Page 10 of Dead Wolf Falling (Bad Moon Academy 2)

She exhales. “You’re persistent, aren’t you? You know, since I’ve met you, I’ve been wondering something. . .”

Not giving her a reaction, I blink and swallow my emotions.

“How is it that you managed to kill not one, but two parents?”

A deep growl rumbles in my chest thanks to Joan, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping. Sometimes people are assholes to you because they’re too afraid to deal with their own damage. I guess the same goes for ghosts. She obviously wants to hurt me, though I’m not sure why or what I’ve done to her.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She purses her lips. “Hm. Raven, the beautiful young shifter. She’s alwayssostrong. I think you’ll be the most fun to break, though Everett seems like he’ll put up a good fight.”

Everett snarls around the gag, saliva dripping down his chin. The light of the lantern reflects off of his yellow eyes, his wolf close to the surface.

“What do you want? Why do you need them if you had Morris?” I ask.

The woman—whose name I still haven’t learned—scoffs. “Morris was an appetizer, hardly one at that.” Her form flickers, and she sighs. “That’s your fault, you know. You broke my ward. I had to recharge and he”—she points to Morris—“didn’t give me nearly enough.”

She uses their souls as energy. That’s why shifters have been going missing over the past two years. She said they’re not all dead though. Meaning this bitch is using them, keeping their souls alive somehow?

“You’re going to take their souls too?” I ask, hoping to confirm my theory.

With a quick nod, she advances, flicking out of sight and reappearing next to me. Draco tries to turn around, but she shoves the pipe into his back hard enough he grunts and stops moving.

“Move and you die.” Her gaze sweeps over Carter, Everett, and Layla who are all looking over their shoulders, torn between helping me and becoming her next meal. The men both look ready to lose it all to help me, so I shake my head at them.

No one else needs to get hurt. Not if I can help it.

A cool finger brushes over my cheek, and I jerk my eyes toward the woman, but her hands are still firmly wrapped around the pipe. Cool air, more frigid than the air already surrounding me, presses into my back before shifting around me.

My phantom friend.

I fight against the smile threatening to tug at my lips, but the woman sees my struggle and scowls at me.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing, little bird. You’re the main course.”

Like fuck we are.

You know, I agree with Joan. Reaching down into the well of forbidden power, pulling on the darkness I know better than to play with, I clutch it tight and send it through my body, channeling the ichor into my palms.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food?” I ask, shoving my hand through the cold, pressing my palm against her. In her mostly solid form, my fingers sink into her chest and she gasps in surprise.

Her eyes go wild, and she mutters in what sounds like Latin, but it could be another language for all I know. The freezing cold air around me grows even colder, and my teeth start to chatter. The woman wraps her hands around my forearm and electricity zaps from her to me, stunting my connection with my power.

I gasp when the electric power slices through my body like an invisible saw.

“You’re a fool.” She hisses the words, and a chorus of growls answers her insult.

Unable to pull my gaze from her, but feeling the others fighting to free themselves to try and help gives me strength to reach into the dark abyss of Death’s power once more. Harnessing more than I ever have before, I grind my teeth, holding on until I have enough to light this bitch up like a Christmas tree.

Only one of us is going to die today, and it won’t be me.

As if sensing my intentions, she amps up her powers, making me cry out when another bout of pain lances through me. She’s so strong.

So are you. Send this vile creature to the other side.

Joan sounds so confident. I have nothing to lose, so I drag another ounce of Death’s power into me and send it through my arm and to my hand. Just before the power blasts from my palm, a freezing cold chest replaces hers. My phantom.

“No,” I say and try to pull my hand away, but it’s too late. The dark power fuses my skin to my phantom’s body, and my necromantic power pours into him. Trying again to pull away, I gasp when the dungeon grows even colder. I can’t move my hand, can’t stop what I’ve started. There’s no controlling this now. My nose aches from the chill, and the air escaping my lips turns into a thick cloud of fog. The oily essence of death thrums through me in an uncontrollable river, drowning the phantom.

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