Jestin Kase and the Masters of Dragon Metal

By J. Michael White

The critically acclaimed debut of a new YA urban fantasy epic.

"Sparks with cinematic energy and imagination." - Booklife

"This whip-smart fantasy offers '90s nostalgia and an irresistible underdog hero." - Kirkus Reviews

"A compelling saga...gripping and thought-provok

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teer Publishing
• Release date: May 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985221312

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Alley Cat

Apparently, the cops didn’t like it when you burned down your foster home. Who knew?

Police lights flashed across the dark streets as Jestin ran through the back alleys of Chicago. He pumped his legs as fast as he could, hopping over fences, dashing up and down fire escapes, and cutting across rooftops. His legs burned with fatigue, and his chest ached as his heart pounded.

Christ, I need to get back into shape.

No matter how fast he ran, the police sirens followed. He could hear at least three cars. Maybe four.

You’ve got to be freaking kidding me, he muttered, out of breath. Understaffed and underpaid, the cops rarely showed this level of persistence when they needed to give chase. They typically responded in an hour or two, if at all, and never followed Jestin’s trail for longer than a few minutes. Granted, he’d never burned down a house before—at least, not an entire house.

Jestin ducked into a tight alley and collapsed between a dumpster and a cluster of garbage cans. He leaned against the brick wall and breathed deeply, his pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his neck.

Gradually, the siren sounds moved farther and farther away.

Okay . . . he whispered between breaths. Okay . . . no more arson. Arson bad. Got it.

His voice startled something. He heard a clang; a black cat hissed, bolted from a garbage can, and landed on the dumpster. The feline arched his back, raising his short hair and poofing his tail. He glared, more afraid than angry, trying to look tough . . . and failing. The cat had one of those cute teddy-bear faces—hard to find that frightening.

Jestin sighed at the cat’s sad attempt to scare him. That’s an impressive, bushy tail you have there. I’m very intimidated. The cat breathed another hiss. Jestin nodded. Yes, yes. You’re very fearsome. But I need to crash here for a sec, okay?

Jestin curled up on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest, scrunching his black winter jacket, worn over a gray hoodie. Sweat dripped down his forehead, chilling in the winter air and wetting his shaggy brown bangs. He shuffled his legs, trying to get comfortable. Cold air seeped into the rips and tears in his faded jeans and worn sneakers—his big toe slipped through a hole in his right shoe.

Slowly, Jestin glanced up at the feline. Hair bristled down the black cat’s spine, and his golden-brown eyes stared from a face as terrorizing as a child’s stuffed animal.

Oh, calm down. I’m Jestin, by the way. Fifteen. Orphan on the run. I don’t suppose you have a name?

The cat rumbled a soft growl.

Growly McHissy-Face? Nice to meet you.

Another quick hiss.

Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.

The cat walked slowly in a circle, hopped onto the pavement, and stared at Jestin, staying crouched and ready to pounce if needed. Then he lowered his tail, still cautious, but not aggressive.

See? We’re fine, Jestin said. "Well . . . at least you’re fine. I’m royally screwed."

Jestin told Growly McHissy-Face his story, because why not?

Jestin had spent the past three weeks living in the basement of a foster home, where kids crammed together in bunk beds and sleeping bags. Their foster father cared little for them. As part of the system’s private sector, the man got paid per kid. So instead of children, he saw dollar signs and treated his charges no better than farmers treated livestock.

I didn’t like the guy. So I burned his house down, Jestin said. Totally logical.

The cat tilted his head. He looked inquisitive instead of afraid but still kept all fours beneath his body so he could spring away if needed. Something about Jestin’s voice seemed to calm the feline, so the boy kept talking.

What? Jestin said with a shrug. Okay, yeah, it was stupid and impulsive. You’re right. You get me, Growly McHissy-Face. You really get me.

Unfortunately, Jestin didn’t think far enough ahead. He had no idea what to do or where to go next. Not to mention, he may or may not have needed a psych evaluation. See, he didn’t burn down the house just because the foster dad was a prick (that didn’t help his case, though). Jestin learned something about the man, something that sounded crazy.

He was a thrall.

Jestin called the man that because he was enthralled by a demon’s influence. Empty and pathetic, the foster father fed off the loneliness and despair of the kids under his care. The man’s greed empowered him, twisted him into a soulless pawn of chaos—not exactly something Jestin could explain to the cops or his social worker.

