Power

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Power

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She spread her arms and tipped back her head like a child and Anita’s world dissolved into nothing as she was swept up by wave after wave of power.

Anita knew the power of the grave, of the dead and cold. Knew what eternal sleep tasted like and she knew the living just as well. The raw power of life, of blood and flesh and skin and bone. But the power coming from the slayer was neither one nor the other, both at once, cold and warm, alive and dead, forever and never and it filled her up, slithered along her skin, thrummed inside her skull and only Jean-Claude’s arm around her middle kept her upright as the world tilted.

It made her want to weep.

Because underneath all the power, there was a girl lost.

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