Page 133 of Deadly Maiden

Two chances. I don’t know how to create undead. Healing though. Is this that?

Worth a try.

I open my clenched fist and release the darkthing sphere imprinted with the TOD brain from Harrod, that I brought fromthe vat. I send it into the newly dead man. I walk up to him, my eyes rolling up as I penetrate the essence, as it seeps and creeps deeper.

Some of his brain is alive still and I can tell what I am doing is impossible in every way, without going further. He is dead and this is useless. I’m doing this wrong. I cannot heal him, leave his brain unoccupied, then imprint it with another. He’s unsalvageable, by me.

Thank the gods, I have the other brain imprint in my pocket.

Haste makes waste. So true.

I withdraw my presence, leave him to fade away completely. The blackness spatters out of him, vaporizing as it hits the air. Wasted.

My parents might have caused him some awful wound and watched it fester for days, turn to dead flesh, then they’d have killed him and extracted darkthing matter. I suspect that’s what they did to some of the men and women on the slabs below.

I don’t have the time to do that. I don’t even have the guts, or the lack of morals?

I frown at this poor man, then dare to look at his kneeling friend, or whatever he is, locking my focus to his eyes. I see you.

I’m sick, aren’t I?

I’m rescuing Rorsyd and the kingdom. Remember that.

“Your name? Are you his friend? Were you?”

He stalls, terror in his eyes, his hands, in the rocking of his body. “I’m Tasker. No. Not a friend. Just, I knew him.” He sneaks a look at the body, swallows. “Please, not that.”

“No. Not that.” I reassure him as I bring the second imprint from my pocket. The darkthing sphere rolls coldly over the skin of my palm.

Last chance.

“Hold him,” I murmur, though there is no need for words.

Once he’s restrained and gagged with undead hands, his head forcibly bowed, I release this second sphere. Again, I close my eyes as it enters the rear of his head, wriggling though hair, skin, and the bone of the skull. It reaches brain and I spread both hands, mimicking the spread as it splits into a thousand tendrils and worms deeper.

I go as far in as I can, then I halt the movement of the darkmatter, letting it dissolve and push the imprint onto this man. When I’m satisfied with the stability, I have my undead release him.

He wavers on his knees.

“Who are you?” I ask.

He’s silent, bewildered, shaking his head, clutching it as if he worries it will topple from his neck.

“Who. Are. You?”

“I…I am Donder. I think?”

Darkness rushes in and reigns with a clawed hand that rips me from reality. Oblivion calls.

His screams reach me, faintly.

From somewhere far, far away.

Sound, smell, light rampages back into existence.

I’m on my knees with my head blasting apart in an agony that reverberates with what he is feeling.

When he falls into a silence that’s as sharp as a descending axe, I lift my head. I know he is dead. I felt him go.

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