Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

36.

"Have you been able to access anything?" Kefaas asked as they walked along the corners to the warehouse.

"No—nothing. I've tried everything. It's almost as if Drothiker wants me to be truly desperate to deliver any aid."

"Or simply all you need is an overtaking desire," Kefaas mused.

She whipped her head in his direction. "Go on."

"You called fire when you wanted to burn down that overseer more than anything in the world. You allowed your rage to capture you. You called ice when you wanted him to be still, as you ... blew open his head ..."

He shook his head, shoving away the image no doubt. Syrene snorted—she hadn't the slightest remorse for what she'd done.

She did what she'd wanted to do for five years in Jegvr. No way in Saqa was she going spend a second lamenting her accomplishment.

Kefaas went on, "You healed your ripper when you wanted that the most. Your desire is the puppeteer this time, Syrene."

"Isn't it always?"

He shrugged.

"Or maybe Drothiker is my puppeteer," she grumbled.

Kefaas glared daggers at her. "We've discussed this."

Syrene waved her hand. "Yeah, yeah. I'm just saying."

Unlike rippers, we might not have literal leashes to our souls, Kefaas had once explained, but we do have strings, Syrene. All humans have strings, and we all have our puppeteers. For some, it's the yearning. For others, it's the power. Very few manage to cut their strings and let themselves free. You decide who's your puppeteer. My advice? Don't ever let power your strings. Better be starving than wasting.

She hadn't understood what he'd meant, then, she'd barely had any will to heed the world around herself. Now that Syrene let the words sink ... who was holding her strings?

Power? Yearning?

Syrene shook her head, pressing down the thoughts until they vanished.

Azryle was in his bed, staring at Delaya Fairdust's stone sitting atop his palm.

He waited for it to burn the way it had when he'd held it the first time—so cold that he'd felt his blood freezing.

But nothing happened.

He turned it over again and again, recalling the way it'd somehow made its way to Ferouzeh's mind when she'd held it.

But it had no effect on him.

Azryle reached into the pockets of his mejest, made for the one concealed in shadows, and brought about the power he'd never made sense of.

Dark fog coiled his fingers soon.

Azryle watched as the fog attempted—without his will—to stretch out to the stone at the heart of his palm. And when it grazed the shiny surface—