“And yet,” he continued, sounding weary, “as much as the Marshal in me would like to blame a single noisy pair for the damage currently unspooling the weave, the true chaos is a chorus. It began long ago, in realms beyond your reach, and has grown to a volume that overwhelms my influence.”
The admission was more terrifying than any threat. The chaos had grown too vast for even the Marshal of the Weave to control. He was being drowned out by the noise he was sworn to structure.
“You mean the Veil tears?” I asked.
He gave a barely perceptible nod. “It began with a single, blasphemous note, the one you call Erlik, and the lesser minds he ensnared. Their work is a systemic poison. It creates more noise than any one being, even I, can isolate and silence in time. I am left to cauterize wounds, rather than cut out the infection.”
“Solidifying the tears?” Angel clarified; his voice tight. “Is that why the worlds are merging faster?”
Another slow, weary nod.
“Can’t you just stitch them closed?” I pressed. Surely, in all the realms, I wasn’t the only one who could mend a tear.
“I am one being. Eternal does not mean omnipresent.”
“We slowed the last wave,” Angel said, his tone grim. “By killing the cultists who were ripping them open. We lost whole units. Was Erlik involved even then?”
“A minor entity, yes. Now, he has grown powerful by hoarding the resonant energy of living souls.”
“His larder,” I said, the realization turning my blood to ice. “That’s what he wanted with me. Not just to wear me, but to consume the resonance. To eat the pattern I was made of.”
“Your talent makes you rare and coveted,” Zhenjun said, glowering at me. “Your recklessness breeds chaos. Unweaving yourself to protect your mate…”
“And I’d do it again,” I shot back, the words sharp. “The choice was him or me. There wasn’t a third option to consult the cosmic rulebook.”
Zhenjun sighed heavily. “Erlik and his ilk have long sought out and devoured any like you. He converts unique dissonance into raw power, fueling further incursions.”
“A cosmic tapeworm,” I breathed. Erlik has told me as much himself. I’d merely dared to hope that ended when I died.
“He still has Jude’s physical remains,” Angel’s voice was raw, edged with pain and a guilt I could feel through our silent bond. “Can he still use it to finish consuming him?”
“A valid and pressing concern,” Zhenjun acknowledged. “One that requires immediate intervention.”
I reached out instinctively, my spectral fingers passing through Angel’s clenched fist. A ripple of cold spread across his skin. He tightened his grip, as if trying to hold the sensation.
“I’m going to find Erlik,” Angel stated, leaving no room for doubt. “And I’m going to destroy him.”
Since meeting the shadow demon, I’d learned one thing; nothing about him was easy. He’d drained my magic like it was nothing, and I was a weaver, a rare thread in the tapestry. What would he do to a pack of shifters or a coven of vampires? Crush them without a second thought.
“What can we actually do?” I asked, turning to Zhenjun. He hadn’t brought us here for a philosophical chat. “I’m a ghost. He can’t even hear me. And a one-man battle isn’t a war; it’s a suicide mission.”
Zhenjun looked between us, his expression one of chilling clarity. “To stay together, you must become useful. You, as my Arbiter, to judge and mend the tears. He, your Bastion, to stand against the tide. You will go where the weave frays and impose order. You will end the source.”
“Small problem,” I said, holding up a translucent hand. “Ghost. Incorporeal. How does a phantom deliver justice?” And what was the point of any victory if it meant an eternity of being unable to hold Angel? Or to help Ivan, or even sit with Grandpa, and feel Peanut Butter purr in my lap?
Zhenjun settled back, a sharper intent igniting in his dark eyes. “Then let that be your first edict. Reclaim what was stolen. Retrieve your remains.”
“But he can’t hear me,” I repeated, frustration bleeding through. “Even if we knew where my body was, how am I supposed to help? I’m Casper the library-crashing ghost.”
Zhenjun considered this. Then, with a gesture so slight it was almost imagined, he conjured a slender case of polished wood between us. It opened without a sound.
Inside, on a bed of midnight velvet, lay three artifacts: a wide bracer of braided silver and shadow-forged metal; a choker of sleek, light-devouring gunmetal; and a simple ring of dark iron, unadorned save for a single onyx stone.
“Choose a vessel to serve as an anchor,” Zhenjun instructed. “To bridge the silence between realms and lend your strength to your Bastion.”
My gaze lingered. The bracer was armor; the choker, a chain. The ring was a vow. The future we’d been racing toward, captured in cold iron. I took it. The case dissolved.
Angel reached out, palm up, but I froze. “Wait. When he shifts, what will this do to him?” The fear was sudden and sharp. Would it sever a finger or something?
