7

A week passed and things almost went back to normal.

Miles hadn't been sleeping well, and he stifled a jaw-creaking yawn as he trudged down the school hallways towards first period. On the upside, his newfound insomnia had given him plenty of time to catch up on his homework. He'd finished his physics presentation ahead of schedule and finally written his late English essay.

Down the hall, a group of students was huddled outside of his classroom, whispering and murmuring, glancing towards the door like it had started tap dancing.

"Excuse me," Miles mumbled, squeezing his way through. Whatever the latest drama was, he couldn't be bothered—

The world turned upside down.

Gabriel Hawthorne was sitting in his US History class. Just… sitting at a desk, like he did this every Monday, focused on the doorway as if he'd been waiting for Miles to come in.

Gabriel Hawthorne. In his US History class. Here. At Thistle High.

What in the actual hell?

Was this another premonition? Miles debunked that with a single panicked skim around the room—the entire class, including Ms. Padilla, was staring at Gabriel. And Gabriel was staring at him.

He tried to swallow but choked on his spit. Gabriel watched him splutter and wheeze expressionlessly, which only made it more mortifying.

The bell rang overhead, signaling the start of class, but no one moved.

Had—had Gabriel come here searching for him? Did he not realize schools didn't work that way, that you couldn't waltz in and hang out? Principal Larson was going to show up any second and toss him out of here.

Ms. Padilla cleared her throat, visibly collecting herself. "Okay, let's sit down," she called, waving in the goggling spectators from the hallway. "Come on, sit down so I can introduce our new student."

New student?

Miles gave Gabriel another, longer scan. He was wearing a spotless, white button-up with a black argyle knit sweater vest over it. Miles didn't think he'd ever seen someone wear a sweater vest before, though he was pretty sure he had a picture of his grandma in one. On Gabriel's desk was a sleek black binder that looked brand new and suspiciously empty, and a charcoal shoulder-bag hung off the back of his chair.

Forcing his feet to move, Miles collapsed into the nearest empty seat, across the aisle and two down from Gabriel. The hot brand of his glare singed Miles and he had to resist the urge to duck into the collar of his jacket.

"As you can see," Ms. Padilla said once everyone was seated, "Thistle High has grown by one. A few of you might already know Gabriel Hawthorne"—the class exchanged looks of gleeful disbelief—"and if you don't, be sure to give him a warm welcome."

This couldn't be happening. There was no way.

Ms. Padilla started to talk about their weekend reading, resolutely pretending she couldn't hear all the whispering or see the cell phones out. Miles tried and failed to concentrate on her words, his racing pulse drowning them out.

He peeked over his shoulder, glancing away quickly when he found Gabriel watching him. Why was he here? What game was he playing?

Ms. Padilla realized the period was a lost cause, putting on a video they'd already watched last week before sinking into her chair, a deflating soufflé. Murmurs filled the room, everyone twisting in their seats to openly gawk at Gabriel. Miles hunched down at his desk, wishing he could turn invisible.

This couldn't be a coincidence, right? Gabriel showing up here a week after the party? But it didn't make any sense—how had he found out who Miles was, and if he wanted to talk, why would he come here, of all places?

He risked another glance over his shoulder, shivering at the cool, detached expression on Gabriel's face. It gave nothing away.

Miles's head spun, making him sick. He wasn't ready for this, hadn't planned for it. He didn't know what to do. More worryingly, he didn't know what Gabriel was going to do. Each excruciatingly sluggish minute that ticked by, he felt pinned by Gabriel's relentless scrutiny, a feverish sort of panic clutching at his lungs.

When the bell rang, he jumped to his feet, backpack swinging wildly, nearly clipping the girl in front of him as he raced out the door. He needed to get away. Take the next period to calm down and figure out what he was going to say.

Except Gabriel was in his next class, too. And Pre-Calculus after that. When Miles claimed a desk on the opposite side of the room, Gabriel had the audacity to follow, sliding into the one right next to him. The look he gave, that he was waiting for something, expecting something, made Miles want to jump out the nearest window.

Miles finally caught a break in PE, and it gave him a chance to figure out why Gabriel was here.

