“Either this is a pirate’s hideout, or you four have been living a double life,” I say, my mind on my arm, but my mouth can usually run the show on its own.
He grunt-laughs, climbing to his feet but leaving the bow he was cradling by the doorway.
“Sabers recently removed a ShatterSeed from here,” he says.
“Removed – as in killed?”
He nods.
“What exactly can a ShatterSeed do?”
“Shatter things. Anything he touched. The wheels on a cart, the side of a cliff, a person.”
“Right, so the guy set the perfect traps.”
I climb to my feet and move around the room, looking for a box that might contain food and stopping sharply when a picture of a small brown bean on the side of a long, shallow crate catches my attention. I unclip the edges, the metal fastenings making a groaning sound as they give way. Inside is a thick layer of shredded brown paper and a thin layer of wrapped bars about the size of my hand.
“Chocolate.” I drool. Leaning forward, I inhale the smell before mumbling to myself, “I was thinking about chocolate when we passed through the border.”
“You were unconscious,” Killian says, startling me.
I’d forgotten he was even here – everything lost in the idea of chocolate.
“Not fully. I could hear you all talking,” I mumble, pulling one of the bars free.
“You heard me tell Allure that you’re not a pet?”
I nod. We had half-established that much… a long time ago. Well, not technically that long ago. As I unwrap the brown paper, it fills the cave with the most delectable shredding sound. I break a piece off with a loud, crisp pop. The sound feels like it’s echoing through my tastebuds.
Killian steps in close to me, the kind of close that’s new for us. The pull of his brow and tilt of his chin hints at curiosity – but the kind of curiosity I’d normally reserve for watching a confused chicken run up and down the fence line until it finally found the gate and ran inside the pen.
“Want some?” I ask, holding the first row out to him.
He takes it, then turns away and practically nibbles at it as he explores the rest of the boxes. Nibbles. Never thought such a big guy would be capable of nibbling. I take a large bite, rolling the piece around my mouth as its creamy bitterness starts to dissolve, and the dark cocoa becomes sweet and juicy.
I don’t continue talking until every bit of flavor has flowed down my throat.
“I was awake enough to hear you all talking, and to feel the pain of being bounced around on a horse –” Which seems trivial now, given the steadily-growing-more-extreme pain I’ve been in since then, “– then something knocked me out properly. Felt like it smashed into me, whatever it was.”
Killian hauls back an oiled canvas to reveal more crates. “The border does that to most. That’s how it keeps mortal things out and immortal things in.”
I push aside the mess I made with the shredded packing paper and jump-shuffle backward until I’m sitting on the crate next to the chocolate. The note in my pocket bends and digs into my leg.
“Killian.”
He grunts but doesn’t turn from popping lids off boxes. I can’t see what’s in most of them, but whatever it is doesn’t interest the big guy. My fist closes around the now empty chocolate wrapper, crunching it into a ball, and I throw it at his head as hard as I can with my left hand. It bounces off his temple, and his gaze moves to lock onto mine. He doesn’t turn his head or his body, just glares at me from the corner of his eye.
“I have something to show you.”
He huffs, like he doesn’t particularly care.
“You,” I order, pointing for emphasis. “Here. Now.”
He ambles over, one corner of his lips tweaked just enough to show amusement. I pull the note from my pocket.
“You have to read it to me. Read it out loud.”
He grunts, so I hold it out of reach.
“You have to say each word as you look at them. Don’t read it in your head first. Promise me.”
He grunts again.
“Promise me in words!”
“Promise,” he snaps.
I look at him critically.
“What does a promise mean to you?” I ask, checking that our definitions of a promise are the same.
“Everything.”
I wait.
“If I promise something, then I will do it.”
“What if you think that things will turn out better if you don’t?”
“That’s my decision.”
“Then how can I trust that you’ll read this out loud?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, which at first looks like he’s penning up anger – but after a breath I realize it’s genuine contemplation.
“You want me to follow your instructions without question?”
I nod.
“You sound like Pax,” he grumbles. “Is that what a promise is to you?”
“I wouldn’t have put it that way, but you’ve got the right idea. What does a promise mean to you, then?”
“That I’ve considered your request,” he says.
“But not that you agree to it?”
“I don’t have to agree. I just have to uphold it – like a bargain.”
“But you don’t have a problem with breaking it?”
“I don’t have a problem with making good decisions,” he says.
I pull the paper well out of his reach, just in case he tries to grab it. Pushing it deep into my palm with my thumb and wrapping my fingers around it.
“Would you follow a promise if it turned out to get you, or someone you loved, killed?” he asks, a gravelly softness to his voice.
I chew on my lip, sensing pain underneath his words.
“Killian,” I start talking even before I’m sure what I think. “My life is pretty simple. Soot-servant.” As I talk, I point at myself. “Make promise – keep promise.”
He smiles, teeth, cheeks, and all. My soul practically dissolves at the sight.
“Killian promise Shade – Killian keep promise,” he says, tapping his chest over his heart.
