The last sound I heard was Gideon screaming.

My mind slid backward into memory. Consciousness flickered and faded; I heard voices, someone speak my name. I felt arms lift me, a warm touch on my face. But I resisted. I retreated into sleep—or perhaps into Knowing. It wasn’t like a dream, drifting from thought to thought or scene to scene. It wasn’t abstract or ambiguous. Behind my eyes, images collected and took shape: thick grass stretching in every direction; insects humming in the cool, clean air; the rise of pines in the distance.

Above, the last edge of light was retreating from the night sky. I recognized the setting—the dirt road trailing off out of sight, Gram’s rusty blue truck parked in the gravel. It was our old house up north, where I’d spent the first eight years of my life in the sleepy quiet of the country. It was late summer, and the flowers that crept up toward the porch were beginning to droop and die. There was Gram, seated beside me on the porch swing. I was little, maybe six years old, my feet bare and dirty as I pulled them up onto the swing and tucked myself against Gram. She hummed a tune, stroking my hair idly. I listened to the rise and fall of the notes and the creak of our swing as it swayed.

We were watching the stars come out. Counting them, giving each a name—this one Jacky, for my grandfather, that one Lady, after our greyhound. They had names already, I knew, real names, but Gram asked why that should matter to us. The stars didn’t care. They did not belong to Earth. Some were distant suns, shining for distant planets. They were the beacons of all the cosmos, she said—pinpricks of light in the darkness, where all hope begins. And on our porch, we would name them what we wished.

“Listen, sweeting,” Gram said, her voice soft. “I’m going to tell you a secret.”

It wasn’t a secret she told me, but a story.

She had told me it before. It was about my grandfather, who had died before I was born. “I wasn’t supposed to marry Jacky,” she confided, lifting her hand to tuck a stray curl of hair behind my ear. “I was engaged to his brother, George.”

I knew the details already. A wedding had been planned, and then delayed. Gram’s white dress had been left in the closet to gather dust. Then George had been killed overseas, and for two years Gram had withdrawn into herself, barely eating, barely speaking. The world outside her window had no color, she told me; food had no taste. The turn of seasons didn’t touch her. Chords strung together had no music in them.

“Jacky,” she said. “He was my lodestar. The flame that guided me home. That’s what you do when you’re lost, sweeting. You just look for the flame.”

“But he died,” I said.

Gram only smiled. “He is in the earth now, but I’m never alone. Even when we die, we’re still a part of the people who carry us. I keep him here”—she touched her heart—“and there.” She raised her arm, pointing to the horizon. I lifted my eyes to follow the motion.

But when I looked at the sky once more, all the stars were red.

I woke in my own room, in my own bed, warm blankets tucked up to my chin. Late afternoon light streamed in around me. My window was open, letting in the sound of birds, the smell of the lawn. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful. As though nothing had occurred. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend nothing had.

Instead, I tried to move. My head swam. Groggy and disoriented, I groped toward the wall, pressing my hand flat against it until my vision ceased its spinning. Then, carefully, I climbed up out of the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I sat there a moment, evaluating. My shoulder ached. There was dirt on my shorts and tank top, a thin smear of blood on my arm. After taking a steadying breath, I stood and padded toward the door.

Downstairs, there were voices.

I made my way slowly, clutching at the railing. The stairs creaked as I stepped, and the voices went silent. I heard footsteps. My mother appeared, peeking her head out from the living room. Her mouth slanted downward.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” she said.

“I need to know what happened.”

“You may need to be the one to answer that,” she said. She helped me down the last few stairs, taking hold of my arm and guiding me toward the living room. Mr. Alvarez stood inside, near the mantel. He glanced toward the door, frowning, when I entered. Leon was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression blank. He didn’t look at me.

Mom settled me on the couch, then turned to Mr. Alvarez. “I would prefer to delay this until she’s feeling better, but it seems my daughter has other ideas.”

“What’s going on?” I asked. My voice squeaked out of me, sounding strange to my ears. I curled my hands, then felt a sharp pain. There was a cut across one palm, jagged and beginning to scab over. “How did I get home?”

“How do you think?” Leon said.

Mom’s brow furrowed. “You don’t remember? You seemed awake when I brought you up to bed.”

“No. I just remember passing out. And…red stars. A sky the color of blood. Dreaming.”

“I was in class,” Leon said. “It took me a minute to get out of sight to teleport. He was already gone when I found you.”

“Who?” I whispered. My heart clenched.

Mr. Alvarez turned to face me. He closed his eyes briefly. “Verrick. He’s alive, and he’s loose.”

“She knows,” Leon said.

My voice broke. “He’s Gideon.”

His face flashed before me. His crooked little grin, the dimple that sometimes appeared in his cheek. His brown eyes were warm, full of humor. I heard him say my name. I heard him scream.

Shane had warned me, I thought. When he’d still been Shane. The choice is yours, if you wish to plummet off this cliff, he’d said. I’m merely pointing out the edge.

But he’d been wrong. I’d left the ledge far behind without even realizing it. There was no ground beneath me. There was nothing left to do but fall, and keep falling.

I swallowed, feeling tears on my face. My whole body felt hot. I couldn’t seem to draw in enough air.

“How long have you known?” Mr. Alvarez said.

“Is that relevant?” Mom asked.

There didn’t seem any point in hiding it any longer. “Since the day we killed Susannah,” I said, stumbling over the words. “When I figured out who the Remnant is. Was.”

“Three months.” Mr. Alvarez sighed. “Well, we can’t do anything to change that now.”

I made an effort to brush the tears from my face, then grabbed one of the couch pillows and hugged it against me. “Will you at least tell me what happened?”

“He attacked Camille,” Leon said.

I bit my lip, looking at Mr. Alvarez. “Is she okay?” Camille was Mr. Alvarez’s ex-girlfriend, and even though they’d broken up—which may or may not have had something to do with him using her as Harrower-bait—I figured he’d be visibly upset if she’d been seriously hurt, but I didn’t let out my breath until he nodded.

“He doesn’t seem to be at his full strength,” Mr. Alvarez added. “He retreated when she fought back. But he told her who he was, and she called me.” He turned to Mom. “We don’t know where he is now. Camille said she didn’t think he’d gone Beneath, so we need to search the streets. We can’t rely on him retreating next time. Our window of opportunity here is brief.”

Their opportunity to find him and kill him. Panic surged. Fresh tears streamed down my cheeks. “It’s not his fault,” I choked out. “He’s not Verrick any longer. The Circle did something to him. It changed him. It made him into something else. He’s not just a Harrower, he’s human.”