All he did was stare. It had to be a weird intimidation tactic. Every class they shared, he sat and watched silently, some freaky unblinking robot. He never made a move to talk to Miles, or to give any indication of what he wanted.

At first, Miles was grateful for that. He'd been so dead set on following Charlee's advice and leaving well enough alone that he hadn't stopped to consider what he'd say if he did see Gabriel again.

But by the time lunch came, he was seconds away from crawling out of his own skin. It was clear Gabriel had come here to torment Miles, to slowly drive him insane.

Whispers followed Gabriel as he crossed the cafeteria, and Miles braced himself, certain that this was it, that he'd just been waiting for a chance to talk. Instead, Gabriel sat down at an empty table on the outskirts of the bustling room and opened a book. A few brave souls came over to talk to him, but he waved them away dismissively.

Miles ground his teeth, staring down at the sandwich he'd shredded into a pile of crumbs. This could be a test, to see how cowardly he was, how long he'd let Gabriel torture him. Mind games seemed like the Hawthornes' style.

If that was the case, he'd severely underestimated Miles. Dealing with daily anxiety had taught him a thing or two about self-preservation, about his limits. He wouldn't be able to survive the rest of the day.

Speaking to Gabriel Hawthorne had officially become the lesser of two evils.

Decision made, he tossed his destroyed sandwich into the nearby garbage and made himself walk over to Gabriel's table. He didn't look up from his book as Miles hovered—but he didn't tell him to go away, either.

The chair squeaked against the linoleum floor as Miles sat down, making him cringe. Of course, Gabriel somehow managed to give the impression he was lounging in a luxurious armchair instead of a battered plastic torture device. He kept reading, slender fingers turning another page.

Miles pulled a bag of chocolate chip cookies from his backpack and held it out. "Want a cookie?"

A pathetic attempt at a peace offering, but it was that or browned apple slices.

Gabriel looked up, a little crease forming between his eyebrows, as if he'd never seen cookies before. "No."

A stifling, painfully awkward silence fell over them.

"So, are you going to tell me what you're doing here?" Miles asked in a rush. He kept his voice low, uncomfortably aware of the curious gaping around them.

Gabriel folded the corner of his page—ugh, who did that—and closed his book casually. The cover was so worn, it was hard to make out the title: The Picture of Dorian Gray .

"Are you seriously asking me that?" Gabriel demanded after an agonizing wait.

Miles blinked. "Uh… yeah?"

The look Gabriel gave him could have frozen a whole city. "You, a psychic, told me I was in danger. Assuming my life is at risk—which was the only assumption I could make, since you scurried away after delivering that vague, threatening message—it seemed rather important that I find you and get answers."

Oh yeah, he was pissed. Which, fair, but also—what else was Miles supposed to do in that situation? He'd panicked. And he'd felt terrible about it afterward.

"Trust me," Gabriel continued, annoyance honing his words into a deadly point, "taking up public school isn't my idea of a good time. But I couldn't stroll up to your house and knock on the front door. From what I understand, the Warrens aren't particularly fond of my family."

Miles's heart plummeted from his throat straight into his belly. Gabriel knew who he was, then. He'd figured as much, but part of him had still been hoping to avoid that uncomfortable tidbit.

He bit his lip. "Yeah, well, based on my experience at your party, there's a good reason for that."

From Gabriel's reaction, Miles might as well have not said anything at all. "What did you see? My death?" He studied Miles. "Are you a seer?"

He was so unnaturally calm, an impassiveness that seemed more deliberate than before.

Miles glanced around the crowded cafeteria. "Do you really want to do this here? Right now?"

"What else, exactly, do you think I'm here for?" Gabriel's lips pressed into a thin line. "You're going to tell me what you saw and why you warned me, and it better be worth the trouble I went through to come here."

Yikes. He was kind of scary. And his resting murder face wasn't helping.

"You didn't have to—"

"What?" Gabriel interrupted. "Didn't have to what ? Please, enlighten me on what the reasonable reaction to receiving an ominous death threat from someone with the power to see the future would be. You have my full attention."

