Eleanora

That horrible witch—the excommunicated blood sister, Helen Cordoza—had breached the carefully constructed spell that Devandra and Thomas had so elegantly crafted. It happened in a heartbeat. One moment the mess hall was full of women working magic under their breath in hisses and murmurs, the next, the evil bitch had crossed the threshold, snapping the delicate web of their spell.

A surge of black-camouflaged men and women streamed into the large room, semiautomatic guns at the ready. Thomas ran for the hatch, magic crackling between his fingers as he tried to stop Helen from destroying the invisibility spell completely. But it was too little, too late. A man with a black grease-painted face lifted his gun and blew Thomas’s head off.

He was the first casualty—and then all hell had broken loose. The Shrieking Eagles attempted to stop The Flood’s men, but there just weren’t enough of them. Daniela had run into the room from the galley kitchen and that Helen bitch had slammed the empath with enough magic that she’d been thrown back ten feet in the air, her head hitting the wall at a funny angle. Eleanora had been sure her neck was broken.

Dev tried to hide Marji and Ginny under one of the tables and had gotten a gunshot to the back for her trouble . . . the girls hadn’t lived much longer after that. It was a holocaust . . . innocents killed because of what they were: blood sisters.

Eleanora’s ability to affect the real world was very limited, and so she’d only been able to offer her blood sisters a little help. When it was all over, there were dead from both sides, but to Eleanora it was clear that The Flood had won this battle. Eleanora had watched them check for survivors, shooting anything that moved, and then they’d gone, so callous they’d even left their own dead behind. She didn’t think they knew Desmond was gone, but she thought they’d discover it soon enough.

She was alone in the mess hall for a long time . . . and then a flash of neon blue had shot through the room and hope had flared to life once more in Eleanora’s breast. She sensed that now was the time for her to make her move. She floated toward her granddaughter, gently placing her hand on Lyse’s shoulder. It was like being plugged into an electric socket and she immediately felt more real.

“Eleanora,” Lyse said, as her grandmother came to life out of the magical ether.

“I think I know where your journey starts, my dearest,” Eleanora said. “And it’s not in the dreamlands—”

“Take me with you,” Niamh said, not wanting to be left out. “I can help you.”

“I can’t, Niamh,” Lyse began, but Niamh cut her off.

“Please,” Niamh begged. “I know that it’s important for me to go with you. Please, Lyse.”

“I think she should go with you. It was important to Thomas,” Eleanora said—but she waited for Lyse to decide.

Finally, Lyse spoke: “I appreciate all that you’ve done, Niamh. You’re alive and well and I don’t want that to change . . . especially if I fail. But I won’t tell you no. Though I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Niamh nodded.

“Of course. I understand.”

Lyse turned to Eleanora.

“You said you would set us on the right path . . . ?”

“Yes,” Eleanora said. “Go back to the house on Curran Street. Open the remaining Dream Journal . . . and it will take you where you need to go.”

“I love you,” Lyse said. “Thank you.”

Eleanora smiled.

“I love you, too. So much more than you will ever know.”

And then Eleanora watched as her granddaughter, the person who had taught her what love was, enveloped herself and Niamh in a neon-blue orb and disappeared.