After the last piece was retrieved, the Gorta collapsed, hacking violently.
It tilted its head up, grimacing through strained features.
“How?” it shrilled, teeth clenched.
And that’s when I felt it.Anothercord, a second spirit line. It was fainter, frailer, decaying. . .
The Gorta’s.
A cruel smile tightened across my cheeks. I raised my free hand. Reaching in, I snatched that line—the Gorta’s piss-poor excuse for a soul, or whatever was left of it.
Its eyes shifted, not understanding. But it was clear itfeltthe impending doom all the same.
“You took my kindness. Took my earrings.” That voice—myvoice—was laced with fury. “So I’ll take your soul.”
Eat yourself.
My hand twisted into a tight fist. Not asking. Commanding.
The Gorta’s jaw stretched as wide as its void-black eyes, as its breath reversed. A monstrous vacuum sucking inward. Pale flesh darkened. Spots of rot spread, spoiled meat graying. Inch by inch, the body caved in on itself, crumbling like scorched ash.
Thin frame cracked.
Limbs unnaturally convulsed.
Until the Gorta contorted in ways no body should before collapsing entirely.
The disintegrated heap almost looked like an overcooked turkey—charred skin, cracked bones, and flaky decay.
I flicked my hand and sent a brief thought.Return.
Pogue’s glowing soul shot back into his gunmetal-hued body.
Relief swept in as his chest rose. Ashen color dissipated.
Then—
A gasp, loud and desperate, as if whispering the wordalive.
Below him, the Hungry Grass shriveled, drained of all sentience. It crinkled to the stone like dried-out wheat.
Pogue landed with a thud. Followed by a soft, ragged groan.
“Breathe . . . just breathe . . .” I whispered, stepping past the Cindergorta to kneel at his side.
His clouded eyes were gone, replaced with shocking blue. Clear and alert. They immediately darted around the room, trying to make sense of the aftermath. Trying to piece together what the hell just happened.
My hand involuntarily stroked over his forehead, petting the hair back in soothing sweeps. Pogue’s eyes fluttered closed for a breath, before widening.
“You’re okay. You’re safe.” My hand swiftly retracted. “A Gorta thought you’d make a tasty snack,” I said, voice a little too high—an attempt to downplay my internal anxiety.
The grasp I’d kept on my ability loosened. Reality started to slip back in, and my head grew foggy, a dull ache building behind my eyes.
Pogue’s head shifted slightly as he locked eyes on mine. Time slowed with every rise and fall of his chest.
But then his brow drew tight and he carefully sat up. He reached out and poked at a protruding, crispy-fried piece of Gorta.
“You killed it . . .” he said quietly. Not impressed. Not shocked.Nervous.
