In the last three months, I’ve started having creepy dreams that give me a glimpse of the future. Or sometimes a portal will open up in the middle of the night and something will try to kill me. There’s no way to know which one I’m gonna get hit with each day. It’s kinda like playing Russian roulette every night with a drunk who hates you.

My gaze lands on the digital clock on my nightstand as it flicks to 12:01 AM. Hours spent in Orane’s world, and one minute has passed in mine.

The light show when she picked up the statue was insane. Blue cracks spread from her hand, up her arm, and across her entire body in less than a second. When she dropped it, I thought maybe she’d seen what was happening and would leave the statue alone. Or throw it at me—it kinda seemed like she wanted to throw it at me for a second.

After all the shit that went down with Calease, I hate sleeping the way some people hate airplanes. Or small, dark spaces. Or spiders. Or being on an airplane in a small, dark space filled with spiders.

You know the phrase ‘hard to get’?” K.T. asks.“Yeah.”“Forget hard to get. Chasing Mari would be like Mission: Impossible.

Glancing at the time on my phone, I cringe. Midnight. The witching hour. This was when Calease always came for me.I hate midnight.

Holy shit. I’m a Smurf.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had a family and a home and a dreamworld I thought was as close to heaven as you could get without dying.I have none of that now.My brother is dead. My parents threw me out of the house—again—with barely enough to fill a small suitcase. And my dreamworld? I was right when I figured that, if God ever did exist, he turned his back on humanity centuries ago.

When I look at Mari now, it’s like I see her in layers—the burning blonde with the ribbon over her mouth, the princess tearing apart a screwed-up tea party, the goddess wrapped in burning chains, and the girl who is somehow all those things yet isn’t aware of it. Who doesn’t even see the cliff she’s running toward at full speed.

I look down, trying to see my skin like she does. Underneath the soft, cerulean-blue glow, there are so many lines it looks like a roadmap. I’m so used to the ruts and puffy scars crisscrossing my arms that I forget about them sometimes. They’re the legacy of the questionable talent that’s kept me alive as often as it’s gotten me in trouble.The story of my life is written in the wounds on my skin. I just wish other people could read the story, too. It’d save me a lot of explaining.