Echo Soul Seekers

hope more will follow.
    I stay crouched and low, knees slightly bent, hands flexed and ready. Stealing a moment to adjust to the rhythm of the ground rumbling precariously beneath me—a long string of aftershocks coming in quick succession. Though, thankfully, their intensity lessens a little each time.
    Good omen number two?
    I’ll take what I can get.
    A crescendo of shouts drifts from the mine. The captives, apparently no longer enthralled by the Richters, are crowding the mouth of the shaft in an attempt to break free. Their bodies surging against the army of undead guards who push hard against them and shove them back in.
    My gaze darts among them, searching for Cade but not seeing him anywhere. I slip my athame into my fist and advance.
    Despite the odds stacked against me—despite there being only one of me and loads of them—I find I’m bathed in a strange sense of calm with not a trace of fear to be found.
    This is the moment when theory and practice finally consummate after months of chastely dating.
    This is my chance to use all the skills Paloma has taught me.
    This is when I fulfill my destiny—do what I was born to do or die trying.
    I creep toward the Richters, keeping my movements so silent, so stealthy, they remain completely unaware of my presence. Remembering what Paloma told me, that the only way to rid the world of them, send them back to their afterlives, is to either remove their heads or cut them cleanly in half.
    Sounds simple in theory, but judging by the sheer number of them, my only hope of seeing it through is to focus less on the act and more on the end. Envision them lying in headless heaps all around me. See it as though it’s already done.
    With the image fixed in my head, I rub my lips together, tighten my grip on the knife, and spring toward the first one. Amazed at how easily I catch him.
    Then again, he didn’t see me coming. Failed to sense me sneaking up from behind him, blade at the ready.
    Doesn’t even realize what’s happening, until the razor-sharp tip jams all the way to the hilt. And though he puts up a bit of a protest, it’s too little, too late. My knuckles are already dragging clear across his neck as I go about the business of severing his head.
    He crumples to my feet, his pathetic gurgle lost among the noise and the chaos, leaving no one the wiser.
    As far as gore goes, there’s surprisingly little. One of the older ones I would guess—judging by the pile of bones and dust he leaves in his wake. Though the small chunk of soul that once served to revive him, hovers briefly, as though testing the limits of its freedom, before zooming through the sky.
    It’s a sight to behold. Though I don’t watch for long. I’m quick to move on to the next one. Once again, imagining the deed as if it’s already done, I shove my blade deep into his spine and saw a deep and steady line. While it proves to be an effective method of slaying, what Paloma failed to mention is it also gives them a chance to shout and scream and warn all the others.
    It’s a mistake I won’t make again.
    Clearly, decapitation is the better way.
    With the eyes of countless undead Richters upon me, I take a moment to smile and wave.
    While I would’ve preferred to have slain a few more before it got to this point, I’ve still managed to get them exactly where I want them: focused on me , instead of the mine. Which in turn allows some of those poor trapped workers to start sneaking out.
    The Richters’ first reaction is to erupt into an angry chorus of menacing shouts and growls. Though despite the show of bravado, it takes them a while to organize and adjust to the sudden change of plans. They’re so used to following orders from Cade, acting on their own is pretty much a foreign concept to them.
    No matter. I just cool my heels and wait where I am. Willing to hang for however long it takes for them to regroup, knowing that every second of delay allows more people to escape. Besides, there’s no need to charge them when, soon enough, they’ll be coming to me.
    With one hand holding the athame, I rub the blade across the front of my jeans, staring impassively at the thick layer of sludge that falls away, while my other hand grabs hold of my pouch. Calling upon the elements, my ancestors, and whatever intrinsic bit of goodness is left inside our spirit animals and paying homage to the ancestral knowledge that lives deep inside me, that courses straight through my veins.
    The blood of