Rebels [Blood Magic, Book 4]

Chapter 17: Big Bad Wolves

Lucia, Keel, Ephraim, and I had been trying to get answers from the ghosts for hours. First, there was the necessity of finding the right ones and getting our message to them, and then there was the discussion itself. Ghosts lived in their own world; had their own motives. Questioning didn't always lead from A to B in a straight line, and while we were coming to see that there was some truth in the accusations Owen had levelled against the League, outright confirmation was proving difficult. Oftentimes if we were able to find the spirit of someone who died within the walls of League Headquarters they were too traumatized to be of any use - whirling, wispy, wailing, lost apparitions, as Lucia described them, all pain and emotion, utterly devoid of reason. Too much of themselves missing to ever heal.

"We should have never had the others bring them here," she said. "This is cruel."

"Is there no one?" I asked. "Surely not every prisoner who has died there has turned into a mad ghost."

"Logically that must be true, but so many I've searched for, asked the spirits to search for, are . . . just missing. Not there. Hiding or gone - if that's possible."

A shiver ran up my spine. Spirit communication was unreliable at the best of times, but something just felt wrong about that, especially since, according to Lucia, now that war had broken out, the dead were more active than ever.

"I'll keep trying," she said, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her nightshirt, "but I need something to eat."

I nodded and stood up. "I'll go over to the lodge and see what they can fix us up in the kitchen."

"Don't forget your shield," Keel and Ephraim said in unison, and I laughed.

"No way I'm going to forget my shield. Not a chance in hell."

"Can you put on some coffee before you go?" my father said.

"Will do." I bent over to give Keel a quick kiss on the cheek.

The Blue House's main room had a minimal kitchen, if you could even call it that. Sink, mini-fridge, microwave, coffeemaker, all tucked away in a small corner off to the right of the fireplace. I set a pot brewing for my dad and collected my jacket and shoes. My shield was up and ready before I took down the wards on the house.

It was a clear night, chilly, moon nearly full. The silver glow made the woods feel almost mystical. I checked my watch, surprised to see that it was creeping up on sunrise. It seemed impossible that we'd been spirit-talking with Lucia all night. Breathing in the crisp air, I recalled what Keel said about losing days talking to his ancestors back at the motel, and for the first time thought there might be some truth in it.

I stood on the doorstep and did a magical sweep of the area between the house and the lodge. All clear. The ten-minute walk proved uneventful, though I remained on high alert the whole time. Maybe I should have been thankful for Grant's threat; there's no way I'd have been this vigilant if he hadn't done what he'd done.

Unlike the quiet outdoors, the lodge kitchen was bustling with apron-wrapped bodies. Eggs sizzled in frying pans on the stove alongside homemade hash browns. The smell of sausage and bacon wafted up from the ovens.

"Your timing is good," said a brunette in her late twenties, slicing fruit into bowls. "Breakfast is almost ready. We can pack you up some to-go trays as soon as we have the field crew served."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I asked, knowing I'd feel weird standing there observing the hive of activity without pitching in.

"You don't have to, you're a guest. Besides, you're wearing a very fancy dress."