Rise of the Discordant: The Complete Five Book Series

by Christina McMullen

  But I had a huge problem with what Desmond said. We already had a job. We were Guardians. As if that wasn’t enough, we still had to go to school and act like normal teenagers who didn’t get killed in a stupid boating accident. Were we seriously expected to go get crappy fast food jobs on top of all that? Who was going to pay for my college tuition with my parents dead?

  The closer we got to the school, the more my mood soured, until I was ready to just say screw it all and quit this whole Guardian crap. Seriously, Hell couldn’t be as bad as this. Desmond looked just as pissed as I was and even Jem was frowning by the time we reached the front doors of the oppressive brick building.

  “Something is not right here,” Jem said, visibly sweating now, even though the air around us was cool. “Do you feel that?”

  “Yeah, no sh-” I started, but stopped when I realized he was right. The waves of confusion coming out at us made my stomach lurch. “Whoa! Is everyone in there lost?”

  “That is doubtful,” Desmond assured us. “But being a high school, there is going to be a lot of residual energy around the place. Even I feel it and Warriors are not sensitive to the lost. Once the school year begins, you will be able to tell the difference between the lost souls and typical teenage angst.”

  I let out a disgusted snort. Typical teenage angst, my ass. Adults like to undermine everything we have to deal with as unimportant and overly dramatic and apparently, Desmond was no different. No one ever takes into consideration why we’re so angsty. We’re expected to act like adults, but we’re given none of the respect or privileges that come with being an adult, so of course we’re angsty. But right then, Desmond was dead wrong. Even Jem realized it.

  “Um…” he gulped and looked over at me as if to ask if I felt it too. “Uh, Desmond, I um, don’t think that’s what this is.”

  “What do you mean?” Desmond asked, eyeing the two of us suspiciously.

  “What we mean is that there is a lost soul in here!” I said, throwing up my hands in disgust and cringing as my voice echoed through the empty hallway.

  “Of that you are certain?” Desmond asked, unconvinced.

  “Well, yeah, as certain as I can be, considering I haven’t exactly ever seen a lost soul before.”

  I had to admit, now that Desmond doubted us, I wasn’t sure what it was I was feeling, but it was bad news.

  “Maybe it’s one of them,” Jem said, darting a look over at me. “You know, a Discordant.”

  “I sense uneasiness, but no creatures of Chaos,” Desmond assured us as he pushed open the door that was labeled ‘Main Office.’ Inside was indistinguishable from the main office at our previous school. A woman sat at the tall counter that separated the entrance from the maze of desks and private inner offices that likely belonged to the principal and other school administrators. She was browsing a shopping website and didn’t notice us as we approached the counter.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she said, looking up and fumbling to hide the fact that she was messing around online by clicking to pull up the official school website. Aside from her embarrassment, she wasn’t giving off any kind of a lost vibe. But the weird feeling was definitely stronger now that we were in the office. “New students?” she asked, holding out her hand.

  “Yes, two students, seniors,” Desmond said, handing over a bunch of paperwork. “I am their legal guardian,” he added, noticing as I did the way the woman (Mrs. Snow, according to the nameplate on the counter) looked between us as if wondering why a black man showed up with two white kids.

  “Mm hm,” she muttered, typing our info into the computer. “I’m afraid the counselor isn’t here at the moment. We don’t get many transfer students these days,” she explained with an apologetic smile. “But I don’t see any issues with your transcripts. I’ve scheduled your core classes. Here’s a list of electives. You will need to pick at least two, no more than four to finish out your schedule.”

  I barely glanced at the list before selecting the two minimum electives. There was no way I was going to fill my schedule with extra classes if I didn’t have to. While I waited for Jem to read through every freaking class description and agonize over whether he was going to be able to try out for the football team, I snuck a look around. There were a couple of other people sitting at some of the desks and I could hear someone on the phone, but no one person felt like they were lost. Yet still, whatever it was, it was strong.