So I took care of him myself, Jestin said. Why? Because no one else would. Besides, the man wasn’t human anymore; a thrall was a monster on the inside, evil, beyond saving, not a person, not even alive in the traditional sense. Killing a thrall wasn’t taking a life, it was saving the lives of others.

The boy rolled his hands into fists at the memory. Ugh, I’m too young to feel this old. Can I retire yet? Is that an option?

Maybe I’ll just move in with you, Jestin said to the cat, extending his hand slowly, palm up. Would you like the company?

Reluctantly, the cat stretched his body forward, moving his nose closer and closer to Jestin’s fingers, sniffing the boy’s hand until he got several good whiffs, his whiskers prickling Jestin’s skin. Then he rubbed the side of his face against the boy’s palm and started to purr like a boat engine.

See? Everything’s fine. I’m safe. Definitely not crazy. Definitely not sitting in the trash talking to an alley cat . . . Sometimes I hate my life.

The cat sprang up the boy’s arm, climbed around his neck, and dropped into his hoodie, using it like a hammock. Jestin snorted a laugh. Make yourself at home.

Suddenly, Jestin heard a shuffle from the shadows. The cat snapped his head around and perked his ears. Jestin stayed as still as possible. At first, he thought the shuffle belonged to another cat. But the steps sounded too heavy. And human.

Son of a mother, he muttered.

You suck at hiding, a voice said. Someone moved from the shadows, a man, looking as though he had stepped out of one of those techno-pumped action movies from the late 1990s. He wore black leather pants that matched his jacket, which covered a black button-down shirt. His dark hair looked slicked back, and he had the slightest hints of stubble across his square jaw. He looked at Jestin with piercing icy blue eyes that gave the boy goose bumps.

Oddly, the cat stayed calm.

Who says I’m hiding? Jestin stayed on the ground—didn’t want to seem nervous, even though his heart pounded with panic. Just . . . taking my cat for a walk.

Taking your cat for a walk? You’re a freaking idiot, he scolded himself.

Oh, I see, the stranger said as he looked toward the other end of the alley. I thought maybe you were running from the police who’ve been chasing you all night.

Oh, them. Jestin smiled sheepishly and ruffled the back of his hair. Yeah, well, no. We’re tight, the police and me. Good pals.

Who was this guy? A fed? Social worker? Thrall? No, he didn’t seem enthralled and didn’t look like a cop or a fed . . . not that Jestin had ever seen a fed, but didn’t they wear suits? Either way, the stranger obviously dressed too nice for a social worker.

What about you? Jestin asked. "Do you make it a habit of sneaking up on kids in alleys? Maybe I should call the police."

You could. The stranger seemed distracted. He pulled out his pocket watch, flipped it open and checked the time, then clicked it back shut, stuffing it into his pocket. Or you could come with me and listen to what I have to say. It’s a better option than running all night. And something tells me you won’t be able to duck the cops much longer. Not this time.

Jestin’s instincts screamed at him to run, but he didn’t have many escape options. He glanced back to see if the cat would help, maybe pounce to his defense. But the feline was busy licking himself in the boy’s hoodie. Thanks, Growly McHissy-Face. Thanks.

Appreciate it, but I can take care of myself, Jestin said, climbing slowly to his feet. He tried to sound confident enough to make the stranger think he had some secret butt-kicking ability, which he so did not. Thanks.

Suddenly, sirens blared from both ends of the alley, and police lights strobed through the darkness. Tires screeched against pavement as cop cars swerved to a halt, blocking both ways out of the alley.

Jestin cursed beneath his breath. You stalled me!

No, I tried to get you to hurry. The stranger pulled two handguns from his jacket, completely enforcing his I-am-the-One techno-vibe.

The cops shouted, weapons drawn, as they used their car doors for cover—two officers on one end of the alley and three on the other side.

Freeze!

Don’t move!

They opened fire before Jestin could tell them to calm the hell down. Their guns thundered, blasting bullets. The techno-stranger didn’t seem worried and whispered something beneath his breath.

Jestin ducked and covered his head—stupid, as if that would help. Surprisingly, nothing happened. He didn’t feel the sting of hot metal tearing through his body. Instead, the gunfire stopped, and shoes shuffled against the pavement.

The silence of shock.

