Grave Dance (Alex Craft, #2)(87)
I reached into the creature with the part of me that touched the dead. There was more than just the skimmer in that congealed soul mist, but he was the one I could see, could focus on. Centering my magic on the little bit of the skimmer I could see, I pul ed with my power.
Souls don’t like the touch of the grave. It’s unnatural for them. They are what make a person alive, and the grave is for the dead. But these souls were already outside their bodies and more ghost than not. I pul ed, pouring power into the effort. The unearthly wind of the land of the dead whipped around me, mail blew off the table and whirled around the room, the cushions on the couch rumpled, bil owing in the onslaught, and the gryphon’s feathers quivered around its head. Stil I pul ed, and like warm saltwater taffy being tugged on, the soul peeled away from the rest of the soul mist.
As the soul separated from the mass, the gryphon shrank, as if the construct couldn’t support its massive size shrank, as if the construct couldn’t support its massive size with its diminished energy source. The gryphon shrinking was definitely good—except that it was now smal enough to fit through the door.
It hurtled forward, its talons grasping for me. I dove sideways, the air rushing out of me as I hit the ground. And people on TV make it look so easy. The skimmer soul I’d freed hovered in the air, looking confused as he blinked at me. Then his eyes landed on the gryphon and he screamed.
“Don’t just scream. Help me. Distract it!”
Shades have to obey me. Ghosts don’t and he didn’t.
The gryphon was stil large enough that it had trouble turning in the tight space in the smal apartment, which bought me a couple of seconds. I used them. Thrusting with my power, I grabbed another soul in the mist. I wasn’t being picky. I just grabbed and heaved. I poured power into the mist, and another soul, this one an older woman I was pretty sure I’d seen at the morgue, jettisoned free.
The gryphon shrank again. We were now the same height. Of course, it stil had two long-taloned front legs and a razor-sharp beak, so it wasn’t exactly an even fight, but it was at least closer.
It lunged at me, that sharp beak open as it screeched in rage. I dropped, intending to rol out of its way.
Unfortunately, my coordination wasn’t quite up to the task. I ended up under the gryphon as its talons pierced the couch. The sharp claws on its back feet were dangerously close to my face, but the position did give me an unobstructed view of its bel y.
The dagger in my hand buzzed, urging me to move, and I thrust the enchanted blade into the soft skin under the gryphon’s rib cage. A shock ran up my arm as I encountered muscles harder to pierce than I’d expected, but the dagger sank to the hilt. “You don’t exist,” I told it, twisting the dagger to drive the blade deeper.
The gryphon exploded into a cloud of shimmery soul mist.
The gryphon exploded into a cloud of shimmery soul mist.
A copper disk the size of a dinner plate dropped onto my chest, knocking what little air I had left from my lungs.
Coughing, I let my arm drop, barely managing to hold on to the dagger as my hand hit the carpet. Too close. Way too close.
I rol ed to my knees. My whole body felt like jel y as the spike of adrenaline drained from my muscles. It took me two tries to climb to my feet. I closed my shields.
Nothing changed.
I blinked. I’d expected to go blind again, but the Aetheric stil swirled around me, the land of the dead showing me the world as ruins. But I wasn’t touching those worlds. The wind from the land of the dead had stopped cutting across my skin and whipping my hair into a frenzy and I couldn’t feel the Aetheric energy I saw swirling through the air.
Okay, so I push my magic and I go blind and I push it more and I end up seeing but not touching other planes. I think I prefer it this way. Though as I looked around I realized I wasn’t seeing the mortal realm at al . I was only seeing how it reflected in other planes of existence. That could get confusing.
I brushed my hands against my rotted pants—I seriously hoped they weren’t that way in reality—and resheathed my dagger. When I looked up, the cloud of souls around me had thinned. The raver-col ector moved silently across the room, gathering souls and sending them on their way.
“I could have seriously used your help earlier.” Like ten minutes earlier. Before the gryphon had almost taken me apart.
She shrugged and tossed her bright orange dreadlocks over her shoulder as she snatched the soul of the woman I’d pul ed free of the gryphon. “Didn’t know they were here earlier.” She grabbed the skimmer. With a flick of her hand, he vanished. He’d been the last lingering soul.
“Wait!”
She glanced at me, lifting one arched eyebrow.
She glanced at me, lifting one arched eyebrow.
“Can you tel Death I need to talk to him?”
“Death?” She gave me a genuinely confused look.
I cringed. Of course she wouldn’t know my nickname for Death. Damn him not telling me anything, not even his name. “You know, smoking-hot col ector. Dreamy eyes.
Easy smile. Favors faded jeans and tight black shirts.”
“And you cal him Death?” She snorted a laugh, and the dreads snaking over her shoulders quivered as she shook her head. “Girl, you real y are special.”
“Wil you tel him I need to see him or not?”
She cocked a hip forward, placing her hand on it. “I’m not a messenger.” Her fingernails made soft thudding sounds as she drummed them against the bright orange PVC