The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Ten

*Trigger warning for mild panic attack*

Lark's eyes grew wide, the whites of them one of the few clearly visible parts of her. Bran squinted at the things in the field.

"What are they?" he asked.

"No idea," I said, "but they're coming this way."

Lark shivered—whether from fear or cold, I didn't know. "Do you think they know we're here?"

"We'd better assume they do," said Reed. "Either way, we might get the advantage of surprise if we attack now. On three. One."

"What should I do?" Bran asked.

"Stick with Fyra. Two."

"Wait," I said. "Why me? Why can't he come with one of you?"

Reed sighed. "You two are the least experienced when it comes to using your Blessings. If you stick together, you can protect each other. Three."

My protest was lost as he and Lark jumped out of the bushes and ran at the ghosts. Not wanting to be left behind and lost in the darkness, I followed him.

The sound of a violin split the night air, high and sweet. The stars began to glow brighter and brighter. The field was illuminated. Wispy grey beings converged on us, humanoid faces twisted into terrifying expressions, arms reached out toward us—though, thankfully, they weren't holding any weapons.

Reed scribbled frantically on his forearm.

Then they were upon us. Some of them passed through me, seeming to dissolve into my skin and reform behind me, their immaterial bodies cold as ice. Others surrounded me, grabbing at my arms. Their hands were solid enough to fling me to the ground. The breath went out of me all at once.

Everything happened very fast.

Bran was thrown to the ground beside me. He landed on my leg, hard, and I cried out in pain. The place where his leg touched mine flared with heat and power. I called my birds to me.

Lark screamed, the sound loud and piercing. The stars dimmed. Reed shouted Lark's name.

Cold hands grasped my arms and legs. Bran gasped. In the dark, his hand caught mine, and I held on like it was a lifeline.

Talons closed around my arms. I was one with my birds, rising into the night sky. The cold of the ghost's hands dripped from my skin. But I could tell that, strong as the deathbirds were, they wouldn't be able to carry us for long. Beside me, Bran was screaming. His hand was painfully tight around mine.

He moved suddenly, unpredictably. My birds couldn't all hold on. Two of them dropped us, and we plummeted downward, the remaining three frantically trying to slow our fall.

We hit the ground at half-speed, just hard enough for it to hurt. I gasped for air. Bran's hand pulled roughly out of mine.

"Fyra?" he said. I couldn't see him in the dark, but I felt his hands on my shoulders as he roughly shook me. There was panic in his voice. "Fyra! Are you okay?"

I dragged a breath in. It caught in the back of my throat, like a fly in a spiderweb. Adrenaline rushed through me. Bran shook me again, his fingers tight on my shoulders, fingernails stabbing into my skin.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't see anything. I couldn't hear—not really, heart pounding loudly in my ears, breaths coming so quickly that my head spun with the lack of air. I pushed Bran away.

"Don't," I wheezed.

"What?" Bran asked. "Don't what?"

I shook my head wordlessly. Slowly, my vision was adjusting. Bran's face was a pale oval in the darkness. I could see the concern on his blurry features.