15

G abriel was waiting outside the wrought-iron gate as he said when Miles pulled up at eight o'clock sharp, his coat buttoned up to his chin and hair windblown.

Miles signaled him over impatiently—Blanche didn't appreciate sitting in park for too long. Her engine was already starting to whine in protest. Gabriel gave her a dubious frown as he came around to the passenger side.

"I suppose I should have asked if your car was up to this," Gabriel said as he slid into his seat. "I don't feel like breaking down on the side of the freeway because this thing can't go at a reasonable speed."

Miles patted the dashboard gently. "Shh, she can hear you."

"She?"

"Yes, she . Her name is Blanche and if you don't treat her with the respect she deserves, you can walk."

That shut Gabriel up. He buckled his seatbelt, the click somehow tense.

"Show me where we're going?" Miles prompted.

Gabriel held his phone out, displaying a website for Oakes Hollow, a luxury assisted living senior care facility. Lower down the page was a picture of a huge brick building surrounded by trees, and an address for a place several cities over.

Copying the address, Miles popped it into his phone's GPS and pulled back onto the road, turning towards the nearest freeway entrance. His radio didn't work and his car was too old to have an adapter, but he wished he had something to fill the silence.

"Oh, here." He grabbed the coffee from his cup holder and passed it to Gabriel, who took it with a look of trepidation. "Two sugars, right? You said no snacks, but I need my morning tea or I'll fall asleep halfway there."

He'd stopped by his favorite coffee stand on the way over, spending the last of the money he had from the Mendoza job. Hopefully, Blanche could make it there and back today on half a tank of gas.

Gabriel took a sip of his coffee. Miles waited for a reaction, but he didn't do anything—no snide comment, no sneering. He didn't even set it back down in the cup holder, just took another sip and studied the passing scenery.

"Everything okay?" It was silly to think something was wrong because Gabriel was being less of a dick than usual, but his energy seemed off. Part of Miles was scared it was because of what he'd told Gabriel yesterday—was he less okay being around Miles now? Was he going to bombard him with questions— when did you know you were gay, how do you know for sure, why haven't you come out yet —that Miles wasn't ready to answer. "You seem… I dunno. Did something happen?"

He merged onto the freeway and maneuvered around a battered van belching clouds of toxic black smoke.

"I'm fine," Gabriel said. "It was a stressful night, that's all."

Not about him, then. It was surprising, considering Gabriel's judgmental family, that he wasn't being weird. Maybe he had a queer relative he was close to, or maybe he liked boys too and—

Miles shut that thought down immediately. It wasn't his place to speculate about anyone's sexuality, and it wasn't his business. He'd look like a first-class asshole if Gabriel overheard him.

Reassured, Miles took in the way the collar of Gabriel's shirt was caught on his jacket, the bruised circles under his eyes. Small things that spoke volumes.

"Did you not sleep well?" he asked hesitantly, remembering what Gabriel told him about his prophetic dreams. Gabriel shrugged, which confirmed Miles's suspicions. "Did you see anything that might help us?"

"No."

He clearly didn't want to talk about it. Miles didn't need his empathic abilities to know Gabriel was upset.

Most days, Miles found driving soothing, taking the long routes home to keep his foot on the gas a little longer. But today, Gabriel was in the passenger seat, all bristles and edges, filling the small space in a way Miles was painfully aware of.

"I know we aren't—we don't really—" He chewed at his bottom lip. "I mean, if you ever want to talk about stuff that's going on with you, you can. I'm not great at giving advice but I'm a solid listener."

A beat of silence. He didn't dare look at Gabriel, gaze glued to the road.

"My mother," Gabriel murmured, so quietly that Miles almost didn't catch it. "She's more on edge than usual. Not taking clients, vanishing for hours, snapping at Edmund more often. It's making things… difficult at home."

Miles glanced out his window, taking the moment to hide his pity and let his concern push forward. The possibility that Gabriel might be able to hear made him nervous. "Is she giving you a hard time?"

Gabriel let out a long exhale. "That's kind of her thing."

