17

C harlee arrived less than five minutes after the tow truck.

Miles had to dig his insurance information out of the dashboard to let them know he'd been in an accident, remembering to grab Jocelyn's journal too—thankfully untouched by the fire. Then he called the police, because it turned out he'd crashed through a little fence. Property damage was going to look great on his record.

And he still hadn't figured out how he was going to tell his parents. Or, more accurately, what lie he was going to come up with.

The police officer had been fine, all things considered, tsk ing when Miles said he'd swerved to avoid a deer that ran in front of his car. He asked a few questions, took down information, and offered them a ride to the nearest hospital. He didn't seem convinced when Miles declined, scanning their filthy appearances dubiously, but didn't push the issue.

Charlee's car, a small silver Honda, was barely put into park before she came flying out of it, a red-haired, neon-green-jacket-wearing bat out of hell.

"Are you hurt?" she demanded, yanking Miles in for a spine-crushing hug without waiting for an answer. "I can't believe you! Out of all the stupid things you've done—what were you thinking?"

"I'm fine," Miles reassured her, allowing himself to sink into her embrace. In truth, he didn't feel fine at all. Far from it. Blanche was wrecked and he'd almost been killed. "We're both okay."

She went rigid and pulled away, glaring over his shoulder at where Gabriel was standing, iron box still clutched in his hands. "I'm assuming this is your fault. Why am I not surprised? Chaos follows you Hawthornes around, doesn't it?"

"Charlee—"

"You're right," Gabriel said over him, meeting Charlee's hard stare without flinching. "It was my fault."

Why did people act like Miles couldn't make decisions for himself and was helplessly led around by whoever he was with? He'd driven Gabriel of his own free will. He hadn't said anything to stop him from taking the ring out until it was too late.

"I warned you about him," Charlee told Miles, jabbing an accusing finger at Gabriel. "I said he was nothing but trouble and you'd get hurt. Look at him—he doesn't care! And you've been putting yourself on the line left and right for him."

"That's enough, Charlee."

She ignored him. "You Hawthornes are remorseless, using people like tools with no regard for—"

"Stop it!"

A stunned hush settled over them.

Miles never raised his voice. He hated the way it made people stare at him, the way Gabriel and Charlee were staring at him right now.

"Can we please not do this?" he asked his cousin, more quietly. "If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me. Later . I'm wet and tired, Blanche is wrecked, my jacket is ruined, and I don't have the energy to deal with you starting a fight."

The thing about Charlee was, she was all snark and barbed words and flaring temper. But when she knew she was wrong, she was never too proud to admit it.

"Sorry," she apologized. For a second, she looked painfully young. He'd scared her. "Are you actually okay?"

She didn't even glance at Gabriel.

Miles wanted to reassure her, but the tow truck revved its engine and with an agonizing screech, pulled Blanche free of the tree. Her front bumper dragged through the sludge painfully for a foot or two, before giving up and falling off.

Everyone teased him about his car. She wasn't perfect, but she was the first thing he'd ever bought for himself, the first thing that was his . His when he needed a break, space from his family, to feel the peace of driving around with the windows down at night. And he loved her for it.

Charlee shifted closer to him. "I'm sorry. Do you want to—"

"I want to go home." He didn't want to talk about it, because that hot, itchy feeling was slinking up his throat, and the one thing that could make this day worse was crying in front of Gabriel.

He grabbed his coat from the ground, wringing it in his hands. It was completely ruined, singed and filthy, reeking of burnt fabric and melted plastic, but he didn't want to just leave it there.

He could feel Charlee's sympathy, so he found Gabriel instead. He was watching Miles the same as he always did, calm and indifferent. It helped soothe the pain gnawing at his chest.

Miles made himself look away. "Let's go."

***

Miles had never been ashamed of his house before. It was cluttered and worn and small, but it had always been home. Where he listened to his mom scold his sisters, where he could find his dad napping on the couch at almost any given time, where he and Charlee marked their heights on the kitchen doorframe every year. Each scuff on the floor or scrape on the wall told a story of his family.

But as they pulled up with Gabriel Hawthorne in the backseat—the boy with an estate and butlers and a bedroom the size of Miles's living room—insecurity gnawed at him.

"I'll go find the first aid kit," Charlee said as she opened the front door, nudging aside a basket of apples on the porch. Another bi-weekly drop off from clients who hadn't been able to afford his dad's fee. This couple ran an orchard outside of town, so apples it was.

