Lost Soul (DarkWorld: SkinWalker Book 2)

My body burned, my own brand of fire searing its way through my limbs.

I flung the covers off, trying to convince myself they were the reason I was too hot. But even as I lay there in a thin cotton singlet and briefs, I couldn't seem to cool down. I wiped damp tendrils off my sweaty forehead, fingers tangling with my unkempt mane.

My forearm burned, throbbing accusingly at me.

My gaze avoided the area of my forearm where the burning heat and the constant throbbing emanated. I didn't want to see the blue-green color of my skin. Nor did I want to see how far the poison had spread, threading its deadly toxins through my veins, through my flesh. I didn't want to be reminded of the reason I was relegated to my bed, too weak to move, too weak to work. Too weak to save anyone, least of all myself.

I hated weakness in any form. It pissed me off.

And time wasn't standing still waiting for me to get my act together.

I sighed and swallowed, my throat convulsing, my mouth a furnace of its own. My eyelids were so hot and heavy I could barely keep them open. They drifted shut of their own accord.

I hated being so helpless. Greer was still in the In-Between and Anjelo and Mom were still in Wrythiin. The longer I languished in my bed, the longer they would suffer at the hands of Widd'en's men. They would remain at the mercy of the Wraith Army while I was chained to my mattress by pain and poison. I gritted my teeth, my fingers twisting the edge of the sodden sheet.

Despite my frustrations, I was still sprawled in bed, waiting for Logan to figure out how best to rid me of this debilitating poison. Hopefully I wouldn't die before he finally honed his Fire enough to help me. Not that I was ungrateful or impatient with him. He needed to learn how to control his power better so he could properly treat the poison.

I balanced my weight on my good hand and raised myself off the bed, shifting until I rested on my elbows. A wave of nausea gripped me so badly I slumped flat on my back and shuddered. So much for trying to sit up like a normal person. Nausea tightened my throat and I began to breathe in and out very, very fast, trying to exhale away the urge to hurl. I hated throwing up. I'd been doing too much of that lately. Slowly the desire began to recede and my throat relaxed.

But now I needed the toilet. Badly.

Sighing, I gritted my teeth against pain and nausea and pushed myself into a sitting position. No matter what additional privileges the bedridden were allowed, the last thing I needed was for someone to find I'd wet the bed. I teetered at the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress as the world tilted. I swallowed hard, blinking at the wave of dizziness that washed over me. I extracted myself from the dampened sheets still clinging to my body. Muscles clenched, I launched myself onto my feet and remained hunched over for a moment, holding onto the mat-tress for support until I felt a little more steady on my weakened knees.

After a few shaky moments, I managed to hobble to the bathroom on wobbly legs, making it there and back to the bed without dying. That was a good sign. Seated on the bed again, I was so tempted to lie down and rest. With every move I'd made, my body screamed that I'd be better off lying down. My body was probably smarter than I was.

But I was partially up. And I was damned thirsty.

I glanced at my nightstand, giving the pile of empty water bottles a disgusted glare. No way could I fill any of those long, thin things in my mini bathroom sink. The way I saw it, I had one of two choices. Head back into the bathroom, huddle over the sink, and drink from cupped palms, or make a trip to the kitchen for an actual glass of the stuff.

But the kitchen was very, very far away. I sighed—sometimes being an invalid was all so overwhelmingly hard.

Sometimes it w
ould be so easy to just give up. But I didn't have the luxury of giving up.

I moved and the dark blue shadow of my arm swam into my vision. Green and blue veins stood raised and fat as if the poison had thickened and now formed a slow-moving sludge in my bloodstream. The Wraith poison had worked its way through my body, covering my skin with tiny threads of navy and purple, casting a gray-green tinge to my complexion. I looked like I was morphing into some kind of water sprite or kelpie. I shuddered.

Moving slowly, I got back on my feet. Knees trembling, I held my heart in my hands as I navigated the endless expanse of floor between my bed and my door. I had nothing to hold so I could so easily face-plant at any time.

Nope, chin up, think positive, one foot in front of the other.

I stiffened my legs and moved forward, looking straight ahead and hoping that would help my balance. Step by step I breathed slowly until only two feet remained and I realized I'd made it.

Almost fainting with relief, I grabbed onto the open door and held on by my fingernails, my knees quivering as they threatened to buckle under my weight. Thankfully, the kitchen counter sat only about ten feet away from my room door. If I could make it from my bed to the door, I could make it to the kitchen. Half-way there anyway.

I let go of the door, flexing too-stiff fingers, and moved ahead slowly. I made it to the sink without kissing the floor.

The counter took my weight and I rested my elbows on the cool marble; then leaning for-ward, I listened to the frantic thudding of my heart. When my head stopped spinning, I reached for a glass from the wire rack, held it with shaking fingers and filled it, drinking until my thirst was quenched. I shuddered, my body feeling the effects of my journey.

Looks like it's back to bed for you, Odel.

Alpha or not, a girl had to know when to admit defeat. I needed rest and the kitchen was as far as I dared go. I filled the glass again and turned when the kitchen, floor, counter and all, began to spin. My stomach churned and the muscles in my abdomen clenched.

Too light-headed to do anything, I sank to the floor, my knees at last losing the fight to hold me up. The heavy-bottomed drinking glass slipped from my grasp, falling straight to the wood floor, smashing into a million pieces. As the glass hit the ground, water burst from it like a geyser, spraying droplets all over the kitchen. And all over me.

Good job. Now who's going to clean up this mess?

Lying where I fell, my face rested close to my poison-wreathed arm. I stared at it as it throbbed and pulsed, as if the poison had taken on a life of its own and was just waiting for the next moment to advance farther into my flesh.

Who knew a tiny piece of Wraith-sword could be this deadly? It seemed fate had conspired against us all: against me who had found and killed the soul-suckers, against Grandma Ivy who'd given me the armband for protection, and against my mother who'd sacrificed her life to ensure my sister and I would be safe from harm.

***

The lab was cold and silent as Logan breathed deep, drawing the fire through his body and centering the molten energy within his mind. The mouse shivered in his hand, its sickly green eyes staring up at him, its expression sad and pleading. The little, large-eyed white-furred creature had been shaved to reveal its bare skin, enabling Logan and the lab-techs to assess how well the fire was progressing in killing the poison.

He felt a twinge of regret at using the innocent creature. He'd needed a suitable test subject to ensure he could find and perfect the safest method of neutralizing the poison. Now the naked mouse wriggled in his hand, its body streaked with the purple and green stains of the insidious venom.

The colors guided his thoughts to Kailin, and his gut twisted at the pain and agony she continued to endure from the poison.

Logan wanted to move faster. To hurry. The longer he took the more Kailin suffered, and if there was anything he wanted more, it was to free her from the bindings of the Wraith poison. But he had to keep reminding himself that he needed to be accurate much more than he needed to be fast. What good was rushing if he didn't get it right?

The mouse squeaked as if he knew his time had come. Logan concentrated, harnessing and building the power in his mind, drawing it into a mental bowstring, pulling it taut but letting it go in a steady, controlled stream.

He stared at the animal, watching for the slightest change.