Shadows and Shade Box Set

by Amanda Cashure

  I’m so confused.

  But that’s not enough to stop me from guessing length in comparison to the hem of his shirt, and noting that the shape of his, ah… tip, is different from Pax’s. I’m not ready to ask either of them why, though.

  My other big problem right now is that my ass is starting to burn.

  Seth walks purposefully up to the vat.

  “You need me to get you out?”

  I nod, making a little ‘uh-huh’ noise.

  “How badly?”

  “Burning my butt badly.”

  “I can’t smell flesh burning yet – and I should know,” he says, pointing at his leg.

  “Oh, come on, there isn’t a mark on you. On the other hand, you’re now standing very close to the fire with no pants on, and you’ve got enough hair down there for me to set on fire.”

  One hand darts down to shield his jewels, but he doesn’t step back.

  “I bet you couldn’t do that again even if you tried.”

  With my bum getting incredibly hot, I focus on what little wiry hair he has… hard… Fire, meet pubic hair.

  A sharp stabbing sensation shoots through my temples. I gasp and clap my hands to my head. My eyes squeeze shut against the sudden pain.

  He hooks a finger under my chin, tilting my head back and just waiting for the pain to dull and for me to open my eyes.

  “Now, I imagine what you’re trying to do is Allure, not Chaos, and I imagine you’re still doing it wrong,” he says.

  “Was it Chaos last time?”

  “Sure felt like it,” he says, rubbing his balls.

  “I have no idea what the difference is, and I have no idea how I manage to do any of it,” I groan.

  He nods, just once, like he understands, and says, “Let me get some pants,” grabbing the nearest pair off the railing.

  “They’re my pants,” I say.

  “Then you’ll have to get in here with me.” For something so funny, he says it with a straight face and just the tiniest quirk of the corner of his lips.

  Then he cradles me out of the vat and puts me on my feet. Water cascades down my body, turning the dirt under my feet into mud that instantly slides between my bare toes. But he doesn’t let go of me, and after a long second, I realize he’s waiting for something. One arm is wrapped around my shoulders and the other is on my bicep, with barely any room between us.

  “Has it gone?” he asks.

  “The pain in my head? Mostly. The pain-in-the-ass holding onto me? No, he’s still here.”

  He chuckles, his chest rumbling against mine. “I’m serious. On a scale of one to ten, how bad was that?”

  “Maybe a four or five.”

  “How bad was breaking your arm?”

  “An eight.”

  “Right, we now have a scale of one to eight because breaking your arm should have been way up there.”

  “Eight is way up there,” I protest. Way up there. Things worse than eight come at Lord Martin’s hand, and I’m not going into that explanation right now. If Lord Martin isn’t involved, I can shave things back from a ten, or even a nine, in the terror and agony department.

  Which he ignores. “How bad’s the pain now?”

  “A one, but it’s mostly in my arm.”

  “I’m going to make that at least a two. I’m doubling all your numbers.”

  “Why bother asking me then?” I demand.

  He grabs my wrist with gentle fingers. “Because I’m going to keep worrying until you’ve stopped treating it like it’s broken.”

  “It’s been broken for weeks,” I counter.

  He huffs at me. “It’s been days, Vexy, and everything is worse now.”

  “Because of my shrinking bubble?”

  He puts my arm back where I had it and leans in to kiss my forehead. “Because I need you to fight this, but can you do me a favor?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Leave that shirt on?”

  I jump back out of his grip – crap, I’d forgotten about that. I grab the nearest dark shirt and pull it on over the top of the one I’m wearing. Covered.

  When I turn around, Seth’s still chuckling, but he’s gone back to stirring and scrubbing clothes.

  “You’d better pick that up before Killian loses his shit,” he says, pointing down at the blade that fell out of my pocket.

  “Crap. I’d make the worst Saber in history. It just doesn't occur to me to make sure I’m armed.”

  “Because you already have two of them?” he teases.

