11

A fter PE the next day, Miles escaped the locker room with a desperate shove out the door, coughing into his elbow—someone needed to ban body spray, it was a matter of public safety at this point.

"Excuse me," he murmured, shuffling his way through the crowded cafeteria entryway. The one good thing about being a tall weirdo was that most people scooched out of his path. "Sorry, excuse me—"

"Hey, Miles!"

Emily Montero waved him over. She was waiting in line for the student-run coffee stand, a modern-day Persephone embodying spring with her golden skin, floral-print dress, and butterfly clips along her twin chestnut-brown braids. Her smile hadn't changed since she was a kid—lopsided dimples on both cheeks and a little gap between her front teeth.

"Hey, Emily." His mom's words from the day before echoed in his ears. "How are you?"

"Ugh, cursing my existence. Mr. Wilson gave us a test and didn't even follow his own study guide, so I probably bombed it."

"Yeah, I had him last year and he did that every time." That rotten math class had been the main focus of Miles's stress for months. "I think his goal is to make at least three students cry every semester."

Emily laughed. "I'm glad we bumped into each other. I wanted to warn you—you're going to the Bryant party tomorrow, right?"

"Uh, yeah." They moved forward a few steps in line. "How did you—?"

"I think our moms are conspiring," she said, annoyance flitting across her face. "Or, mine is. She's being super pushy about us hanging out at the party, so I'm sorry in advance if she hunts you down and throws me at you like a piece of meat. You should hear her going on and on about our imaginary romance. I think she's already picking out wedding invitations."

She didn't seem remotely embarrassed—the idea of them as a couple must be just as ridiculous to her. Relief made Miles's shoulders slump. "My mom mentioned it, too. I'm so sorry, this whole match-making thing she's doing is awful. I don't know how to stop it."

"I get it. My mom's been back from Columbia for maybe two months, and she's already trying to set me up with so-and-so's son at these parties—limited eligible bachelors with gifted blood or whatever." Her nose wrinkled as they moved forward a few steps in line. "She's not saying that part out loud, but it's obvious. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised it took her this long to set her sights on you."

"Why would she care about gifted blood?"

As far as Miles knew, his parents didn't. His dad and Aunt Robin had both married ungifted people, so how could they?

Hopefully not, or the fact that Miles wouldn't be settling down with a nice wife and continuing the Warren bloodline might not go over so well. He could add that to the evergrowing list of things keeping him awake at night.

Emily sighed, the sound lost in the scream of the coffee bean grinder. "It's the divorce. She's all freaked out she's going to be cut off from the gifted families now. That's why she came back, you know. I'm her only in. And if she manages to marry me off to one of the families, she's extra safe."

"I'm sorry." He wished he had more to offer her. That he could tell her it wasn't true. But he'd given up the right to reassure her of anything about her life when he'd stopped being involved in it.

She waved him off, flashing glittery purple nails. "Don't apologize, you're going to hate me once she gets ahold of you. You remember how bossy she was? Ramp that up to ten." A grin shifted her expression into playful. "I have to admit, it'll be nice to not suffer alone anymore. Sorry, not sorry."

He laughed. It'd been so long, he'd forgotten how easy it was to talk to Emily. She had this unapologetic sincerity in the way she overshared, no fear of being herself or speaking her mind. If it bothered you, that was your problem. Miles had always been a little jealous of her, and how easily she made friends because of it.

"Anyway," she continued, "I just wanted to give you a heads up. My mom can be terrifying if you don't see her coming."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled." It was Emily's turn to order, so Miles stepped back. "See you tomorrow, then."

She tossed a confirmation over her shoulder before leaning in to order from a frazzled girl with braces and a fresh coffee stain down the front of her shirt.

Miles walked away, feeling a little better about the party—if he was forced to go, it would be nice to have someone there to talk to. As much as he hated to admit it, his mom might be onto something.

