The same kind of script was scrawled into the bronze there, all loops and circles and curls.
“What language is it?” I asked. “Any idea?”
Sushi wiggled back and forth in one of those whole-body Nos.
“Can you read it?”
“Very old,” she said. “Sushi can see lost magics because Lost, but Sushi can’t read.”
My HUD light timed out. The gem glowed a dull red in the darkness. Deep down in the center, that shifting shape was still moving.
On a hunch, I dragged my tent bag out and got one of the spare stakes. With the tip, I dug and scratched at the lettering on the gem until I marred one of the loops. The red flared brighter as if someone had taken a shade off a lamp and all that was left was the bare bulb.
It showed up on Dead Reckoning like a legit life point now, shifting and flickering like a living thing instead of static. I closed my fist and Dead Man’s Hand around it at the same time. With an internal yank, Dead Man’s Hand tore the life point out of the gem and into my Spirit sea.
Power shot through my muscles like a bolt of electricity. Everything got bright and sharp. Suddenly the dull light of the cook fire was a thousand-watt spotlight throwing Unu and Warcry’s shadows onto the canvas in perfect detail. I could smell the acrid stink of the MealBagz’ packaging burning on the coals and the sterile knife of the booze Unu was swigging.
Excitement at the discovery and energy from the life point flowed up and down my Spirit rivers like an oscillating wave. I was too wired to hold still.
I jumped up out of my bedroll and headed out by the fire.
“Warcry!”
Everybody swung around to look at me, and I realized I was talking too loud. I dialed the volume back, but I didn’t have any control over the speed.
“Okay, so I scratched up the script on one of the gems, and I was able to tear the life point out, just like a Van Diemann feral, except the afterburn’s like a hundred times stronger. Anyway, I couldn’t affect the gems with those Spirit attacks earlier, but a stake from my tent bag got the job done, so obviously it just has to be something physical, like a weapon or your prosthetic, then once the script is scratched, Spirit attacks work on the life point, so the script must be protecting the skelebuddies from Spirit somehow, maybe like a barrier.”
Nobody said anything.
Unu popped his tongue out of the mouth of the liquor bottle. “The death brat’s tripping on white rain.”
“It’s the ferals,” Warcry explained. “He gets a Spirit boost or something from ’em.”
“Did you say White Rain?” I asked the rock guy. “Like the shampoo?”
“Isn’t white rain slang for neurocaine?” Valthorpe looked at the hooligans for confirmation. “The drug?”
“You need to get off that garbage, death brat,” Smoky said. “Might be good for a quick boost, but it digs holes in your brain.” He tapped his skull in front of one pointed ear. “Messes it all up in there.”
“I’m not on any drugs. When I rip out a feral’s life point, it’s like I get a power-up, like extra adrenaline or something. Anyway, that’s not the important part—”
The crunch of dead plant matter set my teeth on edge as Valthorpe left the fireside and walked up beside me. He put a hand on my shoulder. My skin tried to crawl away. I shook him off, but too hard, so that it kind of flung his arm away from me. It wasn’t until he put up his hands to show me he wasn’t a threat that I realized that had probably been rude.
“The script damage discovery is great information to have,” Valthorpe said in a condescending voice that was probably meant to be calming. “I’ll do some research and see what I can come up with before tomorrow. In the meantime, maybe a little rest would help.”
“No, I’m not going to sleep.”
Valthorpe took a step back.
Maybe I’d been a little aggressive with that refusal. But I felt like I could run laps around the solar system, not like I needed a nap.
Warcry scowled at the academic. “If he goes to sleep like this, he’ll be putting off Death Spirit flares all night. Ain’t safe for any of us, is it?”
Nobody was getting the significance of the new information I’d figured out.
“I’m trying to tell you, man, if we can scratch up the script on the stones, I can rip the life points out more easily and clear these skeletons faster.” I turned toward the temple. “Let’s go, I’ll show you.”
“Sure, and while we’re at it, we’ll autograph the gems for ’em, too,” Warcry sneered. “Should be easy to do while they’re fighting back and you’re jittering like a riotdust addict. You don’t need more Miasma until you condense what you’ve got.”
“Condense?”
“You’re overcultivated, grav. Your Spirit sea’s outta room. You gotta deal with that now or you’ll have a flare-up and unleash the excess while you’re sleeping—and with your Spirit, that’s like as not to kill us all.”
I frowned. “I’ve heard that somewhere before. You told me about it. Or, no, it was Rali. He said humans do it sometimes because their bodies can’t handle all the extra Spirit, and that’s why the CPA wanted to clip them.”
“And you’re making the case for the bleeders,” Warcry said, shoving me toward the creek. “Come on.”
As we left the campfire behind, the hooligans hooted with laughter. Anger flared in the back of my brain, then almost immediately disappeared as turquoise light reflecting off the dark burbling creek caught my attention.
It was me. Miasma leaked out of my eyes, nose, and mouth in smoky wisps. The clouds got bigger whenever I exhaled.
“That looks pretty rad, but I’m guessing it’s not supposed to be
