21

M iles made it home before his parents, but only by an hour or so. Enough time to quickly answer Charlee's prying questions, toss the grimoire into an empty desk drawer where he didn't have to touch it anymore, take the best shower of his life, and change into the warmest clothes he could find.

He was pulling on a pair of wool socks his grandma had made him last Christmas when he heard the front door swing open.

"We're home!" his mom called, her voice echoing up the stairs.

Miles's panic came rushing back in full force, turning his spine into a limp noodle.

Charlee met him in the hallway, catching him by the arm. "Hang on." She licked her palm like a disgusting monster and flattened his hair down in the front, hiding his lovely bruise-cut combo. "So your mom doesn't immediately panic."

"Thanks. I think."

They could do this. They'd gotten their story straight, and his parents had no reason to suspect anything.

"Hey, you two," Miles's mom greeted them as they came downstairs. Her blonde hair was in a messy bun, and she was wearing her comfy sweatpants—a sure sign they'd been on the road all day. "Everything okay?"

"Peachy," Charlee responded easily. "No dead bodies to report, and the house is still standing."

Sarah set her duffel bag down by the couch and came over to pull Charlee in for a side hug, her other arm winding around Miles so she could stand on her tiptoes and press a kiss against his cheek. Behind her, Miles's dad came through the door with the rest of the bags, giving them a weary smile.

"Mom," Miles protested. "You've been away less than two days."

A stampede shook the house as Jenna and Amy came running down the stairs.

"How was your trip?" Amy asked, peering around. What she actually wanted to know was if they'd brought anything back for her.

"There's a box of doughnuts in the car," their dad told her, and with a squeal of excitement, she bolted out the front door.

Jenna started bombarding him with questions about the poltergeist they'd dealt with and with a resigned grumble, he plopped himself onto the couch.

"Where's your car?" Miles's mom asked as Miles and Charlee followed her into the quieter kitchen. She went to the sink and got a glass of water. "I didn't see it parked on the street, so I thought you weren't home."

"Ah." Miles snuck a peek at Charlee. This was it. Go time. "Do you want the good news, or the bad news first?"

She set her glass down on the counter hard enough that the water sloshed over the side, and fixed Miles with a look that made his lungs shrivel up. "What happened to your car?"

"Okay, bad news first. So, uh… I might have had a little incident. More of an accident, if you want to get technical. Involving a fence. And a tree. They became very well-acquainted with Blanche." He forced out a laugh, wishing he could snatch it back from the air when her mouth pressed into a very thin, very upset line. "But, the good news is"—he stepped back and gestured to himself—"your son is still alive and all his limbs are intact. I'd call that a win, all things considered."

Charlee was smirking from the other side of the kitchen. He was glad she was getting such enjoyment out of this.

His mom's silence was deafening. "Tell me what happened."

Miles was proud of himself—he managed to tell the whole, only-partially-true story without a single slip up or Gabriel name-drop, or even a hint anything else had happened. Charlee nodding empathetically probably helped more than he wanted to give her credit for.

"So," he finished, "Blanche is totaled. The owner of the shop she got towed to was nice enough to let me leave her there for free for the last few days once I told him you guys were out of town but… I don't think she's going anywhere but the scrapyard."

Had his mom always been so hard to read? She was an impenetrable fortress, giving nothing away. Miles could be two seconds away from a death sentence or an emotional hug and he'd have no clue which until it was too late.

Luckily for him, it was the hug.

She wrapped her arms around him. For some ridiculous reason, Miles's throat got all tight and his eyes stung.

"I'm sorry," she murmured into his shoulder. "And your car—I know how much you loved that old thing. I'm just glad you weren't hurt." Her arms tightened. "I knew the second you started driving it could happen, but no mom wants to think about her kid in an accident. I wish I'd been here. You should have called me right away."

"I didn't want to bother you when you were on your trip. You and Dad would have rushed home, and I wasn't hurt."

They both knew he was right.

"I'll call the insurance company tomorrow and see what needs to be done." She stepped back and wiped away her tears. "Your coverage should take care of it, but they'll need all the info."

