“You’d really do that?” He was already limping to the bedside.
“Of course.” Just another ghost, she told herself. Think of it like any other job.
As if she’d take a job like this.
He didn’t attempt to touch her or the covers, only lowered himself onto the mattress, slipping through the metal railing without realizing it was there. Xhea shifted awkwardly, the coins in her hair clinking as she tried to make room. He sighed as he lay down, a slow exhalation that seemed to go on forever, and Xhea wondered if he might not bother to breathe again—might simply vanish, his purpose achieved with this brief moment of rest. Then his unneeded breath hissed in and he settled his head more comfortably on the pillow.
Xhea didn’t speak, just let herself feel him there, the unmistakable chill of a ghost. She didn’t touch him, though he was close enough that any movement might bring them into contact, face or shoulder or leg.
Yet even after a few long minutes spent face to face in silence, she felt little different. The colors hadn’t dimmed, and as she opened and closed her hand, she knew her fist was as weak as before. Nothing stirred in the pit of her stomach. No sense of that dark stillness waiting to overflow. There wasn’t even emptiness, just the bright magic, grinding nausea, and a bone-deep weariness that weighed her down as surely as if she’d been bound.
What had she expected? She’d dealt with ghosts countless times, bright with payment and without, and never had a ghost’s mere proximity caused the dark magic to rise. Not before Shai.
It was only then that Xhea realized the old man was crying, ghostly tears slipping down his wrinkled cheeks and vanishing before they reached the pillow. There was no point in asking if he was all right. Instead, she whispered, “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know.” He shuddered with thin sobs. “I just want to go home.”
What would she have done had this truly been a job? Used her knife, most likely; cut his tether to the world and released him to dissolve into air and memory. Yet her knife, locked but feet away, was far beyond her reach.
The darkness wasn’t just going to come, she realized. So long rejected and buried under tides of bright power, it wasn’t going to fight back. She’d never wanted it to fight back; just the opposite. Now, when it was needed, she didn’t know how to call it.
Hesitantly, Xhea placed her hand against the old man’s cheek. It hurt as her fingers passed through his flesh, suddenly not numb but burning, freezing. Still she persisted, cupping her hand as if she could touch him in truth, brush away his falling tears with a gesture. The pain helped focus her: it was a point of clarity in the midst of so much brightness.
She thought of stillness, of black that waited like the depths of a cold lake and the dark fog that crept from its surface. She was afraid—oh, she was so afraid of what she was, and terror curdled her empty stomach—and yet still she reached for calm and asked the darkness to come. If she had used words, she would have said only yes—affirmation and permission both.
This is what I am, she thought. The balance. The coin’s other side.
This is who I am: a bridge between darkness and light.
And the magic flowed. It rose slowly at first, sluggishly. It felt cold, like a thin stream of melted ice rising through her, and where it met the bright energy Xhea burned, too hot and too cold. Still she called to it, welcomed it, and as the magic moved through her the brightness began to give way.
Against so much power, the thin stream of darkness held little sway. Yet she didn’t need to flood her body with magic, merely encourage it to flow down her arm, pulse by pulse to the rhythm of her blood; allow it to swirl and coil through the flesh of her hand, and pool in her palm.
“What do you want?” she whispered. Not to know the answer; only to hear the words once more from his lips.
“Home,” the ghost said, his voice tight with tears. “Just let me go home.”
“Close your eyes.” Xhea ran her magic-darkened fingers across his eyelids. “Think of home. Only of home.”
Again she cupped her hand over his cheek, a mere breath of air between where her skin ended and his ghostly presence began. She said to the magic that rose so slowly inside her: There. Him.
Like mist rising, the dark energy seeped from her fingertips and lifted from the back of her hand, drifting down over the old man’s face with impossible slowness, impossible gentleness. She watched as he took one sobbing breath and then another, drawing the darkness inside him each time. The magic wreathed him, coiling over his closed eyes, tracing the uneven lines of his brows. It drifted through the untamed chaos of his gray hair, and followed the tracks of his tears.
