I felt my feet touch something solid, like I had just stepped off a train and onto the platform at the
station. I saw the floorboards of our front porch, then my Chucks standing on them. We’d crossed
back, leaving the living world behind us. We were back where we belonged, with the dead.
I didn’t want to think about it like that.
“Well, it’s ’bout time, seein’ as I finished watchin’ all your mamma’s paint dry more than an
hour ago.”
Aunt Prue was waiting for us in the Otherworld, on the front porch of Wate’s Landing—the
one in the middle of the cemetery.
I still wasn’t used to the sight of my house here instead of the mausoleums and weeping angel
statues that dominated Perpetual Peace. But standing by the railing, with all three Harlon Jameses
sitting at attention around her feet, Aunt Prue looked pretty dominant, too.
More like mad as a hornet.
“Ma’am,” I said, scratching my neck uncomfortably.
“Ethan Wate, I’ve been waitin’ on you. Thought you’d only be gone a minute.” The three dogs
looked just as irritated. Aunt Prue nodded at my mother. “Lila.”
“Aunt Prudence.” They regarded each other warily, which seemed strange to me. They had
always gotten along when I was growing up.
I smiled at my aunt, changing the subject. “I did it, Aunt Prue. I crossed. I was… you know,
on the other side.”
“You might a let a person know, so they didn’t wait on your porch for the best part a the day.”
My aunt waved her handkerchief in my general direction.
“I went to Ravenwood and Greenbrier and Wate’s Landing and The Stars and Stripes.” Aunt
Prue raised an eyebrow at me, as if she didn’t believe it.
“Really?”
“Well, not by myself. I mean, with my mom. She might have helped some. Ma’am.”
My mom looked amused. Aunt Prue did not.
“Well, if you want a preacher’s chance in Heaven ta get yourself back there, we need ta talk.”
“Prudence,” my mom said in a strange tone. It sounded like a warning.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just kept talking. “You mean about crossing? Because I think
I’m starting to get the hang—”
“Stop yappin’ and start listenin’, Ethan Wate. I’m not talkin’ ’bout practicin’ any crossin’. I’m
talkin’ ’bout crossin’ back. For good, ta the old world.”
For a second, I thought she was teasing me. But her expression didn’t change. She was serious
—at least as serious as my crazy great-aunt ever was. “What are you talking about, Aunt Prue?”
“Prudence.” My mom said it again. “Don’t do this.”
Don’t do what? Give me a chance to get back there?
Aunt Prue glared at my mother, easing herself down the stairs one orthopedic shoe at a time. I
reached out to help her, but she waved me off, stubborn as ever. When she finally made it to the
carpet of grass at the base of the stairs, Aunt Prue stepped in front of me. “There’s been a mistake,
Ethan. A mighty big one. This wasn’t supposed ta happen.”
A tremor of hope washed over me. “What?”
The color drained out of my mom’s face. “Stop.” I thought she was going to pass out. I could
barely breathe.
“I won’t,” said Aunt Prue, narrowing her eyes behind her spectacles.
“I thought we decided not to tell him, Prudence.”
“You decided, Lila Jane. I’m too old not ta do as I please.”
“I’m his mother.” My mom wasn’t giving up.
“What’s going on?” I tried to wedge myself between them, but neither one of them would look
my way.
Aunt Prue raised her chin. “The boy’s old enough ta decide somethin’ that big on his own,
don’tcha think?”
“It’s not safe.” My mom folded her arms. “I don’t mean to be firm with you, but I’m going to
have to ask you to go.”
I’d never heard my mother talk to any of the Sisters like that. She might as well have declared
World War III for the Wate family. It didn’t seem to stop Aunt Prue, though.
She just laughed. “Can’t put the molasses back in the jar, Lila Jane. You know it’s the truth,
and you know you got no right keepin’ it from your boy.” Aunt Prue looked me right in the eye. “I
need you ta come on with me. There’s someone you need ta meet.”
My mom just looked at her. “Prudence…”
Aunt Prue gave her the kind of look that could wilt and wither a whole flower bed. “Don’t you
Prudence me. You can’t stop this thing. And where we’re goin’ you can’t come, Lila Jane. You
know well as I do that we both got nothin’ but the boy’s best interest at heart.”
