I can picture her in her room, on the bed on her back, knees bent as she stares at the ceiling. It's a big room, bigger than either Dar's or mine, but it's a bigger house, too. Jess's mom works in the art department of an advertising agency, and her dad is a lawyer on Wall Street, and Jess and her older brother, Matt, are the only kids.

They're like a TV family, except without the funny next-door neighbor or the weird uncle, and they're so normal and nice to one another, it's almost boring. Every once in a while, I wonder if one day we'll find out her dad is really an ax murderer or her mom snorts c.o.ke and has affairs with the pool guy. They actually have a pool, so that part makes a sort of sense.

It makes me wonder what my life would be like if Dad hadn't left. If he and Mom would still be as stupid in love as they were when I was a kid, the way Jess's parents are. If anything would have changed-my power, dating Danny-because he was still around.

"Um, what about it?" I say, hoping she didn't hear the demented squeak in my voice.

Jess sighs. "Like ... G.o.d, I don't know, Wren. We haven't seen you in forever, and now we're having some shiny happy sleepover like everything's cool? It's random."

She's right, it's bizarre, and it's all my fault that it is, but it still twists my heart into a hard little knot to hear her say it.

And what am I supposed to say, here at the dinner table with Robin sitting next to me, chattering to Mom about some werewolf movie she wants to see, and Mom glancing at me every couple of seconds, her chin propped on her fist?

"Look, if you don't want to come over," I say, turning sideways a little bit and lowering my voice, "just say so. I mean, I thought ... I don't know what I thought."

Jess sighs again, a gust of weariness.

"No, I want to. I just hate that we're ... I don't know. Are we fighting? I don't even know anymore."

"We're not fighting." I know Mom can hear me, even though I'm speaking as softly as I can. "We don't have to, anyway."

"Did you ask your mom about Friday yet? Is it okay?"

It used to be okay all the time. Mom's always happy for Jess and Dar to come over-she never minds if I'm at one of their houses, but she loves it when I have friends here. To keep an eye on me? Maybe. Sometimes I think she just likes the noise, the extra life in the house.

"No, but I will. You know she won't care," I say, and grunt when Robin elbows me in the ribs as she bends down to get something she dropped.

"Okay." She doesn't sound entirely convinced, and now Mom is frowning at me. Robin gets up to clear her plate, so it's time to wrap this up.

"I'll call you later," I tell Jess. "I have to go."

"Well, I'll be here, wrestling Finch's trig problems into submission. If I don't answer, a.s.sume I'm comatose."

She sounds a little more like herself then, and I grin as I say good-bye. Maybe this will work. Maybe I'm panicking for nothing.

Then I catch sight of Mom's suspicious expression. Maybe not.

"Who was that?" she asks as I dig into my enchilada again, and she runs a finger around the rim of her mug.

"Just Jess."

"And what won't I care about?" She tilts her head, waiting, and I take the plunge.

"Jess and Darcia sleeping over on Friday night."

Robin's clattering something in the sink, and in the living room the fire is still crackling and the TV is on, but for a second it's completely silent, just the two of us, eyes locked. She knows something is up, she's known for months, but she doesn't know what, and this is just part of it. No matter what I've told her about hanging out with Darcia or going downtown with Jess, they haven't been at the house since shortly after Danny died.

Like I said, she's not stupid.

Still, she simply blinks as she says, "Of course. They're more than welcome, you know that."

My heart thumps back into rhythm then, and Robin says, "Mom, you got ice cream! Awesome."

I snort, and Mom smiles and gets up. She leans down to press her head to mine as she clears her plate. I lean into the clean, warm-cotton scent of her, and pretend that it's all going to be just that easy.

CHAPTER NINE.

IT'S NEARLY MIDNIGHT BEFORE I CAN GET OUT to the loft. Where was I going to say I was going at eight on a Sunday night, once dinner was cleaned up and we'd stuffed ourselves with mint chocolate chip and b.u.t.ter pecan? Nowhere, of course. So I pulled out my chemistry book and studied while Robin watched some ridiculous movie and Mom went over the schedules for the salon.

The cat darts between my legs now when I open the back door, and I hiss at him to come back. He pauses mid-sprint and looks at me, tail twitching, and then takes off again. I sigh and follow him, taking care not to let the screen door slam.

It's freezing out, and I hunch into my hoodie as I run across the backyard. Everything sounds too loud in the dead calm of the hour, and I wince every time my foot snaps a twig. The side door to the garage wheezes on its ancient hinges when I open it, and I swallow hard. Mrs. Petrelli is asleep in the house, and even if she isn't, she has to be way too deaf at her age to hear it.

Danny isn't, though. He grabs me when I clear the top step, and m.u.f.fles my startled scream with one hand. He's no warmer than it is outside, and the smooth skin of his palm is too earthy, dark.

Dead.

I wrestle out of his grasp when I can breathe again, and he stumbles back toward the bed.

"Wren, Wren, where were you? Wren."

If I close my eyes, I can see him banging his head against the wall, smell the hot copper of the blood.

