Her voice shaky, she whispered, “You’re trying to kill me.”

“I think we can come to a better compromise than that, if you’re smart enough to see its value.” He half turned, leaning against the wall next to the poetry board. Skye now thought that, even if she hadn’t recognized him from the day before, she would have known by now that he was a vampire. Redgrave had that eerie grace and confidence familiar to her from the students at Evernight. All around them, the coffeehouse remained loud and bright; the piano music never stopped. “I don’t have to kill you to get what I want. It follows, therefore, that your best chance at staying alive is simply to give me what I want.”

Instinctively, she knew what that was. “My blood.”

He shrugged. “People donate all the time, and for what? A sticker and a cup of apple juice. I can do far better than that.”

“If I let you take any of my blood, you’ll just take it all.”

“Which would make a very entertaining evening for me, but no more than that. Whereas if you stay alive—if your body keeps creating and heating and pumping this miraculous liquid within your veins—I can enjoy your blood any time I please.”

Skye had only a foggy idea of what he was suggesting; she didn’t think she wanted to get a more precise picture. “I’m not your personal Coke machine.”

“Aren’t you curious, miss—forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

“Because I didn’t tell you.”

Redgrave tilted his head with a slight smile, acknowledging her right not to tell him. He looked so human then—so clever, so good-humored, so breathtakingly gorgeous—that Skye realized if she’d met him without Balthazar’s warnings, she would have trusted him immediately. Completely.

He said, “A mystery within a mystery. And I’m being quite literal now. Within you lies a secret waiting to be discovered. If Lorenzo is to be believed, your blood has unique powers. Unique advantages. Don’t you want to know what they are? Balthazar can’t tell you. It’s not in his nature to understand this. It is in mine.” Redgrave leaned closer, so close they might have been about to kiss. “Only I can give you the answers you want. Only I can explain the line between life and death.”

All the myriad deaths she’d witnessed through her visions over the past month flooded back to her, but one beyond the rest welled up in her mind—one she hadn’t witnessed, but one that had haunted her for almost a year now: Dakota.

Skye jerked back, twisting her face away from him. “There’s nothing I need badly enough to get it from you.”

“As you like,” Redgrave said. “But we’ll meet again. One way or another.”

Her legs shaky, she made her way back to the cozy chairs, where Madison was doing a not very good job of pretending to be absorbed only in her texting. “Sooooo,” she singsonged. “Looks like you made a new friend at the poetry board.”

“He’s not a friend. He’s … some old creep.”

“Not too old. Not looking like that.” Madison stared in wonder as Redgrave strode across the room, turning heads as he went. “Is it just raining hot older guys all of a sudden?”

“Forget it.” Skye snatched up her backpack. “Let’s head out. The game’s starting soon anyway.”

Her heart pounded. Her limbs trembled. But Skye kept taking deep breaths and telling herself she ought to have been relieved. Redgrave really wouldn’t attack when she was in a public enough space. That gave her a lot of safety. More than she’d thought she had this morning. So that was good news, right?

But the questions he’d asked kept ringing in her mind. Did he really understand what was going on with her? Could he give her answers? Was there a way to give him what he needed while keeping herself safe and alive?

As they walked out of Café Keats, Skye glanced over at the poetry board. Before leaving, Redgrave had changed his offering, sliding away the remember and the question mark and putting another word in its place.

Now the line read only join me.

“Hey, Big Blue, it’s all up to you, so hey, Big Blue—PULL THROUGH!”

Cheers and clapping echoed through the gymnasium as Skye and Madison clambered up toward some seats with a group of people Madison knew. Though everyone was friendly enough, nobody went out of their way to talk to Skye, which meant she was soon sitting on the edge of the group, talking to nobody. That was fine with her.

She whipped out her phone to send a message, just as it chimed in her hand. The message was from Balthazar: Good, you’re here. I thought I remembered how boring this school spirit stuff is. Actually, I’d blocked it out, like any other kind of pain.

Skye couldn’t enjoy the joke. Redgrave talked to me.

What? When? Are you okay?

Fine. He came up to me in the coffeehouse and said a bunch of weird—can I just tell you this in person? It’s going to take the whole game to type it.

Meet me by the concession stand.

“Be back in a sec,” Skye said. Madison hardly turned as she waved her off.

While making her way back down the bleachers, Skye glanced at the actual game; there, in the heart of the defense action, was Craig. His hands were splayed wide, and his long limbs covered his hapless opponent like a spiderweb. His dark brown skin already gleamed with sweat—even this early in the first quarter, he was playing all out, going for broke, not holding back.

For one moment, her mind wasn’t in the present. It was in the past—last summer by the river, with the August heat beating down on the two of them tangled, Craig’s body against hers, skin gleaming with sweat as they came together for the first and last time—

Skye pushed the memory away. Already it seemed like something that had happened to somebody else. Or should’ve happened to somebody else.

