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1

Chelsea Jordan is one of those girls who, though model hot, is always complaining about her looks. My hair’s so huge today! My boobs are like way too big. Oh my God, I can never tan; my skin is so dark.

Excuse me while I vomit.

So, it’s not surprising that, when I step down into the Jordans’ four-car garage, Chelsea is apologizing that her dad didn’t take the Audi and if we could just be super duper careful not to bump it or anything.

I can’t help rolling my eyes.

Two hot guys in swim trunks and flip-flops lug a pair of beer pong tables across the room. Kids swarm the tables as soon as they’re upright.

There’s surround sound in here; music thumps in my chest like a second heartbeat.

Without meaning to, I pause in the doorway to ease briefly into a trancelike state. My eyelids flutter closed; a hand goes out to the wall for balance. Even with my low-level buzz, this momentary surveillance comes naturally. My Praeses has trained me well.

The garage comes into view, though not with my eyes.

I don’t have Sight. I can’t See into the spiritual dimension. Rangers are endowed with a different kind of knowing.

Emotion swirls in this space. The newer ones are bright and hot, while the older ones simmer dully like tarnished coins. Chelsea’s garage, like her house, is chock-full of scents: cayenne and citrus, earthy cacao and mushroomy umami, the pulpy smell of wet paper, and the cloying tease of oozing cut flower stems. These shadow scents are an emotional fossil record, evidence of past high school parties, all saturated with bliss and laughter, angst and lust, self-conscious posturing, bullying, heartbreak, and courage.

I can’t read the past—way too complicated—but from the scents that linger, I can detect whether death haunts this house.

Is someone here on borrowed time?

Or does something wait in dark corners, something that shouldn’t exist at all?

My eyes open, a bit woozy from going deep. Not quite drifting, but not fully conscious either. My shoulders are slumped against the wall. The music beats in my ribcage, filling my blood with its intoxicating rhythm.

Chelsea’s house is squeaky clean. There’s the spicy heat of a cop-scare, everybody spilling from the house, and the musky emotional residue of a few dude brawls and a cat fight or two. But not a hint of paranormal activity.

Relief sloshes through me.

One of the two table guys comes over. I’m still leaning on the doorframe, being jostled by kids funneling in and out of the garage. Table Guy nudges me into the hall with his hip. His hair, still wet from the pool, drips water into my Dixie cup.

“You look lost.”

I give him a once-over. Okay, hotter up close. Tall, good cheekbones, straight black hair and sun-kissed brown skin. Half Asian or something. He looks older. “You from Bishop?” I ask. “Haven’t seen you around.”

“Senior. You must be Cypress Creek,” he says over the music. “Sophomore?” His breath in my ear is warm and smells of cherries. The heat in my blood from the alcohol rises to my face.

Another drop of pool water drips into my cup from his sopping hair. I make a face and point at my drink. “You’re contaminating my beverage.”

He grins archly. “I’ll go dry off and get you another.”

“Nuh-uh. I may be half your age but I’m not stupid. Find yourself a towel. I’ll get my own drink. Meet me in the den.”

Wow, that just came out. I’m not usually this forward. I’m blaming the rum. And the rum I’m blaming on Tad Beasley.

Table Guy looks thoughtful, but a grin ghosts his lips. “Half my age,” he repeats. “That would make you a dangerously attractive nine-year-old.”

“Okay, gross.” I cringe-laugh. “I’m sixteen.” By a day and a driver’s license, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Don’t be creepy.”

“Make mine a double.” He winks, and his hand brushes mine as he edges past me. “Save me a seat.”

I don’t immediately follow. A little tipsy already, I sway my hips in time to the music, searching for Tad. He said he’d be down here, didn’t he? Or did he say he’d be in the study? Crap, I can’t remember. Oh, I remember how it went down, though: how we’d only just poured our drinks when Yara walked in the front door, all sexy black ponytail and cute El Paso accent. Her eyes found mine, then slid to Tad’s and then—

Just like that, Tad was gone from my side and guiding her through the crush of people. His hand on her waist. I couldn’t breathe. I took a gulp of rum and coke and then another. When I came up for air, Tad’s hand was still there, on Yara’s midriff, her smooth dark skin gorgeous against her red crop top.

Ugh. I’d downed a third gulp just as Tad came back over to yell in my ear that he’d meet me in the—

Damnit. I can’t remember. And damn this house for being so freaking monstrous. And damn him for being off-limits. And damn the fact that as a Ranger any relationship I have can only end in misery, anyway.

I weave back through the throngs to the booze counter, wondering why I thought going to Chelsea’s party was a good idea since underage drinking isn’t really my thing. Oh, yeah. Because I’m lonely. I have zero friends except Tad—and he doesn’t exactly count.

Tad Beasley is my Sight. Every Ranger has one. Every Ranger who doesn’t have an immediate death wish, that is. What he Sees through those eyes…I shudder. I can’t imagine looking out at the world and Seeing not only this dimension, but also the overlapping emotional one. Along with the ghostly creatures that live there. When they’re near, their raw energy is palpable. When I drift—when my consciousness falls away and my spirit steps through the emotional boundary of the Limen—I can See the horrors Tad Sees. But to live that way all the time? One foot in the grave, as they say. And not because you can’t go back, but because you’ve made a choice…?

He probably switches to normal vision when he’s not with me. Like right now, when he’s with Yara. Ugh, ugh.

Where is he?

I pour out my chlorine-fouled drink and serve myself another. No rum this time. Mom and Dad’ll kill me if I come home with even a trace of alcohol on my breath—not to mention what my Praeses will do.

Did Table Guy really mean to get him something? I’m not about to break Rule Number One: Don’t drink anything you didn’t fix yourself.

Looking around, I don’t spot him. Another girl bumps me, and I shrug to show it’s no biggie—when I see Tad and Yara in the corner by the Jordans’ fancy-ass antique record collection. Their shoulders are really close together.

I swivel, cheeks hot—then splash an ounce of rum into my cup and duplicate my drink for Table Guy. I consider reaching inward and yanking on the link between Tad and me, that bright spot where we’re connected, and sending a blast of my displeasure through it. But with my luck he’d think I was getting assaulted or something and come gallantly to my rescue. What would I say then?

He’s not mine. He’s just my Sight. I’m just his Ranger.

END OF SAMPLE