With everything going on, Miles hadn't even thought about following up with them after his initial call. "Thanks, Mom."

Amy came in with the box of doughnuts clutched triumphantly and pulled his mom back into the living room. Immediately, his sisters started bickering over which one was theirs and who got two.

"What's with the pout?" Charlee asked furtively, poking him. "That went perfectly."

"I hate lying to her," he sulked, knowing he was acting like a petulant baby.

"You could always tell them the truth."

"Yeah, that's a great idea. At least then, I won't have to worry about stopping Jocelyn—Mom will knock Gabriel straight into the afterlife herself."

Charlee snorted. "I would pay money to see that. But, as long as you keep consorting with the enemy, you'll have to keep lying. That's part of the deal."

She was teasing, but her words still pricked him. "I'm not consorting with anyone. And I wish you'd stop talking about him like that. You've made it more than clear you don't like him."

"Why should I like him? So far, he's done nothing but endanger your life, stand by his mom when she's a massive bitch, and sneer every chance he gets."

"That's just his face." Not much of a winning defense. "Listen, I know Felicity is terrible—which really isn't his fault—and he's uptight, but he's…"

Getting better? Maybe a little. Gabriel had loosened up a bit since they'd met, even if he still talked like a cranky grandma who communicated exclusively in insults and scathing remarks.

Nice once you get to know him? Not entirely true. But occasionally, he tried. That had to count for something, right?

"He's what?" Charlee prompted when Miles didn't say anything. "Just because he makes you all googly-eyed doesn't mean he gets a free pass. Not in my book."

"You don't know him like I do," he settled on, knowing exactly how that sounded.

He'd be the first person to admit Gabriel was awful to try and get along with, about as fun as wrestling with a blackberry bush—all bloodthirsty thorns and stinging cuts and frustration. But then, Miles caught a glimpse of the real Gabriel, carefully hidden behind his cold haughtiness, and it was sunshine peeking through on a stormy day. Growing up locked in that house, with parents who didn't seem to care for him at all and powers he didn't understand, had created this lonely boy haunting the halls of his mansion.

Gabriel felt like a ghost in his own life. Miles thought that might be the saddest thing he'd ever heard.

Charlee pursed her lips in annoyance. "Whatever. I support your mission to save his life, but I never said anything about liking him."

She wasn't wrong.

"Besides," she continued. "This whole thing is almost over and then you'll never have to talk to him again. Things can finally go back to normal."

She strode away, hollering about dibs on the jelly doughnut, leaving Miles alone in the kitchen with her less-than-comforting words.

***

Miles was pretty sure there was nothing in the world as wonderful as his bed. The blankets were warm, his pillows blissfully cool. He could hear Jenna and Amy listening to music through the wall, distant enough to be soothing white noise.

He'd even gone through the effort of digging out his comfiest pajamas from his closet, a matching flannel set Charlee teased him for every time he wore it.

Tonight, he was going all in. No depressing dead lady journal to go through, no boring Hawthorne records trying to melt his brain, no potentially dangerous ritual to perform until tomorrow night…

He was going to get a restful night of sleep if it killed him, damn it.

Nudging the mostly empty mug of chamomile tea back on his bedside table so he had room for his phone, he set his alarm and rolled over, nestling down under the covers.

Mmh, his bed even smelled nice, like the lavender and vetiver spray he'd stolen from Charlee.

Waves of drowsiness washed over him quickly. Within minutes, he was asleep.

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

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 next to him. His pale hand outstretched, fingers reaching towards Miles.

Behind Gabriel was a lifted platform, a woman laid out on it. She turned 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.

Gabriel's murderer.

"Miles Warren." Jocelyn's voice was a rasp of steel, of gravel. "Our meeting is long overdue."

That part was new.

"Is this a dream?"

"A dream," Jocelyn echoed. "A warning."

A warning? Was she going to try to scare him away, threaten him into giving up on Gabriel? If she'd found a way to bring him here, what else could she do?

"I'm not scared of you." He tried to sound confident. "I won't let you kill Gabriel."

