Rangers of the Rift, Season 1

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In the morning, I wake with nightmare sweat still damp. I’ve a hazy memory of some sort of mansion-sized iron gate—the kind you see in Batman movies. Everybody’s down in the lobby, raiding the hotel for continental cereals, yogurt singles, and do-it-yourself waffles. I dress, s***h on some lip gloss and mascara, and hurry to join them.

“There you are.” Coach Kent has arrived from Sand Dollar and has on his ball-busting face. “Now you listen to me. The Mars Fam is gonna enjoy a nice family getaway to settle the jitters while Beasley and I walk the track. We’ll meet back for lunch. Clear?”

Tad won’t meet my gaze until he and his parents are out in the parking lot, piling into Coach’s sedan.

“Jitters?” I say with venom.

“Don’t. Whatever you’re planning. Just don’t.”

“I’m not planning anything!” It’s true. I have no idea how I’m going to find out more about what’s keeping that Waif this side of the beyond. The obituary search is a fools’ errand. I need to talk to the Waif again. I need something concrete. I need...I feel a plan taking shape.

“Fine.” Tad gives me a brief hug, which, despite my bad mood, still induces a flood of goose bumps. “Keep it that way.”

I ditch the family outing, claiming a stomachache, and return to the room to collect a few essentials. It’s been a while since I carried around my kit, which is currently under my bed at home.

Standing before the bathroom mirror, it takes me a second to get started.

“You have a duty,” I tell my reflection. She blinks back at me. Just a girl. Just a normal freaking person. Long hair falls around her face. Aquamarine eyes. Bony collarbone. Pulse flutters too fast in her throat, visible even from across the sink.

I suck in a breath. My hands grip the counter. I can do this. I won’t mess it up.

I can’t afford to.

Determination kicks me in gear. Hotel sample shampoo, empty it, rinse the bottle. Down it goes into my laptop bag. I grab Mom’s purse, sifting through receipts at the bottom. Quarter, there you are. I pop it in my pocket, eagle side facing out. Finally, I rip open a bag of coffee, pat the grounds into a tissue, and tuck them into my bra.

Still missing a key ingredient.

I call a ride and head to the lobby to wait. Pacing. It only takes a few minutes for the car to arrive, but I think a hundred times about forgetting it all. Just a normal girl. Not my sector. Not my job.

Thumbing through the brochures along the wall, a colorful trifold catches my eye. The Calloway: Stay in Beautiful Boone. A gallant, châteauesque mansion is flanked by pine forests. Parked along the rounded drive inside a massive iron gate waits a sleek, black limousine. My spine itches. I fold the brochure and shove it into my back pocket.

I’m doing this.

St. Michael’s Catholic Church is small and rather squat, reminding me of a crumbling angel, brick wings spread and head bowed. I press a few extra bills into the driver’s dry, wrinkled hand, then hurry up the steps.

The wooden doors are locked.

I bite my lip, feeling stupid, and knock.

No one. The internet said it was open. The internet lies.

Just when I’m about to leave, there’s a clink and thump as the door creaks wide.

“Good morning,” I say to the acolyte, who smiles at me and ushers me into the narthex.

Light streams through stained glass, rosy on the wood floor. My spine prickles and I sigh with relief at the feeling of power here. This place will do.

Rangers get their holy water from abroad. The second-rate stuff priests pander at neighborhood churches is all but useless unless you imbue it. I don’t have the time or money to overnight a proper shipment. I need to complete my defense kit.

I was worried St. Michael’s would be the usual dud, but sometimes you get lucky.

And sometimes you don’t: the baptismal, a basin standing dead center of the narthex, appears to have been recently emptied and is still wet around the rim. Damn.

To the right of the door into the sanctuary, I spot a small font affixed to the wall. This is where the faithful dip their fingers and cross themselves upon entering the church. It too is empty. And yet this place has power...

There must be a stash somewhere.

The acolyte’s voice startles me. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Just visiting. Is there, um, confession today?”

I must not look very penitent. Or maybe I said it wrong. He glances suspiciously at my laptop bag. My stomach clenches.

“Father Roberts will be here at ten.”

“I’ll wait inside?” I try to look innocent, less hurried. “To pray,” I add.

I enter the nave. Saintly faces gaze down with huge black eyes. I’m reminded of the Waif. I’m guessing the artist had at least some amount of paranormal Sight.

Heading to one of the front pews, I cross myself before the crucifix and then kneel and bow my head. When the acolyte’s footsteps echo away, I dart up again.

I pass the altar and slip into the sacristy through one of the small side doors. Jackpot. Beside the sacrarium, a special sink for washing holy oils back into the ground, I see the marble bowl sometimes used for pouring baptisms. It’s got about a finger of water at the bottom.

Quickly, I tip the holy water into my empty shampoo bottle and twist on the cap.

Footsteps and voices.

Shit.

Most priests don’t have Sight. Most don’t even realize the purgatory they’re always talking about actually exists. They think they’re pretty cozy with the big guns of the beyond, but the reality is, nobody knows what’s out there. Nobody. Not priests, not Vagari, not Rangers. We just help you over to the light. Beyond that—no pun intended—you fend for yourself.

Priests aren’t too keen on people messing with their holy water.

I hide in the musty-smelling robe closet until I hear the footsteps pass the sacristy. Then I slip back down the nave, duck past the acolyte, who gives me a puzzled look, and inhale the fresh mid-morning air with relief.

“Where to, miss?”

“The library.”

The driver grunts and hits the gas. The mountain road twists and writhes like a worm caught between finger and thumb. Sunlight spears through the windows in blinding flashes as we pass pockets of trees.

“Wait,” I say. We’re nearing a turnoff. “What’s down there?”

I point at the street, West Cypress. That hard-to-itch spot between my shoulder blades is crawling.

“First a church, now a graveyard?”

I suck in a breath, chill bumps raising the hair on my arms.

A graveyard. Of course. I toss him the rest of my cash, and he makes the U-ie.