Chris didn’t push the subject, probably because I pushed a mug of hot chocolate into his hand before he had the chance. He didn’t say anything while I walked away, just followed me up the stairs, past the painting of a giant orchid, and into a little back alcove where Ethan and I set up shop when we weren’t doing art or out fishing.

The room back here was often unused, just a couple of loveseats beside the window and a bookshelf containing the works of a few hundred poets I’d never heard of and would probably never read. That said, I had made a dent in the first shelf—poetry was a fantastic way to distract myself from my real homework. Especially when it was borderline erotic.

Another perk of Islington: no stupid committees banning books. Here, they knew that knowledge really was power, and that we were all mature enough to read about the things we’d already been thinking since puberty.

I pulled out a collection of Anne Sexton poems and flopped down on one of the chairs, setting my mug on the coffee table between them. Chris sat across from me as I opened the book and pretended to read.

“You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?” he said after a while. I looked up from my book.

“I don’t tell anyone what happened,” I said.

“Not even Ethan?”

“Especially not Ethan.”

He took a sip from his hot chocolate, his eyes dipping to his mug for just a moment. I took that second to breathe and compose myself.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I just don’t like talking about my past, okay? It’s not fun.”

“But it’s still bothering you,” he said. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

“Ethan wouldn’t look at me the same, that’s why. And neither would you.”

“I told you about my sister,” he said.

“That’s not how this works. This isn’t a you tell me your secrets, I’ll tell you mine equal exchange.” Shit, that came out harsher than I meant. But he was circling around one of my biggest buttons, and I didn’t know what I’d do if or when he hit it. I took a deep breath, inhaling the cocoa fumes and wishing they’d calm me down. I should have gone for chamomile tea. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. I really do feel bad about your sister.”

“No, no, don’t do that,” he said. He leaned forward, holding his cup in both hands. “This isn’t about me.” His voice took on that soft tone, the one guys get when they’re trying to be comforting. Trouble was, he pulled it off perfectly.

I leaned back farther in the chair and angled myself to look out the window. A crow watched us from the power line out front. It flapped its wings. My walls crept up higher. Who are you protecting? I wanted to scream. Who are you trying to warn?

“I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation. I barely know you.”

“Maybe because you know you can trust me.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

He sighed.

“I’m not trying to pry. I’m just trying to figure out how to keep you from hurting.”

I glanced out the window. The crow perching there ruffled its feathers.

“It’s not your place to protect me,” I said. “I’m sorry, Chris. I just can’t do this right now.”

And I was sorry. I really, really was. I hadn’t been lying in the kitchen—he was the one straight guy I’d been around who didn’t make my skin crawl. He was genuine and cute and talented and he didn’t push when he wasn’t supposed to. And all of that made it so much worse. He and Jane and Mandy and now the fucking crows; it was too much.

I just wanted a normal senior year. I wanted to graduate and go to college with my best friend and pretend the other shit didn’t exist. No occult whisperings, no murders, and no crows.

“It’s also not your place to protect me,” he said after a while. I glanced back at him. I’d forgotten I’d even said anything.

I didn’t retort though. I knew from the set of his eyes that we’d just go around in circles if I opened my mouth again. Instead, I turned back to the book in my hands and tried to lose myself in poetry.

It worked, for the most part. Chris started reading his own book and we sat there in silence. Not that I could focus on poems. My brain was spinning at a sickening pace and the entire time I was keenly aware of just how far away Chris was from me. His presence was like static, impossible to see and impossible to ignore.

Maybe he wasn’t like Brad. Maybe he never would lift a finger to try to hurt me. Maybe he wouldn’t push me to do something I didn’t want. Hell, maybe we could date and everything would be fine, just like the books and movies I once thought I could live. The fact was, it didn’t matter. I was tainted goods. And not because of what Brad had done to me.

I was damned for what I’d done to him in return.

