Rachel Aaron: Spirit’s End

The demons screamed back at him, black claws scrambling to eat him. Josef thrust them away with his will and stayed perfectly still, an iron statue, waiting. The light was fading quickly now as the shell closed behind him. Soon, the healing wound would be too small for him to retreat, but Josef didn’t look back. He stood, hand grasping, aching lungs bellowing in his chest.

“Nico!”

And then, without warning, he saw something. It was tiny in the infinite dark, little more than a pale flash, but it caught his eyes like a spark. He locked onto it, bashing the mad demons out of his way until he saw it flash again. It was a finger. One white finger, reaching out.

Josef lurched into the dark, and his straining hand brushed soft, human flesh. The moment the white finger touched his, he hooked the joint with his own and yanked back. The white finger jerked forward, revealing a white hand.

Josef reached out again, grabbing the tiny palm with his larger grip. Holding his sword with his anchoring hand, he pulled with every ounce of the Heart’s monstrous strength, and together, inch by inch, they dragged her out of the dark.

The hand was followed by a white arm, and then the crown of her head came into view, her short, black hair falling over her face. Next came her shoulders, her thin white chest, her hips, her legs.

Nico emerged with painful slowness, as though they were pulling her out of tar, but as Josef braced his legs and leaned back, pulling with all his weight, Nico’s head lifted and her yellow eyes locked onto his. She was crying, screaming, and though the demons ate her words, he could see them on her lips. She wanted to live. She wanted to live with him.

With a final roar, Josef yanked her free, dragging her against his chest and falling backward just as the shell closed. The wound slammed shut, slicing through the grasping hands that had tried to follow them. As the severed limbs crumbled to ash, Josef slammed onto his back, holding Nico against him with one hand and the Heart with the other as his chest thundered. He almost didn’t believe they’d made it until he felt Nico grab him and bury her head in his side.

“I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “I shouldn’t have come back. I don’t belong here. I’m a—”

“I don’t care,” Josef said, cutting her off before she could finish. He slid his hand up her back to grab her head, forcing her to look at him. “You. Are. Nico,” he said, grinding each word between his teeth. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

Nico’s golden eyes widened. “But I—”

“If there’s a problem, we’ll figure it out,” Josef said. “Or make Eli figure it out. That’s what we keep him around for.”

Nico laughed at that, a tearful snort as she ducked her head against him. Satisfied, Josef lay back and focused on overcoming the enormous pain that he’d been putting off. As he blacked out, he felt Nico’s hands on his face.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered.

“We save each other,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.”

He felt a soft brush on his forehead. Her lips, he realized. That thought made him grin wide as he slid into blissful unconsciousness, his fingers tangled in Nico’s short, soft hair.

Eli woke to the most horrible pain he’d ever experienced, which was a joy in and of itself. He hadn’t expected to wake up at all. After all, the Shepherdess had stabbed him, twice. He should be dead, expected to be. Death was the reward you got for playing the hero, and he’d been frightfully heroic there toward the end. That’s why the good thieves were never heroes. Hard to spend your ill-gotten gains when you were dead.

“I think he’s waking up.”

He went still. It was Miranda’s voice, and it was close, as though she were sitting beside him. A great feeling of relief crushed into his chest, and Eli realized he’d half believed that the only reason he was alive was because Benehime had won and somehow saved him for worse punishment. But Benehime would never let Miranda near him.

Slowly, hopefully, Eli cracked his eyes. Miranda’s face filled his vision. She was hovering over him, and he felt a pressure on his chest as she shook him gently. “I knew it,” she said, her pretty face pulling into the sneer he recognized as well as his own reflection. “Stop faking and get up, you degenerate.”

“Well hello to you, too,” Eli croaked, opening his eyes all the way.

He was lying on his back in the white nothing of the Between. Miranda was sitting beside him, fiddling with the gems in the Rector’s mantle as she glared in his direction. That much wasn’t surprising. What was, was that they weren’t alone. The Weaver sat on his other side, his old face pulled in a kindly smile as he peered down at Eli.

Welcome back to the living, Eliton.

“Don’t call me that,” Eli muttered, sitting up.

As the wave of nausea hit him, Eli realized this was a terrible idea and promptly lay back down.

You should take it easy, the Weaver said. I’ve repaired most of the damage, but you were on the edge of death for almost an hour while I repaired the shell. Some trauma was sadly unavoidable. Best to stay still.

“Right,” Eli said, swallowing. “Good plan.”

Rather than risk lifting his head again, Eli slid his fingers up his chest to assess the damage. After the way Benehime had stabbed him, he expected to find gaping holes, or at least a bloody mess, but his shirt was cleaner than it had been in days, and his skin was smooth and painless to the touch. He smiled. Having a Power to play surgeon certainly had its benefits.

As he moved his fingers down to prod the place where the second stab had hit his abdomen, Eli brushed a rough spot on his skin and jumped off the floor.

“Eli!” Miranda shouted, slapping him back down. “What part of ‘lie still’ don’t you understand?”

Eli didn’t answer; he was too busy undoing the buttons of his shirt. As he tore it open, he nearly cried in relief. There, spanning the center of his chest, was Karon’s burn. The moment he saw it, he felt Karon turn deep in his mind, settling himself sleepily below Eli’s conscious.

He was released when you smashed the paradise, the Weaver said. He was deathly exhausted. Apparently he’d been fighting the stars, trying to get back to you. After he was free, he refused to leave until I let him return to your body. I hope you don’t mind.

“How could I mind?” Eli said, laughing as he ran his fingers over the burn’s circular pattern. Everything really was coming back together, the loose ends tying themselves off. All but one.

He glanced at Miranda, buttoning his shirt again. “Where’s…” He trailed off. Somehow, it was hard to say her name. Fortunately, Miranda caught his meaning.

“The Shepherdess is gone,” she said. “After losing both her paradise and her favorite, she stopped fighting. The Lord of… I mean the Hunter took her with him outside the shell. I don’t know what happened next, but the demons were driven back and the Weaver was able to repair the shell.”

Not fully, the Weaver said, his voice despairing. I am not the Creator. I have patched the cracks, but the shell will never be truly whole again. And though the new Hunter bears the seed of the old, he will never be as strong as that which the Creator wrought with his own hands. He closed his white eyes and rubbed his forehead with tired hands. So many spirits lost who can never be replaced. The trust of the world is shaken, and our Shepherdess is gone. We are diminished forever, I fear.

“Surely not forever,” Miranda said.

Forever, the Weaver said again. We avoided destruction today, Spiritualist, but the problems that drove my sister mad still remain. The spirits will continue to grow smaller, sleepier, and stupider in their confinement, perhaps even faster now that we’ve lost so many. I can weave the shell stronger, but I can’t make new spirits. Even the Shepherdess had only one act of creation, and she spent that long ago.