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  Plucking the shard of glass from the cave floor, I ignored the way the edges cut into my palm and whipped my hand forward, stabbing it into Coe’s chest. He howled—the sound of his pain was metallic and echoed off the walls of the cave—but he didn’t retaliate. The Stranger’s skin morphed from human to black snakeskin and back again. His face contorted in pain, and then that too changed. The featureless mask appeared. His arms stretched out until they were spindly. I stared in horrified fascination as he fell back against the wall of the cave, the weapon still in my hand, dripping with his blood.

  As his shape settled back into the person I called the Stranger, I noticed black liquid pouring out from between his fingers as he clutched the wound. His breathing was labored. When he looked at me, a strange sense of pride settled on his features. “Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, that’s right. You don’t know Shakespeare. Not here you don’t.” Wincing at the pain, he stumbled forward and fell to the ground.

  “I’m sorry.” It was a lie and we both knew it. Kneeling at his side, I said, “I just can’t let you hurt anyone anymore. It has to end.”

  Coe chuckled, sending bubbles of black fluid down his chin. When he smiled, I could see his teeth were coated in the stuff. “There is no end. There is only understanding.”

  The whites of his eyes filled with black until they were all unseeing darkness. He said, “Goodbye, Coe. For now.”

  My voice caught in my throat for a moment. “You’re Coe. I’m Quinn, remember?”

  “They are one and the same. And we are a monster.”

  “No. That’s not right.” The words left my mouth in a whisper. I thought back to when this all had begun, and the feelings that those events had stirred up within me. But one feeling stood out among all the rest. “You and I are not interchangeable—you represent the darkest part of me, a part we all have inside, but you only came out of me and into existence because of what my parents did.”

  I’d altered my reality. First, by changing this Brume. Then, when it wasn’t enough to keep my pain at bay, I’d broken my life into three. I’d created the wall of fog, the monsters, the camp, the war . . . but I must have done so to shield myself from the monstrous acts of my family. But then the new worlds I’d created grew to be more than I could handle, and the dangers I was forced to face at the jaws of a Ripper and the like were far worse than what I’d been running from—my memories. I hadn’t done any of it on purpose, or with intent to harm anyone. I was just trying to protect myself from pain. It was instinctual. And Coe . . . Coe had been feeding on that pain. But his meal was done now. I’d faced my truth. I realized that my family’s reaction to my truth wasn’t a reflection of who I was. It simply was. I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t run from it forever. But I could acknowledge the trauma of that rejection and move forward with newfound wisdom.

  A small, warm tear rolled down my cheek at my realization. “I’m not a monster, Coe. Even if sometimes I might worry that I am.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, wise Quinn.” He went still, eyes open, and I knew that he was gone. I’d killed him. I’d killed Coe.

  My heart ached. My being ached. Even though relief had flooded my every cell.

  Vindicated. Justified. Right. Those were all things that I had expected to feel upon Coe’s death, but I felt none of them. Strange enough, what I felt was . . . pity.

  With gentle fingers, I closed the lids over his eyes. His body liquefied then—black, shiny ooze painting the cave floor. Then it suddenly dissolved, filling the small space with a haze that dissipated just as quickly.

  With newfound strength, I stood and exited the cave into the morning gray. Waiting for me were Lia and Caleb. As I approached, Caleb reached over and took Lia’s hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze that she returned with a smile. Lia’s voice filled with wonder. “Do you see that?”

  Caleb’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “My God. The wall of fog. It’s . . . it’s clearing.”

  I watched the gloom with fragile hope. It looked as if it was clearing—just as Coe’s haze had a moment ago. But I didn’t trust it. That is, not until I saw the street signs on top of the stop sign, which read Taylor Drive and Oaks Avenue . . . and the buildings beyond.

  We were free.

  I was free.

  Acknowledgments

  After publishing so many books, you’d think it’d be easier for me to name and thank all the many wonderful people who helped me out along the way, but the truth is, it never gets any easier—which is a blessing, really. I’m surrounded by so many supportive people. Family, friends, business acquaintances, librarians in the trenches, teachers . . . how am I supposed to thank them—you—all in a couple of paragraphs? The answer is . . . I can’t. But I’m damn sure going to try.

  Unending thanks to my brilliant and ever-so-patient editor, Andrew Eliopulos, who guided me through every inch of making this book work. Without you, Andrew, Quinn simply would not be Quinn, and I’d probably be lost in the wall of fog. You’ve been a wonderful friend and your unfailing belief in me is a beacon in my life. Here’s to new worlds that we’ll build together, and all the good that will come of our collective hard work.

  To my fabulous agent, Michael Bourret: MB, you’ve been an enormous part of my career—and better, my life—for over fourteen years as of the first publication of this book. You’ve cheered with me during the good times and given me a shoulder to cry on during the bad times. In short, you’ve always been there for me, and I hope you know that I’ll always be there for you too. Keep up the good work, Jiminy. Because I need you in my life.

  No worries, Minion Horde, I haven’t forgotten about you. Whether you’re a first-gen Minion or new to our weird little family, you inspire me every day to keep going, keep fighting, keep trying, keep living. I owe you so much. From my li’l black heart to yours, every word I write is for you. Thanks for having my back, as always. I’m hugging you all with my squishy, squishy brain.

  To all my friends—and it fills my heart with astonished glee to know that I have so many . . . too many, in fact, to list you all here—you’ve supported me in ways that I did not realize one could be supported. Thank you, from both current me and that teen me who didn’t have any friends. Each one of you is a positive ripple in the pond of life.

  And finally, I owe unfailing gratitude to my family, the Brewer clan. Alex, you inspire me every day to keep laughing no matter what I’m dealing with and remind me when it’s time for swearing and when it’s time for hugs. Jacob, you inspire me to be strong in the wake of any storm and to know my truth and embrace it fully. And my dearest Paul . . . life is full of roses and thorns, my love, and though it’s not always easy to walk through the garden, I’m so glad to be walking through it with you. You’ve all been there for me even when I couldn’t be there for myself. I’m alive because of me, but I enjoy living because of you. Thank you. For both your love . . . and the many, many cups of Starbucks you provided during the creation of this tale. What’s all we got, fam? Because that’s all we need.

  About the Author

  Photo by Alex Brewer

  Z BREWER is the New York Times bestselling author of several books, including the Chronicles of Vladimir Tod series, and more short stories than they can recall. Their preferred pronouns are they/them. When not drying readers’ tears because they killed off a beloved character, they write books. Z is also an outspoken mental health and anti-bullying advocate. Plus, they have awesome hair.

  Z lives in Illinois with a husband person, one children person, and four furry overlords that some people refer to as “cats.” Visit Z online at www.zbrewerbooks.com.

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  Books by Z Brewer

  The Ghost of Ben Hargrove

  The Cemetery Boys

  The Blood Between Us

  Madness

  Into the Real

  THE CHRONICLES OF VLADIMIR
TOD

  Eighth Grade Bites

  Ninth Grade Slays

  Tenth Grade Bleeds

  Eleventh Grade Burns

  Twelfth Grade Kills

  THE SLAYER CHRONICLES

  First Kill

  Second Chance

  Third Strike

  The Legacy of Tril: Soulbound

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  Copyright

  Quill Tree Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  INTO THE REAL. Copyright © 2020 by Z Brewer. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Cover photography © 2020 by plainpicture

  Cover design by Joel Tippie

  * * *

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937712

  Digital Edition OCTOBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-269140-8

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-269138-5

  * * *

  2021222324PC/LSCH10987654321

  FIRST EDITION

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