Her name, Mary, was inscribed on the book that one of the kneeling angelsnot-angels was holding. The panels had been packed away during the Black Panther trials, in case of riots. They’d been mislabeled and left to molder in boxes, until someone stumbled over them decades later, as if the campus was so sated with beauty and wealth, it was easy to forget something extraordinary, or simply mourn it as lost.

What’s the point of it? Alex wondered. And did it need a point? The windows were beauty for its own sake, for the pleasure of it, smooth limbs, flowing hair, boughs heavy with flowers, all of it hiding in a lesson on virtue, meant as a memorial. But she liked this life full of pointless beauty. It could all disappear as easily as a dream, only the memory of it wouldn’t fade the way dreams did. It would haunt her the rest of her long, mediocre life.

A girl was leaning against the wall beneath the Tiffany window, and Alex had to ignore the twinge she felt at the gleam of her golden hair and honey skin. She looked like Hellie. And no one had a tan like that before winter break.

In fact, she looked exactly like Hellie.

The girl was staring at her, blue eyes sad. She was wearing a black Tshirt and jeans. Alex’s heart was suddenly racing. She had to be hallucinating, another symptom of her literal hangover from hell. She knew better, but a wild hope entered her head before she could stop it. What if Hellie had somehow found her through the Veil? What if she had felt Alex’s presence in the underworld and crossed over to find her at last? But Grays always looked the way they had in death, and Alex would never forget Hellie’s pallid skin, the drying vomit on her shirt.

“Mercy,” Alex whispered, “do you see that girl under the Tiffany window?”

Mercy craned her neck. “Why is she staring at you? Do we know her?”

No, because Alex had erased every bit of her old life, the good right along with the bad. She hadn’t propped a photo of Hellie on top of her dresser.

She’d never even spoken her name to Mercy. And the girl standing there beneath all those angels-not-angels couldn’t be Hellie because Hellie was dead.

The blond girl drifted toward the back door of the lecture hall. This felt like a test, and Alex knew damn well she should stay right where she was, pick up her pen, pay attention, take notes. But she couldn’t not follow.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered to Mercy, and grabbed her coat, leaving her bag and books behind.

It’s not her. She knew that. Of course she knew that. She pushed the door open onto High Street. Dusk was falling, the November night coming on early. Alex hesitated, standing on the curb, watching the girl cross the street.

The blacktop looked like a river and she didn’t want to wade in. The High Street bridge seemed to float over it, its winged stone women reclining gently against the arch. The architect had been a Bonesman. He’d designed and built their tomb as well. She couldn’t remember his name.

“Hellie?” she called, halting, uncertain, afraid. But of what? That the girl would turn or that she wouldn’t?

The girl didn’t stop, just crossed into the alley beside Skull and Bones.

Let her go.

Alex stepped into the street and jogged after her, following the polished gold of her hair up the steps, into the sculpture garden where she’d talked to Michelle only a week ago.

Hellie stood beneath the elms, a yellow flame in the blue light of dusk. “I missed you,” she said.

Alex felt something tear loose inside of her. This wasn’t possible. Mercy had seen this girl. She wasn’t a Gray.

“I missed you too,” Alex said. Her voice sounded wrong, hoarse. “What is this? What are you?”

“I don’t know.” Hellie gave the smallest shrug.

It had to be an illusion. A trap. What had they done in hell that could make this possible? There was danger here. There had to be. Wishes didn’t just get granted. Death was final, even if your soul continued on—to the Veil or heaven or hell or purgatory or some demon realm. Mors vincit omnia.

Alex took a step, then another. She moved slowly, half-expecting the girl— Hellie—to bolt.

Her eyes caught a movement in the branches above. The curly-haired Gray, the little dead boy, was crouched there, whispering something to himself, the sound soft, like the rustle of leaves.

Another step. Hellie was California sunshine, clear blue eyes, a girl out of a magazine. It couldn’t be. They’d said their goodbyes in blood and vengeance, in the shallow, murky waters of the Los Angeles River. She’d been carried by Hellie’s strength back to the apartment where her cold body remained. She had begged Hellie to stay, and then she had lain down, halfway hoping she wouldn’t wake up. When she had, the cops had been shining a light in her eyes, and Hellie, the only sunshine in her life, was gone.

“Shit, Alex,” Hellie said. “What are you waiting for?”

Alex didn’t know. A laugh bubbled up, or maybe a sob. She broke into a run, and then her arms were around Hellie, her face buried in her hair. She smelled like coconut shampoo, and her skin was warm as if she’d been lying in the sun. Not a Gray, not some undead thing, warm and human and alive.

What if this wasn’t a punishment or a trial? What if, for once, luck was running in her direction instead of away? What if this was her prize for so much hurt? What if, this time, magic had worked the way it was supposed to, the way it did in stories?

“I don’t understand,” she said as they sank onto a bench beneath the tree.

She smoothed the silky blond hair back from Hellie’s suntanned face, marveling at her freckles, her nearly white lashes, the chip in her front tooth from when she’d careened off her skateboard in Balboa Park. “How?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Hellie. “I was … I don’t know where I was.

And now I’m…” She looked around in confusion. “Here.”

“Yale.”

“What?”

Alex laughed. “Yale University. I go here. I’m a student.”

“Bullshit.”

“I know, I know.”

“You holding?”

Alex shook her head. “I don’t … I’m not really into that anymore.”

“Right,” Hellie said with a laugh. “College girl. But I need something. Just to take the edge off.”

Alex wasn’t going to say no. Not when Hellie was here in front of her.

Alive. Golden and perfect. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” Alex said, rubbing Hellie’s arms. “We’re safe here.”

Hellie glanced over her shoulder, then past Alex, as if she was expecting something to come lurching out of the dusk. “Alex,” she said, still whispering, “I don’t think we are.”

“I’ve got you. I promise. I’m stronger now, Hellie. I can do things.”

“Len—”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“He misses you.”

Alex felt something cold slide through her. “I don’t want to talk about him.”