“What about you, have you been having any strange dreams?” asks Angela. “Some clue to add to all this craziness?”

Christian finally drags his gaze away from mine to look at her.

“No dreams.”

“Well, personally I think it’s more than a dream,” she says. “Because it’s not over.”

“What?”

“Your purpose. There’s no way you go through all that, the visions and the fires and everything, and then that’s it. No way. There has to be more.”

My empathy chooses this moment to kick in, and I get a jolt of what Christian’s feeling: Resolve. Determination. A yearning underneath everything that makes me catch my breath. And certainty. Pure, absolute certainty. That Angela is right. That it’s not over. That there is more to come.

That night when I come into my room there’s someone standing on the eaves outside my window. In a split second all my mom’s baloney about Samjeeza being injured and vain and biding his time to come after us seems like exactly that— baloney—and I think, it’s him, it was his sorrow I felt the other day, I knew it, and my heart goes into crazy-panicked mode and my blood starts pumping and I glance wildly around my room for a weapon. Which is a joke because, a) I don’t have weapons so much as average teenage girl stuff in my room, and b) even if I were to procure something other than a nail file to defend myself with, what weapon works on a Black Wing? Glory, I think, got to call glory, but then I also think, wait. Why is he just standing there? Why hasn’t he started in on the cheesy evil I-will-kill-you-little-bird lines yet?

It’s not Samjeeza, I realize then. It’s Christian. I can feel his presence plain as day, now that I’ve calmed down enough to think straight. He’s come to tell me something. Something important.

I sigh, put on a sweatshirt, and open the window.

“Hey,” I call out.

He looks over from his spot on the edge of the roof, a place that perfectly overlooks the mountains, which are still glowing a faint snow-dusted white in the dark. I climb out the window and sit down next to him. It’s freezing outside, raining a chilly, miserable drizzle. I immediately hug my arms around myself and try not to shiver.

“Cold?” he asks.

I nod. “Aren’t you?” He’s wearing a black T-shirt and his usual Seven jeans, gray this time. I hate that I recognize his clothes.

He shrugs. “A little.”

“Angela says that angel-bloods are supposed to be immune to cold. It helps with the flying at high altitudes, I guess.” I shiver again. “I must not have gotten the memo.”

He smiles. “Maybe that power only applies to mature angel-bloods.”

“Hey, are you calling me immature?”

“Oh no,” he says, his smile blossoming into a full-blown grin. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good. Because I’m not the one peeping into someone else’s window.”

“I wasn’t peeping,” he protests.

Right. Something important.

“You know, there’s this new amazing invention,” I tease. “It’s called a cell phone.”

“Yeah, because you and I have such amazing heart-to-heart conversations over the phone,” he shoots back.

It’s quiet for a second, then we both start laughing. He’s right. I don’t know why it’s easier here, but it is. Out here we can finally talk. It’s a bona fide miracle.

He turns toward me, his knee brushing mine. In the dim light from my window, his eyes are a deep, dark green.

He says, “In your dream, the fence you mentioned, it’s a chain-link fence, on the right as you climb the hill.”

“Yes, how did you—”

“And the stairs you see, they have moss growing on the edges, and a railing to hold on to, metal, with black paint?”

I stare at him. “Right.”

“On the left side, back behind the trees, there’s a stone bench,” he continues. “And a rosebush, planted beside it. But the roses never bloom—it’s too cold up there for roses.”

He looks away for a minute. A sudden puff of wind stirs his hair, and he brushes it out of his eyes.

“You’re having the dream, too?” I whisper.

“Not like yours. I mean, I dream about that place all the time, but—” He sighs, shifts uncomfortably, then looks at me.

“I’m not used to talking about this,” he says. “I’ve sort of become a professional at not talking about this.”

“It’s okay. . . .”

“No, I want to tell you. You should know this. But I didn’t want to tell you in front of Angela.”

I draw my sweatshirt up to my chin and cross my arms against my chest.

“My mom died,” he says finally. “When I was ten years old. I don’t even know how it happened. My uncle doesn’t like to talk about it, but I think . . . I think she was killed by a Black Wing. One day she was there, doing long-division flash cards with me at breakfast, driving me to school, kissing me good-bye in front of the boys at school and embarrassing me. . . .” His voice wavers. He stops, looks away, clears his throat lightly. “Then the next minute, they’re pulling me out of class. They say there’s been an accident. And she’s gone. I mean, they let me see her body, eventually. But she wasn’t inside of it. It was just . . . a body.”

He looks at me then, eyes gleaming. “Her gravestone is a bench. A white stone bench, under the aspen trees.”

Suddenly my head feels all cloudy. “What?”

“It’s Aspen Hill Cemetery,” he says. “It’s not a real cemetery—well, it is a real cemetery, with graves and flowers and stuff like that, but it’s also like part of the forest, this beautiful place in the trees where it’s quiet and you can see the Tetons in the distance. It’s probably the most peaceful place I know. I go there sometimes to think, and . . .”

And talk to his mom. He goes there to talk to his mom.

“So when you said that thing about the stairs, and the hillside and the fence, I knew,” he says quietly.

“You knew I was dreaming about the cemetery,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I look up at him, choking back a cry, putting it all together, the people wearing suits and me in a black dress, everybody walking in the same direction, the grief I feel, the way everybody looks at me so solemnly, the comfort Christian tries to offer. It all makes perfect sense.

It’s not a Black Wing’s sorrow I’m feeling, in the dream. It’s mine.

Someone I love is going to die.

Chapter 5

Find Me a Dream

“Clara? You still with us?”

Mom nudges me in the shoulder. I blink for a second, then smile up at Ms. Baxter, the guidance counselor. She smiles back.

“So what do you think?” she asks. “Do you have any ideas about the direction you want to go in, any visions of your future?”

My eyes flick over to Mom. Oh, I have visions, all right. “You mean, like college?” I direct at Ms. Baxter.

“Well, yes, education is a big part of that, and we want to encourage all our students to attend college, of course, especially a bright, clearly gifted girl like yourself. But every person has their own special path, whether that leads to college or not.”

I look down at my hands. “I don’t really know what I want to do, career-wise.”

She gives an exaggerated, encouraging nod. “Perfectly okay. Lots of students don’t at this point. Have you done any looking around, college visits or surfing the university websites?”

“Not much.” Or at all.

“I think maybe that would be a good place to start,” Ms. Baxter says. “Why don’t you check out some of the brochures I have posted outside and make a list of five colleges that appeal to you and why. Then I can help you get started on applications.”

“Thank you so much.” Mom stands up and shakes Ms. Baxter’s hand.