6

F aces blurred together as Miles weaved his way through the crowd towards the buffet table. Everything inside him was urging him to run straight out of this place without looking back.

The first thing his dad ever taught him about being an empath was how to throw up a firm mental shield to protect himself in a busy place, but this was too much at once. Too many emotions, a suffocating weight crushing against him. The edges of his shield were splintered, cracked where things were slipping through.

Delight, bright and fresh, bubbles popping against his skin.

Bitterness, acrid on the tip of his tongue and hard to swallow.

Interest, a tickling urge dancing through his veins.

The bow tie around his windpipe shrank, cutting off his air. He wished Charlee were here—she'd go find him a chilly drink he could press to the back of his neck, count inhales and exhales with him, make him start listing off details in the room.

He recalled what she'd said: bathrooms had locks. Maybe he could find one far enough away that he wouldn't be so overwhelmed with emotions, but close enough he wouldn't miss his parents when they were ready to leave. If he was going to have a panic attack, he'd rather be alone.

Having a half-formed plan helped him focus, the room steadying as he skirted around the crowd, keeping close to the walls. It was easier to blend into the background here, though there was no escaping the judgmental gazes of the creepy paintings. He passed Heidi and Landon Cayne admiring a lush tapestry on the wall, their teenage son looking about as thrilled as Miles. They'd never met, but shared a miserable glance. In a group next to them, twin sisters in matching pink hijabs and floral gowns that sparkled when they shifted were talking with the woman Miles had noticed earlier in the peacock-feather headpiece. An older man in a vibrant violet suit and a waterfall of silver-tipped micro braids down to his waist came up behind her and whispered in her ear, making her cackle, feathers bobbing up and down. He had a plate full of macaroons—Chelsea's mom must have managed all right, even with the tight deadline.

Across the room, an open door by a velvet curtain caught his eye and he course-corrected. Felicity Hawthorne herself would have to be on the other side of it to keep him from—

A whisper of awareness brushed against his skin, skittering along his senses and stopping him dead mid-step. A warm breath on the back of his neck, heat running down the length of his spine.

A group of people in the middle of the room shifted, and Miles saw him.

Hair the same shade as fresh ink. Pale face with a pointed chin. Eyes he could tell even from a distance were fringed with thick lashes. A shadow amidst a riot of color.

The boy he'd seen in the mirror.

He was leaning against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, watching the party with an expression of mild boredom.

Miles had the strangest sensation, the room tilting around him. He… he hadn't thought the boy was real. That he had to be a ghost. But here he was, flesh and blood.

He grabbed the nearest person, a stocky man with rich russet skin and gold-rimmed glasses. "Who is that?" he asked, nodding in the boy's direction. "Against the wall?"

He half expected the boy to be visible only to him, but the man followed where Miles was gesturing with a sniff of annoyance. "The young man? That's Gabriel Hawthorne."

The pit in Miles's stomach grew into a boulder. "Hawthorne, as in… Hawthorne , Hawthorne?"

The man arched a thick eyebrow. "As in, Felicity Hawthorne's son."

Of course . Of course, he was.

He looked like Felicity, with the same hair and sharp features. Miles already knew Gabriel had gray eyes, though they'd been significantly less hate-filled than his mom's.

No one was standing with him, no one stopped to talk to him. He didn't seem upset, but the set of his shoulders and tilt to his chin was decidedly defiant, as if making a point to not care.

But it didn't make any sense. Miles couldn't be haunted by the ghost of someone still alive.

What could it have been, then? Some sort of vision? A premonition?

Miles didn't know much about premonitions. The closest experience he'd ever had was years ago, when he'd woken in the middle of the night unable to breathe, his lungs on fire. The next morning, he found out his great-grandpa had passed away from pneumonia.

He'd written it off as an empathic thing, a fluke. Having more than one gift was unheard of. Certain shared abilities came with being psychic—seeing ghosts and spirits, or sensing auras—but once you started showing your main gift, that's what you were stuck with. And Miles was an empath, not a seer.

