Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1) by Rabia Gale (i can read with my eyes shut TXT) 📗

reminded of bones rattling. “Miasma’s only the start of the plan, little butterfly. Master—” It broke off, choking, as if one of the bones had stuck in its throat.

Arabella rather hoped it had.

But that wasn’t it. Someone else was in the space—Arabella refused to name it a room without further confirmation—a presence whose words and voice disappeared from her memory within moments.

The presence said, You talk too much.

A strangled sound answered him. Arabella almost heard the ghoul’s words die, stillborn, before they could be said.

The other turned its attention to Arabella. Already, its voice had faded from her memory.

It had to be the one from the pawnshop. Master, the ghoul had called him.

You’ve been a naughty girl, Miss Trent, poking your nose in business not your own.

“It’s more accurate to say I was dragged into this business,” said Arabella with spirit. “What do you mean by trapping me here?”

I was curious and wished the pleasure of your company.

“You could’ve called upon me, instead of resorting to such tactics, if that were truly your intention.” Arabella tried to focus on the other’s words, to hold them in her memory, but it was like cupping water. Sooner or later, the water trickled through her fingers and she was left with an odd, one-sided conversation, blanks where the Master’s words ought to be. “But I suppose detaining a lady’s spirit is of a little concern to those smuggling miasma into the mortal plane.”

Ah, so you pulled that out from your memory, did you? I was right to consider you a threat.

Arabella, straining to hold on to the other’s voice, caught a wet chewing sound, a whiff of something both sweet and sour.

“Whatever you’re planning won’t work, you know. The Phantasm Bureau will apprehend you. There’s no doubt about it.” Her words were brave, but her heart doubted. What had Trey said about the Great Incursion? It had decimated the Bureau’s ranks.

Let them try. The presence scoffed at the idea. What can they do without Trey Shield?

Warning bells rang in her mind. “What do you mean?” The question came out short and sharp.

Had she revealed too much? Arabella bit her ghostly lip, the sensation like walking into a fog.

He’s coming for you.

“Perhaps,” she said cautiously. No need to let the ghoul’s master uncover her hope.

I’m depending on it.

The Master laughed, a sinister sound that sent fear thrilling through her. And then the presence left, taking the ghoul with it.

She forgot its last words moments after it left. But the sense of them lingered, like a nightmare, along with that tang in the air she couldn’t place.

It was expecting Trey. Planned for it, in fact.

This was a trap, and she was the bait.

Chapter Twelve

It was hard to hang in the dark, feeling helpless. Arabella’s entire body was tight with the need to do something.

She didn’t want to lead Trevelyan Shield into a trap. And she rather doubted the Master would let her go afterwards. She shuddered, remembering the ghoul’s hunger.

I’d prefer to take my chances in the Shadow Lands than with that creature!

She started at the thought.

The Shadow Lands. All evening, the realm had been near to her, peeking over her shoulder, breathing down her neck, drawing her closer. If she could go into the Shadow Lands, she had a chance of finding Trey and warning him before he was captured.

Arabella turned her thoughts towards the place, remembering its haunting music, smoke-thick walls, and frozen souls. It was nearby, but just out of her reach.

The wards were in the way.

She’d have to do something about them first. But what? It was pitch-dark; she couldn’t make out the construction of the pentagram.

It was silly. Here she was—a spirit who didn’t need food or water or sleep, who could slide through walls and doors as easily as if slipping through water.

And she needed light?

What if I made my own light?

There were spirits who glowed. Why couldn’t she?

Arabella held her hands in front of her face—or where she thought her face was.

Shine, she told them and let the memories flow.

Silver moonlight flooding through a window… a cat’s eyes reflecting amber in the night… greyish wisps fluttering over dark moors… fungi glowing a sickly-green under a tree where a suicide had hung… blue luminescence on the dark seas coming in with the tide…

… the blank eyes of a corpse kindling to unholy life… the snap and crackle of a demonic fire…

Arabella’s throat tightened; something beat against her non-existent ribcage. She forced herself to move on from the images, to gas lamps burning yellow on Lumen’s streets, to runes gleaming silver, to dancing under a star-washed sky with a man’s hand clasping hers and his arm around her waist.

Heat that had nothing to do with light or flame rushed through Arabella.

She gasped.

In front of her were her own hands, fingers small and delicate, softly glowing. Arabella glanced down and saw that her entire form was illuminated, hints of shining color shifting throughout it.

I did it, she thought, triumphant, but tired. She was drained and felt more insubstantial than ever, as if burning away her essence sliver by sliver.

Even as she watched, she grew even more tissue-thin.

Hurry! What’s the use of this, if you’re just going to burn up without doing anything?

Arabella looked at the wards and grimaced.

They weren’t made of runes, the way Trey’s were. These were twisted spikes of life energy, unhappy and cruel, growing in thorns and rusty tangles of wire.

No wonder they had attacked her so viciously.

But this was magic she was familiar with.

Through the wards, Arabella faintly made out a cavernous space, emptiness stretching away into darkness. A warehouse, she guessed. She stretched out her senses, hoping to catch a whiff of mud and water. Nothing.

But underneath her…

Arabella floated midway up a cylinder. The pentagram was on the floor beneath her, a construct of bone and hair and rope from a hangman’s noose. Caught in the knotted middle of it gleamed something round and small and blue.

Her sapphire ring.

So that’s how they