I stepped onto the front lawn, watching them drive down the street until the truck disappeared around the corner. Exhaustion fell over me like a heavy down comforter. It was only late afternoon and already my body wanted to shut down. It had been one hell of a day so far. Maybe with Em gone, I could actually get in a good nap before heading back to Underground later with Hank.

I made my way back inside the house and up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and could smell Will everywhere, all over me. It felt good, which surprised me. I thought I’d feel something more along the lines of sadness and grief for what we’d lost, but I only felt comforted by the remnants of his presence.

Leaving on my underwear, I slipped under the covers, pulling them all around me, and snuggled down deep in the cool sheets.

Yeah, this was definitely what I needed.

The hospital morgue.

Two women were there. One on the cold, narrow table. And the other, a thought or conscience without form, hovering above, looking down at the sight with confusion and mild curiosity. That figure on the table was revolting. Gray, bruised, and beaten. Skull cracked open. Dead.

She, the one above, tried to remember by what. Was it a baseball bat? A crowbar? An iron staff?

The woman on the table was naked, covered to her armpits with a white sheet. She was a complete mess, but she hadn’t always been that way … She’d been pretty once. Had liked the shape of her breasts and her long legs. Liked the way her wavy mahogany hair brushed her lower back when she was naked. She liked the dimple when she smiled and the pouty lips that always drew men’s eyes. She’d been happy once.

Something tugged hard on the consciousness floating above the body, pulling her toward the ceiling. A light was there. But it was far, far away and before it swam shadows, darting in and out of the murkiness. She wondered if she could dodge the shadows without trial and pass into that soft, beckoning light.

No, no, she couldn’t go. Not yet.

She couldn’t remember why, but knew there was a reason, a monumental reason, why she couldn’t go.

Still, the light tugged.

Others came into the room. She could see their shapes but not their features; only the body on the table remained vivid and clear to her. They spoke, and it sounded as though the voices were underwater. She pulled away from the ceiling to hover closer.

“Can she be saved? She’s been gone for some time,” the tall figure said. He wore black. Perhaps it was hair, but it could’ve been a hood. She couldn’t tell. His voice, though muffled, was deep and powerful.

He was somebody. Somehow she knew this.

“If she can’t, then this won’t hurt her,” the other said. He was swathed in white. Perhaps it was a lab coat or a cloak, but he had no hood. His hair was brown, and he was tall, just not as tall as the other. “But if she can,” he said, “then all our work will be worth it.”

He pulled the white sheet to her waist, revealing her breasts, her startling injuries, and the bruises on her chest where they’d performed CPR. He turned her wrist, revealing the soft part of her arm. Then he stuck a needle into her vein.

The dark one smoothed her hair from her forehead, hair that was matted with blood. He whispered to her.

The light from behind pulled stronger. The shadows dipped and flew closer, crying out in screeching misery, though the volume was dulled by an unseen barrier.

The dark one looked up at the ceiling abruptly as though he sensed something there, but after a moment he turned his attention back to the woman.

The consciousness was caught suddenly in a tug of war; the light pulling her upward and the dead woman on the table pulling her down. Panicked, she fought against both.

“Now, we wait,” the white one said.

Amid the panic, she still knew she had to go back, had that reason, that thing just on the edge of her memory. And she was afraid of the shadows, afraid they’d get her before she could make it to the light. So she dove toward the body, away from the screams and cries of the shadows and away from the peace of the light.

And before she lost the sense of being separated, she realized as she melded with her body, that she’d just dove straight into hell.

She screamed inside.

Fire. Dear God, she was on fire!

The rush was so loud and hot, her eardrums felt as though they bled lava. And then the images started, bursting through her damaged, swollen mind. So much pain. Everywhere. She wanted to die, and she would have if she hadn’t already. Death. Murder. Sex. Blood, so much blood. Dark figures. Torture. Pain. And power. Dark power. It hurt. Hurt because there was light, too, and it battled inside her, tearing her apart, fighting for domination. Good things. Good deeds. Love. Growth. Seeds sprouting through green grass, unfurling and growing into sturdy, ancient trees. Crows cawing endlessly. The drip of water. It was too much, too many images, too quickly. She screamed again.

And then she was outside in a circular meadow, naked under a full moon. Surrounded. On her knees. And the man in black and the man in white took turns slicing away small pieces of her flesh, like children who dole out portions.

This piece is mine, that piece is yours. One for me, one for you.

I shot up into a sitting position on the bed, my heart thumping hard and fast against my rib cage. My fists clenched the sheet, and my eyes were wide open, but unfocused. My lungs burned as adrenaline pumped through my system, tasting like dry iron on my tongue.

Breathe, Charlie. No big deal. Just breathe.

Repeating the mantra over and over, I felt the adrenaline finally slow, allowing me to draw in long drafts of air until my lungs didn’t hurt so much.

Chills erupted all over my skin, the nightmare of my death leaving me feeling cold and clammy. Like a corpse. I might have claimed to be used to it by now, but, honestly, every time I woke, it felt like the first time. The only difference: each time left me more exhausted and weak.

Relaxing my death grip on the sheet, I scrubbed both hands down my face to stir the blood flow and then rubbed my cold arms for warmth.

Concentrating on getting warm instead of being picked apart by good and evil allowed my blood pressure to return to some semblance of normalcy.

Then I closed my eyes, regulated my breathing as Doctor Berk had instructed, and pulled my feet inward until I sat cross-legged on the bed. My wrists rested on my knees. Mostly, I did this to calm down and push back all those images bouncing around my mind.

When I woke, especially the last few months, the sensation, something akin to strength or power, vibrated through my veins, making me feel as though my whole body hummed just a little. So I banked it, used the meditation to push all that good and evil shit aside and pull up my humanity. Me. Charlie Madigan. That was who I was. Not some weirdo walking dead person whose insides raged every damn night with images of darkness and light.

Once I had my mind under control, I glanced around my bedroom, drawn to the only light in the dark room. My alarm clock.

“Damn it!”

I had just enough time to get dressed and meet Hank for our trip to Underground.

Ten minutes later I stood in front of the full-length mirror and sighed. Well, this would have to do. My hair was down and messy from the nap, but finger-combing had gotten out the worst of the tangles. I had on the jeans and red V-neck T from earlier. I added faded brown cowgirl boots Bryn had given to me for my birthday last year and put a pair of gold hoops in my earlobes.