Slowly it spread, moving with that same languor over his whole body—over him, and through him. Part of Xhea’s consciousness moved with it, following her magic’s path. At last she moved her hand from the ghost’s cheek to the center of his forehead where his tether was bound. She ran her hand through the line of energy tying him to the hospital, to the memories of sickness and to the bed upon which they lay. It parted at her gesture like smoke.
“You’re free to go now,” Xhea told him softly. “You’ve been discharged. You can go home.”
“I can go home?” he whispered, and the tears on his face began to dry. He did not open his eyes, yet as Xhea watched, his face lit in a wide and joyful smile. The expression transformed him until it seemed he was not old, had not known loss or pain, had not caused it. Together, the ghost and the magic that had freed him dissipated, vanishing into the air until all that remained was the memory of that smile.
“Oh,” Xhea said. She stared at the place where the ghost had lain, tears welling. It was this as much as dizziness that made her close her eyes.
A beep came from behind her; she jerked upright, but could not avoid the magic that surged down the wire into her neck. She cried out as the two magics, bright and dark, met within her. Her body spasmed, muscles cramping hard in reaction. She clenched her teeth and attempted to smother her whimpers, afraid of drawing the attention of the hospital staff—if her cry and falling energy levels hadn’t already done so.
Fight it, she told herself, her words mirroring those of dream-Shai. Xhea’s power had receded at the onslaught, and so she imagined mental hands, reached desperately inside herself, and pulled. Again the magic rose like dark water from a well—and again the monitor beeped, almost querulously, and the surge of bright energy slammed her back to the pillows.
It would be easier to just slip away, let oblivion close over her once more. But, Xhea thought, when had life ever been easy?
She grabbed the thin wire bound to her neck and pulled with all her strength. As the wire finally ripped free, it took with it the top layers of her skin. She felt the wound with clumsy fingers—but there was only a little blood and no hole, no needle left protruding.
Xhea sucked air through her teeth as the world seemed to tilt and sway. She wanted to lie back down; instead, she forced herself to slide down past the bed’s side rail until her bare legs dangled over the side of the mattress. Only the sight of her numbed toes gave her pause: never before had her own skin looked purple.
It was only then that she realized the monitor was emitting a high whine of alarm, protesting its disconnection. That, Xhea thought, is surely going to draw attention. Without thinking, she raised a trembling hand, placed it against one of the monitor’s reaching metal tines, and said, “Shh.”
Her magic was slow and sluggish, but it responded. Wisps of black reached from her fingers to twine around the metal structure. The alarm slowed, quavering and failing as the spells controlling it unraveled.
Xhea released her magic and it vanished into the air. She curled her hand into a tight fist: stronger already. Every breath felt steadier than the one before, and her thoughts felt clearer as the flood of bright energy drained from her flesh. As she watched, the blood on her fingertips from the wound on her neck seemed to flicker, crimson and black. Never had she been so glad for the promise of a wo
rld seen only in gray.
Hurry, she told herself. Focus. It was easy to slip into the strange haze caused by pain and disorientation, equally easy to lose herself in the contentment the dark magic evoked—too easy. She already heard voices calling from the far end of the hallway; running footsteps wouldn’t be far behind.
Xhea slipped from the bed and crumpled to the floor, her weakened legs giving way beneath her. Gritting her teeth, she dragged herself to the storage container beneath the side table and placed her fingers against the lock touch panel. No flashes, no warning: it simply darkened to black.
“Of course,” she said. “Lovely.”
Ignoring the darkened panel, Xhea leaned on the latch until it gave way with a sullen crack. Inside, she found her clothing—properly washed, folded, and just a little closer to disintegrating. Her jacket was on top, the shape of her silver knife visible through the worn fabric. There was no time to undress; Xhea threw her clothes on over the pale green hospital shift, ignoring the way the fabric bunched and gathered beneath her shirt. She pushed her feet into her battered boots, not bothering to tie the laces, and forced herself to stand.
She stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the light and turning the taps and shower on full before stepping out and slamming the door closed behind her. She pressed her hand against the touch panel until it too darkened, then tried the handle, grinning when it refused to do more than rattle. She slipped behind the door to her room and pulled it wide to hide her. The light and sound from the bathroom would only distract the hospital staff for a moment—but perhaps a moment would be all she needed.
A nurse entered the room, exclaiming over Xhea’s empty bed and the damaged equipment. She went immediately to the bathroom door, knocking and calling out in a loud voice. With the nurse’s back turned, Xhea slipped into the hall.
Head down, she told herself. She tried not to stumble, tried not to attract more attention than was necessary. She broke into an uneven run as she rounded the hall corner, the sound of her footsteps covered by the sound of the nurse attempting to break down the bathroom door.
Xhea ran down a long corridor, then another, choosing her route at random. She needed a plan, that much she knew, but she had no idea how a hospital was laid out, never mind the Tower as a whole—or how to escape it. Only when a familiar voice spoke did she stop, her momentary exhilaration vanishing.
“Not that way,” Shai said.
Xhea turned. Shai stood behind her, looking as she had the night before: determined, yet afraid. As Xhea stared, Shai’s blue eyes became silver, her clothing faded to black, and the golden tone slipped from her hair. Only gray now; familiar, unending gray.
Shai grabbed Xhea’s hand. “Run,” she said. “They’ve found us.”
Living as she did in the streets of the Lower City, few things could spur Xhea to action as a warning to run. Yet the touch of the ghost’s hand stopped her cold. She could feel Shai’s fingers closing around her own—and if the sensation was different than that of flesh on flesh, it was wholly unlike the chill non-touch of a normal ghost.
Run, Shai had said. In the chaos of Xhea’s half-formed thoughts, one took precedence: did she trust Shai? The answer came without hesitation, and perhaps that was the most surprising thing of all. Yes. So she nodded and, trying to hold the hand that wasn’t quite there, ran after her.
As they rushed down the corridor, dodging a surprised medical technician, Xhea realized that she couldn’t see Shai’s tether. Surely it was only too faint for her to detect—for to what but Xhea herself could Shai be bound that would allow such freedom of movement?
You’re here, Xhea wanted to say. Instead she asked, “How did you find me?”
“I could sort of . . . sense you,” Shai said, running through a passing gurney and wincing. Their hall ended, opening into a wide atrium. “Figuring out how to get here was harder. Quick—through here.” Shai passed through a wide door, which beeped as Xhea approached, apparently considering whether the approaching magic-poor object was a person. Xhea slammed into it with her shoulder, forcing it open. Holding her numbed arm and cursing, it was a few steps before she took in her surroundings.
Her first thought was that they’d somehow gone outside. She could see clouds and sky, and the light was sunlight. Xhea blinked as her eyes adjusted. They stood on the top of a set of shallow stairs that led down to . . . a road? Xhea blinked again, this time in confusion.
She remembered how Celleran had looked as she’d approached, hiding in the back of a transport container: a long, bottom-heavy shape, not unlike the bud of an unopened flower, around which spiraled a gleaming silver line. She’d thought the line mere decoration; now she gaped, realizing it wasn’t ornamentation, but a highway.
Carefully, she stepped down toward the heavy flow of traffic before her, leaving the hospital behind. First came the pedestrians, a crowd thick as that in the market on its busiest mornings, walking in either direction. She caught sight of couples arm-in-arm, groups of friends chatting as they strolled, even children who flittered around their parents, arguing and laughing. Over their heads whizzed small bubbles of light: spells, messages, she knew not what else.
Next came the aircars, taxis, and elevators—things she had taken for granted out in the open air but had never imagined traveling within a Tower. Farthest out was a gleaming line of boxes and packages, pallets piled high, that swept by as if caught in a swift river of magic.
