Death Cultivator 2 by eden Hudson (books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📗

“I think this one’s going to be bad, Hake,” Rali warned me, prodding the knot at the center of the bruise. “It feels a lot tougher than the rest, so it’s probably not going to play nice when it leaves. Just try to keep breathing.”

I glanced up at him. I hadn’t noticed it before, but sweat was beading up on his round face, and the lace in his eyes was super thin. He looked legit scared. That did not inspire confidence.

“Uh, like figuratively or like literally keep breathing?” I asked.

Rali grimaced, but didn’t answer me. He dug his fingertips into the center of the bruise.

An atomic bomb exploded in my side, radiating waves of agony. Rali, Warcry, and the room around us disappeared, and all I could see was little clips of random junk from this life and the last one—my dad in an orange jumpsuit, Ripper’s teeth full of black Selken blood and ribbons of Kest’s skin, Gramps telling me to straighten up because I wasn’t going to act like that in his house, the Bailiff grinning as he activated the script remote to take me down, me punching and kicking trees around the trailer court to toughen up my knuckles and shins, the Ylef’s dead eyes staring up at the soaking room ceiling, Blaise in the hall at school calling me Grody.

When I could see again, I was facedown next to a pool of black sludgy vomit. The fumes burned the inside of my nose. I groaned and rolled away from the hot garbage fire stank of it before I puked some more.

“Looks like that’s where most of the contamination and impurities were collecting,” Rali said. “Good thing we got it moving again. That could’ve caused some real complications.”

I triggered another dose of Corpse Fire and pushed up on shaking arms and legs.

“I should probably clean that up before it eats a hole through the hardwood,” I said, only half joking, as I headed for the attached bathroom.

“And before we’re all sick,” Warcry said through his shirt. He’d pulled the collar up over his nose, but he hadn’t gotten out of the chair or looked up from his HUD.

“Okay, but back here when you’re done,” Rali agreed. “There’re still a few more blockages to free up.”

Once the impurity barf was cleaned up, I lay back down on the floor and let Rali get back to business on the last of the mess in my side. The rest was slower going, but none of it was as bad as the atom bomb knot.

Drowsiness kept washing over me while Rali worked. I could hardly keep my eyes open, even with Warcry’s HUD blaring out the smacks and grunts of women fighting.

“Sleep now?” Sushi murmured from somewhere near my face.

“Yeah, pretty soon,” I whispered without opening my eyes. “I think...”

But I couldn’t remember what I’d been about to say because I could see Gramps standing by the kitchen sink, talking on the phone and staring out the window at a purple sunset. Except the sun looked like a swirling fish, swimming around and around in place. He was on the phone with my dad, I realized, which was weird, because as far as I knew, Gramps hadn’t talked to Dad since he got sent down.

Around the edges of the dream, I heard Rali say, “How are you doing that, little fish?” and I sensed him and Warcry leaning over me.

Then a woman’s voice boomed, “Get your disgusting paws off me, you filthy aberration!”

My eyes flew open, all the exhaustion gone, and I sat up so fast I almost headbutted Warcry. I knew that voice.

“Let me see that!” I grabbed his HUD and turned it over so that the screen was facing me.

“Oi, watch yerself!”

My throat went dry. It was her in the Beauties versus Beasts cage, fighting off a group of bog ferals with nothing but her white marble fists and feet. I had to swallow a couple times before I could get my voice working well enough to answer Warcry.

I pointed at the woman on the screen. “That’s the angel of death.”

Find the Reaper

WARCRY LOOKED AT RALI. “You broke his brain, big man.”

“What are you talking about, Hake?” Rali asked.

“Are you guys serious?” I tapped Warcry’s screen. “You don’t recognize the angel who keeps attacking us? She...” I trailed off lamely as I realized what was going on. “You guys have never seen her.”

Rali was staring at me, brows pulled low over his lacy eyes in either concern or confusion. I couldn’t quite tell which.

“So, what, grav?” Warcry asked, studying the screen. “Yer angel of death does Beauty fights on the weekends as a hobby?”

I ignored him. Onscreen, the bog ferals tore at the angel of death’s marble skin, digging furrows in the stone. Her usually shining white hair was greasy and tangled, and her brilliant robes were torn and stained with blood and dirt. Strapped onto her shoulder was a newer version of the Transferogate, a Spirit draining device I’d been saddled with during my indenture to the OSS.

“Something’s wrong here,” I said. “She should be slapping those ferals down like they’re nothing.”

Rali leaned closer, frowning down at the fight on Warcry’s wrist. “She’s not using Spirit.”

“None of the Beauties do,” Warcry said. “That’s part of the draw, ain’t it? You see their technique. It ain’t all Spirit and flash, it’s real fighting.”

“Nobody in their right mind would put on a Transferogate willingly,” I said. I pointed at the hunk of metal and wires over the angel’s shoulder. “They suck, trust me. If all the fighters are outfitted with one, then something really not legit is going on here.”

“Mind not getting your fingerprints all over me screen?” Warcry said, trying to pull his HUD arm back.

But Rali grabbed his wrist, still staring down at the screen.

“Can you do that thing they do in the heist stories?” he asked Warcry. “Stop the feed, then zoom in and enhance