Chapter Two

Nightmares

I can still feel the coldness of bleeding to death, and the heavy numbness... A chest wound. Someone, probably a young woman like me, was either stabbed or shot. But there's something else- old scars, old misery, a long-standing panic...

My stomach lurches, and I barely make it back to the relative safety of the graveyard border before I'm violently sick in the bushes. I haven't eaten in hours, and nothing but hot bile burns my tongue.

There is a reason I felt that impression so strongly. Every clairvoyant picks up signals and experiences the most strongly from people like themselves in some way. Age, gender, life experiences, magical talent. All of these factors matter.

Of course, death is a pretty strong signal anyhow.

Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I carefully wipe my mouth, and then kick dirt and leaves over the mess I left. It's unlikely someone will use your vomit to curse you, but I've heard things. It's better to be safe than sorry.

Swearing profusely in my head, I straighten my hat and march back up the hill, pulling my veil back over me. It's shaky, but it should hold. Provided I can keep my cool.

Breathing evenly through my nose, I focus on counting my heartbeats and holding up the veil as I reach the spot I intended, just behind where the trees break off into a grassy incline to the empty lot behind the graveyard.

There's only a half-moon to see by, but it's enough. I see two dark, indistinct shapes crouched over a girl in a plaid skirt and crisp white blouse- a catholic school uniform. That's when my stomach twists with something else.

Her skin, sun-kissed from the latest spring trip, is liberally sprinkled with freckles. Her red hair is spread out behind her head, tangled in the grass as if she struggled. Her clothing is askew, and torn open in front. Her chest is nothing but... a mess. A blood-soaked mess, blackened in the bluish moonlight.

I think I know who this girl is.

On the ParaNet, there was this girl from a conservative household going to the Our Lady school in one of the nice neighborhoods south of the city. I talked to her on the chat about how to balance her faith and her Gift- I do it all the time, though admittedly I didn't have parents that tried to convince me all magic was of Satan. I'd pointed her to one of my own mentors, and asked her to email him when she got the chance.

The two dark figures work over her corpse, working with slender knives to do something I can't quite make out. It's all I can do to stay detached.

My veil must have wavered, because a coppery smell assaults my nose. I fight to pull it back up, but I can feel someone else's malignant power on the other side of it, probing it. With a sinking feeling, I realize I must have just given myself away.

One of the figures seems to turn towards me, and I get the impression of interest before that fades. Meanwhile, I sit frozen where I am, hardly daring to breathe.

That's the secret to stealth- the less you move, the less they see you. I reason with myself- I'm wearing all black in the dead of night under the shadows of trees. There is no reason to think they saw me.

Eventually, the two move away. I watch them vanish into the trees across the lot, leaving their victim sprawled in the grass.

Grace. That was her name. Grace Fairchild.

Knowing better than to go down to the body, I slip back the way I came, taking every precaution I know to. Then I go straight to the street, ignoring the bus stop. Reaching under my hat band, I pull down the sheer silken veil my friend made for me, embroidered with runes for confusion and ignorance. Muttering the words to activate it, I feel the magic slip over my skin, turning me into someone else. It will last me until I get back home.

Dread gathers in my chest. There's a feeling I've grown familiar with. It's a metallic dread, both hot and cold like a fever coming on. There's a dream holding the future in it waiting for me when I go to bed. And from the feel of it, the future is not bright.

It's a long walk home.

The house I live in is a sheer violation of housing codes that no one follows anyway.

Nestled between a trailer park and a mostly-empty strip mall, the one-story house has two bedrooms and one bathroom, and it houses the seven vagabonds that make up my crew. Myself included.

Pulling my lanyard out from under my shirt, I sort out the correct key and unlock the door, then the deadbolt. A quick password opens the wards, and a gesture opens the burglar chain. I carefully creep inside, relocking everything behind me. The living room is dark, and the smell of wax is faded. I hear the occasional pop from the fireplace, but the coals are dim. Dropping my cane in the old dented can, I take a deep breath.

Nick is asleep on the couch, and Swanson sits awake in the armchair, idly stroking the stray cat we adopted. Archimedes, a ragdoll persian, swishes his tail in time with the grandfather clock in the corner, watching a spider make a web atop a bookshelf.

Swanson looks up, his head half-rising from where it rested in his hand. His platinum hair picks up and reflects the stripes of yellow street light filtering in through the blinds. "You don't look well," he says.

"I'm not," I say gruffly, hanging up my hat and stripping off my jacket. I try to unstrap my bandolier, but my hands are shaking too badly. I don't think I've stopped trembling all night.

"Here," he says, standing quickly. Archimedes leaps gracefully down. He walks behind me, undoing the straps for me and carefully lifting the bandolier over my head, keeping the bells from jangling within their pouches. "Wouldn't want to wake the little ones."

I raise an eyebrow at his tone. "Is Celeste having bad dreams again?" I ask. He nods.

I curse softly. Swanson and I are the oldest, in our early twenties, but the others in the crew are much younger. Nick, the native-American boy on the couch, is fourteen. There are two other teens, Lanna and Dianne, who are fifteen and sixteen respectively, but there are also two little girls that came to join us not long ago. Sisters. Their parents were taken by the White Court, leaving them to fall through the cracks of the severely broken foster care system. The younger one is Celeste, who is six. And she's just as clairvoyant as me, which is a really sucky thing for a six-year-old. The fact that her gift came on that early says it will only be stronger as she grows. I swore to her sister, Sarah, that I would do everything I could for her.

