“It’s not my future,” I say through gritted teeth as my hand scrawls my signature across another paper. I don’t fight it. I can’t beat him physically. There has to be another way.

“These,” I say, gesturing to the strings on my arms, “they aren’t real. Everyone would see them. That,” I say caustically, pointing at the giant Smith-face above our heads, “is obviously not real. Every vision in my dome has the possibility of actually happening. This is some twisted version of my plane, and I can tell the difference.”

His lips tighten and I know I’ve said something right.

“These are your desires,” I continue, rambling in what I hope is the right direction. “And . . . your memories,” I add, remembering the scene of my dad’s accident. Non-accident. Then I understand. “You don’t have any actual Oracle power here. You can’t affect the future in your dome. Only I can do that.”

I expect another angry look, but he smiles. “You think you’re so smart. So invincible. I control you now. I’ve been wrapping tiny strings around you for weeks now—ever since you let me into your second sight. Every hour you spent using the necklace to come here strengthened my hold on you. Did you really think you were just practicing?”

Shame burns through me—that’s exactly what I thought.

He circles me like a vulture as I hang, unable to move. “You say these strings aren’t real, but they may as well be. We’re bound so tightly, you can’t resist me.” A low chuckle escapes his throat. “And you have no one to blame but yourself. The very first time you let me into your mind, you made the door. And every time you use the necklace with my spell in it, the door gets bigger. My world gets bigger. And it’s pulling your world in without any help from me at all. It’s too late to stop me—you had your chance the first night you reached the door. But what did you do? You went and had a date with Lover Boy instead. And now the balance has tipped.”

“No.” But the word is quiet, a no of surrender. I hang limp from my strings and want to cry. What have I done?

But . . . I brought Smith here. And his world is so much smaller than mine. How can he have the power? It doesn’t make any sense.

I brought him here with the necklace. He talks about the stone like it only helps him, but it’s helped me too. It gave me the power to pull him onto my supernatural plane.

Against his will.

I still have the upper hand. Or, at least, I do with the focus stone. I feel it pulsing against my chest and know I must be right.

It’s my only shot. I move my hand slowly, hoping he won’t notice. It’s hanging just inside my coat—between my shirt and my coat. I need to touch it, grab it.

“Why me?” I ask, keeping the resignation in my voice. Anything to keep his attention away from my hand.

He chuckles and the sound frightens me so much I almost forget about reaching for the necklace. “Because, Miss Charlotte, you are my perfect revenge. You will be everything Shelby wasn’t.” He draws in a deep breath like he’s smelling a delicious scent and I don’t understand again. “Those tiny visions you couldn’t fight—I fed off of them for many years. But just barely. Now I feast like a king.”

“What happened to her? What happened to Shelby?” I fling the words at him desperately. He cares about Shelby—I know he does. And the more emotional he is, the better.

His face snaps somber and I feel a little thrill of victory. “I couldn’t break her,” he says, his voice quiet. “I couldn’t make myself go all the way. I won’t have that problem with you.”

Straining against the twine tied on my arms, my fingers wrap around the stone and a surge of power runs through me. I picture the strings breaking and with a leap of faith, I throw myself forward, imagining myself strong and powerful. Stronger than him.

For a moment, the strings strain against me and I think I’m going to fail. Then, almost as one, they snap and I’m free.

Smith’s eyes are wide as I tackle him. He puts out his hands to break his fall against a rounded wall, but when my weight crashes into him, we sink through it to somewhere else.

Voices shout around me and one of them sounds like Smith’s, but I can feel him struggling beneath me and the sound is coming from somewhere to my right. Smith stills when a female shouts something I don’t quite understand. I look up to see a younger Smith—his hair dark with no sign of gray—his arm outstretched toward a tall, slim girl maybe a little older than me with strawberry-blond hair that falls down her back in shining waves. I can’t see her face, but I can tell there’s . . . there’s something wrong with her.

And then I realize her limbs are bent funny and she’s walking toward Smith like she’s trying not to. It’s a sensation I understand all too well.

Young Smith’s expression is weird too—like he’s fighting himself. When she gets close enough, a scowl curls across his face and he draws his hand back and slaps her so hard that her head snaps to the side.

And I see her face.

Sierra.

Shelby. Sierra is Shelby.

You don’t know how bad the visions can get, she told me when this whole thing began. Not even you.

I stand there immobilized by shock as a younger version of my aunt sobs, her shoulders shaking. Then in a show of strength she doesn’t look capable of, she somehow wrenches free of his control and jumps on top of him. For a few seconds, fists and fingernails fly, but Smith throws her off and then he’s above her. His hands clenched around her neck. I scream as her body begins to twitch, her face purpling.