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middle of Afghanistan but that man didn’t have a hope in hell and Krishani didn’t feel like dying of dehydration again. He walked through the hallways, ice-cold air billowing across the floor. A small brown-skinned woman sitting on a red plastic chair outside a room gasped as the cold passed her, crunching her feet to her chest. Krishani tried to recognize the surroundings, but since the modern world appeared out of nowhere, everything looked the same. He could have been in England if it wasn’t for the suffocating heat and East Indian staff populating the nurse’s station. He avoided machines haphazardly littering the hallway as he searched for someone with a fatal wound, someone easy to take.
    He rounded the corner, passing a shock of cold in their direction. A doctor in his thirties shuddered involuntarily but continued speaking in perfect Punjabi to the nurse behind the counter. They were so desensitized even the chill of a monster like him couldn’t scare them. He used to be feared, but now he was an unusual blast from an unfaithful air conditioner. He neared the burn ward and passed it, not interested in living through the pain of skin grafts. He’d been through every kind of torture in the past nine thousand years. He died too many times to count, devoured too many souls, and lost himself in the cacophony of seething hunger.
    He neared the cancer ward and passed it, most people who were terminal had cancer these days, but there were always stragglers, ones who had unidentifiable diseases nobody could cure.
    His preference.
    Anger burst into him as tiny spots dotted his vision. He turned to the room he was planning to invade with his unmistakable cold and found a girl, long brown ponytail, bronze skin and shining golden aura crouched beside the bed. Her hands were pressed together in meditation, head bowed. The boy on the bed looked about seventeen. If his body could handle it, Krishani could have been with him for months, maybe years. The want rose in the back of his imaginary throat as he stared at Gemma Yessenia, the Valkyrie bitch that had taken over for Jenima when her ten thousand years were up. Gemma turned her head slightly to Krishani but didn’t openly acknowledge him.
    “You can’t have this soul, Vulture,” she thought, the pinpricks of her small words filling Krishani’s form with sand. He recoiled, but want pressed against him and like a house in a flash flood he was split into pieces and carried by the strong current.
    “I need it.”
    Gemma shook her head perceptibly, her golden aura glowing brighter. “You can’t be fed here.”
    “I don’t want to be fed,” Krishani spat, banishment whiplashing against his form. He felt it suddenly, the reason the doctor didn’t flinch, the reason there were no souls he could devour. She blessed the hospital and was protecting this one boy. Krishani stilled, fighting against his nature to flee from blessed souls and hoped she would break, let her guard down for a millisecond. It was all he needed to devour the boy and possess the body.
    Gemma turned to Krishani, a terrible expression on her smooth face. Her cracked lips pressed together in a line, her Valkyrie wings folded and hidden behind her shoulder blades. Her face registered shock and Krishani wanted to smirk. He’d caught her off guard. Jemina knew full well what Krishani liked to do with bodies that weren’t quite dead. Somehow Elwen hadn’t bothered telling Gemma about him. He would have been pained if he wasn’t so empty inside. She steeled herself. “You’re a necromancer?” Her tone registered horror.
    Krishani shrugged. He was a wraith, a vulture, the bogeyman, an angel of death, a demon, and the devil depending on the person and the place. Necromancer was just another fancy title on the long list. The waiting became unbearable. In one lightning fast move he came as close to Gemma as he dared, which meant the doorframe to the room. She stood and leaned over the boy, whispering in