She thrust me away, and I stumbled. When I looked up, she was gone. I reached for my gun, and my fingers shook so badly I barely dared lift it.

I’m not like them. Not like either of them.

I staggered from the room. As I ran down the hall, words followed me, bloodred words on the wall, on either side of me.

There is no escape from the prison of the mind.

“Ricky!” I shouted. “Can you hear me?”

No answer. I caught the distant thump of footsteps, seemingly right below me. I ran down a hall, into the tub room and through to the room with the straitjacket rocking chair. Isolde was there, bound and moaning, blood dripping from her mouth and eye sockets. I ran right past her to the hatch in the floor, and when I reached it, I didn’t bother with the ladder. I crouched, grabbed the sides, and swung through. My arm jerked, pain ripping through. I let go and hit the floor. My ankle twisted, but I forced myself up onto my feet, and as I did, I looked up to see . . .

A solid ceiling. The hatch was gone. I blinked and looked down and there, to my left, were the damned cribs again. Fingers poked out between the slats.

I tore from the room and stopped in the hallway. I stood there, eyes squeezed shut, struggling against panic.

There is no escape from the prison of the mind.

Oh hell, yes, there was. And if one way didn’t work, I’d find another.

I took out my cell and speed-dialed. I’d meant to try Ricky again, but when I heard the line ringing, I knew that wasn’t who I’d called.

“This is Gabriel Walsh. Please leave a message . . .”

I rocked on my toes as I waited for the beep.

“Gabriel? It’s Olivia. I know you’re pissed off with me, but listen. Please listen. I need you. You promised—” I sucked in breath. No, don’t remind him of that. Don’t whine and accuse. “I need you. Not to come here. Not to do anything but pick up the phone and talk to me. I’m at the psych hospital and I’m . . . I’m lost.” A short laugh, laced with panic. “I’m lost in so many ways. Ricky’s here, and I can’t find him, and it’s some kind of magic. I’m trapped with these visions, and if this keeps up, I . . . I feel like I’m going crazy, Gabriel. Maybe I am. You seemed to think so, and . . . Hell, tell me that. Just pick up the phone and tell me it’s all in my head. Talk me through it or snap me out of it. I don’t care. Just pick up or call back. Please.” I paused, then shut my eyes and let the words out, not caring how desperate and sad they sounded. “I need you.”

I hung up, and I waited. And Gabriel did not call back.

TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE

Gabriel was not dreaming, but it was perhaps the closest he’d ever come. The images spooling through his sleeping mind were still memories, yet bits and pieces of them, strung together like a clumsily tied rope of mismatched cloth.

He started in the car, the night before, telling Olivia she was imagining things, as a voice in his head yelled at him to stop, just stop, what the fuck was he doing, but he kept saying it, and when he saw the shock and pain in her eyes, he was glad of it. Satisfaction and shame, roiling together. Then they were back in Evans’s basement, his leg bleeding as he told her to get out, escape while she could, that he wouldn’t stay for her. She said she didn’t care. And she didn’t. It wasn’t about tit for tat, helping him because he’d do the same for her. She’d believed he would have left her, and yet she’d stayed for him.

At the car now, the burning car, the girl—Macy—ordering Olivia to climb into it or she’d shoot him. Later, standing by his window, sharing a drink, he’d had to make sure Olivia crawled into that burning car only because she knew Gabriel would get the jump on Macy.

“Mmm, not exactly. But I had a plan.”

“Good. Don’t put yourself at risk for anyone, Olivia. Ever. It isn’t worth it.”

In his car again, telling her she was imagining things, saying exactly the words that would hurt her the most. You’re delusional. Laughing when she said they were friends. That voice in his head screaming for him to stop, but a louder, more determined one prodding him on. You have to do this. Disillusion her. Teach her not to trust anyone, especially you. Hurt her a little now, and you’ll save her that pain later.

He wasn’t her fairy prince. The idea was ludicrous. If she expected him to ride in and rescue her . . .

Except she didn’t expect that. She never had. And that wasn’t what Gwynn had done anyway, was it? No knight-in-shining-armor there, but a selfish bastard who didn’t even have the guts to try to win Matilda from Arawn. He’d betrayed his friend. Betrayed his lover. Forced Matilda to choose when she already had. Gwynn refused to share her time or attention. He’d lied and manipulated and betrayed everyone he supposedly cared about, because he didn’t really care about anyone except himself.

And Gabriel said he wasn’t Gwynn?

But that was their choice, wasn’t it? That’s what Olivia meant—they weren’t really Matilda and Gwynn and Arawn. Olivia was no flighty girl, believing Gabriel’s lies, accepting his betrayals. Ricky wasn’t simply her friend, and he wasn’t the arrogant Lord of the Underworld, either—he cared about Olivia and he respected her, and if Gabriel ever suggested the kind of pact Gwynn had with Arawn, Ricky would tell him to go to hell.

Ricky and Olivia had broken from their roles. And Gabriel . . . ?

The memory changed. He was standing in his bedroom doorway, Olivia sitting up in his bed, her eyes wide from whatever she’d been dreaming. No, not whatever.