The kiss was too short. Too painful. Too perfect, as always.

With a violent sob, I broke away from him and darted for Jillian, ducking behind her as she threw herself between me and Joshua.

“Grab him!” she shrieked at Scott. “Do it!”

Scott blinked in confusion, but did as he was told. He dove for Joshua, pinning his arms behind him and signaling to Drew and Felix for help. Within seconds, they had Joshua immobilized.

“Amelia?” he cried, struggling in their grip. “What . . . what the hell?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry. And I love you. Always.”

Then I pulled the gun out from beneath the back of my shirt. Everyone must have seen it at the same time, because they froze all at once.

“No,” someone whispered, although I couldn’t be sure who.

“I have to,” I said quietly. “I can’t let them have me as a Risen ghost. Whatever they do to me—it will be too painful.”

And I need the demons to think I’m desperate, I added in my head.

Annabel and Felix understood what I was saying first; they both nodded their grim assent. My mother and Jillian already knew, as did Scott, judging by the way he held more tightly to Joshua.

Joshua, however, began to scream. Deep, guttural sounds that wrenched through me.

The darkness must have enjoyed those screams—relished them, in fact. Almost as if it wanted to set the scene, the netherworld began to appear around us, plunging the bridge into abject darkness. Everything frosted over, and the temperature dropped so dramatically that Joshua’s screams started to puff visible in the air.

Still standing behind Jillian, I took a few steps closer to the edge of the bridge. Peering over the railing, I could just see it below: the horrible, swirling maelstrom of the hellpit.

It waited for me.

“Help me up,” I croaked at Jillian, jerking my head toward the guardrail. She simply winced and then shook her head vehemently. Instead of arguing with her, I gripped the gun by its barrel and held it out to her.

After a long pause, she took the gun and tucked it into her belt, her hands trembling badly as she did so.

Trying not to tremble as well, I turned around so that my back pressed against the guardrail. Then I placed my hand on Jillian’s shoulder and began to climb, backward, up the railing. However unwillingly, Jillian boosted me and steadied me whenever I needed help. My movements tore through my shoulder like a gunshot, but I kept going until I could grab a girder and balance upright on the edge of the rail.

From that vantage point, I had a clear view of my companions. Kaylen, Hayley, and O’Reilly still lay motionless on the bridge; Annabel held tightly to my mother, who’d already started to sag under the weight of the chemicals in her system; and the boys . . . the second my eyes flitted toward the boys, I started tearing up so badly that all four figures seemed to blur together.

I squeezed my eyes shut, whispered, “I love you,” and prayed that Joshua heard my last words to him.

When I opened my eyes, I was startled to find that Jillian had already pointed the gun at me. But her hands shook so badly that I couldn’t tell exactly where she intended to shoot.

“You okay?” I asked her.

At first, she blanched. Then Jillian released a short, incredulous laugh.

“Are you kidding me, Amelia?”

Through all that horrific pain, I felt my lips lift into a faint smile. But it faded so quickly, I doubt Jillian even saw it.

“Do it,” I urged. “Please.”

Hearing me, Jillian took one shuddering breath. In the split second before the gun went off, I thought I heard her sob. But then the bullet pierced my chest, and I didn’t hear anything anymore.

The pain was so vivid, so hot and cold, that I stopped breathing altogether. I reeled backward, letting go of the girder. As I fell through the air, a single memory flitted through my mind: Gaby, clutching the gunshot wound in her abdomen and telling me that it didn’t hurt.

She lied, I had time to think. Then utter darkness enveloped me.

Chapter

THIRTY-THREE

By the time I woke up somewhere cool and dark, all my pain had vanished. No throbbing, no burning, no searing. No physical sensations at all, actually.

I rolled over and pressed myself into a seated position, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. While they did, I patted my jeans pocket, relieved to find that the Transfer Powder had stayed with me. Then I performed a quick self-assessment. I was surprised to find that my glow had returned. Not the protective fire glow, but the one I’d had as a ghost—the one that Joshua used to tease me about, when I shined faintly in the dark.

It was done, then. I was truly, fully dead again, like Gaby had been after Kade shot her. And this place was hell.

I was surprised by how . . . ordinary it looked. No fiery cavern full of torture devices and gleeful devils. Just a tall, seemingly endless corridor, painted dark gray and lit overhead by a similarly endless line of metal light fixtures.

The only things that disturbed the monotony were the long rows of black metal doors that lined each wall, extending on into the distant horizon as though a million different rooms led off the same hallway.

“Where does this place end?” I asked aloud.

“It doesn’t.”

My head whipped toward the quaking, unfamiliar voice, which came from somewhere behind me. As I peered into the darkness, another figure emerged on the floor a few feet away from me. It gazed up at me with flame-blue eyes, and pulled back in horror. Although this thing wasn’t Eli or Gaby, it resembled their projected forms so closely that I knew it had to be some shadow of a ghost.

“Who are you?” I breathed, leaning away from the creature.

“A former reaper,” he replied. “I once gathered souls for this place. I trained an assistant as well. . . . You may have met him?”

I stared at him blankly, and then it hit me. “You’re Eli’s former master. The one he replaced.”

The old reaper gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “For all the good it did him.”

“Why are you here?” I demanded. “With me?”

“I’m here to guide you, obviously.” Despite his decrepit state, he managed to sound petulant.

“Where?”

“To your room,” he answered flatly, as if that was supposed to make sense. Seeing my confused frown, he waved at the endless row of black doors. “Everyone has their own room.”

I glanced around, feeling a slow chill creep over me. That was hell, then. Each soul confined to its own room, its own torture.

“Show me,” I whispered.

The old reaper bowed his head slightly and then began to move. But instead of standing up to guide me, he crawled along the floor, dragging himself inch by inch with his hands. Trying not to gag, I followed him down the hallway until he paused outside a door that was indistinguishable from all the others.

“Try this one,” he offered.

My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob. It felt an awful lot like that gunshot—hot and cold at the same time against my palm. Still shaking, I turned the knob and opened the door on a plain room that looked much like the outer hallway: simple, dark, and painted gray. But in its center, a middle-aged man in a suit sat in a straight-backed chair. He was crying and staring so intently forward that I couldn’t help but follow his gaze. There, hanging on the wall in front of him, was a picture of a woman. She wasn’t pretty nor was she smiling. But he still sobbed, watching her picture with that traumatized, wide-eyed stare.