Grave Dance (Alex Craft, #2)(70)
Somewhere ahead of me the scream mutated into a ful throated howl of pain, and suddenly I could see. Not from ful throated howl of pain, and suddenly I could see. Not from a spontaneous reversal of years of damage, though until that moment I would have said that possibility was only slightly less likely than spontaneous combustion from magical overload. No, I could see because one of the skimmers ignited, the blaze casting the scene in grim light.
The flame engulfed the man in a single heartbeat, the raw Aetheric energy he’d gathered acting as fuel for the unnatural fire. It il uminated the group of skimmers surrounding the tear, splashing them in color as the fire spit out sparks of green, purple, and red.
I’d heard that drawing too much Aetheric energy could burn up a witch from the inside out, but the few cases of overload I knew of had resulted in madness or the inability to access the Aetheric after overexposure. I’d never heard of anyone actual y combusting.
The skimmer’s scream broke, his voice hoarse from his howls. He flailed, but the other skimmers never looked away from the rift. They didn’t even appear to notice their burning companion.
“Let me through,” a woman wearing an official OMIH tag yel ed as she charged the gate. A second official flanked her. “We can help.”
A contingent of Bel ’s guards blocked the entrance, but the redheaded lawyer threw out his arms, motioning the guards to move.
“Get that gate open. Let them through,” he yel ed at the guards, and then to the OMIH officials he cal ed, “Hurry.”
The two officials and the lawyer ran for the burning skimmer. Forming a semicircle around the man, they pul ed the raw magic brimming under his skin, drawing it out and dispersing it harmlessly into the air. I cracked my shields.
Different planes of existence snapped into focus before my eyes, making the night around me both crystal clear despite the darkness and almost too chaotic to perceive.
The skimmers glowed with mottled light. Most witches resonated with only one or two colors of Aetheric energy, resonated with only one or two colors of Aetheric energy, but the skimmers had been drawing down every wisp of raw magic that had escaped the rift. They swel ed with a noxious mix of magic, each quite possibly in danger of being the next to ignite.
The skimmer who had ignited dimmed as the witches drew the magic from him. The Aetheric flames died as his broken scream faded to wracking cries. But it looked like he’d be okay.
Until the soul col ector appeared behind him.
“Too late,” I whispered.
The witches didn’t know that yet, though. They continued drawing and dissipating the magic, their faces cut with hard lines of concentration and their shoulders stiff. Then the col ector I’d first seen in Lusa’s footage reached forward, his hand passing through the skimmer.
The skimmer’s knees locked, his face freezing in a silent scream as sound failed him. His body col apsed facefirst, the empty husk crumpling to the ground. His soul remained standing upright, caught in the col ector’s fist. Anytime I’d seen Death or the other col ectors take a soul, they pul ed it free and then flicked their wrist and the soul went wherever it was souls went. This col ector didn’t.
He turned, his coat flaring around him with the movement and his hand stil clenching the soul. The witches rushed forward, checking on the dead man. The col ector stepped around them, dragging the soul with him. A soul that was staring at his own dead body.
I’d met several ghosts over the years, witnessed Death col ect a handful of souls, and was even present once when a soul resisted col ection, but I’d never before witnessed the very moment when someone was forced to confront the fact that his life had ended. The shock and confusion lasted only an instant and then the skimmer’s mouth fel open, his features twisting in a mix of agony and rage. He thrashed in the col ector’s grasp and screamed. But there were no human lungs or living vocal cords involved in this scream. It human lungs or living vocal cords involved in this scream. It was the scream of a soul and it made me want to reel back and clutch my ears. Several of the people in the press of bodies around me flinched—they might not have been able to hear the scream with their ears, but I think everyone present felt it.
The col ector ignored the soul’s pitiable distress.
“Why doesn’t he send him on?” I muttered the question to no one in particular.
The man in front of me must have heard because he turned, and then he startled.
“Holy Mother—” He backed up and into the person beside him. “Your eyes,” he whispered. Then he pushed people aside as he retreated farther from me.
I barely noticed him, but his passage disturbed several other people, who turned. More exclamations sounded, more movement, and soon a ring of empty space opened around me. I was too intent on the events unfolding on the other side of the fence to care.
The col ector had moved to the next skimmer. She held her arms above her head as if reaching for the Aetheric energy helped her draw more of the excess magic that was poisoning her body. Despite the fact that she’d exceeded her overload point, the only expression on her face was pure and unadulterated ecstasy. I don’t think she even noticed when the col ector thrust his hand through her sternum and jerked her soul free.
No, she isn’t dying. Not yet anyway. I marched forward—
my bubble of empty space had opened a path al the way to the fence—without ever looking away from the col ector, who now gripped a soul in each fist. Who is he? I’d never seen a col ector strike before the cause of death guaranteed an end to life.