K. McEntire - Lightbringer

“What happened to him?” Wendy demanded. “What happened to his soul?”

“That, darling, I can’t say.” Her mother shrugged. “I wasn’t there. Any number of things. Drug use, astral projection…anything can stretch a soul so thin it’ll snap. But his cord wasn’t rotted, so he’s still about somewhere, possibly lost as I was supposed to be. Looking for you, I’d wager. If you don’t feel like going into your Light, I’m sure you might even be able to find him. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even do a better job saving your best friend than you did your own flesh and blood.”

Her mother stretched and held out her hand. “Your doorway into the Light’s grown thin, Winifred. It’s time. Give me your Light and be on your way. Or stay here and learn a trick or two. It’s no matter to me.”

“You’d do this?” Piotr asked, pushing into a sitting position, still cradling Wendy’s ball of Light. “You’d kill your own daughter for this?”

“In a heartbeat,” she said, “if she still had one. I need it more than she ever would. All that power inside and she hardly ever tapped it. Disgusting. Now give me her Light. I’ll put it to good use.”

“You are sick,” Piotr hissed. “She is your daughter !”

“Yes, she is, and Momma knows best. Besides, Piotr, you don’t have any room to lecture me. Or I suppose you don’t remember my mother and what she did to her own sister? It is our duty to pass on our knowledge, our teaching, and our ways. The proper ways.”

“Proper ways?” Piotr spat. “There is nothing proper about what you are doing.”

“Manners, Piotr. Manners.” The White Lady shook her head, tsking. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. Wendy learned the Sight at too young an age; it taught her sympathy for your kind. It made her think of you as a person. Why do you think we wait until they’re eighteen to show my kind the Light? Otherwise we might think things like you are ‘romantic.’ We might go about kissing you.”

“We’re not yours to control,” Piotr snapped, hugging Wendy’s fragile ball of Light as closely as he dared. “You don’t have any say over our souls.”

“I don’t?” She seemed truly sad at that. “Piotr, Piotr, Piotr, after all these years and you still haven’t learned? The dead must be sent on—Lost, Shades, Walkers, and Riders alike. No one may stay in the Never, even if they don’t think they’re ready to move on. No one.”

“That’s not your choice to make!”

“Isn’t it? Ghosts like you are like children who want to stay up past your bedtime because you fear the monster under your bed, in your closet. An adult, a person with clear sight, knows better. An adult can see what really is for the best and when it’s time to move on.”

“You’ll be killing your own line!”

“Hardly. I still have two very smart, very dedicated children besides Winifred. I’m willing to sacrifice her in order to keep our legacy strong. Now give me the Light!”

Wendy wrapped her arms around her waist and ducked her head. She hated to say it but what her mother said made a sick, disheartening sort of sense to her. The pillar to the afterlife was here—maybe it really was time for her to move on. “Mom’s right, I guess. Do it, Piotr,” she whispered. “Do what is best.”

“Listen to my daughter, Piotr.” Her mother said. “Give me her Light, boy.”

“Da? Or what?” Piotr asked, eyeing the hungry, starved Lost. Wendy was no longer at their mercy, but her mother might be. “What will you do to me if no, hmm? You feed me to your beasties?”

“Or watch as I have my Walkers rip my daughter to shreds.” The White Lady held up a threatening hand, deadly calm and completely serious. “So what will it be, Piotr? Winifred? Or the Light?”

In his flickering vision Piotr heard a scream, faint and far away, and sensed a trembling as footsteps pounded up a flight of stairs. In the basement, in the living world and in the living time, someone—a maid, or a custodian perhaps—had discovered Wendy’s body.

“How about you go to hell?” he said and pushed away from Wendy’s lap, dodging past the White Lady’s goons, and sprinting for her bleeding body. Long-fingered, bony hands gripped his ankles, pulling him back, draining him, but Piotr struggled, thrashing his legs and kicking over and over again until the hands let go with a brittle crack. Then, Wendy’s body only a few feet away, Piotr shoved forward with all his might. The White Lady was screaming, the Walkers howling, but all he could see, all he could feel, was the pulse of her Light sliding out of his grip.

The orb balanced on the tip of his fingers, about to fall, about to break…

Piotr shoved forward…

…and thrust her orb of Light deep into Wendy’s gut.

Behind him Wendy shrieked and her pillar’s song cut off, the glittering ray winking out.

“You stupid boy,” keened her mother. “Oh you idiot! Look at what you’ve done!”

Across the ballroom Wendy’s soul burst into brilliant Light, filling the room like phoenix fire, and a pulse of silent white exploded through the room, rocking the ghostly Palace at its very foundation. The Light burned everything it touched to a crisp—the White Lady, the Walkers, the Lost, and the Riders—bellowing Light and heat and an immense, billowing flame.

Piotr closed his eyes as the shockwave reached him, prepared for the bitter end.

The Palace Hotel was empty for repairs. An earthquake had rocked the historical monument to its very foundations two weeks earlier, and though any contractor would have sworn the grand old hotel would have easily withstood a powerful shock, this quake apparently originated beneath the building itself. Luck was with them, however: a few plates were broken, and a maid sprained her wrist grabbing her cart to keep it from rolling over the feet of a customer, but there was only one serious injury out of all the guests. The Palace would be closed for another month, but residents of the Bay Area counted themselves lucky. It could have been much, much worse.

When Wendy opened her eyes, she found her father slouched at her bedside, head thrown back and snoring loudly, the latest PC World propped open on his chest. Tubes and wires snaked across her body and her sides ached fiercely, itching like fire. There was a plastic cup at her bedside, and a white pitcher brimming with water, condensation sluicing down its sides. Careful of her side, Wendy gingerly reached for the glass but bumped her elbow. She couldn’t stop the curse from escaping her lips.

Her father’s eyes flew open. He looked at her, saw she was awake; a long, slow smile worked its way across his face. “Hey Pippi Longstocking,” he whispered, “are you up?”

“Up as I’ll ever be,” she said and pointed to the pitcher. “I’m thirsty, though. Could you please—”

“Right away,” he said and jumped up to fill her glass, his magazine tumbling beneath the bed. “You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, sweetheart.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Sip this slowly and I’ll go get the doctor.” He wiped a damp hand across her jeans and Wendy spied one corner of Emma’s envelope sticking out of the pocket. The sight of that pristine, sharp corner brought back the dreams of the White Lady in one great rush. Wendy forced herself to stay calm.

“Dad, wait,” she said and gripped his wrist with her free hand. “What happened?”