Spectyr Read Online Free Page A

only protection against the geists.
    Something flickered between the rows, a suggestion of shadow darting away from the Deacons and deeper into the attic. So it was not a brave geist—surely only a shade and nothing as dangerous as a ghast or a poltern. Still, after a long dry spell, she would take whatever she could get.
    Yet, by the time she had reached the far end of the attic space, Deacon Faris had the sinking feeling that it was she who was imagining things. Her shared sight detected nothing. Perhaps she had been too hopeful, and her eyes had seen only what she wanted to see. After so long she was practically conjuring geists from the woodwork. Her hands clenched in the smooth leather of her Gauntlets.
    Sorcha turned back to Merrick with a sigh. “I think you were right. The woman was just jumping at shadows. There’s nothing here.” She couldn’t contain the disappointment in her voice.
    Her partner shrugged. “Maybe she saw what—”
    And that was when she felt every hair on her body stand on end. The rush of intense cold flooded down her spine, and in the corner something metallic rattled. Sorcha spun around and jerked the drop cloth off a six-foot structure. It was a calendar, with the phases of the moon and the date inscribed on a huge dial—probably meant to stand in a warehouse. On cue it began to tick loudly, almost in time with the rhythm of her heart.
    Sorcha! Merrick’s voice blared in her skull, just as their shared Sight cleared. Something was wrapped around the base of the clock, spinning and shifting like a bundle of snakes. Her eyes widened. She took a shocked step back and raised her Gauntlets. Shades were the remains of a recently dead person—spectyrs were their evil cousins. Twisted by the Otherside, they were human souls who sought revenge. However, they usually manifested alone—what she was faced with now was entirely different. A shade haunting was usually more irritating than terrifying. These spectyrs were not.
    The rattle of irritated spectyrs grew louder, as the spinning knot of them flew apart to darken the ceiling and every corner of the attic. Sorcha knew that she had received far more than she wanted.
    “Stay still,” she bellowed at Merrick, as she ducked away from the swooping shards of darkness that were beginning to shape themselves into skeletal forms.
    A nest of spectyrs was particularly dangerous, a fact that Sorcha became aware of as the contents of the attic began flying at her head. Ducking and diving was making it rather hard to concentrate. What appeared to be a lighthouse lens tipped over, knocking her off her feet and exploding glass all across the floor.
    With one hand Sorcha called on Shayst, the Sixth Rune of Dominion, and the attic flared green. Shayst sucked away the spectyrs’ power, at least those she was lucky enough to hit with the rune. That power became hers, enough that she could lever the lens mechanism off her and crawl out.
    Out of the corner of one eye she saw Merrick step toward her, his hands reaching for his Strop, the talisman of the Sensitives.
    Sorcha could taste his fear. “Don’t you dare go Active!”
    Though every Deacon had both talents in them, a Sensitive using their Active power was ridiculously dangerous and ultimately pointless. He made a face at her. “I think I have something better.” He called on Masa, the Third Rune of Sight, and their shared Center blurred, deepened, and now Sorcha saw double. As the contents of the attic tumbled, as the spectyrs wheeled, hissed, and threw them at her—she was able to see everything before it happened.
    The Active ducked and rolled as a tall machine with long lines of cogs and wheels toppled from the wall. It was hard to imagine what the widow Vashill was thinking outside. It couldn’t be good.
    A twisting cluster of spectyrs dived at her, their skulls screaming for vengeance, ready to burrow into her body and take it for their own. Sorcha dropped onto her back, raised her Gauntlets;