He found Gabriel at his same lunch table, a girl Miles didn't recognize standing tentatively next to it. She turned and hurried away, her cheeks bright red, embarrassment radiating from her with the force of the sun.

"Making friends?" Miles joked, sitting down beside Gabriel.

He was trying to shake off the awkwardness that had plagued him since yesterday. He looked at Gabriel and felt… guilty wasn't quite the right word, but it was close. A need to apologize for a million things, to reassure him he hadn't known the truth.

Finding out about the murder was bad enough, but after Gabriel had left the library, Miles had done more research. Harry Warren got away with it. Jocelyn Hawthorne's body was never found, so he was released due to lack of evidence. It was majorly messed up.

Which left Miles to wonder—had his parents not told him because they were ashamed, or because they believed Harry was truly innocent?

Part of him wanted to confront them and demand answers—despite knowing there was no way to do it without telling them about Gabriel, and that wasn't an option. A bigger part was too tired. He'd woken up feeling wrung out, as if over the course of the night his insides had been scooped out, little by little, so he hadn't noticed until he reached inside and found himself empty.

What was he supposed to do if his family were the bad guys? How was he supposed to come to terms with that?

Gabriel had merely shrugged when Miles told him Harry wasn't charged, saying, "I'm not surprised, the justice system has always been broken," before moving on, unfazed.

He made no sense.

"Hardly," Gabriel replied flatly, the noisy cafeteria doing its best to drown him out. His dark hair was messy in the front like he'd been running his hand through it. Miles couldn't imagine him making such a casual gesture. "Evidently, having my lunch break in peace is too much to ask for."

"You know," Miles said, pulling out the book Gabriel had given him that morning, his latest find from his family library. It was a collection of meticulously kept records from one of his ancestors who thought it was important to track every delivery and expense. Somehow, Miles had been saddled with the torturous job of digging through it for any mention of other Hawthorne-owned buildings or properties. "You could always try talking to someone."

"Why would I do that? I'm certain none of these people are worth conversing with."

"You talk to me."

"You're the exception."

It wasn't said with any unusual warmth or kindness, no attempt at flattery. But Miles was still irrationally pleased. Maybe he was growing on Gabriel.

If he pointed it out, he was sure Gabriel would seize the opportunity to compare him to a fungus.

"It's fine if you don't want to make friends, but you could try making fewer enemies? At least until we don't have to worry about you being murdered."

"Yes, because I'm sure my murderer is going to be an incompetent classmate, who can't remember to shower more than once a week and wears"—Gabriel's lip curled—"gray sweatpants and sneakers."

On cue, a group of jocks walked by, all of them wearing sweatpants and obnoxiously colored Nikes. One of them jumped, pretending to dunk his garbage into a nearby trashcan, the others cheering loudly.

Miles winced. But Gabriel was wearing slacks . "At least they aren't taking fashion advice from my great-grandpa."

Gabriel ignored him. "You can't exactly lecture me on making friends. You've known these people for years and you still sit alone at lunch. You don't talk to anyone."

Being called out as a loner by Gabriel Hawthorne was a new low. Miles studied the book in front of him so Gabriel wouldn't see his embarrassment. The cover was plain brown, the edges of the pages yellowed, smelling of old ink and his attic.

"On the topic of your murderer, I had an idea," he said warily, not sure how to bring it up. Since finding out his parents were big liars and his great-great-whoever was a killer, he'd been thinking. "You were saying before about context clues in visions. And I thought… what if your family crest is a warning?"

Gabriel knew what he was trying to say. "You think I'm going to be killed by a family member."

"I think… it's worth considering the possibility."

A muscle clenched in Gabriel's jaw. "I think you're confusing your family with mine. We don't have a history of murdering people."

Miles winced. A harsh blow, but a fair one. "Can you think of anyone we should at least take a look at?"

Felicity had been so cold. It wasn't hard to imagine there might be someone in the Hawthorne family who was worse. An uncle who killed the neighborhood cats in his spare time. A cousin who dabbled in arson at local orphanages.

