“What is it?”

“Philadelphia roll.”

I eye the plate skeptically. “What’s that orange stuff?”

“Cod roe.”

“What the hell is cod roe?”

“Cod eggs.”

“No thanks.” I’m so glad there’s a McDonald’s across the street. Fish eggs. Who the hell is this kid?

“I’m Thomas Sabin.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Sorry.” He grins. “It’s just that you’re so easy sometimes. I know it’s rude. And seriously, I can’t do it all the time.” He stuffs an entire circle of fish egg–encrusted raw fish into his mouth. I try not to inhale while he chews. “But I have helped you already. The Trojan Army, remember? When those guys came up behind you today. Who do you think sent that to you? I gave you the heads-up. You’re welcome.”

The Trojan Army. That’s what I thought when Mike and Co. walked up behind me at lunch. But now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I’d thought that. The only view I’d had of them had been out of the corner of my eye. The Trojan Army. The kid had put the thought in my head so smoothly, like a note dropped onto the floor in a conspicuous place.

Now he’s going on about how it isn’t easy to send things like that, how it had given him a bit of a nosebleed to do it. He sounds like he thinks he’s my own little guardian angel or something.

“What should I be thanking you for? Being witty? You put your personal judgment into my head. Now I have to go around wondering if I thought those guys were douche bags because I really thought so, or just because you thought so first.”

“Trust me, you’d agree. And you really shouldn’t be talking to Carmel Jones. At least, not yet. She just broke up with Mike the Meathead Andover last week. And he’s been known to hit people with his car just for ogling her while she’s in the passenger seat.”

I don’t like this kid. He’s presumptuous. And yet, he’s earnest and well-meaning, which softens me a little. If he’s listening to what I’m thinking, I’m going to slash his tires.

“I don’t need your help,” I say. I wish I didn’t have to watch him eat anymore. But the fried stuff doesn’t look too bad, and it kind of smells okay.

“I think you do. You’ve noticed I’m a little bit strange. You moved here what, seventeen days ago?”

I nod numbly. It was seventeen days ago exactly that we pulled into Thunder Bay.

“I thought so. For the past seventeen days, I’ve had the worst psychic headache of my life. The kind that actually throbs and makes a home behind my left eye. Makes everything smell like salt. It’s only now that we’re talking that it’s going away.” He wipes his mouth, gets serious all of a sudden. “It’s hard to believe, but you’ve got to. I only get these headaches when something bad is going to happen. And it’s never been this bad before.”

I lean back and sigh. “Just what do you think you’re going to help me with? Who do you think I am?” Sure, I think I know the answers to these questions already, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check. And besides, I feel at a complete disadvantage, totally off my game. I’d feel better if I could stop this infernal interior monologue. Maybe I should just vocalize everything. Or constantly think in images: kitten playing with ball of yarn, hot-dog vendor on street corner, hot-dog vendor holding kitten.

Thomas wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “That’s a nifty piece of hardware you’ve got in your bag there,” he says. “Old Mrs. Dead-Eyes seemed pretty impressed by it.” He snaps his chopsticks together and picks up a piece of the deep-fried stuff, then shoves it into his mouth. As he chews, he talks, and I wish he wouldn’t. “So I’d say you’re some kind of ghost-slayer. And I know you’re here for Anna.”

I should probably ask what he knows. But I don’t. I don’t want to talk to him anymore. He already knows too much about me.

Fucking Daisy Bristol. I’m going to tear him a new one, sending me here where there’s a telepathic tagalong lying in wait, and he didn’t even warn me.

Looking at Thomas Sabin now, there’s a cocky little smirk on his pale face. He pushes his glasses up on his nose in a gesture so quick and easy I can tell he does it often. There’s so much confidence in those shifty blue eyes; he could never be convinced that his psychic intuition was wrong. And who knows how much he’s been able to read out of my mind.

Impulsively, I pluck a deep-fried circle of fish off of the platter and pop it into my mouth. There’s some kind of sweet and savory sauce on it. It’s surprisingly good, heavy and chewy. But I’m still not touching the fish eggs. I’ve had enough of this. If I can’t make him believe I’m not who he says I am, I at least have to throw him off his cocky horse and send him packing.

I knit my brows in an expression of puzzlement.

“Anna who?” I say.

He blinks, and when he starts to sputter I lean forward on my elbows. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, Thomas,” I say. “I appreciate the tip. But there is no cavalry, and I am not recruiting. Do you understand?” And then, before he can protest, I think hard, I think of every grisly thing I’ve ever done, the myriad of ways I’ve seen things bleed and burn and twist apart. I send him Peter Carver’s eyes exploding in their sockets. I send him the County 12 Hiker, bleeding black ooze, the skin pulling dry and tight to his bones.

It’s like I’ve hit him in the face. His head actually rocks back and sweat immediately begins to bead on his forehead and upper lip. He swallows, the lump of his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. I think the poor kid might actually lose his sushi.

He doesn’t protest when I call for the bill.

CHAPTER SIX

I let Thomas drive me home. After I was less defensive, he didn’t get on my nerves as much. On my way up the porch steps I hear him roll down his window and ask awkwardly if I’m going to be at the Edge of the World party. I don’t say anything. Seeing those deaths shook him up pretty good. More and more he seems to me just a lonely kid, and I don’t want to tell him again to stay away from me. Besides, if he’s so psychic then he shouldn’t have to ask.

When I get inside I set my bag down on the kitchen table. My mom is there, chopping herbs for what might be dinner or might be one of her wide variety of magic spells. I see strawberry leaves and cinnamon. That’s either a love spell or the beginnings of a tart. My stomach rolls over and taps my shoulder, so I head to the refrigerator to make a sandwich.

“Hey. Dinner’s going to be ready in an hour.”

“I know, but I’m hungry now. Growing boy.” I put out mayonnaise, Colby jack, and deli bologna. As my hands move for the bread I’m thinking of everything I need to do for tonight. The athame is clean, but that doesn’t really matter. I don’t anticipate seeing anything dead, no matter what the school rumors say. I’ve never heard of any ghost attacking a group of more than ten. That stuff only happens in slasher movies.

Tonight is about breaking in. I want to hear Anna’s story. I want to know the people who can lead me to her. For all that Daisy could tell me—her last name, her age—he couldn’t tell me where she haunted. All he knew was that it was her family home. I could, of course, go to the local library and trace the Korlovs’ residence. Something like Anna’s murder had to make the papers. But what fun would that be? This is my favorite part of the hunt. Getting to know them. Hearing their legends. I want them to be as large in my mind as they can possibly be, and when I see them I don’t want to be disappointed.

“How was your day, Mom?”

“Fine,” she says, bent over her chopping block. “I’ve got to call an exterminator. I was storing a box of Tupperware in the attic and saw a rat tail disappear behind one of the wall boards.” She shudders and makes yuck noises with her tongue.

“Why don’t you just let Tybalt up there? That’s what cats are for, you know. Catching mice and rats.”