Shadows and Shade Box Set

by Amanda Cashure

  Somehow our power is tangling with the potion, draining it in the worst kind of way. She uses our power – she loses steps. The connection hits me hard.

  It’s not a mathematical – one step, two, who knows? Half-steps? Quarters? Damn Silvari magic hates to conform. But it’s still here, an obvious correlation and the only possible reason.

  And she doesn’t realize she’s doing it half the time. Is it just my power? Just the big uses? Just the ones that caused pain? Frustration makes me curl my fist, and it takes a lot of effort to uncurl it. I don’t have time to research this further, and the chance there is an answer is slim. Another reason why Potion Masters design potions. Throwing ingredients together, or Chaos-induced accidents, has side effects. Uncontrollable, unexplainable, unacceptable.

  I have to stop this, stop her.

  Power Blocker. I need a Power Blocker. She isn’t magically bound to our tetrad, but she is pack, and I hope that’s enough to allow this magic to work.

  It has to work. We have to block her access.

  “Where are you doing?” Pax calls out.

  “It’s our power, that’s the only thing that makes sense. The more she accesses our powers, the more she drains the magic sustaining the bubble. I’m making a Power Blocker.”

  She starts arguing immediately, her voice reaching high octaves in protest against another potion. Another cage. I don’t listen to her words, just her tone, and fear wraps around my soul – what if she uses Allure before I can stop her?

  I snap my fist around time, Alluring it into complete stillness, snatch up the mortar and pestle, a jar of fireflies, and another of rare winged spiders,

  She’s supposed to be mine for eternity, or as long as her mortal soul will allow. Not days.

  I can’t let it be days.

  I Allure time as far and for as long as time will allow, over and over, and Kitten is still standing at the bottom of the stairs arguing with Pax when I jog back down.

  “This isn’t happening, Pax, and Thane, you can stop growling because you’re not helping. You’re not trapping me with another potion. You can’t do it. I can’t handle another shackle. I know they’re your powers, I simply won’t use your powers – easy,” she says, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You can’t promise me that,” Pax says.

  “I can now that I know the cost. Don’t take this away from me.”

  My heart breaks, and I let the pieces shatter and fall, not slowing my actions in the least. Because I have to do this.

  “Catch her,” I say, tossing the contents of the mortar down her back.

  It sizzles through her shirt, leaving steam rising in its wake. She doesn’t even get a chance to turn and look me in the eyes before her legs give out.

  “Sorry, Beautiful,” Thane whispers as Pax cradles her.

  He offers me a neutral look and one stern nod.

  “I’ll make more,” I say, turning and taking the stairs two at a time.

  Trying not to acknowledge the itch I have to be the one lifting her up and carrying her to the couch. To hold her. To apologize for being part of the reason her bubble is shrinking and not realizing it.

  I need her.

  Except this is more important right now, and I leave the broken pieces of me right where they fell. I’ve got no time for emotions.

  Realizing something, I freeze on the fourth step. “We just closed ourselves off to her – but she’s still wide open to us unless we use the same potions on ourselves,” I say.

  “No,” Pax rumbles.

  “Then we’ll still be drawing from her soul. Maybe even harder and faster than before. We just took away all of her defenses,” I say.

  “Then we be careful, and we get rid of this fucking bubble,” he growls back.

  Three Paces

  “Catch her,” Roarke says, suddenly behind me.

  Time slows…

  Hot liquid hits my back… searing and burning… and slashing sharper than a sword.

  “Sorry, Beautiful,” Thane whispers.

  I gasp – then fall. Everything goes dark somewhere in midair.

  * * *

  I don’t even remember hitting the ground, but the first sensation that returns is that of something soft underneath me, which means I’ve been out cold long enough to be moved. After that little observation comes a memory that strikes with a hard thud to the chest – Roarke threw a potion on me without my permission.

  “What the chuck!” I demand, sitting up sharply.

  Pax is pacing up and down beside the couch. Three steps left, then three right. He stops and looks down at me as I scramble to my feet, stand on the couch, and poke my finger at his nose.

