Tug of War

Nate arched, then slumped. I glanced at the loom – a dull outline, white background – before checking his pulse. Slow but steady, like the times he’d vegetate after a bender, eyes half-closed, mouth half-open.

“Forgive my trespass,” I murmured, squeezing one of many scrapes for the barest drop of his blood, so I could see what he had.

And hear it. Not piano, cheap organ. The spell pulled at me. I pulled back. Hard. The image faded, too late for the caster.

I snapped Nate’s tether, waking him.

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