When Jestin looked up, he saw the stranger standing with his guns at his sides. His eyes flickered with blue energy, and the same type of power pulsed from both ends of the alleyway. Apparently, the guy made force fields. Actual freaking force fields, flickers of light along invisible walls that had blocked the hailstorm of bullets.

The shields lowered with a final flicker. The stranger lifted his guns and opened fire toward the nearest end of the alleyway. His bullets blazed with fiery energy that punctured through a cop car, which exploded into a ball of fire and shrapnel, hurling two cops off their feet.

The remaining three officers tossed their guns aside, pulled out their batons, and charged at the stranger from behind. Their skin shifted, turning a sickly green as their eyes became bloodshot. They snarled like rabid wolves, with drool dripping down their fat chins.

The stranger whipped around and fired, blasting the officers. But they kept running as if they didn’t even feel the bullets stinging through their bodies, smoke hissing from the wounds. Growly McHissy-Face perked his head at the scent of burnt meat. So helpful.

The police charged closer.

The stranger tossed his guns aside and jump-kicked a cop upside the head. He moved with the type of speed and fancy motions you saw on TV, punching and kicking the three attackers before they could land a single strike with their batons.

He tore a baton from a cop’s hand, smashed it against the man’s face, and swung wide, bashing the second attacker across the head. The final attacker leaned forward and lunged with a howl. The stranger threw the baton against the man’s forehead, whipping him off his feet with a boom of wind.

Stepping back, the stranger whispered and snapped his fingers; the attackers’ bodies burst into flames.

Crap. What the what?

Sure, Jestin knew the supernatural existed in some form. But he never expected to see a dual-gun-wielding magician torch a bunch of . . . whatever they were . . . with fiery bullets and energy shields.

Jestin stayed on the ground, eyes wide, looking up at the stranger. Um. No offense, but who the hell are you?

I’m the guy who just saved your life. He tucked his guns back into his belt. Any other questions? No? Good. Now hurry up and come with me. You have work to do.

CHAPTER TWO

Babylonian Bible School

The stranger called himself Gideon. He grabbed the nearest cop car and drove off with Jestin in the passenger seat. The cat still rested in Jestin’s hoodie, eyes half closed and one paw tangled in the boy’s hair. I belong to the feline now, apparently.

You know, Jestin started to say as he looked out the window. Vacant storefronts whizzed by as the car sped down the night-lit street. You can’t just take people like this.

But burning down houses is fine?

Jestin shrugged. Touché. Seriously, though. I mean . . . you can’t just . . . how can you . . . ugh . . .

Are you trying to ask me something?

Jestin’s patience snapped. Yeah, what the hell just happened?

You brought attention to yourself when you started taking out the enthralled, Gideon said, keeping his eyes on the road.

Is that what those cops were?

"More or less. Once someone is enthralled, they lose all their humanity. That’s what happened to those things back there. They weren’t really men. They weren’t really cops. Not anymore." He acted as though he took that personally for some reason. Jestin wanted to ask why, but his mind kept screaming a different question.

What the hell? So articulate. Seriously, what the freaking hell?

Why so surprised? Gideon asked. You’ve killed at least five of these things.

But they never got all green and bloodshot, and I didn’t use fire bullets, force fields, and ninja kung fu to do it.

No, but you knew how. You knew their vulnerabilities. Someone had to teach you. Who?

"What, you want to hear my life story now? You’re the one who kidnapped me. You say things. Jestin waved him on so he’d keep speaking. Thralls. Magic fire bullets. Go."

Gideon nodded, a silent agreement to further explain the night’s craziness. The enthralled are at the bottom of the bump-in-the-night totem pole. Dark forces like them, they’ve existed as long as humanity, but now they’ve done something mankind never could.

Evolved beyond an interest in reality TV?

United, he said, ignoring the joke. There were three secret societies—Three Great Schools of Magic—tasked with keeping the Great Dark at bay. But they spent so much time fighting each other, they didn’t notice evil start to influence everything about our daily lives. Politics. Religion. The schools still exist, but they’ve lost their way.

Gideon nodded out the window, toward the run-down and vacant businesses in the distance. Look at the shape of things where we live. Corruption. Apathy. Greed. Sickness. People like to read stories about dystopian futures, but they don’t realize they’re already living in one. We have neighborhoods worse off than District 12. You can help me change that.

How? Am I some kind of Chosen One or something? Destined to fight the good fight? Do I have a lightning bolt tattoo on my forehead I don’t know about?