It was a classic Sisters’ face-off, the kind where before you blinked, you were already past the
point where nobody came out ahead.
A second later, my mom backed off. I would never know what happened in that silent
exchange between them, and it was probably better that way.
“I’ll wait for you here, Ethan.” My mom looked at me. “But you be careful.”
Aunt Prue smiled, victorious.
One of the Harlon Jameses began to growl. Then we took off down the sidewalk so fast I
could barely keep up.
I followed Aunt Prue and the yipping dogs to the outer limits of Perpetual Peace—past the Snows’
perfectly restored Federal-style manor house, which was situated in exactly the same spot their
massive mausoleum occupied in the cemetery of the living.
“Who died?” I asked, looking at my aunt. Seeing as there wasn’t anything on earth powerful
enough to take down Savannah Snow.
“Great-great-grandpappy Snow, ’fore you were even halfway inta diapers. Been here a long
time now. Oldest plot in the row.” She picked her way down the stone path that led around back,
and I followed.
We headed toward an old shed behind the house, the rotted planks barely holding up the
crooked roof. I could see tiny flecks of faded paint clinging to the wood where someone had
scraped it clean. There was no amount of scraping that could disguise the shade that trimmed my
own house in Gatlin—haint blue. The one shade of blue meant to keep the spirits away.
I guess Amma was right about the haints not caring much for the color. As I looked around, I
could already see the difference. There wasn’t a graveyard neighbor in sight.
“Aunt Prue, where are we going? I’ve had enough of the Snows to last more than one
lifetime.”
She glowered at me. “I told you. We’re goin’ ta call on someone who knows more than me
’bout this mess.” She reached for the splintered handle of the shed. “You just be thankful I’m a
Statham, and Stathams get on with all kinds a folks, or we wouldn’t have a soul ta help us sort
things out.” I couldn’t look at my aunt. I was too scared I would start laughing, considering she got
along with just about no kinds of folks, at least not in the Gatlin I was from.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stepped inside the shed, which didn’t look like anything more than an ordinary shed. But if
I’d learned anything from Lena and my experiences in her world, it was that things aren’t always
what they seem.
I followed Aunt Prue—and the Harlon Jameses—inside and closed the door behind us. The
cracks in the wood let in just enough light for me to see her turn around in the shed. She reached
for something in the dim light, and I realized it was another handle.
A hidden Doorwell, like the ones in the Caster Tunnels.
“Where are we going?”
Aunt Prue paused, her hand still resting on the iron pull. “Not all folks are lucky enough ta be
buried in His Garden of Perpetual Peace, Ethan Wate. The Casters, I reckon they got as much right
ta the Otherworld as we do, don’tcha think?”
Aunt Prue pushed the door open easily, and we stepped out onto a rocky coastline.
There was a house balancing dangerously on the edge of a cliff. The weathered wood was the
same sad shade of gray as the rocks, as if it had been painstakingly carved from them. It was small
and simple and hidden in plain sight, like so many things in the world I’d left behind.
I watched as the waves crashed against the face of the cliff, reaching toward the house but
ultimately failing. This place had stood the test of time, defying nature in a way that seemed
impossible.
“Whose house is that?” I offered Aunt Prue my arm, helping her navigate the uneven ground.
“You know what they say about curiosity and cats. May not kill ya, but it’ll get ya inta a heap a
trouble around here, too. Though trouble seems ta find you even when you ain’t lookin’ for it.” She
gathered her long flowered skirt in her other hand. “You’ll see soon enough.”
She wouldn’t say another word after that.
We climbed a treacherous stairway carved into the side of the cliff. Where the rock wasn’t
reinforced with splintering boards, it crumbled away under my feet, and I almost lost my footing. I
tried to remind myself that I wasn’t about to go plummeting to my death, seeing as I was already
dead. Still, it didn’t help as much as you’d think it would. That was another thing I’d learned from
the Caster world: There always seemed to be something worse around the next corner. There was
always something to be afraid of, even if you hadn’t figured out exactly what it was yet.
