The Hollow and the Haunted E-Book

Camilla Raines

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 475

Beschreibung

In this darkly magical fantasy debut set in Washington State, a closeted teenage psychic foresees the death of his sworn enemy, and is forced to work with him to save his life. Sparks fly, but some ghosts don't want to stay buried... Perfect for fans of atmospheric queer fantasy romance, including The Raven Cycle, Cemetery Boys and Sixteen Souls. Miles Warren hails from a long line of psychics. Resigned to a life in the family business, Miles is perfectly happy, thank you very much. Apart from the fact he hasn't told anyone he's gay, and that he's constantly exhausted from long nights spent wrangling angry ghosts in creepy cemeteries. Perfectly happy. But Miles's comfortable routine is interrupted when he starts having visions of an unfamiliar boy. He soon learns the stranger is Gabriel Hawthorne, whose family have a mysterious, decades-long feud with Miles's own—and that the visions are a premonition of his murder. Gabriel is everything Miles expects from a Hawthorne: rude, haughty, irritatingly good-looking. But that doesn't mean Miles is just going to stand by and let someone kill him. The two form an uneasy alliance, trying to solve Gabriel's murder before it happens. As they begin to unravel the web of secrets between their families, and with dark magic swirling around them, Miles is horrified to realize that he doesn't hate Gabriel quite as much as he's supposed to. He might even like him. Too bad Gabriel is probably going to die."

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PRAISE FORTHE HOLLOW AND THE HAUNTED

“Brimming with mystery, romance, and suspense… a charmingly eerie romp chock-full of deadly hauntings, snarky and heartfelt enemies-to-lovers romance, and twisty family secrets that will have readers at the edge of their seats. Raines is certainly one to watch.”

KAYLA COTTINGHAM, NEW YORK TIMESBESTSELLING AUTHOR OFMY DEAREST DARKEST

“A darkly magical tale of fate, love, and all the other forces of the universe that conspire to either keep us together or tear us apart. With deeply flawed characters you can’t help but love, this wild ride of a story will break your heart, stitch it back together, and then set it pounding as you stay up way too late turning pages.”

GINNY MYERS SAIN, NEW YORK TIMESBESTSELLING AUTHOR OFDARK AND SHALLOW LIES

“Spectral and spectacular, charmed and charming, The Hollow and the Haunted weaves a perfect balance of the macabre and the heartwarming. Readers will clamor for the sequel!”

KIKA HATZOPOULOU, SUNDAY TIMESBESTSELLING AUTHOR OFTHREADS THAT BIND

“An exciting, heartfelt paranormal world I adored spending time in. Queer disaster teens, magical mystery, scary spirits and a slow burn enemies-to-lovers romance that will have you screaming ‘just kiss you fools!’ I loved every moment!”

ROSIE TALBOT, AUTHOR OFSIXTEEN SOULS

“Propulsive, perilous, endearing, and full of heart—Raines has written your new favourite comfort read.”

COURTNEY SMYTH, AUTHOR OFTHE UNDETECTABLES

“A winning combination of sweet, hilarious and intense. This was such a fun and feelsy read! The voice immediately leaps off the page, and Miles is not only funny but also relatable… His dynamic with the spiky recluse Gabriel is perfectly set up, and their rivals to lovers arc is beautifully done.”

FRANCES WHITE, SUNDAY TIMESBESTSELLING AUTHOR OFVOYAGE OF THE DAMNED

“An utterly charming debut from start to finish. The Hollow and the Haunted balances unsavory crushes, familial tension, and mysterious curses with a heavy dose of heart.”

TORI BOVALINO, INDIE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OFMY THROAT AN OPEN GRAVE

“A magical, genre-bending read, The Hollow and the Haunted is a wonderful story about the strength to be yourself and to do the right thing, even when its hard. Raines’s prose sparkles with humor, and Gabriel and Miles are impossible not to root for. I can’t wait for the sequel!”