Miles had noticed. Everything about that woman was hard, from the manipulative veneer she wore at her parties, to the finely honed blade of cruelty she wielded without remorse.

Poor Gabriel never stood a chance.

The clouds were a dark, ominous ripple against the sky. If Miles rolled down his window, he'd be able to smell the coming rainstorm. On the horizon, snow-capped mountains emerged from the morning fog.

"Do you know why she's on edge?"

"Does it matter? If it wasn't this, it would be something else."

Miles didn't know what to say. "I guess not. Can I—is there anything I can do?"

He immediately wanted to snatch it back. Gabriel's words from that day in the bathroom echoed in his ears— you must be delusional if you think you have anything I need —and his grip tightened around the steering wheel.

Nothing. Then—

"You mean that, don't you?"

"Yeah? I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

Gabriel didn't respond. When Miles dared to peek over, he was turned away, watching the passing cars out the window. That was a no, then.

Still, he'd opened up. It counted as progress, no matter how small. Progress meant something had changed between them. Miles didn't know why, he didn't know how or when, only that it had.

"You never did tell me," Gabriel eventually said, "what you read in the journal that makes you think Florence is behind Jocelyn's disappearance."

Miles knew this conversation was coming, had spent his night thinking about it instead of sleeping. In the end, all he could do was be sincere and hope that Gabriel would do the same in return. And if he already knew about what Florence had done, what his family might still be doing… Miles would have to deal with that if it came to it.

He pulled the journal from his jacket pocket and passed it over to Gabriel. "Read the last few pages. Start with the entry about her nightmares."

Gabriel read silently but quickly, his fingers tracing over the words. The furrow was back between his eyebrows, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm not sure I understand," he said when he finished.

Miles couldn't detect any sign of deceit. "People… talk about your family. Just gossip, you know? But it's about your gifts." He hesitated, not sure how to say the next part. "How they aren't quite… normal. And how that could happen. What price you'd have to pay for that sort of thing."

Gabriel wasn't an idiot. He could connect the dots. "And Florence had a grimoire. You think she found a spell—" He cut off, scanning the pages again. "It says here she was a healer. But I know she made her fortune as a seer."

The heavens finally opened, fat raindrops plinking against the windshield. Miles flipped on the wipers, cringing at the initial squeak. "Something happened, something that changed her gift. And Jocelyn disappeared. That last journal entry was a day or two before she went missing. A day or two before Florence accused Harry Warren of killing her. But he was never actually charged because no proof was found."

Staring down at the journal, Gabriel's profile was even paler than usual. "You think Jocelyn's life was the price."

"I think it wouldn't be too big of a jump to make," Miles responded carefully. "I think whatever's going on, it started back with Florence and Jocelyn and now, it's connected to your death. We need to find out what happened—if Jocelyn was a sacrifice, or a casualty, or if there's another story. Aside from your family name, the single lead we have is your gifts."

"What do you think, that my family is still murdering people?" Gabriel's voice was harsh, too loud for the car. "That I murdered someone, because of what I can do?"

"No ." Miles poured every ounce of honesty he had into that one word. "No. I never thought that about you." It felt terrible to be relieved, but he was—he'd been sure Gabriel wasn't involved. Almost sure.

The rhythmic swipes of the windshield wipers and tapping of raindrops against glass filled the air. It was a tense pause, but Miles was happy to give Gabriel the time he needed. A red car flew by, a German Shepherd hanging its shaggy head out the window, unbothered by the drizzle, brown fur ruffling in the wind.

"All I know," Gabriel finally said, "is that I've had my gifts for as long as I can remember. As a kid, my mother told me I had to keep them a secret, that the other families would kill us out of jealousy if they found out we could do things they couldn't. But something"—he crossed his arms, fingers digging into the woolly fabric of his coat—"has always been off. Shifting under my skin when I use my gifts, a feeling that shouldn't be there. I think I've known for a while that… that there's something wrong inside of me. I don't know what I thought, but I didn't think it was evil."

Gabriel was upset, the edge to his voice jagged shards of broken glass. He was just as likely to cut if handled wrong.