If Celeste is having nightmares at the same time I have a bull of a premonition coming on, that can't be good. There is no such thing as a coincidence in this world, after all.

Yanking off my gloves, I rub my hands together, flexing my fingers against the multitude of rings on them. Two of them on my pinkies are there to put a damper on my power, but the rest have their own reasons. I needed all of them tonight, and now my hands are swollen and red. Shaking my head, I stride to my room, the tiny guest bedroom I share with Dianne.

"Night," I call softly back, closing the door behind me as I pull off my rings en masse, letting them jingle to the floor. Undoing my belt and letting the magic snap and slide off, I let my cargo pants fall to the ground and strip off my shirt, stained with sweat.

Dianne is asleep on the trundle bed pulled out from under the twin bed I sleep on. Several dreamcatchers hang at the head and foot of the bed, and a white mandala is painted on the black ceiling speckled with painted constellations. Dianne's practice stuff is still scattered around the floor, with her bangles and staff lying in front of the dresser, and the string of dead fairy lights stretched out across the rug. I tiptoe my way to the foot of my bed, climbing in in my boxers and sports bra.

By now, the impending dream is hammering behind my eyelids like a strobe light. As soon as I flop down and roll up in the sheets, it flies over me, giving me that weird sensation of falling and floating into darkness.

Then it begins.

What's really weird and probably pretty cliche about prophetic dreams is that they aren't the clearest when they happen. That's why I have my dreamcatchers- they catch the impression of dreams while I'm in them, giving me a record I can review. It's saved our lives in the past, being able to interpret my visions.

I've put some in place for Celeste, as well. Heaven knows, her dreams matter too.

But this time, it's way too clear. That can only mean one thing.

You see, the future is a muddly thing. It's full of possibilities and branching paths that all tangle and intertwine until you can't make sense of them. But the more certain a future becomes, the clearer it is.

And I saw the possibilities there, clear as day. Not a riot of factors and odds, but three dead ends. Exactly three.

That should tell you just how positively screwed I am.

I see cold stone and echoing underground chambers, a corridor of cells, and stern-faced, sword bearing men and women in grey cloaks. Wardens- I've seen them before, when they raided my house to stop my mother. That's the singular future, where there is no deviation. That's the place I will go, whether I like it or not. The three possibilities take place there.

I see a gathering of wizards- so much power in one place that the pressure makes my head ache. Everyone in black robes, wearing blue stoles. Then there is a group in the front, wearing purple ones. At the lead is a man with a long white beard. They speak, first in Latin, then in English. Something about warlocks.

That's one possibility.

The next two, I can't see anything. There's a black bag over my head. The difference is that in one, there is an eerie silence. In the other, I can hear Celeste screaming before something abruptly silences her.

Then there is a deep, wrenching shock as I feel the kiss of cold metal and blinding pain, then a curious numbness...

Thrashing, I struggle myself awake, gasping for breath. Dawn light flares through the window, bright enough to make my eyes sting with tears.

I can't stop the keening cry that flows out with my breath, as if someone punched me in the chest.

"Tess?"

Dianne is awake, standing over me. The others blink from the doorway.

My throat is raw and sore. Reaching up to touch my face, I feel the dry salt tracks. I was screaming in my sleep.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. Dianne sits next to me, her bangs falling in her face.

"What did you see?" she half-whispers. I swallow hard.

"I saw the White Council," I say, my voice grating. "And I saw warlocks."

Swanson's expression hardens. Clearing his throat, he jerks his head towards the front door. Let's talk about this outside, why don't we? that look says. Rubbing my face, I stand, walking unsteadily out of the room. I only remember at the last second to grab my robe off the hook by the door, covering up my half-nakedness. Terry cloth sweeps over and conceals the scars down my shoulders and abdomen.

We walk outside, and around the house to the big oak tree growing at the corner of our backyard. A pile of firewood conceals us from the view of the house. He leans against the trunk, his hands stuffed in the front pocket of his gray hoodie.

"How soon is it?" he asks, his voice hard. I tilt my head at him.

"Celeste said last night she saw you die, Tess. How soon?" he demands.

I shake my head. "I don't know yet," I admit. "I saw three paths. In one of them, we all make it."

His pale eyes widen. "We all- What exactly did you see?"

Closing my eyes, I tilt my face up to soak in the sunrise, willing it to wash away the ugly fear lingering in the back of my head.

It takes me several minutes to find my voice. "The two other paths are where I die. In one of them, I die alone. In the other, the White Council kills all of us. And the warlocks who framed us get away scott free."

I hear Swanson hiss through his teeth. "Jesus, Therese. What happened last night? How are we going to get tangled up with warlocks?"

I shake my head. "I don't think it's something that will happen," I say. "I think it already has. The warlocks are already here. But now they've included us in their plans. They mean to make us their scapegoats."

"Then we have to find them," he says. "That's how we make it out of this. We find them and we get to the White Council before the White Council comes for us."

"Got a plan?" I ask sarcastically. He raises his hands.

"Hey, you're the seer, not me." He sighs. "You know, I used to know a guy. A warden, with a number up in Chicago. But the grapevine says he's out of commission."

"Got any other ideas?"

"Keep an ear to the ground. I'm going to call on some friends. Maybe send a flag up on ParaNet."

I nod. It's a sound plan. Then something shifts for me.

"I'm going to finish my errand," I say. I need to turn in that spook-in-a-bottle to Mr. Lawrence. "I should be back this afternoon. Make sure the others stay together."

Then I'm going to chase another hunch.