"I don't make a habit of wondering if I'm going to drive people to murder," Gabriel snapped. "Especially not the few I'm close to."

All the questions that had been poised on Miles's tongue faded. Gabriel was right. How could you sort through your family, people who were supposed to love you no matter what, and try to decide which might kill you? And how would you come back from that once you did?

With how Miles was struggling right now, he should have known better than to ask.

"You're right," he admitted. "I'll drop it." It was easy to forget that Gabriel had feelings, and not just because Miles couldn't sense them. "Sorry."

"You're projecting your own conflicted emotions about your family onto me." Gabriel didn't sound mad anymore, studying Miles. "It's understandable, but unnecessary. The past is the past, you can't change it. You certainly shouldn't feel guilt over it."

It almost sounded like he was trying to make Miles feel better. Miles ducked his head, the force of Gabriel's probing inspection too much. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"I usually am." He pulled a battered copy of Frankenstein from his bag and flipped it open. That was that.

Miles wasn't going to bring up Gabriel's family as suspects again—but he wouldn't outright dismiss them, either. He couldn't afford to, not with that ominous clock ticking down. There was no escaping it, no knowing when it was going to hit zero.

Miles made himself focus on the book in his hand, opening the cover and skimming through income reports. More nearly illegible handwriting, all slanted letters and unnecessary flourishes.

Behind Gabriel, the homecoming committee was going from table to table, collecting donations. Miles was considering pointing it out, just to see what scathing remarks Gabriel had about school dances—he selfishly needed the laugh—when the pages he'd been idly flipping through abruptly stopped.

A hole was carved into the back half of the volume, a small, leather-bound book nestled in it.

"Woah." Miles turned it so Gabriel could see. "Check this out."

"A book," Gabriel said, unable to hide his surprise.

"A book inside a book," Miles corrected, feeling the first surge of giddy hope. He'd seen enough treasure-hunting movies to know valuable things got hidden away like this.

It came out easily, the cover springing open as if it wanted to be read. The first page had been written on.

"It's a journal." He paused as he scanned the next few lines. "Jocelyn Hawthorne's journal."

The little spark of hope snuffed out. Why, out of all of Gabriel's ancestors, did they have to find her journal?

"Toss it."

"What? Why?"

"In case you've forgotten, she's long dead. That isn't going to help us with our current problem." Gabriel's eyes darted away. " My problem."

He wasn't wrong. But what were the odds of Miles finding it, right here, right now? It was too much of a coincidence to be one.

Maybe this was part of what the universe wanted him to do: save a Hawthorne life, and finally put the mystery of Jocelyn's fate to rest.

"I'm going to read it," he decided, hearing the reluctance in his own voice. There might be something important in it, even if he wasn't thrilled to read the private journal of a girl his ancestor had murdered. Thinking about it made his skin crawl.

But Jocelyn Hawthorne deserved to have her story told. The truth told.

Gabriel scoffed under his breath, oozing dismissiveness.

"Hey, it could be important." Miles tried and failed to not sound defensive. "You could try and act somewhat invested in this."

"You don't think I'm invested?" Gabriel was using that tone again, like he couldn't believe what had come out of Miles's mouth. "In which part—her murder, or my own?" He didn't wait for an answer. "How do you want me to act? Get my hopes up at every little thing? Cry on your shoulder when it turns out to be nothing?"

"Don't be a dick. You know that's not what I'm saying. You keep acting so put out and annoyed that I'm trying to help. You're not thankful at all—"

"That's what this is about? You want gratitude ?"

Miles's face heated at the implication. "I didn't say that."

"Good, because then I'd be forced to remind you that I explicitly said I didn't want your help. You're the one who pushed your way into this situation."

"Yeah, because I didn't have a choice! If you die"—the words tried to choke him—"that's going to be on me. Don't sneer , it will be. I'd have to live with it. So, it would be nice if for just two seconds, you'd stop acting like such a cold, unfeeling jerk."

