Chapter 40 Carwynn
CARWYNN
Pogue’s terror, his pain . . . I felt it.
A raw, agonizing emotion scalded my chest. It wasn’t mine, but it was vivid, nonetheless . . . and absolutely horrifying. A taste of reliving the worst moments of someone’s life, memories dragged from the deepest vaults of their mind, still throbbing with pain.
My Soulsayer pulled the connection between us, guiding me quicker through the cave. Hitting another diverging path, I immediately felt a pull and turned left.
The cave mouth ahead was wider, taller. The air shifted. A prickle of cold, grasping death settled around like a putrid perfume. I didn’t like this one bit.
Walls flickered brighter as my senses peaked. The wet slaps of my feet on stone quieted. The ground below had transformed into something else entirely. Strange, brownish-green grass folded over, wilting withering rot.
Grass this deep inside a cave?
Then, something came into view. A shadowed mass lay in the grass ahead. No, not in the grass. Hovering above it.
I moved closer, my breath lodging in my throat.
It was the deepest I’d ever been grounded in my ability.
This felt different than any other time I’d used my power before.
I wasn’t just sensing, it was a thing of itself, a muscle flexing, being used for the first time.
Raw and undiluted force unlocked within me.
My skin went to goosebumps, then burned like I’d been lashed by a whip carved from ice.
It was an effort to hold in the scream, forcing myself forward.
My body unexpectedly locked.
Pogue.
His eyes were wide open, milky-white and hazed over.
The lights were on, but no one was home kind of look—mentally checked out.
He hovered inches above the decrepit grass.
Thick, sickly tendrils wrapped around his ankles, wrists, and throat, like strings on a puppet.
They twitched occasionally, jerking, as if . . . sentient.
Not only holding but doing something to him.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What the hell was this?
I willed my frozen legs to thaw, taking a slow, shaky step forward.
Until a creepy, sharp clicking echoed. Tiny bits of debris started to sprinkle down in front of my face. I tilted my head up.
My. Blood. Stilled.
Every drop drained out of me as icy fear swept into its place.
Just above me, clinging to the roof of the cave, was a night terror in the flesh. The old man . . . or so I thought.
He perched upside down, his cadaverous body unnaturally twisted like a spider readying to feed. His head eerily cocked to one side, eyes like black voids, endless and hungry.
Fear crushed my lungs. I didn’t want to breathe. Didn’t want to move.
Man was too clean of a word. This thing was an it. Something dark. Or Ancient. Or wrong.
Its bones creaked. Slow, deliberate clicking sounded as it skittered across the ceiling. An arachnid on the move.
What the Fuckkkk!
I hated spiders. Hated them with a fucking passion. And this thing—watching it crawl. I wanted to cry. To scream. To yell. To run. To vomit all over myself. All at once.
“Pogue,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
“Pogue.” I said again, slightly louder, not daring more than that.
Goddamn it, snap out of it!
What had it done to him?
I could’ve really used that cocky asshole right now. The one who blindly grabbed hold of my hand and was dragged through hell with me so I wasn’t alone. That look on his face haunted me. He tried to protect me, to blast the beast away with shadows. Why?
A strange tightness curled around my chest. I’d kept those thoughts at bay, but there was no denying . . . I cared. Prick or not, I did.
Wake up, wake up, wake up!
Then I heard it . . .
Click-click.
Click-click.
Click-click.
Click-click.
The bony, human-sized tarantula crept down the wall, inching toward Pogue’s body.
It halted. Onyx eyes whipped in my direction, cementing me in place. Its neck twisted with a shocking, audible crack. Its mouth opened unnaturally wide. Brittle, broken teeth flashed in the dim light as it released a high-pitched hiss.
I flinched. My hands shot up to cover my ears.
It was not pleased by my presence.
My foot involuntarily stepped back.
Its body began to crack, pop, snap. Bones contorted, reshaping back into that frail old man again. He hunched over, gazing at Pogue’s body. A hand shot out, lingering above his chest. A soft glow of energy, molten and vibrating, began to steadily lift out of Pogue.
Fucking hell . . . it was his soul!
Glimmering plasmic energy radiated to the surface of his skin.
Snap! The creature’s jaw opened again. Animalistic and wide. The most haunting sight. As if it were about to—
“Don’t!” I shouted, startling even myself as I lunged forward with my hand raised.
A rattling started deep in its chest—or maybe its belly. I couldn’t tell. The large, gaping mouth shrunk. Slightly working, as if warming up.
“The darker the soul,” it wheezed, ominously, “the more irresistible.” A petrifying grin stretched across its face, head tilting unnaturally. “The smell. The taste. It’s delicious . . . addicting.” Blackhole eyes studied me, curious and amused. “Don’t you agree?”