We stayed in that little alcove for a few more hours, both of us reading poetry in silence, occasionally sharing our favorite lines. The heaviness between us dissipated as the snow outside accumulated. It wasn’t that I was falling for him or warming up to his presence; I was just too tired to keep my walls up. Chris didn’t try to force me to talk. For that, I was grateful. When I stopped freaking out about it, he was actually pretty easy to be around. Which, I suppose, was the problem in the first place.

Somehow we both missed the fact that lunch had come and gone. After a while my stomach’s rumblings were too loud to ignore any longer.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Pretty certain my stomach is eating itself,” I said with a small grin. “Ready to brave the cold?”

“Sure thing,” he said. He pushed himself to standing and held out a hand to help me up. I took it. Something hit the window, causing both of us to jump. It sounded like a snowball, but I caught a glimpse of black feathers. I dropped his hand immediately.

I’m not falling for him, I muttered to Munin. You can lay off on the warnings.

I turned my attention back to the room, back to a moment free of ravens.

“You’re sure about this,” I said. “About tonight?”

“What about it?”

“You know exactly what.” Even though we were alone, I wasn’t about to say anything aloud about Jane or sneaking around.

“I’m sure,” he said. “She was my friend. I want to know what happened. And I think Elisa was right—there’s something the school isn’t telling us. I think we deserve to know the truth.”

The truth. Such a difficult premise. If he ever found out about me, would he think I’d lied about my past? Or would he see that my greatest truth was in trying to protect him?

“Okay then,” I said. I forced myself back into witty banter mode; it was a coping mechanism that kept me from going under. “Just remember it was your choice when the FBI takes you in for questioning.”

He laughed. “Trust me, the FBI is nothing compared to my parents.”

•  •  •

We stepped into the Dark Note and Chris ordered a round of cheese-stuffed breadsticks, two vanilla frozen yogurt shakes, and a veggie burger with fries.

“Is that all for you?” I asked as Ike rang up the total.

“Nope. We’re sharing this. I expect a total Lady and the Tramp moment when we eat one of those breadsticks.”

I couldn’t help it; all the stress of the last few days and the last few hours in particular just . . . cracked. I burst out laughing and couldn’t stop myself until I started snorting, and had to cover my mouth with my hand.

“Wow, I didn’t realize I was that funny,” Chris said.

“You’re not,” I said. “And thanks.”

He handed me a milkshake and picked up the tray of deliciously greasy food.

“You’re welcome. And also, ouch.”

I nudged him with my shoulder as we walked over to a little table by the window. Outside, a couple of underclassmen—and a few seniors—were knee deep in a snowball fight.

“It’s weird,” I said, watching the kids duck and throw and generally reinforce the idea that art kids aren’t good at sports.

“What? Their technique? Because you’re one hundred percent correct.”

“No, this.” I gestured to the caf and the store with its couple of students looking at books and hoodies and the kids outside playing war. “It’s like there’s this gut-deep human need to gloss things over and move on.”

“I don’t think it’s glossing things over,” he said. “I think it’s honoring the dead. I mean, what better way to celebrate the life they lived than live a life yourself?”

I glanced at him.

“ ‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’ ” he asked.

“What?”

“Antonio Machado,” he said. He winked. “What, you think you’re the only one who reads poetry?”

I grinned, half tempted to ask him to recite the rest of it, when the door opened and Ethan and Oliver walked in.

“There you are!” Ethan called out, bounding over. “See, Oliver? I told you my stomach always knows best.”

“You just wanted cheese sticks,” Oliver muttered, only a few steps behind his boy.

They were both bedecked in full winter apparel: puffy snowpants and coats, beanies, scarves, and—

“Are you wearing matching mittens?” I asked.

Ethan just grinned and held up his hands. Yup. Big purple mittens.

“You two are adorable,” Chris said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem with gay couples: We straighties just don’t stand a chance in terms of matching adorableness.”

“Truth,” I said, gesticulating the point with a breadstick. “I mean, have you seen Neil Patrick Harris and his family? Their Halloween costumes put us all to shame.”

Ethan snagged a few fries while I was talking.

“You better pay for those,” I said.

“I’m sure Chris takes credit.”

