Page 48 of The Wishing Game

"Oh," I murmur. It's on the tip of my tongue to ask her about her conflict with her brother, but I don't want to distract her from the subject at hand.

"Back to those spirits," she continues. "When the soul exits the body, most are confused and easily malleable. It's very easy for the messenger to get them to follow him into P'asala. But there are a few more... strong-willed spirits whose emotions are so powerful at the time of death that they refuse to leave this plane of existence under any circumstance."

"Can't the messenger force them?"

"Nope." She pops the P just as she bites down on a crunchy piece of bacon. "They're neutral, remember? Their job is simply to lead the souls to P'asala. They can't otherwise intervene. They wouldn't want to either. Messengers have no feelings. They are like your machines—entities that fulfill a role."

My mouth opens in awe. That's fascinating—and so, so smart. If the messengers have no feelings, they cannot be swayed. I nod to myself, intrigued by the world Thea's describing. But there's something that doesn't quite make sense.

"So those souls are simply left to their devices?"

"Of course not. There's a special team in charge of collecting rogue souls—the Collectors. But it's not the most desirable job, so there are usually a lot of vacancies. My guess is that they decided on this trial because they wanted others to do the job for them."

I blink, slowly digesting all the new information. Not only are there ghosts and deities and other creatures, but also different types of grim reapers—who seem to be oddly unionized. Growing up, my experiences with the supernatural had been solely through the prism of El Señor. It had been chaotic, illogical, and at times inane. Although I had been forced to believe without questioning, it had been questionable even to my young, untutored mind.

Back then, even with all that alleged proof, I could see the man behind the godly mask, and I knew it to be a farce. Now, though... I'm the living proof of this truth.

Some people pretend to be gods. Others...aregods.

The world is suddenly a lot more complex and complicated than I ever realized—or gave it credit for.

"Being a collector is a job?"

"They're the equivalent of bounty hunters in your world," she explains further. "They get a list with all the rebellious souls, and they choose their assignments. Some souls can be a pain from what I've heard, so they just never get picked. I imagine that must be the case with the theatre."

My optimism plummets as I consider her words. If even a special team tasked to recover rebellious souls avoided the theatre, what will that mean for us? Have we been set up to fail from the beginning?

"I see." I nod slowly, taking a sip of water. "You mentioned powerful emotions at the time of death. What would that entail?"

"A violent death?" Thea shrugs. "A deep regret? A desire for revenge? Every case is different."

"And how do these ghosts look?" I ask tentatively, holding my breath for her answer.

"I haven't seen one myself, but from what I've heard, the more time a spirit spends in-between realms, the more powerful they become and the more they resemble their former selves. It's also why the Collectors avoid them, because their sense of self is so solidified—pun intended"—she chuckles to herself—"that it's sometimes impossible to get them to drink from the well of oblivion."

I'd love to question her more about this well of oblivion, but I need to take advantage of the discussion at hand and find out more things about these ghosts—or, in my case, a particular ghost. Who knows when is the next time she'll be this forthcoming with information? Certainly not when her brother joins us and their never-ending cycle of bickering resumes.

"What about newly deceased souls? How do those look?"

Thea puts a hand up, ordering yet another portion of bacon. People all around the restaurant stare at her. Even the waiter is giving her an odd look, probably wondering if he should call the ambulance after she's done. It's likely not every day that they see a girl eat her weight in fat, greasy bacon.

"Newly deceased souls are rather shapeless particles of energy. From what I've heard, they're harmless and barely have any powers."

Shapeless particles of energy? That soundsverysimilar to the dark shadow I saw last night. Hope blossoms in my chest and I swallow hard to curb down the excitement that flows freely through my veins.

"Can they communicate?" I probe further.

"I doubt it." She taps her finger against her chin. "But then again, I'm not an expert in ghosts."

"But youdoknow a lot." I raise a brow.

"I hear things here and there," she murmurs, a guilty smile playing on her lips.

Right. I'm starting to notice a pattern with her. She knows some things and is completely clueless about others—like phones and GPS. That, coupled with the way her brother keeps her under close surveillance, tells me she's been sheltered most of her life.

The waiter brings the third plate of bacon.

Her eyes sparkle in anticipation. She licks her lips as she reaches out to grab a strip of bacon, but before she can touch it, the plate is snatched away from her.

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