"Hey, we don't know that," Miles hurried to reassure him. "We don't know anything about why your gifts are the way they are or what your family's done—"

"Don't coddle me," Gabriel snapped. "You don't know how this feels. If Jocelyn's life was sacrificed for this, if it was born of black magic, it's evil. And if that means I'm evil, then so be it."

"I didn't say you were evil."

Gabriel was right; Miles didn't know. His empathic abilities had always felt natural, a part of him. It must be awful to feel anything else about something you were born with. Something beyond your control.

"We don't know anything for sure." His voice must have been too gentle because Gabriel gave him a stormy glower. But it was important to say. "Gather all the facts before jumping to conclusions, right? And for the record," he kept his voice carefully light, "I don't think you're evil. You're rude, yeah. And the biggest snob I know. A massive pain in my ass, if I'm being honest. But not evil."

Gabriel didn't answer, and Miles's teasing grin faded.

"Has anyone else in your family ever mentioned anything like this? Feeling off?"

"I would never dare ask my mother," Gabriel said hollowly. "And Edmund refuses to use his gifts, has for years now. He's always been hotheaded and rebellious. He's decided to punish our mother by pretending his powers don't exist. And… he hates them."

"Can he read minds like you?"

"No. He can touch people and see their past. He doesn't have control over what he sees, it can be anything. People's worst or best moments, their most private times… he sees it all."

That explained the gloves Edmund wore.

Miles had never heard of the ability to look back in time. Even Charlee only got a vague sense, an out-of-context image or echo of the emotions that had attached themselves to the item.

"And your younger brother?"

"Bram?" Gabriel hesitated. "He hasn't shown any gifts yet. You can imagine how thrilled my mother is about it." There was a protective bite to his voice.

How ironic that Felicity had attacked Miles's mom at the party over Jenna's lack of gifts. Being a big hypocrite was another thing to add to the list of her lovely qualities.

"My sister, Jenna, is older than him and not showing yet. I'm sure it's fine."

His parents were worried about her, but they would never be cruel to her. He doubted that Felicity had such reservations.

Bram was lucky, anyway. Gabriel's and Edmund's gifts seemed less than desirable.

"I hope he doesn't." Gabriel echoed Miles's thoughts. "Whatever's been done to us, whatever Florence did, he doesn't deserve that."

Neither did Gabriel.

"It might be too late for me, but there's still hope for Bram. I don't want whatever's inside of me to touch him. I won't let it." The words were fierce with determination.

Miles could see Gabriel sorting through his emotions, tucking them away in that carefully detached way of his. He needed to say something . "We'll get the truth from your grandma. She has to know. We just need to be careful about how we play this." He hated that they couldn't confront her and demand answers, that this required so much tiptoeing around and lying. He wasn't made for it.

"My great-grandma," Gabriel corrected him. "I had an idea of what to say to her, but now…"

Miles was struck with the idiotic urge to reach over and put a hand on his shoulder, squeeze his fingers, anything to reassure him he wasn't alone.

"Hey," he said instead. "Stick with your plan and we can go from there. If we find out what happened to Jocelyn, what Florence did, we're already making loads more progress than we have." He worried at his bottom lip. "I was thinking last night… if Florence did murder Jocelyn, this all happened before your current house was built. Her body could be buried near the original house or"—his skin crawled to say it out loud—"hidden under the floorboards or in the walls."

Gabriel looked repulsed. "I already told you, the old house was demolished years ago."

"That's okay, we don't need the physical house. The closer we are to Jocelyn's body for the banishing ritual, the better chance we have of it working, so even if your grandma can give us a general idea of where it used to be…"

"This grand plan of yours has a lot of holes."

"We're information gathering today. No matter what, if Jocelyn is your killer, we can banish her spirit. Even if we can't find out what happened to her or where her body is, the ritual is still possible. I'd just feel better increasing our odds of success the first try."

And for Miles's first time ever attempting it on his own. From the unconvinced look Gabriel gave him, he was thinking the same thing.

"You've never actually done this before, have you?"

"I have," Miles said quickly. "With my dad. From the sidelines. But I was taking mental notes the whole time and it didn't seem that difficult. And I helped with most of the steps."

