Shoving his hands back in his pockets, David turned to look out the window. “No. But . . . I can feel it. She’s here. Or close by.”

I could feel it, too. An awareness shivered along my skin, like I was being watched. For all I knew, Blythe was already in the house, waiting around a corner.

“Do you want to see if you can have a vision?” I asked, offering him my hand. He took it, but this time, there was no spark, no frisson of electricity. His hand was warm and soft in mine and he absentmindedly ran a thumb over my knuckles. Now there was a spark, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with our powers. Still, I’d had a boyfriend up until about ten minutes ago, and things were way too screwed up to start pulling romance into it now.

And added to the fact that I might have to kill David one day . . .

I pulled my hand back from his, moving a little bit away. “Well, speaking of visions, the one you had with me and Saylor. Do you remember all the red in it?”

He screwed up his face, thinking. “Yeah. A bunch of red stuff, really bright. At first I thought it was blood, but it’s the wrong color.”

Leaning against the giant four-poster bed, I clasped my hands behind my back. “Can I say something insane?”

Snorting, David turned his gaze back out the window. “Tonight would be the night for it.”

“I think . . . I think it’s my aunt’s punch. In the vision.”

David frowned. “That sugary stuff that makes your brain hurt? I . . . yeah, I guess it was that color red.”

“Do you think it means anything?” I asked, looking out the window with him. More cars were pulling up now, and I could hear the soft murmur of voices as people began milling around downstairs. Soon all the girls would come up here to huddle together in one of the other bedrooms, waiting for Cotillion to start. Would Blythe wait, too?

“I doubt it,” David said, and at first, I thought I’d spoken my question out loud. But, no, he was talking about the punch. “If shit goes down, it seems likely the punch will spill, right?”

I didn’t want to think about shit going down, people running and screaming, my aunt’s punch sloshing to the floor.

“Ryan isn’t coming,” I told David. His head jerked up, but I didn’t elaborate. “So you’ll have to escort me. Which is probably for the best since it’ll keep me close to you for . . . whatever.”

“Right,” he said, and then his lips lifted in something close to a smile. “Whoever would’ve thought we’d end up going to Cotillion together?”

I smiled back. “That? That’s what’s bothering you about this night?”