Sage comes over to us, struggling to walk with Trace draped over her like a bearskin rug, his chin resting on her head, arms slung around her neck. “Hey, psycho, you’re pulling my hair—” He kisses down the side of her throat, nibbling, making her laugh and wrinkle her nose. “You’re so gross.”

“Clarabelle wants to know about the Mumbler,” Bree says.

Trace keeps nuzzling. “No, she doesn’t.”

He hasn’t even looked at me yet. “Yeah, I do.” My voice carries like Bree’s, getting the attention of some of the skaters.

Trace lifts his head. Pale eyes, cinnamon freckles, earlobes pierced with half-inch stainless-steel tunnels, wide enough to fit your thumb through. I brace up, half-afraid he’ll bull-rush me. “You’ll be sorry.” Sage lets him pull her back with him in staggering steps. “What is known cannot be unknown.”

“Wow. So wise.” One of the bench girls turns to face us. “Is that like a quote?”

“Book of Trace. Mumbler Three, Verse Sixteen.” Trace presses his nose into Sage’s hair, watching me with eyes that remind me of a coyote’s, something feral. He holds up a finger. “Whoever believes in him shall perish, and never find eternal life.”

Bree folds her arms. “Scared yet?”

“Nah. She doesn’t get it. She’s not feeling it here.” He thumps his fist to Sage’s heart like it was his own. “You know who needs to tell it?” He glances back, says, “Kincaid! Get over here, ya skinny bastid.” Trace looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Trust me. This dude will scare you.”

I thought I had time to observe, to take in every detail of him, but he’s coming, and there’s no chance for me to hide myself and how much I do/don’t want him to look at me. Kincaid stops maybe four feet from us, giving Trace a dimly amused yeah, what? look, and I can’t remember how to act casual.

Trace jerks his chin toward me. “Chick wants to know about the Man with the Sweet Tooth.”

“Chick’s name is Clarabelle.” Bree avoids Kincaid’s eyes, like there could be something better to look at, and now I’m not sure who they are to each other. Kincaid’s gaze keeps right on traveling, and Bree scuffs her sneaker over the dirt, pendulum-style. For some reason, she’s put her crush in a killing jar. It must be slamming from one side to the other, iridescent wings pummeling the glass.

Kincaid looks at me; my lips part, but nothing comes out. He’ll scare you, Trace said. But Kincaid smiles, his eyes creasing into these cute half-moons. “Where’d you come from?” His voice is teasing, and a little hoarse, like he might be getting over a cold.