“This is the long way,” Shai said, coming to stand at her shoulder, “but it’s easier than trying to use the lifts.”
“Easier to get lost in a crowd.” Xhea slipped into the human traffic with the ease of long practice, arms pulled to her chest to avoid accidentally touching anyone. These people walked to different rhythms than those she knew from the Lower City; yet they were not so strange that she could not find her way.
Slowly, she told herself, curbing the need to run. Nothing stood out in a happy crowd like someone barreling by at high speed—and she stood out enough as it was. Besides, her rush of adrenaline was wearing off, and Xhea wasn’t certain she could handle more than 200 floors worth of spiraling ramp—even downhill.
“Okay,” she said under her breath. “Who are we running from?”
“My Tower, Allenai. At least, I think it’s Allenai.”
“You don’t know? Or don’t remember?”
Shai turned to face her, floating downhill. “No, I remember now. I remember everything.”
“Just give me the highlights,” Xhea said, struggling to slow her breathing.
“You were connected with my magical signature,” Shai said, “and I’m officially missing. They have your image from the elevator that carried us up to that . . . that place where my body was.”
“They think I kidnapped you?”
“No. They think that you may know where I am.”
Fair enough, thought Xhea. I do.
“After I . . . died, I was bound to my father with one of those tethers. I was with him for a few days, and . . .” Shai looked away, eyes bright with tears. Suddenly Xhea didn’t want to know what those days had been like for her, watching her father mourn.
“Anyway,” the ghost managed, “I was with him until some people came. They wanted to know where I was and wouldn’t listen when he tried to explain the arrangements he’d made for my body. There was an argument. They took him, and the tether just . . . snapped. I didn’t know how to follow.”
At this, Xhea’s steps faltered; she knocked elbows with a random passer-by, who yelped at the contact. Xhea apologized, smiling her sweetest smile, and hurried away.
Tethers didn’t just snap. They dissolved with their ghosts when that person’s business in the living world was finished. While she’d learned to sever and reattach a tether using her knife, it wasn’t the same as breaking the tether entirely. The only time she’d ever known a tether to snap was when the person to which the ghost was bound died.
Xhea suddenly felt weary in ways that had nothing to do wit
h physical exhaustion. She didn’t want to give Shai that news—yet, glancing at the ghost’s expression, it seemed that Shai already knew.
“Xhea, they said that if he didn’t know where I was, you would.”
Right. So Allenai also appeared to have killed Shai’s father, though whether as a consequence of hiding his daughter, her death, or something else entirely, Xhea didn’t know. Being caught seemed less appealing with every moment. Yet the thing she couldn’t comprehend was why there was such furor to track down Shai’s ghost at all. Few people even admitted that ghosts existed. To hunt a ghost through the City—to kill in an attempt to find her—seemed beyond imaging.
“How do they know I’m here?”
“I recognized a man who talked to my father. I followed him and saw him meet with Celleran’s security.”
“They showed security the picture of me,” Xhea said, heart sinking.
“No, they gave a signature print. Mine.”
“But why . . . ?” Unless, Xhea realized, they assumed that Shai was still with her, and that enough magic still lingered in the ghost for Shai’s signature to register. Did they not understand that Shai’s magic had been an anomaly, the effect of a living ghost?
Not that any of that would matter, if she were found. How far had they descended? Two floors? Three? Each circuit seemed to take forever, the road’s incline so shallow as to feel like level ground. And oh, she was tired. For all that the magic had brought her a brief rush, she suddenly felt her days of immobility—days she’d barely woken long enough to eat. Worse, the dark magic itself took a toll. She felt contentment in its wake, yes . . . but something deeper too. As if the dark smoke was her spirit burning.
“They were gaining permission to do a full sweep of the Tower,” Shai said. “They’ll be here within the hour—less, now.”
Radiant: Towers Trilogy Book One Page 11