“Charlotte! Are you okay?” I hear my mom’s voice from down the hallway and Sierra’s running footsteps.

I jump to my feet and lunge for the door, hoping to lock it before they can reach me, but my legs are tangled in my bedding and even as I stand, it trips me and I sprawl across the floor, spreading the blood even more. The door flies open, barely missing my head, and Mom and Sierra look down at me with wide eyes.

“I can explain!” I blurt, even though I know I can’t.

They just stare at me. At the room. Until Mom finally asks, “Did you fall off your bed?” with a hint of laughter in her tone.

I’m rigidly still, wide-eyed in confusion, and then I chance a look down at myself.

The blood is gone.

I glance behind me at the bedding strewn all over the floor. Clean. What just happened? I know I saw it. I felt the knife. It wasn’t a dream—it wasn’t a vision. What the hell is going on?

“Yeah, I kinda did,” I finally choke. The emotional roller coaster finally gets the better of me and tears of relief are streaming down my face. A maniacal giggle wants to escape my throat, but I know better than that. “Bad dream,” I settle on.

“Oh, Charlotte,” my mom says softly. “Of course you’re having bad dreams.” She leans down and pulls me to my knees and wraps her arms around me. She holds me for a long time as I try to stop hiccup-crying and pretend I’m upset for the reason she thinks I am.

I glance up and Sierra is still there. I squirm a little under her intense gaze.

“Charlotte?” my mom says in a hesitant voice, and my whole body feels instantly chilled. “I know you’re already upset, but I should tell you before you see it; there’s been another murder. A boy. They said he’s a teen, but his name hasn’t been released. I just . . . I think after a nightmare like this it’s probably best you hear it from me rather than the news. Or even Linden.”

“Linden!” I shriek.

“I took the liberty of calling his mother. It wasn’t him.”

I can’t move. Can’t breathe. “When?” I gasp.

“They think in the middle of the night. No one knows why he was out.”

“How did he die?” The question terrifies me more than anything that has happened to me so far, but I have to ask.

“What do you mean, how?”

“What . . . what did the killer use? What kind of weapon?”

My mom strokes my hair. “Sweetie, I don’t want you to be so upset. Maybe we should just turn off the news for the day and—”

“A knife,” my aunt interrupts.

“Sierra!” my mother scolds.

“She asked the question; she deserves the answer,” my aunt says evenly.

My mom’s silence as well as the firm press of her fingers on my back tells me she doesn’t agree, but it’s too late to take the words back.

I’m numb. A knife. What’s happening? Is this a different kind of vision? Or are my reality and my second sight blending? Maybe I’ve gone too far. Maybe I’ve messed with my abilities so much they’re . . . malfunctioning?

I look back up at my aunt and my mom, the two women who make up most of my world, and feel so very alone. The filtered morning light illuminates them with murky brightness and I realize how early it is.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Honestly, now that I’ve calmed down, I think I’d like to just go back to bed.” I make myself smile, though I know it must look forced at best. “It’s New Year’s Eve tonight. I don’t want to fall asleep before midnight.” I don’t want to fall asleep again ever.

My mom looks at me funny, but nods, and turns her wheelchair down the hallway toward the kitchen. My aunt doesn’t leave. After a glance at my mom—her sister, I often forget; the person she’s been hiding her secrets from her entire life—she says, “A vision?”

I don’t know what to say, so I nod. It was a vision, technically. It just wasn’t the kind of vision she’s referring to.

“You knew about the knife,” she says, and it’s not a question. “Did the vision overwhelm you?”

“It was a different kind of vision,” I burst out, needing to tell someone. Needing to tell her—the woman who has been my confidante for as long as I can remember. “There was no warning, no blacking out, just—seeing it!” I know she thinks I mean seeing the murder—not myself covered in blood—but I can’t confess more than that.

I’m afraid to.

She stands looking at me with her lips pursed. Then her face softens and she says, “Everything, everything, gets harder in times of crisis.” She lays her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You’re not always going to win, but keep fighting.”

“It’s so hard,” I whisper.

“I know—they’ve been battering me too.”

“Really?” I don’t know why I’m surprised; of course Sierra would be getting visions similar to mine. Oracles always get visions about the most relevant happenings of their community. And this is her home too.

But she’s strong enough. Even if I were trying to fight the visions, I’m not. They beat me.

“It’s so important to close your mind, Charlotte. Even though we don’t use it, you second sight is vulnerable and more powerful than you could ever imagine.”

My tears cease at her words and for a second I wonder if she’ll continue.