Bloodlines: Dragon Rider Book 2

Chapter 44: Body and Souls

"Free yourself!" His clear voice seems to float through the storm instead of swallowed by it. "Danger to the mages!"

In his ancient robes trimmed in gold and white of mages, I have no doubt he suspects any dragon rider to be evil incarnate. I glance away when death, cold and hollow, shocks my veins. My gaze darts around, landing on the souls that weren't there a second ago. I try to keep my gaze on Holland, but my abilities hone in on the hundreds of souls that are visible or too deep into the storm to be seen.

It's easy to tell who died the most recently, their eyes lucid yet glazed like they can't quite figure out why they feel the need to follow me. But others scream like the woman with skin burnt black, others stare with empty eyes and missing limbs, or plead with me to bring them back, "--they took me away--"

"--bring me back--"

"--where's his necklace--"

"--another to the collection--"

This isn't Mansiah where the souls who lost their way between life and death wander into this thin slice of betweenness--a place that isn't the middle realm but isn't the living either. These are people bound to something, a leashed soul who is yanked back to the pole when they venture too far. Normally I wouldn't care--I would happily pass this task to some other unfortunate necromancer--but I've never seen so many dead and would rather not enter someplace without knowing what I'm walking into.

"Get your dragon to stop!" I shout at Holland, voice consumed within the storm and dead.

The dragon rider barely looks over his shoulder, his eyes burning as if to say, Are you insane, Dragon Bait? "No-"

But I'm already jumping his dragon, pain shooting through my legs as the ice breaks and I plunge chest-deep into the snow. Thankfully, my under layers are tight and the snow doesn't reach my skin. Holland's curses muffle in the wind, his dragon jerking its nearest leg from me for what must be concern of squashing me.

With a frown, mask rubbing against my face, I claw my way onto the ice, panting hard. Evening my weight on all-fours, I pant, when black feet come beneath me. I make the mistake of looking up.

Her skin is burned away like a pig roasted over a fire for too long and is left a shrivel crisp of black. She stares at me, her white eyes stark against dark burnt skin. I don't dare breathe, afraid she'll start screaming again or go from moth to hound.

Her eyes widen, mouth opening. Her voice turns sharp, a fraying, splintering shriek, steel on steel. Glass popping in the heat of flame. I rub my ears to check for blood, but they never bleed.

I fight my way to my feet, the crowd closing in on me. "Norah, I need a dome!"

She slides off her dragon, the snow rising to wrap around her legs--which look quite flexible--before settling back into the snow like ocean waves. She throws a dome of ice over us all, her face straining with the effort as her sister stands beside her, studying the structure with scrutinizing eyes. Easton rubs his hands together as the air warms, still on his dragon.

"Gods damn it, Dragon Bait." Holland marches over but I'm looking past him, to the man phasing through with the most lucid eyes I've seen for someone who's been dead for a few centuries. They land on every living human here, lingering on the dragons and their riders.

"What the hell are you thinking?" Holland asks, oblivious to the herd of moths fluttering into the dome until it's too crowded and the living are lost to them. They scream, and beg, and weep, pleading for me to bring them back. A little girl, no more than eight sobs in the corner, shrieking at the souls that pass her, most of them missing a limb or have their entrails dangling out of their stomach.