He imagined the thing would be surprised if it was aware but Jacob knew better. The creature clawed at his arm, attempting to free itself, tearing strips from his coat but its attacks could not penetrate Jacob’s armour, it could not penetrate his faith. He tightened his grip and the wraith renewed its attack. Cold began to seep into Jacob’s skin, into his muscles, into his very bones. He could feel his tattoos tingling with the wonderful chill. His senses savoured every moment of the feeling. Then he crushed the wraith’s neck. The creature vanished in a wisp of grey mist. It was never really there after all. Wraiths were nothing, made from violent emotion given form by the magic that had dug its way deep into the earth. The fog was nothing more than a soup where those emotions could coalesce and manifest and take form; seeking comfort by sucking the life from those more fortunate. Jacob looked at his hand and watched the mist swirl around his fingers. Warmth started flooding back into his extremities and he found he missed the chill.
