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  “Oh.” Dan’s statement shut Jack down. He was certain Zalnic would want much more than an eye.

  Natalie must’ve heard the resignation in his voice because she spoke up. “Um, was your nephew baptized or did he practice any kind of religion?”

  Callie shot a surprised glance at Dan. Jack groaned. “Are his parents sect members?” Both Dan and Callie must be shifters if they crossed worlds so it wouldn’t matter which side of the family the nephew was from. “If so, this blows our theory.”

  “What theory?” Callie asked.

  When Jack didn’t respond, Natalie answered the question. “We spoke to a guy who made it back.”

  Callie nodded. “We’ve met Eric Palmer,” she said to her husband who bobbed his chin once.

  “Right,” Natalie said. “He gave us his database of disappearances he thought were the same as his. The primary factors seem to be teens and preteens taken from sacred ground.” She paused and glanced at Jack. He flipped his hand in a gesture to continue. “I noticed something else I thought all the kids had in common, lack of religion.”

  “Chris doesn’t blow your theory,” Callie said quietly. “He was twelve, taken from a Native American historic site, and he didn’t have any religious affiliations. He’s my sister’s son.” She turned to Jack. “We’re not sect members… or anything else.” She exchanged a glance with her husband. “Years ago, while my brother was away at college, he got involved with a cult and disappeared. My parents hired a private investigator to track him down. By the time the detective located my brother, he’d already made a”—Callie’s voice broke, but she continued—“a suicide pact.”

  Jack heard Natalie’s sharp intake of breath. His hand rose automatically to reach out to her, but he just touched his neck instead and dropped the arm to his lap. Their relationship was odd—more than acquaintances, but not quite friends—he wasn’t sure of the parameters and didn’t want to make things awkward. Then he realized Dan was addressing him.

  “—sure you get it Jack, the way others misunderstand the sect?”

  Jack nodded. The sect was widely misunderstood.

  “I knew Callie’s father wouldn’t allow his daughter to date me if he knew I belonged to a sect.” Dan shot a quick glance at Callie. “I planned to tell Callie when things with her bother were sorted out, but after his death… I just couldn’t. When I decided to ask her to marry me, I knew I had to come clean—with her, anyway. I decided to quit the sect. That way, when I told her, I could also say I was no longer a part of it, in case the idea of the sect spooked her.”

  “It did spook me,” Callie admitted. “But Dan assured me he was done with it. Our family wasn’t religious to start with and my brother’s death cast suspicion on all organized religion.”

  “So our theory is still viable,” Natalie said.

  “Yeah,” Dan replied. “It’s viable—you just have to figure out how that helps get your friend back.”

  Chapter 6

  Traditions and Ancestry

  The meeting with the Mannings seemed to raise more questions than it answered, which left Jack feeling anxious. He paced his room after dinner, replaying the conversation in his head.

  He’d taken Ron Winert’s advice very seriously. He intended to be well-prepared. But his dad had added another layer to that advice—having an edge. And he felt like they were on the cusp of discovering the one tidbit of information that would ensure success.

  “Jack?” His mom’s voice carried up the stairwell.

  “What?”

  “Stop moving around. You should lie down and rest.”

  Jack sighed. He couldn’t lie down. It was too uncomfortable. “Okay.” There was no sense in arguing. He tossed his two pillows to the side of his bed which butted up against the wall, then paused with one knee on the mattress. Crouching down, he pulled a plastic container from beneath his bed and plopped it next to the pillows.

  When he was as comfortable as he was able to be, he opened the container.

  The first time Jack saw a soulshifter’s codex, he was ten. That book belonged to his former adviser, David, who showed it to his protégé the day after Jack’s first spirit-walk. “Now that you know your ability, Jack, it’s time to learn how to exercise it.” His teacher lifted the cover from a well-worn box.

  The book David drew from the box back then was not the same one Jack kept under his bed, but the content was identical. The codex Jack now carefully removed from the plastic storage container was the one he found during his second summer solstice descent to the shadowlands. The finite number of ancient tomes meant not every shifter owned his own copy.

