brought his body back. His heart was beating, lungs were breathing, but only because of the machines. Just looking at his body . . . you never would have thought something that broken, that ruined, could be alive.”
Xhea stared at Orren, its dirty glass façade, and the empty floor near the top of the skyscraper’s broken height where the attempted resurrection had occurred. Some days she had but to hear a sizzle of magic or smell flesh tinged with decay to return there. In memory she could see ghost and body both, each all but blinding from the layered spells that bound them. The machinery that forced the corpse to live had been nearly invisible in that harsh light. She saw too the shapes of the casters gathered around, pulling magic not from themselves but from massive storage coils, the type used by banks, drawing so hard on their energy that the coils whined in protest.
She’d been all but giddy in that room, high on spilled magic, vision dancing with color as often as not—and loving every moment of it.
The silence stretched. “What did they do?” Shai prompted.
Xhea swallowed. “There were four days of prep. On the fifth, they attempted the resurrection. For a while, everything seemed fine. The casters activated the spells—they were like magical lines, ropes almost, that bound the ghost to his body.” Like tethers, she’d thought—a thousand tethers of bright magic, so thick that she could barely see for their light. “The spells drew the ghost down to his body. But when the two touched, the ghost . . . screamed .
“I’ve seen a lot of ghosts, and I’ve heard them scream before. Anger and frustration, hurt and denial and grief. But this—I’d never heard anything like it. It was the first time I’d ever heard a ghost in agony.”
Shai’s eyes widened. “What did you do?” she whispered.
Xhea laughed, quiet and bitter. “I screamed too. I told the casters to stop, told them they were hurting him. They didn’t care. I tried to get to him, but . . . I was eleven years old. They held me back easily.” She’d fought, but they were a child’s struggles, a child’s fists, and even her years on the streets had taught her no way to break free from a grown man willing to ignore the pain of touching her.
She continued. “One by one, the casters drained the storage coils dry—the coils, and then themselves. All that brightness going black. They pushed themselves right to the edge, first trembling and shaking as they tried to control the spells, and then just . . . falling. Then the spells began to fail, snapping and fraying.
“Through it all, the ghost kept screaming. On and on and on. He didn’t need to breathe, and it was like the sound was being torn from him somehow, torn from his very self.” She gestured helplessly, as if with hands alone she could shape how she’d felt at that moment, that powerless terror and revulsion and the terrible, terrible compassion. She’d been certain that she would be deafened by the ghost’s anguish, unable to hear anything but the echoes of that sound.
“The spells worked,” Xhea said. “For as long as they lasted. They bound the ghost to his body. But there wasn’t nearly enough power to complete what they’d started. So he was stuck, half in his body, half out, fighting against the bonds and screaming.”
Stop there , she told herself. Shai didn’t need to know anything more. But the words seemed inevitable now, and the telling.
“As they fell, I freed myself. I took out my knife.” Xhea closed her eyes. It was too hard, suddenly, to look at Orren; all that cracked and gleaming glass, too bright in the early morning light. Too bright for memories so dark.
“I tried to help him,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “I tried. I ran to him with the knife and I started . . . cutting. But they were spells, not tethers, and they were so strong. Ropes and cords of magic. I had to use all the strength I had.”
She took a deep
Xhea stared at Orren, its dirty glass façade, and the empty floor near the top of the skyscraper’s broken height where the attempted resurrection had occurred. Some days she had but to hear a sizzle of magic or smell flesh tinged with decay to return there. In memory she could see ghost and body both, each all but blinding from the layered spells that bound them. The machinery that forced the corpse to live had been nearly invisible in that harsh light. She saw too the shapes of the casters gathered around, pulling magic not from themselves but from massive storage coils, the type used by banks, drawing so hard on their energy that the coils whined in protest.
She’d been all but giddy in that room, high on spilled magic, vision dancing with color as often as not—and loving every moment of it.
The silence stretched. “What did they do?” Shai prompted.
Xhea swallowed. “There were four days of prep. On the fifth, they attempted the resurrection. For a while, everything seemed fine. The casters activated the spells—they were like magical lines, ropes almost, that bound the ghost to his body.” Like tethers, she’d thought—a thousand tethers of bright magic, so thick that she could barely see for their light. “The spells drew the ghost down to his body. But when the two touched, the ghost . . . screamed .
“I’ve seen a lot of ghosts, and I’ve heard them scream before. Anger and frustration, hurt and denial and grief. But this—I’d never heard anything like it. It was the first time I’d ever heard a ghost in agony.”
Shai’s eyes widened. “What did you do?” she whispered.
Xhea laughed, quiet and bitter. “I screamed too. I told the casters to stop, told them they were hurting him. They didn’t care. I tried to get to him, but . . . I was eleven years old. They held me back easily.” She’d fought, but they were a child’s struggles, a child’s fists, and even her years on the streets had taught her no way to break free from a grown man willing to ignore the pain of touching her.
She continued. “One by one, the casters drained the storage coils dry—the coils, and then themselves. All that brightness going black. They pushed themselves right to the edge, first trembling and shaking as they tried to control the spells, and then just . . . falling. Then the spells began to fail, snapping and fraying.
“Through it all, the ghost kept screaming. On and on and on. He didn’t need to breathe, and it was like the sound was being torn from him somehow, torn from his very self.” She gestured helplessly, as if with hands alone she could shape how she’d felt at that moment, that powerless terror and revulsion and the terrible, terrible compassion. She’d been certain that she would be deafened by the ghost’s anguish, unable to hear anything but the echoes of that sound.
“The spells worked,” Xhea said. “For as long as they lasted. They bound the ghost to his body. But there wasn’t nearly enough power to complete what they’d started. So he was stuck, half in his body, half out, fighting against the bonds and screaming.”
Stop there , she told herself. Shai didn’t need to know anything more. But the words seemed inevitable now, and the telling.
“As they fell, I freed myself. I took out my knife.” Xhea closed her eyes. It was too hard, suddenly, to look at Orren; all that cracked and gleaming glass, too bright in the early morning light. Too bright for memories so dark.
“I tried to help him,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “I tried. I ran to him with the knife and I started . . . cutting. But they were spells, not tethers, and they were so strong. Ropes and cords of magic. I had to use all the strength I had.”
She took a deep
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