When we reached the house, all I could think was how much it reminded me of Ravenwood
Manor, though the two buildings didn’t resemble each other in any way. Ravenwood was a Greek
Revival–style mansion, and this was a single-story clapboard. But the house seemed aware of us as
we approached, alive with power and magic, like Ravenwood. It was surrounded by crooked trees
with slanted branches that had been beaten into submission by the wind. It looked like the kind of
twisted drawing you’d find in a book meant to terrify children into having nightmares. The kind of
book where kids were trapped by more than just witches and devoured by more than wolves.
I was thinking it was a good thing I no longer needed to sleep, when my aunt marched up the
walk. Aunt Prue didn’t hesitate. She walked right up to the door and pounded the oxidized brass
ring three times. There was writing carved around the doorframe. It was Niadic, the ancient
language of Casters.
I backed up, letting all the Harlon Jameses go in front of me. They growled their tiny dog
growls at the door. Before I had a chance to examine the writing more closely, the door creaked
open. An old man stood in front of us. I assumed he was a Sheer, but that wasn’t a distinction worth
making here—we were all spirits of one kind or another. His head was shaved and scarred, faint
lines overlapping in a vicious pattern. His white beard was cut short, his eyes covered by dark
wraparound glasses.
A black sweater hung from his skinny frame, which was partially hidden behind the door.
There was something frail and worn out about him, like he had escaped from a work camp, or
worse.
“Prudence.” He nodded. “Is this the boy?”
“ ’Course it is.” Aunt Prue shoved me forward. “Ethan, this here is Obidias Trueblood. Go on
in.”
I extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
Obidias held up his right hand, which had been hidden behind the door. “I’m sure you’ll
understand if we don’t shake.” His hand was severed at the wrist, a black line marking the place
where it had been cut. Above the mark, his wrist was severely scarred, as if it had been punctured
over and over again.
Which it had.
Five writhing black snakes extended from his wrist to the point where his fingers would
normally have reached. They were hissing and striking at the air, curling around one another.
“Don’t worry,” Obidias said. “They won’t hurt you. It’s me they enjoy tormenting.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I wanted to run.
The Harlon Jameses growled even more loudly, and the snakes hissed back. Aunt Prue scowled
at all of them. “Puh-lease. Not you, too.”
I stared at the snake hand. Something about it was familiar. How many guys with snakes for
fingers could there be? Why did I feel like I knew him?
It hit me, and I realized who Obidias was—the guy Macon had sent Link to see in the Tunnels.
Last summer, right after the Seventeenth Moon. The guy who’d died right in front of Link after
Hunting bit him, in his house, this house—at least the Otherworld version of it. Back then I thought
Link was exaggerating, but he wasn’t.
Not even Link could have made this up.
The snake that replaced Obidias’ thumb wrapped itself around his wrist, stretching its head
toward me. Its tongue flicked in and out, the little fork flying.
Aunt Prue pushed me across the threshold, and I went stumbling, only inches from the snakes.
“Go on in. You aren’t afraid of a few itty-bitty little garden snakes, are you?”
Was she kidding? They looked like pit vipers.
I turned awkwardly toward Obidias. “I’m sorry, sir. It—they just caught me off guard.”
“Don’t give it another thought.” He waved off the apology with a twist of the wrist on his good
hand. “It’s not something you see every day.”
Aunt Prue sniffed. “I’ve seen a stranger thing or two.” I stared at my aunt, who looked as
smug as if she shook a new snake hand every day of her life.
Obidias closed the door behind us, but not before checking the horizon in every direction. “You
came alone? You weren’t followed?”
Aunt Prue shook her head. “Me? Nobody can follow me.” She wasn’t kidding.
I looked back to Obidias. “Can I ask you something, sir?” I had to know for sure if he’d met
Link, if he was the same guy.
“Of course.”
I cleared my throat. “I think you met a friend of mine. When you were alive, I mean. He told
me about someone who looked like you.”
Obidias held out his hand. “You mean a man with five snakes for a hand? There probably aren’t
many of us.”
