Randa Habib

“stop making me laugh,” Valkyrie said from the bed. “You’re not a kid. You’re a grown-up. What age are you?” “Ninety-three.” “You’re ninety-three years old, for God’s sake.” “I’m really sorry, Val. I’m really sorry, everyone. Best behaviour from here on out.” Militsa glanced at the others, then nodded. “OK,” she said. “This is your last chance.” “I’ll be good,” Tanith promised. “All right,” Onosa said. “Valkyrie, close your eyes. Calm yourself.” Valkyrie breathed deeply, her whole body relaxing with each exhalation. Tanith kept her mouth shut. Onosa placed a curious-looking candle on a saucer beside the bed. “This is a Jericho Candle,” she said. “Jericho came up with it, tried calling it something fancy, but what’s the point of inventing something if you don’t put your own name to it, I ask you? When it’s lit, Valkyrie, you’ll be able to smell it, even in your astral form, and it will guide you back to your body. There are only a handful of these in the world, and they are a lot of trouble to make, so we shall light it every hour you are gone, and keep it lit for five minutes.”
― Derek Landy, Dead or Alive