27 Ghost Hunters

THREADFIN RAN, HEEDLESS of pitfalls. The moon gave enough light for his eyes, but folds in the earth hid pockets of pitch blackness. Healing was difficult for a viral, broken bones the worst, but he didn’t care. If they caught him, it would be the least of his problems. Tunic and cloak, which he’d reluctantly swapped his borderlands coat for, clung to him sodden and uncomfortable. He couldn’t enter Byrsa wearing a coat that screamed rebellion. He needed to avoid notice, not attract it.

The night closed in, reaching for him with grasping fingers. Though his body escaped its touch, his shadow, which fled alongside him, didn’t.

Blackness enveloped him like a claustrophobic shroud. He wanted to hide and realised his powers obeyed his wishes. He thought of being free, of being untouched, imagined it in his mind.

The shroud receded.

He halted, leaning against a tree, his body protesting. Mine is a dark soul, he reasoned. He’d known he was Plagueborn, but not that he had such dark power within him. His touch drained life. At least, it did if he attempted anything worthwhile. He was dangerous. How much control could he master over this magic? For now, he had no desire to experiment. Scatter’s lessons, he realised, had been too few. She’d been right. He wasn’t ready.

It was raining hard, but a low fog crept between trees and jagged stumps. He’d entered a partially depopulated area of birch and elm, untouched forest further in. This close to the city, farmers cut back the woodland in places, such metropolises nothing other than voracious beasts.

His body felt weak, bones creaking, and his skin felt tight, stretched, and ripped in places. His power gave him this half-life, but his body was still rotting. He turned and stared back the way he came. The night was silent with no sign of pursuit. To his right was a line of hills, and the city below them. Placing a hand against an elm, he steadied himself. Having escaped Lame, he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of another city. The last one had been a prison and he wondered if this one wouldn’t prove worse. He needed a mount, a fast one, and the city garrison was the one place he was going to get it. Stealing was his speciality, or well, at least he was some way good at it.

Shadows gathered to him of their own accord. No, he didn’t control it yet. Whether the shadow of a tree, a mouse, or the shade of a crow, they all converged on him, the life of their owners drained. His own, visible in the sporadic moonlight, bulged and joined with these others. It held his shape, pulsating a hair’s breadth from his grey hide. His shadow fed on the life of the forest. He felt warmth and vigour enter his bones, though it sickened him. It obeys me, he thought, when it suits. Imagining his magic having a will of its own frightened him.

Coils of blackness clung to his skin, pulsing with life. On impulse, he examined his hands, his body, and saw through himself. He wasn’t invisible, but it was like looking through tinted warped glass. Scatter had suggested he could enter other worlds. He was starting to believe.

Glancing up, he spotted something within the fog and rain. Within an untouched part of the forest, a wan shape stumbled between the trees. Strangling thorns and tall ferns hampered his view, but it looked like a man. The trees were silent but for the odd creak and the pat patter of raindrops on leaves.

It was a disjointed movement at walking pace, though the exaggerated steps suggested running. It was as if the figure moved through a slower time. As he watched, he felt sick. His legs grew leaden, and he leaned against the elm for support. What he saw was a distorted reflection through the fog and rain. Never had his visions presented this way, and somehow, he knew this time it wasn’t of the future. If he wasn’t insane, it meant he was standing at a border between worlds. He wondered what it would take to cross over. No, I’m not ready for that.

The ethereal figure didn’t slow or speed up, but kept the same monotonous pace. Behind it, also moving in a fragmented fashion was a woman. With a twist of his shrivelled gut, he recognised Shakti, the old healer. A ghastly host followed them.

The ghosts yelled in silence, mouths wide in a yawning gesture. They fled something. Some of them spotted him and Shakti’s eyes widened. She moved slower as though time was coming to a halt.

Others appeared in the background, but their forms were fainter. The slow rush came closer.

Threadfin knew he was looking at the full dead. Scatter had said the Spectrum contained other realities, not just worlds. Existence didn’t just mean life, and the proof of it was before him. Though deceased, these spirits existed.

Children dodged between older ones, appearing to move quicker than the adults, if not in normal time. The young caught hold of the old by hand or leg. They tugged and pulled, desperate to move faster. Shakti was weeping. The healer’s face was haggard, with a lost look. Her fear was palpable. A pale child tugged at her as Shakti looked at Threadfin, dead eyes accusing.

Dark forms with wings prowled beyond the ghastly mob. These were predatory. Winged shades neared their prey with each second.

The ghosts reached him.

Shakti’s spirit washed over him. A thrill rushed through his body. Frost formed on his withered skin and though it caused him no harm, he was aware of the depth of such cold. Without question, it would’ve stopped a breather’s heart.

Winged shapes leapt from above. One snatched a ghost from its slow run, then another. The spirit of a little girl ran towards Threadfin, arms outstretched, eyes bulged in terror. Her scream was soundless, but he thought he heard the whisper of her cry. It might’ve been the wind. A vast form enveloped her. The hunter’s ghostly jaws snapped shut. She was five feet away from him and the deception of safety. Her body dissolved in a flurry of black wings.

Threadfin crawled on hands and knees to get behind a tree, to put something between that and himself. It wasn’t fear assailing him, but guilt, helplessness.

When he next looked past the tree, nothing moved. The shadows that had enfolded him had vanished. His own appeared unremarkable, and it faded as leaden clouds devoured the moon. A thin film of frost remained on his skin, proof, as if he needed any.

He’d seen the dead flee, hunted by ... by the nameless Darkness Nalrost had discovered. It had to be. He clutched at the silver crucifix about his neck. He’d considered giving himself up, to save his sister, but now he knew it for foolishness. The Darkness would win, devouring this world once he was gone and Aiyana along with it.

He lay on the frozen mulch beneath the tree, staring downhill towards the glow of a city. It seemed he wouldn’t need to return to Icarthya after all. The Nephilim hunted him, which meant Gog knew where he was. All he had to do was enter that city and wait. Gog would come for him.

He would make an end of it there, and then he would find Liviana Avitus and deal with her. Perhaps then, Aiyana would be safe.

He longed for a simpler time when they were children. When all they did was run riot throughout the palace, play pranks and laugh.

What he wouldn’t give to have that time back again.