  “Haha, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  I pick up the blade and stick it back in my pocket before picking up his ruined pants up between my thumb and forefinger, one leg still smoldering.

  “What do you want to do with these?” I ask.

  “I’m keeping them. Wouldn’t dare get rid of my souvenir.”

  “Souvenir? What are you going to do with them?” I demand, throwing them over to him.

  He shoves them in the vat and starts washing, tossing a clean shirt at me, followed by a dozen pairs of braies in quick succession. Water sprays everywhere, and I’m very glad for two things. That I chose a dark shirt, and that the sun has peeked out from behind the dreary sky.

  I pile the laundry onto the railing, unable to move far enough away from him to hang them properly.

  “I’m going to wear them,” he says, shrugging. “And remember the day you tried to burn my balls off. Just the thought makes me feel all warm and loved.”

  I turn, ready to tell him that I didn’t mean to set his pants on fire – although he definitely deserved it – and the flames went nowhere near his balls, when a wet pair of braies smack into my face. I peel them off, water dribbling down over my chin.

  “Sorry,” he laughs.

  Too late, I’m already running at him. I spin the undershorts to tighten the fabric and flick it out to snap on his ass.

  Jumping back, he squeals like a kid. “Vexy!”

  He dives his arm into the vat and pulls out another pair of braies. Oh, crap!

  I run.

  Well, try to run. Trying to avoid anyone when you’re trapped in a bubble is hard work, made worse as he corners me against the back of the cottage. This side of the building is up on stilts with a small gap underneath – my only option. I shimmy under, slip on a rock, and land with a hard thunk on my ass.

  A hard, wooden, echoing thunk.

  Not the kind of sound I was expecting. It’s odd enough to stop Seth’s attack and spike his curiosity. “What was that?”

  I toss my now dirty pair of braies out at him and feel around under the dirt and leaf litter. Definitely something hard. My fingers loop through a cold metal handle, and after a good tug, the thing lifts – just a tad.

  Definitely a door.

  Seth crawls under the cottage, nudging me over with his elbow.

  I roll to the side, saying, “All right, I’m moving.”

  He smiles. “Good, I’m not exactly a little guy.”

  He’s right, but I’m not about to start a fresh argument with him. I lie on my back, looking up at the boards and beams that make up the underside of Eydis’ house. The space grows narrow on the right and is boarded-up on the front and left, making it almost cozy under here. Just Seth and me.

  Me, lying around, and him scraping back more dirt before opening the trap door. Easily, might I add. Way, way too easily.

  The hole is too dark to see much in, but Seth leans over and feels around. His fingers scrape audibly across dry earth walls, but I don’t think he can reach the bottom. Then I hear the tell-tale ting of glass bottles bumping into each other.

  “Silvari wine,” he says, grinning broadly as he pulls one out.

  “One of your missions in life?”

  “You know me so well.”

  “Is that all that’s down there?” I ask, taking it from him.

  “It’s not a very big space, but I’d need a light to see properly.”

  He shimmies backward o
ut from under the building, and I follow him.

  My wet pants are now covered in dried, crushed leaves and dirt. As soon as we’re finished here, I’m showering.

  “Roarke!” Seth bellows. Followed by a sharp whistle.

  I cover my ears as the sound echoes around the domain.

  “Calm your whistle,” I mutter.

  He chuckles, snatching up the two pairs of discarded braies and dumping them back into the vat. Then he frowns down at them, and pulls the plug from the side. The water gushes out into a small trench and down towards what could have once been a vegetable patch, but is now so close to nothing that I hadn’t even noticed it was there.

  I decide my job is done and perch on a low, flat, ass-shaped rock. The bubble makes a perfect backrest to get comfortable against before uncorking the wine bottle and taking three greedy mouthfuls then stopping to savor the sweet taste.

  “It’s not even lunchtime,” Seth says.

  I shrug. “You put it in my hands. What was I supposed to do with it?”