LILLIE LAINOFF, AUTHOR OFONE FOR ALL

“Raines has crafted a true successor to The Raven Cycle—a teenage psychic enemies-to-lovers story full of perfectly spooky and atmospheric settings, devious ghosts, tense family rivalries, and characters that will thoroughly possess your heart. All the while, a tender exploration of anxiety, depression, grief, and belonging is masterfully threaded through the mystery—this is a book that will reach deep into readers’ hearts and comfort them, letting them know they are never alone.”

LAURA R. SAMOTIN, AUTHOR OFTHE SINS ON THEIR BONES

“As dark and suspenseful as it is heartfelt and emotional... sweeps you into a world of dangerous magic, vengeful spirits, and buried secrets. Filled with delightful banter and slow-burning tension, these two lonely boys on opposite sides of a feud unravel a chilling mystery while also stealing your heart. A compelling debut that leaves you on the edge of your seat, hungry for more.”

ROBIN WASLEY, AUTHOR OFDEAD THINGS ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR

“Full to the brim with creepy atmosphere, vivid characters, and whip-smart prose, Camilla Raines’s The Hollow and the Haunted is the perfect spooky fall-flavored fantasy! The rivals-to-lovers romance between Miles and Gabriel is on point, with the ideal amount of witty banter and angsty longing. Raines confidently navigates themes of identity, class, autonomy, and complex family dynamics, all while delivering a rip-roaring story. I loved it!”

KESHE CHOW, AUTHOR OFTHE GIRL WITH NO REFLECTION

“Brimming with dark mystery and magic, the relationship between a kind psychic and broody seer stands at the heart of The Hollow and The Haunted. This rivals-to-lovers story set against a backdrop of graves, gemstones, and violent prophecies will have you laughing aloud, warmed by the love of family, and unsettled as the curtain between the living and dead is opened. Camilla Raines’s debut is a fantasy you’ll want to sink into and never climb out of.”

CRYSTAL J. BELL, AUTHOR OFTHE LAMPLIGHTERS

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The Hollow and the Haunted

Print edition ISBN: 9781803369976

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803369983

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Camilla Raines 2024

Camilla Raines asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To my younger self,who first dared to dream

1

Digging up a grave in a foggy, freezing cemetery at one in the morning was not how Miles wanted to spend his Thursday night.

Well, technically, it was Friday morning now, but technicalities had a way of falling between the cracks when he’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours straight. There was something completely mind-numbing about the repetitive motions of gravedigging—the crunch of his blade in the ground, the swoosh of the shovel, and the quiet thud of dirt that followed.

He’d already been here for several hours. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and the newly formed blisters on his hands refused to be ignored. He shivered, having shrugged off his jacket and tossed it out of the steadily deepening hole, but hating the way the night air chilled his damp skin.

He hoped his mom would be awake and have food ready when he managed to stagger home. It was too late for dinner, too early for breakfast, but she’d promised him a several-hours-past-midnight snack when he’d offered to finish this job for his dad tonight.

The thought of fluffy pancakes and a mug of hot Earl Grey had him digging with renewed determination. At least the ground was still soft, the weather not quite chilly enough that it had frozen yet.

Bushes rustled nearby. Miles froze, shovel hovering in mid-air. After years of dealing with hauntings, he would love to say he had nerves of steel, but he’d long since learned one of the few consistent rules of the universe: cemeteries at night were creepy.

Everything about them was flawlessly designed to give you the heebie-jeebies. Gravestones and obelisks looming in the darkness? Creepy. Faint light from the crappy camping lantern Miles’s dad had gotten at a yard sale? Creepy. Being mostly submerged in a hole with only his head poking out to check if anyone was sneaking up on him? Super creepy.

He listened carefully, trying to peer through the gloom, but all he could make out were vague shadows and the few headstones within range of his lantern. No one would be working here this late—the caretaker left at six and the morning shift wasn’t due for hours.