"Wonderful," Gabriel said dryly. "It's not as if my life is dependent on getting this right. Then I'd have to worry."

A half-laugh slipped out of Miles. At least Gabriel sounded closer to himself.

"You've never seen your mom banish any of the spirits she's summoned during séances?"

"No. She commands them to leave and they do. She has complete control when she's working."

Gabriel clearly didn't realize that wasn't normal. Séances required planning, protective circles, and a backup plan if the ghost decided they didn't want to leave. There was always an element of uncertainty and risk involved.

The Hawthorne sons obviously weren't the only ones with abnormal gifts. But Miles didn't have the heart to point that out.

"It's fine," Gabriel said, "I already figured as much."

Damn it. "I thought we talked about this. Friends don't read friends' minds without permission."

"I suppose it's a good thing we aren't friends, then."

Miles couldn't tell if he was being serious or not.

"How about," he settled on, "we focus on banishing Jocelyn and saving your life. After that, I'll let you hire me to fix your messed up gifts, too. My rates are ridiculously high, but I know you're good for it. As a rule, not-friends charge other not-friends for helping out."

To his relief, Gabriel let out an amused huff. "Deal."

***

Oakes Hollow was as luxurious as Miles had expected. Uncomfortably close to a posh New York hotel rather than a retirement community in northern Washington.

As Gabriel spoke quietly to the person at the front desk, a middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and an emerald blazer, Miles waited to the side. Paintings lined the walls—the style done in swooshes of soft color and looked like one thing until you tilted your head and saw something completely different—and soft, vaguely familiar classical music filled the foyer. He might've sat down on the surrounding chairs if they'd ever been used. But the cushions were perfectly plumped, golden accents on the arms gleaming.

Miles couldn't imagine his grandma in this place, cruising the halls in her pink leopard-print slippers, giant knitting bag slung over her arm, needles and tufts of yarn spilling from the top.

Gabriel had been talking with the front desk attendant long enough that Miles was starting to feel uneasy. Maybe they were too bedraggled after an hour and a half in the car, and the attendant didn't want to let them in.

He was pretty sure he'd stepped in muck in the parking lot. What would happen if he moved and left two muddy footprints behind on the plush carpet?

Subtly, he tried to tilt his foot enough to check.

"Let's go," Gabriel said, materializing beside him and making him jump. The attendant was waiting at a nearby door, holding it open with a strained smile.

Miles followed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. No mud. "Problem?"

He checked the attendant's emotions as he passed but she wasn't suspicious or distrusting, only impatient. Ready for lunch, Miles would guess, based on the hunger radiating from her.

Gabriel shook his head. "I wasn't on the visitor list. I let Marjorie know I was coming, they just needed to verify with her. Standard protocol for first-time visits."

If she was anything like Felicity, Miles could understand why Gabriel hadn't bothered dropping by before today.

The attendant gestured for them to follow her down a quiet hallway.

"I was worried they weren't going to let us in."

Gabriel's gaze flitted down to Miles's faded band T-shirt. "Yes, perhaps I should have warned you to dress… not in your usual style."

Ouch.

He smoothed down his shirt defensively—it had been a gift from his dad after Miles found his collection of old records in the garage. "Don't diss Led Zeppelin, or you'll be hitchhiking home."

"I have no problem with the band. It's your shirt that needs to be thrown out."

"There's no way you're a fan of Led Zeppelin."

"Of course, I am—they're one of the most influential bands of their time. I make a point to educate myself on the popular artists of all generations. And I find their originality very… refreshing."

Miles couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had to be in a confusing, backward reality where Gabriel Hawthorne had good taste in music.

The attendant cleared her throat delicately. Miles hadn't even realized they'd stopped in front of another door, he'd been so distracted. "Marjorie has tea on the patio this time every day." When Miles gave the dreary weather a dubious look, she repeated, " Every day . Let a staff member know when you're ready to leave and they'll escort you out."

They were let out onto a covered patio filled with round, glass-topped tables and cushioned chairs in various shades of green. Rose bushes crawled up the trellis lining both sides of the patio, the air sweet-smelling despite the chill. A few yards away, a three-tier white marble fountain burbled from the lawn.