  “I would drink it, but I have work to do,” he says dramatically. “You, however, shouldn’t drink it because you can’t handle it.”

  In response, I take another large mouthful. The glass, cool from being stored underground, makes my lips feel alive, and the liquid soothes down my throat as if this is what I have wanted all day – I just didn’t know it.

  “Hurry up and finish the washing then, so you can join me.”

  He plugs the vat and flicks the tap back on, refilling it with clean water, then he offers me a sneaky smile and takes several quick steps backwards.

  I tumble off my rock, flail, twist, and land with a thump on my stomach.

  “Oh, nice one, Splat,” Seth teases.

  I offer him a Killian-type growl but don’t bother to get up. Nope, I don’t mind being on the ground, not at all. So I continue to sip my wine from my new position.

  And that’s exactly the moment Roarke, Killian, and Pax come round the corner. They all stop short, glancing at me then glaring at Seth.

  “I can’t help it if she likes rolling around in the dirt,” Seth says.

  Killian grunts, folding his arms over his chest and making his biceps bulge, and Pax runs a hand through his short hair, looking exasperated as he beelines for me.

  “What did you call us for?” Roarke asks Seth. He has a book in one hand and a quill-type pen in his other.

  Seth points towards the hidden cellar, but my attention is locked on Pax as the guy squats down in front of me.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I didn’t whistle, Seth did.”

  “No, what are you doing on the ground?”

  “Drinking wine,” I say, awkwardly sipping my bottle.

  He shakes his head. “You do the strangest things.”

  I roll over onto my back, looking up at him from almost between his knees.

  “But you still wuv me?” The words are out before I can stop them, followed by a sharp giggle of nervous energy.

  Wuv me? What the chuck am I saying?

  Pax’s eyes glow, his lips twisting into a decidedly Thane smile. More animalistic. More bold and demanding.

  “Of course,” Thane says, then he retreats back.

  “But,” Pax adds, “that doesn’t make her any less–”

  “Interesting?” I provide.

  “Trouble,” Killian overrides – the guy’s now crouched against the cottage inspecting the open door in the ground.

  “Hard work,” Roarke adds from under the house, leaning into the hole with a lit stick.

  “Fun,” Seth says, pulling the last item of clothing from the vat.

  “Ours,” Pax says, snatching my wine from my hand and standing sharply.

  Conversation over, I guess. Wine gone.

  Mind blown.

  I just lay here in the dirt, watching them inspect the hole. Speechless.

  Eydis’ small cellar was hand-dug a few hundred, even a thousand years ago, but whoever did the work wasn’t thinking about ease of use. I have to crawl on my hands and knees to move around, shoving two crates of wine up for Killian and Pax to haul out before I can get to the unusual collection of boxes at the back.

  Potions. The woman was stockpiling potions. There’s no real label on them – just a hollow circle with a line through it. The symbol for endings. For things finished. Stopped.

  For a soul that is shattered from this plane through the Veil. The kind of symbol I would put on a potion capable of sending a soul already free of its body into the Aeons. A shiver runs over me as I try to find any other likely application – and fail.

  Twenty vials in each box. Two, four, six, eight, sixteen, thirty-two… a hundred and fifty boxes. Three thousand vials.

  At the back is a leather satchel. I know that with the limited light, searching through it would be easier from outside, but I can’t help myself. I flip it open to find a collection of dried herbs way past being usable. They’re dead twigs really, from hundreds of years ago. Next, I pull out a vial about the length of a dagger and the breadth of my thumb with a crack in the side. Knowing our luck, it once held Origin Water, but it’s bone dry now. Then a typical potion bottle, completely unlabeled. It doesn’t even have symbols on it. And a folded piece of parchment.

  “Hurry up in there,” Pax shouts.

  “Hold your horses,” I call back.

  I open the note. It’s in Eydis’ hand, with scientific diagrams next to the neat inked letters. Two potions.

