"You have no idea what you're up against."

The voice is cold, chillingly so, and it bites like a knife. Ice and frost and terror it brings to mind. Not clean, fresh ice that shimmers with light, but black, wet ice, the kind that forms on roads and is treacherous because you can't always see it, but it's still there.

"I do know, and yet it does not change my decision."

This voice is all light and warmth and springtime. It is like the singing of birds or the showering of rain. It is like summer in the forest when the golden light dapples the ground and everything is rich and alive and beautiful.

"You are a fool, then. She will die, and so will you. Give her up now, and I will let you live."

"Perhaps I am a fool, but you are a fool also if you think I will fall for your silver tongue like the others did. You know me better than that."

The cold voice laughs, dark and menacing. "You are clever indeed," it says, obviously masculine. "But you will both die regardless."

"Oh, I am quite sure I will die," the other returns, the light tones recognizable as a woman's voice. "But you will not have my daughter. No. She will be your downfall. She and the other half of the promise."

"It is too late for that," the man says. "The other half is dead. I have killed it myself."

"No!" cries the woman. "No." She pauses, and her voice speaks again, this time slowly and thoughtfully. "You lie. I know better than to believe your falsehoods. The other half is alive and well. If it were dead, so would my daughter be."

"Can you be sure?"

"Yes."

"Well then, soon they will both die. Enough talk."

I can see nothing but the shadows of the ceiling above me, and the pale curve of a woman's face above me. I am cradled in warmth. Her lips move as she speaks again.

"Perhaps you are right. This talk is done. I pity you, you know. You could have lived a blessed life."

"Blessed? Oh no, foolish girl. Your life is not a blessing. It is a curse, and I escaped such a life just in time."

"Say as you will. I would have you know that my daughter will find the other half one day, and bring light into this world once more. You may kill me, and you may kill my people, but good will live on in her. She will return one day, and that day will be your last. For though the dark may reign at times, always the Sun and the Moon will rise."

There is a flash of blinding light. The night is torn asunder. One moment I am in the woman's arms, the next the world splits itself open and I am falling, falling, falling. A scream of rage splits the night, then it is swept away.

2: Chapter 1

"Artemis, wake up!"

I'm dragged out of my sleep, and almost fall off of my chair. As I try to make sense of where I am, I see someone glaring down at me. My science teacher. Crap.

I swipe a hand across my face, just in case I was drooling while I slept, and sit up straight. I realize that the entire class is staring at me. Awesome.

I try to look attentive as I straighten out my notebooks and leaf through my thick Physics textbook. My teacher, an elderly, gray-haired lady, gives me another disapproving sniff and returns to her desk.

"Open your books to page nine and read the essay there," she says in a high, reedy voice. "When you're finished, please close your books and try not to fall asleep."

I feel my cheeks flush bright red as I flip to the right page. My eyes focus on the words, but my mind is too far away to even consider the words that I'm reading. The nightmare is still emblazoned on the backs of my eyelids, and I'm afraid that if I blink, it'll be back.

It won't be. But I'm still nervous. The last time I fell asleep in class was eleven years ago, on my first day of kindergarten. I woke up screaming, terrified. The entire class was shocked, and my teacher had a minor meltdown. It was the nightmare then, too.

It wasn't that the nightmare was new to me, now, or during kindergarten. The nightmare had been a constant specter during my sleep for as long as I could remember. But waking up in a strange place, my five-year-old self had panicked. I had been forced to tell my parents all about the recurring dream. Before that, I had never thought that the nightmare was strange. I figured that everyone had them. My parents' reactions told me I was wrong.

They took me to a series of psychiatrists, who all diagnosed different drugs that were supposed to "fix me" and "make me normal." After a while, I realized that I wasn't normal, so I just lied and said that the dream was gone. My parents were relieved, and they practically threw a party. The doctors all assured them that it had just been a "phase," as they had suspected all along, of course.

The nightmare never left me though. Even now, my fingers tremble and cold sweat coats the back of my neck. The fluttering, panicked feeling in stomach is so familiar that I can almost ignore it. I spend a few more minutes trying to read the introduction to my book, and then give up and close it. I fix my gaze on the elderly teacher's bobbing gray hair and allow myself to think.

