I have a consciousness still, but I don’t feel anything.

Am I paralyzed?

No.

I’m bodiless, floating in Felix’s room and watching Harper look down from the window at my broken body below her.

“This is for Beatrice,” she says grimly and spits at my remains.

Something moves behind her—

I’m back in front of Felix’s door.

Where I was when that strange lightning from my hands hit my eyes.

A slew of semi-rational explanations swirl through my head, from a focal onset seizure to someone sneaking a mushroom into my morning breakfast.

I dismiss them all.

What just happened was exactly like my dream visions—only it happened when I was awake.

Of course.

My very first awake vision.

Nero’s heavy-handed machinations and/or my growing belief in my powers must’ve finally gotten me through this hurdle. In fact, right before the lightning hit my eyes, I was reflecting on how much I believe in myself.

Of course, if I just saw a vision, it means Harper is there, behind this door, sucking the life out of Felix.

Harper, who is a female, not a boyband-pretty stranger I nearly hooked up with.

Harper, who appears to have been the necromancer Beatrice’s girlfriend—which explains why she’s after me.

She’s out to avenge Beatrice’s violent demise.

She tried to get at me directly at the club—and then gained access to me via Felix. This must be why I felt that unease when I learned about Felix’s date. It was my seer Spidey sense tingling, not some kind of weird jealously—

A familiar moan reaches my ears—proof that everything is proceeding according to my vision.

An outline of a plan forms in my head, and though every fiber in my body screams for me to rush in and save Felix this very moment, I also know that such recklessness will lead to us both dying.

No.

My only chance to save Felix lies in Ariel’s room.

I dash there, praying my roommate didn’t take her gun with her when she escorted me to Baba Yaga.

My prayers aren’t answered.

The gun is nowhere in sight.

Fortunately, Ariel doesn’t carry her prized army knife with her, so I grab it and sprint back to Felix’s room.

As I run, I dig into my left pocket, find a large wad of flash paper, and spear it on the tip of the knife, creating a paper kebab.

Holding the knife in front of me, I grab a lighter from my pocket and prepare to strike it as I kick in the door again.

The door swings in.

I close my eyes and ignite the lighter.

Even through my closed eyelids, I can see that the flash paper goes off as brightly as it always does.

My hope is that the blinding light will create that stun-grenade effect that SWAT teams so often rely on in the movies.

Knife outstretched, I leap at the bed as I reopen my eyes.

I catch a glimpse of smooth female skin and stab between Harper’s perfect breasts.

Instead of reaching her heart, the blade slices the already-moving Harper’s shoulder.

Tightening my grip on the knife, I tackle her, and she lands on her back.

I pin her down like a wrestler, knife lifted to strike again.

Felix moans behind us. Hopefully, it means he’ll stay alive.

Time seems to slow.

Harper’s eyes stare into mine, and if looks could kill, hers would probably turn me inside out.

My knife slices down.

Her hand moves like a cobra, and she grabs the knife by the blade—cutting her palm in the process but preventing my lethal stab.

With a violent jerk that must’ve sliced her hand to the bone, she rips the knife from me and sends it flying under the bed, leaving a streak of blood in its wake.

I punch her in the face.

She smirks back. My punch didn’t even tickle her.

Then she pushes me—and I fly through the room.

With a horrible sense of déjà vu, I crash into Felix’s TV.

The pain is not as severe as it was in my vision. I think a part of me learned how to make this landing a little less impactful—that, or Harper’s throw didn’t have as much momentum behind it, since she’s on her back on the floor.

Still, air whooshes from my lungs, and I reflect on how frustrating it is when the future gleaned in a vision tries to stubbornly recreate itself, as though it has a mind of its own.

As I force oxygen back into my lungs, all I can think about is how this fight is likely to proceed from here—broken bones, followed by paralysis and death.

I clutch at the TV stand, hoping that this time I’ll manage to get to my feet before she breaks my arm.

Harper leaps up, landing next to me, and raises her foot.

Felix lunges at her with the knife—and stabs her in the thigh.

She wails in pain and swats at Felix with the back of her hand, as though he were an annoying mosquito.

The knife clatters to the floor, and Felix lands in a naked heap by the bed.

Harper kicks the weapon under the bed again just as I stumble to my feet.

I can hear Felix’s ragged breathing, so he’s alive, though not moving. I hope he’s either unconscious or wise enough to fake it.

Harper follows my gaze, and for a second, she seems torn as to which one of us she wants to finish first.

I use that distraction to kick her in the shin.

Bursting with Felix’s sex energy, she doesn’t even blink in pain. Instead, she grabs me by my shoulders and lifts me in the air, oblivious to my feet delivering more blows all over her body.

Her intent is obvious.

She’s about to send me flying through the window—just as she did in my vision.

Then I see movement behind her—a movement I glimpsed at the end of the vision.

It’s Fluffster.

He runs into the room with an unnatural snarl on his face.

“Stop!” The message hits my mind like a mental ballistic missile. It’s as though Fluffster’s usual mode of communication has been amplified with enough power to run New York for a year. The strength of it makes me want to curl into some dark corner and shiver.

Harper is clearly affected by the mental assault. Letting go of me, she grasps her ears—as though Fluffster’s shout didn’t go directly into her mind.

I fall onto my hands and knees and scramble as far away from Harper as I can.

Ignoring me completely, the succubus faces Fluffster.

The chinchilla’s no-longer-rodent eyes narrow, and he begins to grow.