not on flesh or bone, but on something deeper. Something primal.
Kahanov’s soul.
I twisted the blade and pulled with all my strength. His flesh cut easily,
but his soul didn’t.
As he screamed, I instinctively poured my magic into the knife. The
shadows drained from the room and flowed as billowing tendrils of black
smoke poured into the blade itself. My arm went deathly cold, and the
sorcerer howled.
And then his cry was cut short as his soul was severed, and the knife
swung free.
I rolled away and tried to stand, but before I found my footing, a spectral
shockwave rammed me back against the wall. My vision blurred, and the
vibrations shook my head. Then an unearthly wail ripped through my mind.
The twisted form of a screaming face rushed toward me and dissipated
into mist.
I’d seen that face before, but where?
The specter’s wail lingered in my mind like an echo in a canyon,
repeating five words over and over: I will have my vengeance!
My skin crawled with dread. What the hell was that? And what did it
mean?
Nothing good, my wolf said. Also, I don’t think we’re done here.
Kahanov rolled over and gasped. “You bitch!”
His voice was somehow different with traces of an accent that hadn’t
been there before. Blood covered his chest and trickled from his mouth, and
he began to crawl toward me like a deranged animal.
I backpedaled and leveled the knife at the creep. “You should be dead. I
cut out your soul!”
“Not mine. Dragan’s. And now, thanks to you, I’m free of him and
bleeding to death.”
Dragan? Dragan. The twisted, screaming face. I had seen it before…in