The dream is so realistic, that it's like a memory. I haven't the slightest idea what it means, or why I dream it. As I search for an answer to my lifelong riddle, my fingers creep to the chain around my neck, and clasp the small crescent moon pendant between my fingers. It's warmer than usual.

I imagine what my face must look like to everyone else right now- probably white as a sheet. I can still see a few students casting glances my way, and I lower my head. My straight, dark brown hair shields them from my view and me from theirs. I get plenty of looks on a normal day. I guess I'm pretty. My hair is long and shiny, or so my friends tell me, and I have dark blue eyes set in a heart shaped face. My skin is tanned from hours spent running under the sun.

I don't think that's what gets me so many looks though. I think it may be the fact that I've never worn make up a day in my life, which is out-of-the-ordinary in high school. Looking good doesn't really bother me. I dress in plain clothes, wear my hair up in a ponytail. I won't pretend that I'm not vain at times- I am. I just have different things to be vain about than most girls.

"Are you all done?"

I almost slip off my chair, again, as the teacher speaks. I lean back in my chair and try to look interested.

"Very good." She sits at her desk and steeples her fingers in front of her, looking us over. "Did any of you find the author of the essay's name familiar?"

A boy near the back of the room raises his hand. He's got thin wire glasses and is wearing a shirt that says something about Star Trek.

The woman looks down at her sheet of names and then back up at him. "Yes, David?"

"William James was a philosopher and a psychologist," David says. "Some people called him the father of American philosophy."

"Very good," the woman says. "What do you think Mr. James had to do with physics though? Why would they choose to put one of his essays in your textbook? Yes, David?"

"Philosophy has a lot to do with science," the boy answers, pushing his glasses up his nose. "William James was also trained as a physician, but that's more life science."

"Yes," the woman said slowly, and I could almost sense David leaning forward in his chair, eager for her next words. "That's very true. Have any of you ever heard of the multiverse theory?"

A few hands shoot up around the room.

"It's a theory that basically says that there are a finite or possibly infinite number of worlds that all exist parallel to ours." She pauses for dramatic effect. "Now of course this has been debated by scientists for years, and we won't get into that now. But it was William James who first came up with the term multiverse. That just goes to show, that no matter what-"

The bell rings, loud and clear, but the teacher raises her voice over the screech of chairs being pushed in and backpacks lifted.

"-field of study you go into, science will always be a valuable part of your lives! Please read through page fifteen for homework, I'll expect you to be ready to discuss tomorrow! Good afternoon!"

The class streams out into the hallway, free at last from the first day back to school. I allow the tide of students to push me towards the door. Whispers follow me as I walk, but I try to block them out.

"She fell asleep in class today and woke up sweating and freaking out."

"She's so weird."

"All she does is run and do her homework."

"What's wrong with her?"

"She looks like she saw a ghost."

Maybe I did, I think angrily, pushing my way towards the door. Breaking clear into the weak afternoon sun is a relief. I follow a mass of other upperclassmen across the parking lot towards their cars. Mine is a tiny blue Toyota, battered and barely road-worthy. I throw my backpack in the back seat and climb in behind the wheel. Because it's the first day of practice, I don't have cross country practice or anything else after school. Must be part of their "ease the kids into it" plan that never seems to work.

I drive home, but the dream is still clattering around in my mind, begging for attention. Stop it, I think. I'm ignoring you.

By the time I pull up my driveway, my hands are a little less shaky, but I still take a few minutes in the car to cool down before walking inside.

My mom is at the kitchen table, sorting through bills. There's a little crease of worry down her forehead, and I know it's bad news, as usual. Not a day goes by when I don't realize what I've cost my foster parents. Even though I'm not their flesh and blood, they've raised me like I am. I appreciate that.

I give my mom a light peck on the cheek as I sit down across from her at the table.

"How was your day, dear?" she asks, shoving paper into a large manila envelope and setting it aside.

"Great," I say. "How was yours?"

"Oh, relaxing," she says, sounding tired, as usual. I notice how the gray is spreading in her hair. "Do you have much homework?"

"Just a little," I say. I want to cut the conversation short because I'm afraid the dream is going to return and pound on the backs of my eyelids again. "I should probably get started."

"Okay," she says, massaging her temples. I flash her a quick grin and escape up the stairs to my room.

