Wicked Wings (Lizzie Grace #5) - Keri Arthur Page 0,21
distance rather than pulling away or even completely disappearing, as it had last night?
I’m coming in, Belle said.
No, don’t, in case this is a trap.
Then let me see what you’re seeing.
I’m not seeing a goddamn thing at the moment. Nothing other than the thorny bushes briefly highlighted in the flashlight’s beam.
Even so, I immediately reached for her and deepened the connection. Her being flowed through mine, fusing us as one, though not so deeply that I lost physical control or that her soul left her body and became a part of mine. But she could now see through my eyes and also use her talents through me if necessary. The ability to achieve this sort of remote connection was only a recent discovery; but then, until we’d arrived in this reservation, we’d really had no need for it.
You’re right, came Belle’s thought. She is old. And while the magic wrapped around her is making it difficult to read her, I’m getting the impression she wants to show you something.
I really hope it isn’t another body.
I leaped over a moss-covered log, landed awkwardly on the other side, then caught my balance and ran on.
I don’t think it is. She paused. But I do think it’ll be connected.
Which suggests she’s here to help. And, quite possibly, that she didn’t trust us enough to fully reveal her presence or talk to us yet.
And she may never—remember, she fled when you mentioned I was a spirit talker.
Which only made her behavior even odder. If she wanted to help us, why would she avoid talking to us?
Why is she even following you at all? Monty’s the stronger witch, and Ashworth was there last night. Either of them would be a more logical choice.
I wrinkled my nose and ducked under a low-hanging branch. Maybe it’s nothing more than the fact that I was there first last night. She couldn’t have known Eamon was Monty’s familiar rather than mine.
True. She shrugged mentally. Whatever the reason, until I either see her face or we uncover her past, I’m not going to be able to summon or question her.
Presuming you can get past her magic.
The spell’s a concealment one—it can’t and won’t stop me from summoning her.
Except she now knows you’re a spirit talker and may well add a thread or two to counter that.
Also true.
The ground dropped away suddenly, and I slid to a stop, sending stones bouncing down the steep, scree-filled slope. At its base was a wide creek that wound its way through what looked to be more a man-made ravine rather than a natural one. On a large rock in the middle of the water was something white. The slight shimmer of air that was our specter hovered above it. I narrowed my gaze, and after a moment saw the faint silver and gray threads that was the concealment spell.
Belle sucked in a breath, a sound that echoed loudly through my brain. Damn, the magic behind that spell is powerful.
Yes. She must have been a strong witch in life.
Which begs the question, why would a witch give over her afterlife like this? There are plenty of other ways to seek revenge, if indeed that’s what she wants.
Seeking such revenge in life could be what landed her in this position.
If she had gone after whoever was responsible for the death of her child, why would she be here—in this state—now? It makes no sense at all.
That’s another question to be added to the list if you do manage to summon and talk to her.
I carefully started down the slope. An ever-increasing wave of stones rolled ahead of me, and a thick cloud of dust rose, tickling my throat and making me cough. The noise of the cicadas faded away and the night became still—hushed. Trepidation stirred, even though I had no immediate sense of threat.
I was halfway down the slope when the specter rose and fled. I swore softly but kept my concentration on the unstable ground under my feet; the last thing I needed was to fall. By the time I made it to the ravine’s base, sweat trickled down my back and my legs were on fire. I made another of those somewhat useless mental notes to do something about getting fitter and walked along the creek bank until I was opposite the rock that held the small white pile.
In the flashlight’s bright light, it looked a whole lot like feathers.