Something cool grazed the very tips of her fingers. That was when she realized that they must be the only bit of her still above ground. Her waning consciousness told her it was the wind. The sensation came again, and Isobel flexed her fingers—and felt the soft brush of . . . fabric?

All at once, the crushing pressure pushing down on her lightened. Something drove into the dirt, and Isobel latched at once to the arm that plunged to grasp hers. It pulled, and she felt herself being dragged up one inch at a time. The dirt fell away, releasing her from its death grip. Her head broke the surface. She gasped. Someone was there, pulling her free.

Coughing, Isobel sucked in cool gulps of air, her lungs battling to expel hunks of dark gray soot.

“Varen?” she choked, groping for the arms that pulled her from the grave. “Varen!”

“Why will you not heed my words?”

The gloved hand clutching hers tightened. She opened her eyes.

From behind the white scarf, Reynolds’s dark gaze tunneled into hers, anxious, angry, and . . . fearful? He shook her. “Why do you not listen to me? If you would only take control!”

The world swam. Above him the sky churned to a deeper, more tumultuous violet. The ash fell heavily now, catching like snowflakes on her eyelashes. She blinked them away.

“Varen,” she croaked. She released her clutch on Reynolds and fought to sit up.

Ahead, through blurred vision, she could see the doors of the masquerade palace open. That thing—the Red Death—had gone inside.

Isobel pushed against Reynolds, who held her still. She struggled to stand, but he gripped her hard, holding her steady by the shoulders. “You will not find him there.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

A long, low moan of wind stirred the edges of his cloak, the gale picking up speed. It whisked a cascade of falling ash between them in a whirlwind.

“What are you talking about? Where is he?”

“Escaped. If I am discovered in this, his release could cost what is left of my soul. And yours,” he added in earnest. “In truth, it could cost everything. Do not let it have been in vain.”

Isobel shook her head, trying to understand. “How?”

“I followed you,” he said, his tone clipped. “You left me no choice. I knew how to enter the purple chamber. May it be that I was not witnessed. If he was not intercepted, then it is on the other side, in your world, that he now waits.”

Isobel hesitated, gripping his sleeve, wanting to believe. “You said there was no way!”

“In truth, there is no real escape for him—for anyone,” he said. “Not unless the link he has created is destroyed. As long as it remains, this world shall always lay claim to him.”

He drew back, and from within his cloak, he brought forth a gathering of coarse green cloth. A familiar jacket—Varen’s. There was the emblem of the bird pinned to the back, and the patches of all his favorite bands sewn to the sleeves. Startled, Isobel reached for it. She took it in her dirt-caked hands and knew from its scent that it was truly his.

“How did you get this?”

“He bequeathed it to me as a token of testimony, because you had mentioned me as a friend. And so now, as your friend, I beseech you.” She looked up from the jacket and saw that the plea within those black eyes was real, filled in equal parts with pain and desperation. “Help me to honor my vow as I have helped you to honor yours.” The fluttering ash began to fall more heavily around them. “The world of dreams and the world of your reality have already begun to merge. All that you know is in danger. The fusion has only just begun. It is incomplete, and so there is yet a small chance. As long as that hope remains by your side, so shall I. But you must end this now.”

Her eyes strayed down to the churned soil, to the thick, black liquid trail of blood, the ominous path left by the Red Death.

“What about Brad?”

“His spirit, stolen by the Nocs, exists here in astral form alone, trapped between realms. As long as he is held by forces here, his body will remain in your world while his mind, his essence, lingers here, imprisoned. A torturous link, which only death could sever. It is what happened to Edgar.”

He stood, and Isobel felt herself being drawn to her feet.

“But how can I free him when I couldn’t even touch him?”

“You mustn’t touch him now. He has been cast in the role of the Red Death—a figure whose sole function, you well know, is to destroy.”

“What do you mean? Cast by who—or what?”

“There is no more time for questions. If you wish to save either of them, then you must take action now. You must change the dream, Isobel. It is here, in this realm, that you hold the ability to control your surroundings, as long as you do not allow them to control you first. That grave”—he pointed—“you could have flown out of it.”