I peek out from behind Voren’s massive body and see a tall, regal man, floating like a wraith in the wind.
“Wraith King?”
“Vestihe,” he replies. “My name is Vestihe.”
I nod. “You’re welcome,” I say, floating fully out from behind Voren. Vestihe looks like Dreven around the jaw, but his eyes hold the same endless grey as the realm we currently occupy. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a resurrection appointment to keep. I’m running late.”
Vestihe nods. He keeps a respectful distance from Voren, who radiates enough territorial aggression to frighten a lesser spirit. “The Devourer is ended. You severed the hunger from the void. That is no small feat. You did what we could not.”
“I aim to please,” I mutter. I look down through the shifting mist of the veil. Dreven remains on his knees in the flooded chamber. He grips my lifeless hand so hard his knuckles turn white. Panic flares, cold and sharp. “Voren, why isn’t it happening? Why am I still here?”
Voren tightens his grip on my spectral arm. “The tear was deep, Nyssa. The brand took a significant portion of your essence with it when it snapped.”
“I don’t have time for deep tears,” I snap. “Look at him.”
Dreven bows his head until it rests against my chest. He thinks he failed. He thinks he just murdered me for nothing.
Vestihe follows my gaze. “He mourns.”
“It’s a waste of time,” I counter. “Put me back.”
“I can’t,” Voren says softly. “You must pull yourself back. The anchor belongs to you.”
“Pull myself back. Right. Because everything requires manual labour today.” I glare at Voren, but he offers no help. He just stands there, looking infuriatingly calm while my body grows cold on the floor.
Vestihe drifts back, giving me space. At least the dead know when to step aside.
I look down. The water around the chamber is still, but the shadows around Dreven thrash. He thinks he destroyed me. He thinks he followed an order that cost him everything. The sight of his despair hits harder than the shadow blade did.
“I’m coming,” I whisper, though sound doesn’t carry across the divide.
I focus on the sensation of the Crown. Usually, it burns. Now, it is just a dull ache, a phantom limb I can’t quite flex. I reach for that spark, the stubborn refusal to quit that defines every slayer before me.
It resists. The Veil pushes against me, heavy and solid.
“Harder,” Voren advises.
“Shut up,” I snap.
I grab the invisible line connecting my spirit to that battered shell on the stone floor. I don’t ask. I don’t plead. I demand.
Mine.
The grey space jolts. Below, Dastian’s head snaps up. He feels the static. Dreven stays frozen, afraid to hope.
I grit my teeth and haul on the connection with every ounce of will I possess. The grey blurs. Gravity grabs my ankles and yanks.
Chapter 43
Dastian
The static hits my skin first. It prickles along my forearms, raising the fine hairs. I know this frequency. It is stubbornness wrapped in a soul that refuses to quit.
Dreven doesn’t feel it. He stays on his knees, head bowed against her chest, shadows pooling around him in a sluggish, mourning tide. He thinks he killed her. He thinks he drove that blade home and ended the best thing that ever happened to us.
“Dreven,” I say, my voice rough.
He ignores me. He grips her hand like he can force life back into it through sheer will.
