I wake with a start.

Something is wrong. I feel wrong.

There's a darkness inside me; a darkness I can't get rid of.

I blink, hard. I try to steady my breathing.

And for a moment I'm not sure where I am. The buzz of an artificial light sounds from somewhere outside the room, and I feel something digging into my cheek – but that gives me no clue. I raise my head slowly and groan as a pen clatters to the desk.

I'm in the school library.

I lean back in my chair and rub my face. I don't remember coming here, much less falling asleep.

I glance around me and notice the records of the Finis open in the center of the table. I frown. I'm not sure why I would have that. Slowly I reach for it. My fingers brush the dry parchment and a clatter resounds somewhere within the abandoned school.

Lila.

I think I hear my name.

My head jerks upward.

It's then that I see the rose petals – a line of them - leading towards the door.

My blood turns cold in my veins. The feeling of wrongness increases.

Very slowly I stand up. The scrape of the chair on the hardwood floor sounds abnormally loud in the darkness. Tentatively I follow the trail of red to the door. I turn the handle and step out into the abandoned corridor.

Lila.

"Who's there?"

Silence answers. My eyes catch the clock on one side of the locker lined hallway. It's almost midnight. Everyone is long gone. I'm alone.

But I'm not, am I?

Because someone scattered those rose petals here.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I think of the quiver full of arrows stuffed underneath my bed at home, and silently curse myself for not having it with me now. Then I take a deep breath, and I follow the dismembered flower heads.

They lead around the corner – trailing under the closed double doors of the school cafeteria at the end.

I remember the last time I came here at night – when the doors were guarded by the undead at the Cupid dance. My breathing quickens. This is where we caught him; the man that I killed. My mind starts to speak his name but I push it away.

He's gone. He's dead. He's no danger anymore.

I put my hand on the handle, and I hesitate.

This isn't smart. Something isn't right. And yet something inside of me yearns to go forward – to open that door; just as it did that night when I met Cupid on his terrace, back when I thought he was a danger to me.

My breathing quickens. My heart hammers against my chest.

I shouldn't go in there.

But I have to know. I have to know what's in there.

Maybe it's Cupid.

It's not.

It's my birthday tomorrow – maybe this is supposed to be some kind of weird, romantic surprise. Maybe that's all this is.

It's not. I feel that it's not.

I take a deep breath. I open the door.

It's not Cupid.

The room is dark, but I see the figure immediately – backlit by the bright moonlight that floods in from the windows down one side of the cafeteria. He's looking away from me. I stop still, the cafeteria doors swinging closed behind me.

My blood turns to ice.

"You're supposed to be dead," I say. My voice sounds oddly calm, like I was expecting this all along.

"And yet here I am." His low, Irish lilt fills the empty room. Slowly he turns. His lips broaden into a grin as his eyes land on me. "Hello, Lila."

"Hello, Valentine."

Neither of us speaks for a moment. My heart hammers against my chest and adrenaline surges through my veins. Yet somehow I don't think I'm afraid. Not really. I'm not sure why.

I take a step forward. And I take him in – his black, closely shaved hair, his broad shoulders, the wicked glint in his shocking blue eyes. He's wearing the same clothes I last saw him in - dark jeans and a blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.

He's wearing the clothes I killed him in.

"You shouldn't be here," I say.

I feel his gaze assessing me – it trails down my body, my black top, my skinny jeans. Then he lazily meets my eyes. He licks his full lips. And I note the amusement in his eyes, as though he knows the punchline to a joke that's yet to be told.

I don't like that look.He's looked at me like that before.

"Yet you don't seem surprised," he says – his voice as gruff as gravel. His lip tugs upward. "Where's the fun in that?"

"You're not here. You can't be. I killed you."

Yet it feels like he is here. Why is that?

His grin widens, causing the dimples in his cheeks.

"I remember. That wasn't very nice. We'll have to have words about that. Later though. We have much to discuss. And we don't have much time." He moves toward the nearest table, scrapes back the chair, and sits down. With a booted foot he pushes the chair opposite out and gestures at it with his head. "Sit."

I assess him a moment. Then – for some reason I cannot explain - I approach and take a seat, clasping my hands together on the cool surface. I can smell him – masculine scents of perspiration, salt and seawater. He leans forward, his thick forearms leaning against the table.

"So, any theories?" he says.

"I thought we didn't have much time."

His lip quirks upward.

"I always have time for you, Lila."

I frown. I hold his gaze.

"You haven't come back," I say. "The cupids you brought back from the Underworld with the obals looked...dead. And you don't."

His grin widens.

"Thank goodness for that. Zombie really isn't my style."

"So I must be dreaming," I say – realizing why I don't feel afraid. "This isn't real. And you're not really here."

He shrugs.