No, don’t be a dumbass, Gideon said. There are no chosen ones. There are no special destinies. You fight for your own fate.

Then why are we having this conversation?

"Because you have been fighting, Gideon said. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you."

Stalk much?

When I have to, Gideon said. I can’t stop what’s happening alone. Those Three Great Schools I mentioned, they’re binding what’s left of magic, perverting it. They have to be stopped and set back on the right path, aimed against the Great Dark. I need people like you to make that happen.

Orphan boys? Jestin asked. You need orphan boys?

I need people who refuse to accept the world we live in as normal.

Jestin slouched and muttered beneath his breath. He wanted to say, Maybe your generation shouldn’t have royally screwed things up for the rest of us.

***

Lagren loved the fiery smell of smoke. He breathed in deep; burnt air filled his nostrils. He found peace in the chaos of fire. And he loved it.

The man stood near the remains of Jestin’s foster home, a smoldering pile of burnt wood and ash. Firefighters had just extinguished the last of the flames; smoke clung to the night air, clouding the dense neighborhood of mismatched homes.

Red and blue light strobed across the landscape, from two fire engines, three police cars, and one ambulance parked in the nearby street. Several firefighters rummaged through the burnt wreckage while police officers secured the scene.

Lagren stood silently among them. He wore a long black trench coat and carried a black cane with a silver grip that resembled a double-headed lion. His black hat cast a shadow across his chalk-white face.

A young officer noticed him.

Uh, excuse me, sir? The officer kept his distance, afraid. As he should be. I’m going to have to ask you to step back.

No, I think not. Lagren gave a pleasant smile that contrasted with the cold fury in his pale blue eyes. Tell me, what happened to the children who lived here?

The officer’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes opened wide. Fear tightened his body. He swallowed, tried to compose himself. He felt compelled to answer. They . . . they all made it out alive. Looks like whoever started the fire let the kids out first. There’s a man, though . . . burned to a crisp. Probably the foster dad.

Wise deduction, Lagren said, holding his smile, eyes swirling with insanity. You may leave.

The officer turned and walked away, quickly, almost tripping over his own feet.

Lagren stared into the burnt husk of the home. He rarely gave notice to dead thralls, but this individual had been a member of Lagren’s network—a lowly individual, but still, an extension of Lagren’s eyes and ears throughout the city. And whoever had killed this thrall had been thorough. Scraps of blackened wood. Splintered frames. A foundation reduced to rubble. Smoke, so much smoke, and within that smoke, the faintest traces of a mist that did not belong: artificial holy water.

Someone here was quite determined, he whispered, as if to himself.

A voice answered from the shadows. Why concern yourself over the death of one thrall? The voice sounded small and childlike, a whisper on the breeze.

"Not concern, Lagren said. Interest. This thrall belonged to me and I want to know who destroyed him."

Someone young, said the voice, in possession of mental powers that sensed the aftermath of the crime scene. "A child, really. But trained. And if he’s trained, you know what that means, my master. Gideon will find him."

Yes, Lagren said, amused at the thought. Gideon. That fool cannot accept that mankind has lost its war with evil. This world is ours.

If he continues to gather forces . . .

Lagren barked a laugh. "Forces? Hardly. They may think they can fight back against the chaos that has enveloped this world, but it is too far gone. Yes, too far gone. Let them try to fight, though. Let them lash out like angry children. It will make the chaos of this world taste all the more bitter."

Lagren looked toward the rooftops, where he knew the source of the voice waited in darkness: Abilsin, his servant and right hand. Find the one who did this, he said. The best part of dealing with angry children is the punishment.

***

Gideon took Jestin to a church in a run-down subdivision crammed with Victorian-style homes. Each house looked worn and weathered, with chipped paint, cracked windows, and missing shingles.

Jestin wanted to run at the first chance he had, away from the leather-clad man and his force fields and fire bullets. But the boy’s curiosity outweighed his impulse. He wanted to know more about Gideon. And he wanted to better understand these thralls that seemed to pop up all too frequently.

Inside, the church looked like what a church should look like (he guessed, never having been in one, really). Wooden pews? Check. Pulpit? Check. Stained-glass windows? Those too. Low lighting gave the church an odd vibe, though. The reds and golds from the stained-glass windows cast the faintest of crimson hues.

