Leilani Rivera hit the concrete floor hard. Shards of porcelain rained down like hail, pinging off the workbench, the walls, her skin. A wave of scalding water washed over the basement, soaking her flannel shirt, stinging the open trench in her arm.

  Steam filled the room. Thick. White. Suffocating.

  She coughed, tasting iron and sulfur.

  “Damon?” she rasped.

  No answer.

  Just a low, wet sound from the center of the room.

  Water sloshed in the ruins of the tub.

  Leilani pushed herself up. Her head swam. The loss of blood made the room tilt to the left. She gripped the workbench’s leg to steady herself.

  The steam thin, swirling in the draft from the shattered window.

  Leilani looked at the ruins of the tub.

  It was gone. Blasted apart. Jagged pieces of cast iron lay scattered like shrapnel.

  But something stood in the wreckage.

  Leilani squinted, wiping water from her eyes.

  A figure.

  Naked.

  Frankie.

  She stood among the debris, slick with black slime. Her skin wasn’t the warm tan Leilani knew. Skin like milk. Pale. Like polished marble. Like bone.

  And down the center of her chest, where the wood had been, ran a jagged, raised scar, shimmering silver, like a vein of mercury injected under the skin.

  “Frankie?” Leilani whispered.

  The figure turned.

  One second she was by the tub. The next she was on him.

  Leilani gasped.

  Frankie’s eyes were gone. The sockets held absolute blackness. Empty black.

  Then, the color bled in. Not green.

  Red.

  Blood red. Glowing in the dim light.

  Frankie opened her mouth.

  A low growl. Wet. Deep.

  “Frankie, it’s me,” Damon’s voice called from the corner.

  Damon pulled himself up from behind a stack of boxes. Blood tracked down his face from a fresh gash. He stumbled forward, hand outstretched.

  “Frankie, you’re back. We did it. We—”

  Frankie moved.

  She didn’t walk. She launched.

  She cleared the distance in a glitch. She hit Damon in the chest.

  Damon flew backward. His head hit the wall. Hard.

  Frankie landed on top of him. She crouched on his chest, her lips pulled back, revealing teeth that looked too sharp. She raised a hand, fingers curled into claws.

  “No!” Ted screamed.

  Ted grabbed a heavy pipe wrench from the floor. He swung it at her—a desperate, clumsy arc.

  Frankie didn’t look. She caught the wrench mid-swing. Her hand snapped around the metal.

  She yanked.

  Ted flew off his feet. He sprawled onto the wet concrete.

  Frankie tossed the wrench aside. She stared at Dee Dee, who huddled under the desk, clutching the black book. Dee Dee whimpered, covering her face.

  Frankie turned back to Damon. She grabbed him by the throat.

  “Frankie, stop!” Leilani screamed.

  Leilani lunged.

  She forgot the blood loss. The dizziness. The terror.

  She ran.

  She grabbed Frankie’s shoulders.

  Frankie’s skin was freezing. Hard as stone.

  “Get off him!” Leilani roared. She pulled with everything she had.

  Frankie spun around.

  She backhanded Leilani.

  It was a casual blow, but it hit with the force of a sledgehammer. Leilani staggered back, tripping over a piece of the tub. She fell into the puddle of black water.

  Frankie stood over her.

  Her red eyes burned. Her chest heaved, the silver scar pulsing with a faint light. She looked wild. A creature dug up from the wrong grave.

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  She crouched, preparing to spring.

  Leilani didn’t scramble away. She didn’t reach for a weapon.

  She sat up.

  She opened her arms.

  “Come here,” Leilani said. Her voice broke, but she held the gaze. “Come here, baby.”

  Frankie paused. Her head cocked to the side. A sharp click sounded in her throat.

  “I’m right here,” Leilani whispered. “Mama’s right here.”

  Frankie lunged.

  She hit Leilani hard, knocking the wind out of her. They went down in the water.

  Frankie’s hands went for Leilani’s throat.

  Leilani didn’t fight. She wrapped her arms around Frankie’s naked back. She pulled the wet, marble-cold body against her own. She buried her face in Frankie’s damp hair.

  “It’s okay,” Leilani sobbed. “It’s okay. You’re home.”

  Frankie’s grip tightened. Leilani’s windpipe compressed. Black spots danced in her vision.

  She’s going to kill me.

  Leilani squeezed harder. She rocked her.

  “I got you,” Leilani gasped. “I got you, Frankie. Come back. Come back to me.”

  She kissed the side of Frankie’s head. She hummed. The same three notes she used to hum when Frankie was a baby with a fever.

  Frankie froze.

  The grip on Leilani’s throat loosened. Just a fraction.

  Frankie shuddered. A violent tremor ran through her entire frame.

  She let out a whimper.

  “That’s it,” Leilani whispered, stroking the wet hair. “That’s it. Breathe.”

  Frankie pulled back.

  She sat up, straddling Leilani’s waist.

  The red in her eyes was swirling. Boiling away.

  Like ink clearing from water, the crimson faded. It turned gray. Then, slowly, painfully, the green returned.

