“… it reminded me of you.”

I smiled and fell asleep.

* * *

A STENCH WORMED INTO MY DREAMS, bitter and thick and searing, like poisonous gas, though I knew that wasn’t it. It was the smell of destruction. It was the smell of things being eaten alive. It was fire.

I saw flames flash down the streets. Fire bloomed in my mother’s face.

Then I was awake, on my feet, too terrified to scream, and running down the hall, because there was a fire, there was a fire here, and I had to put it out. I had to save my friends.

I chased the smoke to its source. The living room.

Raphael was reading in an armchair pulled up to the fireplace. A small flame writhed behind the iron grill.

“Darcy?” he looked up. “What’s wrong?” He followed my wide-eyed gaze. “Oh, crap. I’m an idiot.” He scrambled to his feet. “I totally forgot. I’ll put it out.”

I found my voice. “No, don’t. That’ll make it smell worse.”

He opened a window, and cold air rushed in, clearing my head. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to thinking of you like—”

“It’s okay. And … I need to get used to fire. Shades can, you know. Sometimes I think I’m getting better.” The burning wood popped, and I jumped. “Or not.”

“Sit with me over here,” Raphael took my hand and pulled me toward the sofa, which was far from the fire. “I’m really, really sorry,” he said again.

I steeled myself against the fire, pretended it didn’t exist. “You can’t sleep?”

“Nope. Too happy, I guess.”

“Where’s Taylor? Shouldn’t she be sleeping right here? And snoring. I bet she snores.”

“She went out. To a club, or something. She’ll probably be back by dawn. You know…” He paused. “Taylor’s all right. We did need a ride, the day we left Lakebrook, but that’s not why I called her. We needed someone like her. She’s tough.”

“I got that.” I didn’t particularly want to talk about Taylor, so I picked up Raphael’s book. “Hamlet? But the fall play … it’s over,” I realized. “You missed the performances. Oh, Raphael.”

He shrugged. “There’ll be other plays.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Hey, I’m right where I want to be.”

I looked at his face glowing in the firelight and thought about missed chances, and other lives, and how you can’t go back. Or I couldn’t.

My thumb fanned the pages into a flipping arc. “Why’re you reading this, then?”

“It’s a good play.”

“Sure, if you like tragedies.”

“That’s the thing. It didn’t have to be a tragedy. I mean, yeah, it sucks that Hamlet’s uncle killed his dad and married his mom, but that doesn’t mean everyone had to be poisoned or drowned or stabbed by the final act. Sometimes I like to read Hamlet and think about how everything could have gone differently. Hamlet and Ophelia could’ve run off and lived happily ever after.” He smiled.

I held the book with both hands. “Raphael…”

Understanding flashed across his face, then disappointment. “Don’t,” he said.

“It’s just that—”

“Please.” He found his smile again, though it was different now. “Hey, weren’t you sleeping? Didn’t I thoughtlessly wake you? You should go back to bed.” He glanced at the fire. “I’ll stay up until it goes out.” He added, “And pour water over the ashes. I promise.”

“Okay.”

Raphael hugged me. I wished my brain could tell my heart what was good for it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

* * *

WE ALL SLEPT IN. It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon when I went into the kitchen to make blueberry pancakes. One by one, the others straggled into the dining room, their faces gleeful at the sight of stacks of pancakes. Even Taylor. Everyone heaped butter and maple syrup on top, since they knew that’s the best way to eat them, except for Jims. He ate his with peanut butter.

“So good,” he mumbled with his mouth full, and the others agreed, but the bready, sweet smell of pancakes couldn’t quite mask the lingering odor of last night’s fire. The pancakes tasted like ashes to me. Then I remembered eating blueberry pancakes at the Lakebrook diner with Conn and wished I’d never made them.

Jims finished eating. “Now it’s time for some dessert,” he said. “I’m going out for pastries. You kids start packing. And pack only”—he glared meaningfully at Taylor—“what you can carry. We still have to figure out how we’re going to get past the guards.”

The apartment whipped into chaos, with Taylor spreading her clothes across the living room, trying to figure out how to make everything fit into a rolling suitcase, Lily telling her to get on with it already, and Raphael stacking maps and books about this world’s history on the kitchen table. I kept them company and helped when I could, since all I had to bring back home with me was the Society-issued black clothes I wore and the silver spoon in my pocket.

Then Jims came back with pastries and a newspaper, and the pastries turned into a very late lunch. Lunch turned into coffee, and more packing, and more coffee, and it wasn’t until I was sipping a cappuccino out of a porcelain cup that I glanced at the paper resting on the table.

I dropped the cup, and it smashed against the floor.

“What’s wrong?” asked Lily.

I stared at The Chicago Tribune. The headline read, “New Year’s Eve: The Biggest Celebration in Chicago History.”

“They didn’t cancel,” I said. “It’s happening.”

“What is?” Raphael stood, a map in hand.

I looked at the map, then at the paper. The sinister smell of last night’s fire taunted me, and I remembered my dream of blazing streets, of fire radiating across the city in a steady, planned pattern, swallowing everything in its path.

“Of course,” I whispered. “Meridian’s going to start the Great Chicago Fire.”

45

I snatched the map out of Raphael’s hand, but it didn’t have what I was looking for. “Do you have one with city firehouses on it?”

“Um, probably.”

“Find it.”

As Raphael sorted through his pile of maps, Taylor said, “Is this the part where you tell us what’s going on?”

“Yes. But briefly, because I need your help.” I almost shook with the effort of deciding how to explain in the quickest way possible. “What happened at Marsha’s … Conn arrested me. More or less just for being a Shade. After he brought me here, I agreed to help the IBI find out more about a rumor that the Society was plotting an attack.”