When Miles refused to let her take him to a hospital—they weren't going to tell him anything he didn't already know, and he'd have to pay for it—Charlee insisted she'd be checking him over, with a stern look he was positive she'd learned from his mom.

Gabriel tentatively scraped his shoes against the faded doormat, a futile attempt to reduce the amount of dirt he brought into the house.

"Want me to whack you with the broom a few times?" Charlee asked coldly.

"I don't think that will be necessary." Gabriel shuffled his feet once more before stepping over the threshold, closing the door carefully behind him. He still had the iron box tucked under his arm, his hands held out awkwardly in front of him, speckled with tiny cuts and smears of blood from crawling over the windshield glass.

Charlee rolled her eyes and vanished into the kitchen.

"So, uh, this is my house," Miles said. He suddenly noticed how ragged their overstuffed couch was. His mom had left her herb clippings all over the coffee table. And that coffee cup had definitely been there since yesterday. "You don't have to stay. Trust me, Charlee won't care."

"Edmund won't be here to pick me up for a while." Gabriel didn't seem to notice that Miles was having an internal crisis. "And I wouldn't mind cleaning up. Unless you want to just put me out on the curb in the rain."

Ha, ha. "Don't tempt me."

He tugged off his boots—gross, even his socks were wet—and left them by the door to deal with later. When he turned around, Gabriel had wandered deeper into the living room, studying the array of mismatched photographs on the walls. He was horrified to see the corner of Gabriel's mouth quirk up slightly.

Oh, no.

"You don't need to look at those," he said quickly.

His mom had a knack for choosing the most mortifying pictures: Miles as a kid in a homemade Spider-Man costume; Amy and Jenna making him cry the Christmas they opened all his presents before he'd woken up; a beach vacation where Miles was missing his two front teeth but still grinning widely at the camera.

Gabriel was studying that last one intently. "I've never been to the beach."

It was hard to imagine him playing in the sand or the surf. "I was like, eight in that picture," Miles said, wishing he could yank Gabriel away. "My dad had rare free time, so we went down to Oregon for a week. I got the worst sunburn, and the seagulls were relentless." It was a favorite memory of his.

Turning away from the photos, Gabriel studied the living room again, searching for something specific with a crease between his eyebrows. He lingered on the old throw blanket that Miles's grandma had knitted, and the side of the outdated fridge visible through the kitchen doorway, cluttered with art his sisters had made, report cards, and important pieces of mail held up by mismatched magnets.

"Sorry." Heat crowded under Miles's jaw—he couldn't imagine what Gabriel was thinking. "It's a bit of a mess, between my dad's crazy work schedule and my mom—"

"It's not," Gabriel interrupted. "It's… nice."

"Uh, thanks." Miles ran a hand through his still-damp hair. Gabriel was just being polite. "C'mon, there's a bathroom upstairs you can use to clean up."

He led Gabriel up the staircase, passing Aunt Robin's firmly closed door. On the top floor, Miles opened the bathroom door for Gabriel, stepping aside so he could squeeze in. He didn't hesitate before stepping up to the sink and turning it on, didn't look twice at where Miles's toothbrush sat on the edge or where his dirty shirt poked out of the hamper in the corner. He handed Miles the iron box, rolling up his mud-stained sleeves to rinse his hands and forearms, the water running murky brown and pink with blood.

"I'll grab you a clean towel," Miles mumbled. It was strange to see Gabriel's real face reflected in his mirror.

The closet at the end of the hall had towels in it. Miles dug through to find the fluffiest, least worn one. He was jittery and uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't quite name. This whole day felt like a nightmare he could only half recall.

He could hear splashing from the bathroom as he approached the open door.

Gabriel's head was bowed over the sink as he rinsed his neck, rubbing at the dirt speckled along his pale skin. He straightened, dark hair damp and mussed, the top buttons of his shirt undone to show the hollow of his throat and exposed collarbone. His eyes met Miles's in the mirror, catching and locking for a long second.

A weight settled on Miles's ribcage. He wanted to ask what Florence had meant, what Gabriel really thought of him. He wanted to know so badly it hurt.

"Here's your towel." Miles handed it over, his fingers aching where he'd been twisting it in his grip. His mouth was dry. "I'll go—I'm gonna grab a dry shirt."

He made himself walk away. His bedroom was the next door down. It didn't feel nearly far enough.

Avoiding his mirror, Miles went and slid open the window by his desk, a chilly breeze wafting over his too-hot skin. He broke out in goosebumps but didn't move.

He was the world's biggest idiot.

The world's biggest, most cowardly idiot.