At the front of the church stood a man in black jeans and a black button-down shirt with a priest’s collar. He looked middle-aged, with short, wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and black-framed glasses. His face had the dark stubble of a five-o’clock shadow.

Gideon, the priest said with a smile. He seemed way too normal to be interacting with Jestin’s ’90s techno-action hero. Didn’t know you’d be bringing over another initiate.

The priest talked about Jestin as if he weren’t there, so naturally, Jestin hated him. It didn’t take much to get on the boy’s bad side.

It wasn’t expected, Gideon said in that same even tone he used when talking to Jestin. Like Batman—the Michael Keaton version, not the growly Christian Bale one. Jestin, this is Father Caleb. Father, this is Jestin. He’s killed about half a dozen thralls that I know of.

Well, isn’t that impressive? The holy man didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm. He extended his hand. Nice to meet you, Jestin.

Jestin took the priest’s hand. "Thanks. Your sincerity is overwhelming."

The priest smirked. A smart-ass, huh? I like it.

If he tries to convert me, I am so out of here. Are you going to tell me what you want? And no, I won’t be your altar boy, so don’t ask.

The priest breathed a quick laugh. No, you don’t strike me as the altar-boy type. Are you even a believer?

In . . .?

You seriously have to ask? Father Caleb pointed at the nearest cross, large and bronze at the very front of the church. God.

To Jestin’s credit, he didn’t bust out laughing. I believe in what I can see. Monsters and demons . . . and apparently force fields and magic fire bullets . . . sure, seen those. But not God. Quite the opposite, actually.

I’m sorry to hear that.

Yeah, I’m sure. Jestin glanced back at Gideon. Did you seriously bring me here for Bible school?

No, Gideon said. Father, if you’d please . . .

Right, right, the priest said, adjusting his glasses. It’s quite the complicated situation you’ve stumbled into, Jestin. There’s a lot to explain, so we’ll start with the basics. Magic.

Father Caleb reached into his pocket and pulled out a medallion, dull gold, that fit in the palm of his hand. He traced his thumb across its surface, which was etched with carvings that resembled a serpentine dragon.

No one on earth can channel magic directly anymore, Father Caleb explained. The Three Great Schools are binding the remnants of magic, and our world is completely cut off from the Magical Source: the heavens.

Jestin arched an eyebrow. Heaven? As in angels playing harps in floofy clouds? That heaven?

Yes and no, Father Caleb said, moving on. Sorcerers and magicians used to be able to channel magic at will. Now they need Relics, items like these medals. But Relics are scarce. And no one can make more.

Jestin glanced at Gideon. Is that how you made all those fancy force fields? A Relic?

Gideon said nothing.

Cryptic. Got it. Not at all suspicious.

Father Caleb continued as if Jestin had not asked the question. This medallion is one of the most powerful Relics on earth. It’s part of a set of twelve, the last force for good on the planet. Each is made out of Dragon Metal.

Jestin tilted his head. Dragon Metal? Of course. A Dragon Metal medal? Do I need mettle to use the Metal medal?

That’s . . . not funny.

It is a little, yeah. Everyone loves wordplay.

Please stop.

Right after you tell me why I’m here.

To use this. Father Caleb held up the medallion. If you prove you can handle it. And even if you can’t, to fight with us.

If you want fighters to save the world, you should call Bruce Willis or Jet Li or something.

Don’t discount yourself. Gideon spoke up at Jestin’s side, having moved without making a sound, nearly scaring the crap out of the orphan. I’ve seen what you can do. And that’s without training. I can help make you better. And you wouldn’t be alone.

Gideon has a small team, Father Caleb said. If you joined them, you’d be going up against . . . well, the whole world, frankly. The Three Great Schools of Magic. The Great Dark itself and its agents.

Agents?

Think of every nightmare you’ve ever had, Father Caleb said. That’s the Great Dark. Its most powerful ally is Tiamat. She rules the world, basically, for all intents and purposes.

Should I recognize that name?

She’s a figure from Babylonian myth, Father Caleb said. A dragon, the embodiment of primordial chaos.

Oh great, another dragon. Cute. What’s with all the dragon stuff? I thought you were a priest. How can you believe in Babylonian myth?

Father Caleb smiled and adjusted his glasses. "The truth is always more complicated than the stories we read. According to some legends, Tiamat was born before the beginning of time, out of swirling chaos. She was an old god and gave birth to the young gods. But when the young gods killed her mate, she turned against them, starting a full-out war, using eleven beasts of her own creation to lead the fight.

