but he told himself, not as bad as that steam iron. Not as bad as the knife peeling his skin. He pulled harder and the thing came free, black and gold swirling in his grip. The skin left behind was unblemished, pale tan, hairy, like nothing happened. Relief left him lightheaded.
Now what? The river glittered at his feet. Mimicking what Silas had done, he submerged his fist in the water. The silver liquid tugged at his hand, slipping between his fingers in weirdly living, slimy ways. Then with a yank, something came loose. The black swirled away, down the river and his hand slid free of the surface, the gold held within it.
Darien laughed. He wanted to dance. I did it. I can bring this to Silas. Boo yah, take that old demon, old buddy.
He stood, the fragment of gold sitting in his palm. It looked small, less substance than a big marble. Overhead a huge flash of white dimmed its shine for an instant. Darien looked at the hammer tattoo on the other side of his arm. I could do one more. Or I could bring him this one, and then come back.
A far-off caw of a crow was met with Grim’s howl.
Can I find my way back without Grim? If he can’t be spared?
A bright lash of green lit the dimness, showing that Silas wasn’t to be counted out yet. One more, before I go back. Maybe two.
He set the golden fragment down on a flat rock, eyeing it carefully. When it showed no sign of flowing away or rolling off, he licked his hand green again and went after the hammer. He was prepared this time. The sight of his glowing fingers sinking through his skin still made him queasy, the pain as he pulled up still made him gasp, eyes watering, but the fear was gone. He washed that one off his hand in the river, and laid its gleaming fragment next to the first. The two specks of gold rolled together and merged into a globe that would’ve matched the biggest agate marble he’d ever played with.
Still small, though. I have the hang of it now.
He tugged his sweater off over his head, and found the clawmarks on his shoulder. He’d be glad to be done with those. That ghost had given him such a fear of dark places he’d been unable to go outside at night for weeks. Digging his fingers in was satisfying, hauling the spirit from his flesh, drowning it in the river— take that, you coward.
He added the energy to his little ball, seeing it swell to egg yolk size.
Why not more? Why not all of them? He was giddy with the possibility. I can get rid of the lot. Help Silas, win this damned battle, and be alone in my head. Win-win-win-win-win.
He dug at the side of his neck, grunting at the scrape of his nails on skin. The spell, idiot. Licking his fingers did the trick. The green didn’t seem to be lessening. He dragged the cat off himself, dark ghost squirming between his fingers, and washed the energy clean.
More.
Each one seemed easier, faster. He stripped off his pants too, baring his legs. Each tattoo was a memory of darkness, of fear and pain and confusion and the panic-stricken certainty that he was slowly going insane. Off me! Out damned spot! He dug and yanked and washed and added to his gift for Silas. The glowing ball of energy grew in size. Baseball now, almost softball.
His breath came harder. He wiped sweat off his upper lip, and blinked as more dripped into his eyes. Fine shivers ran over his skin, but he couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold.
He held the next wriggling ghost mass in the river and almost tipped face first into the water. Careful. I bet you can’t breathe that stuff. For some reason the idea struck him as hilarious. Giggles shook him and he almost let go of both ghost and gold energy fragment. Might not be smart, to send a part of myself down the death river. That sobered him enough to finish the job.
Pressing the energy into the growing ball felt meditative. He turned the golden sphere in his hands, kneading it like bread dough. A flash of white overhead broke the mood and he jumped. More? He couldn’t remember what he’d done by now, but inspection of his arms and legs found no ink for the first time in months, first