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This is my chance to use all the skills Paloma has taught me.
This is when I fulfill my destiny—do what I was born to do or die trying.
I creep toward the Richters, keeping my movements so silent, so stealthy, they remain completely unaware of my presence. Remembering what Paloma told me, that the only way to rid the world of them, send them back to their afterlives, is to either remove their heads or cut them cleanly in half.
Sounds simple in theory, but judging by the sheer number of them, my only hope of seeing it through is to focus less on the act and more on the end. Envision them lying in headless heaps all around me. See it as though it’s already done.
With the image fixed in my head, I rub my lips together, tighten my grip on the knife, and spring toward the first one. Amazed at how easily I catch him.
Then again, he didn’t see me coming. Failed to sense me sneaking up from behind him, blade at the ready.
Doesn’t even realize what’s happening, until the razor-sharp tip jams all the way to the hilt. And though he puts up a bit of a protest, it’s too little, too late. My knuckles are already dragging clear across his neck as I go about the business of severing his head.
He crumples to my feet, his pathetic gurgle lost among the noise and the chaos, leaving no one the wiser.
As far as gore goes, there’s surprisingly little. One of the older ones I would guess—judging by the pile of bones and dust he leaves in his wake. Though the small chunk of soul that once served to revive him, hovers briefly, as though testing the limits of its freedom, before zooming through the sky.
It’s a sight to behold. Though I don’t watch for long. I’m quick to move on to the next one. Once again, imagining the deed as if it’s already done, I shove my blade deep into his spine and saw a deep and steady line. While it proves to be an effective method of slaying, what Paloma failed to mention is it also gives them a chance to shout and scream and warn all the others.
It’s a mistake I won’t make again.
Clearly, decapitation is the better way.
With the eyes of countless undead Richters upon me, I take a moment to smile and wave.
While I would’ve preferred to have slain a few more before it got to this point, I’ve still managed to get them exactly where I want them: focused on me, instead of the mine. Which in turn allows some of
those poor trapped workers to start sneaking out.
The Richters’ first reaction is to erupt into an angry chorus of menacing shouts and growls. Though despite the show of bravado, it takes them a while to organize and adjust to the sudden change of plans. They’re so used to following orders from Cade, acting on their own is pretty much a foreign concept to them.
No matter. I just cool my heels and wait where I am. Willing to hang for however long it takes for them to regroup, knowing that every second of delay allows more people to escape. Besides, there’s no need to charge them when, soon enough, they’ll be coming to me.
With one hand holding the athame, I rub the blade across the front of my jeans, staring impassively at the thick layer of sludge that falls away, while my other hand grabs hold of my pouch. Calling upon the elements, my ancestors, and whatever intrinsic bit of goodness is left inside our spirit animals and paying homage to the ancestral knowledge that lives deep inside me, that courses straight through my veins.
The blood of Valentina, Esperanto, Piann, Mayra, Diego, Gabriella, Paloma, Alejandro, and Django—all of the Seekers who’ve made great sacrifices so I could be here. Having braved the face of evil so that others could live their lives in relative peace.
With so many counting on me, I can’t let them down.
When the largest among them comes at me, it’s clear he’s fueled on nothing more than anger and rage—reminding me of the way I used to operate until Chay drew my attention to the absolute foolishness of it. Warning me that raw emotion without the strength to back it is a sure way to find yourself dead.
Luckily for me, I listened. I’m no longer that girl.
Unluckily for the undead Richter, he never had a chance to know Chay.
He comes at me with gleaming eyes and a warrior’s cry—his hands curled to fists that swing about wildly. And though it’s an impressive display at first glance, it’s only a second later when I grab hold of his arm and twist until it snaps. Barely allowing a second to pass, before I rend my athame clean across his neck, watching as his body falls separate from his head.
I gaze down at my feet, waiting for him to deteriorate. But when he bleeds out in a thick, black, viscous crud that seeps from his stump of a neck, I figure he must’ve been dead a much shorter time than the last one.
I kick him aside, wait for the next wave to come. Sure there will be one. Surrender is the last thing on their minds.
This group is smarter, taking a moment to gather axes and picks to use against me. Not getting very far before I relieve them of their weapons. Using my talent for telekinesis, with a little help from my element Wind, to disarm them—I take them down one by one. Indulging the occasional glimpse at the mine, relieved to see it still untended. The captives continuing to escape, as I continue slaying Richters.
As soon as that group is eliminated, the remaining Richters fall on me in a swarm of undead stench, fetid breath, gnashing teeth, and kicking feet. And, to their surprise, I refuse to fight back.
I refuse to deflect.
I stand loosely before them, head raised, arms held out to either side, accepting whatever they give me.
