Chapter 30: Chapter 30

The counselor is dead. I don’t even know her name, don’t remember speaking to her, and now she’s dead.

As Logan watches, I check her torso and arms more carefully, and then lift her hands, turning them this way and that. I’m looking for defensive wounds and seeing none. Then I finger the woman’s wrist, and I see bruises there. More bruises on one shoulder and her opposite side. Scratches on her arm.

Signs she’d either been restrained and beaten or beaten and then restrained.

I think of what Logan said had happened to Mason. His bloodied nose. His heart stopping. Did something similar happen here? Had an otherworldly whatever killed the counselor? Then her roomie—not being a werewolf— hadn’t noticed the smell and just let her sleep?

That’s what I want to believe. An outside force killed this counselor. Not anyone here.

Logan moves forward and checks the young woman’s shirt. Through the blood, I read “Team Witch.”

Logan murmurs, “One witch, one necro, five half-demons.” “Hmm?”

He opens his mouth, but before he can get out a word, footfalls thunder

down the hall. I freeze, but they’re at the far end, where the meeting had been. They only sound loud because there are so many of them.

The meeting is out, campers charging from the room as if they’re thundering from last class. Logan moves to the door to listen. I look for a hiding place. When steps come our way, I yank the sheets over the dead girl again, and we both duck and roll under the beds.

The steps continue past the door. More follow, and the doorknob turns. I hold my breath. Across the way, Logan’s gaze follows the sound. He’s tensed and ready for trouble. But the door only opens a moment as someone reaches in and grabs an item from the dresser top. Then it shuts again, and the footsteps retreat.

When I start to slide out, Logan motions for me to wait. Seconds tick past. Then the other footsteps pass, as if they’d only gone to a room temporarily. Now they head over to the other hall. I catch the click of a door.

“’Bout time,” a voice growls. It’s Mason. “The pup went to lift his leg on a tree somewhere.”

“He’s outside?” Tricia says.

Mason snorts. “Maybe. You can’t tell with werewolves. I think he planned to just use the regular facilities, though.”

“José?” Tricia says. “Go get Logan. Has anyone found his sister?”

“Still looking,” José says. “She’s around. She’s been hanging out with that witch and that guy with dreads.” A pause. “I didn’t see him with the other HDs.”

HDs? Half-demons. Right, that’s what Elijah is posing as.

“Just find the curs. The sooner we’re rid of these parasites, the better.”

Parasites. That’s a common insult for vampires. But Tricia obviously is including werewolves in that.

Across the way, Logan tenses. My gaze shoots to him. Through the wall, I hear Mason say, “What the fuck?”

“Someone’s coming to take you and your canine buddies out of here.

Unless you’d rather walk.”

“I might. Could use the exercise. But if you want me gone, just say the word and let me grab my shit.”

“It’s packed and outside. Now come on.”

I relax. Okay, the situation isn’t as dire as it seemed. I have no idea what happened to the poor girl rotting in the bed above me, but I’m going to guess no one here is to blame.

Whatever happened to Mason also happened to her, and this morning, her roommate presumed she was sleeping off a late night.

That means others are in danger from whatever’s going on, but Paige can resolve that tomorrow. Right now, we’re being kicked out, and considering I didn’t plan to stick around, that’s fine with me.

“You heard all that?” Logan says as we slide from under the beds.

“I did. It’s the excuse we need to leave and get someplace where we can notify Paige. I’d like to see whether Holly and Allan will join us. We should probably warn Elijah, too, in case they realize he’s a werewolf.”

“He isn’t coming with us,” Logan says, face darkening.

“Nope, he’s not. But he deserves a warning. Now let’s get out of here.

On the way to the stairs, Logan whispers his theory. Whatever’s happening here, it’s affecting the half-demons. Well, the hormonal part, that is. Something else is up with the necromancers, and it’s probably connected to those ghostly encounters we had in the forest. I suspect they’re being pestered or harassed by ghosts, and they’re too exhausted and distracted to notice what’s going on with the half-demons.

“Could it be possession?” I whisper. “Half-demons are more susceptible to it. I’ve never heard of mass possession, but that could be the answer.”

“Except they don’t seem possessed. They aren’t acting like themselves, but they aren’t not acting like themselves, if that makes any sense.”

It does. Tricia is no longer the bubbly young woman we met when we arrived, but it’s been a gradual change, not the sudden one of possession.

“What about the guy who tried to cut your Achilles tendon?” I say. “He’s a sorcerer.”

“Mob mentality. He’s not actually affected, but seeing the rest act out gives him an excuse to do the same. There are others like him, I suspect, who’ve joined in.”

And there are some who won’t join in even if the half-demons try to convince them. Some who will rebel in horror.

I think of the dead counselor’s Team Witch shirt.

Had she realized something was wrong, and they murdered her for it? I don’t want to think that. I can’t. Literally cannot. It goes too far.