"A warrior. A noble knight. I chose Gabriel's protector well. You shouldn't fear me, Miles Warren. I am not the killer you seek."

His breath stuttered in his chest, and he scanned around this place, at Gabriel, the scene frozen before him. At Jocelyn, watching him, waiting for him to put the pieces together. She'd been a powerful seer. Strong enough to see Gabriel's future and send it to Miles, to set him on his path?

"You've been the one giving me these visions." They hadn't been warning him of Jocelyn. They had been a warning from her. He felt so oblivious. "We thought you were going to kill Gabriel, because of what your sister did to you. To stop the curse from continuing."

Tears ran down Jocelyn's cheeks. "He's innocent. He's done no harm to me, not yet."

What did that mean?

She flickered, vanishing and reappearing with a pained gasp. Her fingers scratched at the stone altar.

"I have no time. I heard your plea yesterday, but the bonds are too strong and my energy is waning." Her voice was fainter now. "Gabriel, the second son—you cannot let him fall."

Second son? Why had he heard that before?

"Tell me who the killer is," Miles said desperately. "Tell me who it is, and I'll stop them."

"To tell you would change the future, send it spiraling down a road even I cannot see. You are on this path now and you must see it through. We are all helpless to the whims of fate."

"Why send me a warning if you aren't going to help? Isn't the point of this to change the future?"

Jocelyn's features creased in pain. "I have seen the end of this journey, the many forks in the road. You must choose the right ones, or Gabriel is lost."

"Help me," he begged. "I don't know what to do."

"The wheels are already in motion, the corruption too strong. You must not let her have the grimoire. The power, the temptation—"

Her eyes met Miles's one last time and she faded away, her final words lost to the air.

Miles sat up in bed with a gasp, his shirt soaked through with sweat. The chilly breeze wafting in through his open window nipped at his bare skin with hungry, pinprick teeth. Outside, the sky was still pitch black, no sign of the rising sun.

His head was pounding. Next time he saw Jocelyn, he was going to politely request she stop putting his brain through the wringer if she wasn't going to give him any helpful information.

Groaning, he pulled his phone from his bedside table. The lock screen lit up with the time—three twenty-seven. So much for his night of restful sleep.

He pulled up Gabriel's number and sent him a text.

Call me when you can… we've got a problem

What an understatement. God, Miles felt so dense—he'd been so sure Jocelyn was the killer and everything they'd done in the past week had been to find her and banish her. Now they were back at ground zero.

Flipping on his bedside table lamp, he snagged a notebook and pencil from his desk. Trying to remember what Jocelyn had said word-for-word before he lost it, he wrote it all out, struggling to make it make sense.

His phone buzzed in his lap. Gabriel was calling.

"Hey," he answered, trying to keep his voice lowered so he didn't wake up the rest of the house. "What are you doing up this early?" Barely half an hour had passed since he'd texted him.

"I couldn't sleep." Fatigue weighed down his voice, and something heavier. Miles wondered if he'd had nightmares about the tunnel, the creature there and the shadows creeping up his skin. "Do I want to ask what the problem you mentioned is?"

"Probably not." Miles rubbed his aching head. He'd be able to think better if his brain would stop hurting for a minute. "Jocelyn visited me in my dreams. It's not her. She's not the killer. She's been sending me those visions to try to warn us, to help us."

Gabriel was silent for a long second, long enough that Miles pulled his phone away to make sure the call hadn't disconnected.

"I don't know if I'm supposed to feel relieved or not," he finally said. "I suppose it would be too much to expect she told you who my murderer actually is?"

Miles raked a hand down his face. "I asked and got a very cryptic response about staying the path and picking the right roads. The one helpful thing she told me was that we're looking for a ‘her' and that we need to keep the grimoire from her."

"Considering the effect it had on me, we should keep it from everyone."

"You're telling me." A relentless chill filled his room, radiating from the drawer. "I'm trying to put it all together now, but my brain feels like oatmeal. Lumpy, disgusting oatmeal."

"I'm sure it can wait until morning. You need sleep."

