ABIATHAR’S SILVER EYES CUT THROUGH THE DARKNESS AS HE TOOK ONE NIMBLE STEP AFTER THE OTHER, A PLAIN UMBRELLA CLUTCHED IN HIS HAND. At his shoulder, a tiny yellow spirit lit the way, the energy that made up its body emitting a low light. Abiathar didn’t need the light, as he knew every inch of his garden by memory, but the presence of one of the lesser spirits he controlled brought him comfort.

Abiathar was a tall, thin man of about thirty, but his gaunt frame made him seem much older. Messy clumps of brown, almost cream-colored, hair brushed across his shoulders, seeming lustrous in the pouring rain. He wore a mottled green robe that billowed around his legs and feet, giving the illusion of size he didn’t actually have. He was intimidating, in a cadaverous fashion.

His face was unreadable, hidden behind a mask carved from bone. It cupped his face perfectly, making it appear as if he wasn’t human. The mask was modeled from a stag, flat in appearance and strikingly white. It had no mouth, but his eyes were clearly displayed.

Abiathar approached a rose bush, kneeling down to inspect a leaf that twitched pitifully in the mud. Pushing it aside, he discovered another spirit, flapping its translucent wings with a terrified fervor. It resembled a small bird, pulsing pink under Abiathar’s shadow.

“Did you fall from your nest, little guy?” Abiathar whispered, “Are you hurt?”

The spirit held up its right wing, uncomfortably more transparent than the rest of its body. Abiathar nodded in understanding, cradling it between his fingers and placing it in his pocket. Its tiny head peaked out, white orbs bouncing as Abiathar stood up.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, letting a finger rub against its head, “You can come inside with me. I’ll take care of you.”

And I should record you in my research, he added in his mind, I don’t think I’ve studied a bird spirit yet.

A tremor suddenly passed through his spine, like surge of static. He narrowed his eyes as he wrapped a protective arm around the spirit in his breast pocket.

Something passed through the gate, he thought, something big.

Abiathar seemed to glide across the muddy gravel as he rushed through his garden, an arcane light flashing in his eyes. Beyond the fences of the garden, he heard the wailing of wolf spirits, creatures that were almost exclusively used for attack.

“What the-” Abiathar breathed as he halted in his steps, staring down at his front porch.

Before his front door was a young child, curled in a ball and almost lifeless. He was soaked to the bone, black hair plastered to his neck and a thin t-shirt clinging to his torso. His chest rose and fell at an uneven rate, and his bottom lip trembled as he slept. Sunk into his calf was a wolf spirit’s thorn, its venom undoubtedly the cause of his condition.

Gasping, Abiathar slipped a hand under his shoulders and knee, lifting him off the porch and pulling him to his chest for warmth. The spirit in his pocket chirped loudly, and Abiathar immediately knew why.

The child wasn’t human.

The second he touched his skin, Abiathar felt his aura. He was a higher spirit, a humanoid creature that walked the narrow, unclear line between mortal and ethereal. Abiathar’s eyes widened. He had never been this close to one before. Higher spirits were seldom seen or interacted with, unfit to be servants or familiars like their simple-minded lesser counterparts. Abiathar had read that they tended to be almost feral, or even dangerous when exposed to humans.

The child groaned, his chest spasming as he took a shuddering breath. Abiathar realized he couldn’t have been older than nine years old. Dangerous or not, Abiathar had no time to waste. His life was on the line.

Abiathar brushed his bangs from his face, clearing the collected raindrops from his forehead. Shaking his head, he pushed open the door, ushering him inside.