It should be impossible.

Something else was there too, an urge stronger than curiosity pulling him towards the boy. A string woven through his ribs, tug-tug-tugging insistently.

He was moving closer before he stopped to think about it, staring with all the subtlety of a gawking giant who'd realized a worst-case scenario was unfolding before him.

Gabriel noticed him immediately. He examined Miles up and down, much like his mother had earlier. His head cocked slightly in confusion, or surprise. Was that recognition that flashed across his face, or just wishful thinking on Miles's part?

A strange feeling thrummed through him, a sensation he couldn't quite put a name to.

Miles had to say something. "Hi," he croaked.

Gabriel stared. "Do I know you?"

It was so strange to hear his voice after begging him to speak earlier. It was as cold and crisp as the autumn wind that rattled the tree branches outside.

"No, sorry." What was Miles supposed to say? What could he say? That he'd been seeing Gabriel in his mirror, bleeding and asking to be found? That he had a hunch it was a vision of the future, a warning? "I just… I wanted to tell you to look out for yourself."

Gabriel was quiet , Miles realized with a jolt. Everyone else's emotions were pressing against him, suffocating even when they weren't cracking his shield, but Gabriel… he was a blissful void. Even the energy of this house—wrong and sticky, spiderwebs that would linger on his skin long after he left—faded.

"Excuse me?" Gabriel's eyebrows came together. "Are you threatening me?"

Yeah, Miles could see why he might jump to that conclusion. God, he was an idiot. "No, no, I'm not, I swear. Listen… I know this seems weird, but be careful, okay? You might be in danger."

If there was the tiniest shred of doubt in Miles's mind that he was the same boy from the mirror, it dissipated now—that solemn frown was all too familiar. "Who are you?"

His name was the last thing Miles should tell him. He shouldn't be here in the first place, shouldn't be talking with a Hawthorne.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking a step back. "I have to go."

He turned and worked through the crowd as quickly as he could without making a run for it. Several disgruntled voices followed as he cut through conversations, but no one tried to stop him, and Gabriel didn't follow.

Stumbling over his own feet, Miles retreated through the double doors of the ballroom and into the empty hallway. He leaned against the wall, digging his fingertips into the wallpaper in search of something to grip, something to hold on to. His skin was scorching, his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

What did this mean?

Gabriel Hawthorne had appeared in Miles's mirror, asking to be found. Okay, he'd found him—now what? Was his identity supposed to reveal anything other than the universe having a sick sense of humor?

Even now, that compulsion was tug-tug-tugging from deep in his chest to go back in there, to find Gabriel and talk to him. A steadier, stronger rhythm than the rise and fall of classical music floating out from the ballroom.

No. Miles crossed his arms and pressed his shoulder blades firmly against the wall. He was going to stay right here. Whatever was happening, whatever this was, he wasn't going to play along.

He'd warned Gabriel. That had to be enough.

His dad found him there, however long later, his forehead creased with concern and jaw tight. Tonight had been a strain on him, too.

"Your mom and I have been looking for you. Everything okay?"

The question made a barbed pain settle in Miles's throat—he felt stupidly close to tears. "I'm… I needed a break."

His dad gave him a sympathetic smile. "Well, good news—we're ready to go if you are."

"Please." He'd never wanted to leave a place more in his life.

"I'll grab your mom—I left her by the dessert table."

As his dad went back into the party, Miles couldn't help peering after him, scanning the crowd one last time.

He didn't see Gabriel again.

***

The first thing Miles did after getting home and changing out of his suit was go to Charlee's room. It was late, her bedroom door closed and the lights off, but he needed to talk to her.

His parents were off the table. If his mom's fight with Felicity hadn't convinced him of that, the fact she'd spent the entire car ride home ranting about her and the rest of the Hawthornes made it more than clear. He'd made the mistake of trying to revisit his question from earlier—what exactly the deal with his mom and Felicity was—and she'd nearly bitten his head off. Even his dad grumbled at him to drop it.

