Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

whispering of sheets as he sat up in bed. There should have been other noises—the low humming of the engines, at least. It suddenly dawned on him that the Sunspot was no longer moving.
    Before he could rise to check on the steersman, the captain noticed a faint noise. He paused to listen. The sound was unintelligible at first, but as he concentrated Freigh thought he heard raspy, excited whispering.
    “… Said—reaching—once—mutilation—responsible …”
    “… See—stolen—restored—condemned …”
    The source of the muted chatter eluded Freigh and doubled his resolve to quit the room. He stretched out his left arm to light the bedside lamp, unaware of the bitterly cold blade thrusting out to block him. Screaming in pain, Freigh tore his hand away from the icy metal.
    A deep blue glow limned the curved, charcoal grey sword held by a cloaked figure standing to the left of the bed. When Freigh's eyes adjusted, he saw that it was Mordechai. The passenger’s pale mask leered at him in a sterile reprimand.
    “Leave me!” the captain begged, clutching his frostbitten palm. “Leave, and take whatever curse follows you!”
    “We were agreed,” Mordechai said with the harshness of air venting through a hull breach. “I was to accompany you to the world circling Thera’s star.” Somehow, his icy voice grew still colder. “You have broken your word.”
    “By Elathan’s eye!” Freigh gasped, his voice trembling. “Go. Please go!”
    The cold blade vanished into Mordechai’s cloak. The indigo nimbus faded, plunging Freigh’s chamber back into pitch darkness.
    “Mordechai?” Freigh dared to whisper after several moments had passed. When no answer came, his right hand crept over to turn on the bedside lamp. The mellow circle of light that touched all but the farthest corners showed that he was alone.
    Freigh remained in his bed, rocking slowly and nursing his shriveled hand. Yet his wound was a trifle against his unspeakable relief at the monster's departure.
    His consolation proved short-lived. The muffled chittering resumed, emanating from the lightless corners. Freigh clenched his eyes shut and longed for his nightmares’ return as cruel laughter burst from the shadows.

6
    Teg arrived outside Deim’s quarters at dawn and rapped his knuckles on the door twice. He stepped back and waited in the tunnel, his patience thinning by the second. Eight hours had passed since Deim Cursorunda’s last turn at the Wheel. In Teg’s thinking there was no cause for him to still be asleep, no matter that Deim had made the run to rescue him.
    Muttering a curse, Teg approached the door again. This time he gave three harder knocks at longer intervals.
    The matte grey door slid open an inch. Through the crack Teg saw a smooth, olive-skinned face. “What time is it?” Deim asked groggily.
    “Fifteen minutes after you should’ve been up,” said Teg. “Senior staff meeting’s in ten.”
    Deim’s hand brushed unruly black hair from his eyes. The only one visible through the cracked door had puffy dark circles under it. “Go and tell Jaren I’ll be right there.”
    “Think I’ll wait here,” said Teg, suspecting Deim would crawl back into bed if he left.
    Deim shuffled away from the door but left it ajar. The hiss of running water sounded from within, followed by a flurry of general rummaging. Soon thereafter another sound issued from the room—one that held complex emotional associations for Teg.
    Deim’s soft chanting filtered into the tunnel. Most of the atonal song was foreign to Teg, but the act it accompanied wasn’t. Right now, as he did each day, the junior steersman was kneeling at a small shrine carved into a corner of his rock-hewn chamber. Deim’s morning prayer stirred up memories of Teg’s brief childhood on Keth, where his mother had once practiced a similar observance.
    Teg stretched muscles grown stiff from a night on a hospital cot and felt a stab of protest from his lower back. He tuned