He was going to eat his soul.
He was going to eat . . . Pogue’s . . . fucking . . . soul!
I swallowed. My throat grew thick, a lump swelling.
“Let him go.” I muttered, forcing the tremble out of my voice.
A shiver rolled through Pogue’s floating body. His diaphragm spasmed, as a child’s would after a long period of sobbing. A body moving on muscle memory alone, recalling profound torment.
A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye.
My chest squeezed. I could feel it—another wave of pain.
God, he must’ve been trapped in some hallucination, or torture. All so this disgusting creature could play black widow and feast on him like a fly stuck in a web.
My eyes swept around the chamber—its lair. Some ancient, spider creature, demented by hunger, who’d feed on—
My mind stalled, puzzle pieces falling. Click. One by one. Click. They settled into place.
The Gorta. The Hungry Grass. They were real.
His moral compass may have been broken, but Pogue didn’t deserve to die. Especially not like this. And I could try and hide it all I wanted, but there was an undeniable pull between us. Some energy I didn’t understand. A connection.
Deep in the corners of my bleeding, pathetically scarred heart, I knew—there was no way I could walk out of this cave. Not without him . . .
Crack! A neck bent crooked. Once to the right, then to the left.
But this time, it wasn’t the Gorta—it was me. That stirring beast. That slithering serpent. That darkness was rising within me.
“Let.” My foot crunched the grass.
“Him.” White wisps of power flared, growing brighter with each step.
“Go.” I stared into the Gorta’s gaunt, ghostly face. Unflinching.
Those sharp, frightening eyes averted for the briefest moment. Right before a threatening smile pulled his skin taut like overstretched rubber.
“You want him for yourself?” he cackled, sickly frame shaking with amusement. “Oh no,” he tsked. “You crave a taste of something else.” His features contorted, becoming mocking. Then, a lip curled, feigning pity. “Belonging? Intimacy?”
He leaned in, putrid smell gathering in my nostrils.
“Or worse . . . love,” he hissed it like a curse.
What—how did he . . . ? What kind of ability did he possess?
A decrepit, haggard finger traced down Pogue’s chest, just over his heart.
“You think a heart loyal to shadow could ever ignite the wick inside your soul?” he whispered, voice scraping over the last sliver of my patience.
Eyes trailed down to my center—fixing, studying, sensing. A silhouette of something dark ghosted his frail face.
Anger coiled hot within me, rising quick and becoming molten.
“Yours is already aflame—bound to another,” he seethed, more to himself in surprise. His features snapped to a scowl, narrowing viciously. “Greedy, gluttonous trollop! Let the famished eat!” he spat.
Nasty. Beast.
I opened my mouth, ready to unleash the most colorful words in my vocabulary when—
Whack!
A spidery arm shot out, striking fast. Too fast.
I didn’t see it, but I damn well felt it. It slingshot me through the air, catapulting my back into the stone wall. Unforgiving pain radiated.
All the air knocked out in a single, broken wheeze. A ragged cough scraped out of my throat, forcing my body to fold over. Fingers padded the back of my head, unsure if I’d cracked it open or not.
No blood. Well, that was a good sign. But there’d definitely be blood to spill very soon.
“You soul-sucking, skinny-dicked leech!” I screamed, using all my anger as fuel to right myself.
Without warning, all the oxygen had vacuumed out of the room. The Gorta’s grotesque mouth widened. A guttural, rasping hiss sliced a chill across my flesh.
Ethereal, plasmic mist spiraled from Pogue’s chest into that rawboned, parasitic mouth. It was siphoning Pogue’s soul.
The creature’s excited gasps made my entire body shudder.
He was taking it all . . . drinking in every last drop.
No!
Would Pogue be trapped forever inside—like the Dullahan’s whip? Tormented without end, devoured from the inside out, never to reach Soul Isle. To be at peace . . .
Pogue’s body stilled, a sickly gray spread across his skin. Contagious rot. Death’s caress.
No . . . It was too late. I was too late.
The shimmering light had faded, soul nearly gone.
I swallowed the ache in my bones and closed my eyes, inhaling. Then focused.
My Floramancy had saved me before on instinct alone. Maybe with some luck, I could pull it off again.
I called to it. Tried to will it . . .
But—nothing. Not a goddamn thing. No twitch. No tingle. Not even the slightest of feelings.
I was too buried in my Soulsayer roots, weaving down into the depths of the earth. So deep, I almost felt charged. Locked and loaded. As if those roots hit the inner core, flowing with power. The sensation was foreign.
