4

O ver the course of first period, Miles had managed to pick a hole straight through the hem of his sweater. Now, sitting in his second class and pretending to listen to Mr. Keller drone on about The Catcher in the Rye , he was slowly but surely working on widening it with absentminded tugs at the loose strings and frayed edges.

He felt like his sweater. Ragged nerves, a gradually widening hole of anxiety, unraveling at the seams with every tick of the clock.

He made himself listen to the next thing Mr. Keller said, as if he cared at all about the symbolism of Holden's red hunting hat. Holden Caulfield, quite frankly, was an insufferable, unrelatable character, who had no reason to whine that his life was so terrible. He didn't have to go to fancy parties hosted by a pretentious family who hated his own, or an overbearing mom trying to set him up with every available girl his age, or graveyard dirt crusted under his nails—

"— Hawthorne ," a voice said next to Miles, catching his attention. Chelsea Marino was whispering to two girls on either side of her desk. "Apparently, they're having a big party with all their weirdo, rich friends and I guess a caterer dropped out, so she came in yesterday." Chelsea's mom owned a bakery downtown, a vintage-looking little place. "She demanded a bunch of crazy shit last second, two hundred macaroons and a massive, tiered chocolate cake. By tonight ."

It wasn't uncommon to hear gossip about the Hawthornes from time to time—they were the closest thing Thistle had to local celebrities with their closed-off mansion, shiny cars, and snobby, reclusive attitude. Where Miles's family were considered eccentric, new-age weirdos by most in town, the Hawthornes were mysterious, intriguing, and everyone half hated them for it.

He leaned over, trying to hear the response to Chelsea's story.

Another girl groaned. "Can you imagine having to deal with her? Your poor mom."

"It wasn't even just Felicity," Chelsea said, an eager grin splitting her face. Miles turned away when he realized he was watching—he didn't want to be caught eavesdropping. He focused on the boy across the aisle who was snoring on his desk, instead. "She had two of her sons with her. My mom said they were all freaky, quiet and pale like vampires."

Of course she'd say vampires. Every rich, reclusive white family living in a small Washington town was rumored to be the Cullens. It was a miracle the Hawthornes' front door wasn't being constantly beaten down by hordes of teen girls.

Miles had heard about the Hawthorne boys. Three sons, but they were homeschooled, so they didn't attend Thistle High. He'd never even seen them, but he was willing to bet not one of them was an Edward.

"My grandpa says they're in a cult."

"Nah, I'm pretty sure they're witches. The evil, blood-drinking ones."

"How's that different from a vampire?"

Miles missed Chelsea's response, the vibration of his phone in his pocket distracting him, but the trio burst into giggles.

He hid his phone from Mr. Keller behind his binder, finding a new text from his mom.

Suit shopping after school. Be home by 3

He hadn't even considered needing a special outfit for tonight. The nicest thing he owned was a plain black button-up crumpled in a ball at the back of one of his dresser drawers.

God, he was going to look ridiculous in some stuffy suit.

It could be worth it to throw himself down the stairs and break his leg to get out of going tonight. It was an irrational thought—two months of agony and discomfort to get out of a single stupid party.

But he wouldn't lie—that option was starting to sound more and more enticing.

By the time lunch rolled around, Miles was starting to think the school stairs would do perfectly if it meant he didn't have to hear another word about the Hawthornes.

Everyone was talking about them. Chelsea's story had spread, and several theories about tonight's party had emerged—during his last period alone, he'd overheard speculation about celebrities making an appearance and that the party was a cult initiation to celebrate the full moon.

They'd be so disappointed if they knew the truth. The party would be boring to the point of painful, full of awkward small talk and passive-aggressive comments.

Even more disappointed if they knew that he, a quiet loner from the town's quirky but harmless family, had obtained an invite. It would be comical, if Miles wasn't feeling so wretched about the whole thing.

School was the one place he wasn't supposed to think about psychic stuff. His biggest worries were meant to be getting here early to snag a parking spot close to the entrance. Faking his way through Pre-Calculus. Having to go outside for PE on rainy days. How to get into a dream art college far away from Thistle, as if he wasn't going to be graduating and immediately starting full-time in the family business.

Normal, boring things. Exactly how he liked it.

The chatter of the cafeteria rose and fell around him in swells as he nibbled on his sandwich, trying to eat now since he knew he'd be too anxious for dinner.

"—going to have a human sacrifice—"

"—Hawthornes are all snobs, my dad said—"

"—oldest brother is kinda cute, though—"

Miles scoffed at that last snippet. No one in this town would be crazy enough to chase after a Hawthorne boy, even with their money and supposed good looks. There were bad ideas, and then there were bad ideas .

The bell rang overhead, warning that lunch was over. He packed his bag and stood from his empty table, tossing his half-eaten lunch into the nearest garbage can. The open bottle of tea hit the rim and bounced back, splashing all over his shoes and the bottom of his jeans.

"Seriously?" Betrayed by his favorite drink.

Around him, a few people chuckled and groaned. Ears red hot, he crouched down to grab the now-empty bottle, watching helplessly as the wet mess spread across the scuffed linoleum.