  Jack decided there must be a reason this codex presented itself to him. It may not be relevant in this instance, but it couldn’t hurt to take a look.

  The delicate parchment crinkled under his fingers. A faint musty smell of basements and damp earth wafted upward with each turn of a page. The handwritten text contained the beliefs and observations of generations of shifters for use and reference in the future. Not everything in the book was fact—some entries were later contradicted by others. But many observations were repeated over and over.

  Jack wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. He tried his best to ignore his scratched shoulders and pushed his scattered thoughts from the forefront of his consciousness as if preparing for a spirit-walk. Then he dropped his gaze to the book and scanned the hand-written entries.

  About twelve pages in, something caught Jack’s attention—the word ‘non-believer.’ He went back to the beginning of the passage:

  I wandered the shadowland until I heard a voice call to me. To my surprise, my great aunt came to me from the mist. I knew she was a non-believer and didn’t expect to meet her here. I asked her, “Auntie, I’m happy to see you, but tell me, how did you end up here?”

  “I never promised myself to another realm, so when I passed into this otherworld, my grandfather came to show me the way.”

  After that we spoke of the sickness in our village.

  Jack skimmed to the bottom of the entry.

  No other reference to non-believers.

  Jack slid the codex from his lap and stretched out his legs. The wall behind him supported his head as he stared, unseeing, at the opposing wall. This guy’s great aunt never promised herself to another realm. Jack assumed that meant she had no religion; ergo, the woman theoretically could have been one of Zalnic’s living victims. She ended up in the shadowland because it was the realm where her deceased grandfather resided. So Zalnic had nothing to gain by taking her soul if she would have ended up in his realm anyway.

  Suddenly Jack sat up straight, wincing as his back and shoulders protested. Duh! If non-believers are destined for the realm of their ancestors, and the ancestors aren’t part of Zalnic’s domain, then he would have something to gain!

  Was that the underlord’s game? Stealing souls? From other gods?

  Off of his bed and pacing the small room, Jack was on a roll. If Zalnic was stealing souls from other gods, wouldn’t the other gods balk? Yes. Unless… they didn’t know. “Because the victims didn’t die,” he said out loud.

  Jack walked to his dresser and rummaged through the debris he removed from his pockets. “Ah,” he exclaimed and picked up his phone. He hoped the number on Eric’s card was his personal number. He had to know if Eric had ever been baptized and what his ancestral background might be.

  After a quick conversation, Jack bounded down the stairs, oblivious to his aching shoulders. “Dad, can I take the truck and go up to the Java Hut?”

  His dad looked at the clock. “Again? Aren’t they only open for another hour?”

  “No. It’s open at least until ten. I want to get on the internet.”

  “You have school tomorrow.”

  “I know, but I can’t really lie down. I’m probably not going to get much sleep anyway.”

  “Okay, home no later than ten though. I want you in before I go to bed.”

  Jack retrieved his laptop
and scooted out.

  Eric said Zalnic referred to him as ‘son of pool.’ Jack needed to know exactly who Pool was.

  As the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee engulfed him, Jack mused that someone would seriously have to dislike coffee to come in here and not order something. He set his laptop on a table and let it boot up while he ordered a latte. He scanned the café for familiar faces. Other kids from school often came in to use the Wi-Fi or just hang out with friends. The scene tonight, though, was fairly dead.

  A lone girl sat with her laptop at a table near the windows and three guys carried on some kind of testosterone-fueled conversation in the back corner. The barista frowned in their direction after sliding Jack’s drink across the counter. Jack glanced at the three again as he headed for his table, pretty sure he’d seen them at school. Suddenly it clicked—one was Natalie’s ex-boyfriend. His name was… Brent? No. Brett.

  As if Jack had spoken the name out loud, the towheaded jock looked up at him. Jack gave the other boy a quick nod of acknowledgement, then sat down at his computer with his back to the table of guys. Soon, he was engrossed in Google searches.

