He nods. Nods in a way that tells me his logical side, the side that likes tidy explanations and easy solutions, is raring to take over.

“Classic dreamscape scenario,” he says, brow slanted with relief. “Seriously. Sounds to me like you think I’m not paying you enough attention—that I don’t really listen—or maybe even—”

But before he can go any further, I cut it right there. “Trust me, it wasn’t the kind of dream that can be found in some Dream Interpretation One-oh-one book. In tonight’s dream, just like the dream I had before, when you realized you couldn’t fight it, when you realized you were trapped forever, well, you gave up. You just dropped your fists, closed your eyes, and slipped away. Slipped into the Shadowland.”

He swallows hard, tries to take it in stride, but it’s no use. He’s clearly as shaken as I was when I dreamed it.

“And then, just after that, everything disappeared. And by everything I mean you, the glass prison, the stage—all of it. The only thing left was this gloomy, damp patch of earth, a lot like the one we’re in now.” I rub my lips together, seeing the scene so clearly in my head it’s as though I’m immersed in it. “But that last part was new. I mean, it wasn’t in the original dream. Still, the second I woke I knew that not only were the two dreams connected, but that they were connected to this place as well. I knew I had to come here. Had to see for myself. See if I was right. I’m just sorry I dragged you along for the ride.”

My eyes graze over him, taking in his bed-ruffled hair, the soft, wrinkled T-shirt, the worn-in jeans—clothes gathered in a hurry, in haste, just seconds before I manifested the golden veil of light that led us both here. Feeling his strong, capable arms sliding around me, the warmth of them reminding me of just a few hours earlier when we slid between the sheets, tucked our bodies tightly together, and settled in for the night.

Back when our only immediate concern was that of Sabine and how she would handle the second week in a row that I’d failed to go home.

How she’d handle the fact that I took her at her word when she warned me not to come back until I sought the kind of help she’s convinced that I need.

And while I’ve no doubt I need help, especially in light of all that’s before me, unfortunately it’s not the kind of help Sabine meant. It’s not the kind of help that can be found in a prescription, a psychiatrist’s couch, or even the latest self-help book.

It requires something much greater than that.

We linger, the two of us gazing upon Haven’s grave. Damen’s thoughts carefully melding with mine, reminding me that no matter the consequences, no matter what lies ahead, he’s there for me. I had no choice but to do what I did.

By killing Haven, I saved Miles. Saved myself. She couldn’t handle the power, pushed every last limit. My making her immortal brought out a whole new side of her—one that we didn’t expect.

But that’s where Damen and I differ. I’m more inclined to believe what Miles said just shortly after I’d spared him from her. That there was nothing new or surprising about Haven’s dark side, it’d always been there, she exhibited signs all along. But, as her friends, we fought to ignore it—chose to look past it, to see only the light. And when I looked into her eyes that night, saw the way they gleamed with victory when she tossed Roman’s shirt—my last remaining hope of getting the antidote that will allow Damen and me to be together—into the flames, well, there was no doubt in my mind that her dark side had completely extinguished the better part of her.

And as far as Drina’s death is concerned, well, it was either kill or be killed. It’s as simple as that. Roman’s the unfortunate one—but still an accident pure and simple. A misunderstanding of the most tragic kind, I’m sure of that now. I know in my heart that Jude’s disastrous interference was an act he committed solely in my best interest. His intentions were good.

I saw it unfold in his head.

We rise to our feet, slowly, solemnly, all too aware that the answers we seek won’t be found here, that our best bet is to start at the Great Halls of Learning and see where that leads. And we’re just about to go there, when we hear it. The tune that causes us to freeze: From the mud it shall rise

Lifting upward toward vast dreamy skies

Just as you—you—you shall rise too…

Damen grasps my hand tighter, pulls me closer, as we turn to face her together. Taking in the long wisps of hair that, having escaped the confines of the braid that trails down her back, float freely around her crumpled, ancient face, making for an eerie silvery halo effect, while her rheumy, cataract-clumped eyes settle on mine.

From the deep and dark depths

It struggles toward the light

Desiring only one thing

The truth!

The truth of its being

But will you let it?

Will you let it rise and blossom and grow?

Or will you damn it to the depths?

Will you banish its worn and weary soul?

She repeats the tune, emphasizing the end of each verse. Her voice rising as she sings, “Rise—skies—too—depths—light—thing—

truth—being—it—grow—depth—soul—soul—soul—” repeating the last part again and again, her eyes moving over me, analyzing, observing, even though they appear to be sightless, as her gnarled, bumpy old hands lift before her—cupping, rising—her fingers slowly unfolding as a spray of ash spews forth from her palms.