Noah moved faster than I could. He grabbed Bronte, yanking her into the ward.

The pocket watch hit the barrier, unable to pass through it. With Noah pulling her one way, Bronte's fingers slipped from around the pocket watch. It fell, clattering onto the wooden front porch, outside of the ward.

I scrambled after it, ducking under Noah's flailing arms as he tried to stop me. I passed easily through the barrier, landing on the pocket watch like it were a grenade, curling around it.

A second later, I felt something rip into my back. Fire and pain exploded in my senses, turning my throat dry and ripping cries and tears from me. It felt the way I imagined cutting into a tomato might. Messy and sharp and deforming.

Shouts sounded above me. I curled even tighter around the watch. I'd put Cyril and Oliver up on the chopping block once by inviting Noah into the apartment. I wasn't about to let some monstrous serial killing ghost play Jack the Ripper on the one thing tethering them here. Not if there was even the faintest trace of them that wanted to stay.

Bikini season be damned.

Chills crept down my arms. "Stella! You need to get back inside the barrier!"

I looked up at Cyril's voice, once again forgetting that I couldn't see a blasted thing. But I could hear roaring, straining grunts, the sounds of fighting.

Noah appeared suddenly, trying to lift me off the pocket watch. "Stella, you need to get inside the ward now!"

I pushed myself more toward the ground, covering up the watch with everything I had. "They can't get inside the barrier!"

Bronte screamed behind me. A sound I'd never heard her make before. Fear and fury mixing together in her voice.

Oliver swore.

The wind began to pick up. Behind me, in the apartment, I heard things fall over and crash to the ground. The tell-tale smack of books hitting walls. Of furniture toppling over. Sounds I'd all heard before.

Bronte's screaming shifted. Something in the tone changed. And that change went from fear and fury to pain. Pure, raw, suffocating pain.

Noah and I whipped around at the same time.

Bronte had collapsed beside the still flickering candle, eyes wide, her hands braced on either temple as if her head would explode if she removed her hands. Her face was screwed into an expression I'd never seen before. Her slack mouth hung open, the scream erupting from it. She was absolutely still except for her eyes. With her head held in place, her eyes darted, seeing things that I couldn't see. As if hundreds of things had appeared before her and she was trying to see them all at once.

The wind died instantly. Everything in the apartment that had been moving stopped suddenly.

The helpless worry in Oliver's voice stabbed into my chest. "What's happening? What's going on?"

Cyril grunted as the creature hissed a guttural cry.

Stunned, I could just stare at Bronte. She hiccupped, her lungs finally running out of air, and the screaming stopped. Her mouth still hung open, her eyes kept buzzing with movement, but she remained completely still. Trying to absorb everything she was seeing.

Above me, Noah stared, mirroring my uncertainty and worry.

Behind me, someone cleared their throats.

Noah and I swung around again. Our neighbor across the way stood half out of his door. Still dressed in a white pajama shirt and his boxes, he looked over us: Bronte through the open door, screaming; me curled up just outside the front door; Noah partly on top of me.

"Is, um," he cleared his throat and tried again, "is everything ok out here? I heard screaming."

As one, Noah and I looked back at Bronte. If she heard what was happening, she wasn't letting on. But I doubted she could sense anything beyond the visions occupying her.

My head snapped back to my neighbor, his eyes dancing between Bronte and Noah on top of me. His pepper hair stood up, as if we'd jerked him from bed with our noise. And his middle-aged wrinkles stood pronounced as he furrowed his brow at us.

"We're fine," I said, surprised at how calm my voice sounded.

He didn't look convinced, but I could see relief flooding his features. He'd done the neighborly thing and asked. That was all he'd felt obligated to do and I could see how pleased he was that he wasn't going to be asked to do more.

But the strangeness of the scene must have got to him, because right before he ducked back into his apartment, he asked again. "You sure?"

"Yeah. We're doing...role-playing."

His eyebrows shot up almost as quickly as he ducked back into his apartment. The door slammed loudly.

Noah scoffed above me. "Role-playing?"

"Lower the ward."

"I'm not going to lower the—"

"Noah Walker, lower the ward!"

The shimmering film inside the apartment began to fade. I snatched up the pocket watch, and pushing him off me, hurried to Bronte.

I passed through Oliver–probably Oliver–his coldness sending tingles through the left half of my body. I dropped down beside Bronte, taking hold of one of her arms and giving it a good shake.

She felt limp in my hold. Her arm moved as if she were sleeping, giving me no resistance whatsoever. But her mouth still hung slack. Her eyes still darted at unseen images.

Oliver's silvery voice sounded panicked. "What is she doing? I can't get her to stop—I don't think she can see me."

"Move!" Cyril shouted.

I felt something hit my shoulder, throwing me into Bronte. We went down, me on top of her. She fell like a rag doll.

"Help her!" Oliver shouted. "I'll handle that thing!"

Bronte didn't try to sit up. I turned behind me to ask Noah but he was gone.

Typical.

At least he'd shut the front door so the neighbor wouldn't see anymore of what was happening.

She wasn't moving. I didn't know what to do. Still clutching the pocket watch in one hand, and gripping her arm in the other, I looked between the two.

But I still didn't know what to do.

I needed a name to fight back against whatever that creature was.

And now that Noah had left, we didn't have anything to protect us with.

Not that Cyril and Oliver could have used that protection.

And they were fighting for their lives right now, going off the sounds of shouting, swearing, and grunting I kept hearing echo throughout the apartment.

I didn't know what to do.

"Bronte?" I asked, shaking her arm slightly. "Bronte, I need you to hear me. Please—please wake up."

But she didn't.

She just laid there, trapped in whatever she was seeing.

Desperate for any kind of hint, I looked around. Maybe there was something I could use to wake her up. Or fight back. Anything that could help.

My eyes fell on the candle.

It had been tipped over in the commotion, the candle lying on its side, hot wax oozing onto the carpet.

But the flame. The flame that should have either caught the carpet on fire or should have gone out when the candle fell, hovered in midair. In the exact place where it had been when the candle had been upright.

It just hovered. A small, tiny speck of fire. Floating six inches above the carpet.

I should have been surprised. And I was—but more surprised for not being surprised. I should have known.

Because what I'd mumbled earlier, while staring at the flame, had come back to me with the unwavering certainty.

I'd named it.

I'd named it. And that meant I could control it.