  Since Zalnic was an ancient god, it made sense to Jack that a correlation must be made to other ancient beliefs. Eric said he was mostly Polish on his mom’s side and his dad’s parents were from Wales. His search for ‘Polish mythology pool’ and ‘Slavic mythology pool’ found myths associated with a pool of water. He tried spelling pool—poul, poule, puul, pule, pul. Nothing. He had the same luck when he replaced Polish and Slavic with Welsh. Then he tried Celtic.

  Jack leaned back in his chair with a groan. He’d walked in the door optimistic about being on a roll, now he was dead in the water. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe ‘son of pool’ meant something completely different. Or Eric heard it wrong.

  Finally, he abandoned the search engines and scanned lists of Norse and Welsh deities. At the Welsh god Pwyll, Jack paused. No. Pwyll couldn’t be ‘pool.’ The name likely rhymed with dill. Of course, he had no idea how to pronounce Welsh and none seemed to be offered on the websites.

  The clock had rounded past nine-thirty. He had to leave soon.

  He typed Pwyll into dictionary.com. The answer appeared on his screen: Pwyll [pool] noun Welsh Legend. a prince who stole his wife, Rhiannon, from her suitor, Gwawl, and was the father of Pryderi.

  Jack caught himself before he whooped out loud. This was it! Zalnic referred to Eric as the son of the Welsh prince Pwyll. His soul was destined for Annwn—the Welsh underworld.

  Zalnic was stealing souls from other gods.

  He called Natalie as he began shutting his computer down. “You were right,” he said as soon as she answered.

  “About…?”

  “The religion.” Jack shrugged into his jacket as he explained what he’d found while at the coffee shop and how he thought they might use the information. He tossed his cup, put his notebook on top of the laptop and slid them both under his arm. Backing out of the door, he never saw the fist coming at him.

  Jack’s jaw exploded with pain. His laptop slid to the ground and he heard his phone scuttle across the pavement. He crumpled against the side of the building. His arms were yanked roughly to either side, pinning him to the wall. Another blow rammed into his nose and Jack heard a snap. A wave of nausea settled in his stomach.

  A face swam in and out of his blurred vision. The door to the coffee shop flew open and he heard a shout.

  He was released immediately and slumped to the ground. The voice asking if he was okay seemed far away and then faded out as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Jack came to in the same spot where he’d fallen, with no idea how long he’d been out, though apparently long enough for the barista to retrieve a towel full of ice and apply it to his face. He struggled to regain his faculties. The counter guy held his laptop, notebook and phone and was saying something to the barista. Jack caught the last word: assholes.

  A car skidded to a stop in the street. “Jack!”

  Natalie.

  Natalie? How could she—

  He’d been on the phone with her.

  She bolted toward him and knelt down. Her words ran together in a stream. “Oh my God what happened are you okay?”

  Jack reached for the towel of ice. He shifted it away from his mouth. “I’b all right.” Damn, his face hurt when he talked. “Abbushed.” He flicked his gaze from barista to counter guy. “Who?”

  The barista nodded. “The three assholes who were in the shop earlier.”

  Jack knew exactly who she referred to. He wasn’t sure if he would’ve told Natalie or not, although it didn’t matter because the counter guy blurted it out: “Jamie Caswell, Brett Hanley, and Harold Kosmarczky.”

  Natalie glanced at the guy and then down at Jack, her eyes wide. “Why would they do that? Do you even know them?”

  Jack shrugged, winced at the pain in his shoulders, and shook his head.

  The wail of a siren cut the discussion short. A police cruiser pulled up behind Natalie’s car. The cop killed his flashing lights before getting out of the car and Jack sighed in relief.

  After getting everyone’s statement, the officer offered to take Jack to the hospital.

  He declined. “The ice is helpig. I’ll be fide.”

  Natalie frowned at him. “I don’t know…”

  “I’b fide.” He stood a little unsteadily. “Cad I use the restroob?”

  The barista opened the door for him.

  Jack splashed his face with cold water repeatedly. Aside from the weird angle his nose was at, it actually didn’t look so bad once he’d washed the blood off. But it hurt like hell and he knew it would look worse tomorrow. There was a good amount of ice still in the towel so Jack transferred it into a bundle of paper towel.

