Excerpt: Dead As Dreams

The moon shown full in the sky when Lazarus awoke. He had settled himself against the trunk of the tree to rest, and now the wounds on his right shoulder protested since he had slipped a bit to his left as he slept.

Aside from the pain, the first thing Lazarus sensed when he became aware again was the dead. There were so many in that small town, even after putting distance between him and it, he could feel them press against him, whispering to him, cajoling him . . . tempting him. One of the reasons he hated his lot in life so much was because it was an addiction. When he sensed the dead he felt compelled to put them to sleep and send them away, even if he didn't know where he was sending them.

Lazarus closed his eyes again and centered himself, wishing he had his orb to focus on. He forced his thirst down, built up a wall against the calling dead. It wouldn't last forever, so he had to do what he planned and then get the hell out of here. The further he got away from the town, the less he'd be able to sense the souls, and the less he'd be tempted to turn back around.

At least he felt more rested, even if the pain still radiated through him. He didn't remember any of his dreams, and there had been no visits from Aysa. It was nice to finally have a peaceful, uninterrupted sleep, but it also would have been better to gain more information on where he needed to head.

He pushed himself up and turned to watch the ethereal leaves flutter on the branches. The glow of the moon made it look all the more foreboding. If the spirit seeker who did this left a trap within the tree as well, Lazarus was in deep horseshit. That wasn't going to stop him, though.

He stripped off his cloak and threw it next to his pack and staff. If he was going to do this right, he had to be able to touch the bits of fabric as well as the tree, which meant climbing.

Lazarus tugged himself up with the lowest branch, the pain in his shoulders almost causing him to let go, but he gritted his teeth, dug his boots into the trunk, and pulled himself up. The tree felt even more brittle once his entire weight was balanced in the curve of a branch, but it seemed it would hold at least for as long as he needed to explore.

He gripped the branch with one hand and reached up to one of the elusive leaves with the other. At first, it escaped his grasp, the wind picking up and sending all the strips fluttering. The tree rocked slightly. Lazarus stretched further, the wound on his left shoulder tearing open, hot blood wet against his skin. The wind died in an instant, leaving the fabric leaves still and dead.

He wrapped the one he was reaching for in his fingers, and a jolt shot down his arm, almost sending him tumbling off the branch. A flash of light behind his eyes threatened his focus and the wall he had built up against the souls that mewled near.

Lazarus steadied himself, refusing to let go of the fabric. This isn't what he had expected. He should have had to reach out with his powers to find what part of the spirit seeker was imprinted on this tree. But this was like a shout, as if the spirit seeker had purposely left it to say, this is me, this is who I am. Not even a trap, but a mark of pride and arrogance.

Another flash crossed Lazarus's mind. This time he concentrated on the flash, sensing what mark was left there. And then he felt it, yet another surprise to rattle him. This spirit seeker was a woman.

He faltered again, lost his grip on the fabric, and was tossed back. His knees hooked on the branch, and he managed to keep his grip with his right hand, but he was nearly dangling fully upside down, the wound on his right shoulder breaking open as well.

Even though he no longer had one of the leaves in his hand, another flash assaulted him. The pride of this woman seethed and mocked. No doubt she thought she was superior to all, especially other spirit seekers.

The wind picked up again, lashing at Lazarus's tenuous grip. He didn't know how many more flashes he could take and still hold on. The next flash, though, was paired with a cracking sound.

How long he could hold on didn't matter. The branch gave way and fell off the tree, the laughter of the spirit seeker following Lazarus to the ground.