And I was glad of it. One less thing for my overloaded brain to deal with, one less complication—

“Matilda?” He tilted his head, and when he did, something in the angle of his jaw . . .

“No!” I snarled the word and squeezed my eyes shut. “Gab-ri-el!”

The force of the shift hit me like a sandbag in the gut. I toppled backward. Hands grabbed me. Too hard. Too tight. Yanking me upright before I fell. Holding me there, still too tight, like a parent restraining a wayward child. Gabriel. There was absolutely no doubt that it was him, even before he said, “Olivia?” his voice tight with annoyance. My eyes were open, but everything was blurred by a red-tinged fog. He gripped me by both wrists, his fingers digging in.

“Olivia?”

The fog cleared, and I saw those ice-cold, pale blue eyes boring into mine. I felt his rough grip and heard his snapped words, and I didn’t wish for anything else. This was the Gabriel I knew, and that was more comforting than any kind words or gentle embraces.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“No, you are not.” His hand went to my forehead, a near slap that made me flinch. He didn’t seem to notice, just pressed his cool fingers there, then muttered, “Goddamn it!” I wasn’t sure what startled me more, the curse or the venom in it. He released one of my wrists but tightened his grip on the other and started half dragging me. When I resisted, he turned sharply and said, “Can you walk?”

“Yes, but—”

He pulled me to the bench and propelled me down, then crouched in front of me, his eyes level with mine. In them, I saw rage seething like a winter’s storm.

“I—” I began.

His hand slapped to my forehead again. “You have a fever.” He held up one hand. “How many fingers do you see?”

“I didn’t hit my head, Gabriel. I—”

“Given that you were shouting for me and I was right there, trying to shake you out of it, I’ll ask whatever I damned well want. How many fingers?”

“Two. I—”

“This has to stop.”

“If I’d known it would happen when I came here—”

“The location doesn’t matter. Not anymore. At this house, at that Villa, on the street, in a field. One minute you’re here, and then you aren’t. It has to stop.”

“If I had any idea how to do that, do you think I wouldn’t? If it’s such a goddamn inconvenience, Gabriel, then walk away. If I zone out? If I wander off? Walk away.”

He got to his feet. “Have I ever said it’s an inconvenience? That anything you do is an inconvenience? I’m trying to help, Olivia.”

“Then stop yelling at me.”

His gaze went so cold I shivered in spite of the lingering fever.

“I have not raised my voice—” he began.

“Stop snapping at me. Stop snarling and glowering and making me feel like I’m inconveniencing you.”

He put his shades back on. When he spoke again, his words were formal. “I cannot help how I make you feel, Olivia. If you misinterpret—”

“How the hell else am I supposed to interpret it, Gabriel? You’re giving me shit for—” I got to my feet and walked to the back of the garden, trying to get my temper back under control.

“What do you want?” Gabriel said.

“The same thing you do,” I said. “For these damned visions—”

“Not you. Them. What the hell do you want?”

I turned to see Ida and Walter at the gate. Between the tone, the glare, and the profanity, Gabriel had stopped them in their tracks.

“Is everything all right?” Ida said.

There was a moment when he seemed almost ready to snarl and say, What the fuck does it look like? Yes, everything’s just fucking wonderful. Instead, he rubbed a hand over his face, and when he lowered it, that winter’s storm was gone and the cold front was back, freezing the Clarks with a stare.

“I would like you to leave now,” he said.

Walter looked at Ida, and Ida stepped back and started to close the gate.

Gabriel strode forward, so abruptly he startled them. “No,” he said. “Actually, I don’t want you to leave. I want you to fix this.”

“Fix what?” Ida asked.

He waved at me.

When they looked perplexed, I said, “He means me. Apparently, I’m broken, and it’s annoying him.”

Now I got the cold glower. I met it with one of my own. He turned back to the Clarks.

“Olivia is having visions, and—”

“Visions?” Ida worked hard to affix a proper expression of sympathy on her face, but she looked like a starving coyote spotting roadkill. “What kind of visions?”

Gabriel moved between us. She looked up at him. “What kind of visions, Gabriel? I can’t help her if I don’t know.”

He met her gaze and said nothing. After five seconds of silence, he replied with, “She is having visions. You will fix them or tell her how to fix them. Now.”

“The visions are important for—”

“For you, I’m sure. For Olivia, they’re dangerous. She spiked a hundred-and-four-degree fever after one last week. I understand that you might not be well versed in human physiology, so let me explain. At a hundred and five degrees, brain damage can occur and the fever becomes life-threatening. If you suspect me of exaggerating, please speak to Dr. Webster.”