The young gods, though, had a champion who stood up to the eleven beasts: Marduk. He defeated Tiamat and trapped her remains in what became known as the sky, sea, and land. When the Great Dark subdued this world, years ago, maybe decades, Tiamat was freed.

Jestin shifted back and forth on his feet. Yeah, I don’t believe any of that. And I’m actually getting kind of bored.

Growly McHissy-Face yawned within the boy’s hoodie, as if on cue. We are truly bonded, Growly McHissy-Face.

Father Caleb tucked the medallion back into his pocket. All right, let’s cut to the chase. He pulled a small knife from his other pocket. Hold out your hand.

CHAPTER THREE

Church Brawl

Whoa! Jestin jerked back; Growly McHissy-Face breathed a quick hiss and bolted from the boy’s hoodie. Seriously, so helpful, what a brave guardian. What kind of whacked-out priest are you?

It’s all right, Father Caleb said. He tried to sound soothing, but that made him sound creepy, like saying, It’s okay, little girl, come into my van and have some candy. "If you’re going to join Gideon and really fight, we need to purify your soul."

My soul is fine, thank you.

Except it’s not, the priest said. In today’s world, we’re all tied to evil spirits, quite literally, in one form or another. I need to cut that cord.

You . . . That doesn’t even . . . What?

I thought you were getting bored. Do you want another story, or do you want to do this? I need a cut across the palm of your hand to start the cleansing. You can do it yourself if that would make you more comfortable.

Jestin muttered a string of curses beneath his breath. He shook his head, reached out, and took the knife. Comfortable . . . right.

Am I really going along with this? He didn’t believe in magic or rituals. He believed in what he could see and touch. The world had monsters and demons, yes, but not magic, and certainly not hope.

Jestin glanced to his side; he saw Gideon reloading his twin handguns.

Uh, why does it look like you’re getting ready for a fight?

I am, Gideon said. The unquiet spirits sometimes fight back when they’re cut off from their hosts. They’re dangerous. That’s why they need to be severed if you’re going to come with me. I can’t afford to have them inside my Hovel.

He lives in a freaking hovel? "I don’t remember actually agreeing to go with you, but whatever. Also . . . not sure how good your bullets will do against ghosts."

Gideon tucked the loaded guns back into his jacket. They’re enchanted bullets, made by the Verum before the Great Dark subdued the world.

Jestin sighed. Yeah, I don’t know what that means.

Father Caleb grabbed a sack of supplies from behind his pulpit and kneeled on the floor. He reached into the sack, pulled out a plate, and slid it in front of him. The plate looked dull silver, with dents and scratches—unremarkable.

Then he lifted a silver cup about as large as a bowl. It looked dull and worn, with faded runes along the sides, chipped and scratched. The priest explained that the cup, a Kos Tehora used in purification rituals, came from the Sefirot, one of the Three Great Schools.

Hold out your hand and make the cut, Father Caleb said.

Jestin grumbled with annoyance, masking his fear. He kneeled, reached out his left hand, and traced the knife along his palm. The blade pricked his skin and drew blood. Ow, ow, ow! Son of a mother, that freaking hurts! Do not cry!

Blood dripped from his palm and splattered into the dish.

Father Caleb closed his eyes. He whispered a quiet incantation, barely audible. The cup’s runes started to glow with a pale silver light. The priest tilted the cup and poured its water over Jestin’s hand, across the wound, and into the water dish.

Jestin nearly snapped his hand away. The water felt hot where it touched his wound. A cold heat. The frigid warmth seeped into his hand and up his arm, swirled into his chest, giving him chills. His body felt as if it had turned into one big goose bump, prickling with fear.

It’s okay, Father Caleb whispered. Let the feeling wash through you. With the earth cut off from the heavens, the spirits of the dead can’t cross over into the afterlife. Some, the unquiet, latch on to humans. They feed off the feelings and experiences of the living. Tearing them away, it hurts, down to the soul.

Jestin gritted his teeth. Understatement! Heavens? What about . . . hell?

This world is hell, Father Caleb said.

Jestin’s inner voice shouted, Why am I doing this, why am I doing this, why am I doing this!

Suddenly, he felt a tug in his heart; tightness gripped his throat. He narrowed his eyes, and sweat dripped down his forehead. His pulse pounded in