He set the iron box on his desk with Jocelyn's journal and pulled his shirt off, dropping it to the floor with a wet plop . The back of his neck was flaming as he marched over to his closet, grabbing the first sweater he saw and yanking it from the hanger. A restless, unsettled itching under his skin made him want to slam the closet door closed and kick at his chair.

He wanted today to be over. To crawl into bed and not come out until he stopped being so stupid and got his brain back on task.

Because it wasn't, not even close. Florence had said Gabriel was keeping secrets and hiding things. Yet all Miles could focus on was the way Gabriel had looked at him when he'd come back to himself. How the tip of his nose had brushed against the line of Miles's neck. How he'd just lain there when he'd assumed Gabriel was leaning in to kiss him.

The creak of the hallway floor sent him spinning around. Gabriel was standing in the open doorway, holding the towel, his hair freshly ruffled, the top buttons of his shirt still open. His gaze flicked down to Miles's bare chest, a rosy color rising on his cheeks that made him appear almost feverish.

There was a tremble of electricity in the room, a heaviness to the air despite the open window. Warmth sizzled up Miles as he stared back, sparking in his veins and at his fingertips. He had the silly urge to cross his arms. Neither of them said a word.

His thoughts scattered, dandelion seeds in the wind when Gabriel took a step closer, then another, close enough that Miles could see a single bead of water caught on the corner of his lip, right below his beauty mark. Close enough that he could see the lighter flecks in his smoky gray eyes and—

Stomping footsteps came racing up the stairs and Miles nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to back away. Gabriel didn't even flinch.

Jenna and Amy crashed into each other at the end of the hallway, a mess of blonde hair, curious gaping, and brightly colored jackets.

"Charlee," Amy called. "There's a weird boy lurking up here."

Nice.

Miles stepped around Gabriel, careful not to brush against him. "He's with me, dork. Be polite."

"A friend?" Jenna was way too surprised. "You never have friends over."

"Thanks," Miles said wryly. She was seriously going to do him dirty like that? "Yes, a friend. From… school."

Amy and Jenna exchanged a look.

"What's he doing here?" Questions left Jenna's mouth at the speed of bullets. "Why are you all muddy? Is that blood on your face? And why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

Miles yanked his sweater on. "I was trying to change before you two came stampeding up here. Don't you have homework to do?"

"Nope," Amy said cheerfully, skipping over to Gabriel, Jenna close behind her. "What's your name? Do you have classes with Miles?"

"Yeah, what's he like at school?" Jenna was studying Gabriel the same way she did her science books.

"I bet he's boring," Amy added. "An awkward nerd, right?"

Gabriel's gaze darted between Miles's sisters as they bombarded him. "There's two of them."

"We're twins," Amy supplied helpfully.

"Identical, not fraternal," Jenna added.

Miles took pity on him. "These are my sisters, Jenna and Amy, who obviously have no manners despite being raised in a household where it's polite to introduce yourself before talking the guest's ear off." They both had the decency to look sheepish. "This," he gestured at Gabriel, "is G—Gerald."

Gabriel glowered at him.

" Gerald? Are you an exchange student?"

"No," Gabriel replied. "It's a… family name."

Charlee appeared with a plastic first aid box in her hands. "Okay, this hallway isn't big enough for so many people. Jenna, Amy, move along. Your brother needs patching up." She shook the kit at them meaningfully.

"We want to talk to Gerald," Amy pouted. "No one interesting ever visits."

Charlee snorted. "Yes, I'm sure Gerald is very interesting, but I need his help. You'll have to convince Miles to make more friends some other time."

She squeezed past the twins, pushing Miles and Gabriel back into Miles's room and closing the door firmly. "You"—she pointed at Gabriel with a menacing finger—"don't talk to them. And you"—now it was Miles's turn for the digit of doom—"sit down."

Miles sat reluctantly, watching Gabriel in his peripheral vision as he studied all the sketches and art tacked up on the walls. If Miles had known they'd be coming here, he would have made an effort to tidy his room. A tower of folded laundry nestled atop his dresser, charcoal and pencils spread across his desk, and the solitary plant on his windowsill wilted pathetically. His bed was a rumpled mess, his pillow fallen on the floor, and a stack of books leaned precariously by his bedside table.

He'd never had another boy in his room before—at least, not since he was a kid. Definitely never a boy like Gabriel.

He hissed when Charlee dabbed at the cut on his head. She wasn't being particularly gentle.

"You don't need stitches," Charlee told him, pulling out a jar of Miles's mom's turmeric paste, made specifically for cuts. She applied it, and a light, gingery scent filled the air that never failed to make Miles think of scraped knees and blackberry bush scratches. She finished it off with a Band-Aid.