  I feel weak, world-spinning weak.

  And hollow, not-sure-if-I’m-even-alive hollow.

  And why is everything chuckin’ fuzzy?

  The sun is still climbing over the trees, the light the same shade coming in through the window, so I must have only been out for a few minutes, not my usual hours. My stomach growls, demanding breakfast – but my stomach can wait.

  “What did you do?” I demand, feeling my syllables bite over my tongue in tones that I’ve never spoken before, hot with anger and not the least bit shy about it.

  His eyes flash, gold and glowing and accepting the challenge.

  “Anything we have to do to protect you,” Thane snaps.

  “This is not protecting me –” but that’s all the words I manage to force out before a weird spin and shift of gravity drags me sideways.

  He jumps the couch just in time to wrap his arms around me and cradle us down.

  “Roarke,” Pax shouts.

  There’s thundering from all directions, then three heads pop over the sides and back of the couch. Seth at the top. Killian near my feet. Roarke near my shoulder.

  And I can’t feel any of them.

  Not one.

  No sense of protection or wisdom or confidence. No gentle, comforting Darkness. No teasing Chaos. None of Pax’s vanilla or Seth’s mischievous copper or Roarke’s jasmine. None of the velvety warm tickle of amber when Thane speaks. No orange-cherry scent as Seth leans forward and strokes my hair.

  I close my eyes and battle back the welling tears.

  They’re gone. All gone.

  “What,” I manage, mustering the remnants of anger in my chest. The little bit that’s left. It’s been torn up by grief and loss, and I don’t want them to see what I’m actually feeling. “Did you do to me?”

  “We had to do it, Kitten. If accessing our power is shrinking your bubble, then we had to cut that access.”

  “You cut me off from you?”

  “Just our powers. We’ve done it to Seth before, to slow him down a little.”

  Seth rubs a thoughtful hand on the back of his neck. “It does kind of gut you, though, guys.”

  “What do you mean?” Roarke demands.

  “I mean, I was too damn pissed to discuss it at the time, but it does feel like having parts of you removed. Like your, ah, emotional arms and legs have been cut off.”

  Roarke curses – again. Killian’s brow draws down, creasing in regret, and I can’t chuckin’ handle that.

  I struggle to sit up, to get away from their eyes and their sudden looks of shock. My fingers dig into the back of the couch, trying to get a grip, to help me up, but I’m just gasping and failing.

  Pax pulls me up, wrapping me in a giant hug and growling softly into my hair. “It’s temporary.”

  It’s still Pax in my arms. The exact same shape, every muscle in detail, his hair a silky texture under my fingers, his chin shaved smooth. But he doesn’t feel like he’s mine anymore.

  “You don’t smell right.”

  He passes me to Killian. The big guy hugs me tightly with a hand at the back of my head and another on my shoulder. Same icy hands – I know that, it’s a clean-cut fact. But they could belong to a stranger for all they feel connected to my Killian.

  “Necessary,” he says, peeling me back from
his arms.

  “You don’t have a little shadow anymore,” I whisper.

  “Small sacrifice.”

  It doesn’t feel small to me.

  Roarke peels me away from Killian.

  “Let me explain,” he begins. Distress fills his dark gaze, smoothing the little lines around his eyes that he gets when he’s thinking or lost in his books. I can see the calculations going through his mind, risk versus reward. I’m his reward, I know that. I’m worth the risk – but my last few steps in this world are not worth living without feeling him. Doesn’t he get that he’s worth it too? “Kitten, his Shadows are dangerous. Even without your bubble, we still would have –”

  Seth stops him, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of Roarke’s grip. Pulling me away from the mess I’m about to blurt out. Syllables about needing him. Words filled with grief. Lines laced with pulsing anger because he might put himself last but I don’t.

  “Wrong thing to say, brother,” Seth says as he hooks one arm under my ass and picks me up. I pool into his chest, silently losing my battle with the tears. He carries me to the nearest chair adding, “I’ll sit with her.”

