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Zyran steadies me by placing a hand on my shoulder. He’s always been able to absorb the worst of the aftereffects of my power, but I imagine even he’s struggling right now.
Regardless, his touch is enough to let me sit up.
“What the hell is killing everything?” I marvel as I crouch and watch a silvery mist sweep across the ground.
Zyran sifts dirt through his fingers. “It feels like Daithi,” he says, and it does.
There’s a cold sensation, and a sour taste lingers on the back of my tongue. That’s always what it feels like when our soul-master is near.
But I don’t see him. All I can feel is overwhelming power that doesn’t make any sense.
“Daithi isn’t this powerful,” I counter as I straighten. I don’t have a weapon, but for the first time, I feel like I need one.
My power isn’t going to be of any use here. We’re at the edge of the city looking in, and all I see is walking death.
Bodies crawl across the streets. Screams sound from broken windows. Blood paints the stones red.
Zyran hums in agreement, then rests a hand on my shoulder again, but this time not to steady me. He’s trying to help me focus. “Where’s the death stone? Maybe he can tell us what’s going on himself.”
Shoving a hand in my pocket, I frown, because it’s not there. The mute collar developed for the witch with a deadly voice is inside, although I’m not even sure if it’ll work now.
But the death stone has vanished.
“I don’t know.”
He stares at me.
We don’t have time to argue, because someone comes at us from out of nowhere.
With a freaking machete.
Growling, I clap the blade with both hands, catching it before it skewers me in two.
The male on the other end is the half-transformed shifter I’d just been eyeing. Fur still sprouts from human skin, but the rest of him looks all wrong.
His bones are broken and twisted the wrong way. I expect that is because of his attempts to shift, but it’s his eyes that aren’t right.
They’re completely white.
“This is some deep necromancy shit,” Zyran tells me as he shoves the shifter away. Even though he’s a weapon in his own right because of his death sight, he is well-trained in combat. He genuinely enjoys it and always picks up any combat mission our soul-captor allows.
Killing someone with sight can bring up questions—but death by knife wound has an easy explanation.
With a swift move, he twists the blade out of the male’s hand, then disembowels him with it.
Entrails splatter across the ground as the male groans—still very much dead.
And still very much not caring.
My spelled programming says that I should confirm with my soul-captor for instructions, but that requires the death stone or a patriarch representative.
I have served the Outcast Coven for years—not willingly, but through my enslavement.
And now with the upheaval of the matriarchs taking over, I feel like I’m on a sinking ship. Not that I don’t want the matriarchs to metaphorically shove their fists up the patriarchs’s assholes, but because I’m not sure where that leaves me or my brothers.
We’re powerful.
And we’re dangerous.