It was probably a bird or a rabbit. Definitely not a zombie hauling itself from a nearby coffin to shamble over and eat his brains.

Miles firmly reminded himself that zombies didn’t exist. Ghosts, sure. Zombies, however, had never been proven. He knew that for a fact—he’d done a very thorough amount of research. A big part of the family business involved spending late nights all alone in cemeteries.

He made himself get back to digging. If anything came at him, it was going to get a shovel to the face.

Not many people realized caskets weren’t buried six feet down—at least, not more recent ones. It was usually closer to four, and while a couple feet less might not seem like much, it made a big difference when you were digging by yourself in the middle of the night. It also meant if a hypothetical zombie came lurching towards Miles, he could climb out of the hole fairly easily and run for his life.

At times like this, he really had to appreciate the little things.

His shovel thudded against something solid.

“Finally,” he muttered, reaching over to grab the lantern perched precariously on the lip of the open grave. As it swung, it sent shadows dancing across the dirt walls, swirling in a hellish kaleidoscope.

Miles dropped to his knees, digging with his bare hands to reveal the once-polished lid of the casket. He scraped and brushed debris away until the seam was visible, then grabbed his crowbar.

This was always the worst part: the stench that poured out when he first cracked a casket open.

Shuddering, Miles swallowed. Mrs. Mendoza had been buried for long enough now that she didn’t smell rotten, but an unmistakably sour, musty scent coated his mouth and tongue. Sure enough, when he managed to leverage the lid fully back, what was left of her body was leathery and withered, her lank hair spread across the silk pillow. Yellowed bone peeked out where her skin had stretched too tight and split, her hands clasped over the breast of the faded blue jacket she’d been buried in.

“Forgive me,” he told her quietly, “I’m just returning something that belongs to you.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy golden locket, polished metal glinting in the weak light. It hummed against his skin, sparking with electricity from the vicious aura it gave off. Miles ground his teeth against the flood of rage and pain that washed over him. Poor Mrs. Mendoza.

In the casket, she sat up.

Miles’s brain screamed at him—a panicked jumble along the lines of holy shit, zombie, zombie, I knew it—before it caught up with what he was seeing.

Mrs. Mendoza wasn’t undead. Her spirit had decided to make an appearance. It was harder than usual to see the blurry edges of her form in the dim light, but if he focused through it, he could make out her corpse still lying prone and lifeless in her casket. Similar to peering through a film of condensation over a window.

“Ah, sorry.” He wasn’t sure if she could hear him, or how coherent she was, but saying nothing seemed impolite. “This is a little awkward, I’m here to—”

Mrs. Mendoza lunged forward and grabbed him by the throat. Instead of passing through him—which usually gave Miles the sensation of icy water dripping down his spine, raising goosebumps across every inch of his skin—an unmistakable pressure squeezed around his neck.

A black hole gaped as her mouth opened, letting out a low groan that sent hairs standing up all over Miles’s body as it echoed through the open grave. Overhead, trees shuddered in the wind.

Sometimes, getting the job done was as easy as a quick ritual to release a spirit or cleanse a possessed object. Sometimes, it required midnight gravedigging in a cemetery. And sometimes, Miles was unlucky enough that an angry spirit showed up to make things difficult when all he wanted was to go home, eat a mountain of pancakes, and go to sleep.

And Mrs. Mendoza was angry. She’d moved past the whole rattling dishes and slamming doors phase and straight into physical manifestation, a skill that required a lot of energy or a real rage high. And she’d decided that with great power, it was her great responsibility to strangle the life out of Miles.

“Come on… give me a break,” he ground out, sucking in ragged breaths around her relentless, ghostly grip. It wasn’t unbearably tight—despite being pissed off, she wasn’t quite that strong—but it was making things uncomfortable.

