Page 7 of Blood Illusions

“What’s got you looking like you saw a ghost?” I couldn’t hide the uneasiness in my tone.

He handed me the letter, and I scanned the words.

Damon,

Danger’s close. Head to the abandoned mine on Shadow Ridge. Midnight.

Dad

Everything inside me said not to go. This wasn’t like Dad, but my heart sank. We didn’t have a choice. “Damon, we have to go.” I scanned the words, a dose of doubt lining my tone.

Damon opened his closet, which held blades of every size. “This could be a trap, you know. Then again, with our luck, it’s probably just another Tuesday night. To the mine it is.”

CHAPTER THREE

One hour later, Damon revved the engine and glanced at me. “Buckle up. We’re heading to the world’s least punctual secret society. The Elders give fashionably late a whole new meaning.”

“You need to calm down,” I told him as I settled into the passenger seat.

Damon smacked the steering wheel. “How can I when we don’t even know if Dad wrote that letter or if one of the Headless Horseman’s buddies did?”

I glanced at him nervously but didn’t answer him. The truth was I didn’t have an answer. The head in the trunk rolled around like a bowling ball, banging into the side of the car.

“That thing back there is driving me crazy. I need a distraction,” I announced as I switched on the radio, and AC/DC’s Highway to Hell blared over the speakers.

Damon chuckled, a wry twist to his lips. “Hey, at least it’s not asking for directions. Yet.”

I scowled, but his teasing grin chased away my frown.

He finally pulled into The Grove, a local craft brewery nestled outside of town. The rustic two-story building could be taken for any brewery.

This one was different. It was a local hangout for hunters—not that any of the locals knew that. To them, it was a fun bar with good music, ladies’ night, and happy hours. The Grove was always open since hunters didn’t keep regular hours.

This time of day, the parking lot was empty except for a few cars, probably waitstaff, but one of the cars stuck out. A black 1970 T-bird.

Damon turned off the Ford. “As always, our grand poobah is here.”

Tim Shoneberg was the head of the Elders. The man never slept, and The Grove seemed to be his second home.

We exited the car to fetch our bouncing buddy from the trunk ballroom.

Damon stuck the key in the trunk. “Be ready for anything.”

“I am.” I held my blade in my hand, prepared to stab the head if it flew at me.

He opened the trunk. The head whizzed toward him like a rocket, but Damon caught it with the discarded blanket. “Not going anywhere, Iron Man.”

I slammed the trunk. The only good thing about the head was it didn’t talk. If it did, my nerves would have been completely frayed.

I opened the door for Damon and inhaled the welcoming aroma of hops and malt. Rustic wooden signs with punchy sayings like “Hop ‘Til You Drop” or “Life is Brew-tiful” hung in the pub. My favorite was “Beauty is in the Eye of the Beerholder.”

The thing I liked the best about this place was it was a sanctuary, a command center disguised as a brewery, where hunters could meet to support each other. We could decompress after a hunt and share the highs and lows of being a hunter without people looking at us like we had one foot in the looney bin.

The real magic of The Grove was hidden in plain sight. Past the bar, where locals laughed and shared stories, a staircase led upstairs to the second floor where Tim Shoneberg’s office was located. It was really a small banquet room that could seat up to twenty-five people, but it was never used for that. The room was the heart of the operation.

As usual, Tim sat at the head of a long table with his hands folded. Bookcases surrounded him as if he were in a lawyer’s conference room. He reminded me of Albus Dumbledore or a skinny Santa Claus with his long white hair, mustache, and beard.

He gestured for us to sit on either side of him.

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