The Veil
Page 14
I couldn’t use magic—not with Containment cameras all around. I looked around, found a fallen limb beneath one of the gigantic magnolias. Hands shaking with adrenaline, I grabbed it up and ran back toward them, holding the branch like a baseball bat.
“Hey! Get away from her!” I hoped yelling would scare them away and bring out people with actual weapons—assuming anyone was sober enough to hear us, or that the sound could carry over the horns and drums that still echoed from Jackson Square.
One of the wraiths turned back to me, a man with arms painfully pulled toward his body, skinny fingers tipped with long nails. He seemed to sniff the air—recognizing the magic I absorbed like him—then opened his mouth, screamed with a sound that was somewhere between fingernails on a chalkboard and the scrape of rough metal against metal. It was a horrible noise, pitiable and terrifying at the same time, and it made my stomach tighten with nerves.
Head bobbing, he began to lope toward me.
I pushed down fear. If he was moving toward me, he was moving away from her.
“Yeah, that’s right!” I yelled. “Over here!” I waved the stick in the air, ran back and forth across the street, trying to get the other wraith’s attention, too. Not that I knew what I’d do if I got it—but I was at least mobile, stick in hand, with solid lungs.
But it didn’t work. The second wraith grabbed the woman’s ankle, lunged at her.
This time, I didn’t think, I didn’t remember, I didn’t debate. I ran forward, wound up, and slammed the branch across the wraith’s spine. He screamed and reared back, looked at me with furious, watery eyes that were equally pitiful and terrifying.
I wasn’t thrilled about hurting something that I could so easily become. But he didn’t seem to care about my struggle. He shrieked, took a step forward. I moved backward and swung the limb in front of me to make sure he was giving me space.
I caught movement from the corner of my eye, realized the other wraith was also moving toward me. I’d managed to get their attention off the girl, but that might not serve me well in the long term.
I realized I could have used one of those walking sticks about now. Maybe one with a pop-up bayonet.
I looked back at the girl. She still looked wan, but she’d survive, if she could get up and run.
“Go!” I told her, and she climbed to her feet, limped down the street.
I looked back at the wraiths, trying to keep them both in front of me so I wouldn’t be surrounded, so they couldn’t trip me up.
One of them reached out to grab, skinny fingers like painted bones, tipped in thick, pointed nails. I swung the limb to bat the hand away, but he was faster than I’d anticipated. He snatched it, wrenched it from my hands, and tossed it down the street.
He swung out with his free hand. He might have been skinny, but he was strong, like his strength had been honed and concentrated into what was left of him. His arm hit me like an iron bar, and I flew backward through the air, a doll thrown by a spoiled child.
I hit the asphalt on my back. Pain burst through my body as the air seemed to fly out of my lungs. I tried to breathe, wheezed roughly.
They were both moving toward me. I sat in the middle of Royal, with not a soul in sight. Drums echoed down the street, the rhythm growing faster as the song rose to its crescendo.
Just like Gunnar had said, I had to be my own hero.
I climbed to my feet, still woozy, and paused to let my brain catch up with my body. But that only gave time for the fear to settle into my bones.
The wraiths opened their mouths, their high-pitched wails shuddering through my body. One of them darted forward and scraped claws along my arm, the scratches burning like he’d poured salt into them. Instinct had me slapping back, pushing him away.
“Hey! Get away from her!” I hoped yelling would scare them away and bring out people with actual weapons—assuming anyone was sober enough to hear us, or that the sound could carry over the horns and drums that still echoed from Jackson Square.
One of the wraiths turned back to me, a man with arms painfully pulled toward his body, skinny fingers tipped with long nails. He seemed to sniff the air—recognizing the magic I absorbed like him—then opened his mouth, screamed with a sound that was somewhere between fingernails on a chalkboard and the scrape of rough metal against metal. It was a horrible noise, pitiable and terrifying at the same time, and it made my stomach tighten with nerves.
Head bobbing, he began to lope toward me.
I pushed down fear. If he was moving toward me, he was moving away from her.
“Yeah, that’s right!” I yelled. “Over here!” I waved the stick in the air, ran back and forth across the street, trying to get the other wraith’s attention, too. Not that I knew what I’d do if I got it—but I was at least mobile, stick in hand, with solid lungs.
But it didn’t work. The second wraith grabbed the woman’s ankle, lunged at her.
This time, I didn’t think, I didn’t remember, I didn’t debate. I ran forward, wound up, and slammed the branch across the wraith’s spine. He screamed and reared back, looked at me with furious, watery eyes that were equally pitiful and terrifying.
I wasn’t thrilled about hurting something that I could so easily become. But he didn’t seem to care about my struggle. He shrieked, took a step forward. I moved backward and swung the limb in front of me to make sure he was giving me space.
I caught movement from the corner of my eye, realized the other wraith was also moving toward me. I’d managed to get their attention off the girl, but that might not serve me well in the long term.
I realized I could have used one of those walking sticks about now. Maybe one with a pop-up bayonet.
I looked back at the girl. She still looked wan, but she’d survive, if she could get up and run.
“Go!” I told her, and she climbed to her feet, limped down the street.
I looked back at the wraiths, trying to keep them both in front of me so I wouldn’t be surrounded, so they couldn’t trip me up.
One of them reached out to grab, skinny fingers like painted bones, tipped in thick, pointed nails. I swung the limb to bat the hand away, but he was faster than I’d anticipated. He snatched it, wrenched it from my hands, and tossed it down the street.
He swung out with his free hand. He might have been skinny, but he was strong, like his strength had been honed and concentrated into what was left of him. His arm hit me like an iron bar, and I flew backward through the air, a doll thrown by a spoiled child.
I hit the asphalt on my back. Pain burst through my body as the air seemed to fly out of my lungs. I tried to breathe, wheezed roughly.
They were both moving toward me. I sat in the middle of Royal, with not a soul in sight. Drums echoed down the street, the rhythm growing faster as the song rose to its crescendo.
Just like Gunnar had said, I had to be my own hero.
I climbed to my feet, still woozy, and paused to let my brain catch up with my body. But that only gave time for the fear to settle into my bones.
The wraiths opened their mouths, their high-pitched wails shuddering through my body. One of them darted forward and scraped claws along my arm, the scratches burning like he’d poured salt into them. Instinct had me slapping back, pushing him away.
