Phantom Game (GhostWalkers 18)

“I haven’t spoken to anyone in a very long time,” Camellia admitted. “I’m a little rusty.”

“I’m going to let my brothers off the rocks. Kyle was feeling the effects of the mist. It made him pretty sick. He needs to sleep. I’d like to stay and talk with you for a little while. Maybe we can figure out where the threat is coming from.”

The moment he said he wanted to stay and talk, she’d nearly panicked, but then he said the right thing—that they could figure out where the threat was coming from. He treated her like an equal. Like she had a brain. Of course, she still wasn’t letting down her guard, not for a minute. She had the advantage of being on her home turf. She knew every escape route, and she was prepared to leave everything and escape. He also didn’t know her resolve. Camellia was deadly when she had to be, and she wouldn’t hesitate to kill if left with no other recourse.

She nodded to let him know she was amenable to allowing the two men off the boulders. She hadn’t pulled back the mycelium network from close to the surface, nor would she. Had he asked her to, she would have been very suspicious, but Jonas had asked her permission before he sent word to his friends.

“Are you going to tell me your name? I’m not with Whitney, and nobody sent me to find you. So I honestly don’t know your name, but I’d like to.”

Camellia hesitated for a moment, weighing whether or not it would be prudent to give up her name to him. He waited patiently.

“Camellia Mist.” She felt silly stating her surname. She hadn’t considered a surname when she was trying to build a profile for the outside world. She didn’t need a name because she had no intention of ever being around other people. “Whitney gave us the names of flowers. I chose a last name and I wasn’t very inventive.”

He was too close to her and he hadn’t moved away. Every time she inhaled, she seemed to draw him into her lungs, and he was . . . intoxicating. Those eyes of his were difficult to look away from. All that gold. All that intelligence. More, the cunning, predatory, animalistic quality that aroused something in her. She didn’t know if she wanted to run free with him or run from him.

She moistened suddenly dry lips, very aware of his friends stepping off the rocks into the center of the ring of boulders. She knew if she sent a command to the sentries, through either of the networks, he would know. She didn’t use either of them. She reached for the alpha wolf in the pack closest to home.

Stay alert for me. Keep an eye on the visitors and report any movement. Do not engage with them.

She had to communicate using visuals, but the alpha was used to her talking to him and knew much more than he let on. When he responded in the affirmative, she reached for the pair of Great Gray owls that had stuck with her since she’d first escaped Whitney. The pair had been bonded in their first year together when she’d come across them in the mountains. Someone had shot the male. The female was beside herself, desperate to help him. Her cries had brought Camellia to the pair. She’d run off predators and taken the time to nurse the male back to health. The pair had traveled with her in spite of her repeated admonishment that she was hunted and didn’t need to put them in danger. Now, she had no idea what she’d do without them.

Blue. She reached for the female. I need eyes on the two men camping. Gray, she added, bringing in the male, who she knew was hunting vole, their favorite meal. Just watch them for me. Make certain they stay where they are. If they move outside that circle, let me know. She kept her energy as low as possible, pushing the images into the minds of her sentries, hoping Jonas wouldn’t feel the slight shift in power.

She felt the familiar whisper of movement the female owl used to answer her. It was always gentle, as if the owl were nudging a baby owlet. There was no sound, just that little slight touch, as if her feathers had slipped over the walls of her mind. The male was a different story if he chose to answer. He communicated with sound unless he was too far away, and then he stroked what felt like a gentle tip of his wing along her mind, a distinctive difference.

Camellia turned her focus back to Jonas. “Why did you ask me if I had a tattoo?” Her heart began to thud. She moved back deliberately, taking two steps away from him.