  Natalie rose anxiously when he emerged from the bathroom.

  Jack fumbled in his pocket for the truck keys.

  “No. You can’t drive, Jack.”

  “Sure I cad.”

  “You need to keep the ice on your face or it’ll swell even more than it already has. And you can’t drive one-handed with obstructed vision.”

  Before he could argue, she snatched his keys from his hand. “Either you let me drive you home or you go to emergency.”

  Jack imagined an astronomical hospital bill, then reluctantly agreed to let Natalie drive him home. Without removing the bundle of ice from his face, he lowered himself into the passenger seat and carefully moved his head backward until it made contact with the headrest. The persistent throbbing of his face jumbled his thoughts, making it hard to concentrate.

  He’d expected a stream of questions from Natalie, but she was quiet. What she finally did say took Jack by surprise.

  “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “About what?” he mumbled and rolled his head toward her.

  “Brett.” She glanced at him. “If you didn’t even know those guys, then this is because of me.”

  It did seem to be the obvious explanation, but Jack had a hard time buying it. The only person at school who knew Jack and Natalie were spending time together was Wes. Aside from that first day at Shiner’s Dairy, they’d never actually spent any time together in public.

  Unless Brett was the kind of guy that stalked his ex-girlfriend.

  When Jack failed to comment, Natalie didn’t say any more until they were on Red Apple Road. “Tell me where to turn.”

  At the sound of her voice, Jack turned slightly to study her face: lips pressed tight together, shiny eyes. “Just past the Silos od the left,” he instructed. “Thed go all the way until it edds.” As she turned onto Bittersweet Lane, Jack’s brain tried to reject the reality that Natalie was driving up to his house. He’d worked to avoid this, and now it was happening in a devastatingly humiliating scenario.

  “Dadalie, it’s dot your fault.” Jack winced silently as they bumped over the dirt road. He put his hand on her arm. “Please, dod’t feel bad. I just can’t talk dow. Toborrow, okay?”

  Sh
e nodded without looking at him and her throat worked as if she’d swallowed what she wanted to say.

  Natalie pulled up close to the house, turned off the car, and then jumped out to open the passenger door. Jack shrugged off her attempt to help him out. “Could you grab by stuff?”

  With his computer and other things in one arm, Natalie held the front door open for him. He watched looks of surprise register on his mom’s and dad’s faces as they took in his appearance. With a small gasp, his mom uttered, “Jack?”

  He held up his hand. “I’b okay.” He gestured toward Natalie. “Dadalie.”

  His mom was next to him instantly, examining his face. “Your nose is broken.”

  Jack nodded.

  Natalie provided a short explanation—that Jack was ambushed by three guys outside the coffee shop. She left it there, didn’t mention any names or possible motives, allowing Jack to say as much or as little as he wanted. Jack shot her a look of gratitude.

  “Well, I should get home. Mr. Ironwood, would you like a ride to your truck?” Natalie offered.

  He exchanged a look with his wife. “Maybe I should go get it.” To Natalie he said, “Let me get some shoes.”

  “Thank you so much for driving Jack home,” his mom said to Natalie. “Jack, follow me to the kitchen so I can take care of that.” As his mom headed to the kitchen, Jack turned to Natalie. “Thanks.”

  She met his gaze for a moment. “It’s the least I could do.” Her voice was nearly a whisper. “I’m…”

  “It’s dot your fault.” Jack cut her off.

  Then his dad was back, preventing further conversation.

  Before Natalie followed his dad out the door, she gave him a last troubled look.

  He wondered if she regretted ever speaking to him in the first place.

  When he woke the next morning, Jack felt like he’d been hit by a train. His body ached, his face throbbed and his head pounded. He peered at his clock through swollen eye sockets.

  His alarm was off.

  Jack was okay with that.

  Last night, after Natalie left, he had met his mom in the kitchen, as instructed. She’d motioned for him to sit at the table, placed a shot glass in front of him and filled it with whiskey.