He managed to keep his voice down to a flustered hiss, aware they were still in a crowded lunchroom.

It bothered him that Gabriel didn't seem remotely freaked out. They had nothing to indicate when he was supposed to die—it could happen later today and they'd have no clue until they were standing in that stone room, staring at each other with the realization they'd failed. Yet no sign of Gabriel's fear from that first day in the bathroom remained. No urgency to his actions.

Miles didn't know if it was arrogance or lack of survival instinct, but Gabriel was investigating his own murder with the nonchalance of doing a school project for a grade he couldn't care less about.

He braced himself for the inevitable verbal lashing he was about to receive.

Instead, Gabriel smiled. The tiniest curl in the corner of his mouth, a little lift below his beauty mark, as sudden and jarring as a thunderclap.

Miles's heart pounded. That smile scared him more than anything else Gabriel could have done.

"You didn't have to yell at me," Gabriel said, making no effort to hide his amusement.

"I didn't yell," Miles stammered. What was happening?

"I have a feeling that was the equivalent of yelling for you."

Miles had literally been whispering.

"I'm…" Gabriel's smile slipped, and he lingered over each word before he let it out, "relieved to not be doing this by myself. Distancing myself helps me stay calm, stay focused. But I—I don't want to die."

That was all Miles cared about. A justification for this crazy endeavor. A reassurance that he wasn't taking this on alone.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Let's figure this out, then."

With that, Gabriel was back to his closed-off self, sitting back stiffly in his chair. He'd given Miles a peek beneath the mask, but only for a second.

Silence settled over them, Miles tracing where someone had carved their initials on the lunch table with his fingertip. He reached out to get a sense of Gabriel's emotions without thinking and plunged headfirst into that dense, silent cloud.

He'd forgotten. No empathic shortcuts with Gabriel.

He lingered for a moment, fascinated by the sheer lack of anything. This must be close to what astronauts experienced the first time they stepped into the void of outer space.

It was so strange to think that he had no way of knowing if Gabriel was lying. Was this what normal people had to work with? Instinct and blind faith?

God, it was awful.

"Come over this evening," Gabriel said suddenly.

Surely Miles had misheard. "What?"

Gabriel's gaze hovered somewhere in the vicinity of Miles's right shoulder. "To my house. My mother has a meeting out of town and will be gone for hours. It would be a good opportunity to check our personal library again, and I can show you around. Something might trigger another vision."

It wasn't the worst idea, but Miles suddenly wished he had an excuse, any excuse. "Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't."

Miles could feel nervous sweat prickling under his skin. Nearby, someone slammed their lunch tray down on a table, making him jolt. He needed to calm down, this wasn't a big deal. "Yeah, okay, then. What time?"

"I'm not positive when my mother is leaving, but I can let you know." Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Give me your number."

The first time a boy asked, and it had to be Gabriel Hawthorne. Miles was starting to wonder if he was cursed.

They exchanged numbers, Miles holding back a laugh at the appalled look Gabriel gave his battered hand-me-down phone. Just for that, he added the unamused emoji after Gabriel's name.

Gabriel glanced at the clock and reached for his bag. "I have to go talk with a counselor. They advised punctuality."

"A counselor? Why?"

"A meeting about my workshop class." Gabriel stood from the table. The front of his button-up was untucked slightly and Miles couldn't stop staring at it. "I think they're upset I haven't been to it yet."

Miles tore his attention away from Gabriel's shirt. "You haven't—are you skipping class?"

"It's workshop . It hardly qualifies as a class."

"Well, yeah, it's an elective but you still have to go. Be thankful you don't have PE."

"The public school system is horrifying," Gabriel said. "Physical education classes should never be required. I refuse to partake in them."

Miles laughed. Finally, something they could agree on.

"You could swap out of workshop," he offered, despite how much joy it gave him to picture a scowling, sawdust-covered Gabriel trying to work a circular saw. "There are a few different art classes, those are chill. Sometimes you can get away with a free period too, but that's mostly for seniors."

