Cold Kiss

dangerous to have him out like this. In the unforgiving daylight, he looks even paler than usual. His dark eyes are too flat, expressionless.
    She turns her gaze back to the road, and I try not to squirm. We’ve already been driving for a half hour, and we have at least another thirty miles on the highway.
    Rosalie Lanvin is the name of the woman she’s taking me to see. “A sort of family friend,” Olivia had explained, without really explaining at all. “She has the same kind of power you do, and she’s got a hell of a lot more experience with it.”
    This morning, I jumped at the idea. And it’s not that I’ve changed my mind, not really. But the sensation of the car speeding down the highway, taking me farther and farther away from town, away from home, is a little sobering. I glanced at my silenced phone once after I got up, and found eight voice mail messages and eleven texts. I didn’t open any of them.
    Skipping school is one thing, but disappearing all night? Part of me is surprised our neighborhood is still standing. My mother doesn’t even know Gabriel exists.
    It’s frightening, feeling like I’ve been completely untethered, with no one in the world knowing where I am but Olivia and Gabriel. And what’s more, the woman we’re going to see could be the one to give me the answers I need to say good-bye to Danny forever. I want that, I do, but if I close my eyes the way Danny has, the sensation of the moving car feels a lot like speeding toward the moment when he’ll really be gone, for good this time.
    Beside me, he shifts, moving closer, pulling my hand farther into his lap and covering it with his free one. His eyes are still closed, and I don’t want to disturb him.
    But I take the opportunity to rest my head on his shoulder this time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

    THE HOUSE WHERE OLIVIA PULLS UP IS A SAD little ranch with a weedy front yard and one shutter hanging like a crooked tooth beside the picture window. I wasn’t exactly expecting a big Gothic monstrosity with a turret, but the shabby suburban feel of this place is weird, too.
    Olivia turns off the car and swivels around to face me. “Okay, she knows we’re coming, but I didn’t tell her too much. I figured it was better if you did that. And honestly, if she saw it for herself.”
    “Okay.” I sit up, and Danny moves with me, gazing dully at the house through the passenger window.
    “She’s a little … brash.” For the first time, Olivia looks unsure, her gray eyes cloudy with concern. “Just be open-minded. I didn’t get any of the supernatural bonuses in my family, but I’ve seen enough to know that Rosalie’s pretty good.”
    She climbs out of the car, and Danny says, “Where are we?” His voice is too loud in the cramped backseat, and there’s a vague rumble of unease beneath it.
    What am I supposed to say to that? Oh, we’re going to see a woman who may be able to help me get rid of you for good? Someone who has powers like mine but hopefully doesn’t use them to do shitty, stupid things?
    “She’s a friend of Olivia’s, Danny. It’s okay.” I have to work to turn on my smile again, making it persuasive and completely confident, as if an hour’s drive to a complete stranger’s house is something we do every day.
    Olivia is waiting on the front steps, and she motions for us to join her. Danny frowns, but when I get out of the car he follows me, his hand still tight around mine. I brush a smear of dirt off the back of his jeans, as if that’s going to make everything all right, make him look normal. His skin practically glows phosphorescent, it’s so pale.
    The door opens mere seconds after Olivia knocks, and the woman on the other side is another surprise. She’s around my mom’s age, or maybe a little older, but she’s much thicker set, and she’s dressed sort of like a PE teacher, in old chinos and a sweatshirt with UMASS emblazoned on the front.
    In short, she looks about as much like a witch as I do. It’s oddly reassuring.
    “Liv,” she says, nodding at Olivia before adding, “Your father’s not with you, is he?”
    Olivia’s cheeks bloom pink, but she shakes her head and steps aside to give Rosalie a better view of me. “God, no. This is Wren, and that’s Danny.”
    This is met with a brief grunt as Rosalie’s faded brown eyes scan over me. “How old are you, kid?”
    “Seventeen.” I have no idea if this is good or bad—I feel as if I’m undergoing some sort of test as she searches