Betrayal - By Lee Nichols Page 0,31

your old school?” I asked.

“Nah.” Lukas glanced toward the ceiling, thinking about it. “I never thought I’d say this, but I sort of miss the thugs.”

“I know, right? The scariest thing about Thatcher is the uniforms.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Simon towered over us.

“Uh, waiting for Natalie to summon a ghost?” Lukas said.

“You think her lesson doesn’t apply to you? That these techniques won’t help you become a better compeller? She’s broadening her mind, and you’re chatting like magpies. She’s your teammate; give her a little respect. And you”—he turned his full disgust on me—“I expected better. You can summon; you need to master all these lessons.”

We watched in chastened silence while Natalie summoned ghosts from the harbor, a gnarled old sea dog, then a woman with feathered seventies hair. Then it was my turn. I summoned a zitty teenager, and Lukas and I practiced compelling all three of them—though I insisted on asking permission first. Simon said we could use them to fight wraiths. I wasn’t sure how I felt about using innocent ghosts against wraiths, especially as they weren’t as strong or as flesh-hungry as wraiths, but Simon didn’t have any time for my second thoughts.

He barked at me like a drill sergeant—this wasn’t about me and my dainty concerns, he said, this was about stopping Neos before he rose to his full power in the realm of the living. Simon was brutal. Despite his bony body and horn-rimmed glasses, he drove us mercilessly.

By six o’clock, we were zonked, dining miserably on tofu steaks and grilled vegetables in the dining room. Part of the training regimen. And for the record, Limoges china and antique silver did not make this palatable.

During the next week, we fell into an exhausting routine. School, training, Buddhist monastery food, then school and training again. One evening, I woke in the middle of the night to a tingling in my fingers. I blinked away the scattered memories of a dream: the beautiful woman with short dark hair, wide eyes, and red lipstick, whispering in my ear. Lovely words that made me feel safe.

When the tingling in my hand turned to burning, I came fully awake, and saw a ghost at the edge of my bed, clutching my hand. Not the short-haired woman, but a long-haired Latina girl with a sad face.

Panicked, I pulled away, and the ghost put a finger to her mouth. Shhh. Your brother sent me.

I stopped reaching for the power inside me. Who are you? I asked.

That doesn’t matter. She drifted a little higher. Your brother, Max, compelled me to memorize a message for you.

That’s not even possible, sending ghost messages.

Your brother found a way. There are new ways all the time.

Just like Simon had said, the old rules no longer applied. How do I know this isn’t some ploy of Neos’s?

There is a hostile spirit near, the ghost said. But not me. I am compelled to deliver this message. Then you will not see me again.

What’s wrong with texting? I asked. The phone, e-mail …

A wave of luminescence washed over her. This is the message.

Wait—how did he communicate with you? How’d he find me? How do I find him?

But the ghost wasn’t listening. Instead, she spoke in Max’s voice: I wasn’t involved with the ghostkeeper killings, Em. I hope you believe that. Neither were Mom and Dad. We’re trying to defeat Neos, and we don’t trust the Knell. You need to find Neos’s resting place, where his body is buried. Maybe then you can defeat him. Maybe.

Maybe? What am I supposed to do once I find the—

The ghost message spoke right over me: He’s absorbing power from Mom’s amulet, and once he masters that, he’ll master possession. But we think he needs to perform some final rite. He’s afraid to confront you, though, so he’s trying to weaken you first. We think he summoned a—

She stopped, shimmering in the darkness.

“A what?” I said aloud.

We think he summoned a—

“C’mon! Summoned a what? Are you skipping? You’re not a CD. And what do I do once I find his final resting place?”

—think he summoned— The ghost girl grabbed herself around the throat and started squeezing. —summoned a—

Stop! Stop doing that!

I compelled her to stop, but my powers felt weak and dim, and she kept squeezing until her face grew mottled, her eyes bulged in pain, but I couldn’t save her.

A siren, she gasped, and faded away.

I sat there in bed, my hand covering my mouth like some shocked Victorian lady, my