2

D riving through Thistle while the town was still asleep always unsettled Miles. Houses dark and alien-looking, streets empty, a muffled quiet draped over the whole world. Not sinister but unfamiliar, the place he'd lived in his whole life changed by the witching hour. For a few minutes, he was a ghost slipping unnoticed through the shadows of a town frozen in time.

He rolled the windows down despite the chill to soak in the peaceful silence, inhaling the scent of leather and the too-strong air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. The smell never failed to settle the anxious energy itching under his skin, dulling those jagged edges for the length of a car ride.

Thistle was the type of town that wasn't small enough to be quaint, or big enough to be bustling. His mom said it was the perfect size, but despite spacious streets and neat rows of shops lining them, despite the surrounding forest and mountain views, Miles found it claustrophobic. He could never quite catch his breath, never fill his lungs all the way.

Miles's shoulders sagged as he pulled into his driveway. The faded sage green paint of his two-story house, the dried-out wreath pinned limply to the front door, the scraggly weeds sprouting around the stone steps… He'd never seen a more welcoming sight.

The engine grumbled as he parked, Blanche as exhausted as he was. He gave her dashboard an extra pat before leaving. She might be one problem away from becoming a certified hunk of junk, but at least she was reliable—more so than he'd expected when he bought a thirty-year-old BMW for eight hundred dollars from a guy with a collection of dilapidated cars parked in his front yard.

And besides, even if there were a few things wrong with her—the air conditioning didn't work, she took a combination of coaxing and cursing to start, her paint was faded and straight up missing in multiple spots—she had character .

The wooden gate squealed shrilly as he opened it, rattling the lopsided mailbox hanging onto the fence for dear life, and announcing his arrival to everyone on the block. Few neighbors bothered speculating anymore, but his family's comings and goings at all hours of the night never failed to rile up hushed gossip. The ones who knew what they did—people they'd helped around town or who believed in the supernatural—kept understandably quiet. Those who didn't were mostly used to the odd behavior by now. Sure, the occasional comment was made about his mom's extensive herb garden, about the jars of water they left out in the yard on full moons to purify, about the late nights out, but it was nothing new. Miles's dad joked that as long as the police didn't show up, things were fine.

Miles trudged up to the front door, halfheartedly shaking off the dirt crusted on his clothes before going inside.

His parents were in the kitchen, his mom at the stove in her worn purple robe, his dad slumped over the table with a mug of coffee in front of him. He didn't stir when Miles walked in, a sure sign of another late night.

His mom greeted him with a smile, swooping over to give Miles a kiss on the cheek that smelled of lavender and mint. "Everything go okay?"

Sarah Warren was a short, blonde-haired woman with the kind of open, friendly face that meant strangers always struck up a conversation in the grocery store line and visiting clients never hesitated to leave their kids with her. While she wasn't gifted—she'd married into the family business—she spent her time putting together charms and ritual sets, gardening herbs, and gathering supplies. She was too stubborn and too smart to live in this family without contributing.

"Yeah, just a little tussle, nothing I couldn't handle." He set the envelope of money on the counter beside three new pies in plastic containers, which he eyed in disgust. His dad had taken a haunting job from a family on the other side of town, the Hiatts, despite them not being able to pay. Instead, Martha Hiatt dropped off homemade pies every week. Every single week. Miles had never eaten so much mushy fruit in his life. "The Mendozas send their thanks, and what feels like a hefty tip."

His mom's disapproving look softened as she glanced over at his dad. "Thanks for taking care of it. Your dad definitely wouldn't have had time." She raised her voice pointedly. "Isn't that right, Adam?"

The last three nights, his dad had been taking emergency calls and meetings with clients. It wasn't unusual—most supernatural-related events were urgent to the average person experiencing them—but with Aunt Robin out of commission again, he'd been handling them alone. Which was why Miles had sacrificed his Thursday night to go out and deal with Mrs. Mendoza.

Miles's dad lifted his head blearily, hair sticking up in the front. "Yeah, thanks. Whatever tip money is in there is yours."

Miles tried to not let his glee show. From the thickness of the envelope, he'd have enough to buy the new charcoal set he'd been pining over. Not one of those cheap little cardboard boxes, either—this was a professional-looking metal tin with blenders and kneaded erasers included.

"You should take it and go get a haircut." His mom's fingers combed through Miles's dirty-blond hair where it was growing out on top. "It's getting longer than usual."

