Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

accusations of piracy. “I never haul contraband,” he rebuffed his accusers. “Check the hold for yourself.” Others he invited to browse the ledger that proved his meticulous payment of customs duties.
    These claims of innocence weren’t outright lies. Nor were they the whole truth, but a grey market operator who wanted to stay in business took the proper precautions. Freigh’s wrinkled face and hoary beard testified to his career’s longevity. He did his double-dealing on the fringes where an almost current Guild license and feigned forgetfulness appeased the authorities more often than not.
    Freigh knew he belonged to a dying breed. He had no idea how close to death he was.
    Early in the Sunspot’s current voyage, her master had started to wonder if the troubles besetting his ship were worth the scant profits. He never expected much loyalty from crew or passengers, but both groups were suffering record attrition.
    Freigh had inklings about the cause of the desertions, but he kept his own counsel. He mistook inhibition for prudence when in truth fear kept him from acting. His reluctance defied years of experience which told him that not all ether lore is superstition.
    Only when the cost of training a new engineer’s mate put the ship in the red did Freigh face the truth. Like it or not there was a jinx on board, and he knew who it was.
    The cargo master had alerted Freigh to the steady decrease in warm bodies aboard since they'd picked up Vaun Mordechai. The reporting officer had gone missing that night. They hadn't even been in port.
    The captain was still tempted to dismiss the correlation as coincidence, but something about Mordechai was just plain wrong. He’d almost turned the passenger away at their first meeting, only to falter before the blank expression frozen upon that horrid porcelain mask.
    Freigh took some consolation from Mordechai’s solitary tendencies. The man mostly kept to his cabin, unless one believed the reports that had him wandering the halls like a ghost.
    Left with no alternative, Freigh decided to act. He marched up to Mordechai's door and stood there gathering his courage. At last, indignation trumped his dread. He was master on the Sunspot , and he wouldn't hesitate to inspect a cabin aboard his ship for fear of an eccentric recluse! His eventual knock was soft and brief.
    The challenge went unanswered. Freigh turned to leave, but faint whispers filtering through the door gave him pause. Mordechai was the cabin’s only listed occupant. He should’ve been alone.
    The steel hatch swung inward, pulled by a black arm that faded into the darkened room. Sterility replaced the corridor’s usual sour funk. Such cold spilled out that Freigh thought he stood before an open airlock. But no stars burned beyond that door.
    The captain fancied that he peered into a mausoleum, disturbing a crouching corpse wrapped in a hooded grey cloak. Freigh saw with mounting fear that the passenger was without his death mask. Mordechai’s empty grey eyes were open, seeming like the lifeless facsimiles of a doll rather than the lights of a soul.
    “The voyage has been cancelled due to lack of hands,” Freigh blurted. “I’m sure you can find alternate transport to Tharis.”
    Mordechai said nothing. Dread brooded about him like a winter mist.
    Freigh pulled the door shut so hastily that it slammed against the frame with a resounding crash. Again overcompensating for a misstep, the captain slunk away to the main corridor. Then he ran.

    The master of the Sunspot awoke from a dream in which the wails of his crew filled the omnipresent blackness. Coming to himself in his darkened quarters, he breathed deeply to slow his racing pulse. The air tasted fowler than usual and chilled his sweaty skin.
    Life support’s on the blink.
    Something else struck Freigh as odd. It took him a moment to notice the silence. The only sounds he heard were those he made: his rapid breathing; the drumming of his heart; the