Then came a voice. Calm, knowing. Not mine, but within me.
You are your own master, it echoed the reminder.
I am my own master, I repeated back.
My skin went static, every inch of it buzzing. The energy around me was shifting. Charging. Readying to strike.
My aura flared, an outer layer of skin, pulsing with power.
Slowly, I raised one arm, palm open to face out.
“No,” I said. But it wasn’t my voice. Not the one I knew, anyway.
And then, I felt it. That immense tug. Deep. Low. Usually an invisible rope yanking me, but this time—I was the one tugging.
What a strange feeling . . . To control. To command. To wield.
The Gorta had the audacity to side-eye me but didn’t move. Too fixated, too desperate to finish his meal.
I mentally grasped that connection, that rope, and wound it tighter around my mind. A lasso cinched by sheer will.
Then, pulled . . . And again . . . And again, stronger . . .
The Gorta’s body halted. As did the shimmering substance of what was left of Pogue’s life.
It started gagging. Gasping. Nauseating, hacking sounds bounced off the cave walls. The Gorta began to choke.
I was very tempted to give the Heimlich. Maybe snap his spine in the process. But I held back.
Instead, I reeled it in even more. This time, with everything I had. Singlehandedly dragging the deadweight of a corpse out of the grave.
The Gorta’s eyes shot to mine, wide and wild, like canines piercing meat.
Ever so slowly, the essence of Pogue’s soul began to regurgitate from the Gorta’s mouth, extracting. The mist of his life, one particle at a time, reversing course.
My mental grasp held firm as I walked closer.
The Gorta fell to its knees, mouth still disturbingly agape. Decrepit fingers clawed at his throat, panicked. Each drop he’d greedily slurped down, rose back up.
It was like sucking venom from a wound. Removing an embedded tick. Forcing my ability in like a finger down his throat, coaxing the Gorta’s wretched insides to release.
I felt Pogue’s soul. Wrapped around my hand, that invisible connection still beating with life. I wasn’t going to let go. Right now . . . it was mine.
After the last piece was retrieved, the Gorta collapsed, hacking violently.
It tilted its head up, grimacing through strained features.
“How?” it shrilled, teeth clenched.
And that’s when I felt it. Another cord, a second spirit line. It was fainter, frailer, decaying . . .
The Gorta’s.
A cruel smile tightened across my cheeks. I raised my free hand. Reaching in, I snatched that line—the Gorta’s piss-poor excuse for a soul, or whatever was left of it.
Its eyes shifted, not understanding. But it was clear it felt the impending doom all the same.
“You took my kindness. Took my earrings.” That voice—my voice—was laced with fury. “So I’ll take your soul.”
Eat yourself.
My hand twisted into a tight fist. Not asking. Commanding.
The Gorta’s jaw stretched as wide as its void-black eyes, as its breath reversed. A monstrous vacuum sucking inward. Pale flesh darkened. Spots of rot spread, spoiled meat graying. Inch by inch, the body caved in on itself, crumbling like scorched ash.
Thin frame cracked.
Limbs unnaturally convulsed.
Until the Gorta contorted in ways no body should before collapsing entirely.
The disintegrated heap almost looked like an overcooked turkey—charred skin, cracked bones, and flaky decay.
I flicked my hand and sent a brief thought. Return.
Pogue’s glowing soul shot back into his gunmetal-hued body.
Relief swept in as his chest rose. Ashen color dissipated.
Then—
A gasp, loud and desperate, as if whispering the word alive.
Below him, the Hungry Grass shriveled, drained of all sentience. It crinkled to the stone like dried-out wheat.
Pogue landed with a thud. Followed by a soft, ragged groan.
“Breathe . . . just breathe . . .” I whispered, stepping past the Cindergorta to kneel at his side.
His clouded eyes were gone, replaced with shocking blue. Clear and alert. They immediately darted around the room, trying to make sense of the aftermath. Trying to piece together what the hell just happened.
My hand involuntarily stroked over his forehead, petting the hair back in soothing sweeps. Pogue’s eyes fluttered closed for a breath, before widening.
“You’re okay. You’re safe.” My hand swiftly retracted. “A Gorta thought you’d make a tasty snack,” I said, voice a little too high—an attempt to downplay my internal anxiety.
The grasp I’d kept on my ability loosened. Reality started to slip back in, and my head grew foggy, a dull ache building behind my eyes.
Pogue’s head shifted slightly as he locked eyes on mine. Time slowed with every rise and fall of his chest.
But then his brow drew tight and he carefully sat up. He reached out and poked at a protruding, crispy-fried piece of Gorta.
“You killed it . . .” he said quietly. Not impressed. Not shocked. Nervous.