Miles was, admittedly, not great with change, but he was liking the messier length. "Maybe," he settled on, ducking away from her touch. "You're going to get graveyard muck on you."

She laughed but washed her hands, gesturing for him to sit at the table. A minute later, she set a plate of pancakes and a steaming cup of tea in front of him. Miles warmed his hands around the rough pottery of the mug before taking a sip.

"The thought of food was the only thing that kept me digging," he told her, dousing the pancakes in obscene amounts of syrup and shoveling bites into his mouth. They were perfect—crispy brown around the edges and fluffy in the middle.

His cousin, Charlee, appeared in the doorway as if summoned, her red hair the brightest thing in the room. There were pillow creases on one of her round, freckled cheeks, a sign she'd recently woken up. "Do I smell pancakes?"

"What are you doing up?"

"I wanted to make sure you made it home alive." She gave him a critical scan as she joined him at the table. "You're back late."

He'd made pretty good time, all things considered. "Digging up a grave isn't exactly quick work. Not that you'd know."

She smirked. "Don't be mad that I'm smart enough to avoid grunt work."

Charlee had graduated the year before, so she was usually home during the day, helping Miles's mom with picking up supplies and running deliveries. It left her plenty of time to come up with perfect excuses to dodge the more unsavory jobs.

"I'd rather spend the night in the cemetery than do supply runs all day." Those meant small talk with strangers; Miles tried to avoid that as much as he could.

"Congratulations," she told him. "You're officially turning into a graveyard gremlin. Next, you're going to say you prefer ghosts over people."

"Not when they try to strangle the life out of me."

"Didn't hit it off with Mrs. Mendoza, then?"

He tilted his chin so she could see the bruising marks. "What do you think?"

His mom pursed her lips as she piled a batch of steaming pancakes onto Charlee's plate. "Are you sure you don't want to stay home from school today? Those are going to get worse."

Chewing, he shook his head. He had a project due in Chemistry and if he missed it, he'd be the only person presenting on Monday. Awkward. He'd just slather up the bruises with his mom's homemade arnica salve—that stuff worked miracles.

"There's a jar in your bathroom," she said, reading his mind. Not literally—that power was beyond even the strongest of psychics. "But it's not going to help much. Wear a scarf."

Anything but that. "C'mon, Mom, you know I hate—"

"Scarf," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for arguments. Charlee snickered from next to him. "Or you're staying home. We don't need the school launching an investigation."

"Fine," he grumbled. She was being dramatic—no one paid that much attention to him—but he wasn't going to tell her so.

His dad didn't move the whole time Miles and Charlee were eating and after a minute, snoring filled the kitchen.

Adam loved the family business, loved helping people, Miles never doubted that. But on these mornings, it was impossible to not see what a toll it took. How ragged and worn his dad seemed when he wasn't awake and trying to hide it.

Sometimes, Miles suspected he was staring directly at an image of his future self. And he didn't think he liked it.

He stood from the table, taking his now-empty plate over to the sink—he was too tired to let depressing thoughts rattle around in his brain. His bed was calling his name, a sweet siren song he was helpless to resist.

"Thanks for breakfast, Mom. I'm gonna go sleep for a bit." If he got in a few solid hours, he might have a chance of surviving the school day.

"Hang on." His mom bit her lip, then went over to her purse. "I was hoping your dad would be awake for this, but I don't want to miss you on your way out the door later…" She pulled out a cream-colored envelope, offering it to him like it was rigged to blow.

Miles took it as Charlee watched with narrowed eyes. Tucked inside was a single piece of black cardstock, the kitchen light gleaming over the silver embossed font. It had today's date written on it, eight o'clock underneath.

A bit anticlimactic. "What's this?"

"It's an invitation to the annual dinner party at the Hawthornes'."

Ah . Her sour, puckered expression made sense now.

The Warrens were one of many psychic families in the area. They dispelled spirits, cleansed homes, removed possessed items, sold protection charms and herbs—work that didn't always pay the bills, and meant they ate spaghetti for dinner three nights in a row at least once a month. While his dad took jobs that helped those in need, like the Mendozas or the Hiatts, a lot of money and influence could be found in communicating with spirits or sharing visions of the future. The Hawthornes had taken advantage of that long ago, living a life of luxury and affluence.

And they'd trampled Miles's family to get there.

