The Gateway Trackers Books 1 & 2 Read online

  A throat-clearing cough drew my eyes up to the staircase. The third figure had stayed firmly planted on the landing during this friendly exchange of greetings. She now had her arms crossed so tightly that they appeared to be knotted, and a strained expression filled her face. It was a sharp contrast to the first time I’d seen Catriona, when she’d been lounging casually in my darkened bedroom as though she’d owned the place, utterly unconcerned about the havoc her presence was about to wreak upon my life. Little did she know then how much havoc I would soon wreak in her life—although I could not, and would never, blame myself for it.

  Catriona was almost as tightly tied to her cousin Lucida as I was to Hannah; like us, they were bonded together for life as the two halves of the same Gateway. But that bond was torn asunder when Lucida turned traitor and joined the Necromancers. Now Lucida was rotting away in some Durupinen prison, stripped of her birthright—and rightly so, after everything she put us all through. But Catriona was the fallout, the forgotten casualty of Lucida’s crimes. As long as Lucida was locked away, Catriona was cut off from her own calling, unable to help spirits to Cross without her other half.

  “Catriona,” I said uneasily, nodding to her.

  “Jessica,” she acknowledged me with a curt nod. Her eyes blazed as she looked at me; standing in the reflected heat of that gaze I knew that she blamed me for all of it—from Lucida’s imprisonment, to the hollow emptiness deep in her eyes. Why the hell was she waiting out here? Surely she didn’t want to be a part of our welcoming committee.

  I turned back to Celeste and Fiona, finding it much easier to look at them than to subject myself to Catriona’s glare. “So what are we facing here? Have they already sentenced us without a trial?”

  Celeste smiled, but it was a halfhearted little thing. “I know what it must feel like, and I don’t blame you for being upset, but you’re not being sentenced and you’re not on trial.”

  I snorted. Catriona had now trained her smoldering, wordless gaze on Hannah; I stepped between the two of them—casually, I hoped—before Catriona could say a word to her. I felt Milo’s approval through our connection; I couldn’t tell if Hannah felt it too, but I hoped not.

  “What would you call it, then? We’re not stupid, Celeste. We realize we screwed up. Please, can you just give us a better idea of what to expect when we walk through those doors?”

  Celeste heaved a sigh and dropped the nostalgic-teacher routine just a bit. “The whole Council will be in there. They’ve already met to discuss the issue, but the response was… mixed.”

  “Meaning some of them actually want to cut us some slack?” I asked hopefully.

  “Meaning some of them are still terrified you’ll open a portal to hell and drag them all through it if they mess with you,” Fiona said. “Anyone else who pulled a stunt like this would’ve been met with swift, decisive action, but with you two they’re dragging their feet.”

  Hannah and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. “This qualifies as dragging their feet?” I asked incredulously. “That video was barely a few hours old when Seamus and his henchman pounced.”

  “Well, the truth is, your activities with the paranormal team have been on their radar for a while now,” Celeste said.

  My shock was fleeting, and replaced immediately by a certainty that was as heavy and uncomfortable as a stone dropped into my stomach. Of course the Council knew what we were doing; they had the most highly skilled Trackers in the world. Naturally, I knew they kept tabs on all Northern Durupinen, but perhaps it was foolish of me not to expect them to put a priority on those who were considered rebellious—and we might as well have had rebel tattooed across each of our foreheads.

  “If anyone but the two of you had taken up that sort of work, the Council would’ve put a stop to it immediately,” Fiona said. “But, to be frank, half of them are bloody terrified of you. Well, really, just of you,” she added, cocking her head at Hannah. Hannah turned bright red; her pallor changed so fast that Fiona might have pulled a can of red paint from her overalls and doused Hannah in it. “They’ll never admit it, but they’ve given the two of you much more breathing room than they’ve ever given any fledgling Durupinen before, and that’s the truth.”

  Knowing Fiona’s penchant for overdramatizing, I turned to Celeste for confirmation. She nodded her head grimly.