He reached down to grab the wrist of her corpse, gagging as the dried flesh gave way under his grip. No matter how many times he did it, he was never going to be okay with wrestling dusty old corpses—and those were the good jobs, where the bodies weren’t in the early stages of decomposition.

He should be used to it at this point. But reminding himself that this was just how his life was didn’t make him any less bitter when he was knee-deep in a casket, inhaling musty dead person air and trying not to get strangled by the ghost of a sixty-year-old woman with a murderous passion for gaudy jewelry.

The locket was still in his other hand, a living heart pulsing in response to Mrs. Mendoza’s presence.

“Thief,” she rasped, her voice a frigid wind that whipped around the hole. “Give it back.”

“Yeah, I’m trying.” The protection charms around Miles’s neck grew warm as they worked to repel Mrs. Mendoza’s aura. A maelstrom of negative emotions whirled around her, threatening to overtake him.

Miles pulled her corpse up by one skeletal wrist, far enough to slip the chain of the locket over her head.

A sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement blew around him. With a groan that Miles wanted to think sounded relieved, Mrs. Mendoza’s spirit fell back towards her corpse and vanished.

Coughing and shielding his face from the rising cloud of dust, Miles carefully adjusted the locket so it lay in the middle of her chest, nestled in the folds of her blue jacket. The evil aura that had saturated the cramped space slowly dissipated, fading away into the night air.

“Rest easy now,” he murmured, closing the casket gently. “Be at peace.”

He prodded at his tender throat, wincing. Oh, come on, he had school today. How was he supposed to explain suspicious neck bruises? And scarves always made him look like he was trying out for drama club or writing angsty poetry during his lunch.

Once he’d hauled himself, his lantern, and the shovel out of the hole, he took a swig of water from his bottle—a pointless attempt to wash the stale taste from his mouth—and started filling the grave back in.

There was a stillness here now; a sense of peace settled over the cemetery. The night sky seemed clearer, the pinprick stars a little brighter. Mrs. Mendoza’s pain was gone. It was a pain that had soaked into the surrounding headstones and browned the grass, a pain Miles had felt as a physical weight on his ribs since he’d shown up tonight.

But all was calm now. Things were back to how they should be.

Miles was exhausted by the time he patted the last mound of soil in place—an apology for the caretakers who would show up in the morning, a sorry I desecrated thisgrave and ruined your nice grass, but at least I cleaned up after myself thing.

He grabbed the bundle of flowers he’d picked from his mom’s garden earlier in the night—pale pointed asphodel to help Mrs. Mendoza find her way to the afterlife, and lacy coriander blooms to remove any lingering negative aura. They were a little wilted, but they’d do. He placed them gently at the foot of the gravestone, letting the lantern illuminate María Mendoza’s name for a final time.

His car, Blanche, was parked outside the closed cemetery gate. Her door squeaked, worn leather seats creaking beneath him as he climbed in and released a heavy sigh. This job hadn’t been especially difficult, but being around such malevolent energy took a toll on him. He needed sleep, a nice cup of his mom’s tea, and a major shower.

He checked the clock on the dashboard. Two in the morning. And he still had a stop to make.

*   *   *

David and Antonia Mendoza were waiting up for Miles as he parked outside their two-story townhouse. Their living room light was on, illuminating the gauzy curtains and part of the street with a warm, golden glow. Miles only made it halfway out of his car before the front door swung open.

They met him at the top of the stairs, eyes wide and apprehensive, arms around each other to brace for the possibility of bad news.

Miles was happy to disappoint. “It’s done,” he told them quietly. He looked a mess, dirt-covered and sweat-smeared, so he threw in a tired attempt at a smile. “You shouldn’t have any more issues now—she’s at rest.”

After the night he’d had, his mental shield was suffering, flimsy at best. Their relief washed over him in a wave, a balm against his exhaustion, but tinged with an undercurrent of grief.

Antonia, a young woman with thick brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck, sniffled and wiped at her nose with a crumpled tissue. “Thank you.” She passed him a bulging envelope. “Is there anything else we need to do?”