The families had settled in Thistle around the same time, over a hundred years ago. When the Warrens had extended the hand of friendship, the Hawthornes slapped it away. They viewed Miles's family as unworthy competition, dragging their name through the mud and stealing clients from them to climb the ranks, selling their skills as a privilege rather than a service. The Hawthornes had nearly destroyed their reputation, badly enough that Miles's ancestors had considered moving away from Thistle for a chance to start over. He'd never met a Hawthorne, but he knew plenty: how they rarely deigned to visit town because they tried to avoid mingling with the common folk, and exclusively worked with high-class clients who could pay exorbitant prices for dramatic séances. Miles's mom called them "showmen."

The feud between the two families was old and ran deep, deep enough that any mention of them sent his mom into a foul mood, ranting about what entitled, rotten-to-the-core snobs they were. He wasn't completely sure why they had it out for his family but frankly, Miles assumed anyone who charged an absurd amount of money to speak to a dead loved one was a terrible person.

This annual dinner party was an opportunity for the Hawthornes to flaunt what that money had bought them. Always hosted at their estate right outside the city, Miles's parents went with the enthusiasm of people walking to the gallows. Attendance was required, to honor tradition and to keep the bonds strong with the other psychic families. If it wasn't for that obligation—and the fact publicly snubbing the Hawthornes would force the other families to pick sides—Miles was sure his parents wouldn't even consider going.

"Okay… well, good luck." Miles went to hand the invitation back, but his mom didn't take it.

"You're coming with us."

Charlee let out an incredulous snort, hazel eyes bright with mirth as Miles blanched.

"But I—why?"

"You're old enough now to start making appearances. And it will be good for you to mingle and meet the other families. Your dad and I agreed we want you to start getting more involved. We won't always be around."

Well, wasn't that a morbid cherry on top of this garbage sundae?

Arguments were poised on the tip of Miles's tongue, but he choked them down. He knew he wouldn't be getting out of this. His mom's disdain for the Hawthornes was passionate enough that she'd never ask him to go unless he had to. He'd managed to avoid this fate for as long as he could, it seemed.

He tossed the invitation onto the counter. "Can we talk about this later? I'm about to fall over."

"Of course," his mom said gently. It made him feel worse.

It was a good thing he'd dug up a grave, otherwise he'd have no chance of falling asleep now. His day hadn't even started yet, and it was already going terribly.

"Better dig out your dancing shoes," Charlee called as he left the kitchen. Miles tossed a dirty look over his shoulder. Very funny.

Crossing to the stairs, he passed his aunt Robin's bedroom, door firmly closed. A flimsy wooden barrier between her and the rest of the world that did nothing to hold back the storm of painful emotions seeping out, ravenous rot spreading over the walls.

Miles kept up a near-constant mental shield so he could protect himself from being bombarded with people's emotions, an umbrella over his head—it kept him dry, but he could still hear the patter of the rain if he focused instead of letting it fade into the background. The occasional sneaky raindrop landed on him from time to time, but it kept him from being completely drenched.

If his shield was an umbrella, Aunt Robin's emotions were a hurricane.

He recoiled at the sensation. Everyone in his family wore protection charms—his were strung on a silver chain around his neck that he never took off—including one that shielded you from other psychics. It was the equivalent of having a bedroom door to close. Miles wasn't sure if his aunt didn't bother wearing hers, or if her grief was simply too strong to be held back, but it made him sick to be near her room.

The stairs creaked as he climbed to the top floor, his room the last door at the end of the hall. A single light on the ceiling cast long shadows across the striped, faded wallpaper and scuffed floorboards. This house had been his home for as long as he'd been alive, battered and worn down but still standing strong, and he loved it. He loved that every inch, every corner was familiar, and that it had smelled the same his whole life—a comforting blend of herbs and wood polish and coffee.

He staggered into his room, feeling instantly more at ease. The house was always bustling: clients and relatives coming and going, crystal and herb deliveries knocking at the door throughout the day. Miles's room was his sanctuary. It was small and cramped—his own fault for having an illogical fear of tossing anything away—but it was his . The jumbled art plastered across the walls, the creaky, uncomfortable desk chair that always hurt his back, the tan shag rug he'd found at a thrift store that shed like an old cat… This space was entirely his own.

He tossed his jacket over his computer chair, followed by the rest of his clothes, and collapsed into bed in his boxers. The pancakes had turned into a warm fullness that made him sleepier, and he yawned widely, cracking his jaw.

That evil party invitation was looming just out of reach of his muddled thoughts, but he refused to let it slip any closer. He'd earned a few hours of rest, and he was determined to make the most of them.

Rolling onto his back, he lazily tugged the blankets up and fell asleep.