  “It’s quite true,” she said, almost as though she were apologizing. “If any other Apprentices had walked out of these halls without finishing their training… Well, they wouldn’t have done, let’s just leave it at that. Allowing Karen to oversee the remainder of your training was an unprecedented accommodation. If I hadn’t been part of the voting, I would never have believed it.”

  “And how did you vote?” I asked her, little expecting her to actually tell me.

  “I thought you should have the chance to go home. You’d been through enough here.”

  I turned to Fiona. “And you?”

  “You think I like waiting for your work to arrive in the mail?” Fiona asked, picking at the hardened plaster beneath her fingernails. “This arrangement is shite. I said they should make you stick it out here like everyone else. Not that anyone listened to me. Like I said, they’re terrified.”

  “Anyway, the point is,” Celeste began, throwing a sharp look at Fiona, who merely grinned in reply, “they’ve let things go a good bit longer than they typically would. But they couldn’t ignore it any longer, not with that video splashed all over the Internet.”

  “You couldn’t just take the video down?” Hannah asked.

  “We did,” Celeste said. “But there’s no point if we don’t do anything to properly ensure there won’t be another.”

  A strapping young Caomhnóir I’d never seen before appeared near the base of the stairs. “They are ready for you,” he said firmly; without even waiting for a reply, he turned and marched toward the Council Room doors, confident in his assumption that we would follow without hesitation.

  “Does it matter whether you’re ready for them?” Milo muttered aloud, with a true hint of protectiveness in his voice. I reached back and grabbed Hannah—she was frozen like a deer in headlights, incapable of propelling herself forward.

  “Karen said to wait for her to get here,” Hannah whispered, as we followed the nameless Caomhnóir.

  “Yes, well, it doesn’t look like we’re being given that choice,” I said. “That’s their mistake, though. They’re the ones bringing the wrath of Karen down upon themselves. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that firestorm.”

  “But we need her. We’re going to be in so much trouble, Jess!”

  “Deep breaths sweetness, deep breaths. You heard Celeste—this is all for show,” Milo cooed, as the first hints of nervous tears began glistening in Hannah’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry, Hannah,” I said robustly, clapping her on the shoulder. “It’s just a little bit of trouble. Everyone gets into trouble once in a while. It’s healthy. You don’t want to be one of those people who leads a boring, trouble-free life, do you?”

  “Yes! I want to be the most boring person I know!” she hissed. “I don’t like trouble, but sometimes… I don’t know, Jess. Sometimes I think you do.”

  We looked at each other. Her eyes bore into mine, and I dropped the bravado.

  “I know. Sometimes I think I do too.”

  8

  Consequences

  THE GRAND COUNCIL ROOM HAD BEEN FULLY REBUILT in the time that we’d been away from it. The restoration was very, very good: If we hadn’t been the reason that the Council Room had nearly burned to the ground, I would never have doubted that I was looking at anything but the original stonework, tapestries, and stained glass. The morning sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, throwing a patchwork quilt of jewel-toned colors across the floor.

  The Council, enthroned on their benches, rose intimidatingly before us like a choir about to sing a dirge of our doom in a minor key. My feet suddenly seemed to be made of l
ead, although, feigning bravery, I willfully held my head high as I shuffled myself forward. I had no desire to catch the eye of any of the Council members until I absolutely had to; I cast my gaze into the far corner of the room. There, my eyes locked with those of my father, Carrick.

  I defy anyone to say they have a more complicated relationship with their father than Hannah and I had with ours. In the first place, Carrick had had a forbidden, illicit relationship with our mother shortly after she completed her training at Fairhaven. At that time, Carrick was Caomhnóir to the High Priestess, as well as my mother’s former teacher. Since he had held a position of power, their relationship, I felt, was inherently unequal. Then Carrick had abandoned my mother at an incredibly vulnerable moment, following the death of my grandfather. When my mother had discovered she was pregnant, she went into hiding: Carrick knew of my existence but had never managed to find me, and my mother had hidden Hannah so well that Carrick never knew she’d been born.