"Yes. And no." He leans back. "You are asleep. But this is real. I am here, Lila."

I shake my head.

"How can that be?"

"I have something in my possession." He grins. "And now... well, we have a certain...link...you and I. I can penetrate your dreams, your memories, your mind."

My heartbeat quickens. I don't like the way he is talking, like he relishes the words on his tongue. His gaze doesn't move from my face. 

I look away, down towards my fingers.

"No. I'm obviously feeling some sort of...subconscious guilt about killing you. Which is completely unfounded, by the way, seeing as though you're pretty much pure evil."

He chuckles.

"Good. Evil. They all merge together when you've lived as long as me. Ask your boyfriend." I look up at him and he grins. "Though I wondered if you'd feel bad about killing me. We shared a moment at the end, didn't we?"

"You're insane."

I scrape my chair back. Dream or not, I need to get out of here. 

Suddenly he leans forward and grabs my wrist quicker than I can anticipate, forcing me to remain where I am. I breathe in sharply. It's only been a couple of weeks since I faced him, but already I'd forgotten how fast he was. My skin burns under his rough fingers but I don't pull away. I meet his eyes.

"What do you want, Valentine?"

His cool eyes burn. "I want you to come to the Underworld and get me."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. And then I laugh. My voice echoes around the dark cafeteria, mixing with the stale smells of fried food and disinfectant. He waits for me to finish.

"Something amusing?" He says.

"You want me to come and get you?" I say.

"Yes."

"You want me to journey to the Underworld, risk my own life, and betray everyone I know, to bring you – a murderer - back from the dead?"

"Yes."

As he watches me I again notice that look on his face; that look that he knows something that I don't. It dampens my mirth.

"And why the hell would I do that?"

"Because I have something that you're going to need."

Slowly he turns and reaches for something in the chair behind him. It's a metal crate – thick white cobwebs concealing carvings in the sides. When he places it on the table between us dust dances in the dark air, glittering in the white moonlight. The scent of must hits my nostrils.

"Sit back down, Lila," he says.

I do. I don't know why I do what he says. I should just leave. And yet something inside of me feels compelled to stay; to sit down.

"What is it?" I say.

"A box."

I meet his gaze.

"Yeah...I can see that. What's inside?"

His grin widens.

"Come get me and you'll find out."

"Not going to happen. Bye, Valentine."

I rise again, turn, and head toward the exit of the cafeteria. I place my hand on the door handle.

"You've felt different since that night in the cave, haven't you?" His voice is low, calm, conversational.

I stop. Suddenly I feel him behind me, his heat, his scent.

"Yes," I whisper. "Why?"

He says nothing.

I turn slowly, look up at him.

"Are you really here? Am I really talking to you?"

"Yes."

Purposefully he reaches for my hand and turns my palm upwards. His touch is surprisingly gentle.

"What are you...?" I breathe in sharply and look down. He brushes his thumb across my skin and a thin white scar is left in its wake. Yet it doesn't hurt. My heart hammers in my chest. I wrench out of his grasp. "What are you doing?"

"Showing you something you failed to see."

"Don't touch me. You're a murderer."

He chuckles.

"So are you."

Coldness floods my veins. I take a step back.

"We all have stains on our soul, Lila." His grin doesn't falter. "Come get me. I'll tell you what you need to know." He pauses, his face darkening. "There's a War coming, and – like it or not - we're a part of it, you and I. I could make you come and get me. But I won't. Because you'll come soon enough. And you'll come because you want to."

He holds my gaze, and I narrow my eyes.

"Never."

His face suddenly cracks into a grin again. He looks around the cafeteria, then takes a step back. "I'd hoped to be with you at midnight - to see in your birthday, but it looks like trouble is on its way. You'll need to wake up now."

He grins, then gives me a little wave.

"I'll be seeing you, Lila."

"What do you...?"

***

My eyes jolt open. I'm back in the dark library. And I'm alone.

I wait for the relief to come, but it doesn't. I feel cold. The darkness inside me does not dissipate.

A War is coming.

I'll be seeing you, Lila.

I lift my hand to my hair, brushing it out of my eyes, and I realize I'm shaking slightly. I try to tell myself it was just a dream – but it doesn't feel that way. It felt real. 

Could it really be possible that I just spoke to him – a man that I killed two weeks ago?

A sound in the corridor jerks me out of my thoughts.

Trouble is on its way.

I grab my pen tightly in my fist, brandishing it in front of me as though it's some kind of weapon. I jump to my feet just as the door bursts open. Cal stands in the doorway – looking oddly formal in a grey tux and crisp white shirt. He gives the pen held in my hand a funny look before his silvery eyes meet mine.

"There's trouble," he says.  He abruptly turns on his heel and heads out of the door. "We need to get to the Cupids Matchmaking Service. Now."