UPENDED A bulging Hefty bag and disgorged the contents.

Crumpled clothes tumbled to the paving stones. My fifth heap so far. Once again, I began sorting mismatched garments into smaller piles.

Friday morning. Seven a.m. Saint Michael’s on Broad Street.

My cotillion group was providing manpower for a winter clothing drive, and I’d been tasked with organizing donated articles. A mountain of black plastic bags loomed on my right, proof that parishioners had heeded the call.

Community service is fundamental to the debutante system, providing cover for the excess and redefining snobbery as “charitable work.” We participated in at least one major project per month.

Not that I’m complaining. Charity is the upside to an otherwise vapid tradition. Helping the less fortunate is the only part of cotillion I actually enjoyed.

I tossed a musty flannel shirt onto a stack, nose wrinkling at the smells of sweat and moldy tobacco.

Okay, maybe not “enjoyed.” More like “appreciated.”

While my hands worked on autopilot, my head moved ahead to the evening. We Virals would be taking the Fletchers’ ghost tour that night. Since it was the weekend, Kit had relented and given me a pass until ten o’clock.

I’d almost forgotten to show up this morning. Yesterday’s craziness had driven the cotillion event from my mind. Whitney remembered, however, and had texted a reminder thirty minutes before I was due.

Which explained my current look: an Outward Bound T-shirt, running shorts, sandals, greasy ponytail, and a double layer of Lady Speed Stick.

I’d volunteered to work outside. Alone. No one had objected.

Saint Michael’s is the oldest church in Charleston. Its famous spire rose two hundred feet behind me, gleaming white, an eight-foot iron weathervane crowning its apex.

The courtyard was pleasantly cool. White brick buildings formed the sides, shading a grassy enclosure bordered by a trestle-covered cobblestone walk. In the center, flagstones paved a circular space set with four curved benches, each now serving as one of my garment sections.

I was subdividing clothing by gender, then separating youth sizes from adult. Grabbing a pair of raunchy bell-bottoms, I tossed them on the proper stack. A college kid might buy them for a seventies party. Or maybe the style would come back. Who knew?

Jason appeared, lugging three more trash bags.

“They found these in a crawl space under the rectory.” Dropping the newcomers with a grunt. “Enjoy.”

“Fabulous.”

“Any interesting styles? I bet you could craft a wicked retro look.”

There’s a Brett Favre Jets jersey,” I said. “XXL. That’s worth what, two, maybe three bucks?”

“I’ve got my eye on that kilt.”

“Shrewd.”

Jason finger tapped his temple. “Always thinking.” Then, after a pause, “How are you getting home? I could drive you. I don’t mind.”

“Thanks, but Ben is picking me up.”

“Ben.” Jason shook his head. “I guess you’re taking community service to heart,” he quipped.

“Out of bounds,” I warned. “Ben’s a good friend.”

“He’s a prince. Enchanting. Tell him I miss him.”

I let the dig slide. I couldn’t force people to like each other. No point trying.

“If you change your mind, my truck’s out front.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Now get back to work. God is watching.”

“Adios.”

I worked through two more Hefties, then turned to the first sack from the rectory basement. It was old and grimy, the plastic dried and brittle. Without Jason’s explanation, I’d have assumed the bag held actual garbage.

Great.

The first sack contained several dozen ragged and stained towels. The second held an assortment of moth-eaten ceremonial robes.

The third sack knocked me silly.

Cutting the tie unleashed a noxious stench. Whatever lurked within smelled like dirty diapers covered in mildew, or fetid meat left too long in the sun.

I dropped to a knee, certain I’d retch.

Instead, it happened.

SNAP.

Lightning struck. My blood boiled. Sweat pumped from my pores. My senses flickered, exploded. Colors, sounds, and smells slammed into my brain.

The flare traveled my veins and nerves, unbidden, unstable. For the second time that week, my powers had ignited without being called. Hair-trigger sensitive.

Reaching blindly, I found and jammed on my sunglasses.

Breathe. Relax. Breathe. Relax.

Calm returned. Slowly, my pulse descended.

I checked for spying eyes. The courtyard was empty. I slumped onto a bench and repeated a soothing mantra.

You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.

Then my ears detected trouble.

Voices. Close by.

Ashley, Courtney, and Madison. The Tripod of Skank was coming my way.

FRICK!

A fourth voice joined the babble.

“You girls are angels for stuffing all those envelopes.” Adult. Tenor. “Our mailings are vital to keeping the soup kitchens running.”

“No,” Madison cooed, “thank you, Pastor Carroll. It’s an honor to assist with your selfless efforts. If only we could focus on the Lord’s work every day.”

“Amen!” Ashley gushed. “Praised be his name.”

“Charity is hard.” Courtney. Moron.

“God bless you!” Pride swelled Pastor Carroll’s voice. “Enjoy the sweet tea and shade in the courtyard.”