“What are you two lovebirds up to, anyway?” Oliver asked.

Oliver sat down and Ethan went for another fry. I slapped his hand and he gave me an exaggerated pout. I just stuck out my tongue and then glared at Oliver—I hadn’t missed that “lovebirds” slip.

“Just chilling,” Chris said. “Somewhat literally.”

“I know, right?” Oliver said. “It’s amazing out there.”

“Finally a man who appreciates good weather,” Chris said. “You deserve a fry.”

“Oh sure,” Ethan said. “Playing favorites now are we?”

“Yup,” Chris replied. “And your boyfriend’s winning.” He tossed a fry at Ethan, who chuckled and threw one back. They were going to get us banned for life.

•  •  •

I wandered back to my room alone, leaving the boys to chat. Elisa wasn’t in, which I felt bad for being a little relieved about. She would have asked me about Chris, no question, and that wasn’t a conversation I looked forward to, mainly because I knew she wouldn’t let me live it down.

It was only when taking off my coat and feeling a familiar rustle in my pocket that I remembered the note Jonathan had left for me. Shit. Not that I’d really intended on going to the tutorial, but I felt guilty for forgetting. It was clear it was important to Jonathan, and I really did appreciate him as a teacher. But I just couldn’t handle anything else right now. My plate overfloweth.

Besides, I was trying to stay away from talk of gods and the supernatural. A study group devoted to just that would be my downfall. So I grabbed a book and started my reading for American Civ. Spending the day with Chris had been a nice diversion, but it didn’t actually accomplish any of the work I’d set out to do. Not that I could really focus; all I could think about was the sketchbook crammed under my bed and the sketch of Jane, and whether or not the art studio would confirm my growing fears.

When it was five, I put on my coat and left for what was easily the most stilted dinner I’d had at Islington. My stomach turned with the thought of what we were about to do and how difficult it was to act normal with Elisa at the table. I tried to focus on making idle chatter about the upcoming production of Marat/Sade. It didn’t work—the play was filled with sex and death and revolution, which really didn’t take my mind off things.

At five fifteen Ethan and Oliver excused themselves. At five twenty, Chris left to “get some work done.” Which left Elisa and me alone for a few minutes while I waited for enough time to pass before I could leave without being suspicious.

“He’s really cute,” Elisa said. I nearly choked on my fry.

“Who?” I asked, though of course I knew who she was talking about. It’s not like Islington had gotten any fresh meat in the last twenty-four hours.

“Chris,” she said. “I can tell he likes you.”

“Oh yeah? What gives you that opinion?” Not that there was any doubt in my mind that he was crushing. I was just trying to play it cool.

“The way he looks at you. There’s chemistry between you.” There wasn’t a hint of her usual joking demeanor, and all color had left her—she was in all black, and the somber clothes reflected in her voice. The way she spoke . . . it didn’t sound like she was excited—it sounded like she was delivering another eulogy.

“What, are you psychic now?”

She shrugged and poked at her Caesar salad, not looking at me.

“It’s pretty obvious. You guys start leaning toward each other when no one’s watching.” She tapped the side of her head. “But Elisa is always watching. Elisa always knows.”

I shook my head and laughed, grateful for that one small crack in her dreary facade. I knew it was an act, but hey, that’s what she was good at. That’s what we both were good at.

“Wow, okay, I’m going to go talk to Maria about switching roommates now. Apparently mine just turned into a creeper.”

She giggled slightly and took a bite of salad.

“He is cute,” I admitted. That was the only admission she’d get, too.

“Mmhmmm.” I glanced at the clock and tried to think of an excuse to leave, but I felt bad leaving her there by herself.

And then, almost like clockwork, Cassie came over. She sat down with a mug of hot chocolate and a cookie and proceeded to cry on Elisa’s shoulder. I excused myself a few seconds later.