“Visit her grave every now and then, that should be enough. Her spirit is at rest, but it never hurts to show respect, and that she hasn’t been forgotten.”

She nodded, then peeked up at her brother, David. “We need to earn her forgiveness. We have a lot to make up for.”

They’d come to Miles’s family seeking help a few days earlier. Their mother, María Mendoza, had passed away a year ago. In that year, the family had been plagued by misfortune and accidents. Light bulbs exploding, furniture falling over, a freak fire in the upstairs bedroom… They could feel their mother hadn’t moved on, and for some reason, she was targeting them. The family home was tainted, her children afraid for their lives. They were ready to pack up and leave.

Miles’s dad didn’t have time to take on another job, but he’d accepted it anyway. It hadn’t taken him long to zero in on the heavy golden locket Antonia kept in her jewelry box, its malicious aura drawing him in like a beacon. It had been her mother’s, Antonia explained, but they’d decided not to bury it with her so it could be passed down as a family heirloom. Their intentions were pure—they’d assumed it was a nice way to honor their mother.

That was all it had taken. María Mendoza had been a kind and loving mother, firm but big-hearted, the unfortunate victim of a hit-and-run. When her children took the locket, something important and valuable to her, all those lingering emotions from her sudden, wrongful death latched onto the piece of jewelry.

This was the tragedy of most possessed objects and restless spirits. In life, the person would never have imagined harming their loved ones. Yet the cold grip of death changed them. It warped them into a shade of hatred and pain and anger, and those amplified emotions kept them from finding peace.

David reached out and shook Miles’s hand, politely ignoring the dirt caked on his hands and under his nails. “Thank you again. Mamá deserves to rest, and it means a lot to us to know she’s finally moved on.”

“You’re very welcome. I’d say I hope to hear from you again, but…” Miles trailed off.

David huffed out a weak laugh. “With any luck, you won’t.” He gave Miles one last nod, then put his arm around his sister and they went back into the house together.

Despite being tired down to his very bones and sore in more places than he could count, Miles ducked his head, grinning. The Mendoza family’s gratitude had been so sincere that even if he weren’t an empath, he would have no doubts.

Some days, the job felt more worth it than others.

2

Driving 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.

3

Miles woke to the insistent squawk of his alarm. He blinked and stretched in the weak morning sunlight streaming through his windows. His feet were sticking over the edge of the bed—an unwelcome side effect of his last growth spurt—and his toes were numb. A rank odor hung in the air, and he was pretty sure it was him.

Yuck. He seriously regretted not mustering the energy to shower before crawling into bed. The realization he’d been sleeping with graveyard grime and corpse dust on his sheets was… not pleasant. A feeling that intensified when he made the mistake of running his hand through his hair, encountering something crusty. Morbid curiosity came with the territory, but even he knew better than to check and see what it was.

Jenna and Amy, his twelve-year-old twin sisters, were arguing outside their bedroom door. They simultaneously wrinkled their noses at his filthy appearance when he stumbled out of his room, blue towel and a change of clothes in hand.

“Eww, what happened to you?” Amy asked, her neon pink dress blinding in the dimly lit hallway.

“Wrestled a corpse,” Miles got out around another yawn.

Jenna looked more curious than disgusted. She hadn’t started showing any gifts yet—their dad said being a late bloomer was nothing to worry about, that his Uncle Grant hadn’t shown signs of being a seer until he was nearly thirteen—and she bounced between feeling left out and asking a thousand questions whenever a job came up.

Everyone said she’d start showing any day, but Miles could see the worried scrutiny his parents gave her when she wasn’t paying attention. Having a kid without an ability in the gifted bloodlines was rare, but not unheard of. To the more traditional families, it was treated with shame and embarrassment. A few years ago, rumors had spread that the Ambroses had disowned a distant ungifted cousin.

