Page 102 of Dead Wolf Walking (Bad Moon Academy 1)
“That bad?” he asks with a laugh.
I nod and lean against the door. “A bit. When was the last time you slept?”
He sighs. “Tuesday.”
“It’s Thursday,” I point out.
“I know,” he says, grimacing. “I found something.” Holding up a scroll, he looks past me and into my room. “Can I come in?”
I step aside, checking to make sure my scarf is secure around my neck, and close the door after him.
“So, this is number twenty-five, Thatcher, and if you look”—he undoes the scroll—“it cuts off after Theodore, but the rest continues for several generations. And look.” He points to a small word written under the name. “Shunned.”
I place my hand on his arm and lead him to the bed. He sits, and I set my fists on my hips, meeting his wild gaze. “Back up. What is number twenty-five? What is Thatcher, and why do I care about Theodore?”
Tossing the scroll behind him, he scrubs his hands over his face and groans. “Right. Of course. Start at the beginning.”
“You’re rambling.” I sit next to him. “Start with the first question. What is number twenty-five?”
“The scroll. There are twenty-five families. The original witches’ bloodlines have been traced throughout history. Thatcher is one of the surnames of the original bloodlines. Theodore… well, I don’t know if Theodore matters yet, but it’s the first lead I found.”
Glancing at the scroll lying on the floor, I wrinkle my nose in thought. “You think I’m related to him?”
“Theodore Thatcher, shunned at age twenty-two for devious necromancy.”
Seems a bit redundant to me.
“Devious how?”
Carter bends his leg and faces me. “Get this, he’d raise the dead and send them after his enemies, which according to my research, he had plenty of.”
“That’s not so bad,” I say, thinking it over. I mean, yeah it’s fucked up, but devious?
“Well, the rest of it is.” He blows out a breath. “Theodore killed several prominent witches and reanimated them shortly thereafter. He used blood magic to bespell them.”
“Okay,” I say. “Why?”
“For the most part, it seems like he did it to be an asshole.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. My stomach growls, and he searches my face. “Why are you hiding in here?”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“There’s an ungodly number of snacks in your trash bin. Why are you hiding?”
“I didn’t feel like peopling.”
His eyes slip to my scarf. “Are you cold?”
Before I think better of it, I shake my head.
“Raven, take off the scarf.”
It’s a demand, not a suggestion.
“No.” My voice is firm, and I scoot away. “Is that all?”
He scowls. “Raven—”
