He looks up. “Soul-bound power.”
Talon raises a brow. “Alright, that does sound made up.”
Cassian mutters, “It all sounds made up.”
But Nathaniel’s not smiling. Not even a hint of it. “Probably. But soul-bound power could mean energy tied to the other realm. Where the wraith resides, maybe?”
I blink. “You mean…myenergy?”
Nathaniel doesn’t answer right away.
That’s not comforting.
“I’d wager yours could work,” he says eventually. “A locket of hair, a piece of bone, your blood. Something physical from your... new body. It aligns with the prospect of Death giving it to you for a specific reason.”
Talon gives a low whistle. I just breathe in deep. So this is what Nathaniel meant about wanting to try it with Cassian first, but realizing they’d need me in the end. Not me, exactly. Just a piece of whatever Death stitched back together.
“I see,” I say. “So to recap: we need a piece of the wraith’s body, a piece of its past, and a drop of my blood? That’s the master plan?”
Nathaniel nods once. “In theory, yes.”
“In theory?” I echo.
“Assuming you can bleed,” he says. “Which we haven’t exactly tested yet. And it might take more than a drop. For rituals like this, a small cup of blood is usually safer. Anything less tends to lower the odds of success.”
I… I stare at the ceiling. Trying not to scream. Trying to convince myself I’m still asleep. Maybe I never woke up. Maybe I’m still passed out from Talon’s marathon sex session and this is just a very weird dream.
But no. I’m awake.
Very awake.
And apparently, I’m about to be part of a magical ritual involving chunks of flesh and a donation of my blood.
“Fine,” I say at last, voice brittle. “Where do we even start?”
Cassian meets my eyes. “Nathaniel and Talon will head to the exchange point and retrieve the body. We’ll need to extract bones from it. You and I will go find a sentimental item from her past. That means going back to the... murder scene.”
The Candy Maker’s house.
With a groan, I throw off the blanket and sit up. Every muscle in my body flares to life with a vivid reminder that I was, in fact,verythoroughly, andveryenthusiastically rearranged.
“Great,” I mutter. “That’s just lovely. But before we go, I have two demands. One: I haven’t eaten a single thing since I popped into existence naked in the middle of that car crash last night.And two: if I have to leave this abandoned hospital wearing the neon-orange scrubs, I swear to God, I will lose what little dignity I have left. I’m not doing that.”
It’s not about vanity. It’s about identity.
I’m supposed to march into a haunted house and dig through the wreckage of a woman who killed children for fun while dressed like a radioactive janitor?
Absolutely not. That’s how missions fail before they even begin.
I need real pants. And food. In that order.
Cassian exhales slowly, then pinches the bridge of his nose like I’m giving him a migraine just by existing.
“I’ll see what I can find,” he says.
I swing my legs off the bed and follow him.
Iwalk into the house but don’t go far.