Gabriel hefted his bag onto his shoulder. "We'll see about that."

Miles suddenly felt extremely sorry for the counselor.

***

Once Miles got home, he slipped by his mom—she was brewing a mixture on the stove that made the whole kitchen reek of vinegar and rosemary—and went to his room. He hadn't heard anything from Gabriel about what time to come over, and he had a migraine that was making his whole skull ache. Reading those old books clearly wasn't good for him.

He hadn't managed to get through much of Jocelyn's journal during class. It was a snooze-worthy saga of a teen girl in a small town in the early nineteen-hundreds—but the last few entries caught his interest. Jocelyn had started writing about another psychic family in town, the Warrens, and her budding friendship with Rosalie.

It was weirder than he'd expected to read about his ancestors in such a personal way. Jocelyn shared all she learned about Rosalie as they grew close—she was a healer like Jocelyn's sister, loved soft shades of green, had a personal garden in the backyard where she doted on her flowers, and stumbled over her words when she got too excited. Miles remembered her from the photograph he'd found, the toddler in the white dress next to Harry.

Harry . Miles hated to think of the journal entries to come. He couldn't decide if it would be worse to read about Jocelyn's discomfort and fear of Harry Warren, or if she'd been completely oblivious to his obsession.

It was too morbid for him, and he dug up dead bodies on a regular basis.

Someone knocked on his bedroom door; a second later, Charlee let herself in.

"Hey," she said, joining him on the bed. She was in a fluffy blue turtleneck, her fiery hair in a messy bun, loose curls springing free. "Any updates?"

"Nothing new since the library last night. But, uh… Gabriel invited me over to his place so we can check out a few things."

Charlee reacted like he'd announced he was running away to join a boy band. "Please tell me you said no."

"It's not a bad idea. We're hitting dead ends and I—I keep freaking out. I have this feeling we're running out of time."

At least, that's what he kept telling himself so he wouldn't cancel. Miles typically didn't do well in these sorts of situations. Going to unfamiliar places outside of his comfort zone triggered his anxiety, and he had the added stressor of one-on-one time with Gabriel. To give himself some reassurance, Miles had an escape plan ready to whip out—the trusty pretend-text-from-his-mom excuse.

"You said that place gives you the heebies. You shouldn't ignore bad vibes."

"I know, but he never would've asked if he didn't think it was necessary."

She made a noise of disbelief. "He's got you wrapped around his finger, hasn't he?"

Warmth crawled up the back of Miles's neck. "He has not. I told you I was going to help him, and you said you'd deal with it."

"Yeah, but I didn't expect you to like him."

Was she insane? Miles couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity—wincing when it made his migraine throb viciously. "He's unbearable. And rude. And he always has this look on his face—" He cut himself off, not wanting to fall down that rabbit hole. "I'll admit, there's an occasional moment where he's not as bad as I expect. Very rarely. But there's a difference between that and liking him. A big difference."

He would never like Gabriel Hawthorne. Tolerating him was the most Miles could manage right now.

Her glower softened ever so slightly. "I just want you to be careful. Getting attached to someone you know is going to die—you're setting yourself up for pain."

Miles hated that people seemed to think caring about others was the same as stupidity or weakness. He wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't trying to get hurt.

"Can we talk about this later?" he asked tiredly. "I have the worst headache and I still have to go to Gabriel's."

Out in the hall, Jenna and Amy were fighting again, the wall doing nothing to block out their high-pitched voices. Their mom started hollering at them from downstairs, and they burst into giggles, the bedroom door slamming shut.

Charlee pursed her lips, but nodded. "Want me to grab you a piece of clear quartz? I have some freshly charged from that sunny day last week. Or your mom has her rosemary migraine stick thingy."

Either would help, but both sounded like a lot of effort right now. He mostly wanted to flop back down on his bed and sleep.