I wasn’t sure how to say the next part. “If it was my friend, he was there when you—you
know. Died. I’m not sure it matters, but if it does, I’d like to know.”
Aunt Prue looked at me, confused. She didn’t know any of this. Link had never told anyone but
me, as far as I knew.
Obidias was watching me, too. “Did this friend of yours happen to know Macon Ravenwood?”
I nodded. “He did, sir.”
“Then I remember him well.” He smiled. “I saw him deliver my message to Macon after I
passed. You can see a great deal from this side.”
“I guess so.” He was right. Because we were dead, we could see everything. And because we
were dead, it didn’t matter what we could see. So the whole seeing-things-from-the-grave concept?
Majorly overrated. All you ended up seeing was more than you wanted to in the first place.
I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the first guy who would’ve traded seeing a little less for living a little
more. I didn’t say that to Edward Snakehands, though. I didn’t want to think about how much I
had in common with a guy whose fingers had fangs.
“Why don’t we make ourselves more comfortable? We have a lot to talk about.” Obidias
ushered us further into the living room—really the only room I could see, except for a small kitchen
and a lone door at the end of the hall, which must have led to the bedroom.
It was basically one gigantic library. Shelves extended from the floor to the ceiling, a battered
brass library ladder attached to the highest shelf. A polished wooden stand held a huge leather
volume, like the dictionary we had in the Gatlin County Library. Marian would’ve loved this place.
There was nothing else in the room aside from four threadbare armchairs. Obidias waited for
Aunt Prue and me to sit down before he chose a chair opposite ours. He removed the dark glasses
he was wearing, and his eyes locked on mine.
I should have known.
Yellow eyes.
He was a Dark Caster. Of course.
That made sense, if he really was the guy from Link’s story. But still, now that I thought about
it, what was Aunt Prue doing, taking me to see a Dark Caster?
Obidias must have realized what I was thinking. “You didn’t think there were Dark Casters
here, did you?”
I shook my head. “No, sir. I guess I didn’t.”
“Surprise.” Obidias smiled grimly.
Aunt Prue swooped in to save me. “The Otherworld’s a place for unfinished business. For
folks like me and you and Obidias here, who aren’t ready ta move on just yet.”
“And my mom?”
She nodded. “Lila Jane more than anyone. She’s been kickin’ around here longer than the
whole lot a us.”
“Some can cross freely between this world and others,” Obidias explained. “We all eventually
get to our destination. But those of us whose lives were cut short before we could right the wrongs
haunting us, we remain here until we find that moment of peace.”
He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew it for myself—crossing was complicated business.
And I hadn’t felt anything remotely peaceful. Not yet.
I turned to Aunt Prue. “So you’re stuck here, too? I mean, when you aren’t crossing back to
visit the Sisters? Because of me?”
“I can leave if I set my mind ta it.” She patted my hand, as if to remind me I was silly to think
there was ever anyone or anything that could keep my aunt from a place she wanted to go. “But
I’m not goin’ anywhere till you’re back home, where you belong. You’re a part a my unfinished
business now, Ethan, and I ’cept that. I mean ta make things right.” She patted my cheek. “Besides,
what else am I gonna do? I got myself Mercy and Grace ta wait for, don’t I?”
“Back home? You mean to Gatlin?”
“Ta Miss Amma, and Lena, and all our kin,” she answered.
“Aunt Prue, I could barely cross to visit Gatlin, and even then nobody could see me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, boy.” Obidias spoke up, and one of his angry-looking snakes
sank its fangs into his wrist. He winced, pulling a piece of black material shaped like a mitten out of
his pocket. He dropped the hood over the hissing snakes, using two pieces of cord at the bottom to
tighten it. The snakes shifted and thrashed beneath the fabric. “Now, where was I?”
“Are you okay?” I was a little distracted. It’s not every day that a guy, or even a Sheer, gets
bitten by his own hand. At least I hoped it wasn’t.
But Obidias didn’t want to talk about himself. “When I heard about the circumstances that
brought you to this side of the veil, I sent word to your aunt immediately. Your aunt and your
mother.”
My Aunt Prue clicked her tongue impatiently.