Miles couldn’t even remember a time when he hadn’t been empathic. It had always been part of him.

“Was it a skeleton?” Jenna questioned, chewing at the end of her blonde braid. “Or still decomposing? Did it smell?”

All the color drained out of Amy, her mouth pinching tight. She was too young to start working any of the physical jobs and despised anything to do with dead bodies. Already gifted as a medium—they could all see spirits, but mediums had an easier time connecting or compelling them—she had no problem with ghosts, but the first mention of a corpse sent her running in the opposite direction.

“You’d better get cleaned up for school,” Amy said, hastily changing the subject. “This is not a good look for you.”

“What are you talking about? Graveyard filth is all the rage right now,” he teased, earning himself an eye roll. “And Jenna, don’t say ‘it’ like that—she was a person, someone’s mom and grandma. Her name was María Mendoza, and she was… dusty.”

Jenna leaned forward, ready to ask more questions, but Amy beat her to it, crossing her arms and glowering at Miles. “Mom said you’re all going to a fancy party tonight. Why do you get to go and we don’t?”

His stomach dropped. He’d forgotten all about the Hawthorne party for a few blissful minutes.

God, it was tonight.

He had zero desire to go. From what he’d heard, it would be a lot of thinly veiled insults hidden behind fake smiles. And finger foods. He hated how awkward it was to hold them, and never knew if you were supposed to eat the whole thing in a single bite or nibble. Finger foods were created by a sadist.

“Feel free to take my spot,” he told Amy. “I’ll give you ten bucks if you can convince Mom.”

She inspected him, clearly wondering what the catch was, before running down the hall.

Ha. Miles didn’t feel remotely bad for unleashing that monster.

He crossed the hall to the bathroom, feeling vaguely nauseous. Social situations made him anxious, especially ones with other psychics. It was hard to not feel vulnerable, even with his protective charms.

His shower should have been heavenly, but it was tainted by the knot sluggishly twisting up his insides. What if people tried to talk to him and his brain went blank? What if they expected him to dance, like in those old historical movies his mom loved? The only thing he knew how to do was square-dancing from a ridiculous section of PE a few years ago.

He pictured trying to remember square-dancing steps in the middle of a fancy ballroom full of strangers. In his mind, he tripped over his own feet and took out a whole group of oblivious dancers.

The churning in his gut tried to climb up his throat.

He stayed under the borderline scalding spray long after all the graveyard muck had washed down the drain, long after his usual ten-minute limit so everyone could get hot water in the morning. His skin was pink and tender by the time he was done, but it was worth it.

The bathroom was freezing so he dried off and got dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a striped knit sweater he’d found on sale at the thrift store. It would look ridiculous with his scarf—really, what wasn’t going to look ridiculous with his scarf—but he was beyond caring. He couldn’t believe his life had reached the point where there was something worse than being that scarf guy at school, but here he was. He could thank the Hawthornes for that.

He ruffled his wet hair with the towel and wiped the condensation off the foggy mirror.

A stranger stared back at him.

Miles yelped, jolting in surprise and tripping over the bathroom rug. He caught himself on the sink and when he peeked back in the mirror, he found his own dirty-blond hair and brown eyes staring back at him in confusion.

What the hell?

He blinked a few times, ducked his head in and out of view, but nothing changed.

A knocking sounded on the bathroom door. He jumped out of his skin for a second time, cursing to himself.

“Hey,” Charlee’s voice called. “You alive in there? You’re going to be late.”

Miles yanked the door open in a billow of steam. “Something super weird just happened. I thought… I thought I saw someone else in the mirror.” A boy with dark hair and a pale face.

Her eyebrows shot up. “A spirit?”

What would one be doing in his bathroom? Unless he’d been visited by Casper the Pervy Ghost, there was no way.

“Never mind,” he told her, feeling silly. He was tired and stressed and now, apparently, seeing things.