"Sure," he made himself say. He needed to kick it if he was going to be of any use to Gabriel. "Whatever is fine."

"No harm in—"

Her voice faded out. It took Miles a second to realize that his ears were ringing. Inky spots exploding across his vision, miniature black holes threatening to swallow him up.

Something was wrong. A flare of panic clenched around his throat as he fell onto the floor with a choking gasp, clawing at his shag carpet. His head gave another pulse of agony, searing heat dripping on his upper lip.

He heard Charlee's voice, but like an echo at the end of a tunnel. Distant. Fading quickly.

The world fell away.

Gray stone. The smell of must and damp earth. Light flickering as if from a flame. A crest of a tree on the far wall.

Miles knew this place.

There was a body on the stone floor. Gabriel. Gray eyes lifeless. A trickle of blood down his face. A red pool under his head. A blood-smeared chunk of rock beside him. His pale hand outstretched, fingers reaching towards Miles.

Behind him was a lifted platform, a woman laid out on it. She turned her head and looked at him with eyes that blazed like twin suns, dark with determination and rage. Her face was tear-streaked, her hands curled into claws against the stone.

Pain exploded in Miles's brain, and everything went black.

"—wait! He's moving. I think he's waking up."

Miles blinked dizzily, staring at the dust bunnies under his bed. He'd been pummeled with a baseball bat, based on the swells of pain still pulsing through his skull. His mouth tasted like he'd been sucking on a handful of pennies.

Charlee came into focus, lower lip trembling. "Miles? Are you okay?" She raised her voice. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, you're like two inches away," he slurred. His tongue was lead, heavy and useless. "What happened?"

She helped him sit up slowly and lean against the side of his bed. A noise drifted through the air, a distant voice, his sisters watching a video in the other room.

"You had a fit or something." She was drained of all color, making her freckles pop. "You fell on the floor and started convulsing, then you went limp. It scared the shit out of me. I grabbed you, but all I could see was this static, pure white noise. I thought you—I thought—"

Images flashed through his mind, a grisly kaleidoscope. "Not a fit, another vision. I need to tell Gabriel what I saw." He wiped his nose; his hand came away blood-smeared and shaking.

Charlee held out his phone. She must've taken it out of his jacket. "He's right here. I panicked and called him."

The noise Miles assumed was a video increased in volume, and he realized it was Gabriel's voice coming through the speaker. He did not sound happy.

"What did you call him for?" Miles hissed. He needed a minute to get everything straight, to stop quivering.

He couldn't stop seeing Gabriel's lifeless stare.

Charlee threw her hands up. "I was freaking out! You were convulsing and your parents aren't supposed to know about this. I thought he'd know what was happening to you. Sue me for trying to save your life."

Gabriel's voice got louder, more irritated.

Damn it.

Miles lifted the phone to his ear. "Hey, it's me, sorry." His apology was met with ominous silence. "That was my cousin, Charlee, she—"

"What happened?" Gabriel cut him off.

"Hang on. I'm going to put you on speakerphone so Charlee can hear, too."

Maybe Gabriel would be nicer if someone else was listening. Or they'd both gang up on Miles. What a horrifying possibility.

He turned speakerphone on, leaning back against his bed. Charlee scooted closer and nodded.

"I had another vision," he told them, rubbing his aching temples. "A powerful one this time. Bad powerful. Really bad. I saw—"

"Are you hurt?" Gabriel interrupted. "The girl said you were having a seizure. I told her to make sure you didn't hit your head, but I don't think she was listening to me."

Charlee was glaring down at the phone with enough rage to make it burst into flames.

"I—" Miles wasn't sure what to say. Of everything that had just happened, Gabriel being worried about him was the most unexpected. "I think I'm okay. Thanks?"

"And my name's Charlee, don't pretend like you didn't hear me say that," Charlee added angrily.

A crackle of static came through as Gabriel sighed. "Apologies—I was a bit distracted at the time." He made that sound like her fault; her nostrils flared. "Miles, what did you see?"