  The pupil contracted. The iris sharpened.

  Frankie blinked.

  The tension left her face.

  “Mom?”

  The voice was rough. Rusty.

  “I’m here,” Leilani wept. “I’m here.”

  Frankie stared at her hands resting on Leilani’s chest. She snatched them away as if burned.

  She examined her skin. White marble. Black sludge.

  Her gaze swept the room.

  Ted groaning on the floor. Dee Dee peering out from under the desk.

  Damon.

  Damon was sitting up against the wall, clutching his head. Blood ran down his face. He looked at her. His eyes wide, his bloody hand trembling as he reached out.

  Frankie’s breath hitched.

  Tears welled in her green eyes. They spilled over, hot and fast, tracking through the grime on her face.

  “I…” Frankie started. She touched her throat. “I hurt you.”

  “No,” Leilani said, sitting up. She reached for Frankie. “It wasn’t you. It was the… the transition.”

  Frankie flinched away from Leilani’s touch.

  She scrambled backward, crab-walking until her back hit the workbench. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to hide her nakedness, trying to hide the scar.

  “I died,” Frankie whispered.

  “You’re back,” Leilani said.

  “I died,” Frankie repeated. She looked at Leilani. “You… you were screaming. Daria put the wood in. It crunched. Then… nothing.”

  She looked at the silver scar on her chest. Her finger traced the jagged lightning bolt.

  “Why am I here?”

  “We brought you back,” Dee Dee said softly from the desk. She closed the black book. “The ritual. Your mom… she gave everything.”

  Frankie looked at Leilani’s arm. Red soaked through the duct tape.

  Frankie’s face didn’t crumple. She didn’t rush to her mother.

  Her unblinking gaze locked on the blood.

  Leilani shivered. The cold was inside her.

  There was something… missing.

  “Frankie?” Damon whispered. He tried to stand using the wall for support. “Are you okay?”

  Leilani watched her daughter’s eyes.

  A flicker of recognition crossed Frankie’s face, but no warmth followed.

  Frankie stared at Damon. Her face smoothed out. The tears stopped.

  She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. The motion was precise. Mechanical.

  “Damon,” Frankie said.

  “Yeah,” he choked out. “It’s me.”

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  “I’m fine. You… threw me.”

  “I know,” Frankie said. “I remember.”

  She stood up.

  She didn’t care that she was naked. She didn’t care about the cold. She stood tall, her spine straight, her muscles defined under the translucent white skin.

  She walked over to the workbench. She picked up a screwdriver. She turned it over in her hand, testing the weight.

  “Frankie?” Leilani asked. “Baby, talk to me. How do you feel?”

  Frankie turned. Her gray-green eyes were clear. Too clear.

  “Empty,” Frankie said.

  “That’s the shock,” Leilani said, scrambling to her feet. “That will pass. We need to get you warm. We need—”

  “No,” Frankie cut her off.

  She looked at the wall. Not at the concrete, but through it. Toward the town.

  “I don’t feel empty because of the shock,” Frankie said. Her voice dropped an octave. Deep. Flat. “I feel empty because the noise is gone.”

  “What noise?”

  “The fear,” Frankie said.

  She looked at Damon.

  “I remember I love you,” she said.

  Damon flinched. “You remember?”

  “I know I should be scared that you’re hurt,” Frankie said. She looked at Leilani. “I know I should be crying that you cut your arm for me.”

  She tapped her chest, right over the silver scar.

  “But it’s quiet in here.”

  She walked to the pile of clothes Dee Dee had left on the chair. She picked up a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt. She dressed efficiently, pulling the clothes over her wet skin.

  She pulled on her boots. She laced them tight.

  She picked up the tarnished silver surfboard charm from the table where Ted had left it. She looked at it for a second, then put it in her pocket.

  She turned to the group.

  “Where is she?” Frankie asked.

  “Who?” Ted squeaked from the floor.

  “The Queen,” Frankie said.

  “Daria?” Dee Dee asked. “We don’t know. The signal…”

  “Not Daria,” Frankie said. “Daria is just the mouth.”

  Frankie closed her eyes. She tilted her head.

  The room was silent.

  “She is loud,” Frankie whispered.

  She opened her eyes. They were gray again. The green was gone, swallowed by the storm.

  “She is at the bridge.”

  Frankie walked to the stairs. She didn’t wait for them.

  “Frankie, wait!” Leilani grabbed her good arm. “You can’t just leave. You just died! You need to rest!”

  Frankie looked at Leilani’s hand on her arm. She didn’t pull away. She just looked at it, like it were a curious object.

  “I’m not tired,” Frankie said. “I don’t think I can get tired anymore.”

  She gently removed Leilani’s hand.

  She turned and walked up the stairs, her boots heavy on the wood.

  Leilani stood in the ruined basement, shivering in the cold damp. She looked at Damon. He looked broken.

  “She’s alive,” Damon whispered. “But she’s not back.”

  Leilani grabbed the shotgun from the table. She racked the slide.

  “It’s her,” Leilani said. Her eyes were dry. “Let’s move.”