The patio was mostly empty, no one bothering to look in their direction as they entered. A solitary elderly man in a robe appeared to be sleeping, his head tilted back in his chair, mouth slightly ajar.

"She's almost ninety," Gabriel warned Miles as he led them across the patio, "so I'm not sure how her health is. Don't let her touch you—her gift is similar to mine, so your thoughts won't be private. And don't tell her you're a Warren."

Miles didn't need to be told twice. The last thing he wanted was to get clobbered by a little old lady. She might hurt herself.

In the corner, a woman was drinking from a delicate teacup and gazing across the lawn, impassively watching the downpour. Her acknowledgment of the nasty weather was a thick black cardigan, fastened all the way up. She had a pure white braid down her back, her face wrinkled and creased like the worn leather seats in Miles's car.

Her expression didn't change when she saw her great-grandson. "Gabriel. I was surprised to hear from you." She made no move to get up and greet him. Miles's grandma would have wrapped him up in a suffocating hug by now. "You're so tall now. A bit skinny, though." Her attention snapped to Miles. "Who's this with you?"

"This is Miles. Miles Westwood," Gabriel introduced, naming another of the other gifted families in the area. "He gave me a ride so I didn't have to inconvenience the chauffeur. Miles, this is my great-grandmother, Marjorie Hawthorne."

Miles hoped his smile was convincing. He didn't hold out his hand for her to shake. "Nice to meet you."

"Westwood. Are you Trisha's son?"

"Nephew, actually." The lie sounded obvious to him, but she nodded and gestured for them to sit.

Miles took the seat across from her, lowering himself carefully into the fragile wicker chair. It creaked ominously but held, even as he adjusted to fit his long legs under the small table.

He wasn't sure why it surprised him that Gabriel's great-grandmother radiated the same harshness as Felicity, a winter tundra compared to most people's mild spring. He'd assumed she might have thawed slightly in her old age.

She waved over an attendant by the door to demand another pot of tea and two extra cups. Once Gabriel and Miles had steaming tea in front of them—a light and floral aroma wafting up—she straightened in her chair and fixed Gabriel with a look.

"You said you had questions about our family history. Is there a reason your mother couldn't answer them?"

Gabriel absentmindedly traced the wafer-thin lip of his teacup with his pointer finger. "She's been busy—you know how she gets when she's working. I presumed it would be better to talk to someone with reliable, first-hand information, rather than waste my time digging through the library."

She inclined her head slightly. "What did you want to know? I might be old, but my memory is still sharp."

Gabriel took a sugar cube from the dish in the middle of the table, dropping it carefully into his tea. "I came across a book about the original Hawthorne home on the property, and I'd be very interested in seeing what remains. But I've walked the grounds extensively and haven't seen any trace of it." He stirred in his sugar with a tiny silver spoon, the circles tight and precise.

Marjorie considered him for a long second. "It was torn down before I was born. I'm sure there's nothing left of it now."

They had no way to know if she was telling the truth or not. Miles lifted his mental shield slightly, startled to find she didn't have an inky cloud around her like Gabriel and Edmund. Instead, the darkness had settled over her in a slick shell, hard and impenetrable. A solid, immovable barrier.

He couldn't sense any of her emotions, but an aura of… wrongness radiated from that barrier. Miles's skin itched; he could taste cold metal on his tongue. He was scared to reach any closer to it.

"Even if there's nothing left," Gabriel continued, oblivious, "could you tell me where it was?"

Marjorie's eyes narrowed. "Why are you so interested?"

Gabriel was unfazed. "Our family history has caught my attention lately. Specifically, your aunt Jocelyn's disappearance and the questions surrounding it."

"Harry Warren murdered her," she said icily. "That's all there is to it."

"Except," Gabriel took a sip of his tea, "that's not the truth, is it?"

Miles wished he could dissolve straight through the floor. He was an unwelcome third wheel in this conversation.

Marjorie's focus was shrewd and suspicious, challenging. "When you need to know, your mother will tell you. Have faith in her judgment."

Not ominous at all.

