Though why I thought I might need that protection I had no idea.
"Let your mind be the wind," Adeline intoned. "Let it be without thought or direction, free and easy."
A sense of peace settled around me. My breathing slowed even further, until I was on the cusp of sleep.
"A rope hangs above your chest. You cannot see it in the darkness, but it is there. Believe in it. When you are ready, reach for it. Not physically—metaphysically. Feel it in your hands, feel the roughness of the fibers against your skin, feel the strength within it."
I reached up with imaginary hands and grasped the rope. It felt thick and real, and as strong as steel.
"Ignore physical sensation and use the rope to pull yourself upright. Imagine yourself rising from your body and stepping free of all constraints."
I gripped harder with my imaginary hands and pulled myself upward along the rope. Dizziness swept over me, seeming to come from the center of my chest. I kept pulling myself upright and the pressure grew, until my whole body felt heavy. I ignored it, as ordered, and every inch of me began to vibrate. Then, with a suddenness that surprised me, I was free and floating in the darkness above my prone form.
Only it wasn't really dark. Adeline's aura lit the room with a deep violet, and Azriel's was an intense gold. Which surprised me—I'd have put money on the fact that his would be the fierce white I saw on the fields. The black tats that decorated his skin—the biggest of which resembled half of a dragon, with a wing that swept around his ribs from underneath his arm and brushed the left side of his neck—shimmered in the darkness and seemed to hold no distinct color.
Only that half dragon wasn't actually a tat. It was a Dušan—a darker, more abstract brother to the one that had crawled onto my left arm and now resided within my flesh. They were originally created to protect the Aedh priests who had once guarded the gates, but we had no idea who'd sent them to us—although Azriel suspected it was probably my father's doing. He was one of the few left in this world—or the next—who had the power to make them.
Valdis, the sword at Azriel's back, dripped the same blue fire on the astral field as she did in the real world, and it made me wonder if my own sword, Amaya, would be visible on this plane, given that she was little more than a deadly shadow normally.
I shoved the thought aside, then closed my eyes and conjured the image of the area where our ghost—Frank Logan—had met his doom.
In an instant, I was standing in front of the gigantic shed that was the Central Pier function center. On the night Logan had been murdered, this place had been filled with life and sound, and the pavement lined with taxis and limos waiting to pick up passengers. Now it was little more than a vague ghost town—figuratively and literally.
I looked around. The first thing I saw was a man, watching me. He was tall, with regal features and a body that was as lean as a whip. A fighter, I thought, staring at him.
As our gazes met, humor seemed to touch his lips and he bowed slightly.
I frowned, and thought, Do I know you?