Page 91 of Ashes to Ashes

“FUCK!” I stumble backward, nearly tripping over a root. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Language, language!” the golden orb chirps with obvious delight. “Though the passion is noted and appreciated!”

Lightning races down my vertebrae as I glare at the floating light. “Whispen?”

“The one and only!” He bobs in what might be a bow. “Following you through this delightful tantrum like the devoted soul-keeper I am!”

I want to squeeze the blue out of his little balloon form.

“Should I add anger management to your lesson plan? Or perhaps basic forest navigation for the directionally challenged?” he chirps in that sing-song cadence that makes me want to swat him like a mosquito.

I whip around to glare at him. “You could help instead of floating there like a sparkly cheerleader. Just saying.”

“Could I? Hmm. Yes, technically possible it is. But also technically not allowed until you ask the proper questions, yes yes.”

“What proper questions?”

“Ah, that would be telling! The ancient magic is particular about protocol, root-born. Cannot guide what won’t acknowledge it needs guiding, no no.”

Something snaps in my chest like a wire under too much tension.

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

The scream tears from my lungs with enough force to send birds exploding from nearby trees. Squirrels drop acorns. Something large crashes through distant underbrush, fleeing the sound of my complete psychological breakdown.

Whispen’s response is immediate and equally deafening:

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

His golden light strobes like a rave gone wrong, his tiny voice somehow matching my volume despite his size.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SCREAMING FOR?” I shriek.

“SEEMED LIKE THE THING TO DO!” he shrieks back, his light pulsing frantically. “VERY THERAPEUTIC! GOOD FOR RELEASING TENSIONS!”

“STOP SCREAMING!”

“YOU STOP SCREAMING!”

“I STOPPED FIRST!”

“NO, I STOPPED FIRST!”

I clamp my hands over my ears, breathing hard. “Christ, speak like a normal person!”

“But I am not a normal person,” he says, his voice suddenly shifting—less sing-song, more... real. “I am not a person at all.”

As he speaks, his golden-blue light begins to shift and condense. Golden light bleeds together like melting wax, condensing into the shape of a boy who died too young. Translucent skin reveals veins of starlight. Pointed ears sharp enough to draw blood. Teeth like surgical needles designed for precision cutting.

“Better?” he asks, tilting his head.

I stare at him, mouth hanging open. “What the actual fuck.”

“Language, your majesty,” he chides, but his grin reveals all those needle-sharp teeth. “Though I appreciate the passion.”

“I’m not royal anything!” The lie hits my throat like poison, windpipe slamming shut like a bear trap. Thorns erupt beneath my skin, each one a white-hot needle rejecting the bullshit. Black spots bloom across my vision as oxygen evacuates my lungs.

“Your body seems to disagree,” Whispen observes mildly.

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