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“I can sense my home,” I say faintly. “I know where to go.”

As I turn and take a step, pain spears my ankle. I cry out, grabbing the nearest tree.

“No way am I letting you hobble home on that ankle. I can’t believe you walked on it this far.”

“Grief suppresses physical pain,” I croak, taking another step. My fingers ache with cold. October in South Carolina boasts thirty- or forty-degree temperature differences—eighties by midafternoon, fifties or lower after sundown.

“I’ve made it back in worse shape than this,” I say, more to myself than to my nameless companion, whom I’m fairly sure my brain invented to help me through the trauma of this episode.

Heavy footfalls in the leaves. Sudden heat warms my back, and then a pair of sinewy arms scoops me up, muscles bunching beneath crisp shirtsleeves. The rich scent of sandalwood and amber.

My brows pinch together as I drag his name out of the recesses of my traumatized brain. “Heathcliff.”

“Earnshaw,” his deep voice replies.

“You followed me?” I conjure up scant memories of someone removing my sandals after I twisted my ankle, someone helping me across the stream. “How long was I—”

“Let’s see… The service started at eleven, and it’s a little after midnight now, so…thirteen hours. Not gonna lie, I’m starving and thirsty myself. I couldn’t leave, though. Didn’t want to lose track of you.”

The bloody remnants of my heart seal themselves back together at those words.

No one has ever come with me or even offered to follow me.

After my first couple of episodes, my parents just let me run off and go through the agony, knowing I’d come crawling back eventually, when it was finished.

After my episodes, Mom would give me water, aspirin, and food.

She’d help me change and clean up. These days, Dad just hands me a water bottle and leaves me to recover on my own.

No one has ever cared enough to go through this hell with me.

If I still had tears, I think I’d cry again.

But even though I’m touched, I’m suspicious, too. Dad says the Lockwoods are bad news—pagans of the old way, through and through. Demon-worshippers. And though my dad has myriad faults, I’ve never known him to lie about the supernatural world. If he says the Lockwoods are dangerous, they are.

And one of them knows my secret now. He could use it against me.

If Heathcliff outs me to the town or to the church, my dad will lose his place as a deacon, and he’ll lose his real estate clients.

I’d probably have to quit working for Aunt Nellie as well.

Right now, she thinks I suffer from migraines and that I’m prone to focal seizures.

It’s the excuse I’ve given her for any sudden strangeness or random absences from work.

If she knew the real reason, she’d bail on me, like everyone does.

I can’t risk Heathcliff telling anyone about this, so I need to tread carefully here. Not easy with my brain fractured by weariness and my body one massive lump of pain.

Heathcliff strides through the woods with me in his arms. With one hand he holds his phone, angled to shed light over the ground so he doesn’t trip.

When I’m wandering, I usually move slowly, in circles. Since we’re walking in a straight line, it shouldn’t take us nearly as long to get home as it did to get out here.

“You want to head slightly more to the right,” I tell him.

He scoffs, as if he can hardly believe I’m a supernatural GPS, but he makes the adjustment.

“I’m sorry you had to witness all that,” I venture. “I know it’s loud and gross.” Of course the hot guy I hooked up with had to see me when my face was glazed with snot and tears. Because that’s just how my life goes.

“It was loud,” he admits. “And intense.” He strides on for a few minutes before adding, “So you do this often, and you talked about mourning…you said it’s supernatural…which means you’re a banshee.”

He says it so simply. No dramatic shift in tone, no fear.

So I reply just as succinctly. “Yeah.”

“How’s that work?”

I suck on my cracked lower lip, unsure how to respond.

His casual use of the word banshee means he’s at least somewhat familiar with supernatural ancestry, specifically the kind that has influenced this area for generations.

My dad, the deacons, and Pastor Linton are the most recent warriors in a long crusade not just to keep one god buried but to destroy every last vestige of old magic.

According to Dad, the Lockwoods have always been on the opposite side of that effort, advocating for a resurgence of ancestral worship and the old ways.

It makes sense that Heathcliff would have some knowledge of the topic.

But how much does he know? How much can I tell him?

It was a mistake to fuck this guy. He’s pretty much stalking me now, showing up at church, following me into the woods. And now he knows my secret.

How am I going to get out of this?

