Shadows and Shade Box Set

by Amanda Cashure

  Killian rolls onto his back, runs a hand down his face, then holds it up and looks intently at it like something is wrong.

  Like he was expecting to see blood, and not seeing blood leaves his brow drawn in confusion. He glances at the window and the early morning light, then launches to his feet, eyes searching for half a beat before they stab in my direction. The emotion in them just as sharp as any dagger.

  “Shadow,” he growls, the sound low and angry in the early light.

  I blink, and when I open my eyes again, he’s kneeling in front of me.

  “What did you do?” he rumbles.

  “You were sleeping,” I manage.

  He pulls my right arm from its cradle against my chest, ripping the splint off. My fingers are a light purple-blue color, and everything from fingertips to elbow is bruised in sharp contrast to my normally-tanned complexion. He grips my wrist, poised to pull down on the inside of my elbow, then stops.

  With a grunt, which I have no translation for, he grabs me by the waist and hauls me up in his arms. Almost over his shoulder, but not quite. I try to wrap my arms around his neck, but I’m pretty confused about what’s going on right now.

  Confused. Tired as bralls. Slightly dizzy and definitely in pain.

  Then, in a burst of Saber speed, we’re out the door, down the stairs, across the stream and all of the way to the other side of the dead crops. He leans forward, almost laying me on the ground, but then he lets me drop the last foot or so. I land with a thump and squelch.

  “Why?” I groan, failing to catch myself in any way.

  He crouches in front of me and resumes gripping my wrist and my elbow before answering. “Because you’re going to scream, my love.”

  My love? The words roll around in my mind, warm and oddly inviting, considering they were just spoken by Darkness himself.

  Then they’re swallowed up by the fact that he’s wrong. Screaming involves a lot of energy. As he pulls and adjusts, realigning the bones, the sound that escapes me is more like that of a dying cow. My back arches, but I don’t fight him. When he lets go, I slump into the wet grass and muddy ground, panting.

  “Thank you,” I manage, the pain ebbing from stabbing to throbbing.

  He stands to his full height, casting me into his shadow, and pulls something from his pocket. I catch a glimpse of movement before a silver blade drops into the dirt beside my head. Very, very close to my head.

  My eyes might be about to pop out of their sockets right now. It’s my blade. The one I’d dropped by the stream the day we first arrived.

  It’s followed by a dart. My dart, the one I’d left on the windowsill in the attic.

  He’s wearing a loose shirt and plain linen pants. None of his usual belts and holsters – which makes sense, because he was trying to sleep on a couch.

  “Where the chuck were you hiding them? Down your pants?” my mouth demands.

  “It doesn’t matter where I had them. They should have been securely on you,” he growls as he leans down. One hand grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me up, the other behind my neck. Fingers splayed, but gentle – stopping me from looking away from him.

  Mud rains down from my back, and I can feel its slickness between his hand and my skin. For half a second my feet aren’t even touching the ground – then he stubbornly relaxes his arms just enough to let my toes sink into the sodden earth.

  I lift my good arm, because the pain in my other arm is forcing me to press the thing into my chest, and press the tips of my fingers to the bottom edge of his scar. I know it’s probably the most dangerous thing my body can think of, and I know it’s stupid – but I have no choice.

  My fingers are trembling, but my voice holds steady as I ask, “Why was it bleeding?”

  He lets go of my shirt and snatches my fingers away, closing my hand into his fist hard enough to force a whimper from my lips.

  I should have known. The guy looks seriously pissed off. I-should-be-running-away kind of pissed off. The muscle in his jaw is ticking, and the hard set of his eyes is turning black. Black is bad.

  “You have no right to be near me when I’m sleeping,” he growls.

  “You stopped making noises when I was near you, and your face stopped bleeding.”

  He squeezes tighter, and my knees would buckle, but he’s holding me up by the back of my neck and my hair. Bending my knees just creates pain in new places – so I struggle against the urge.

  “Never go near me when I’m sleeping. Promise me.”

