He’s such a strange guy. Stranger by the minute.

“See you.” I jump down from the truck, slam the door shut, and make for the house.

“Hey, Carrots,” he calls suddenly.

I turn back to him. “You and I will probably get along better if you stop calling me that.”

“You like it.”

“I don’t.”

“What do you see in a guy like Christian Prescott?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say wearily. “Anything else you want?”

His dimple appears. “Nope,” he says.

“Good night, then.”

“Night,” he says, and drives off into the dark.

The porch light comes on as I creep up the steps. Mom stands in the doorway.

“That wasn’t Christian,” she says.

“Brilliant observation, Mother.”

“What happened?”

“He’s in love with another girl,” I say, and pull the silver laurel out of my hair.

Later, in the darkest time of night, my vision turns into a nightmare. I’m in the forest.

I’m being watched. I feel the amber eyes of the Black Wing. Then he’s holding me down. He’s touching me, his icy hands sucking the warmth from my body. Pine needles stab into my back. His fingers twist over the top button of my jeans. I scream and flail. One hand strikes his wing and I pull out a fistful of black feathers. In my fingers they evaporate. I keep pulling at the angel’s wings, each feather a piece of his evil, until he suddenly dissolves into a heavy cloud of smoke, leaving me coughing and panting in the dirt.

I jolt awake, tangled in my blankets. Someone’s standing over my bed. I suck in a breath to start screaming again, but his hand comes over my mouth.

“Clara, it’s me,” Jeffrey says. He removes his hand and sits down at the edge of the bed. “I heard you screaming. Bad dream, huh?”

My heart’s pounding so hard I hear it like a war drum. I nod.

“Want me to get Mom?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“What was it about?”

He still doesn’t know about Black Wings. If I tell him, he’ll be more vulnerable to them, Mom said. I swallow.

“Prom didn’t exactly go as planned.”

His eyebrows bunch together and he frowns. “You had a nightmare about prom?”

“Yeah, well, it was that kind of night.”

He looks over at me like he doesn’t believe me, but I’m too tired to explain how my life seems to be coming apart at the seams.