“I’m guessing your dad knows what you are,” Heathcliff says matter-of-factly. “But you’ve managed to keep it hidden from everyone else or explain it away.”

He is scarily perceptive. “Aunt Nellie thinks I occasionally have hallucinations or seizures. Between that rumor and my reputation as the congregation’s snarky rebel, people interpret my behavior the way they want to—which is usually light-years from the truth.”

“So what triggers these bouts of screaming and crying? Death, right? All death or certain ones?”

Maybe it’s the powerful flex of his arms around me, the heat of his chest, or the steady way he strides through the chilly darkness.

Maybe it’s the fact that I always feel fragile and wrung-out after an episode or the relief that I don’t have to stagger home alone this time.

My hold on the secret relaxes, and I start to speak, slowly and hoarsely through my weary throat.

“Usually I mourn the death of people in established families, folks who have lived in this region a long time. There’s a radius to my ability, though I’ve never been exactly sure of its boundary.

But even if I’m in another state, I can be triggered by people in large crowds, especially those with significant Irish ancestry. ”

I hesitate, struck by the realization that I’ve never talked about this to anyone.

Now that I’ve confessed a little bit about myself, one of my most traumatic memories is pressing at the back of my tongue like water behind a dam, demanding to be released or I’ll crack from the strain of holding it back.

“Not long after my sixteenth birthday, I was super depressed about having to homeschool and everything, so my mom planned a trip to Dollywood—you know, roller coasters and shit. Back then, Mom still wasn’t sure about Dad’s banshee theory.

She thought I was being haunted and maybe if we got far enough away, I’d be all right.

But the minute we drove into Pigeon Forge, I started screaming and I couldn’t stop.

My parents had to sedate me and drive home.

Mom had saved up for the trip, and I ruined it all.

Dad kept talking about the thousands of dollars they couldn’t get back—no refunds for the vacation package. ”

Heathcliff doesn’t respond for a moment. Then, “Could you hold my phone? Shine the light for me? I gotta cross this stream and I don’t wanna drop you.”

“Let me warm my fingers up for a second.” I try blowing on them, but it doesn’t help much—so I cautiously slide my hand into the V of Heathcliff’s unbuttoned shirt. He’s so deliciously big and warm.

“Can we get a drink from the stream?” I ask. “I’m parched.”

“You want to risk viruses, parasites, bacteria, be my guest.”

“I’m dying here. I need a drink.”

“You’re not dying. You’re way too stubborn for that.”

“Don’t act like you know me.”

“Take the phone.”

I snatch it from his hand and angle it low, so he can see his footing. His grip tightens around me as he steps onto one rock, then another. His stride is so long, we’re across within seconds.

“My toes are freezing,” I whisper.

He puts me down so abruptly I yelp, which hurts my throat. He unlaces and removes his boots, then pulls off his socks. “Put these on.”

“I’m not wearing your sweaty, stinky socks.”

“Oh, now I’m too dirty for you? You know I’d just brushed some dirt off my truck’s bumper before I rubbed your clit yesterday.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re wearing the socks, Princess.” He grabs my foot in his big, tattooed hand and shoves the first sock on. It’s slightly damp from his sweat and it smells gross, but it’s warm. And I don’t have the energy to fight him anyway.

Once the other sock is on, he picks me up again, curling my body against his chest. The fingernail I almost ripped out is hurting worse than everything else, and there’s an itchy patch on my leg that’s becoming more and more irritating by the minute.

“I think I stepped in poison ivy.”

“I tried to steer you around things—thorns, rocks, and such. But I didn’t know if it was okay to interfere too much.” Heathcliff resumes the trek through the woods, and I force myself to relax, to yield to his rocking gait and lean my aching head against his shoulder.

“It’s best to let me do what I need to do,” I tell him.

“My parents tried locking me up during an episode once and I nearly killed myself trying to get out. Since then I’ve developed some control over where I go, enough to keep clear of the victims I’m supposed to cry for.

The idea is that my screams would serve as a warning to the household where the death is about to happen.

In ancient times, people would accept that explanation, but these days, people would call the police if I started wailing outside their house.

And if I was proven right about multiple deaths, the cops would think I had something to do with it or they’d put me in a mental health facility and never let me out again. ”

“You’re fucked either way.”

“Pretty much.”