  “No,” I manage around another whimper. “You were having nightmares.”

  “I always have nightmares,” he growls, his words shredding through clenched teeth.

  “Then I’ll always be near you,” I gasp.

  He lets go of my hand and grabs the bicep on the broken arm instead, lifting my arm out and up for inspection. I don’t need to inspect it – the thing hurts like bralls. Like two Brahmans are constantly headbutting each other, and my arm is in the middle.

  “I broke the other bone in your arm – and I didn’t even notice.”

  Oh, is that what happened? The Brahmans make sense now.

  “How many bones do I have in my arm?”

  “Two,” he shouts.

  “Then what’s the problem if they’re both already broken?” He’s not getting out of this that easily.

  He’s been having nightmares bad enough to rip the scars on his body open and slice the memory – probably of watching his mother die – through his soul again and again. Next time I won’t try to wake him; I’ll just stay close. If I don’t try to wake him, he won’t throw me across the room. Easy. Simple.

  He drops my arm, and I quickly pull it securely to my chest, while his hand moves to my throat. Gentle, his fingers barely touching the skin.

  “I bruised you,” he whispers, closing his eyes, searching for something. “I barely remember you being there.” Then his eyes snap open again. “And you can’t forgive me for this.”

  “I wasn’t blaming you,” I bite back.

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  “Of course, I do. Listen to me very carefully, Killian.” I wait for the barest second, watching his chest, neck and jaw harden back up. “Chuck’ you – because I don’t blame you.”

  Everything about him goes tense, and as his hands very slowly pull away from me I consider kicking him in the balls as a distraction from whatever emotions are warring inside him right now. Anger – of course; regret – perhaps; disappointment – maybe.

  The scent of roses dances underneath my nose, strong and close. I am going to find that plant and rip the damn thing up if it doesn’t stop blooming. I’ll deal with the fact that I haven’t seen a single rose yet later.

  He leans down, his hand on the back of my neck pulling me closer to him. I should be uncomfortable with the dry blood on his skin, but I’m not. It smells tangy, which is a stupid observation, but I’m trying not to focus on his lips, so any observation will do.

  They part, and mine want to part in anticipation as a cool blanket of power descends over me. Pushing the pain in my arm down deep.

  I sigh in relief, his face about a dart length distance from me.

  So close.

  I’ve wanted to kiss Killian since that night in the forest – but he pushed me back.

  Hasn’t quenched any of my desires though. He runs his tongue over his lips, then growls, “I’m going to kill Seth.”

  Not what I was expecting.

  He releases me, turns, and starts stalking toward the house. I struggle and stagger behind him, pain bubbling to the surface with every step I take. My feet are sinking in the wet earth, and my legs were shaky to begin with.

  “I’m going to kill Seth,” he repeats.

  “Seth. Why Seth?” I demand, forcing my body into a jog and trying to get in front of him.

  The cottage door slams open, and Pax storms to the edge of the veranda. Wolf-intense anger shimmers over his bare chest as he glares at me and then Killian. />
  Shit, they’re all going to kill each other.

  I stumble into the stream, then run-stumble out of it. Jumping in front of Killian and then throwing myself, good shoulder first, into his chest.

  “Stop,” I say – actually, I gasp.

  “He can’t hurt me. He’s on a leash,” Killian rumbles. “But I’m going to kill Seth.”

  Pax leaps down the stairs, one jump, and lands half-crouched and eyes glowing. “What happened?” he growls, teeth starting to descend.

  At this point, I honestly don’t know if he’s asking me or Killian. But I answer anyway, “Nothing. Nothing happened, and everyone is going to forget that nothing happened.” Crap, that didn’t make sense. “No, you’re going to remember that nothing happened and forget everything else you think happened.” A bit of Allure would be helpful here, so I try again. “Walk away,” I command.

  They both ignore me.

  “Walk away, please?”

  Still ignoring me. Where’s that Allure gone?

  “Beautiful,” Pax growls.

  “Shadow.”