  “…all of your required supplies. Classes will begin this Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. The front doors open at seven and homeroom starts promptly at seven forty-five. Please try to be here early to find your lockers and learn the layout of the school. Welcome to Blackbird and Chapman High, Mr. and Ms. Hawthorne.”

  I missed most of what Mrs. Snow was blathering about, but that was fine. I’m sure Jem got all of the important info and I had something bigger on my mind. The source of the bad vibes was a closed office near the back corner of the room. I could just make out the placard that said it was the guidance counselor’s office. Mrs. Snow had said the counselor wasn’t in. Odd. It sure felt like someone was in there. But we weren’t going to have a chance to look, since Desmond was already herding us back out into the hallway. Whatever. I’d have plenty of time to snoop once classes were in session. I was no stranger to the principal’s office, guidance office, and detention hall back home. Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to change much here.

  Chapter 3

  Plumbing & Poltergeists

  “I thought you said the storm damaged the bar?”

  From what Desmond had told me, I was expecting to see buckled floorboards and water damage everywhere, but when I flipped on the lights, the place looked fine. In fact, I had to wonder if my experience with the angel hadn’t caused brain damage because I was sure I was hallucinating. The old rotten floorboards had been replaced with new polished oak. The padded benches, threadbare and held together with more duct tape than fabric had been reupholstered in deep green vinyl and all of the ancient brass fixtures shone with a bright new polish as well. Even the stale smell of old beer and smoke was gone.

  “Eh, I took the liberty of fixin’ up a few things,” Bogie admitted with a sheepish grin. “The way I sees it, we’d be outta business if you was havin’ to wait for the insurance appraisers and whatnot to get their butts in gear.”

  The Five Penny of old was a dive bar. This new place had class, possibly too much class, given that the clientele would still be the same mix of students and blue-collar townies.

  “We?” Desmond asked with an amused expression. “I don’t recall signing any partnership agreements.”

  “You still need a bartender, don’tcha?” As if to punctuate this, Bogie hopped the counter and pulled out four glasses and the bottle that I recognized as the pricey small batch whiskey Abbey had left behind. “Them kids still gots a few years before they can replace me.”

  “Speaking of the elephants in the room,” I said, downing my drink and holding my glass out to Bogie for a refill, feeling only a little bit of guilt for slamming the first shot of what was supposed to be a luxury item to savor. I’m not typically much of a drinker, but it had been one hell of a night and the unemployment office was mercifully closed for the weekend. “What exactly are we in for with this new arrangement?”

  “Only the Creator knows,” Pete muttered as he downed his drink and lit what had to have been his fifth cigarette in as many minutes. So much for the new bar smell. “I can’t say that I envy the position you’re in. Just having the two of them in my office was enough to bring on one hell of a headache. But the Creator seems to think they’re the best candidates for the job. To be honest, I think they’re the only candidates.”

  His last, offhand remark confirmed what I’d assumed. If we were anywhere else, this wouldn’t be that big of an issue, but this was Blackbird, the Discordant’s Disneyland. We didn’t have time for learning curves and we couldn’t afford mistakes. Sure, a split soul Guardian made sense on
a theoretical level. Sometimes a lost soul required more than a gentle nudge in the right direction and depending on the direction, a soul who was completely light or dark had an advantage. Theoretically, a Guardian who died young also had the advantage of being closer to the age group that finds itself lost more often than not. A teenage split soul, however, was a recipe for disaster.

  “Are they at least aware of our situation here in Blackbird?” I asked.

  “As much as they can be,” Pete replied with a shrug, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I briefed them on the basics and let them know what they were in for, but they’re fresh. They don’t have a base for comparison, so I don’t know how much weight my words carried. They’ll see for themselves soon enough.”

  “So we’re going to have to brace ourselves for some serious damage control for a while,” Desmond noted with a pinched look of distaste. “We’ll be expected to hunt Discordant all night while simultaneously trying to parent a couple of teenagers. Even with the coven’s help, this sounds daunting.”

