I turn us in the air and then move away from the mountain, out into the open where I can fly more smoothly and the air is clearer. Three green fire trucks are tearing up the highway toward the fire, sirens blaring.

“Look out!” yells Tucker.

A helicopter shoots past us to the fire, so close we feel the force of its blades cutting the air. It pours a sheet of water onto the flames, then circles back toward the lake.

Tucker shudders in my arms. I tighten my grip on him and head for the closest place that I know will be safe.

When I come down in my backyard, I let go of Tucker and we both stumble and fall onto the lawn. Tucker rolls onto his back on the grass, covers his eyes with his hands, and lets out a low groan. I fill up with a relief so overwhelming that I want to laugh. All I care about in this moment is that he’s safe. He’s alive.

“Your wings,” he says.

I look over my shoulder at my reflection in the front window of our house. The girl staring back ripples with power the way heat shimmers over a sidewalk. I can suddenly see part of that other creature in her, like the one behind the Black Wing. Her eyes are shadowed with sorrow. Her wings, half folded behind her, are a dark, sweet gray. It’s clear even in the hazy reflection of the glass.

“What does it mean?” asks Tucker.

“I have to go.”

At that exact moment my mom pulls up in the Prius.

“What happened?” she asks. “I heard on the radio that the fire just passed Fox Creek Road. Where’s—”

Then she sees Tucker kneeling in the grass. The smile fades. She looks at me with wide, stricken eyes.

“Where’s Christian?” she asks.

I can’t meet her eyes. The fire has been at Fox Creek Road, she said. She crosses quickly over to me and grabs me by the wing, turning me so that she can get a good look at the dark feathers.

“Clara, what have you done?”

“I had to save Tucker. He would have died.”

She looks so fragile in that moment, so drained and broken and lost. Her eyes so hopeless. They close for a moment, then open.

“You need to go find him now,” she says then. “I’ll look after Tucker. Go!”

Then she kisses my forehead like she’s saying good-bye to me forever and turns toward the house.

Chapter 22

Down Came the Rain

I’m too late, but then I knew I would be.

The fire has already been here.

I land. The place where I usually start my vision is scorched and black. There’s nothing alive. The trees are blackened poles. The silver Avalanche is parked on the side of the road, smoke still rolling off it, charred and gutted by fire.

I run up the hillside to the place where he always stands in my vision. He isn’t there. The wind picks up and hurls hot ash into my face. The forest looks like the hell dimension, the land the same as I knew it, but burned. Empty of everything beautiful and good. No color or sound or hope.

He’s not here.

The weight of it hits me. This is my purpose, and I have failed. All this time I’ve only been thinking about Tucker. I saved him because I didn’t want to live on earth without him. I didn’t want that kind of pain. I’m that selfish. And now Christian is gone. He’s supposed to be important, my mom said. There was a plan for him, something bigger than me or Tucker or anything else. Something he was meant for. And now he’s gone.

“Christian!” I scream raggedly, the noise echoing off the blackened tree trunks.

There’s no answer.

For a while I look for his body. I wonder if it could have been burned into ash, if the fire was that hot. I circle back to the truck. The keys are still in the ignition. That’s the only sign of him. I wander the burned forest in a daze, searching. Then the sun is setting, a fiery red ball descending behind into the mountains. It’s getting dark.

The storm clouds that have been moving in from the east open up and pour like a faucet being turned on. Within minutes I’m soaked to the skin. Shivering. Alone.

I can’t go home. I don’t think I can stand to see the disappointment on Mom’s face. I don’t think I can live with myself. I walk, cold and wet, strands of hair sticking to my face and neck. I hike to the top of the ridge and watch the fire burning in the distance, the flames licking at the orange sky. It’s beautiful, in a way. The glow. The dance of the smoke. And then there’s the storm, the black rumbling clouds, the little flashes of lightning here and there. The rain so cool on my face, washing away the soot. That’s how it always is, I guess. Beauty and death.

Behind me, something moves in the bushes. I turn.

Christian steps out of the trees.

Time is a funny thing. Sometimes it crawls endlessly on. Like French class. Or waiting for a fish to bite. And other times it speeds up, the days zooming by. I remember this one time in first grade. I was standing in the middle of the elementary school playground near the monkey bars and a bunch of third graders ran by. They seemed huge to me. Someday, a long, long time from now, I thought at that moment, I will be in third grade. That was more than ten years ago, but it feels like ten minutes. I was just there. Time flies, isn’t that what they say? My summer with Tucker. The first time I had the vision until now.

And sometimes time really does stop.

Christian and I stare at each other like we’re both under a spell and if one of us moves, the other one will disappear.

“Oh, Clara,” he whispers. “I thought you were dead.”

“You thought I . . .”

He reaches to touch a strand of my wet hair. I’m suddenly dizzy. Exhausted. Wildly confused. I sway on my feet. He catches me by the shoulders and steadies me. I press my eyes closed. He’s real. He’s alive.

“You’re soaked,” he observes. He pulls off the black fleece jacket, which is only slightly less damp, and drapes it around my shoulders.

“Why are you here?” I whisper.

“I thought I was supposed to save you from the fire.”

I stare at him so intently that he flushes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was a weird thing to say. I meant—”

“Christian—”

“I’m just glad you’re safe. We should get you inside before you catch cold or something.”

“Wait,” I say, tugging at his arm. “Please.”

“I know this doesn’t make any sense. . . .”

“It makes sense,” I insist, “except for the part where you’re supposed to save me.”

“What?”