Soul Screamers Collection. Rachel Vincent

aunt pulled down a bottle of brandy and unscrewed the lid. Then she dumped a generous shot into her mug. And left the bottle on the countertop, clearly planning on a second helping.

      She took a sip of her “tea,” then turned toward the living room, remote control in hand. The moment her gaze met mine, she froze, and her cheeks flushed.

      “It hasn’t hit the news yet,” I said, and couldn’t help noticing how tired and heavy her steps looked as she crossed the tiles into the living room. Aunt Val and Mrs. Cole had been gym buddies for years. Maybe Meredith’s death had hit her harder than I’d realized. Or maybe she was unnerved by how upset Sophie was. Or maybe she’d connected Meredith’s death to Heidi Anderson’s—to my knowledge, she hadn’t yet heard about Alyson Baker—and had started to suspect something was wrong. As I had.

      Either way, her skin was pale and her hands were shaking. She looked so fragile I hesitated to add to her troubles.

      But the premonitions had gone too far. I needed help, or advice, or …something.

      What I really needed was for someone to tell me what good premonitions of death were if they didn’t help me warn people. What was the point of knowing someone was going to die, if I couldn’t stop it from happening?

      Aunt Val wouldn’t know any of that, but neither would anyone else. And in the absence of my own parents, I had no one else to talk to.

      My fingers tangled around one another in my lap as she sank wearily onto the other end of the couch, her knees together, ankles crossed primly. The frown lines around her mouth and the tremor in her hand said she was not as composed as she clearly wanted to appear.

      That, and the not-tea scent wafting from her mug.

      The last time I’d tried to tell her I knew someone was going to die, she and Uncle Brendon had driven me straight to the hospital and left me there. Of course, at the time, I’d been screaming hysterically in the middle of the mall and lashing out at anyone who tried to touch me.

      Presumably, they’d had no choice.

      Surely it would go better this time, because I was calm and rational, and not currently in the grip of an irrepressible screaming fit. And because she was already one shot into a bottle of brandy.

      My nerves pinged out of control, and I reached absently for the scent diffuser on the end table to my left, stirring the vanilla-scented oil with a thin wooden reed. “Aunt Val?”

      She jumped, sloshing “tea” onto her lap. “Sorry, hon.” She set her mug on a coaster on the end table, then rushed into the kitchen to blot at her pants with a clean, wet rag. “This thing with Meredith has me on edge.”

      I knew exactly how she felt.

      I exhaled smoothly, then took a deep breath as my aunt returned to the living room, the wet spot on her slacks now covering half of one slim thigh. “Yeah, it was pretty … scary.”

      “Oh?” She stopped several feet from her chair, eyes narrowed at me in concern laced with … suspicion? “Were you there?” Had she already guessed what I was going to say?

      Maybe Nash was right. Maybe I should keep my secret a little longer ….

      I shook my head slowly, and my gaze flicked back to the sticks protruding from the tiny oil bottle. “No, I didn’t actually see it—” she exhaled in relief, and I almost hated to ruin it with the rest of what I had to say “—but. You know the girl who died at Taboo the other day?”

      “Of course. How sad!” She returned to her chair and took a slow sip from her tea, eyes closed, as if she were thinking. Or maybe praying. Then she took a much longer drink and lowered her mug, eyes wide and wary. “Kaylee, that girl had nothing to do with what happened today. According to the news, she was drunk, and may have been on something stronger than alcohol.”

      I hadn’t heard that last tidbit, but I got no chance to question it because she was talking again. Like mother, like daughter.

      My aunt gestured with her mug as she spoke, but nothing sloshed out this time. It was already empty. “Sophie said Meredith collapsed while she was dancing. That poor child ate almost nothing and lived on caffeine. It was really only a matter of time before her body cried ‘enough.’”

      “I know, and Sophie may be right.” I let go of the scent sticks and bent the tab on my Coke can back and forth, carefully working it free from its anchor to avoid seeing the pity and skepticism surely lurking behind her cautious sympathy. “The way they died may have nothing to do with anything.” Though I certainly had my doubts. “But, Aunt Val, I think I’m the connection between them.”

      “What?”

      I made myself look up just in time to see my aunt’s eyes narrow in confusion. But then her forehead actually relaxed, tension lines smoothing as if she’d just figured out what I was talking about, and it came as a relief.

      If the return of my “delusions” put her at ease, what on earth had she expected me to say?

      Her expression softened, and the familiar, patronizing mask of sympathy stung my pride. “Kaylee, is this about your panic attacks?“ She leaned forward and whispered that last part, as if she were afraid someone would overhear.

      Anger zinged through me like tiny bolts of lightning, and I made myself set down my half-empty drink can before I crushed it. “It’s not a joke, Aunt Val. And I’m not crazy. I knew Meredith was going to die before it happened.”

      For an instant—less than a single breath—my aunt looked terrified. Like she’d just seen her own ghost. Then she shook her head—literally shaking off her fear of my relapse—and donned a stoic, determined mask. I’d been right all along. She wasn’t going to listen. Ever.

      “Kaylee, don’t do this again,” she begged, a frown etching deep lines around her mouth as she stood and carried her empty mug into the kitchen. I followed her, watching in mounting irritation as she lifted the teakettle from the stove. “I know you’re upset about Meredith, but this won’t bring her back. This isn’t the way to deal with your grief.”

      “This has nothing to do with grief,” I insisted through gritted teeth, dropping my half-full can into the recycling bin. It landed with a thud, followed by the fizz and gurgle of the contents emptying into the plastic tub.

      I read frustration in my aunt’s narrowed gaze. Desperation in the death grip she had on the teakettle. She probably wished she could knock me out as easily as she had Sophie. And some part of me knew that talking to her would do no more good than trying to warn Meredith had. But another, more stubborn part of me refused to give up. I was done with secrets and sympathetic looks. And I was definitely done with hospitals and those little white pills. I was not going to let anyone else call me crazy. Not ever again.

      Aunt Val must have seen my determination, because she set the teakettle back on the stove, then planted both palms flat on the countertop, eyeing me from across the bar. “Think about Sophie. She’s already traumatized. What do you think a selfish, attention-seeking story like this would do to her?”

      My jaw tightened, and tears burned behind my eyes. “Screw Sophie!” My fists slammed into the bar, and the blow reverberated up my arms like a bruising shock wave of anger.

      My aunt flinched, and I felt a momentary surge of satisfaction. Then I stepped deliberately back from the bar, my hands propped on my hips. “I’m sorry,” I said, well aware that I didn’t sound very sorry. “But this isn’t about her. I’m trying to tell you I have a serious problem, and you’re not even listening!”

      Aunt Val closed her eyes and took a deep breath, like she was practicing yoga. Or searching for patience. “We all know you have problems, Kaylee,” she said when her eyes opened, and her quiet, composed tone infuriated me. “Calm down and—”

      “I knew, Aunt Val.” I planted both hands on the countertop again and stared at the granite. Then I looked up and made myself say the rest of it. “And I knew about the