  “Move,” they say in unison.

  Seth wanders out of the house, shirtless, stretching, yawning and oblivious. “What’s going on?” he asks when his first yawn finishes, followed promptly by a second yawn.

  “You,” Killian growls.

  Killian steps towards Seth, Seth’s eyes go wide with alarm, and Pax moves toward me, or Killian. Probably Killian, but it can’t possibly have been ten minutes already.

  Which means if Pax gets between this, he’s going to get hurt.

  Everyone is going to get hurt!

  Twisting, I do the first thing that comes to mind.

  I kick Killian in the balls.

  I’m immediately surprised that he doesn’t stop me then break my leg for trying, as my muddy foot presses against fabric and then soft flesh. I’m more surprised that Killian’s in-pain face looks the same as anyone else's. For some reason, I thought Darkness would have a more angry-in-pain face or even happy-in-pain face. He doesn’t. His eyes go wide in shock, then slam shut in agony. Teeth grinding together. Lips pressed into a pinched line. Groan escaping his throat, even though he doesn’t appear to be breathing.

  No one else moves.

  It’s like I just pressed the stop button on the whole argument.

  “Right,” I say, my tone betraying my own shock. “Now that we’re all even, you can all get over it.”

  I turn away from Killian, who’s kneeling on the ground, a hand held tightly over his precious parts. I have to work very, very hard not to apologize. Even though inside I’m struggling with a massive lump of guilt, I force myself to keep walking.

  Then Pax blocks me, two whole steps away from Killian.

  “What else did he damage?” he asks, his tone strained, but not to the I’m-about-to-kill-someone kind of extreme. He touches a tentative finger to the base of my neck.

  There must be bruising – I know how much pressure my throat can handle before blue marks appear on my skin – but I’ve no idea how bad it looks.

  Seth walks up to meet us. “Someone needs to explain this to me.”

  “It’s not his fault,” I say, pointing at Seth. “I hijacked some Allure. Killian was in pain, and I couldn’t sleep. You can’t possibly have expected me to sleep through that?”

  “I expected you to stay between Seth and me,” Pax rumbles, looking over my head to where Killian’s climbing to his feet – chuckling.

  I let out a measured breath, the pain in my broken body barely tolerable. Not on top of the sleep thing and the hunger thing.

  Killian steps up beside me, closing our circle. I can sense that at least some of the fight has ebbed away. Pain evident in the places where the anger used to be. “I broke her arm.”

  “He could have crushed your throat,” Pax says, his finger still brushing along the base of my neck.

  “Too easily,” Killian agrees.

  “I’m sorry,” Seth mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Whatever I did, I don’t remember any of it.”

  “What did I miss?” Roarke calls from the top of the stairs.

  He jogs down to meet us, and Seth moves to make room for him next to me. His long hair is out and sleep-messed, and he’s also shirtless. Damn, I’m surrounded by shirtless gods, and I feel too damaged to enjoy any of it.

  “Why is she covered in mud?” Roarke asks. As he talks he reaches out, his hand slipping under my hair and resting on the back of my neck.

  “Lots of mud,” he repeats, but I barely notice over the blissful sensation of pain leaving my body and white spots speckling the edges of my vision.

  I sigh in relief, almost collapsing into Roarke’s side, and he wraps his other arm around my back and pulls me against his chest.

  “I’m getting mud on you,” I mutter.

  “I don’t care,” he says.

  Now that the pain’s gone, my fingers feel tingly.

  “Vexy Allured me into walking her down to Killian during the night,” Seth explains, making Roarke’s hand stiffen against my neck. “I don’t even remember it.”

  “She can’t keep doing this,” Roarke says – shifting their conversation into talking about me, not with me.

  “Roarke, can you stop her?” Pax asks.

  “I don’t even sense that she’s doing it.”

  “Is she using your power, Darkness?” Pax shifts the question to Killian.

  “Her threads haven’t changed,” he says.