If looks could kill, Miles would be a cold corpse on the cafeteria floor.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Heat crept up his neck. "I didn't think it through."

"Clearly."

Nothing in Gabriel's expression gave away whether he was joking or not. Miles lowered his mental shield and reached out, desperate for some clue as to how to soothe Gabriel's anger but he found… nothing. That same quiet void he'd stumbled into at the party, except now he could feel exactly how gaping and empty it was. Endless. An ebony cloud with nothing to grab hold of.

He'd never encountered anything like it before.

"Well?" Gabriel asked, unaware of what had happened. "Start talking."

Flustered and off-balance, it took Miles a second to gather his thoughts. "I'm—I'm not even a seer," he got out. "I'm an empath. I can't tell you why I've been getting visions of you. I assumed you were a ghost haunting me until I saw you at the party."

"What have you seen?"

"When I look at my reflection, you're there instead. You ask me to find you and… you're hurt. There's… a lot of blood."

Gabriel was still for a long moment before he nodded, a single, jerking bob. "It is a death premonition, then."

His muted reaction was making Miles antsy. "I'm not a seer but I've been talking to my cousin and… it seems likely."

"How do I die?"

Was he even listening? "I don't know. That's all I've seen."

"That can't be all."

"It is, I'm sorry. I mean, you're in rough shape, but—"

Gabriel stood abruptly, startling Miles and a few eavesdroppers around them. His expression barely changed, but the tension of his mouth, the way his hands were balled at his sides, knuckles stark white, made Miles think he was about to be sick.

Sure enough, without another word, he turned and beelined for the bathroom.

Cursing himself, Miles hurried after him. He should have known better than to just drop a bomb of that size, should have found a way to say it better, or not said it at all. Part of Gabriel must have been hoping for another explanation.

In the bathroom, Gabriel was at a sink, head bowed, hands braced on either side. He was so still that Miles wasn't sure he was even breathing.

Approaching him haltingly, cautiously, Miles said, "I'm sorry." Nothing he could say was going to make this okay, but at least he could be honest. "I don't know how to help, but I'm sorry."

After a long, tense moment, Gabriel lifted his face. His eyes were calm again, the glassy surface of a lake. He was already fair-skinned but the blood had drained away, his lips wan and blue-tinged. "I'm fine. And I don't want your pity."

Miles was out of practice at reading people—being empathic was the ultimate cheat when you wanted to know how someone was feeling—so it took him a second to put a name to what he was seeing.

Gabriel Hawthorne was afraid. He was trying to hide it, but it was there.

Miles felt terrible. Sick to his core. He'd promised Charlee he wasn't going to get involved, but how could he walk away? Gabriel was a Hawthorne and a jerk, but he was a jerk who'd just found out he was going to die, and he was scared.

Sneering like he could hear what Miles was thinking, Gabriel jerked away from the sink and moved to storm past. Miles reached for his arm, wanting to stop him long enough to conjure up impossible words that would fix everything.

Gabriel yanked away, recoiling, and their hands brushed.

The force of a sudden vision knocked the wind straight out of Miles.

Gabriel stood in front of him. His white shirt rumpled. Blood crusted around his nose and smeared above his mouth. He held something long and narrow in his hand, hidden by the darkness of the room.

It was cold and dimly lit. 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.

Gabriel looked at him. His voice was quiet but clear. "I'm sorry." He smiled, a small, fond curl of his lips. Behind him, a shadow grew.

Miles jolted back to reality with a gasp, sweat beading on his lower back. He was lying on his side, the reek of lemon cleaner burning in his nose. Everything spun when he tried to move, and he reached out, his hands fisting in a sweater vest that probably cost more than his car.

"Shit," he croaked at Gabriel, who crouched next to him. Miles made himself let go of his vest. It was surprisingly soft, not scratchy wool as he'd expected. "I didn't mean—"

"What happened?" Gabriel asked, cutting him off.

Fighting against waves of nausea—a feeling that only got worse when it sank in that his face had been against the bathroom floor, someone kill him—he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. Gabriel pulled away, shifting back onto his heels. "Another vision, I think," he rasped. "Different, though. Way different."

