No, I didn’t know, because Mom and Grandma Frost never talked about stuff like that. They never mentioned why we were Gypsies or where our magic came from in the first place. On the rare times when I tried to talk to them about it, they got all vague and uptight, just like they did whenever I asked about my dad, Tyr, who’d died from cancer when I was two.

I opened my mouth to ask my mom once again about who we were and why we could do the things we did, but she cut me off.

“Anyway, I’ve still got a ton of paperwork to finish,” my mom said. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll talk to you in the morning. I love you, Gwen.”

For a second, I again thought about asking her about our magic, but I knew she wouldn’t answer me. She never did. Besides, she’d had a long day, helping Paige. My mom sounded tired, so I decided not to bother her tonight.

“Love you, too,” I said, and hung up.

I didn’t know then that this would be the last time I ever talked to her.

I took a shower, threw on my pajamas, and crawled into bed. Grandma Frost came and tucked me in, just like she used to when I was a little girl. She turned out the light, and I snuggled under the covers and went to sleep.

My dreams were strange that night, filled with swords and shadowy figures and a pair of burning red eyes that seemed to follow me no matter how hard I tried to get away from them. In my dreams, I ran and ran and ran, carrying a silver sword in my hand, but the eyes were always there, always chasing me. When I finally stopped running and turned to face them, the eyes kept coming, washing over me like clouds of choking smoke before they swallowed me whole—

I woke up sweating, a scream lodged in my throat, my legs thrashing, my heart beating crazily in my chest. Thump-thump-thump. It took me a few seconds to realize that it had just been a dream and that I was safe and warm at Grandma Frost’s house. I shivered. For some reason, the fact that it was only a dream didn’t make it any less creepy. Not tonight.

I rolled over and looked at the clock beside the bed. Three thirty-seven in the morning, but I knew I couldn’t go back to sleep, not with the image of those burning eyes still fresh in my head. The weird thing was, I couldn’t figure out where they had come from.

Whenever I touched an object, whenever I flashed on the images and feelings associated with it, they became a part of me, and I could always remember what I’d seen. It was sort of like having a photographic memory. Sometimes, when I was asleep, my mind surfed through all those memories, showing me random bits and pieces of them, like I was watching clips from a dozen movies at once.