•  •  •

Islington had a lot of secrets. That’s what happens when you put four hundred teenagers in a small area with no real escape. It wasn’t just the students, though—the very grounds were steeped in their own histories. Cabins in the woods with unlocked doors where the potheads would go and smoke, practice rooms that were definitely used for more than practicing . . . come to think of it, most of Islington’s secrets had to do with getting wasted or getting laid, or, if we’re being honest, both at the same time. The campus was our prison, but it was also our secret benefactor: Ask nicely, and you might find your way around some of the administration’s more stifling rules.

It was little surprise, then, when—halfway through spring term last year—Ethan pulled me into a closet in the ceramics studio to show me a ladder leading up to the roof. We’d spent many late nights out there, bundled in thick coats and watching the stars turn. We’d even seen the aurora once, and in that moment I figured that if heaven existed, that’s what it looked like.

Chris and Ethan were already there when I arrived. With everyone at dinner, the studio was empty: Not a single throwing wheel was taken, and the silent air was chilled and smelled of clay. I tried to push down the idea of Mandy’s ghost lingering in the corners, working eternally on the project she never got to truly debut. It didn’t work.

“About time,” Ethan said, giving the splattered clock on the wall a knowing look. Everything in this room was coated with clay, some of it probably from the early days of Islington.

“I’m two minutes late,” I said. “Elisa was making small talk.”

“Whatever, boss,” Ethan replied. Chris just chuckled to himself, watching us with amusement.

“Shut up,” I told him, and pushed past them toward the back room.

The closet stored all the old equipment and clay: Potter’s wheels were stacked together beside rain barrels filled with water and hidden clay. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, but I didn’t bother clicking it on. Chris closed the door behind us and I flicked on my tiny keychain flashlight, a must-have when living in the woods.

There was a metal ladder in the far wall, hiding behind a few cardboard boxes. Ethan moved toward it and shuffled the boxes aside, trying to be quiet but ultimately failing.

“You sound like a drunk rat,” I muttered. I kept an ear near the door, straining to hear if anyone was coming in to finish work.

Ethan just grumbled something under his breath. Then, after another shuffle, said, “Got it.”

“Ladies first,” I said, gesturing to the now-clear ladder. Ethan rolled his eyes and began climbing. He pushed open the small door at the top and climbed the rest of the way out. Then he leaned over and whispered “clear,” before disappearing again.

I looked at Chris.

“He’s taking this Mission Impossible thing way too seriously,” I whispered. “Of course it’s clear. It’s the fucking roof.”

Chris chuckled, which made me feel warm; I shoved the feeling aside and gestured him toward the ladder.

“After you,” I said.

He winked.

“Enjoy the view,” he replied. I smacked him on the shoulder.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t, in fact, enjoy the view when he climbed. His ass looked quite nice in those jeans. From an artistic perspective, of course. He had good musculature.

Before I could start feeling like a perv, I grabbed the first rung and climbed up after him, making sure I didn’t look up until he was on the roof.

The view of the sky from up here was gorgeous, but it didn’t really give any perspective on the campus; the art building was only two stories tall, and the surrounding pines and dorms were much higher. The flat roof was relatively cleared of snow, thanks to the heating running through it that kept everything from accumulating.

Ethan and Chris were crouched low. There wasn’t much out here in terms of light pollution, and night was already closing in thick, but the last thing we needed was for security to notice shadows moving about on the rooftop.

“Tell me why we’re here again?” Ethan asked.

I hesitated. They were risking their educations to be up here with me, but I couldn’t tell them the full truth. If either of them knew about the drawing or the dream, they’d call me insane and cart me off to the school counselor.

“I just want to see it,” I said. “I want to know what happened.”

“The body will already be gone,” Chris said. He caught himself and swallowed hard. “Sorry. I mean Jane. She won’t be there.”

“I know,” I said. “But I still want to see. If there’s a reason they’re locking it up, I want to know.”

“This really is like Scooby Doo,” Ethan muttered.

“Can it, Scooby,” I said. Then I shuffled along the roof, tracing the hallways below in my mind until I reached the painting studio, Ethan muttering the entire time that he was clearly Shaggy in this equation.