  Some eighteen years later, when Hannah and I had arrived at Fairhaven as Apprentices, Carrick had chosen not to reveal his relationship to us until months after we’d met—and even then he’d only done so in a moment of extreme duress. Nevertheless, Carrick had been kind to us in those intervening months; he’d kept watch over us from afar, and had even saved our lives at least twice. And, as if all this weren’t complicated enough, there was one more minor detail: Carrick was a spirit, having been killed in a car crash while my mother was still pregnant—he’d died before we were born.

  As I stared into Carrick’s eyes, or rather, into the spirit-incarnation of his eyes—I’d never actually seen in his living face—I didn’t know what to feel besides a strange, almost hollow longing. I couldn’t exactly tell what the longing was for: Did I want to run to him? Scream at him? Have a deep and meaningful talk with him? Punch him good and hard in the face? I couldn’t be sure; maybe I wanted all of them. Or maybe the hollowness had nothing to do with my feelings toward Carrick as he was now, and everything to do with the fact that I’d never be able to do any of those things with my living, breathing father.

  Carrick nodded to me, attempting to reassure me. I nodded back. There was little reassurance to be had at that moment, and he was hardly the place I’d go to look for it, but I appreciated the gesture, I think. He tried to catch Hannah’s eye as well, but she was so anxious and focused on the Council that she wouldn’t so much as look in his direction.

  Beside him, Finvarra, the High Priestess of the Northern Clans, rose from her throne-like chair. As she stood, all thought of my father was wiped away by my shock.

  Finvarra, once so luminous and beautiful, looked pale, drawn, even haggard. Although I’d known she was around seventy years old, I would never have used the word old to describe her until this moment. Her neck looked almost too thin to support her head, which wobbled ever so slightly as she stepped forward. Her eyes were sunken and their fierce sparkle had dulled; her silver hair, once so lustrous and full, hung like a lank, dry shroud down her back. The arm she raised to summon us forward was skeletally thin.

  Beside me, I heard Hannah gasp quietly. “What’s wrong with her?” she murmured, as we continued our long trek toward the benches. “Did you know something was wrong with her?”

  “No,” I whispered back. “I have no idea. She looks really sick. Did you hear she was sick?” I asked Finn, who marched in lockstep on my other side.

  Finn shook his head, and although he was trying to maintain his stoic exterior, I could see that concern for Finvarra had crept into his eyes.

  I, too, tried to keep my poker face in place. This wasn’t the moment for me to focus on Finvarra’s health; I had enough to worry about.

  We came to a halt about ten feet before the benches, on the floor’s large Triskele inlay. As though they had been waiting for us to make contact with that very spot, spirits began drifting casually in through the walls, like a crowd drawn to a public spectacle. Their faces—at least of those I could see—were staring at us hungrily, completely transfixed. The faces of the Council, however, were growing confused, even frightened. It seemed the spirits, whoever they were, had been neither invited nor expected. Bertie, the Council Reporter and Savvy’s former Caomhnóir, began typing frantically on his steno machine.

  “Easy, sweetness,” Milo muttered, leaning into Hannah with a familiar, calming tone. Hannah took a deep breath and released it, and with that, many of the spirits started to look around as though surprised at their surroundings. Several faded out of view; others remained, but hovered on the outskirts of the room, unsure of what to do.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, with her voice shaking. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

  I realized that Hannah, in the midst of her fear, had unwittingly Called the spirits to her. As a child constantly experiencing Visitations—and throughout her years of doctors and social workers assuming her to be mentally ill—Hannah had learned to transform her gift into a coping mechanism; she’d use the spirits to comfort her when no one else could or would. And now, without even realizing it, she had reverted back—Calling was her SOS.

  I could certainly understand the skittishness of the Council members as they kept a wary eye both on Hannah and the newly materialized spirits; the last time she’d Called spirits into this room, everyone at Fairhaven had nearly been killed. It hadn’t been Hannah’s fault—she’d given the Council the chance to let us go peacefully. When they’d refused, Hannah had Called the spirits; an unintended fire ensued.