The mirror across from my bed reflects my face back at me. My eyes are still wider than usual, and my face isn't quite it's normal shade yet. I imagine that I can see my pulse flickering in my neck.Calm down, I say. It's just a dream. You dream it every night. It's no big deal. It never freaks you out this much.

But today something was different. I can feel my necklace burning a warm patch into the skin on my throat, and my fingers creep to it again. It's nothing.

Cold sweat coats my brow, and my fingers tremble. My legs are twisted in my bed sheets. My alarm clock screeches next to my ear. Groaning, I force myself up on one elbow and turn it off. The dream is still fresh in my mind. Slowly I drag myself up out of bed and fingers the pendant around my neck. I can almost imagine that it's pulsing in my hand, but that's nonsense. I almost convince myself that the heat I feel is only there because it's been pressed against my warm neck all night long. Almost.

Getting dressed is easy. My attire is simple enough, as usual. A pair of shorts, since it's still technically summer, and plenty warm out, a light weight v-neck t-shirt, and converse shoes.

My books are already packed in my bag, and I sling it over my shoulder as I trot downstairs for breakfast. My mom is sitting at the table, eating a piece of toast, and looks up as I come in.

"You'll have to take the bus today dear," she says. "Your father took the car to get it fixed. We'll pick you up after practice today."

I hide a sigh and nod. Riding the bus means being trapped with screaming, mouth-breathing five-year-olds for over a half an hour. There were worse fates, but I like to avoid the bus as much as possible.

I end up hurrying out the door a few minutes late, and barely made it to the bus stop on time. The bus driver gives me a disapproving look as I take a seat near the back and try to tune out the yelling kids. There were a few other high school kids on the bus, and I smile before ignoring them out too. I stare out the window as the vibrant trees sweep past me.

Off to another mind-numbingly boring day of school. My life is like a rut in the ground. A routine. Get up, got to school, go to practice, go home, sleep, repeat. Everything is neatly scheduled and always the same. This isn't who I'm meant to be, something tells me, as I lean my head against the window frame. There has to be something else.

I am half asleep when the bus came to a stop with a jerk. My head thumps against the window and I groan, sitting up straight in my seat. The doors creaks open.

My life changes forever.

In that split second, before someone's head appears over the edge of the seats, I wonder why we have stopped here, because no one lives in the old house nestled between the fir trees on the side of the road. At least no one that I know. Then he appears, and all those thoughts are driven from my head with so much force that I almost fall out of my seat.

He's like a memory. He's like someone I knew in another life, another place. He's déjà vu. He is a lion, he is fire, he is the sun, vibrant and gold. And he's staring at me.

The boy pauses at the top of the steps, then walks down the aisle toward me. His hair is golden blond and messy, in a handsome way. He has balanced, perfect features, and bright blue eyes, exactly the same shade as my own. He drops into the seat next to me, and the bus rocks into motion.

"Hello Artemis," he says, unconcerned by the shock written on my face. "I've been looking for you. They hid you well, but here you are." He offers his hand, and I take it, too shocked to resist his magnetism. Electricity jumps up my arm as we shake. "I'm Kiran."

"W-what? Who are you?" I ask, shivering. There is no reason for me to react like this, but his appearance and his strange words fill me with a strange feeling I can't describe. It's either terror, or joy. Or maybe both.

He looks annoyed. "Look, I don't have time to explain. The point is, I've been searching for you for sixteen years, and-" He looks over my shoulder, out the window. "Damn," he says calmly. "I thought we'd have more time."

He grabs my shoulders before I can blink, and drags me to the floor in the aisle, landing on top of me. I scream, just as a massive explosion shakes the bus. I feel the floor tilt under me, and I'm thrown into another seat. I feel someone else underneath me, and then I'm on the ceiling of the bus, only the ceiling is under me because the bus has flipped and it's still rolling. Kiran is still clinging to me as the bus flips again and I'm thrown down on top of the seats.

Something sharp hits my stomach, and I almost lose my breakfast. I manage to keep it down, but all the air is emptied from my lungs, and I gasp for breath. Kiran's fingers tighten on my arms. The bus is still flipping, picking up speed as if we're rolling downhill.

Oh no. Downhill. I don't have time to scream anything out. The bus flips one more time, and then we're in open space, and I can see blue out both sets of windows, because above us is the pale, cloudless sky, and below us is the river, rushing up as the bus tips over the edge of the cliff.