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

Resolutely she turned, consulted her intuition, and strode into the darkness.

The sound of dripping water accompanied her long before the darkness lifted. Arabella brushed against wet leaves, tipping water into her slippers. A few moments of concentration, and the slippers became half-boots with sturdy heels. That was better.

The path was soggy and she squelched. Every now and then, something thin and woody tickled the back of her neck. Arabella hoped it was a twig and not a skeletal hand.

The thought made her quicken her pace through the undergrowth. Arabella tripped over a root and caught herself from falling. Her hands clutched something muscular and vine-like. It writhed and Arabella hastily let go.

Her unseen surroundings closed in, snagging painfully in her hair, reaching out across the path. Branches whipped in her face, and she splashed muddy water over herself with every step.

It was cold and disgusting.

So intent was she upon her footing, Arabella didn’t notice the creature until much later.

Something moved in the foliage, much quieter, keeping pace with her. She heard its breathing, low and soft.

The back of her neck prickled. Arabella stood still, peering, but could make out nothing.

It kept its distance.

Arabella couldn’t just stand there in the dark, waiting for it to make a move. She pressed on, uncomfortably aware of her unseen companion.

The darkness lightened, turning to a thick smoky grey. Shapes appeared out of it—a tree trunk, a tangle of large leaves, some hanging vines. White fog moved sluggishly as she passed through it, leaving warm moisture on her face.

Arabella’s legs ached, as if she’d been trudging through a marsh for days. Tiredness bowed her shoulders. Heat and humidity pressed down on her.

She wondered if ghosts perspired. It was hard to tell, with the damp plastering her hair to her head and sticking her clothes to her body. Her shoes and hem were waterlogged.

In this realm, it seemed she retained all the inconveniences of her corporeal form.

The light was a pearly grey when Arabella stopped by a quiet brook and leaned against a tree. It was cooler under the canopy, and the gurgle of water as it slipped over a bed of dark stones a welcome change from the ceaseless dripping.

She stared idly at the stones, noting the way they glinted with veins of green and blue. They reminded Arabella of lapis lazuli imported from the Goblin Empire. She leaned down for a closer look.

A snarl ripped the silence. A sinuous, feline body leapt out of the trees. It landed on the bank and turned in one savage fluid movement. Flash of fangs, ripple of spotted pelt, green glare of lantern eyes.

Arabella yelped and ran.

Her feet took flight. She skimmed over the brook, over the roots of ancient trees, over a tangle of undergrowth. The large cat bounded behind her, its rumble never far from her ears. Its breath was hot against her shoulder blades.

Branches whipped by. She dodged around trunks, scraped her arms against roughened bark. The exertion burned through her and roared in her ears, punctuated by her own scared whimpers.

She didn’t have time to think, just flee, following the pull inside her. Her body in Vaeland, still drawing her like a magnet, from so far away.

There. A gap in the trees, a golden arch framing light. Arabella tumbled into a clearing filled with sparkling sunshine, and fell to her knees.

The sweet green scent of crushed grass rose to her nose.

This was followed by a gentle laugh.

“Welcome,” said a voice, full of mirth and warmth. “Welcome, weary traveler.”

Arabella squinted in the direction of the voice as her eyes adjusted to the light. A woman resolved out of the golden smear, tall, black-haired, pale-skinned. Faint lines around her eyes and mouth put her at about middle age.

She wore an old-fashioned fitted gown of red velvet, a golden girdle low about her slender waist, emphasizing the curves of her hips. The skirts were full to her feet, her sleeves tight on her arms, and her shoulders bare above the low boat-shaped neckline.

“Who are you?” Arabella blurted out, too tired and too scared for proper etiquette.

The woman chuckled. “My, you are a blunt one. Spirited, too.” She surveyed Arabella with kindly satisfaction. “But those are the only ones who make it this far.” Sadness touched her voice and the brightness in her face dimmed.

As if on cue, the large cat set up an eerie scream. Arabella sensed its frustrated energy outside the clearing as it prowled.

She scrambled to her feet, still tensed to run. “You didn’t answer my question,” she told the woman. Kindly or not, ordinary-seeming or not, she was still a denizen of the Shadow Lands.

The woman bowed her dark head, a slender gold coronet gleaming against her hair. “Forgive me. I am Shahandra, one of the Guardians of this place. It is my task to provide a small refuge for those unfortunate enough to lose themselves in the Shadow Lands, to give them a reprieve from its dangers.”

She gestured around her. Arabella noted a number of grey tree-stumps, each polished to a shine, functioning as tables. Each held a profusion of objects—a tangle of jewelry on one, a host of goblets on another, stacks of plates, rows of daggers, folded clothing, and more.

Arabella’s fingers itched to snatch up a weapon. She put her hands behind her back lest her desires get the better of her. “Where did you get all these?”

Shahandra did not seem to mind her curtness. She answered with a gracious patience that made Arabella feel small and churlish. “I create them from the aether within the Shadow Lands.”

Arabella paused, thinking of Trey’s sword and the stool he had conjured up. “I thought aether was grey?”

“In the mortal realm, it is,” said Shahandra. “Here in the Shadow Lands, I have more… flexibility.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Arabella, but the woman was already turning away to a slender, moon-pale pedestal. She dipped a silver chalice into a stone bowl atop it and came