  Soul Elixir – which, among other things, requires Origin Water – and Null Elixir.

  Soul Elixir ~ One vial, one soul, no apparent time limit after death before application.

  Well, that answers that question.

  Yes, we can free the souls from Lithael’s charms. The man is wearing several, and Silvari souls are balls of silver energy. Deadly, fast, and usually angry. So we’d better have our delivery system mastered before smashing their glass prisons or a lot of people are going to die.

  And the recipe is here, so even though we’re short a few thousand, we can make more – once we find the key ingredient and free Kitten.

  On the bottom half of the page is a different concoction. Next to the heading is a sketch of the Return Seal.

  Elixir’s effects last between three hours and three days. I’d hoped for a complete null, but in some cases, Sabers have experienced no benefits; in others, they have had a temporary null, and in all cases, they have lost access to a skill or power for the duration. Which one seems linked to the individual. The trade for one advantage requires the sacrifice of another. I fear this particular potion is impossible without something stronger than Origin Spring water, and I’m not sure that exists.

  She was working on a countermeasure to the Return Seals. A way to balance out the magic – null it. Excitement rushes through me. I can work with this, use Eydis’ attempts as a starting point. And her Soul Elixir is – Aeons, it’s a game changer.

  I damn near hit my head on the roof in excitement.

  The only other thing in here is a worn-out book sitting atop the box at the back. It’s just a little bit bigger than pocket-size and covered in a thin purple leather sleeve, with several purple ribbons marking pages. I smooth my hand over the leather first, brushing the dust off, then flick it open. ‘Mo... Fo... Manual’ the title reads, more than half of it having rubbed off. Old, almost impossibly old. Like something that might have been printed before our realm became separated from the mortals. Long before.

  Of all the things Eydis has hidden down here, like potions that could save this realm and wine that would spoil in the larder, why would she have just one book and not even one by a well-known WordSeed? Bizzare isn’t even the right word for it.

  I tilt it in my hand and let the pages split naturally. It opens to the last ribboned bookmark, which is a scribble. One of those things a person draws while thinking. It’s mostly circles and lines with shorthand letters. DS and OS and AS and a crossed-out M. Nothing but nonsense,
so I move on to the more important pages.

  Most of the book was printed by WordSeeds, but these end pages have been cleared with a Page Wiping Potion then filled with notes in Eydis’ sprawling hand. I pick a random section and pause long enough to skim read it.

  Child orphaned. Tried to reach her family in time – died of the mortal flu. Now in the care of the Manor Lord. Being raised by her own kind will be better than bringing her here. Who knows the damage? Bringing her back through the border after whatever the Origin Spring did to put her into stasis has no logical reason for success. I never thought she would come out.

  I wish Raefiya was still living to help me navigate this. Leave the child to the suffering of mortals or bring her back into Silva and destroy her mortal soul? Without some kind of a buffer between her and the magic of this place, surely she wouldn’t last ‘til adulthood? Even in my domain. Haryk-Larsan lived outside the border for a reason – a man that powerful could never find peace otherwise… but the girl isn’t just mortal. I will have to sleep on it…

  ~ Eydis.

  My knowledge of Kitten twists and bends to try and accommodate this new information. Haryk-Larsan is a person. About being powerful. I find myself frozen, trying to process it, failing, and finally shaking it off with a rush of shivers over my entire being, to explore when I don’t have an audience.

  I skip a few pages.

  She is fed but has clearly lost weight. The Manor Lord keeps a firm hand on his staff, but they are, after all, his staff. She is punished more brutally than a child should be, but how am I to know if this wasn’t Raefiya’s wishes all along? I have decided to employ tradesmen and build a new cottage with a direct line of sight to the Manor. It will take time, but in the end, it will be closer to the Origin Spring and more convenient anyway.

  There are more – pages and pages of dates and details. But my stomach turns at the idea of reading about Kitten’s life, like I’m reading her journal.