Cutting Logan’s tendon is crazy, but it’s the sort of thing that does happen when a mob gets out of control. Murder goes beyond that, and if that counselor was killed because she was interfering with plans, I don’t even want to know what those plans are.

I need to believe that, whatever’s happening here, it’s manageable insanity, which we will manage by gathering Holly and Allan and any other spellcasters who want to come with us, and then we’ll get Paige and her resources to truly squelch this fire before it spreads.

We can hear voices outside. Once, I catch a snarl from Mason. Seriously, the guy missed his supernatural calling—he snarls and growls and grunts more than any werewolf. Whatever he’s bitching about now, it’s only a snarled word that I don’t catch, and then he falls silent. Probably some token protest against being kicked out. He doesn’t want to stay, but he won’t like leaving at the end of a boot, either. Can’t say I blame him. If I didn’t suspect we were dealing with something more than paranoid teens, I’d argue the point, too.

But whatever has gone wrong, it’s otherworldly. Demonic. Ghostly. Something else altogether. This is not the sort of thing you can treat

rationally. It’s time to get the hell out and look forward to having a lifelong excuse to never attend a supernatural leadership conference again.

We sneak down the stairs, moving quietly despite the empty and silent floor below. When we reach the bottom, someone clears a throat, and I spin. It’s one of the counselors, flanked by two campers, all three in Team Half- Demon tees.

“Hey,” I say. “I heard you guys were looking for us.” “Outside,” the counselor says with a jerk of his chin.

“Did I hear you want us gone?” I continue. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but . . .” I point at my ear. “Werewolf hearing. Can’t help it. You can imagine how much fun that was for our parents—we heard all the grown-up conversations, and we didn’t need to put a glass to the door.”

“Outside,” the counselor says again.

“Sure,” I say. “We don’t want to be anywhere we aren’t wanted. But I left my notebook under my bed. Just let me grab that and—”

One of the campers steps forward. He’d been partially hidden by the counselor, and as he moves, I see something in his hand. It rises, and I fall back against Logan with, “Holy shit!”

It’s a gun. A hunting rifle. I remember the long, empty lockbox upstairs in the office. This is what had been inside it.

“A gun?” Logan says, bristling with mere annoyance, as if the guy pulled a water pistol. “I can assure you this is not necessary. Kate asked politely to retrieve her notebook. If that isn’t possible, then just say so. Now lower the gun—”

“No.”

Logan’s voice hardens. “We are the Alpha’s children. You are threatening us with a rifle when we are complying with your orders. Unless you want to invoke the wrath of the werewolf Pack, please show a little respect and lower—”

The guy raises it to my chest. “No.”

Logan rocks forward. The guy’s finger moves to the trigger. “Lo,” I whisper, and he stops.

“It’s okay,” I murmur under my breath, heart pounding. “We’re fine.” Louder, I say, “Take us outside, and we’ll go.”

The trio leads us down the hall. At a noise down a side passage, I glance as discreetly as I can. It’s Elijah. He’s half out of his room, poised there, as if spotting me, ready to retreat. Then he sees the rifle. His eyes widen.

Hand at my side, I gesture for him to go back into his room. Do I hope he’ll stand firm and refuse? Stride down here and demand to know what’s going on? Better yet, sneak down and wrest the gun away from this guy?

Yes, I do. But I also know that isn’t the smart move. Elijah makes the smart move. He eases back into his room and closes the door quietly, and I try not to be disappointed.

“I heard you say someone’s coming for us,” Logan says as we reach the door. “That isn’t necessary. We’ll walk out. We know the way.”

They don’t even acknowledge he’s spoken. One pushes on the door, and the noise from outside rushes in. Hoots and hollers and jeers. Clearly, the half-demons are looking forward to seeing us banished.

Fine by me.

We’ll give them their show. It’ll sting, but we’ll do it. We’ll walk away knowing this will be resolved later, and every adult half-demon in any position of power will be tripping over themselves to assure the werewolves and vampires no insult was intended—it was all a mistake. That’ll give Mom plenty of political ammunition. We’ll get concessions from this fiasco, and that’ll help our standing in the supernatural world.

I keep telling myself this as they push us through the door at rifle point. I pay little attention to our surroundings, caught up in my own thoughts of the future. Keep my mind on that, and I can endure this humiliation. In the end, we will win.

There’s a crowd ahead, at least a dozen campers ringed around a

campfire. It’s not lit, thankfully, because one of the idiots is standing in the middle of it.

“Mason?” Logan whispers.

I frown over to see Logan staring at the firepit. I follow his gaze back to it and realize the idiot standing in the middle of the piled wood is Mason.

No, he’s not standing in the middle.

He’s bound to a pole in the middle. With wood and kindling stacked at his feet and a gag over his mouth, he snarls and writhes as the half-demons jeer and catcall and wave lighters and matches over their heads.

And beside him? Two other firepits. Two other poles. Two funeral pyres.

Waiting for us.