Page 59 of Ransomed to the World
“I don’t have the ability to call them.” He reached over his shoulder and tapped the pommel of the sword strapped to his back. “I can call my sword from the afterworld, but I’m not able to actually create anything the way you do.”
Annora could only gape at him. “I don’t understand.”
Edgar nodded to the butterfly balanced on her fingertips. “He’s not real.”
“Say what?” Annora frowned at the little bug. She could feel its feet gripping her finger, the slight breeze from the beating wings.
“Put it on the table and, no matter what happens, hold him in this world.” Edger’s focus was so intense that nothing else in the world existed but them.
She shook away her fanciful thoughts, eyeing him with suspicion, but did as he instructed. She barely got her fingers out of the way when Edgar slammed his hand down on the butterfly.
Annora jumped and bit back a yelp, her eyes locked on the table, sadness pinching in her chest at such a senseless death. “Why would you do that?”
He ignored her question. “What do you think you’ll see when I lift my hand?”
Annora pursed her lips, unable to take her attention off his hand. “Butterfly guts?”
But she wasn’t so sure.
“Are you still holding him?” Edgar spoke softly.
Annora nodded, still able to feel the splash of darkness. When he lifted up his hand, the darkness began to swirl and the butterfly took shape once more.
Annora leaned closer to study the critter, but couldn’t detect any imperfections.
“But how?” Uncertain if she wanted to know, her question emerged as a whisper.
“Think of the darkness as playdough. If you have the ability to shape it, you can make anything. It just takes years of practice, a fucking lot of control, and the raw talent to mold something out of nothing. Most people don’t have the imagination.” When he leaned closer to study the butterfly again, it fluttered up in the air away from him, as if it remembered being squashed.
Or, if what he said was true, she was unconsciously controlling it. “So they aren’t alive? They don’t think or feel…anything?”
Edgar shrugged, leaning back in his seat, not ducking away from her gaze or her question. “No one knows, not really. You’re probably the only one who could answer that since you’ve been working with dark matter the longest.”
Her mind boggled at the information. “So your sword—”
“Is real.” He lifted up his hand. “It’s just imbued with dark matter. Anyone can touch it. It never changes shape. The dark matter allows it to move between realms, and my blood allows me to bring it forth.”
Annora was floored.
So much made sense now.
“The afterworld can be a world of wonder or nightmares.” He spoke softly, his voice distant, as if fighting memories.
“Edgar—”
He cleared his throat and straightened, avoiding her eyes. “I’m glad you only see the beauty.”
Disliking his dark mood, she asked the one thing that had always bothered her. “What about healing? After what my uncle did…” She trailed off at his thunderous expression.
“Phantoms aren’t exactly the warm and fuzzy types usually concerned about the welfare of others.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “We have a few who are trained in the healing arts, but none with your talent for warding off death.”
“So not everyone can…” She pursed her lips, not sure how to phrase her question.
“Come back from the dead?” He shook his head. “Not even close. Your ability to pull the darkness out of the dying is a skill more suited to reapers, which you probably acquired by repeatedly crossing over the veil and facing death directly. Most phantoms value their own hide too much to risk testing it. We’re more suited to healing injuries, not death.”
Annora opened, then closed her mouth, her brain sputtering at the influx of information. “Then what can a normal phantom actually do?”
Edgar cracked a smile, and her breath caught as his severe demeanor softened, reminding her that he wasn’t much older than herself.