His words seep under my skin like a power or an energy – even though I’m pretty sure it’s not magical. Just emotional – an emotion that I don’t have a word for.
“Promise you’ll read it out loud, each word, immediately,” I manage.
“Promise,” he says.
I unfurl my fingers, holding my palm out and offering him the paper.
He eyes the thing, hesitating before accepting it.
“Jada gave it to me.”
He unfolds and unrolls it. I haven’t exactly kept it in good condition.
As soon as the paper is opened, his brows draw together, and his jaw sets so hard that the muscle tics.
I’m not sure what I was expecting – perhaps confusion, not sharp anger.
“You promised,” I say softly, because Killian is within fist-throwing range.
Not that I think he’d deliberately hurt me, but that maybe he’d forget that I break easily.
He growls as he speaks. “The one thing to fight a grimm is something that’s finally dead.
Wait until your grief has passed, then – Seek the remnant beyond the border.
Speak to a man named Martin but believe the word of a bird.
Let your reflection go hazy in clear waters and see instead through a gray lens.
In Silvari glass is a blade that can pass, a soul that can kneel, and a world that can heal.
This is not a battle that can be won. Before this time can pass, the mortal soul from its beginnings cannot last. There is no way a soul can rule and live.
Because I heard what the Origin Spring said to the tallest forest tree – the key will be in the last of me.”
Before he’s even finished reciting it, he sets the note on the crate beside me, palm over the majority of it and one line overhanging. Then he rips that line off.
I gasp, about to open my mo
uth, when he closes his fist around the torn piece of paper, and the thing turns to black smoke. Poof. Gone.
Along with the warmth. Air’s like ice.
“Never speak of this,” he growls – crazy scary and so intense that I recoil to the point of falling backward off the crate. “Never.”
Then he turns and leaves. Storms from the cave, letting out a deadly growl that echoes through the space.
I gasp, able to breathe again – and I wasn’t even aware that I’d stopped. The man can make things go poof!
Like smoke.
Gone.
Can he do that to people?
I clamber to my feet and pick up what’s left of the note, hyper-aware of the fact that my bubble will be closing in on me any moment now. Twenty-two paces, that’s all I get. Well, twenty-two small paces. Maybe my stride is getting longer?
Not now, not my problem right now.
The one thing to fight a grimm is something that’s finally dead – I’m guessing that’s the line that’s missing. Just the top bit.
The rest is still here, I think.
Wait until your grief has passed, then – seek the remnant beyond the border. Speak to a man named Martin but believe the word of a bird.
Let your reflection go hazy in clear waters and see instead through a gray lens.
In Silvari glass is a blade that can pass, a soul that can kneel and a world that can heal.
This is not a battle that can be won. Before this time can pass, the mortal soul
from its beginnings cannot last. There is no way a soul can rule and live.
Because I heard what the Origin Spring said to the tallest forest tree – the key will be in the last of me.
I run the words through my mind, again and again, to commit them to memory.
I frown at the rough edge left behind, then give in to my anger. Scrunching the note and shoving it back into my pocket, I storm out after Killian.
“What was that about?” I shout before I’ve even stepped out into the daylight.
I blink back the brightness and almost trip down the natural steps, but I don’t slow. Killian is standing on the overhang, like he’d just barely managed to stop himself from going any further, but as soon as I’m outside, he bounds down the slope in three leaps and lands on the grass below. He pulls his sword from its sheath and swings it in arcs over his head, by his side, even behind his back.
Now would be a good time to walk away, I realize. I promise to regret this later – but right now I need answers. I’m sick of this.
‘Wait until it’s safe,’ they keep saying. ‘We’ll tell you everything.’ Brahman-bullshit.
I want answers now.
“You’re inept,” Killian growls at me.
“I am not inept – I’m human,” I shout back. “I make an awesome human, and you’d make a terrible one. People don’t go ripping up other people’s property.”
I jump down the last few feet of path and land on the soft grass. My boots are still on – because I didn’t have the energy to strip them off last night – and my steps are a soft whisper through the grass.
“That was not yours to read,” he says, stepping toward me.
Just two steps, with his sword lowered and the tip scraping a path into the dirt.
“Of course it was mine. Jada gave it to me.”
“My mother gave those words to me seventy-eight years ago.” He stabs his sword into the ground, burying it up to the middle of the blade.
“Then she gave them to me,” I growl back.
He steps into me, but I hold my ground.
“You aren’t worthy of those words,” he says.
So I slap him.
His face doesn’t flinch, but in one sharp movement, he has a short blade drawn and pressed flat against my chest. The kind of flat I would have expected closer to my neck.
I refuse to step back. Refuse to pull my gaze from the dark depths and emerald sheen of his eyes. So long as the emerald is in there, I know he’s not in full deadly killer mode.
I hope.
“If you can’t run, you must fight.”
He shoves me backward, and I’m no match for his strength. It takes me a few steps to recover my balance. The blade’s fallen, embedding its point in the grass with the hilt sticking straight up in the air. Relief floods me – not being stabbed is a good thing.
