Chapter 7

The place of in between, before he was brought back to life into another person's body, was not a terrible place to be. Warm, and calm, there was peace in this strange floating space and there was safety that he found in very few places.

A tug on his center and he knew that soon Gardreel would have him in a new body, one that . . . well, one that would be in Gardreel's possession full of tracing devices. And then he would want Eligor to track down Nix. He would force Eligor to find her.

A pang rippled through him. That couldn't happen. But how did he stop Gardreel from taking him away from this place? Eligor reached through the empty space with his consciousness. Surely there was somewhere he could hide? A body that Gardreel didn't know about?

Maybe there was someone that no longer needed their body? Again that tug on his center told him that Gardreel was going to yank him clean of this place of limbo—and soon. His touch felt distracted, like he was busy.

Trying not to panic, Eligor moved through the fog, searching for something, anything that might give him what he needed . . . there in the distance was a figure.

It was even a male—and while he would have taken any body at that point, male was a bonus. Splayed out on his belly, there was darkness wrapped around the man's body all the way to his cowboy boots. Eligor reached out and let out a low hiss.

A quarter demon. This one was a quarter demon. Did he dare take possession of this one?

A flicker and the man stood next to him, looking down at his body, one that he recognized. This one had been with Nix. He'd helped her escape. Or maybe she'd helped save him, that was more accurate.

"Am I dead?" the boy asked. "I touched something, and it started burning me."

Eligor looked down at his own body, but there was nothing there but the silver threads that made him up, and he realized that the man, the part-demon wasn't even looking at him. He was talking to himself.

"I think you are dying," he said softly. "Or your body wouldn't be here."

The man looked around, blue eyes pained as he searched for the source of the voice. "I wanted to help. I wanted to help make things right. I just keep fucking it up! I want to help."

If he'd had a heart, it would have been thumping. "What if I . . . told you that I could help? You could survive and I would be there with you. And together we could help."

The man did a slow turn. "Who are you?"

"I am Eligor."

The man stumbled back. "One of those handlers. The little dude that Gardreel killed!"

There was no ability to nod in this form, but he still found himself trying. "Yes, and I forced her to shoot me to try and stop Nix from being found. But if I don't find a body soon," the tug on his silver threads was stronger now, drawing him away from the part-demon, "then he will have me again, and he will have a thread once more tied to Nix. If I am with you, he won't find me. And I can help you survive these wounds. We can help each other, and then we can help her."

Wounds that were created from the dust off the gathering crews. They used it to knock the abnormals out, but it was poison to a demon. It ate them up from the wound and went deeper, into the veins and organs.

Blue eyes searched the space around where he floated. "You'd take over my mind?"

"No, no I wouldn't!" Eligor promised, and would have winced because it was a lie. "I would be there, helping you. Teaching you."

The tug on his threads was sharp now, hard and demanding.

Eligor! Return to me now!

Gardreel's voice cut through him, and he shot toward the part-demon man before he could be yanked away and stuffed into a different body. There was no choice now, he couldn't wait. He drove himself in through the ears and straight into the mind of the . . . boy. He was just a boy.

Colt Winterborn Rork was only twenty-one years old and his mind did not take well to an intrusion. Eligor tried to be gentle.

"I'm sorry, but you must let me in. Gardreel can't have me. We can help her together." His words fell on deaf ears, despite the boy's previous desire to help.

Wait, I . . . no, this is terrible! Get out, get out, get out!

The words were loud and demanding, but they were easy for Eligor to ignore. He'd been a handler for years; a bit of complaining was nothing new from a new abnormal.

He took the reins of the body and wove his way into the sinew and muscle, healing the pieces that were scarred from the angel dust, renewing the body in a way that Colt Winterborn Rork never would have been able to. "See? I am helping. You won't die."

"Who you be helping?"

That voice came in through his new ears. He opened his eyes to look into the face of a very strange man with a long narrow beard and eyes that were displaying a great deal of worry. He cleared his throat and slowly sat up, feeling the youth and vigor in his new body. "Nix. I'm helping the Phoenix."