"I'm here," I tell him, and sit down abruptly on one of the wooden crates. "I'm right here, it's okay."

"Wren." He practically vaults forward, landing on his knees in front of me, and lays his head in my lap. "You weren't here. You weren't here for so long."

I touch his head, spreading my fingers in his hair. It's so dry, so cool, dark straw now. "I'm sorry," I whisper, and my voice shakes as I make myself stroke his head. "I couldn't help it."

"I need you here, Wren." He shrugs away from my hand and lifts his head to look at me. His fingers dig into my thighs, ten distinct points of pressure. "I need you. When you're not here, I don't ... I can't think. I don't know what to do and I can't ... I can't think, Wren."

The hair on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kles, and I shut my eyes again. I can't look at his face, his mouth twisted and his brow knotted, his cheeks pale, and so, so cold.

"I didn't mean to," I whisper, and try not to flinch when his palm rests against my face, his thumb lightly tracing my cheekbone. "I didn't mean to."

I tell him stories for a while, lying on the mattress with him, his head cradled on my chest. I've pulled up the blankets, but it doesn't matter. The chill is on him, in him, and he's pressed up against me. My teeth are chattering, but if he notices, he doesn't say anything.

He loves this, but I have to be careful. I try to talk only about us, times when we were alone together, because I don't want to remind him of Ryan or Becker, or his parents and his brother and sister. I can't answer the questions he asks about them, not honestly anyway.

He never used to ask. At first, all he wanted was me, as if he'd woken up in some dream where the two of us were all there was, all he needed. Even the loft didn't confuse him much, as long as I was there.

But the longer he's alone, the more the dream fades.

"Remember the first time we went into the city?"

He nods, calmer now, and his hand rests easy on my hip. We've been at this for an hour, and I dread the thought of my alarm in the morning.

"G.o.d, it was so cold that day, even for February," I whisper, and shiver a little. It doesn't feel much warmer right now.

I describe it all for him, letting my eyes drift shut as I lay my head back and remember it. Bundled together into the seat, sharing earbuds and a coffee while the train rattled along the tracks. Changing at Newark and running down the long ramp to the PATH, which took us into the Village. We'd stopped every two blocks for coffee, it seemed-it was a blue-cold day, the wind biting into our cheeks, and we didn't have anything specific to do anyway. We were simply roaming, playing, and it became a game to spot another coffee shop first and race toward it on the crowded streets.

"My favorite was that one on MacDougal," I say with a smile. "The one with the tin ceiling and all those old pictures of people in furs and weird hats. That place had the best croissants."

He makes a vague humming noise, in agreement, I think, and I know he won't fall asleep, but he's as relaxed as he ever gets now.

"And then we went to Bleecker Bob's and that comic-book store, remember? Oh, and the thrift store where you bought me that necklace, the one with the owl in front of the moon."

"I remember the moon." He sounds faraway, preoccupied, and his body is tense again, solid marble.

"Yeah, the owl is sitting on a branch with the full moon behind it," I tell him, and scritch idly through the hair at his nape. "It's pretty. I'll wear it tomorrow."

"I remember the moon," he says again, and sits up. The blankets rustle in his wake, and I shiver. "And the candles. There were candles."

My stomach turns over in a dizzying swoop. Candles? There are no candles on that necklace, but there were candles and a full moon the night I cast the spell.

I grab his arm, trying to pull him back to me. The silver light through the window is murky, but his eyes are gleaming.

Polished stones, I think, remembering my dream, and pull harder.

"Remember where we went after that?" I ask him. I'm trying not to panic-he's immovable, completely still, watching me, and I feel small, weak.

Breakable.

Danny never had much of a temper, but this isn't really Danny in too many ways to count. I know that my Danny would never have hurt me, would have stepped in front of a bus before hitting me, but this Danny? I'm suddenly not sure. As cold as he is, I can feel the heat of fury in his stare.

"Remember?" I say again, and my voice is really shaking now, giving the word at least four extra syllables. Panic is fluttering like a trapped bird in my chest, and the air snaps with electricity. "We found that great diner on Broadway and you ordered the cheeseburger that was as big as your head."

I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, but I let the words keep coming, the cherry cheesecake we shared, the long, windy walk back to the PATH station, the woman with the blind Great Dane and the feathered hat, the ridiculous T-shirt Danny bought from the vendor in the train station.

After a minute, he softens, and his eyes fall shut, maybe picturing the scenes I'm describing. I pull him toward me again, gently, slowly, and he comes, stretches out beside me to bury his nose in my hair.

"I remember," he says, and I can only hope he means that stupid vampire shirt.

Gabriel throws a pen at me in trig, and I jerk out of a doze before Ms. Nardini notices. I scrawl "thank you" on my notebook, but he doesn't smile, just nods.

I can't worry about him or his hurt feelings-I'm barely functional, even with two cups of coffee before school. It was close to two thirty before I snuck back into the house last night, and the four hours of sleep I got feels more like four minutes.

Anyway, looking at him is no easier than being with Danny. Every time I spot him out of the corner of my eye, I can hear his voice in my ear, feel his hand on my back, smell the musky boy scent of his shirt against my cheek.

