The next two hours consisted of Riordan playing a telephone game with ghosts as they interviewed forty-four other ghosts, plus filling out any missed details from Duane and Daniel themselves. The process left Riordan a bit ill, relaying the nasty details of first the type of people the victims were and then the details about so many last moments. Most of the victims died in fear and confusion, never having done anything to bring any of this on them aside from being alone and vulnerable at the wrong time and place. Hell, by the last few, alone wasn’t even necessary and Riordan wouldn’t have thought himself particularly vulnerable, but that hadn’t stopped their attackers.

Several pack members came into the kitchen while Riordan and Mark were working, so Norris had let them use the table in an empty study room, even with more coffee for Mark who was on his fourth cup by the end. Lucinda came in and joined them part way through, giving Mark a break from writing though the young man continued to be the one asking the questions since he’d gotten the rhythm of it.

By the time they finished, Riordan was so done with this shit and clenching his fists against his urge to hurt someone. The latter ghosts were particularly hard, their deaths recent and random, leaving the ghosts bereft and confused. With some trepidation, Riordan realized he’d also need to see about checking on the flipside of the glade again, horrific or not, in case something had changed there in the last day and a half since he’d put the pack together. The thing he feared the most was seeing new ghosts, killed after his own escape and not saved.

Lucinda gathered the notes and took them off to deliver to Vera. The pack leader seemed to be avoiding Riordan, though it could still just be because she was busy. It hadn’t been that long since he’d dumped this mess in her lap after all. He tried to be charitable but it was hard, especially when these interviews left him feeling so raw.

Mark interrupted Riordan’s thoughts, standing abruptly. His chair wobbled and then fell over slowly. Mark ignored it, as if that was meant to happen. “Come on,” he said, “Let’s get ready for shopping. We are totally stopping for ice cream after this morning.”

The change of subject left Riordan blinking but then he shook his head, amused, and rose more slowly than Mark. He scooped up Mark’s fallen chair and righted it. “Fine. I’m still not sold on letting you buy me much, but I could use some fresh air and ice cream.”

Lucinda rejoined them by the door as Riordan was tying up his combat boots. The stern young woman seemed content to limit their interactions to professional ones, but she also seemed to be that way with everyone except Norris so far. Even her attitude towards Mark, her fellow apprentice, was bland and impersonal. Her black hair was neatly restrained in crown braids and her clothing was comfortable slacks and button-up shirts. Her concession to summer was rolling up the sleeves of the shirt and undoing the top button. She was already wearing a pair of black flats, so they were all good to go once Riordan finished putting on his boots and stepped outside.

A well-maintained Chrysler minivan turned out to be Lucinda’s vehicle. The last row of seats was folded down into the floor for more hauling space, but that still left Riordan his choice of seats in the middle after Lucinda took the driver’s seat and waved Mark into the passenger one. After a moment, Daniel floated into the other empty seat. Riordan acknowledged him with a nod, but didn’t draw attention to his presence. He was surprised Daniel was up to going out after helping with the interviews, the stories dragging up his own recent death and trauma over and over, but perhaps he needed the distraction just as much.

Mark talked to Lucinda a bit on the trip over to the nearest town, which turned out to be a tiny place called Empire with only a few hundred residents but plenty of resorts and campgrounds for the tourist season that was in full swing. It was the closest town to the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore, which meant its population increased during this season and several shops sold souvenirs of both Michigan and the Sleeping Bear Dunes.

They stopped by the post office long enough for Mark to run in and come back with two packages, which were tossed in the back. They made a longer stop at a curio and herb shop. Lucinda did most of the purchasing there, talking with the shop owner about specific herbs and their preservation methods. They had a stock order of several teas, some bundles of unmixed herbs, and a box of semi-precious stones. Riordan recognized these things must be shaman supplies, but he had no idea how one would begin to use them. Most of these purchases joined the packages in the back, but Lucinda also took a moment to restock some bottles of herbs and infusions inside a satchel of her own she kept in her van.

It occurred to Riordan that he might have a bag like that someday, one stocked to help with spell casting and who knows what else, and it honestly weirded him out. He looked away, uncomfortable with this new ill-fitting role of his.

He was interested to hear the shop owner refer to the pack lands as the Sleeping Bear Christian Camp. He hadn’t thought about what sort of cover they used to explain the large pack house, outbuildings, lands, and general community to the local humans. It made a certain amount of sense, able to explain both a staff and groups of strangers coming and going at odd times of year, but the title also made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He certainly had no issue with Jesus Christ and his teachings, given most of those were about helping people in need and not tolerating intolerance, but he was also born in Israel, his mother’s side of the family having moved there not long after its founding, the marks of the Holocaust still deep in that generation. He’d seen Christianity weaponized for secular reasons.

The main errands done, Mark was suggesting places to Lucinda for them to stop at for lunch and ice cream when Riordan interrupted them, “Could we swing by Honor for lunch?”

Lucinda turned in her seat to arch one neat eyebrow at him. “Why?”

He shrugged, feeling uncertain about his place in all this and his right to ask for anything, especially anything regarding the investigation they seemed so determined to keep him out of. “I was just north of Honor when I got hit with the death mage’s tracking spell. I guess I was curious if I could see any sign of them going there to look for me.”

