“That’s not good,” Callie said, shuddering.
“No, it’s not.”
When they reached what they thought was the door Agatha had disappeared through, Happy thrust the key into the lock, but it jammed, not wanting to go in.
“Wrong door,” Callie murmured. And then she slumped forward, grasping for the wall as her body went limp and rubbery.
“Callie!” Happy cried, grabbing the other girl around the waist and slowly easing her to the ground.
“I feel so . . . woozy,” Callie said, eyes fluttering as, for the second time in her life, she realized she might actually be dying.
It had almost happened once before, when she’d been poisoned with promethium—every immortal had a killing weakness, one that was totally unique to them, and Callie’s just happened to be promethium—but she’d been careful to stay far, far away from the stuff since then.
“Is there . . . promethium?” Callie choked out, fear etching her gut like acid.
“Promethia-what?” Happy cried, confused. “I thought you said you were immortal. You’re still bleeding like a stuck pig!”
With a shaky hand, Callie reached up and put her fingers to her neck. Sure enough, the wound had not closed, but, instead, was continuing to leak her lifeblood out onto the rug.
And then it dawned on her.
“It’s you, Happy,” Callie said, finally understanding why she hadn’t been able to call up a wormhole while she was in this alternate universe. “You inhibit psychic ability . . . what we call ‘magic’ in my universe. And it means that you’re blocking . . . my immortality.”
“Shit,” Happy said, backing away from Callie.
“No, no . . . come back,” Callie said. “I just need to stop the flow of blood for now. Give me . . . your hoodie.”
Happy unzipped her jacket and slid out of it, handing it to Callie.
“Pressure,” Callie breathed, lifting the hoodie to her neck. “Put pressure on the wound.”
It was obvious she was much weaker than she’d realized because Happy had to take the jacket and wrap it around the wound for her, securing the makeshift tourniquet in place by tying the sleeves into a tight bow.
“I think that should work,” Happy said, sitting back on her heels to admire her handiwork.
“Feel better . . . already.” Callie sighed, giving Happy a weak smile as the other girl helped her to her feet.
“God, I hope so,” Happy said, her face wan. “Now let’s find Agatha.”
With Callie holding on to Happy’s arm for support, the girls continued down the hallway. This time it seemed luck was on their side, because the next door they tried was the right one, the key sliding into the lock and turning with a satisfying click.
“Okay,” Happy said, grasping the doorknob with her right hand. “One, two . . . three!”
She threw the door open and Callie screamed as she realized they were teetering on the threshold of a yawning abyss.
“It’s not real,” Happy said calmly, reaching out a hand so that it hung in the empty air before them.
Suddenly the yawning abyss disappeared, almost as if it had never existed at all, and in its place, they discovered a bare octagonal room with an army cot in one corner and a chamber pot half hidden underneath it.
“Happy!” Agatha cried, jumping up from the cot and racing over to them. “I knew you’d rescue me! Count Orlov never came—I don’t even think the invitation was really from him—and then the door was locked and I couldn’t get out . . . Ew, what happened to your hoodie?”
Happy, who was used to Agatha’s one-track mind, brushed off the hoodie comment with, “Harold’s here.”
“What?” Agatha said, her blue eyes wide with disbelief.
Happy looked grim.
“I think he’s orchestrated this whole thing in order to make good on his promise to turn you into a collectible.”
All the color drained from Agatha’s face.
“Oh, no,” she said, looking ill.
“This isn’t like an ex-boyfriend thing, is it?” Callie asked.
“No!” Both Happy and Agatha shouted at the same time.
“Sorry I asked,” Callie said, glad her snarkiness was returning because it meant she wasn’t gonna be dying anytime soon.
“He’s a film producer whose career was ruined by a film that Agatha happened to star in—” Happy began.
“I told him it was a bad script,” Agatha chimed in.
“He blames her completely for the failure,” Happy continued. “And he promised to turn her into a collectible doll because he said her performance in the film was as stiff and fake as one.”
“He’s working all this stuff from a remote location so you can’t zap his psychic powers, Happy,” Agatha said angrily.
“I would expect so,” Happy agreed, and at those words, the floor beneath them started to shake, the army cot flipping onto its side as the chamber pot went flying.
“All right, time to get out of here,” Callie said, gripping Happy’s arm for support.
“But what if we’re trapped?” Agatha moaned, tears springing to her eyes.
“Agatha!” Happy said, her brow furrowed in consternation. “Stop trying to create unnecessary drama.”
Agatha’s eyes instantly cleared and she shrugged.
“Well, drama seemed appropriate for the situation, but if you’d rather I not—”
“I’d rather you not, actually,” Callie said as she followed Happy through the door that led back out into the hallway, the house beginning to disintegrate around them.
At first, Callie thought she was imagining the house’s destruction, but as they ran, she saw the ceiling and walls starting to flake into charred black bits that rained down on their heads like volcanic ash.
“The house is a telepathic illusion from Harold’s mind,” Happy said. “So it can’t hurt us.”
She was right. As soon as they reached the front foyer, the final bits of the false image dissipated and they were met with a wash of black soot that settled onto their heads in soft, delicate clumps. . . . Only when Callie brushed the stuff away from her face, she realized that it wasn’t soot covering her head. It was snow.
And then she started to shiver.
—