"Thanks." The cut had been hurting the least out of everything, but he wasn't about to tell her that.

"Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?" She took a penlight from the kit, shining it in his eyes while he tried not to blink. "Your pupils seem fine. Probably no concussion, then."

"I'm fine. I don't even have a headache."

"If you say so." She closed the box with a snap. "Just don't go to sleep for a while."

"That's actually a common misconception," Gabriel said, still staring at the walls. "It's perfectly safe to sleep with a concussion."

Charlee said something under her breath, too low for Miles to make out. But it didn't sound pleasant.

"Thanks," he said, taking the first aid kit. He caught Gabriel's attention and gestured for him to sit. "Your turn. Let me see your hands."

Gabriel held them out, not even scowling or giving his usual exasperated huff. And he didn't complain when, palms out to reveal the no-longer-bleeding cuts, Miles crouched down in front of him and painstakingly put a Band-Aid on each tiny one. His fingers stopped shaking after the third.

It was overkill, and they both knew he'd take them off the second he left, but Gabriel didn't say anything.

"I like your drawings," Gabriel said casually. "I'm not usually a fan of pencil and charcoal work, but yours are better than most."

Miles kept his face down, focused on Gabriel's hands, on his slender fingers. "Thanks." It was possibly the nicest thing Gabriel had ever said to him. He could feel Charlee seething from where she was leaning against the wall.

He finished and leaned back on his heels, giving Gabriel a quick once-over to make sure there were no mortal wounds that he might be hiding.

"Are you out of Band-Aids yet?" Gabriel's voice was too soft to be scathing.

Miles had to look away. "Yeah, yeah, you're free."

Charlee coughed pointedly, as if they possibly could have forgotten she was there. "Your mom called me while I was in the kitchen. She and your dad are going to stay in Spokane overnight. The job is taking longer than expected and they don't want to drive home in the dark." Miles couldn't hide his sigh of relief. Facing his parents tonight would have been one thing too many.

"I'm thinking we say I drove to that bookstore with the second-floor cafe, the one right outside Seattle, but my battery died so you drove over to give me a jump. It'll explain what you were doing all the way out there. Between the rain, slick roads, and deer with a death wish, they can't blame the accident on you."

Miles could've hugged her for the next week straight. "You think they'll buy that?"

"I don't see why not. There's no need for them to know he"—she jerked her chin at Gabriel—"was involved."

The mountain of lies was starting to teeter.

"Jenna and Amy saw him, though."

"They saw a school friend of yours. We'll say he was stopping by to pick up something for a project. Easy-peasy."

"That all seems adequately believable." Gabriel sounded almost impressed.

Charlee all but snarled, "I'm not doing it for you."

"Thank you," Miles said, before she could get into it with Gabriel again. "You know I owe you a million."

She took that as her cue to leave, grabbing the first aid kit with a huff and slamming the door behind her. The cup of pens on Miles's desk rattled.

"Here." Miles strode over to his closet and pulled out a navy blue hoodie with a cozy fleece lining. It was impossible to ignore Gabriel's shirt, nearly translucent with water—he must be freezing. "It's not cashmere, but it's clean and dry."

Gabriel took it from him, frowning.

"C'mon." Miles huffed out a laugh at his reluctance. "Don't worry, I won't tell."

Gabriel's hands dropped to the buttons of his shirt, and Miles quickly whirled around to give him privacy. Somehow, it felt almost more uncomfortable to stand there and listen to every rustle and wet-fabric noise, so he cleared his throat and went to his dresser to dig out a pair of dry socks.

Socks changed, Miles turned back around. Gabriel had the hoodie on, straightening out the arms with quick tugs. He'd hung his drenched shirt over Miles's desk chair.

If today had been a nightmare, the sight of Gabriel sitting on Miles's bed in his favorite hoodie, hands speckled with crooked Band-Aids, uncertain and embarrassed rather than cold and dismissive, was a surreal sort of dream.

"You're okay, right?"

Gabriel glanced away, but not fast enough—Miles saw the emotions he'd tucked away in the car trickling through. His mask had cracked between then and now, a porcelain plate beneath the blunt force of a hammer, and he was struggling to hold all the pieces together.

How could Miles possibly comfort him right now? How could he offer any reassurance or guarantee everything would turn out okay, that Gabriel wasn't tainted by his unnatural gifts, that what had been done could be undone?