  I cringed at the thought. I died too young to have any children of my own, but Abbey and I had helped raise Donna. The emotional turmoil of the typical teenager was usually enough to give me one hell of a raging headache and Donna was no exception. Something told me the outbursts and out-of-control tempers we had seen with her were going to seem tame by comparison to our new wards.

  “Ah nuts,” Pete said and looked at the red warning light on his watch. “Looks like the Creator thinks I’ve spent enough time gallivanting in the world of the living, so we have to wrap this up.” He fished a large envelope and a set of keys out of his pocket and slid them across the bar. “Here’s the keys and paperwork for your new digs. Admin took care of securing the sale and paid closing. You’re on the hook for the mortgage, but hey, I would have killed for an interest rate like this back when I was paying off my home. Thanks for the drink and good luck, you guys,” he added hastily as he was pulled out of the cycle.

  I grabbed the paperwork and skimmed the details. I recognized the address as one of the oversized homes on the riverfront a few blocks away. It was a relic from Blackbird’s prosperous years that had sat empty and neglected because the owner was asking for more than the current market value. The price had been negotiated down and Pete was right, the interest was nominal, but I still cringed when I saw the monthly payment we would now have to make. Back when Abbey bought the Five Penny, the building and business both had been only a fraction of what this house cost. I mentally chastised myself for thinking like a cranky pensioner. Sometimes it was tough to act like a modern thirty-something when I was born in a time when a penny was still considered valuable currency.

  “Uh, not to add to the manure pile or nothin’, but did yous all see this?” asked Bogie as he slid the front page of yesterday’s newspaper across the bar. The top story in the Blackbird Chronicle read, RECENT SPATE OF FALSE CONFESSIONS BAFFLE POLICE.

  “I don’t see how that has to do with anything,” Desmond said. “Wait a minute.” He looked over at Bogie. “Is that the woman who confessed here on Wednesday?”

  “Same one,” Bogie said. “But this here’s the thing: I took a look in her head, remember? What I saw weren’t no fabrication. This broad truly believed she whacked her abusive husband.”

  “Didn’t you say she had dirt under her fingernails?” I asked, recalling the incident. It was hard to believe that it had only been a couple days ago.

  “Sure did,” Bogie confirmed with a nod. “I hates to say it, but this looks like demon activity.”

  “Oh really? Well now, that’s certainly interesting.” Desmond leaned in closer, narrowing his eyes at Bogie. I frowned. Even after Bogie proved himself by uncovering the truth about Amara, which not only saved my life, but also my soul, Desmond still didn’t trust him.

  “Calm down there, big guy. Ain’t no way a lesser demon’s got that kind of power. Read the rest of ‘em.”

  I’d skimmed the rest of the article, but I went back and looked at the others. Mary, the woman who confessed to murder, was the biggest story, but there were two others. One was a man who admitted to dealing drugs in Blackbird on behalf of a violent gang in Chicago. The other was a man who had claimed to have embezzled money from the city’s treasury.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Don’t demons require some sort of payout? Creating liars seems below even a lesser demon. No offense, of course.”

  “None taken,” Bogie said with a wave of his hand. “Them lies all has repercussions, see? Mary’s husband really was an abusive creep, but he didn’t know where she had gone. Now he does. She’s going to need to up and move. The guy claimin’ he worked for the gang is on their radar and I dunno what yous know about gangs, but in my experience, they don’t like it when people go bringin’ attention to their activities. This last guy too. He may not have done nothin’, but now there’s gonna be an investigation and I’ll bet dollars to donuts that they is gonna come up with some shady dealin’s. To me, this looks a lot like the work of a wraith.”

  “What is a wraith?” I asked. I’d only ever heard the term used fictionally as another name for a ghost and while residual spiritual energy was real, ghosts were one of the few creatures that were still truly fictitious.