“If that’s the best excuse you can come up with to get out of going tonight, you need to try a bit harder,” she warned. “Pretty sure being haunted is going to get you cleansed, not a free pass to skip.”

Ugh, and now his nausea was back. “Thanks. Any ideas?”

“Don’t look at me, I don’t have to go. Guess there’s one benefit to my mom being a mess—pariahs don’t get party invites.”

Aunt Robin had been a gifted seer, but after she’d failed to foresee the death of Charlee’s father in a car accident a few years ago, she’d sunk into an all-consuming depression.

It was no secret Charlee had little sympathy for her mom. She’d told Miles once that she hated her mom’s sheer refusal to move on, the memory of her dad a cold void between them. They never spoke anymore, pretended they couldn’t see each other on the rare occasion Robin came out of her room. When Miles visited her, she never asked about Charlee. He reasoned it might be guilt, but Charlee didn’t see it that way.

Miles loved his aunt, but he could see Charlee’s point—she was losing her mother to a ghost.

Not a literal ghost. As far as Miles knew, Uncle Shaun hadn’t stuck around.

His death had demolished Charlee. Miles had spent night after agonizing night with her while she sobbed into her pillow, curled in on herself, a hole carved out of her. Her grief and pain had battered him, relentless and inescapable. It was the first time Miles could remember resenting his gift, how helpless it made him feel that he couldn’t do anything to take her pain away. All he could do was share it.

Aunt Robin hadn’t come to see Charlee the whole time she was grieving. Not even once.

In a way, she’d lost both parents the day her dad died.

“I can’t believe they’re making me go,” Miles lamented, Charlee following into his room. “It’s going to be literal torture. I might die.”

Charlee grimaced. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but… your mom was talking earlier about trying to set you up with some girls there. She mentioned dancing.”

The horrifying twang of square-dancing music echoed in Miles’s ears. “No.”

“Sorry.”

“No. I—I can’t. I seriously can’t.”

Charlee didn’t call him dramatic or tell him to suck it up. As the sole person Miles had told he was gay, she got that this was about more than the horrors of public dancing.

The charms they all wore didn’t work on Charlee. She was a psychometrist, someone who could touch objects and get an echo of their history or energy, impressions left by the person who interacted with them, so her gift exclusively worked on inanimate objects. Last year, full of fear and gay panic, Miles slunk around the house, avoiding Charlee’s casual contact with desperate resolve. Until one day, he hadn’t heard her coming and she’d tugged on his sweater to get his attention.

She immediately knew. He knew she knew. But she’d still given him space, waited for him to come to her.

It had taken him two whole days to work up the courage.

Since then, she’d been his only ally against his mom’s relentless efforts to find Miles a girlfriend. The only person who understood how much her assumptions hurt him.

His parents wouldn’t care if he told them he was gay. If he explained that the reason he hadn’t taken a girl on a first date, the reason he didn’t care about meeting his dream girl at this party, was because he wasn’t interested in any girl. But he still hadn’t found the right time to say it, the right words to tell them.

Part of him figured it would happen when it was meant to. When he had a boyfriend, or his parents inevitably overheard a teasing comment from Charlee, or he slipped up and outed himself. It was easy to tell himself he could put it off until then.

The truth was, he wasn’t ready.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked, plopping down on his bed to pull on his boots. Maybe if he wallowed in misery long enough, the universe would take pity on him and swallow him whole.

“Hide,” Charlee said, without hesitation. “You have to go to the party, but once you get there, find a quiet place to bunker down. I’m just saying, most bathrooms have locks.”

She made it sound so easy.

Boots laced up, he stood and grabbed his backpack from the floor. “I’ve got to go, or I’ll never get a parking spot.”

On his way out, he peeked at the mirror on top of his dresser. His own face looked back.

He had bigger things to worry about right now than sleepy brain hallucinations.

“Good luck,” Charlee called after him.

Yeah. He was willing to bet luck wasn’t on his side today.

4

Over 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.