“You think I’m possessed too?” Vera spat.

“No, of course not. At least, not like that. I’m just saying you can’t trust your dreams until we know where they’re coming from.”

Vera ground her teeth. Her mom just admitted to being wrong about the hurricane, about the danger of the object breaking. She could be wrong now. And even if Vera wasn’t special, or magical, she had instincts. Everything inside her screamed she wasn’t “under the influence” of anything demonic. Yet for some reason, it was easier for her mother to believe that than to believe Vera might have a power that rivals her own.

No. Vera’s eyes squinted to slits, a million responses forming in her head, but none emerging from her lips.

Finally, her mom let out a heavy sigh, sensing Vera’s ire. “I realize two days is a long time in a situation like this. I understand that more than you know. And I want to help this family. If you really feel time is imperative, then call Father Chuck. Tell him what’s happening and explain it’s an emergency. He’ll have to go around the traditional channels, at least until we get there.”

Vera curled in on herself, her chest tightening. She still said nothing.

“Vera, it’s going to be okay.” Her mom’s voice was softer. “I know it seems dire right now, and you’re scared, but it’s going to be all right. I promise.”

She couldn’t promise that from Barcelona.

Vera felt insulted, scared, and clueless all at once. There was a boy in her living room expecting Vera to strap on a cape and save his mother. A cult was spreading through Roaring Creek. Shrines were multiplying everywhere she looked. Patients were praying to Death.

Vera paused, blinking away tears. Then she sat up straighter.

The hospital.

Samantha.

The Sunshine Crew.

No.

Vera popped to her feet, eyes searching for her purse, her car keys.

“Mom, I have to go.”

Vera stomped through the hospital corridor, the fluorescent overhead lights adding to the queasiness in her stomach.

She’d sprinted out of the house, telling Maxwell she’d text him as soon as she could. She had to find Samantha. Only, before she did, Vera ran into the head of nursing outside of a ladies’ room and held a ninety-second conversation on the dangers of the Angel statues. Vera insisted, rather desperately, that the shrines were tied to demonic worship, while trying not to explicitly state it was her mother who saw the figure on a satanic altar surrounded by body parts. It didn’t matter.

“My hands are tied,” the nurse said.

No, Vera wanted to correct her, what’s coming is so much worse than bound hands.

Now Vera had to hope that at least her friends would believe her. She raced toward the cafeteria, peeking into patient rooms as she passed. On this floor alone, three doors were open. There was a shrine to the Angel of Tears in two of them.

An ache built behind her eyes, her fingers flexing with a desire to smash the statues into smithereens. This is all my family’s fault. The din of the cafeteria rose, blending with the stench of burned meat. She stepped inside and scanned the crowd. Chelsea was in line for a rubbery personal pizza, while Samantha grabbed a mostly lettuce premade salad. Vera met them at the cashier line.