  “A Discordant on the DS,” Desmond replied. DS stood for Demon Spectrum. Ironically, Chaos had a structured pecking order when it came to different levels of Discordant and we of Order used this hierarchy to assess threats. “Not quite as rare as angels, but obscure enough that I’m not surprised you’ve never heard of them. They’re formless and require a host to survive. The trouble is, catching them is nearly impossible. For everyone’s sake, I hope Bogie is mistaken.”

  “Yeah, me too, but that ain’t likely,” Bogie said with an apologetic grimace. “See, alls of these confessions fall right in with a wraith’s MO. We demons, lesser and higher, just poke around and bring up the ol’ skeletons folks be havin’ in their closets. Wraiths though, they look for the irrational fears. Things you might think about, but never plan on actin’ on. Those is the things they bring to the surface. Ain’t no lost like the mentally unstable lost and wraiths is all about the mental instability.”

  “So they’re also on the Possession Spectrum,” I said, more to myself. This didn’t bode well. Spectral Discordant were difficult because they couldn’t be harmed while they possessed a host. They had to be drawn out and trapped in a vessel. But unlike the creatures of the Entrapment Spectrum, they weren’t easily bound by shiny objects like bottles and lamps. They could only be trapped in relics, items infused with a mystic power that negated their own energies. Just thinking about it made me reach once again for the whiskey bottle.

  “They are,” Desmond confirmed, giving me a look that managed to convey both concern and disapproval. I hated to admit it, but he was right. If I drank anymore, I’d be in for an even more unpleasant weekend than this one was shaping up to be. “But unlike a spectral demon,” he continued, “they’re seeders. By the time the host shows signs of possession, they’ve moved on to the next victim.”

  “Oh,” was all I could say. Thank the Creator that this was a rare Discordant because they didn’t sound nearly impossible to catch, they sounded completely impossible to catch.

  “We’ll need to concentrate on finding the true host,” Desmond said.

  “Wait, what’s that?” I asked. “What is a true host?”

  “The true host is the person that the wraith will embody when it is not possessing victims,” Desmond explained.

  “Well that should make it easier to find them,” I said, letting out a sigh of relief.

  “Not exactly,” he cautioned. “A wraith does not affect its true host, so figuring out who that could be isn’t as easy as reading an emotional state. They will show no outward signs of possession and they will not be lost themselves.”

  “So much for good news,” I muttered.

  “Hey, buck up there, Seth,” Bogie chided. “At least we has a likeli
hood they’s is gonna show up here. Nice thing about this dive at least.”

  “Not sure how much that’s going to help if we can’t recognize them,” I grumbled and took up the paper again, hoping to see something, anything that might give us a place to start. Down in the corner of the page, another story caught my eye. Gary Marsden, a local man who had gone missing while hiking in Oklahoma, had apparently returned under mysterious circumstances and with no recollection of the time period when he was missing. I’d seen his picture on the news all summer. Gary had been a clean cut, nondescript, middle-aged man with graying brown hair and glasses. The picture in the paper had been taken after his return and showed a weathered and gaunt face nearly hidden behind a scruffy beard, which was understandable, considering he had been lost in the wilderness, but the picture sparked a memory.

  “Hey Bogie, wasn’t this guy in the bar the night Mary confessed?”

  Bogie squinted at the grainy picture and nodded his head. “Oh yeah, Gary. He was a weird one. Guess that makes sense.”

  “I thought you said he was new in town.” Gary had been lost, but with the commotion surrounding Mary, he managed to slip away before we could reach him.

  “That’s the sense makin’ part,” Bogie explained. “He thought he was new in town and I couldn’t get nothin’ else outta him. Says here he got bumped on the head or somethin’. I can’t get nothin’ outta someone if they ain’t got memories for me to get. Ya got me?”

  “I… actually yes, Bogie. That makes sense,” I said after I slowly parsed the meaning out of Bogie’s word salad. At least there was some good news. Since he’d been picked up by the police and reunited with his family, his memory had been returning. It was possible that his story would have a happy ending, but still, the amnesia was suspicious and he had felt lost, so I made a mental note to keep an eye out for him.