"Got Derek?"

Simon made a face. "That didn't come out right. Sounds like Dad brought home a stray puppy. But that's kind of how it was. See, Derek's type? It's rare. We're all rare, but he's really, really rare. These people, the ones my dad worked for, they were raising him. He'd been orphaned or abandoned or something when he was just a baby, and they wanted to make sure he didn't end up in some human foster home, which would be bad when he hit, like, twelve and started throwing people across the room. Only, my dad's company wasn't really equipped to raise a kid. Derek doesn't talk much about living there, but I think it was like growing up in a hospital. My dad didn't like that, so they let him bring Derek home. It was . . . weird. Like he'd never been out before. Things like school or a shopping mall or even a highway totally freaked him out. He wasn't used to people, all that noise —"

He went still, head turning toward the hall. The pipes clanked as the water shut off.

"Later," he mouthed.

"He just got out. He can't hear —"

"Oh yes, he can."

I remembered what Simon said about Derek's "enhanced senses." Now I understood why Derek always seemed to be able to hear things he shouldn't have been able to. I made a mental note to be more careful.

I cleared my throat, pitching it to normal. "Okay, so we've got sorcerers, witches, half-demons, necromancers, shamans, and other really rare types, like Derek. That's it, right? I'm not going to run into any werewolves or vampires, am I?"

He laughed. "That'd be cool."

Cool, maybe, but I was happy to leave werewolves and vampires to Hollywood. I could believe in magic and ghosts and even spirit travel, but turning into an animal or sucking blood stretched disbelief farther than I cared to.

A dozen questions leaped to my lips. Where was their father? What about the people his dad worked for? Why'd he leave them? What about Simon's mother? But Simon said he'd "get into that later." To demand their personal story now would be prying.

"So there are three of us? In one place? That has to mean something."

"Derek thinks it's because some supernatural powers — like yours and his—can't be explained, so humans chalk them up to mental illness. Some kids in homes could be supernatural. Most aren't. You have to talk to him about that. He explains stuff better."

"Okay, back to me, then. What do these ghosts want?"

He shrugged. "Help, I guess."

"With what? Why me?"

"Because you can hear them," Derek said as he walked in, towel-drying his hair. "Not much sense in talking to someone who can't hear you."

"Well, duh."

"I wasn't going to say it."

I glared at him, but he had his back to me, neatly folding the towel and hanging it on the desk chair.

He continued. "How many necromancers do you think are walking around out there?"

"How would I know?"

"Well, if the answer was 'a whole lot,' don't you think you'd have heard of them?"

"Ease up, bro," Simon murmured.

"We're talking hundreds in the whole country." Derek yanked a comb through his hair. "Have you ever met an albino?"

"No."

"Statistically speaking, you're about three times more likely to bump into an albino than a necromancer. So, imagine you're a ghost. If you see a necro, it's like being stranded on a desert island, then spotting a plane overheard. Are you going to try to get their attention? Of course. As for what they want?" He turned the desk chair around and straddled it. "Who knows? If you were a ghost and you bumped into the one living being who could hear you, I'm sure you'd want something from her. To know what they want, you're going to need to ask them."

"Easier said than done," I muttered.

I told them about the ghost in the basement.

“There could still be something back there. Something you didn't find. Something important to him." He idly scratched his cheek, winced, and pulled his hand back. "Maybe a paper or an object he'd like you to pass onto his family."

"Or clues to his murder," Simon said. "Or buried treasure."

Derek fixed him with a look, then shook his head. "Moving right along . . . it's probably something stupid, like a letter he forgot to give to his wife. Meaningless."

That didn't sound stupid to me. Or meaningless. Kind of romantic, really. The ghost lingers for years, wanting to pass along that undelivered letter to his wife, now an old woman in a nursing home . . . Not my kind of movie, but I wouldn't call it stupid.

"Whatever it is," I said, "the point is moot because as long as I'm on these pills, I can't make contact to ask."

Derek swiped at a drop of blood on his cheek, where he'd scratched a zit. He scowled with annoyance, letting it bubble over into his voice as he snapped, "Then you need to stop taking the pills."

"Love to. If I could. But after what happened last night, they're giving me urine tests now."

"Ugh. That's harsh." Simon went quiet, then snapped his fingers. "Hey, I've got an idea. It's kinda gross, but what if you take the pills, crush them and mix them with your, you know, urine."

Derek stared at him.

"What?"

"You did pass chem last year, didn't you?"

Simon flipped him the finger. "Okay, genius, what's your idea?"

"I'll think about it. We should get her off those meds. I don't really care what that ghost wants, but he could be useful. As long as we have a willing subject, Chloe should take advantage of it, so she can learn. It's not like she's going anywhere soon . . . unless they ship her off."

Simon shot him a look. "Not funny, bro."

Derek raked his fingers through his wet hair. "Not trying to be funny. Seeing ghosts isn't easy to hide. It's not like casting spells. After this morning, with Dr. Davidoff and Gill, I caught some of their conversation later —" Derek glanced at me. "I was walking by and heard—"

"She knows about your hearing, bro." Derek scowled at Simon, who only shrugged and said, "She figured it out. She's not stupid. Anyway, you overheard . . ."

He stopped, head lifting. "Someone's coming."

"Boys? Chloe?" Mrs. Talbot called from the stairs. "Snack time. Come on down."

Simon called back that we were coming.

"Just a sec," I said. "You heard the doctors talking. What about?"

"You. And whether Lyle House is the right place for you."

Twenty-five

WAS DEREK TRYING TO scare me? A few days ago I would have said yes, without hesitation. But now I knew it was only honesty. He'd heard it, so he passed it on, with no attempt to soften the blow because the thought wouldn't cross his mind.

But it did make me all the more determined to get at least one question answered when the nurse popped her head in to announce lights-out.

"Mrs. Talbot?"

"Yes, dear?" she said, peeking back in.

"Can we call Liz yet? I'd really like to talk to her. To explain about that last night."

'There's nothing to explain, dear. Liz is the one who feels horrible about it, frightening you like that. I'm sure you can call her on the weekend."

"This weekend'?"

She slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her. "The other doctors tell me Liz is having some difficulty adjusting."

Rae popped up from bed. "What's wrong?"

"It's called post-traumatic stress. That last night here was very difficult for her. The doctors in her new hospital don't want her reminded of it."

"What if I don't mention it?"

"Even talking to you will be a reminder, dear. By Sunday, they say she should be fine. Next week at the latest."

Fingers of dread plucked at me.

Not now, dear.

Maybe next weekend.

Maybe next week.