“You agreed?” said Raphael. “After he did that?”

“Wow,” said Jims. “You’re like a double agent.”

“The point is,” I continued, “there will be an attack. Tonight. I think—no, I know—that four Shades are going to set Cecil Deacon’s house on fire, probably at midnight, when thousands of people are gathered there to ring in the new year. Have you seen those wooden sidewalks near his house?”

“Sure,” said Raphael, holding out a map with the firehouses. “They’re a big tourist attraction.”

“And flammable. Give me that.” I took Raphael’s map and opened it on the table. “If they set fire to the house, it’s going to spread to the sidewalks. They’ll burn up like straw. The fire could destroy most of downtown, and people are going to die. The Shades will make certain of that, by steering them right into the path of the fire. This world never had a Great Chicago Fire. Meridian’s going to make certain it does.”

There was a silence. Then Lily said, “How can we help?”

“Are you sending us on a death-defying mission?” Jims’s eyes got round. “Listen, if something happens to me and I end up on life support, don’t pull the plug, okay? I can get better. And if I die, don’t embalm my body and don’t put me in a coffin. Putting me in the ground is fine, but I want a very shallow grave.”

“Jims—”

“I can get better,” he insisted.

“Jims! You won’t have to claw your way out of a grave. You’ll be fine. Look.” I grabbed a pen and drew a wide circle around Deacon’s house and the wooden sidewalks. “Go to all the firehouses inside this circle. Split them between you, and tell the firefighters they need to be on the scene and ready to put out the fire. Jims, use that IBI badge. The rest of you … be convincing. It’s”—I reached for Lily’s wrist and checked her watch—“eight o’clock? How did it get so late?”

“Um … we’re lazy?” said Jims.

“Never mind. We still have four hours till midnight. Plenty of time. Will you do it?”

“Why not?” Taylor shrugged. “Firemen are hot.”

“What’re you going to do?” asked Lily.

“I’m going to see Conn.”

* * *

HE WASN’T AT HIS APARTMENT. I thought that would be the case, but I still had to check, since it was on the way to where he almost certainly was, and where I certainly didn’t want to be: the IBI.

Once I got there, though, I cursed myself for having wasted time stopping at Conn’s house. I moved fast as a ghost, but not that fast, and it was well past nine o’clock when I began hunting the halls of the IBI for him.

Precious minutes ticked by, and I threw increasingly panicked glances at clocks sitting on desks and mounted on office walls. The IBI was busy for a Friday night, and as I wove through gray-jacketed agents I began to think that Conn must have already left for downtown. How would I ever find him on the streets?

It was almost ten-thirty.

Then I saw someone I recognized. Michael. Not the person I would have picked, but I was running out of time and couldn’t afford to be choosy.

We were in a crowded hallway, so I sidled up to him and whispered in his ear. “Michael.”

He jumped and spun around. A few passing agents gave him a curious look.

“Don’t freak out,” I hissed. “It’s Darcy Jones. I need to find Conn. Do you know where he is?”

Michael muttered, “He’s getting ready to leave with his division. He’s head of security for New Year’s Eve.” He slipped into a quiet corner office set apart from the hallway traffic, and I followed.

“Take me to him.”

Michael had recovered from his surprise, and now his attitude got cocky. “Well, sure, if you want him that bad. Why don’t you manifest, Darcy, and we’ll take a stroll together, like two civilized beings? I hear you’re very civilized.”

“Nice try. Do you think I’d give you the chance to slap firecuffs on me? Just lead the way.”

Somewhat to my surprise, he did. He also didn’t attempt to trick me, as I’d feared when he led me downstairs into the wing of training rooms, interrogation rooms, and prison cells. Once, he glanced behind him and grinned. “So it’s true,” he said. “I can see your shadow.”

“Find Conn,” I reminded, and Michael shrugged, turned back around, and led me directly to him.

Conn was in a training room with dozens of IBI agents. He walked among them, checking their flamethrowers and other gear I didn’t recognize and didn’t want to. He looked alert, his body moving in quick lines. Clearly skilled. Clearly ready.

He was intimidating.

This was the same Conn I’d seen in the truck on the day of my arrest. Yet I almost manifested, almost let my longing fling me back into my body.

“McCrea,” Michael called.

Conn glanced up in surprise. “Michael? I don’t really have time to—”

“Someone here to see you.” Michael jerked his head toward the empty air behind him.

Conn’s eyes fell on my shadow and an emotion flashed across his face. Then his expression went dangerously calm. “I see,” he said. He turned to another agent, presumably his second-in-command. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Without another word, he stalked out of the room and down the hall.

Michael followed, and I followed, my gladness eroding into something else.

46

Conn opened the door to what looked like an interrogation room—one for humans, since it didn’t have iron walls or the iron chair I remembered from my conversation with Ivers.

“Leave us,” he told Michael.

“Hey. You’re welcome.” Michael shut the door behind him.

Conn folded his arms and waited. “Well?”

I manifested.

He leaned back against the wall as if the sudden sight of me had pushed him there. “What do you want?” His face was hard, armored. Completely closed off.

Something was wrong.

I had been afraid as I’d flown through the city to find him. But I hadn’t been afraid of this.

“Well … I…” I stammered.

“Yes?”

My thoughts got shaken up. I tried to reorder them, but the most important thing didn’t come out of my mouth first. “Why didn’t you cancel the New Year’s Eve celebrations? I told you. I told you to tell Fitzgerald and the mayor. In my letter.”

“Your letter,” he repeated.

“You got it, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then why…?”