“I feel him out there, Six.”

“What do you mean?” I whispered back, not understanding. “Eight is . . .” I hesitated, not able to bring myself to state the obvious.

“I know he’s dead,” she replied, rolling over to face me. “But I can still feel his—I don’t know, his essence or something. He’s calling to me. I don’t know why, or how, I just know it’s happening and that it’s important.”

I fell silent. I remembered Eight’s story about meeting a mysterious old man while hiding out in India. I think his name was Devdan. The old guy taught him about Hinduism and martial arts and, eventually, disappeared back to wherever he came from. Eight really cherished what he learned about Hinduism—I think it helped him cope with his Cêpan’s death. Hell, maybe there’s something to all that reincarnation stuff. Eight was definitely the spiritual one of us, and if anyone would call out from beyond the grave, it’d probably be him.

“We’ll find him,” I said quietly, although I wasn’t exactly confident that would be true. I thought about what Nine said during his freak-out earlier that night—that we’d already lost the war and no one had told us. “I just don’t know what we’re going to do afterward.”

“It will reveal itself to us when the time comes,” Marina replied peacefully, squeezing my hand, the nurturing Marina I’d gotten to know briefly resurfacing, replacing the angry revenge seeker I’d been surviving with the last couple of days. “I know it will.”

So, this morning, we returned to the swamp. The trees are thick on both sides of the murky water and we frequently have to slow down to navigate around gnarled but ambitious roots that have spread into the water. The canopy of branches over our heads is dense, letting sunlight through in patches. Rotten logs drift by, their bark not always distinguishable from the craggy scales of the alligators roaming these waters. At least the bugs have stopped biting me. Or maybe I’ve just gotten used to them.

Marina stands at the front of the boat, her gaze straight ahead, moisture from the air dampening her face and hair. I stare at her back, wondering if she’s lost it, or if this sixth sense about Eight’s body is another new Legacy manifesting. It’s at times like these we could really use a Cêpan; Marina’s having a hell of a time controlling her freezing Legacy. Nine and I haven’t brought it up with her—he’s probably scared she’ll bite his head off, and I’m just counting on her learning to control it at the same time she gets a grip on all that anger. So either this return to the swamp is happening because of a potentially haywire new Legacy, old-fashioned intuition, grief or legitimate contact with the spirit world. Maybe a combination of all four.

It doesn’t matter, really. We’re doing this.

It was only a few days ago that Five led us through waters similar to these. We’d been happier then—I remember Marina and Eight clinging to each other, something sparking there, and Nine whooping and acting stupid every time he spotted an alligator. I run a hand through my hair—it’s damp from the humidity and knotted from the days spent out here—and remind myself that this is no time for reminiscing. We’re heading into danger, but at least this time we know it.