The man hadn’t died quickly. Death isn’t as they show it in the movies. Bullets don’t always kill instantly, and they don’t leave just enough time for last words. Death lingers, clinging like campfire smoke in your clothes, and all I want is to wash it out.

Nora stops cleaning, her big brown eyes settling on me. My older brother started the tradition of calling our mother by her first name. The twins and I picked it up from him, and now calling her Mom feels weird.

“I’m sorry, love,” she says. “I know how much these visions weigh on you, but you’ll get used to your powers in time. Just give them a chance.”

Ever since my ability showed up a few months ago on my thirteenth birthday, my parents have been trying to convince me how special it is, but I don’t see how. I can only tell people things they already know. What’s the point? I can’t read emotions like my sister Rose or sense auras and summon spirits like Aunt Elaine. Mine’s the only power in the whole family that’s useless.

I belong at the inn as much as a vampire belongs in the sun.

Nora rests a hand on her hip. “It’s terrible what happened to those people, but that vision could be ten years old.”

“Maybe I can help find who did it,” I say. “Point the police in the right direction.”

Nora frowns, and I wince. A lot of things bring out her serious face, but I’ve hit one of the biggest: talking about our powers to nonmagical folk. We don’t go to extremes to hide our abilities—this is Wick after all—but even here regular people believe in magic the way some kids believe in Santa Claus: halfway and for fun. If ole St. Nick really popped down their chimney, they’d call the police, which is why all the magical residents do their best to keep the truth under wraps.

Most of the people who come to Ravenfall come for our psychic name and services, but seeing and believing aren’t the same thing. A lot of guests leave sure it’s all a hoax, and those with an open mind aren’t looking to tell the world, unless they want to get the Squiggly Eye Treatment—you know, the thing where people squish their faces together and wiggle their eyebrows around when you say something weird like, I was talking to my dead grandpa the other night.

I get that a lot.

“You know we don’t get involved like that, Anna,” Nora says sternly. “If it gets back to us, people start asking questions we can’t answer, and that hasn’t ended well for our family in the past.”

“But I want to know what happened,” I argue. “I need to know.”