11
We reconvened for lunch at the bunkhouse. Mostly because I could cook something safe for Mack to eat, which he always appreciated, but also because our game plan had died a rather dramatic death. We needed a new one. Booker had buried himself in the files again, and I could hear people chatting in the living room, discussing what had happened and what they should do next. I was merely support, really; I’d let the experts figure this out.
I was in the kitchen making something quick and easy—namely kielbasa stir-fry with a side of dinner rolls.
Gwyn came up to me, a little timid, but peeking over the island to see what I was chopping. “Can I help?”
“Sure. Peel me about six potatoes.”
“Okay!”
I watched Gwyn get a knife, potatoes, and a little shopping bag to put all the peelings into. Clearly used to cooking to some degree or another, she peeled potatoes without endangering her fingers. I never knew about the cooking skills of teenagers. Abby, Jon’s apprentice, was a kitchen hazard, though she’d recently been learning tricks from my mother. Who, let’s face it, was a master chef in her own right. Who better to learn from? Skylar was pretty decent as a cook as long as you didn’t get complicated on her.
Gwyn passed me a peeled potato, which I rinsed and then started chopping.
“Um, Brandon? I’ve got questions.”
“I bet you do, kiddo. Hit me.”
“Is it normal to have a plan, go in, and have your plan go sideways?”
“Unfortunately. Few plans survive first contact. That said, I’ve never seen a case like this, where we’ve had so many false starts. We’ve now tried three different angles and have been rebuffed all three times.” I paused in chopping and let out a soul-disrupting sigh. “I’m going to hate this case. I foresee it now. Whether or not it’s as bad as the tree case, that remains to be seen.”
“So, that’s one of my questions. What’s the tree case?”
“Ah. We have referenced it a few times in front of you, huh?” I reflected for a second, trying to find a way of summing up the case. “What happened was, a family of serial killers had been killing anyone with psychic ability, or even just people who weren’t WASP—”
“Weren’t what?”
“White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant,” I defined wryly.
“Ohhhh.”
“Makes perfect sense, huh?”
Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Yeah. So would they have killed me?”
“If they could have. But the other half of the problem was they’d bury their victims under trees. Let’s just say we had a lot of haunted trees. The killings went back two hundred years.”
Her grey eyes flared wide and she made this inarticulate high-pitched sound in the back of her throat.
“Yeah. Then they realized Jon and Mack were psychics and decided it was a grand idea to kidnap and kill them, too. It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life, trying to find where those two had gone and getting to them in time. But fortunately for all of us, they put up a whale of a fight until the calvary could arrive. Mack boosted all the ghosts of their victims, and one of the ghosts actually killed one of the guys before we could even get there.”
“Whoa.”
“Indeed. That said, Mack slept for, like, three days after the fight. Unless it’s a life-or-death situation, do not recommend.” I gave another soul-rumbling sigh.
“Is that why Mediums need anchors? For protection?”
“Well, that part’s about half and half, really. I like to say I handle the living, Mack handles the dead. We protect each other.”
She nodded, taking in my words, and kept peeling potatoes.
“Mostly, though, we’re a grounding. A way to keep our Medium planted in reality so they can differentiate between living and dead easily. It’s a different way of protecting them but just as vital. Are you nervous? About getting an anchor?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Don’t be, kiddo. We’ll find you the right person. In fact, my brother-in-law can likely help. As a Reader, he can see compatibility with people, so he can help guide you on who might be a good match.”