Killian walks away, pulling the shirt, with its armor-like leather sections, from his back and dropping it to the ground, before he turns and stalks back to me.
“Pick it up,” he says.
I was doing okay at not freaking out – until now.
He rolls his shoulders, and the muscles across his chest flex and tense. No matter how long it’s been, the scars on his body still look raw and fresh. Reminding me that everything this man does, everything he says, he’s serious about.
I lunge for the blade and have it in my hand, my left hand, my weak hand, at the same time as my mouth begins spitting out rushed and disparate sentences.
“I’m not fighting you, Killian. I can’t. You’ll crush me.” He’s a Seed of Darkness. The Seed of Darkness. When he’s through with me, I won’t even be recognizable.
He draws a blade from his boot, running it back and forth between his fingers like it’s a magician’s coin. There’s a twist in the corner of his mouth like he’s proud of this idea. His chin’s lowered, making his gaze heavier, more intense. And the way he walks is like he’s ready for me to attack.
Me, attack him?
I should turn and run, but a rush of nerve-tingling-excitement pulses through me.
Chuckin’ excitement.
Go away, I tell the feeling. You’re going to get me killed.
He lunges, and I step back too slowly. Automatically, my left arm lifts in defense of my face – forgetting all about the weapon I’m holding. My skin stings, the rush of pain giving me enough speed to get some distance between us. I look at my arm in shock. Blood is visible through the cut in my shirt.
“Too slow,” he says.
Of course Killian wouldn’t pretend. He wouldn’t miss me and chide me about how I could have gotten hurt. No, I’m going to know when I’ve messed up because I’m going to feel the pain.
“I don’t like this,” I say, circling to the left and ordering myself to block with my right arm next time – maybe the bandage will protect my skin.
I try to keep back, but I’m running out of space.
“I know.”
“I don’t like being hurt,” I clarify.
He lunges forward, and since trying to move backward didn’t work for me last time, I try sideways instead. Sideways, in, closer, thrust my knife toward his arm – let’s see how he likes it – and get myself shoved backward. I hit the ground, and the wind is knocked from my lungs.
“I don’t like feeling your pain,” he says.
He walks up to me calmly, while I lay on my back gasping for air, trying to get my lungs to work again. The blade I was holding is… who knows where, and the sunlight above is stinging my eyes – so his sudden flash of motion takes me completely by surprise. I might not have much practice with a blade, but I’ve had a bit of practice trying to avoid being grabbed.
Killian is not trying to grab me, he’s trying to thrust a knife into my chest, but the avoiding part still works the same.
A sharp sting sears down my shoulder. Same arm. Should make bandaging it easier.
Yay, I’ve always loved bandage-fashion, I cheer inwardly.
Killian laughs, not moving. He points his blade at me like a person would normally point their finger.
“I like you,” he says.
I skip back, ready to dodge again.
“No, you don’t!”
“Yes. I do.” He points his blade down, and I follow his line of sight to find my blade nestled in the grass.
“People who like each other do not draw blood.” But as I speak I dive for the knife, wrapping my fingers around the hilt, and as soon as I’ve got it, I raise
it in defense.
He flips his blade, so he’s holding it by the sharp end, and in the same split of a second he throws it at me. I don’t even have time to dodge it before the hilt smacks into my forehead.
I crumple to my hands and knees. Pain thrumming through my skull and a ringing sound vibrating in my ears. My blade’s in one hand. His is not far from my other.
He walks up, and I make no effort to move. I’m pretty sure if I tried to stand, I’d just fall over again. The whole world is spinning. All I can see is his boots and the bottom part of his legs.
He’s not coming to help me up, I tell myself.
Forcing my arms and legs to move, I grab his knife, and drive it toward the toe of his boot.
He moves his foot, and the knife buries itself in the ground. Squatting down next to me, then bending over further, he tries to look me in the eyes.
“Pain can be comforting,” he says.
“That’s a stupid thing to say.” My voice is somewhere between a gasp and a groan.
“It can be fuel. If my opponent is in pain, then I am doing a good job.”
“Congratulations.”
“But I like the feeling of determination better,” he says, gripping his blade in a slow, deliberate movement, and pulling the thing from the ground. “I like the thing that grows out of the Darkness toward the light.”
He stands up, rests his boot on my shoulder, and kicks me over. Those boots are the kind with multiple buckles down the side, and before this journey is over, I’m going to find something particularly nasty to put into them. Or just cut the buckles and watch how fast he moves when his boots start falling off.
“I like you,” he says, right before lifting his boot and trying to crush my skull.
I roll.
“I like my head,” I growl, scrambling to get to my feet, to find balance, to think through the pain. “And I swear if you don’t rethink this twisted version of a teaching moment, I’m going to run myself into the bubble so hard it knocks me out.”
He stills. His head tilted to the side like he hadn’t considered that as one of my options.
Shadows and Shade Box Set Page 47
