Soul Weaver by Hailey Edwards Page B

departure thickened the air. Nathaniel ignored the quiet and walked toward the center of the room. Smoothing a hand across the frame of his loom, he allowed himself a smile. The white ash wood shone. Its finish preserved all this time by his gentle care.
    The loom resembled those used by humans for making fabric. His performed an identical task, but there the similarities ended. Rather than spun wool, his yarn came from a rarer source.
    “Who’s first?” Any other time, the harvesters would have flocked to him. Now they divided their attention between his face and the shears in his hand. “Is no one here in need of mending?”
    For a full minute, no one moved.
    “I’ll go first.” With a derisive snort, Reuel shoved his way forward. “I remember having to draw straws last month and tonight we’re taking volunteers?”
    A few of the others chuckled with unease.
    “I am oldest, you know.” Reuel puffed out his chest. “I deserve a few perks.”
    “You know what they say, ‘age before beauty,’ ” Saul said dryly.
    Reuel flipped him off, which earned a round of heartier laughter.
    Dropping to his knees before Nathaniel, Reuel spread his wings wide. “I don’t envy the judge of that contest. This lot has some of the damn ugliest mugs I’ve ever seen.”
    Nathaniel pressed a hand between Reuel’s shoulder blades. “Hold still.” He used his shears to snip away the tattered remnants of soul cloth stretched over Reuel’s wings. By the time he had finished, the heavy bones stretched out like skeletal fingers into the room.
    Satisfied the frame was cleaned, Nathaniel passed over the detritus to a waiting harvester, one of the newer arrivals, for disposal. The man blanched as the strips wriggled in his arms.
    It was easy to spot the newest faces added to their rank. Their white wings turned black within a few hours. Then, even those began to molt. Before long, the skin melted away, leaving dense muscle tissue twined around bone.
    It was as much a statement as a punishment. It said these men were no longer of the light, and any who dared break the rules risked the same set of consequences.
    If anyone had asked if Nathaniel mourned the loss of his wings, he would have said no. Although the agony of his exchange with Delphi still radiated through his back, he’d rather have the shears than the grisly reminder of what he no longer had fused to his spine.
    His fingers worked the familiar ties at his hip and freed his soul bag. He plunged his hand into the blistering pit to scour for a candidate and landed on an oily patch, which he ripped free of the portal. The black expanse slithered up his wrist, flaying his skin with its scalding temperature as it sought freedom. His lungs filled with the stench of burned flesh and sulfur.
    Soul in hand, he sat at an ancient spinning wheel, the mate to his loom, and pulled fibers from the dark mass with practiced ease. Once he tied a fresh leader and threaded the orifice, he spun the wheel clockwise then treadled until the twist came up the leader and grabbed the fibers in his hand. He pinched and guided the wound length until he filled a bobbin with glistening black yarn.
    Seating himself at his loom, he started his task anew. Soul cloth took several hours to weave, and his line of customers circled the room.
    Seasoned harvesters settled in for the long wait, prepared to amuse themselves. They drew straws, made bets, and wagered for the next spot in line, knowing if they were among the first, they could earn a few hours of freedom from their duties as the others waited their turn.
    Harvesters learned quickly that time moved slower in Dis. Twelve hours topside equaled seven days here. Though mending every set of wings present would take the better part of a week, at the end of that time, Nathaniel would go home to his own bed and wake to the morning after he arrived in Dis.
    Delphi thought by forcing the harvesters into fellowship, confining them here, they would embrace the