But I refuse to listen. And I refuse to let her touch me again, no matter how calming. "Just—just stay out of my life," I say, moving away. 'Just leave me alone. Riley and I were fine until you came along."

But she doesn't leave. She doesn't go anywhere. She just stays right there, gazing at me in that horribly annoying, soft, caring way. "I know about the headaches," she whispers, her voice light and soothing. "You don't have to live like this, Ever. Really, I can help."

And even though I'd love a break from the onslaught of noise and pain, I turn on my heel and storm away, hoping I never see her again.

"Who was that?" Haven asks, plunging a tortilla chip into a tiny cup of salsa as I sit down beside her and shrug.

"No one," I whisper, cringing as my words vibrate in my ears. "Looks like that psychic lady from the party."

I reach for the plate Miles slides toward me and pick up a plastic fork.

"We didn't know what you wanted so we got a little of everything," he says. "Did you buy a purse?"

I shake my head, then immediately regret it since it only intensifies the pounding. "Too expensive," I say, covering my mouth as I chew; the crunch reverberating so badly my eyes fill with tears. "You get a vase?" But I already know that he didn't, and not just because I'm psychic, but because there's no bag.

"No, I just like to watch' em blow." He laughs, taking a sip of his drink.

"Hey you guys, shh! Is that my phone?" Haven digs through her oversized, overstuffed bag that often stands in for her closet.

"Well, since you're the only one at this table with a Marilyn Manson ring tone..." Miles shrugs, ignoring his taco shell and eating only the insides.

"Off the carbs?" I ask, watching as he picks at his food.

He nods. 'Just because Tracy Turnblad's fat doesn't mean I have to be."

I take a sip of my Sprite and gaze at Haven. And when I see the elated expression on her face, I know.

She turns away from us, covers her other ear, and says,

"Omigod! I totally thought you'd vanished—I'm out with Miles—yeah, Ever's here too—yeah, they're right here—okay." She covers the mouthpiece and turns toward us, her eyes lighting up when she says, "Drina says hi!" Then she waits for us to say hi back. But when we don't, she rolls her eyes, gets up, and walks away, saying, "They say hi too."

Miles shakes his head and looks at me. "I didn't say hi. Did you say hi?"

I shrug and mix my beans into my rice.

"Trouble," he says, gazing after her and shaking his head.

And even though I sense that it's true, I'm wondering what exactly he means. Because the energy in this place is bubbling and swirling like a big cosmic soup, too lumpy to slog through or try to tune in. "What do you mean?" I ask, squinting against the glare.

"Isn't it obvious?"

I shrug, my head pounding so badly I can't get inside his.

"There's something just so—creepy about their friendship. I mean, a harmless girl crush is one thing. But this—this just doesn't make any sense. Major creep factor."

"Creepy how?" I tear a piece off my taco shell and look at him.

He ignores his rice and favors the beans. "I know this is going to sound horrible, and trust me, I don't mean it to be, but it's almost like she's turning Haven into an acolyte."

I raise my brows.

"A follower, a worshipper, a clone, a Mini-Me." He shrugs.

"And, it's just so—"

"Creepy," I provide.

He sips his drink and glances between Haven and me. "Look at how she's started dressing like her, the contacts, the hair color, the makeup, the clothing, she acts like her too—or at least she tries to."

"Is it just that, or is there something else?" I ask, wondering if he knows anything specific, or if it's just a general sense of doom.

"You need more?" He gapes.

I shrug, dropping my taco onto my plate, no longer hungry.

"But between you and me, that whole tattoo thing takes it to a whole new level. I mean, what the hell?" he whispers, glancing at Haven, making sure she can't hear. "What's it even supposed to mean?" He shakes his head. "I mean, okay, I know what it means, but what does it mean to them? Is it the latest in vampire chic? Because Drina's not exactly goth. I'm not sure what she's trying to be with her fitted silk lady dresses and purses that match her shoes. Is it a cult? Some kind of secret society? And don't get me started on that infection. Nasty. And, by the way, so not normal like she thinks. It's probably what made her so sick."

I press my lips and stare at him, not sure how to respond, how much to share. And yet, wondering why I'm (so determined to keep Damen's secrets—secrets that bring creepy to a whole new level. Secrets that, when I think about it, have nothing to do with me. But I hesitate for too long, and Miles continues, ensuring the vault stays locked, at least for today.

"The whole thing is just so—unhealthy." He cringes.

"What's unhealthy?" Haven asks, plopping down beside me and tossing her phone back into her purse.

"Not washing your hands after you go to the bathroom," Miles quips.

"And that's what you guys were talking about?" She eyes us suspiciously. "Like I'm supposed to believe that?"