  Finvarra flashed a warning look at Hannah, who blushed and mouthed, “Sorry,” before gesturing to the remaining spirits, encouraging them to leave. Then Finvarra raised her arms even higher than before; the whispering rows of Council members muttered themselves into silence and resumed their judgmental air.

  Finvarra cleared her throat and spoke. “Welcome back to Fairhaven, Clan Sassanaigh. I trust your journey was pleasant. Thank you for coming.” Her voice, for all its commanding tone, betrayed a tiny but audible tremor that had surely not been present the last time we’d spoken. Nonetheless, her words brought my anger and indignation flooding back. Pleasant journey? She was kidding, right?

  “You didn’t really give us much of a choice, did you, High Priestess?” I asked, trying to keep as much of that anger and indignation out of my tone as possible. I don’t think I managed it very well, because Hannah nudged me lightly with her elbow. The meaning of the gesture was as clear as if she’d shouted in my ear: “Calm down Jess. Don’t blow this before the conversation has even started.”

  “It was you, Jessica, who didn’t give us much choice,” Finvarra said. “As you seem to have no patience for pleasantries, shall we get right down to business?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve never been one for small talk,” I said a bit stiffly.

  “I will cut right to the chase then, Jessica. You both made it quite clear when we last said good-bye,” Finvarra began, “that you had no desire to come back here. Given your great service to this order, we have done our level best to honor that wish. We have provided accommodations rarely granted to any other Apprentices throughout history. We have offered the space you required, far from these halls. I little thought you would squander that opportunity by endangering our secrecy. I assume you know why you’re here?”

  “Yes,” I said curtly.

  “Do you remember the oath you made, to do all within your power to protect our secrets and preserve the sanctity of the Gateways?”

  “Yes,” I said again, getting even more agitated. I hated answering to anyone in general, but stupid questions really weren’t my thing.

  “I wonder then, how you could have chosen to do something so foolish.”

  I waited, but Finvarra didn’t continue. “Was there a question in there that we’re supposed to answer?” I asked.

  Rather than infuriating Finvarra, my attitude evidently exhausted her. She sighed in a resigned sort of way and sank back into her seat, waving a weary hand in Siobhán’s direction as thoug
h to say, “You deal with this.”

  Milo used the pause to whisper to me “Rein it in Jess. Rein it in.” I suppose he had a point; the last time we stood in judgment before the Council we were almost thrown into the dungeons.

  Rising to her feet and clearing her throat importantly, Siobhán said, “Yes, there are several questions we would like you to answer. To begin with, what were you thinking—going after someone so high-profile? In front of all of those people? With cameras everywhere?”

  “I was thinking that Freeman makes all of his money by scamming grieving people, and that he’s a pretty big asshole,” I said, with my anger starting to burn through some of the intimidation. “Do you know how much he’s worth?”

  Siobhán glanced at the others on her bench. They all looked bewildered by the question. Hannah tensed up even further—if that was possible—and Milo gasped audibly.

  “I can’t see how the man’s wealth has any bearing here,” Siobhán replied, sounding a bit flustered.

  “Well then maybe you should’ve done a little more research. We certainly did ours. Between his television show and his touring gigs, Freeman’s worth over twelve million dollars. And he made every penny of that preying on people who were desperate to talk to the dead!”

  “We are well aware of what he does,” Finvarra said, chiming in from her throne.

  “Oh, I see. And you’re cool with that?”

  “I do not concern myself with it, if that’s what you’re inferring with the word cool,” Finvarra said impatiently. And indeed, the only cool thing about her was her tone, which was growing icier by the minute.

  “Oh, I see. So we should devote our entire lives to helping the spirits to Cross, but not spare a single thought for the people they leave behind? That makes sense,” I shot back.

  “The people they leave behind,” Finvarra replied, as a few people shifted uncomfortably in their seats, “have many others who can help them. They have families and friends and counselors. They have therapists and doctors and many others who can help them to move on. Being left behind is part of the human experience—we have been dealing with it since the dawn of time. The spirits only have us. They are our primary responsibility.”