Light streamed from the skylight, and I gave a quick thanks to whatever gods were listening that someone had left the lights on—I hadn’t even considered that before. Ethan and Chris were right behind me, silent as ghosts, save for the occasional kick of pebbles across the slabs.

I took a deep breath, then crouched only a few feet away from the edge of the skylight. For some reason, standing there, waiting to look at a scene I feared I’d already seen in my journal, I felt naked. Exposed. Like the whole cosmos was breathing down my neck, waiting for me to discover some dark secret. I tried to shake it off as nerves but couldn’t lose the feeling. What if there was blood, or if Jane was still in there for some reason, staring right up at me? This was the moment that would tell me if my fears were confirmed, or if this was all some big delusion. Was I ready for that truth?

Ethan put his hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“You ready for this?” he asked. He didn’t ask if I wanted to leave, though I knew he was thinking it.

“Yeah,” I said. I’d have to face this some time. Class would go on. In a few days, I’d be back in that studio, painting and pretending a body hadn’t rested at the foot of my easel. The thought made my skin crawl.

I moved to the edge of the window and looked down.

A thick ring of black paint encircled the space within the easels. It stared up at me like an eye, like a portal to Hell itself, the void within blank and white and crawling with memory. No body. Of course there was no body. But there were notecards on the ground at strategic locations, no doubt pointing out evidence of some sort. Seeing it brought a sick feeling to my chest, a tightening of revulsion like the cogs of some terrible torture device. My vision tilted to the side and I stumbled back.

“Whoa,” Chris said, his arms catching me before I could fall on my ass. “Careful there.”

I glanced back at him, my heart thudding a thousand times a minute.

“Thanks,” I said. I pushed myself out of his arms. “Vertigo.” Which was a lie. I wasn’t scared of heights. I was just fucking terrified. I took a slow breath and went back to the skylight.

“Do you think she moved it?” Ethan muttered. “The still life. Do you think she moved it before she died?”

“Must have,” Chris answered. “Nothing else has been touched.”

For a while we just crouched there, staring down at where our classmate and friend had lost her life not a day before. My heart didn’t slow down. The circle burned into my mind, along with the words scrawled along the top.

The Tree Will Burn

It was one thing to worry that you’d had a premonition about something. It was another entirely to realize that premonition had been correct. My pulse was heavy and fast in my veins, my breath a beast I couldn’t control. I was linked to these deaths after all. And that circle . . .

Maybe I hadn’t run far enough away. The ghosts of my past were still here. And they weren’t just haunting me—they were striking out.

“It wasn’t her,” I said after a moment.

“What do you mean?” Chris asked. Ethan made a noise in his throat, like he was agreeing with me but wasn’t certain why.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the black circle.

“Look at the paint,” I said. “The circle is hers—the flourishes at the edges are exactly like she’d do. But that’s not her handwriting.” I’ve seen those words before, hidden in the pages of my notebook. But this wasn’t my doing, just as it wasn’t my handwriting.

“She was going to kill herself, Kaira. I don’t think she was worried about perfect cursive.”

“No, Elisa was right. She didn’t kill herself.”

“So who killed her?” Ethan asked.

Chris sat back. I was still transfixed by the circle and the words above it. I could see the ghost of Jane, almost, splayed out against the white, her hair a fan around her head and her eyes open in confusion.

Who killed you? I whispered inside.

She didn’t answer, of course, but the sudden gust of wind sent chills down my spine.

“I don’t know,” I finally replied. “But there’s no blood. It doesn’t look like there was a struggle. But there’s no way she killed herself.”

“That doesn’t sound possible,” Chris said. “If she didn’t kill herself and it wasn’t a murder, why would she draw a circle and just drop down dead inside it? And who would write that and then not report the body?”

I didn’t say anything. Helen was the one who found her, but she was innocent. Helen wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Someone or something else had been in that room. But whether they’d forced Jane to draw the circle or done it themselves, I had no idea. All I knew was it wasn’t a suicide. And it wasn’t a simple murder. This was something beyond mortal doing. I knew this. I’d seen it before.

Only this time, I wasn’t the one who’d accidentally called down the gods.