THAT NIGHT I couldn’t sleep at all. Call it nerves or fear—from the effects of the oath or the upcoming trip or the fact that I was sitting beside my still unconscious brother. Or all of the above. I just couldn’t relax enough to make myself actually sleep. I’d said all my good-byes at dinner, and the morning would be just Muraco and me. I’d start this journey on my own—the same way I’d finish it.
My mother had always told me to picture what I wanted; if I believed it to be true, it would happen. I’d been doing that all night as I sat in the chair beside Raphael’s bed.
He hadn’t woken up yet. No one knew what that meant, but it couldn’t be a good sign. His exhale had taken on a rasping rattle that made my lungs burn in sympathy. But that wasn’t the worst part.
His aura was changing. It