  “I can probably make a potion, but power blocking would only last a few hours – and that’s factoring in her mortal blood. Making them continuously would exhaust my time and resources.”

  I force myself to straighten and step back from Roarke, just a little. He keeps his hand on the back of my neck, and I draw strength from his touch – as well as pain relief. “All right, all right. I’m right here. Stop talking about me as if I’m not.”

  “We know,” they grumble in unison.

  I stomp my bare foot in the mud, trying to clench my numb fingers into a fist, while still letting loose with my temper. “You are not getting a new potion anywhere near me. There are a few things I really hate, and Sabers, Sigils, and Potions are all high on that list!”

  My fingers are only half clenching, not managing to curl all the way into a fist, and I find myself looking at them rather than the guys’ reactions.

  “The bone was pressing against a nerve for too long. I need to work on it,” Killian says.

  “No,” I almost whimper. “No more splinting and massaging, you guys need to heal me. Clearly, I can use your powers and survive just fine.” I won’t add the splitting headache that Allure gives me. “If your powers heal you, then your powers can heal me.”

  They all stare at me. Long, calculating looks.

  “We discussed this last night. It’s not safe, and it’s not possible,” Pax growls.

  “Last night I only had one broken bone – now I have two.”

  “Our powers don’t heal us; our Saber genetics heals us. Only a HealingSeed has power that can speed that,” Killian begins, but pauses when Roarke begins to groan.

  “My power can do it. I can’t do it to her. No one desires specific interactions between bone and muscle enough to spontaneously heal in my presence, but if she can use my power… it might work. And Killian can sense when she’s reached her limit – before she does any damage – assuming you want to stop her before she goes too far, brother?”

  Killian grunts – agreement.

  Pax nods – resignation.

  Seth frowns – worry.

  I smile – because I just won – and bounce on the balls of my feet, a little mud splashing up my ankles.

  “Now?” I press.

  “Probably should,” Roarke says, frowning at me. “Inside. After you get into some dry clothes.”

  No one moves though, all of us staring at Pax for approval.

  “You have exactly ten minutes from the moment I see you sit down,�
� Pax rumbles.

  “I’ll take them on if things go bad before then,” Seth says, and there’s far too much seriousness in my Chaos’ voice.

  Everyone looks at him and nods. I get the feeling that Seth against Killian and Roarke will end in Seth being hurt.

  “Agreed,” the word is echoed around me.

  Roarke hesitates before letting his hand slip from my neck and walking back to the cottage.

  The wash of pain is worse than the constant ache I had before. I hurry to keep behind him – hurry to get to the point where pain isn’t a part of my life anymore – and the closer I am to Roarke, the less pain I’m in.

  “Shadow,” Killian says, stepping up beside me. “You could die.”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t particularly want to think about it, and I can’t argue – he’s right. I could die. I could die now, playing with magic and power that I know nothing about. I could die tomorrow, being in the presence of Sabers who find me intolerable. I could die in two days when my bubble runs out of room to shrink.

  His bare feet are heavy on the steps and then heavier on the veranda.

  “And that would make a mess of things,” he mutters.

  “What kind of things?” I ask, because to me, me dying is only going to make a mess of me.

  “Everything,” he says, his voice lowered so only I can hear. He holds his fingers up in front of his face and snaps them, igniting black smoke that quickly vanishes.

  Vanishes like the line of prophecy that he tore from the note and disintegrated. The one thing to fight a grimm is something that’s finally dead, the words dance through my mind.

  “Wait,” I say, stopping and grabbing his arm to make him stop beside me. “You don’t think I’m supposed to die?”

  I find myself talking in low tones too, even though Roarke is already inside, and the other two are way back by the remains of the fire.

  “Oh, I do. But your death involves the grimm – not healing this.” He grabs my fingers and pulls them up – sending sharp pain through every part of my mind and body. “If you die, it will not be at the hands of one of us – I’ve been working very hard to make sure of that.” He cradles my arm along the length of his, relieving the pressure and partly relieving the pain. “My light is not allowed to die a worthless death.”