13

M iles managed to snag a coveted first row parking spot at school: he was there earlier than normal because Jenna needed a ride to an art club meeting. He'd given her a hard time about losing sleep, but the truth was, he hadn't managed to get much anyway—he'd been up trying to decipher Jocelyn's tiny handwriting into the unholy hours of the morning.

A whole night of reading excruciatingly dull journal excerpts while Gabriel searched his family library for any further information on Jocelyn's disappearance, to no avail. It felt like they were running out of time, their luck about to dry up. Miles had been hoping to make a breakthrough before the weekend, especially with the Bryant party tonight, but it was looking less and less probable.

He hopped out of Blanche and strode to the outdoor tables, sitting at his usual one. The sun was out this morning, making a valiant attempt to win against the gathering rainclouds on the horizon, but it was still freezing. He buttoned his coat all the way up and pulled Jocelyn's journal from his bag, flipping to the bookmarked page. Bookmarked with a faded receipt, because he wasn't a monster who folded pages.

When I woke up last night, the pain was the worst it's ever been, fierce and stabbing in my breast. I'm afraid. Florence is acting strange, says nothing is amiss when she tries to heal me, but I can feel a presence in the house. I don't know how I would be able to go on without sweet Rosalie and all that she does for me. Her support keeps me standing. The dreams, filled with slick stone, the smell of dirt, a crushing weight making it impossible to breathe, seem less frightening when I'm with her. She says they're just dreams, that even seers can have nightmares that don't come true, but I can't shake this feeling something terrible is going to happen. That I can't do anything to stop it.

Miles had discovered Jocelyn was a lot closer to Rosalie and Harry Warren than he'd expected—nearly every entry in the last dozens of pages included them.

Even knowing she was going to try and murder Gabriel, it was impossible not to feel sorry for her, the weighty tragedy of her death. There was something so depressing about Jocelyn's friendship with the Warrens, especially Harry. She had no idea what was coming. No idea the man who she called her friend, an older brother she'd always wanted, would betray and murder her.

And these dreams she was writing about… Part of her must have sensed she was going to die. The stabbing pain, the crushing weight, the smell of dirt—it wasn't hard to imagine what had happened to her in the end.

Feeling ill, Miles made himself turn the page.

Car doors slammed in the distance, voices filling the air as more students started arriving, but Miles was too engrossed to move to a calmer spot. He scanned the next entry, his heartrate picking up with each word.

It's worse than I expected. I broke into Florence's room yesterday and though I initially found nothing amiss, something called me to a loose floorboard by her bed, a nudge of temptation against the back of my neck. I found a grimoire she'd hidden there, a vile, monstrous thing that made my skin shiver to touch. Certain pages were marked, pages containing blood spells, binding rituals, curses, things I never knew possible. And from it radiated the same chill I've been sensing. It wants to be used, demands it. I could feel it inside my mind already, whispering. The vile magic it holds… I'm afraid my dear sister might already be tainted by its corruption. I'm afraid of what she plans to do with it.

A grimoire. Some kind of evil spellbook. What had Florence been doing with a thing like that? And the way Jocelyn wrote about it, made it sound alive…

Vile magic. If the Hawthornes had dabbled to change their gifts, could this have been the start of it all—Florence Hawthorne and her hidden grimoire?

"Discover anything helpful yet?" Gabriel asked, sliding into the seat beside Miles and making him jump.

He swore. "Did you sneak up on me on purpose?"

"Yes," Gabriel deadpanned. "I was lurking about, waiting for the prime opportunity to startle you."

He thought he was so funny. Asshole.

"Whatever." Miles was too distracted to engage in their usual exchange of insults and exasperation. He didn't know how to answer Gabriel's question, didn't know what Gabriel knew. "Do you know anything about Florence Hawthorne? Jocelyn's sister?"

A furrow appeared between Gabriel's eyebrows. "She had our current house built, along with the family mausoleum and cemetery. You saw a picture of her in my first book, the woman in the fur coat. Supposedly, she was a talented seer. She brought in most of my family's first more prestigious clients—my mother is often compared to her."

A seer? But Jocelyn's journal said Florence was a healer.

"Why do you ask?" Gabriel questioned.

"It's nothing," Miles murmured, his mind spinning. Was this proof, then, that Florence had done something to change her gift? How did it tie in to Gabriel's death, if at all? And more importantly—did he know?

"You're hiding something."

Miles struggled to keep his expression impassive. He hoped Gabriel couldn't hear his thoughts. How were you supposed to not think about what you're thinking about? It was impossible.

This wasn't the time or the place to confront Gabriel about his family's dark deeds. Class would be starting in a few minutes and a band-geek a few tables over was playing a jazzy song on their trumpet, too upbeat for that conversation. "Let me finish reading, and then I'll tell you, okay?"

"I should expect to hear back from you sometime next week, then?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think it's safe to say that speed-reading isn't one of your skills."

"Oh, really? What are my skills, then? What, exactly, do you think I'm bringing to the table here?"

Gabriel's gaze skimmed over him dismissively. "Looming in an intimidating manner? Lifting heavy objects? Spotting things in the distance before anyone else?"

"Are you trying to make fun of me for being tall ? What is this, third grade?"

"Lifting heavy objects has nothing to do with your height."

"You're making me sound like a big ogre."

"You said it, not me."

Miles adjusted his grip around the edge of the journal so he wouldn't reach over and strangle him. "Shut up and let me read."

