The Spirit Wastes (The Spirit Hollows Book 2) by Brewer P.R

Author:Brewer, P.R.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lockegee Books
Published: 2023-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

12

The spirits corkscrewed toward Signe, too swiftly to fix with her gaze. They had the stench of stagnant water and the color of copper patina. There must be thousands of them.

“Get down!” yelled Quinn.

She threw herself flat, and the spirits hummed past, close enough to singe the ends of her hair. Violet strobes lit the room, but the swarm spiraled away along the ceiling. As Zora swore and Abigail squawked, the children dove under desks.

“Gwyllion,” Paige said from behind an overturned bookshelf.

Signe’s skin crawled at the nape of her neck. She’d read about these things in the Field Guide, but part of her wished she hadn’t. GWYLLION are hornet-sized roamers with spiky wings and a verdigris hue, Nevan McBrain had written. They make their hives in sinkholes, old sewers, and other dank places, hibernating for decades on end. In sufficient numbers, they can skeletonize a human in less than a minute. Fortunately, they only dwell in the Wastes . . .

The spirits whirled through the schoolhouse, always in the corner of her vision. As if they were avoiding her line of sight.

As if they knew what her eyes could do.

Nicholas plucked a string, and the droning stopped for a heartbeat. Then it started back up beneath the planks, louder and hollower now. Signe focused her gaze on the back of the room.

The pipes clanged, and more gwyllion poured up from the drain. And poured and poured in an endless stream of metallic green. Too many for her to stare away. Too many for her friends to blast.

This school wasn’t a haven; it was a slaughterhouse. The writing on the board had been someone’s last words.

Zora threw a grenade, and Signe scrunched her eyes shut in the nick of time. “Everybody, run!” Quinn shouted as the flow of spirits became a geyser.

Signe grabbed her pack and her parasol on the way to the door. Out of the schoolhouse and into the snowstorm. To her left, the children dashed through the grove with the swarm on their heels. It would chase them down and feed in a frenzy.

Unless she decoyed it away, like she’d done with the spire last summer. On the night she’d nearly died.

Signe traced an arc in the snow with the tip of her parasol. “I see you,” she called out to the spirits.

The swarm looped around, scattering the flakes in its path. The children ran on ahead, and the blizzard devoured them. Now if only she could vanish in a puff of smoke like a stage magician—or, better yet, a real enchanter.

Take three steps back, whispered a liquid voice as the gwyllion spun in a helix. She’d caught them in her gaze, but not for much longer.

Trust me, said the voice. If you want to live.

Keeping her eyes on the swarm, Signe stepped backward three paces. The snow gave way beneath her, pitching her belly-up in a shallow pit. The force of the fall knocked the breath from her lungs.

Stay down.

The spirits buzzed overhead and disappeared from her field of vision.

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