Double frick! Incoming.

A set of footsteps receded. Safely alone, the Tripod abandoned their pretenses.

“Thought he’d never leave,” Madison said. “I’m sick of wasting my mornings in crappy churches. I should be sleeping right now.”

“These hands weren’t made for office work,” Ashley griped. “My manicure is ruined. I should send the bill to Pastor Creepy Eyes.”

“Blech!” Courtney made a dramatic gagging sound. “This tea was made with real sugar!”

“Gross.” I heard three separate splashes on the pavement.

“Why can’t my driver do these events?” Ashley whined. “He could represent me. What’s the difference?”

Expensive perfume wafted around the building’s edge. I braced for impact, flare senses humming.

They saw me at once. Triplet smiles revealed sets of perfect teeth.

“Boat girl!” Madison noticed my carefully sorted piles. “Collecting new outfits?”

“She’s stealing clothes?” Courtney, wide-eyed. “They shouldn’t let her work unsupervised.”

“Nice sunglasses, Ray Charles.” A sneer twisted Ashley’s beautiful face. “And it’s rude to mock the poor by dressing like them. Shame.”

A three-pronged attack is impossible to defend. I was about to retreat when Jason appeared, his jaw clamped in determination.

“What’s going on?” Looking hard at the Tripod. “Everyone being pleasant?”

“Just chatting.” Madison’s half smile never wavered. “Tory was explaining her trash-sorting system.”

Suddenly, my nose took in something beneath the perfume, a layer lower. An odor was seeping from Madison, acrid and biting, like the sourness of dried sweat.

Anxiety. She was nervous. Very nervous.

I searched Madison’s face, found nothing. Outwardly, she was her usual smug, condescending self. As if to mock my observation, she yawned.

But my nose was sure. Her cool was an act. Jason’s appearance had ruffled her feathers.

Curious, I tried to catch Jason’s underscent. It was brittle, like ashes mixed with hot cement. Anger.

My apprehension began to subside. Why should these tramps intimidate me? They were spoiled princesses, nothing more. I had abilities they couldn’t fathom. Could bite back just as hard.

Time to test my instincts.

“Jason?” I smiled wide. “Does your offer still stand?”

“Huh?” Jason. Blank-faced.

“Can I still get a ride home?” I added quickly. If his answer was no, I was about to look like a jackass.

I needn’t have worried.

“Yeah, of course!” Jason’s face brightened. “Maybe we can grab lunch on the way?”

“I’d love that.” I batted my eyelashes. Wasted behind the shades.

The nervous scent poured from Madison, intertwined with sour ropes of anger. Then a thorny new aroma entered the mix. Harsh. Slimy. Like crushed poison ivy mixed with mud.

Envy. Madison reeked of jealousy.

But the façade never cracked. Madison cupped a hand to her mouth, whispered to Ashley, then giggled at her own wit.

Am I imagining these things? Is this how you go crazy, by thinking you can smell other people’s emotions?

I could feel my flare burning. Hidden behind dark lenses, I quickly tested my other hypersenses.

I could see a mistake in the cross-stitching of Courtney’s miniskirt, hear the tick of Jason’s wristwatch, feel grains of sand in my tennis shoes, taste molecules of grime floating from the trash bags.

Amazing. A vicious superbug might’ve mangled my chromosomes, but the side effects still blew me away.

And the powers never lied.

Trusting my instincts, I pushed forward with my ploy.

“I need to get these piles to the laundry,” I said to Jason, “but they’re way too heavy. I could use a little muscle.”

Jason straightened, masculinity at the ready. “No problem. We’ll knock this out in a flash.” He gathered a heap of pants. “Feel free to lend a hand, ladies.”

The Tripod stood frozen. Taking another deep whiff, I picked up new elements. Snow. Refrigerated orchids. Dead leaves.

Imperfect descriptions, but the emotions seemed clear.

Dismay. Disappointment.

The girls hated that Jason was helping me. Worse, he’d blown them off.

Tough luck.

Gathering a pile of sweatshirts, I moved toward the church without a backward glance. The Tripod ignored me, but the smell of disappointment cloaked them like a second skin.

Jason waited at the courtyard wall, a too-large bundle locked between his straining arms. Knowing he’d never make it, he wore a goofy grin.

“After you,” he panted.

SNUP.

Blood rushed to my head, nearly causing me to faint. My legs wobbled, but held. The world crashed back to its normal sensory backdrop. I instantly felt weakened. Diminished.

I pretended to struggle under the weight of my load, determined not to spoil a rare moment of triumph. Jason noticed my discomfort. “You okay? I can carry that pile next.”

“Fine. I just haven’t eaten in a while.”

“I’ll fix that.” Big smile. “Count on it.”

The Tripod didn’t bother with good-byes. Banking as one, they headed toward the chapel.

“Good-bye ladies!” I couldn’t help myself. “See you soon!”