He knocked on Charlee's door and heard her mumble in response, taking it as an invitation to slip inside.

"Hey," he whispered, closing the door behind him and crossing the room, stepping around miscellaneous shoes and books scattered on the floor. On her bed lay a vaguely human-sized lump under the blankets, a mess of red curls poking out, illuminated by one of those pink salt-rock lamps on her bedside table. "You awake?"

The lump stirred. A freckled hand pulled the blankets down. Sluggishly, Charlee emerged, squinting at him. "What do you think?"

That was his cue to leave, but… "I need your help."

She blinked, focusing on his expression, and sat up. "What's wrong? Oh God, she made you dance, didn't she?"

"What?" It took Miles a moment to remember what she was talking about. "No, no dancing. I think my mom forgot all about it."

Funny that mere hours ago, the worst thing he could imagine happening tonight was square-dancing with a random girl.

Scooting over to make room for him, Charlee lifted the blankets. Her sheets were warm against his clammy skin, the scent of laundry detergent and lavender pillow spray enveloping him.

"What happened, then?" she asked softly, rolling onto her side to face him. "You look like shit."

He didn't have the energy to let that sting. "Remember this morning, when I said I saw someone else in the mirror? I saw it again at school. This weird boy, and I thought he was a ghost, but then he was there tonight, at the party. Really there. Alive."

Her jaw dropped. "He—what? Who is he?"

"Gabriel Hawthorne. One of Felicity Hawthorne's sons."

A beat of silence.

"What the—?"

"I know," Miles interrupted. "Trust me, I know. I think what I've been seeing in the mirror is a sort of premonition."

"That's impossible."

"I'm aware. But he's very alive, so obviously, not a ghost. And when I saw him in the mirror, he was all… bleeding and scary and begging me to find him."

"Did you talk to him? At the party?"

"Kinda. I just blurted something out about him being in danger and bolted." Miles groaned. "He thought I was threatening him."

Charlee let out a soft snort. "Not the best way you could have done that, but look, if this is a premonition, you warned him. Job done."

If only it could be that easy.

"But he's still appearing in the mirror."

It had been an awful surprise to glance over in the middle of changing and find Gabriel staring into his soul from his bedroom mirror. Miles had jumped and knocked his elbow so hard against the wall that he'd left a dent. Apparently, the cleansing ritual hadn't stuck.

Once he stopped cursing, he'd turned back to the mirror, heart racing. "Tell me what you want."

Again, the reflection had mouthed the same two words. " Find me."

"I already did that—I found you. Tell me what to do."

But Gabriel just watched him with that grave gaze, blinking around the blood that ran down to stain his white collar. He couldn't, or wouldn't, answer.

Miles groaned, thumping his head against Charlee's shoulder. "I mean… there has to be more I need to do, right? Or he'd leave me alone."

"Like what? It sounds like a death premonition, and changing the future is nearly impossible. Especially with something as big as death. He's a goner."

He'd come to the same conclusion—a death premonition was all that made sense.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Well, it could be worse. At least it's not your own death."

Miles hated that it was, honestly, a little comforting.

As he considered this, his attention strayed to the desk across Charlee's room. It was piled high with half-knitted projects, rolls of yarn, and books on different stitches. Beside them was her attempt at a landscape painting—judging by the frustrated smears, she'd given up halfway through. Charlee was a butterfly with her hobbies—flitting from one bright, pretty flower to the next. If the embroidery frames piled high on her bedside table were any indication, she'd found a new one.

"I shouldn't be seeing this," he said cautiously. "So… if I'm getting premonitions, there must be a reason, right? Gabriel Hawthorne is going to die, and maybe I can stop it."

It scared him to even say the words out loud. Considering the implications—of fate, of other forces at work—went beyond his mental capacity right now.

Charlee shrugged. "Good riddance, I say. One less Hawthorne in the world can't be a bad thing."