The quickest way to the concession stand involved cutting under the bleachers. Teachers would stop students who tried, if they were seen, but since one of the teachers on b-ball duty was the person she was trying to meet, Skye figured she was safe. She glanced up to make sure she wasn’t about to hit her head on one of the crossbars, then froze.

He stands on the framework, whole body shaking with fear. He doesn’t want to do this but he doesn’t see any other way out. Maybe this will make it better. Maybe it’s the only thing that can.

Don’t do it, Skye wanted to shout, but she knew it would do no good. He’d gone through with it a long time ago. Her knowledge did nothing to diminish the overwhelming sadness and fear swelling inside her, pushing out her own feelings until she was nothing but a container for this boy’s pain.

The noose is just some strips from his sheets, ripped off and braided together. He ties the knot, makes sure it’s tight, and slips his head in. Their remembered taunts are louder now than his own heartbeat.

Skye’s eyes widened as she saw him more clearly. This had taken place decades ago—his hair and clothes told her that much—but he looked so familiar. Though there was no relation, no connection, the boy about to commit suicide reminded her of Dakota.

He jumps. The noose tightens, tighter than he’d known anything could feel, and it hurts worse than he’d thought anything could hurt. His body, ignorant of bullies or cruelty or sadness, struggles to live—bursting blood vessels, tensing muscles, contorting in every direction. His neck is a vise of pain that wants nothing more than to open up enough to breathe, but it can’t. It can’t.

She put her hands to her own throat. Though nothing prevented her from breathing, her body wasn’t doing it. Something in her begged her to surrender to the feeling, but she fought against it with every ounce of her will. Once again the boy’s face appeared before her, and once again she thought, Dakota.

“Skye?” Balthazar’s voice was distant. She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see anything.

I take it back, the boy thinks. I take it back. His legs kick out wildly, seeking a place to stand, so he can get his life again; however broken or sad it is, it’s better than this. But his feet can’t find purchase, and everything in his brain is turning black—

Skye couldn’t see. Couldn’t think. She wasn’t even sure how she knew she was falling.

Chapter Eleven

BALTHAZAR REACHED SKYE JUST AS SHE FELL, catching her in his arms in the moment before she would have hit the ground. A few people shouted and pointed—his calling out to her had drawn too much attention—but so far as anybody knew, this was nothing more than a student fainting during a ball game.

It might be far worse than that.

As he lifted Skye into his arms and began working his way back out of the bleachers—with faces from above peering down to get a look at what was going on—his fellow teacher on duty, Nola, shouted, “Everybody back up! Give her some air!”

“Skye? Can you hear me?” Balthazar glanced down at her; she wasn’t entirely unconscious, but definitely dazed. One of her hands pawed feebly at her neck. “I’m getting you out of here. You’ll be all right.”

“Oh, my God. What’s going on?” Madison Findley showed up, seemingly thrilled by the sudden drama. “Coach Haladki, what happened to Skye?”

“She fainted,” Nola said, her voice then climbing to a shout, “which is what happens to kids who break the rules! Everybody get back to the game! Show’s over!”

“It was like I couldn’t breathe,” Skye whispered. “That one was bad.”

As they finally emerged from underneath the bleachers, Balthazar lowered her so that she could stand, but she still wavered on her feet. Nola shook her head. “Better get her to the nurse’s station. No nurse on game duty anymore, thanks to the damn budget cuts, but this one probably only needs a box of juice and some quiet time. No more sneaking off under the bleachers again, all right, Tierney?”

“All right,” Skye answered, her voice sincere. “I can swear I’ll never walk under there again.”

Madison appeared at their side. “Should I go with you? Keep you company?” Though obviously she was talking to Skye, Balthazar couldn’t help noticing that Madison was looking only at him.

“She’s fine,” he insisted. “Skye will be back out soon. You can keep watching the game.” Disappointed, Madison shrugged and stepped away from them.

Neither of them spoke again until he had her out of the gymnasium and they were in the silent, deserted halls of the school. “What happened under the bleachers?”

“Some guy from the seventies committed suicide down there.” Her voice shook. “He wanted to take back what he’d done so bad, but he couldn’t.”

“Hey.” Balthazar already had his arm firmly around her, but he squeezed more tightly. “It’s okay. You’re past it.”

“I felt everything he felt.”

“What?” He used his key to the nurse’s station, then edged her inside. A flip of the light switch revealed plain white cinder block walls and a simple cot, onto which Skye sank down gratefully. In the corner, a mini-fridge held a few boxes of orange and apple drink; Balthazar thrust the apple stuff at her. “Drink this. What do you mean, you felt everything he felt?”

“When he couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t either.” Skye’s fingers went to her neck again, and he realized that she was seeking the noose. “That hasn’t happened before. Oh, my God. And the worst part—” She shook her head, denying the words. Then she started working on her juice box, her attention clearly turning within from shock.

“Stay with me.” Balthazar brushed his hand along her arm, and her pale blue eyes turned back toward him. “If not being able to breathe wasn’t the worst part, what was?”

Her voice small, she said, “He looked like my brother. Dakota.”