Bile rose, pressing against the clenched wall of his teeth. He needed to tell Gabriel about his body, about the bloody rock, but not right now. Not over the phone and not while Charlee was listening in. "I saw the same place as before, and… I think I saw your killer. A woman—I didn't recognize her, but she was intense. Super angry. Pretty scary, honestly. Definitely capable of killing someone."

He should be thrilled they finally had a solid lead, a suspect. That it wasn't anyone he recognized or—a fear of history repeating itself that he'd been trying not to think about—one of his own family.

But Gabriel had been dead .

Miles shivered, chilled sweat slicking the back of his neck. "I'll try to sketch her for you. In case you know who she is."

"But why did it affect you like that?" Charlee asked, before Gabriel could respond. "You looked like you were dying. I thought you were."

The vision had hurt, hammered into his brain. He took her hand, giving what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. Under his shirt, the metal of his protective charm necklace was warm, but that could have been from his skin.

"Whatever's making them happen, these visions are the only leads we have," Gabriel said curtly. "If they stop, we've got nothing."

Miles shook his head at Charlee, who was glaring at the phone again. Gabriel's bluntness wasn't anything new.

"I wouldn't know how to make them stop anyway," he admitted. "Figuring this out is the best way."

"Agreed." But his words were displeased, as if he was annoyed they were on the same page. "Do your sketch and bring it over. My mother is leaving in an hour."

"I don't think Miles should be driving," Charlee said firmly. "He's still shaking and pale and doesn't—"

"I'm not—" he started, embarrassed. Gabriel probably already thought he was being dramatic.

Gabriel interrupted them both. "She's right. You shouldn't be driving if you're not fully recovered." What upside-down hell was Miles currently living in where Gabriel agreed with Charlee? "Surely she can give you a ride over."

Charlee scrambled for a second. "That wasn't—"

"Perfect. Miles, text me when you leave."

She gaped at the phone in disbelief as Gabriel hung up.

"He's right," Miles said, before she could start. "The sooner we figure this out, the better. You don't have to drive me over there, though. I'm fine."

He expected her to protest, but her thoughts were clearly in other places. "Who do you think it was? The woman you saw."

Dark hair, pointed chin, the family crest on the wall… "I think she might be a Hawthorne."

"Gabriel will recognize her then, right?"

"I don't know. I've been worried about this, after what your mom said about the Hawthornes paying a price for unnatural gifts."

"What are you saying?"

He wasn't even sure. It was an unsettled half-feeling creeping under his skin, a whisper coiled in the back of his mind. "If the Hawthornes have been messing around with the boundaries of spells, if they're doing dark rituals, I don't think Gabriel knows about it."

He was a pretentious jerk, but that was a far distance away from… animal sacrifices or blood spells or whatever. Plus, he didn't seem the type—surely, he wouldn't wear so many white shirts if he was in constant proximity to blood splatter.

And it was hard to imagine Gabriel doing anything that would get his hands dirty.

"I'm just wondering," he continued, "if it all ties in. If Gabriel's going to end up being… collateral damage. If he found out and tried to do something about it—would they kill him for it?"

Yet again, he wondered if they were doing the right thing by not walking away.

"You're assuming Gabriel would turn against his family if he found out they were dabbling in forbidden magic," Charlee pointed out. "And that's if he doesn't already know."

It sounded too foolish to say, and he knew what Charlee's response would be— he's got you wrapped around his finger, hasn't he —but he couldn't shake the feeling that Gabriel wasn't involved. That deep down inside of him was a little spark of goodness.

A spark that could be the reason he ended up dead.

Dead, dead, dead . The word flashed through his mind, a neon sign over Gabriel's body. He imagined it highlighting the pool of blood beneath his head, reflecting in his glazed, lifeless eyes.

He'd known Gabriel was going to die, that it was the inevitable ending to a death premonition, but seeing it… Seeing it was different.

Miles now knew exactly how this would end if he failed.