Something crumpled in Miles at her words, though there was no way she meant it. "We don't even know him. He might be different." He sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. Felicity's cruel words were still fresh in his mind. But—

He thought back to when he'd first seen Gabriel, standing apart from the rest of the party, defiant, but lonely. Neither of them had quite belonged there. And whatever the tether between them had been, that thrumming string, hadn't felt… bad.

Charlee frowned. "That family is seriously messed up. Everyone knows it. They're not good people."

He wanted to disagree, but the words wouldn't come. Not just because of Felicity or their reputation around town—he'd sensed darkness tonight, in the oppressive weight of the walls. A bleak core of the mansion, of the people who lived there.

"That doesn't mean Gabriel deserves to die."

That was what it came down to, what scared Miles most: that he might have the power to make such a decision; that his action or inaction could bring about or prevent someone's death.

Now he understood why Aunt Robin hid in her room.

"Should I ask your mom? She has more experience with this kind of thing than anyone else."

Charlee's mouth went flat. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "If you want to waste your time. You won't get anything useful out of her."

Miles couldn't disagree. Talking to Aunt Robin about casual, everyday subjects still felt like an exercise in dodging bullets. He could only imagine how she'd react if he brought up the reason she'd locked herself away.

"What about your parents?" Charlee asked.

"They won't even talk about the Hawthornes. There's something between Felicity and my mom. Major beef." With how irrationally they'd acted tonight, he'd end up being blamed for this, as if he'd forced the universe to bring Gabriel Hawthorne into his life. "And they're keeping secrets."

"Like what?" Charlee asked.

"If I knew that, they wouldn't be secrets." He blinked up at the row of crystals lining her window frame, focusing on how the fairy lights strung above them made them shine instead of the silly tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He didn't even know why he was so upset—if his parents wanted to keep him out of the loop, that was fine. He'd figure this out on his own. "But I can't tell them about this. They'll freak."

He knew it was the right call when Charlee didn't argue.

"Then at least listen to me." She reached out and grabbed his hand, clenching it tightly. He could feel a faraway echo of her emotions, a blurry smear of watercolor on a blank page. She was afraid for him. "I agree with you—we don't know Gabriel Hawthorne and he probably doesn't deserve to die. But if that's what the future has planned for him, there's nothing you can do about it."

Miles opened his mouth, but she kept going, a bolt of urgency cutting to the surface. "No, listen . You've seen what happens when you let yourself feel responsible for a premonition—my mom, she's never going to recover from that. It broke her, Miles. It broke her so badly that I don't even think there's anything left to fix. Do you want that to happen to you?"

"No," he muttered. He yanked at a loose thread on her hand-stitched floral quilt, and she swatted him.

"Good. Then forget about it—Gabriel Hawthorne, whatever secrets your parents are keeping, all of it."

"But—"

"No. You're one of the few people I have left, and it might be terrible and selfish of me, but I'll pick your life over a Hawthorne snob without a second thought. So just… leave it alone. Please."

Fierce love and protectiveness washed over him, but he couldn't tell if they were Charlee's emotions or his own. He looked away, at where a streetlamp was shining in through her yellow-striped curtains until he was able to speak around the hard lump nestled against his windpipe.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I guess it's not like I'll be seeing him again anytime soon. The next Hawthorne party isn't for a year."

"True. You couldn't talk to him, even if you wanted to."

She wasn't wrong. Short of sending an anonymous letter or scaling the massive black fence around the Hawthorne estate, he had no way of reaching Gabriel.

"And maybe if I ignore the premonition, it won't happen. Maybe me acting on it would trigger something that leads to his death."

Charlee didn't bother hiding her relief. "I bet you're right. The best way to help him is by staying away."

Miles supposed he didn't have any choice but to try and believe that.

"Glad that's settled." She rolled over abruptly, yanking all the blankets with her. "Now shut up. We both need sleep—tomorrow's delivery day and your mom's going to be in a mood."

He shuffled down, curling his legs so his feet didn't hang over the edge of her bed. Sleep was out of reach, but at least he could lie here, listening to Charlee's steadily deepening breaths and the occasional creak of the house, and pretend for a while.