Normally, Abaddon would have produced his own instrument out of thin air. The sight of such power normally caused his victims to falter. But this time, before Abaddon could produce the violin, Seth held his own fiddle and bow out to Abaddon. “I assume you didn’t bring one with you.” “Good guess.” Abaddon took it. The bow trembled in his hand. The boy’s energy lingered on the frets and strings, making Abaddon’s fingertips tingle. And when he put it to his neck and rested his chin in the cradle, the soul essence hit him hard, driving the wind from his lungs. His knees nearly buckled. He gritted his teeth, biting back a moan. It was the strangest sensation, not quite pleasure and not quite pain, like a claw being drawn seductively down his back. “Mr. Abaddon?” Seth asked, one hand out as if to offer him support. “Are you all right?” It took a fair amount of strength to straighten his back and shoulders.