He focused back on it before Gabriel could reply, turning the page then pausing in confusion—there was only a single entry remaining. He flipped through a few more pages, but they were all blank.

It was short and messy.

I'm going to confront Florence about the grimoire tonight. Rosalie and Harry advised caution, that I should reach out to some other families for help, but they would persecute her without hesitation. I know my sister, and for all her flaws, she deserves a chance to do the right thing. I will go to her tonight and together, we can burn the wretched thing. I fear that I haven't been a good sister lately, that in my sel fish friendship with the Warrens and explorations of town, I missed the moment she needed me and gave in to the temptation of dark magic. I fear this is all my fault. Once it is done, I will beg for Florence's forgiveness and we can start anew.

That was it. The end of Jocelyn's entries.

Scrawled in the top corner, as on every other page, was the date. August 18th, 1917.

A pressure built behind Miles's ribs; a balloon inflated to the point of bursting.

Holding the journal open with one hand, he pulled his phone from his pocket with the other. It took a moment to find the picture of the article dates from the library.

Thistle Herald, August 20th, 22nd, and 23rd of 1917.

Her last journal entry had been written two days before the Thistle Herald reported her as missing.

"I think"—Gabriel looked over at the sound of Miles's voice, away from where a girl was struggling up the stairs with a teetering bridge made of popsicle sticks in her arms—"we might have it wrong. Harry might not have killed Jocelyn after all."

The relief at being able to say that made him feel so selfish.

The dates, Jocelyn confronting Florence, the grimoire, and her new gift. His aunt had said unnatural gifts wouldn't come without a hefty price tag.

And Harry Warren as a suspect—the article had said Florence was the witness who saw him following her sister, but they'd never found any proof of his involvement. She'd blamed him to cover her own trail and turned the town against him.

So, what—Florence had killed Jocelyn, her own sister, for a new gift? For money? Power?

Had Jocelyn's life been the cost all along, always part of the plan? Or had she been killed when she confronted Florence and revealed what she'd found?

It was like something from an old folktale, the kind that usually ended with a lesson when the villain got what was coming to them. Except in this case, Florence's decision had made her family rich and successful. The Hawthornes were still reaping the rewards of her choice, voluntarily or not.

He didn't want to be naive, but he wondered if his parents knew, or at least guessed, that Harry Warren had been falsely accused. It would explain a lot.

"We need to find out what actually happened," he told Gabriel urgently. Jocelyn's story was tied up in all of this, that much was obvious. "Because I think Harry was innocent. I think Florence killed Jocelyn."

Gabriel's attention slid down to the open journal. "What did you read?"

Aware of how suspicious it appeared, Miles snapped the journal closed and tried to think about white noise. They couldn't get into this right now. Everything was still sliding into place, dots connecting slowly, and the bell was about to ring.

"Tell me," Gabriel demanded. He looked ready to lunge for the journal.

Miles gripped it tighter. "I will, but—set aside everything for two seconds and trust me. Florence is the one—"

"Miles!" a cheerful voice interrupted, calling from the edge of the courtyard.

Emily was waving at him, surrounded by a few other girls, who gave him curious inspections. She was bundled up against the chill in a plaid puffer coat, wearing a matching pink hat and gloves. Forcing himself to smile—despite the glare scorching into the side of his head from Gabriel—Miles waved back.

"See you tonight?" Emily called. One of the girls beside her giggled, and Emily elbowed her.

"Yeah!" He kept forgetting the party. "I'll be there."

Beaming, Emily let her friends pull her away.

"What," Gabriel said, before Miles could even open his mouth, each word dripping with disdain, "was that ?"

"A…" Friend seemed too presumptuous when they'd only spoken a handful of times in the last year. "… Girl. Surely, you've heard of them."

"Are you going on a date ?"

Miles couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. Gabriel made it sound so absurd, like he'd never heard anything more ridiculous. His lip literally curled when he said it.

"Yeah. I'm going on a date. I've finally caved and decided to make my mom's dreams come true."

Gabriel glowered, clearly not picking up on the sarcasm.

"It's Jane Bryant's birthday party tonight and my parents are making me go. Emily's going to be there, too."

"Emily." Gabriel scowled at the doors she'd hurried through. "Emily Montero?"

"Do you know her?"

"We've never met, but I know of her. And her family." His mouth turned down at the corners. "Everyone knows Catalina Montero is desperate to set her only daughter up with someone from a reputable family. You don't have that going for you, but she seems more than willing to lower her standards."

Miles didn't want to crack up at that, but Gabriel was such an unbelievable ass. "Thanks for worrying about me, but I'm not going to get roped into a contract marriage for my bloodline. It's a party ."

For some reason, that made Gabriel angrier, knuckles stark white where he was holding his bag. "What I'm worried about," he hissed, "is you getting distracted. Do I need to remind you what's at stake here? You can flirt with desperate girls after we stop my death."

Where it was painful that his mom thought he was interested in girls, it was absolutely hilarious coming from Gabriel. He was so serious. Miles laughed hard enough that tears pricked the corners of his eyes, trying to smother the sound in the elbow of his jacket.

Gabriel's chair screeched as he stood, shooting a filthy look at Miles—he was trying to stop, he really was, this whole thing was just so utterly ridiculous—before storming off, his bag swinging wildly.

After he'd left and the bell rang, Miles realized Gabriel had been so caught up in being disgusted that he'd left without demanding Jocelyn's journal, or more answers about what was inside.

It was a strange thing to feel thankful for.