Dead Remnants

Chapter 8 (Part Two): THE OLD WOMAN AND THE DUCK

"Tarnation, Missy! You sure do ask a lot of questions!"

"Only because you don't answer them! What does she mean by 'witness'?"

"Reckon if I tell you, it negates the whole purpose of having an unbiased observer," Macajah said as he burst through the double doors into the train station lobby.

Ashen trailed closely behind. "You do see how being vague like this is really, really annoying, right?"

"Quit your derned bellyaching!"

Ashen fumed. "If I'm not here to move on or find Jacob, then why have you brought me here?"

"You're to identify someone. Make certain we've got the right fella."

"Does that mean you had no intention of helping me? You're using me? Then what? Toss me into that arch thing back there and wish me luck?"

Macajah slowed his gait, his booted feet quieting. "No, Little Mis—"

Before he could finish, she turned on her heel and headed back toward the courtyard, pushing past Max and Vana. When she started through the door, Max seized her arm, stopping her.

"Listen, Cage is being a little hard-boiled, is all."

"Don't you get it?" She ripped away from his touch—any good nature she'd had left spent. An intense heat rose from her feet through the muscles of her calves. "He didn't tell me the whole truth. He misled me. Duped me. Tricked me. I could have been out looking for Jacob this entire time!"

As she said the last line something deep within her, like a levee that could no longer hold back a flood, burst. Feelings of annoyance, anger, and sadness blended together. Her tears swelled, teetering on her lower lashes until they grew too heavy and streamed down her cheeks in wet paths. When she had been alive, she'd never wept. But ever since her death, all she'd been successful at was either being completely clueless and useless, or bawling her head off.

A pearly light bloomed around her. Max recoiled. His wide eyes darted down and Ashen followed his gaze. A cry caught in her throat.

The flickering flames around her feet were no longer small. They engulfed her legs and thighs in a sterling brilliance, wrapping their tendrils, pulsing with light and fury, around her knees. Near her waist, the blaze billowed out as if it had been paused mid-explosion.

Fear consumed her battling emotions. "Wh-what's happening?"

"You must calm yourself, young one." The older woman's aged, serene face looked up at Ashen, and as if pacifying a wild horse, she raised her hand—the leather fringe on the hem of her sleeves cascading over either side of her upper arm. "Take deep breaths."

Ashen forced her eyes shut. She focused on her breathing before realizing that she, a dead girl, could no longer breathe and a new panic began to crush her chest. The pressure was so great, she could almost hear her non-existent bones breaking.

"Calm. Breathe. You are safe."

Something in the woman's even tone doused Ashen's fears. The heat in her legs cooled and her breathing returned to a steady, sure tempo. When she opened her eyes, the silver flames had petered out, returning to a tiny flicker dancing on the toes of her Converse sneakers.

"Very good, child."

The older woman was so close that Ashen could make out the craftsmanship of the dress she wore. It was beautiful. Blue and black beads fell across her shoulders in an intricate pattern. Strange ivory pieces, secured to the leather, dangled in a line across the upper portion of her chest.