To Miles's surprise, Gabriel reached out and placed his hand over Marjorie's where it rested on the table. "Her judgment is what worries me," he murmured. "I need to know what truly happened to Jocelyn. What was done to her. What's inside of me. There's more at risk than you know."

Gabriel was giving away too much. He was upset about what he'd learned in the car and his emotions were getting the best of him—something Miles had never thought he'd say about him.

They needed to get answers from Marjorie, or this whole trip would be worthless.

Her demeanor softened ever so slightly as she pulled her hand free. Miles wondered what she'd seen, what Gabriel had shown her. "You sound like Barnaby." It wasn't a name Miles recognized but Gabriel didn't react. "He was stubborn too, questioning the gift that was given to him, and it cost him his life. It never sat right with me, what happened to him, but—" She cut herself off, voice wavering slightly before she straightened her shoulders. "The most important choices are never easy. Family always comes first, remember that."

"Like Florence put Jocelyn first?" Gabriel asked quietly.

There was a pause. Marjorie frowned. "My mother was born a second-rate healer. Her gift was weak, near worthless. She did what was necessary. With great sacrifice comes great reward, and she made the greatest of sacrifices."

She knew. And worse, she condoned it. In her mind, Florence had drawn the genetic short straw and that justified murdering her own sister. It made Miles sick to hear such an emotionless defense of murder. Beside him, Gabriel's knuckles went white around the arm of his chair, the wicker creaking.

"That's the Hawthorne way," Marjorie continued. "We take. We don't settle for mediocrity."

Miles felt no triumph in obtaining this truth. It was taking everything in him not to jump up and yell at her about how evil she sounded, how sick and twisted.

"Jocelyn's life was taken . My choice in this, if I ever had any, was taken ." Gabriel's voice betrayed him, cracking slightly. Seconds away from shattering apart completely.

Under the table, Miles shifted his leg until it pressed against Gabriel's, their feet nudging together. It was all he could do.

"I need to know if what Florence did can be undone," Gabriel said, the words a touch more composed. "Please, Grandmother, give me this one thing. For Edmund and Bram. Put your family first."

Marjorie scrutinized her grandson, his words hanging in the air between them. Miles didn't dare move.

She stood suddenly, surprisingly agile for her age. "I can't give you the answers you want," she said steadily. "And I can't tell you where the original house is. Your mother kept you away from that place as children, and I won't defy her wishes now."

Coming here had been a waste of time. She wasn't going to talk.

But as Gabriel sat there, his eyes lit up.

His grandmother dipped her chin. "Thank you for the unexpected visit, but I'm finished talking for the day." She withdrew a small black bag from her pocket, setting it deliberately on the table. "The truth can be dangerous, Gabriel. Be sure that you want it before you go and seek it out."

She reached down to grab her polished cane from where it leaned against the table, and walked away.

Gabriel waited for her to disappear through the doors before picking up the pouch, turning it over. Miles leaned over to get a better view of the stitching on the front, purple thread in a familiar, four-petaled symbol.

"That's a protection sigil."

Gabriel made quick work of the drawstring ties, the bag unfolding like a flower in his palm. The scent of garlic and cloves, woodsy and warm, filled the air. A worn silver ring set with a red gemstone encaged by a curved branch gleamed up at them.

"Wait," Miles warned Gabriel as he reached for the ring. It wasn't the only thing in the bag. "Amethyst, black quartz, sea salt… those are all used in protection spells. We probably shouldn't touch it."

"It's a ring," Gabriel said dismissively. He snatched it up before Miles could stop him.

Nothing happened.

"Why would she give that to us?" Miles asked. "Is it supposed to be a clue?"

Gabriel turned it over and squinted down at it. "There's an engraving inside," he said. "F.A.H. Florence Ann Hawthorne."

A chill ran down Miles's spine. The prospect of touching anything that had once been Florence's made him feel grimy. "How is that going to help us find the old house?"

"It won't. She already told us where to go."

"She did?"

Gabriel nodded, cinching the bag closed, the ring once again hidden inside. "Somewhere my mother forbade me from going as a child. The Bone Woods."