"Here." A handful of napkins appeared. The boy offering them, Sam Gao, joined him on the floor, helping wipe up the tea.

"Oh, thanks. You don't have to."

Sam gave him an easy smile. "No worries, I've done the same thing. Besides"—he peered around at the rapidly emptying cafeteria—"I owe you one."

Oh. "It was all my dad."

Last month, Sam's parents had needed help with a nasty poltergeist terrorizing their home. It was a quick job—a cleansing ritual and protection charms in the southern and northern-most parts of the house. They'd had no trouble since.

Sam was a senior and he didn't have any classes with Miles, but he still smiled in gratitude at him in the hallways. It was nice to have that flash of knowing pass between them every now and then. Making friends was hard when his family had a reputation. It made Miles suspect people only talked to him to see how much of a freak he really was. But Sam already knew, and he didn't seem to care.

They stood in unison, tossing the sodden napkins into the trash. Miles grimaced. "I'm gonna go…" He gestured towards the bathroom, his hands damp and sticky.

"Good idea."

The bathroom was empty, their footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as they stepped up to the nearest pair of sinks. Miles sucked in a breath as he ran his hands under the freezing water.

"Good thing you weren't drinking coffee," Sam said conversationally, waving his hands twice under the soap dispenser before it reacted. "I spilled mocha on my favorite T-shirt and ended up having to toss it."

"That sucks. If it happens again, I'll give you my mom's secret recipe for getting stains out."

Sam squinted at Miles. "Is it some kind of… witchy thing? Because I don't think I have the right mojo for that."

A snort escaped Miles before he could stop it. "What? No. It's just like, vinegar and lemon juice."

Sam's cheeks turned red. "Wow, I'm an idiot. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's totally fine." Miles laughed again, rinsing the soap from his hands. "I'll have to ask her, maybe it's a special magic vinegar sold in a back-alley apothecary."

That earned him a bright chuckle.

The truth was, his mom's office practically was an apothecary, tinctures and tonics lined up in colorful bottles on the windowsill, herb clippings sticking out of her cracked desk drawers.

He watched Sam in his peripheral as they dried their hands. His black hair was nicely cut, and he had a cute, lopsided smile.

The bell rang for a second time.

"I'd better get going." Sam gave him another grin, warm and genuine. "See you around."

"Bye," he called, but Sam had already vanished through the door.

Alone, the bathroom fell eerily quiet. At the far end, a faucet dripped. Miles needed to get to class but an uncomfortable feeling buzzed under his skin and prickled at the nape of his neck, a warning he was being watched. He glanced around, finding the closest mirror.

A strange boy stared back at him.

Miles gaped, but the face in the mirror didn't move.

It was the same boy from this morning. He looked around Miles's age, sixteen or seventeen, with midnight-dark hair and somber gray eyes set against an alabaster face. A beauty mark sat above the left corner of his somber mouth.

As Miles gawked at his not-reflection, blood trickled down the boy's forehead, cutting a crimson path to his pointed nose. The smell of iron filled the air. Miles reached up to feel his own, found it hot and slick. When he pulled his hand back, his fingers were stained red with blood.

Fear squirmed in the pit of his stomach, spreading through him with icy tendrils. In the mirror, the boy's mouth parted, moving silently.

He was trying to say something.

"Who are you?" Miles managed to ask, his voice cracking, too loud in the empty bathroom. Blood dripped, splashing against the snowy porcelain.

The boy tried to speak again, but no sound came out. Maybe Miles was an idiot for thinking a reflection could talk. But he was staring right at Miles, as if he could see him.

He was certain he didn't know this boy. He would have remembered someone so… well, someone who looked like that.

"I can't hear you." The metallic stench of blood filled the air, making Miles's head swim. "Say it again."

He focused on the boy's lips this time. Two words, short and familiar. He tried mimicking them, feeling their shape. A chill cut through him when he realized what the boy was saying.

"Find me."

***

It was easy to sneak out of school. If Miles was being honest, it was less of a stealthy sneak and more of a panicked speed-walk past the empty front office into the parking lot. No one called out or chased after him.

He started his car, backing out of his spot too fast and nearly hitting the blue Toyota parked behind him. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but seeing bloody mirror boys couldn't be a good thing.

No way a ghost could be haunting him. He should've sensed its aura immediately, his protection charms keeping it from latching on to him.

The charms could be faulty, or they'd run out of juice. And his gift could be acting wonky because of stress. Or lack of sleep. Or the unholy combination of the two.

What if Sam had still been there when the ghost appeared? Or if someone else had wandered in? Miles didn't have an explanation ready for talking to a dead person in the mirror.

Getting onto the main road through town, he muttered an apology as he blew past the school zone signs without slowing.

His mom would know what to do.

Find me . What did that even mean? Was he being haunted by a lonely ghost searching for a friend? Or was this an unknown victim looking to be laid to rest situation? More importantly, how was it his problem?

When he pulled up to the house, he saw his mom's car still in the driveway. At least one thing had gone right today.

"Mom?" he called, flying through the front door.

"Miles?" Her surprised voice came from the kitchen. "What are you doing home?"