But that was just a dream. What happened with Danny last night was real, and that's what frightens me.

I drag myself through my morning cla.s.ses and stumble into the cafeteria at lunchtime, desperate for more caffeine and a chance to put my head down and pa.s.s out, but Jess is waiting when I walk through the doors.

"Sit with me?" she says simply, and I can only nod. I can't screw this up on top of everything else, and even if I can't tell her anything about what's going on, I find myself hoping that we can hang out like we used to. Laughing at things only we understand, finishing each other's sentences, pa.s.sing each other the parts of our lunch that we don't want but the other might.

She takes a table by the windows while I get a soda and a hot dog with Tater Tots. It looks disgusting, but it's better than the nothing I packed, and at least it'll give me something to do with my hands.

Jess has a salad from the gourmet deli downtown, and she hands me a pile of mushrooms and green peppers as soon as I sit down. I grin and toss a Tater Tot into her greens, and she smirks. It feels good, almost like normal, until I realize, just like with Darcia, I have no idea what to say. I don't know what Jess is up to lately outside of trig problems, and that's a pretty lame subject to get into.

But as soon as she swallows her Tater Tot, she launches into a story about how Ian Sparks left a note in Diane Cashdollar's locker this morning, complete with earnest declarations of love and, apparently, hand-drawn hearts.

The funniest thing about this is that Ian is gorgeous and six foot two, but because he's a freshman, he's completely off Diane's radar. She's a senior, and she takes gorgeous to a whole other level. If she had any sense, she'd ditch Mark Collins, who cheats on her during every away football game, especially since Ian is sweet, and will probably treat her like the princess she desperately wants to be.

She doesn't have any sense, though, so that's that. And I hate to sympathize with Ian, since I think he's more b.o.o.b-struck than love-struck, anyway.

Gossip takes us safely through the lunch period, and when we walk out, Jess seems as much like her old self as I could have hoped. She even elbows me, teasing and grinning, when we separate in the west hall to go our own ways. It makes World Lit easy, since I can tell Darcia that we ate lunch together, but none of it erases the low hum of worry just under the surface.

It's all stirred up inside me, this bubbling happiness that maybe I didn't completely screw up my friendship with Jess and Darcia, and a hot, twisting sickness in my gut at the thought of what Danny might say or do when I climb up to the loft. The mess of it is making me dizzy, and when I walk home I drag the wind along with me, a chilly swirl that blows up my jacket and settles on the back of my neck.

I'm taking the long way home, too, which is stupid. If anything, the longer I take to get there, the more frantic Danny will be.

This end of Dudley is busy with North Avenue so close, a rush of cars zipping in either direction, and I have no warning when a hand closes over my shoulder. I'm so startled, I nearly trip over my own feet, but Gabriel grabs my arm and pulls me upright.

"Sorry," he says, and he looks so stricken I can't be mad.

"It's okay. I was ... somewhere else." I huddle into my coat as we stand there on the corner of Dudley and Forest, even though I know I'm the reason for the cold fingers of air pushing through Gabriel's hair.

"Hey, I just wanted to tell you..." He tilts his head to one side, steps a little closer. "I asked around about you. I know you probably didn't want me to, but I know about Danny."

I can't help it-I hear the words and I blow wide open, a door banging in the wind.

I see my mistake as soon as I make it-Gabriel meant he heard about Danny dying, probably figured it explained why I run so hot and cold, and wanted nothing more than to offer sympathy. Instead, his mouth hangs open as he stares, and I wonder what he's seeing. The graveyard in the moonlight, candles flickering in a closed circle? The loft with its ratty nest of a bed and the boy waiting on it, pale and still?

"Wren." Gabriel grabs my arm again, harder this time, pulling me off the corner and up Forest, behind the screen of a giant maple, its nude branches creaking overhead like bones. "Wren, what did you do?"

CHAPTER TEN.

IT'S TOO MUCH-THAT HUMMING ENERGY surges inside me and a branch snaps above us, clattering to the ground only two feet away. Gabriel's fingers dig into my upper arm, and he steers me back toward Dudley. I'm breathless, trying to keep up, when I manage to get out, "Wait, stop, my house is that way."

"Later," he says, grim and determined, and we cover two blocks in a blur, leaves crunching underfoot as we head toward Prospect. Five minutes later we're climbing the stairs inside a rambling old house and he's shoving a key into the door on the second floor.

"Sit," he says tersely, and I bristle.

"What are you, my father?" It's stupid, and hardly the point, but I don't care. I'm horrified and panicked and exhausted, and that's just on the surface. Beneath all of that it's even darker, smoky and dirty and wrong and regretful, and I close my eyes as I drop onto the sagging sofa.

Gabriel ignores me and goes into the kitchen through the arch to the right, and I hear the tap running, the distant snick as a burner is lit. I'm trembling, blood racing so fast through my veins I can practically feel the hot course of it snaking in and out of my heart. I drag my feet onto the sofa and wrap my arms around my legs, willing myself to calm down.