The apprentices shared a look that Riordan couldn’t quite read. Lucinda held up a hand in a “one moment” gesture and pulled out her phone. She texted at a speed that Riordan would likely never be able to match. He wondered if she was as young as she looked, appearing vaguely in her twenties, which probably meant thirties or even forties for a shifter shaman. Riordan realized he had no idea how long a shaman apprenticeship lasted and how a shaman went about becoming a different official pack role. He suspected the answer had a lot of variance, especially for small or nomadic packs, who were often grateful to have any shaman at all.

“Vera is fine with us going there, though she would prefer you stay largely out of sight. You are unfortunately distinctive out here.” Lucinda reported after a minute and then started the van, clearly taking that as a sign that it was go-time.

Riordan had seen non-whites in Empire, but they mostly looked like tourists. Even in the pack, Frankie was the only one he’d seen so far that wasn’t some sort of caucasian, her baked-clay skin a sign of native ancestry. His own middle-eastern appearance stood out here, as dumb as that was.

The drive south on 679 was truly scenic. Lake Michigan and several smaller lakes were visible as they drove along the edge of the national lakeshore region, though they dipped in and out of view as the van rolled up and down the hills, taking them in and out of forested sections. Riordan had been unconscious for this part of the journey the last time and still felt an odd disconnect from that harried wilderness trek and his current limbo state of sort-of normality.

Riordan tensed up as they passed the territory border. He could feel spirit eyes brush over him as they drove through, though none manifested this time. The border could make the Guardian spirits visible to anyone, the closest most shifters came to spirits, but they usually only manifested when there was a clear and present need. Lucinda slowed the car down, Riordan and Mark both peering out the window to look for traces of his trail or magic or Riordan didn’t even know. Something physical to anchor the magical issues he’d been struggling against.

The lack of anything along the roadside was almost a disappointment. Riordan could see traces that might have come from his own stumbling journey, but he couldn’t be sure amongst all the other marks in the dirt.

He did know when they reached where he’d been when the tracking spell hit. A spike of disgusting creeping magic arched up into the air over a random patch of grass just past the back of someone’s boring suburban yard. Even from the van, Riordan could tell it was just remnants, dissipating into the ether, rather than an active spell. However, he wasn’t sure if it came from the original tracking spell or from some later casting.

“Wow,” Mark muttered, staring at the same magical trace. “I mean, I saw the magical mess on you, but that looks even worse, just smeared everywhere.”

Lucinda glanced at it, her mouth tightening into a severe frown, befores declaring, “We can check it out more closely on the way back, assuming we see no other threats here.”

“Not every threat is magical,” Riordan reminded them, “Getting near that might get reported by the death mage’s minions or even by some well-meaning resident.”

A grim silence settled over the car in the two minutes it took to reach Honor from there. Lucinda turned into the town, just as small as Empire. A drive-in theatre screen stood near the road on the way out of town, but they went in a little further and parked in front of an ice cream and sweets shop.

“Stay in the car,” Lucinda directed. She reached between the front seats, pulling out a pair of sunglasses and a floppy canvas hat. She tossed both at Riordan. “Wear those. It won’t hide your skin, but it’s better than nothing.”

Riordan glared at Lucinda as he donned the pathetic disguise and slumped low in his seat. “I want chocolate ice cream. More than one scoop.”

Lucinda glared right back. “Behave.” She slammed her door closed and strode off to the ice cream shop, her blue eyes sweeping around her with a cold air that defied the summer heat. Mark trotted after her, jogging slightly to keep up with her long-legged pace. He nearly tripped over the threshold to the shop but righted himself and the pair disappeared inside.

“She’s treating you like a three-year-old,” Daniel muttered, rolling his eyes. He didn’t have to worry as much about being seen and moved up to the front seat to look out the window there. “Mark isn’t so bad, but won’t stand up to her.”

“I think she outranks him,” Riordan replied absently, his attention moving to the flow of humanity around them, visible through the tinted window next to him and the stupid sunglasses. “I hope she’s not just power-tripping.”

Honor had a decent number of tourists at this time of year as well. It didn’t have as many as Empire, but it did still border the southern end of the national lakeshore, rather than being near the dunes on the north end. Hotels and tourist attractions drew visitors and several walked around enjoying both the local shops and the kitschy tourist trap places. Everything was sun-washed and rich, slow with the combination of early afternoon heat and the lake breeze.

It bordered on idyllic in a way. Riordan wished he was in a place he could have let that soothe him. Instead, he felt like something wicked seeped through the apparent peace. His paranoia was justified with people actually hunting him, especially a group of unknown size with perfectly mundane members who just looked like ordinary people. That middle-aged couple laughing as they walked down the sidewalk could be with them. Or that group of high schoolers. Or--

Riordan froze as his gaze locked on a man leaning against a beat-up sedan parked outside of a shop further down the block, talking on a cellphone. His back was to Riordan, but that hardly mattered. It wasn’t his appearance Riordan recognized. It was his voice.

Before he could second guess himself, Riordan cracked the minivan door to hear better, pushing his hearing as much as he could. Quiet voices came from all directions, combined with wind and birds and cars and the hum of electricity, but Riordan pinpointed that voice, picking his words out of the general cacophony.

“--want me to do? I’ve asked around. No one remembers seeing him here, which isn’t that weird since it was midnight.” That bossy voice paused as the speaker listened. Riordan couldn’t pick up the other side of the conversation at this distance, but that confirmed it for him.

Fucking Jimmy. The man who had bashed Riordan’s skull with a pipe and dragged him into the woods to kill him.