He tugged off his stupid scarf—he'd been stress sweating the whole drive over—and met her in the kitchen doorway, her brow creased with worry.

"Are you okay?"

He wasn't sure how to answer that.

"Something happened at school," he settled on saying. "I was in the bathroom and—"

"Did you get sick?" Her worry morphed into exasperation. "Miles, if you're trying to get out of going tonight…"

"I'm not!"

"I hope not, because I don't have time to deal with that." She tucked her hair behind her ears, and Miles saw her hands were shaking. It was such an unexpected sight that he paused, even his fear going still.

He gave her a second, longer look. She was chalky, her mouth pinched in the corners, shoulders rigid. On the counter behind her, she'd been chopping herbs and refilling supply bottles, her default thing to do when she was upset and needed to keep her hands busy.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Sarah's hand went to her charm necklace, as if worried she'd forgotten to put it on. Miles didn't need his gift to see she was lying. "I have a lot to get done before tonight. This party…" She crossed her arms, drumming her fingers. "I've been so many times, but it still has this way of getting under my skin. But it doesn't matter. It's just a few hours and then we're done until next year."

Miles recognized her tone—it was the same he used when he was having a panic attack but trying to pretend everything was fine. Like if he pulled it off well enough on the outside, it might change how he was feeling inside.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his mom struggling. For a moment, he considered not telling her about the ghost-boy. She already had so much on her plate. It could wait until tomorrow. What was one more night? If he avoided mirrors at the party so phantom blood didn't drip all over his plate of finger foods and fancy dress-shirt, he could manage.

Besides, he was a Warren—when wasn't there a weird ghost thing going on?

His mom collected herself. "Sorry, I'm getting in my own head. It's nothing, really." She refocused on him, the concerned look returning. "You were telling me why you're home…?"

"Yeah, it's… I saw a ghost this morning. And then again, at school." He tried and failed to not feel bad bringing it up. "It's probably nothing, I got freaked and—"

"That's not nothing." All business, she studied him. "Was it Mrs. Mendoza from last night?"

"No, it was a boy. I've never seen him before."

"Could a spirit have latched on to you at the cemetery?"

"Maybe. But I haven't sensed anything, and I've got my charms." He hooked his finger around the chain, pulling it free of his shirt.

Frowning, his mom leaned in, thumbing through them. "They all seem fine, and the protection sigils are intact." Her lips pursed as she dropped them back against Miles's chest. "Well, let's swap them out just in case, and do a cleansing ritual. If you see him again, we'll bother your dad about it, okay?"

Miles nodded, reassured. "Sounds good. Thanks, Mom."

She vanished into the office for a minute, reemerging with a cluttered tray of charms and supplies. Miles handed over his necklace, hating to take it off even for this. His mom was the sole person in the house he could be unprotected around without worry, but it still made him feel itchy and exposed.

"Here." She handed him a glass jar, cloudy brown liquid sloshing inside as he unscrewed the lid. The strong aroma of protective oil filled the room—mainly citrusy from the vervain, with a spicy warmth from the ground cloves and angelica root. "Three strands."

"I remember." His parents made him do this every few months to get rid of anything that might be lingering around.

He reached into the jar, fishing around in the aromatic oil until he snagged three strands of the twine soaking in it. His mom took the opposite ends and held them so he could braid them all together. On the table between them, she'd lit a bowl of white sage, letting it smolder and smoke. The curling wisps tickled Miles's nose.

When his braid was finished, his fingers slick with oil and the sage mostly burned down, Sarah took a big pair of iron scissors from her tray—one of many thrilling Warren family heirlooms—and cut it in the middle with a big snip .

A tremor went through the air. Goosebumps sprung up along Miles's arms.

"Good job," his mom told him, taking the severed pieces and dropping them into a glass bottle that she sealed with a cork. "Do you feel any different?"

If he was being honest, all he felt was a headache from the smoke. "I'm not sure. Let me check."

In the downstairs bathroom, he flipped on the lights and went to the mirror. His own reflection stared back. No sign of ghost-boy.

"All good," he hollered to his mom. Part of him pitied the ghost. He hoped whoever the boy was waiting for would find him.

The kitchen table was clear when he came back out. His mom opened the window over the sink to help air out the smoke, the breeze frosty but refreshing.

"Thanks." He gave her a side hug. "I think that worked."

"Let me know if you see him again, or feel anything weird. Even if it's while we're out at the party tonight."

Miles managed not to grimace. "If I do, can we leave early?"

Sympathy softened her eyes into a warmer shade of blue, the sky on a clear summer afternoon instead of a crisp winter morning. "I know you don't want to go, but it means a lot to your dad and I that we can count on you. We forget to tell you how much we appreciate your maturity."

Miles's earlier plan of throwing himself down the stairs to get out of going tonight probably clashed with her view of maturity.

"Hey, I mean, how bad can it be?" He was aiming for nonchalant, but didn't quite land it. "At least we can all suffer together."

"Sure." His mom patted him on the arm. It felt like an apology. "It'll be fine." She wasn't even close to convincing. The apprehensive tremble in his abdomen morphed into dread. Tonight was going to majorly suck.