Page 8 of Bitter Spirits

She shot him a narrow-eyed glare. “Aren’t you?”

His gaze went from her arms and to her face. That unearthly pressure in the room took a step back, like a wolf sitting on its haunches. “It’s not just my magic running wild, babe.”

She let go of her arms and sank into a crouch next to Leo. The power that lived inside her pulled against her control, eager to play in the echoes of death. “I’ve got it in check.”

He gave a disbelieving huff. “Come on, Isa. I’ve got a missing kid, and this guy was my best lead.”

And that sucks, but… “Can’t you do whatever it is you do and sniff him out?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Why won’t you help?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, but helping would cost her. For a moment, she wished Des had been the one to come after Leo. As a Tracer, getting answers for Locke would be a lot less deleterious.

For once, she decided to give him the unvarnished truth. “Because it’s not right.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you.”

And that snapped comment answered a long-held question. Clearly, Locke had investigated her. But how deep has he dug? She curled her hands into fists but refused to look at him as he muttered a vile word.

Then he was dropping into a crouch next to her, remorse heavy in his voice. “I took that too far, Isa.”

He had, but it was also an accurate statement she couldn’t argue with. She could feel the weight of his gaze, but she resolutely kept her attention on Leo.

Locke blew out a breath and, in a less aggressive tone, said, “You’re a Reaper. All you have to do is check to see if his soul, or whatever, is close enough to pin down for some answers.”

His oversimplification was typical of mages who had not the first clue about how those who played in the other realm worked. She didn’t have time to school him in the intricacies of the Spiritualist classification. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t share a CliffsNotes version.

With studied patience, she explained, “First, I’m not Des. Talking to the dead is not my thing. Second, violent death damages the soul, leaving it chaotic and sometimes incoherent. What you’re asking of me is to take a traumatized soul, trap what’s left of it in my body, and force it to answer your questions.” She finally looked at him. “Ever heard of ‘my body, my choice’?”

He met her gaze, and she was surprised to see both remorse and determination in his eyes.

“It is—it so is—but I need your help.” He paused then added the killing blow. “Isaiah needs your help.”

Shit damn fuck it. It was her turn to look away. Sensing her acquiescing, her magic leapt with excitement even as her gut twisted into painful knots.

“Fine.” Without looking at him, she waved him away. “Go stand over there and stay out of my way.”

She felt him move back, taking the feral hum of his magic with him. She pulled in a deep breath, her fingers closing over the warm gold of the pendant resting against her skin. With skillful ease, she brought her soul’s reflection into focus as she let the air out in a slow and steady exhalation. A figure formed in her mind’s eye, created from iridescent ebony and dotted with tiny pinpricks of starlight. It was feminine and her but also not her. A tattered cloak of deepest black curled around her. The figure’s hair moved like inky ribbons, her features vague, her eyes two pits of deeper darkness. Isa loosened her grip on her magic, and the figure pulled up the hood of the cloak until her blurred features were nothing but shadows, and those unearthly eyes took on a ghostly glow.

As an invisible wind whipped the cloak about, icy fingers twined around Isa, strangling the warmth of compassion, mercy, love, and understanding until only a pitiless resolve remained, leaving behind a Reaper once known as Isa.

Chapter 4

Locke

Locke followed Isa’s directions and moved back, giving her room to do her thing. He had to admit to being curious about how this would all go down. Reapers weren’t keen on working their magic with an audience, which maybe explained Isa’s initial reluctance, but something told him there was more to it. His magic agreed, and it watched her carefully, prepared for anything.

She took a breath, touched the gold medallion that rested just below her throat, and let it out on a slow exhalation. Then things got freaky.

Ebony tendrils dotted with tiny flickers of light curled from Leo’s body, moved around Isa’s feet, and crawled up her legs like an inky pet snake. The temperature in the room dropped, creating an unsettling chill that pierced skin and bone with unnatural ease as the phantom sensation of ants crawling over his skin left Locke twitchy. His magic lunged, gnashing its metaphorical teeth at the unseen threat seeping into the room.

Isa’s head snapped up and turned toward him with an alien disjointedness, which was bad enough, but it was the tide of black swallowing her eyes that raised his hackles. She stared at him like he was prey as shadows drifted over her face, twisting her features into a grim skeletal mask. The nightmarish vision chilled his soul, and his muscles tightened with the urge to strike out.

Instead of giving in to the violent impulse, he blinked. The weird apparition disappeared.

What the fuck?

The unearthly tendrils moved faster, circling her hips then her waist. When they reached her chest, she turned back to Leo’s body. The vaporous ribbons rising from Leo had coalesced into a vaguely humanoid shape that now hovered in the air in front of her. The hand resting at her neck dropped, and those tendrils slithered over her arms, curled around her shoulders, and went no farther. They thickened into a writhing cloak that covered Isa from shoulder to toe, undulating in an unseen wind.