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whoever’s downstairs until they get here if you’re in danger.”
    Sela ran fingers through her short blond hair in frustration and only then noticed the blood that came away on her fingers. She looked down in shock, apparently just realizing how she must appear. “Look, Mila. I know this must seem strange, but you have to believe me—it’s imperative that the men downstairs don’t see me here.”
    Mila folded her arms over her chest and raised brows, stern with disapproval, in what her brother always referred to as her Baba face. “Go on. How did you get up here, and why don’t you want those men to see you?”
    Few people could stand up under the Baba face, and Sela was no exception. She looked again at the suitcase and then at her watch before replying. “All I can tell you is that there are things going on that you don’t understand and will have a hard time believing. I like you, so I tried my best to keep you out of this, but it’s too late now. But trust your gut, Mila. You’re more unique than you can ever imagine. There are people who would … who have killed—” She looked toward the door at the sounds of movement outside. “Oh hell, there’s no time. Just, keep an open mind and be careful .”
    With that, she turned away and started throwing things frantically into her bag.
    Mila felt like an idiot standing there, just staring at the woman who she’d lived with for nearly two years now—but apparently didn’t know at all. Rational thought said that Sela was delusional from the blow to her head, but instinct … her gut, told her differently.
    Before Mila could frame her first question to get more details, she felt a strange, prickling sensation flow through her feet. It was pins and needles, but of a different sort than before an episode. This was deeper and heavier … more like claws that grabbed and held, filling her skin with heat and pain. She felt her head snap around at the precise moment that Sela’s did—toward a spot near the window that was shimmering. With an abruptness that made Mila gasp, a greenish haze replaced the sparkles and a tall man stepped into the room as though the window was a door.
    Mila froze as she recognized the man who’d tortured her in the dream. Clothed in black silk, he reeked of death and decay. Mila expected to run from the room, from the man who’d stolen the life from her body, planned to scream and cower. But instead, she stepped toward him aggressively, surprising herself. She forgot to lower her voice, but it didn’t really matter anymore. “You’re not welcome here, Vegre. Get out and leave us alone.”
    While his eyes had been only for Sela, the mention of his name drew both his and Sela’s eyes toward her. He stared at her for a long moment but then shook his head. “I don’t know you, human, but that you own my name means your death.” He raised his hand and uttered a single word. “Moratay.”
    “Avatay.” The word slipped out of Mila’s mouth, completely unbidden. It was such a surprise to hear him to utter that old word—part of a game she and her sister Sarah had played as kids. It was similar to Marco Polo that her friends played, but the second word had to be uttered before the first word finished, otherwise you lost a point. She felt heat hover in the air around her face and then it blew around her and Sela. The energy hit the wall hard enough to blow apart the old plaster over the brick. The resulting blast of noise didn’t seem possible from the light breeze that had passed around her.
    A flurry of footsteps bounded up the stairs just before a hard shove sent her sprawling to the floor. The words came seconds later. “Get down, Mila!” She felt another rush of heated energy singe her hair, like walking past a bonfire when the wind changes. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Vegre grab Sela’s arm and start to drag her toward the roiling, bubbling gash in reality.
    Even as her mind screamed, Leave this alone! Run! Hide!