Chapter Sixteen
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Manolito moved quickly through the barren shadow world, seeking the darker edges where the undead gathered in packs to wail while they waited to know their fate. He had the illusion of wearing his body, striding over the uneven ground, making his way through the tangle of huge roots, just as if he were still back
in the rain forest, but he was too light, almost floating, and when he looked down, his hands and arms were transparent. He could see the rotting vegetation on the ground as he passed through on his way to the mountains of jagged boulders that marked the entrance to the meadow of mists.
A few spirits frowned at him as he strode by them, a couple lifted a hand as if they might recognize him, but for the most part, he was ignored. It was strange to him that as he glided through the forests and hills, he could clearly see that two types of people populated the land, where before he hadn't noticed.
The meadow seemed to separate those who had little or no remorse for the things they did in their former life from the ones who struggled to understand where they had gone wrong. Few had been around to greet him.
As he approached closer to the meadow, heat and steam rose to envelope him. Where before the mists were simply gray and dunk, with no feeling of hope, now the air was even more oppressive and seemed thick with tension, as if uneasiness walked the land. In the distance he heard the sounds of mocking laughter, the whisper of voices calling his name. They waited for him, knew he approached.
Was it really possible for an army of the undead to find a way back to the land of the living? If so, he would have to find a way to stop them. He had to let go of his fears for MaryAnn and give this world his full attention. He couldn't be in two places at one time. He would have to trust that Riordan had arrived to protect MaryAnn from harm. He didn't dare touch MaryAnn's mind and accidentally pull her into the spirit world with him. He had to keep her from danger at all costs-even his life should that be necessary. He shut down all emotion and turned his attention wholly to the problem at hand.
If the vampires were acting to invade the land of the living, they had someone powerful helping them. Razvan or Xavier, the two most powerful mages in existence. Maybe both. No one else could wield that kind of power. And if Xavier and Maxim were allies working together to bring down the Carpathian people, Xavier certainly would have told Maxim if he was trying to find a way to tap into an army of the undead. Everyone knew Xavier called on shadow warriors, men of honor long gone from the world, their spirits imprisoned by the skilled mage to do his bidding. If Xavier could yoke the shadow warriors, he might find a way to harness the legions of undead waiting in the meadow of mists.
The way seemed longer, and more people tentatively greeted him, which surprised him. Before, the first time his spirit had arrived, most turned away with a quick gesture toward the meadow, yet now the inhabitants seemed to accept him. As he moved closer to his destination, he felt an easiness spreading and realized that when he had arrived the first time, his spirit had been dark, close to turning, so close that even within the land of the dead, he had been considered closer to vampire than to hunter. The atmosphere around the meadow hadn't bothered him and he had instinctively sought it out. Now his spirit must appear brighter, more normal. The growing stain across his soul had receded because of MaryAnn. He owed her more even than he had known.
He came to the meadow and halted, staring out over the expanse of sinkholes and shifting soil. It looked like a spongy marsh, and when he put his foot on it in experimentation, he sank to his ankle. His body had no real weight here, so the reaction made no sense. He hesitated, studying the barren land. Only a few scattered weeds and thistles grew in the center of the marsh. Dark reeds lined the edges, bent like old straws. Steam rose from vent holes, and minerals of all colors-dim, not bright-rimmed boiling mud ponds. The sludge quivered and popped, splattering large, dark spots of oozing mud and adding to the rising steam.
The mist lay heavy over the meadow, a gray-green vapor that reeked of sulfur. He stood for a time studying the rising plumes of hot gases and wondering why it had been so easy to cross it on his first visit.
"You look lost, Manolito." A voice greeted him from behind.
Manolito spun around and found himself face-to-face with Vlad Dubrinsky. Emotion welled up sharp and
fast, a piercing shock that threatened to shake his confidence. Joy. Guilt. Shame. Amazement. Pride. Vlad Dubrinsky had been more than a prince to him. When their own father had chosen to follow his lifemate into death, Vlad had stepped in to fill the gulf left by the death of their parents. He'd guided Manolito and his brothers, mentored them, respected their counsel. Yet, in the end, they had repudiated him for trying to save his son when he knew there was no hope.