The next morning, Lila dredged her way back to wakefulness. It felt like her skull was stuffed full of cotton and her mouth was so dry her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. The cut on her forehead throbbed with a dull, angry pain and her eyes ached horribly. It felt like a long time before she could convince herself to open them.

When she did, she found herself in comfortable, familiar surroundings. Tamara hadn't changed the room much, even though Lila hadn't lived with her family for years. The walls were still the same brick red, the windows still framed by creamy curtains. Even the bedspread was the same, a red and blue quilt that had been made by Tamara's mother.

With a groan, Lila sat up and scooted back, leaning against the headboard. She yawned, stretching her arms over her head, startling when her hands knocked against a picture hung over the bed. She steadied the frame and dropped her arms, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

It did nothing to relieve the ache. Trying to swallow against her dry throat, Lila tossed back the blankets and swung her legs down, her feet meeting a faded, old rag-rug. Yawning again, Lila shivered against the morning chill and padded toward the bedroom door, wincing at the cold wood beneath her feet.

Tamara had always kept her house too cool for Lila's taste. She swore it slowed the energy in the air, and kept her from being bombarded by the flow of time.

When she finished in the bathroom and dressed, she could hear the telltale sounds of breakfast beginning to float up the stairs. Her body was ravenous after using up so much energy last night, but her mind couldn't reconcile with the idea of being hungry. The memories of her vision left a nasty, sour taste in her throat. 

Images of that white hand clawing through the air had tormented her dreams as well. Lila made her way down the stairs, hanging on to the dark wood of the banister. She didn't feel up to testing her balance. Another knock to the head likely wasn't going to make her visions behave any better.

She managed to make it to the landing without suffering another vision. She didn't even trip. Padding quietly through the sunlit living room, Lila smiled at the sounds of a happy family emanating from the kitchen. Growing up, that was something she'd never had. Tamara had been the one to teach her what family was supposed to be.

Her good mood dimmed as she skirted the blackened patch of floorboards. The sludge that the water had turned into had been cleared away, but a sour, rancid smell still lingered. Lila scurried toward the kitchen door.

When she peeked around the corner, she was shocked to see not just Tamara and Michael, but Tamara's husband, Vernon. It must be Sunday. Somehow, she'd lost track of her days. The only one missing was Arthur, the oldest son. She took a few steps into the kitchen, her stomach snarling at the delicious scents of bacon, eggs and pancakes.

Vernon flipped one of the pancakes into the air, making Tamara laugh when it missed the spatula and ended up half out of the pan. Lila chuckled as well, the sound scraping her throat and making everyone turn to face her.

"Come on, come sit and eat," Tamara said, gesturing her to a table on the far side of the room. "I'm sure you're starving."

Lila nodded and made her way to a chair sandwiched between the breakfast nook table and a window. Her sore body let out a groan as she plopped down.

"Sorry I missed all the excitement last night," Vernon said, sunlight flashing off the lenses of his glasses. "Tammy tells me it was somethin' else."

Lila grimaced, rubbing gently at her right eye. When she'd dared a glance in the mirror this morning, she'd found the whites of her eyes still stained a ghastly red. "That's one way to put it." She smiled up at the older man as he slid a plate in front of her. "It's good to see you, by the way."

He just smiled and ruffled her hair before returning to the stove.

"Here," Michael said, pushing a bottle of syrup across the table. "Don't know why you even bother with the pancake."

Lila stuck her tongue out at him before proceeding to drown the pancakes in a wave of sticky sweetness. "Can't eat syrup with a fork. The pancake is just a delivery vehicle."

That earned her a collective eye roll from the entire family. They'd heard all her excuses before. Lila just smiled. She had a sweet tooth. There was nothing wrong with that. Plus, calorie-dense foods were the best for restoring any energy drained by her psychic abilities.

Even a single bite made her feel worlds better.

Once the others all had their plates and grace had been said, Lila turned her attention to Tamara. Around a bite of bacon, she said, "You said you were gonna look into it more last night?"

She didn't miss the slight frown that creased Vernon's forehead, but she couldn't afford to feel guilty for the circles beneath Tamara's eyes. Any more visions felt like they might kill her. Or drive her insane.

Another image of that dead, white hand reaching for her bloomed in her mind, raising goosebumps along her skin. No. The visions were absolutely out of her control. Last night, she'd cracked her head on the corner of a table. Next time, it might be something worse.

Her thoughts turned to Ethan, and how angry and scared he'd been. He couldn't even be here to listen to Tamara now because of how depleted her energy was. What happened to him if she was seriously hurt because of these visions? She'd heard dozens of stories of psychics landing themselves in comas because they couldn't control their powers. The idea of Ethan stuck in some soulless hospital, waiting for her to die was so painful she couldn't even contemplate it.

"I tried."

The flat statement from Tamara pulled Lila from her dismal musings. She blinked once, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

Tamara pushed a few cubes of honeydew melon around with her fork. "Whoever's doin' this... Whoever's workin' this magic, they're strong. One of the strongest I've seen in all my years."

"Stronger than you?" Michael asked, voicing Lila's disbelief. When Tamara gave a slow nod, Lila exchanged a bug-eyed look with the empath.

Tamara had one of the strongest gifts Lila had ever seen. Psychics from all over the country—even the world—were drawn to her power. They came begging for help, for lessons, to satisfy their own curiosity. The idea that this...necromancer was stronger than even Tamara sent icy fingers raking down Lila's spine.

She licked her lips, the sweetness of syrup there not enough to calm her nerves. "You..." She gulped against her suddenly tight throat. "You said my visions wouldn't s-stop until the magic did."

Tamara's only answer was a sad look. Her dark eyes studied Lila with something like reluctance. Like she didn't want to say what everyone already knew.

"And they're not gonna stop just 'cause you ask nicely," Vernon guessed, slowly stirring his coffee.

"They're working toward something," Tamara said, pinching the bridge of her nose. She wasn't wearing her garnet ring this morning, making Lila wonder if that was a concession for her—a precaution against anymore unwelcome visions.

"Toward what?" Michael asked, eyes narrowed in thought.

"Don't know," Tamara admitted grudgingly. She ran a hand over her curly hair, twirling one thin strand around her fingers. Lost in thought for a moment, she tapped the fingernails of her free hand against a glass of orange juice. "Whoever's doing this is adept at covering their trail. All I could see was the kind of magic they're working—"

"Necromancy," Lila interrupted. "Twisting the spirits of the dead."

Anger rippled through her at that. The dead weren't playthings. They weren't here to serve the whims of the living. They were trapped. Sad or angry or confused. People like Lila were supposed to help them. To unbind them from the places keeping them tethered to a plane they no longer belonged to.

An image of the shambling corpses she'd seen moving through the streets clouded her mind, making her sick. It was a perversion of nature.

It wasn't right.

Tamara gave a slight dip of her chin before continuing. "The only other thing I could find out was where they might be."

It took a moment before the implication became clear to Lila. She turned studious eyes to her breakfast, but couldn't manage more than using her fork to pick at her pancake. No one spoke, allowing her to come to the decision by herself.

What if it was in Boston? she asked herself, raising her head to stare blankly across the room. What if it was Ethan's corpse—his spirit—bent to that monster's will?

Her gaze scanned the room again, but there was no hint of Ethan's presence. Swallowing past the nauseous lump in her throat, she whispered, "Where?"

Tamara let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief. "Denver."