Chapter 25 #2
I didn’t even get this far last time. Maybe my friends being in on it is part of the temptation to break.
One of the judges, a muscular man with a thick, vein-popping neck, drags Ivander away from the group.
His grip is tight on Ivander’s shoulders, and I grimace at the fear in Ivander’s eyes.
Ivander struggles, twisting and turning his body to break free.
The judge pulls Ivander to the back corner of the room. To the extraction chair.
Ivander shouts, spitting and clawing at his captor.
I hear the sickening crack of bones as Ivander pays the price to shift his nails into claws.
He tears into the judge’s arm, ripping his flesh open with his right hand.
The wet tear of splitting flesh and the gush of copper-scented blood make my stomach clench.
The judge screams, slamming his body into Ivander.
Ivander stumbles backward, bracing himself against the metal chair.
“Roe!” he screams. He reaches inside the pocket of his coat but comes out with nothing as the judge straps his arms down. “Run!”
Despite the panic clawing at my throat, I don’t move. This isn’t real.
Ivander strains against the confinement, but he can’t break free. The judge reaches for the cloudy gray, odorless potion.
It can’t be real.
But what if it is?
Once the judge secures Ivander in place, he grasps the potion and squeezes Ivander’s cheeks to force his mouth open. Alana screams as Niko yells, “Roe, help him!”
That’s when I decide it doesn’t matter what’s real.
The slim chance any of this could be reality makes me raise my arms. It’s a freeing, adrenaline-filled realization that I don’t care what the judges think of me.
If they’re afraid of me. I know it in my core now, in the sudden, bone-chilling way you realize someone’s lying.
Whether it’s part of my trial or not, it’s not an illusion.
They’ll hurt my friends just to push me to the edge.
And if I don’t stop that judge now, he’s going to extract Ivander’s Morphia.
When I summon, I don’t think about it. I don’t concentrate on the spirit world. I’m not searching desperately for a connection to a willing spirit. It’s easy, like turning the pages of a book or letting an arrow fly. Like breathing, it comes to me without thinking.
Spirits burst from my palm in gaseous plumes of silver mist.
With great, heaving breaths, I summon the dead.
The silvery spirits form solid corpses. I don’t have time to make them look pleasant and cheerful for the witnesses. They’re not even fully formed. As the dead rise, so do I. My feet float from the ground as I hover in the air, drifting above the floor.
Half-formed humans stagger forward, their bloated bodies black with decomposition.
Gaping wounds reveal exposed bones, and wriggling maggots nibble at the frayed edges of their skin.
Flesh slides off their skeletons each time they take a step.
Their faces are frozen in screams or slack-jawed from lost muscle.
It’s not just people taking shape. I conjure wolves with torn ears, emaciated limbs, and snarling skulls with hollow eye sockets. Ravens with feathered bodies and wings made of bone. Skeletal snakes with patches of flaking scales and bloodred eyes.
For a moment, I marvel at how much easier it is to conjure corpses than fully formed spirits. Maybe, while I’ve been spending so much time trying to make spirits look pleasing to the living, I forgot the beauty and power of death.
I’ve lost track of how many spirits I’ve brought back—five, ten, twenty.
And they’re all fighting for me. The human spirits lunge at the judges and bosses imprisoning my friends.
They don’t fight like humans, relying instead on otherworldly speed and strength.
They rip the knives from the bosses’ hands and float into the air to aim kicks at their heads.
I don’t control the actions of the spirits, but they feed on my intentions.
Because my blood is boiling, some of the human spirits don’t simply knock the bosses into unconsciousness.
One spirit bites into a boss’s neck using the exposed bone of his jaw and rotting teeth.
The boss, whose name I’m not sure of, lets out a gurgling scream as blood fills his mouth.
A wolf pounces on the judge holding the extraction potion, ripping into the corded muscle of his flesh.
The judge screams and tries to pull away, but the wolf holds fast. The screams aren’t only coming from the bosses and judges now.
I recognize Ambriel’s high-pitched yelp, and one of her friends begs me to stop.
With the adrenaline still running hot in my veins, I’m not sure if I can.
A raven dives for Charmaine’s eyes, scratching at her closed eyelids with long talons.
She bats at the bird with wild swats as she runs from the room with her eyes squeezed shut.
A wave of satisfaction crashes over me as I think of myself running through the hallway at night, waving my arms at the bat-bird diving for my head.
The uninjured bosses let go of the staff and run from the room, dodging blood spatter and wolves snapping at their heels.
I force my mind to calm. As I relax, my spirits also calm.
The corpse-like human spirits form a defensive wall in front of the Morphics, defending them from any boss who decides to come close.
But I’m reluctant to shed any more blood.
Two of the judges lie dead on the floor, but the other two throw themselves through the exit door as wolf spirits chase after them.
I let them go, now more aware that my friends are watching, powerless to stop me. But maybe they don’t want me to stop.
With my adrenaline waning, my spirits flicker, growing less solid with every passing moment.
The dead bodies on the floor jostle me out of my head.
Two dead. No, four. Fear makes me pause.
Fear of myself and my own power. I’m what they should be afraid of.
The Morphic who can’t keep her anger—her fear—in check.
No. Not anymore.
I look for what’s important. My friends.
Niko helps Ivander out of the metal chair, severing his bonds with a knife.
Where did Niko get a knife? He must have stolen one from a boss.
Ambriel tends to Taurean’s bleeding cheek, swiping her hand over the gash with practiced ease.
A thin trail of blood leaks out of her nose as she works, and I’m reminded of Eliza.
Ambriel’s eyes dart to me, and then she hurriedly looks away.
I see the flash of fear in her eyes. Although I may have saved us from forced extraction, it has come at a price.
The blood on the floor and the bodies drained of life make my stomach turn.
Alana closes her eyes, and I know she’s trying to help us all calm down.
My breath comes out in ragged gasps, but it slows to deep inhales and steady exhales.
Alana’s expression smooths into a blank stare as the rest of us relax.
It’s only when my body calms completely that the fear of myself subsides.
I don’t regret what I’ve done, not fully.
The reality of what happened settles in my chest.
This wasn’t a trial. This was an extraction. For all of us.