That explained my aunt wanting to bring me here—and my mother not wanting her to. Just
because you told any two people in my family the same piece of news, that didn’t mean they’d
agree about what they’d heard. My mom used to say the people in the Evers family were about the
most hog-minded, mule-stuck bloodline you could find—and the Wates were worse. A pack of
wasps fighting over the nest—that’s what my dad called the Wate family reunions.
“How did you hear about what happened?” I tried not to stare at the snakes twisting beneath
the black hood.
“News travels fast in the Otherworld,” he said, hesitating. “More importantly, I knew it was a
mistake.”
“I told you, Ethan Wate.” Aunt Prue looked mighty satisfied.
If it was a mistake—if I wasn’t supposed to be here—maybe there was a way to fix it. Maybe
I really could go home.
I wanted so badly for it to be true, the same way I had wanted this to be a dream I could wake
up from. But I knew better.
Nothing was ever how you wanted it to be. Not anymore. Not for me.
They just didn’t understand.
“It wasn’t a mistake. I chose to come, Mr. Trueblood. I worked it out with the Lilum. If I
didn’t, the people I loved, and lots of others, were going to die.”
Obidias nodded. “I know all of that, Ethan. Just like I know about the Lilum and the Order of
Things. I’m not questioning what you did. What I’m saying is that you never should’ve had to
make that choice. It wasn’t in the Chronicles.”
“The Caster Chronicles?” I had only seen the book once, in the archive when the Council of the
Far Keep came to question Marian, yet it was the second time I’d heard the subject come up since I
got here. How did Obidias know about it? And whatever any of it meant, my mom hadn’t exactly
wanted to elaborate.
“Yes.” Obidias nodded.
“I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”
He was silent for a moment.
“Go on, tell him.” Aunt Prue was giving Obidias Trueblood the same forceful look she always
gave me right before she made me do something crazy, like bury acorns in her yard for baby
squirrels. “He deserves ta know. Set it right.”
Obidias nodded at Aunt Prue and looked back at me with those golden-yellow eyes that made
my skin crawl almost as much as his snake hand did. “As you know, The Caster Chronicles is a
record of everything that has happened in the world. But it is also a record of what might be—
possible futures that have not come to pass.”
“The past, the present, and the future. I remember.” The three weird-looking Keepers I saw in
the library and during Marian’s trial. How could I forget?
“Yes. In the Far Keep, those futures can be altered, transforming them from possible futures to
actual ones.”
“Are you saying the book can change the future?” I was stunned. Marian had never mentioned
any of this.
“It can,” Obidias answered. “If a page is altered, or one is added. A page that was never
intended to be there.”
A shiver moved up my back. “What are you saying, Mr. Trueblood?”
“The page that tells the story of your death was never part of the original Chronicles. It was
added.” He looked up at me, haunted.
“Why would someone do that?”
“There are more reasons for people’s actions than the number of actions that are actually set in
motion.” His voice was distant, full of regret and sorrow I would never have expected from a Dark
Caster. “The important thing is that your fate—this fate—can be changed.”
Changed? Could you save a life once it was over?
I was terrified to ask the next question, to believe there was a way I could get back to
everything I lost. To Gatlin. To Amma.
Lena.
All I wanted was to feel her in my arms and hear her voice in my head. I wanted to find a way
back to the Caster girl I loved more than anything in this world, or any world.
“How?” The answer didn’t actually matter. I would do whatever I had to, and Obidias
Trueblood knew it.
“It’s dangerous.” Obidias’ expression was a warning. “More dangerous than anything in the
Mortal world.”
I heard the words, but I couldn’t believe them. There was nothing more terrifying than staying
here. “What do I have to do?”
“You’ll have to destroy your own page in The Caster Chronicles. The one that describes your
death.”
I had a thousand questions, but only one mattered. “What if you’re wrong, and my page was
there all along?”
Obidias stared down at what was left of his hand, the snakes rearing and striking even under
the cloth. A shadow passed across his face.
He raised his eyes to meet mine.
“I know it wasn’t there, Ethan. Because I’m the one who wrote it.”
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