For one, he ached. Hit-by-a-car ached. And this vision had been closer to watching a scene in a movie, transported there instead of future-Gabriel reaching out to him through reflections.

He'd spoken, and Miles had heard him this time.

"What did you see?"

"I—I'm not sure. Some sort of old stone room. A tomb or a basement, but the ceiling was higher. You were there and you were… messy."

"Messy?" Gabriel repeated incredulously.

Miles pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the sink so he didn't fall again. His legs quivered, alarmingly close to jello. "Yeah, I think you'd been in a fight, your nose was bleeding. And there was… something behind you."

A dark, unsettling shadow looming behind him, to be more specific. A chill ran down the length of Miles's body.

"What kind of shadow?" Gabriel asked.

Had he said that out loud?

The bathroom door creaked open. A boy Miles didn't recognize strolled in, attention fixed on his phone.

Gabriel's icy glare snapped across the bathroom, a striking whip. "Get out."

The boy froze, then slowly backed out, closing the door behind him.

"Jesus," Miles muttered. "You could try being nicer."

"Did I die?"

"What?"

"In this vision, did you see me die?"

"No. But you…" smiled and apologized, so something had to be very wrong , "weren't in very good shape."

Gabriel shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense for you to be seeing these premonitions."

He was preaching to the choir.

"There has to be a reason, right? Maybe I can help—"

" Help?" Gabriel's lip curled, his entire demeanor hardening. "Is that a joke? All your family's good for is digging up bodies and peddling faulty charms for extra cash. You must be delusional if you think you have anything I need."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Gabriel looked so much like Felicity with that ugly sneer.

"Besides," Gabriel continued, "I'd have to be an idiot to believe you. The word of a Warren is worth less than nothing, and that's without taking into account your faulty, second-rate gifts."

His words cut deep, deeper than Miles wanted to admit. Straight down to where his own uncertainties had been lurking.

"You believed me enough to come here and find me," he managed.

"A mistake I'm already regretting, trust me."

An infuriated heat spread up Miles's neck. He was just trying to do the right thing. "Leave then, if you think I'm lying. Forget we even met. You'd be doing us both a favor."

He really should have known. Everyone had warned him about the Hawthornes, but he'd let himself get caught up in the premonitions, let himself briefly feel sorry for Gabriel.

Gabriel's mouth quirked up, as if Miles had cracked a joke. "You know, I went through the trouble of enrolling here—I might as well stay and try to enjoy myself for a while."

Miles knew, he knew Gabriel was trying to get under his skin, and it was infuriating how easily he did it.

"You're an asshole," he snapped. "I don't know why I'm surprised."

"Well, you've been precisely as expected. I've heard the Warrens were self-righteous, delusional, and ignorant. Congratulations, Miles, you're three for three, and now I can add painfully predictable to that list."

Miles hated hearing his name come out of Gabriel's sneering mouth. He hated the way he looked at him, like he was the butt of a joke. And he hated how his words slithered under his skin and coiled painfully in his gut.

He clamped his hands at his sides, nails cutting into his palms. "You know what? I wanted to help you. Even when I found out who you were, I felt sorry for you, and I thought there was a chance I could change the future—despite everything I've been told about your family. Being a pretentious snob, being selfish, even being the world's biggest dick—none of those things are worthy of a death sentence." He felt so stupid. "But you're right—maybe I am delusional. Clearly, you're not worth the effort."

Charlee's words came back to him— good riddance, one less Hawthorne in the world can't be a bad thing . Gabriel was doing his best to prove her right. It was an ugly, hateful thought. As if he could see it written on Miles's face, Gabriel flinched.

A deafening silence settled over them. Miles pushed back against the shame, against the urge to apologize. He hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't said anything worse than Gabriel.

Gabriel slipped his hands into his pockets, smooth and casual, like he didn't have a care in the world, and smirked across the bathroom at Miles. Smirked.

"Are you trying to hurt my feelings? Does this mean we aren't going to be best friends?" He sauntered past Miles, pausing to peer up at him, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a mocking pout. "I'll try to not feel too torn up about it."

He left, the bathroom door swinging shut behind him.