"I never told you," he said slowly, "but the night I first met you, when I found you at the party, I could sense something was off about you. There was this void around you, a dark cloud keeping your emotions hidden." Gabriel looked stricken, so Miles hurried to add, "But it didn't scare me. It didn't feel evil. I was standing next to you and I was so relieved because everyone else was so overwhelming and you were… calm. Quiet. Weirdly comforting."

That feeling had struck a chord deep in him.

"What's your point?" The question could have been cutting if Gabriel didn't sound so exhausted. "That you've always had questionable judgment?"

"Luckily for you," Miles teased. "No, I just… whatever you feel inside of you, what if it's not as strong as you think? Influence can work both ways, right? Maybe you've been changing it for the better without even realizing."

It didn't come out nearly as eloquent as it had been in his head, silly now that he'd put it into words. But he didn't think he was wrong. Darkness and evil weren't one and the same.

Gabriel was staring at him. Miles didn't know if it was because he thought he was delusional, or if he was considering his words.

Chances were it was the former.

"Anyway…" Miles ran a hand through his hair. "Are you hungry?" He realized with a pang that he was starving. "I think we have leftover pizza in the fridge I can heat up."

"I could eat." He sounded far too agreeable—a word Miles never imagined he'd use to describe him.

Miles grabbed the iron box. "I'll put this downstairs so you don't forget to take it with you when Edmund shows up. It's technically yours, but—don't open it again."

"I wasn't planning on it."

Downstairs, he lingered by the kitchen table as Miles worked the pizza box out of the fridge and grabbed plates from the cabinet. He was certain it was nowhere near the quality Gabriel was used to—it was from a place in town, the owner always giving them a discount for helping with a cursed mirror she'd inherited a few years ago—but there wasn't much else in the house to eat.

"Okay, we've got pepperoni or what I'd guess is veggie lover. I'd offer you the last slice of Hawaiian, but I'm not that nice."

"I should have guessed," Gabriel muttered in disgust.

"What, are you a pizza purist?"

"Pineapple on pizza," Gabriel said imperiously, "is for masochists and children."

"Or people with superior taste buds." To annoy him, Miles took a big bite of the cold slice. "Mmmh, sweet and salty."

"You're repulsive." Gabriel peered into the pizza box. "I'll have pepperoni."

While their slices were being nuked in the microwave, Miles drank a glass of water, then poured another for Gabriel in case he was thirsty, glad someone had cleaned all the dishes this morning. Dreary sunshine streamed in through the window and cut across Gabriel's features as he peered around the kitchen, picking up the swirling dust particles around him. It reminded Miles of glittering firework sparks raining through the sky—and then his brain took a hard, unexpected turn into thinking about how pretty the explosions of color would be reflected in Gabriel's gray eyes.

He was so exhausted, he was starting to get delirious.

There were things to discuss: Florence, Jocelyn's body, the Bone Woods, how they were going to meet up now that Miles didn't have Blanche—but he was too tired and hungry. Gabriel must've felt the same, because he hadn't mentioned any of it, either.

The microwave timer beeped. Miles pulled out the plate, making sure it wasn't too hot before passing it over. Gabriel's gaze flitted around the counters from drawer to drawer.

"If you ask me for a fork, I'm kicking you out."

Gabriel opened his mouth, but Miles shushed him. "My house, my rules. We're going to eat pizza with our hands, like the Italians intended."

A soft snort escaped Gabriel. "Can I at least get a napkin?"

"If you ask nicely."

"If you don't give me a napkin, I'll have to resort to wiping my greasy fingers on your sweatshirt. That's not a threat, it's a promise."

Miles laughed and grabbed him one from the roll. He gestured for Gabriel to follow him into the living room. "Here, we can watch something while we eat." He didn't want to sit in awkward silence at the table and listen to each other chew.

Gabriel sat gingerly on the edge of the couch. His posture was still prim and proper, no hint of a slouch across the straight line of his shoulders.

Miles turned the TV on, finding it paused halfway through an episode of some cooking competition his mom must have been watching. He swapped it over to his favorite ghost hunting show. The familiar intro started, flashing leather jackets and spiked hair, spooky shots of Ouija boards and EMF detectors, and hallways illuminated in night vision green. Gabriel's eyes lit up.

"No demon hamster in this episode," Miles told him. "But I'm too hungry to spend time finding it." He mostly just wanted background noise, a comforting distraction.

The show played and Miles watched as Gabriel took a bite of his pizza, relaxing slightly against the arm of the couch. He let himself unclench, let it sink in that they were both okay, both alive, and tried to focus on the TV instead of the boy beside him.