"It is morning." Miles yawned widely enough that his jaw ached in protest. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you sound concerned about me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

He laughed. It was nice talking to Gabriel on the phone, where he didn't have to worry about keeping his thoughts quiet. "Yeah, yeah. Listen, this is going to sound random, but do you remember anything from when Florence possessed you?"

"I—" Gabriel hesitated. "I'm not sure. Why do you ask?"

"When I was talking to her, she said you were a second son—which makes sense, it's true—and then Jocelyn said the same thing in my dream." He'd circled the words on his paper. "It could be nothing, but the way Florence said it…"

She'd been so triumphant, so eager.

"I've seen that before…" Gabriel said, trailing off.

"What? Where?"

"Do you have the grimoire nearby?"

"Unfortunately. Don't tell me you want me to crack that thing open."

"Then I suppose we'll sit here in silence."

Damn it. Miles pulled himself from bed and over to his desk, sliding the drawer open reluctantly. "Ugh, this thing feels so nasty," he told Gabriel. That wrong, sticky feeling he got when he was in the Hawthorne house amped up to a million. The leather cover was tacky beneath his fingers. "Okay, I've got it. Now what?"

"When I first found it, it opened to a marked page near the middle. The corner should be folded down." Miles turned the book sideways. There were a few marked pages, but only one near the center. "I seem to recall seeing something about a second son—it caught my attention because it had been underlined."

"You're going to make me read this disgusting thing because you think you might have seen two random words scribbled down in nearly illegible handwriting?"

"I've been told that I have near-eidetic memory and—"

Miles didn't even know what that meant. "Fine. Let me get this over with." He held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and, holding back a full-body shudder, pried back the stiff cover.

It opened easily, eagerly, and he flipped to the marked page. The paper was yellowed, coarse and dry against his fingertips, the black ink vicious slashes. He skimmed it quickly.

"You're right," he told Gabriel.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing good. It's a resurrection spell. It says to return flesh to bone and soul to flesh. It's—it's really gross. You need the skeleton of the person you want to resurrect, blood of an unborn child, dirt from the grave of a sinner… and the sacrifice of a second son from your own bloodline."

God, it was grisly. When they were done with this thing, he wouldn't hesitate to chuck it into the nearest fire.

Gabriel was silent.

"Well. I think it's safe to say this is why Florence was so excited about you. She was probably going to kill me and take you right back to your family cemetery."

"Her remains are in the mausoleum," Gabriel corrected, but didn't disagree. "She would have needed to retrieve the grimoire first. And the rest of the ingredients."

"I don't want to jump to conclusions," Miles said, "but Florence would fit with Jocelyn saying we need to keep the grimoire away from someone. She's trying to stop her sister from killing again. Plus, the vision clues still fit—she was trying to warn us of her killer, your future killer."

"Florence is locked in that box."

"And boxes can be opened," Miles countered. "You didn't see the grin on her—on you when she realized what you were. If she wants to bring herself back to life that badly, she'll find a way. We should destroy this stupid book and—"

"You can't. You asked me to trust you with it and I did. We still need it."

Aggravated air burst out of Miles. "Fine. But I can't touch it anymore." He was woozy and nauseous as hell. "And I'm putting it in an iron box, too. I can feel its disgusting evil tentacles reaching around already, hunting for its next victim to brainwash."

It wasn't a lie. There was a presence reaching out around him, to the corners of his room and through the floor, ravenous and seeking.

"That's not a bad idea."

"Try not to sound so surprised." Miles could hear how snappy he was, but he didn't care—he was so sick of all this. "I'll just—I'll see you at school, okay? We can talk about it then."

Gabriel murmured a noise of agreement, so Miles hung up, resisting the urge to chuck his phone across the room. Everything kept getting more messed up and twisted and awful. They'd been so close to being finished.

He wanted to lie back down and fall asleep for a few more hours, but he needed to dig out another containment box from his dad's stash in the office closet. He should've done it first thing when he'd gotten home yesterday.

"I hate you," he told the grimoire vehemently.