  I curl into his lap, my head nestled underneath his chin, and my eyes closed.

  The sounds of footsteps retreat behind me, someone up the stairs, someone out the door. Not sure who goes where, and I don’t feel them leave.

  Seth’s hand runs up and down my spine.

  “We’re alone now,” he whispers.

  I stop fighting the pain and just let it all out. Seth doesn’t rush me, doesn’t stop me or even tell me it’ll all be okay. He just holds me, for a very long time. One hand firm to my hip, holding me like he’ll never let me go, and the other brushing over my head, my hair, down my back, and then up again. And again.

  Soft, and slow, and perfectly in time with my evening breath, my slowing heart, my calming mind. Like a magician ordering the world into order without the world realizing it.

  Each second a little softer and a little slower.

  Even after my little sobs have stopped and my eyes have dried.

  “Ready?” he eventually asks.

  “Nope.” I exhale.

  He chuckles and pulls me in tighter, if that’s even possible.

  I knead the heel of my hand into his chest a bit, like it’s a pillow. “You’re pretty comfortable.”

  “More than Allure?”

  “I don’t know? I haven’t used his chest as a pillow before.”

  I’m fully expecting this conversation to turn into a renaming of chest-and-pillow – chillow? – but his finger hooks under my chin and tilts my head back mid-kneading.

  He smiles down at me, so gentle, like looking at the Seth under all the Chaos, and suddenly the air has fallen to the floor. Someone just cut its strings, down, gone, can’t breathe. Why are his eyes so pure, and why are they looking at me like that?

  His tongue runs over his lips before he mutters, “Fuck it,” and leans in to kiss me. Soft, all-consuming, and somehow the command the world needs to get the air to function again. Not that I care. Seth’s lips, Seth’s tongue, Seth’s breath and the beat of his heart under my palm – that’s all I care about right now.

  My Seth.

  His hand slips under the hem of my shirt, cool against the skin on my side, sliding higher with his fingers splayed. Thumb running over my ribs to settle against the edge of my breastband, fingers curling around to my back. Gripping and relaxing as if he’s forcing himself to stop there, which he fails at. Instead, he hooks under my breastband, making my breath hitch in excitement.

  His lips pause, and I try to chase them, but I’m too short compared to him – all he has to do is lean back, and his lips are too high for me to reclaim.

  “Come on,” he says, his hand falling quickly to my hip, and lifting me off his lap – slowly, like he might change his mind yet. “I’m hungry, you’re hungry, let’s make bread.”

  “I’m not that hungry,” I argue.

  “I am,” he groans, and I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about food.

  My insides ball and flip, but when I open my mouth, something stupid comes out, “What time is it?” Why do I care?

  He smiles, nudging us both toward the kitchen. “A little after breakfast, or maybe a little before morning tea.”

  The wall pushes on my back with a hard certainty that my life is in danger, and my feelings or desires are not the priority here.

  My broken, crushed, and shattered feelings – that I need to ignore.

  Because I can’t change any of this, nothing except for the direction of my thoughts.

  He gives the grate on the cast-iron stove a jiggle, shoves another log in, and opens the flue up. I hover next to the now half-demolished bag of flour, with the scoop on top. The thing is begging to be my next distraction.

  And really, this is Seth’s fault. Because he has his back to me and he should know how easily tempted I am in the first place. My world grabs onto this distraction so severely that I couldn’t stop myself right now if I wanted to.

  I grab the scoop, filling it with flour in the same motion, then close the distance to Seth and watch the long white stream pour over his head with a crooked smile on my lips. I tug the neck of his shirt out and let it run down his back.

  “Vexy,” he groans.

  Then turns sharply and dives at me and I run – face first into solid-nothing.

  Hard.

  Followed by eye-watering, staggering-backward, and face-on-fire pain. I pinch the bridge of my nose as blood pours from it.

  “That’s new,” Seth says.

  He guides me to the sink, and I lean over it, the blood dripping into the stone tub and slowly finding its way down the drain.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying not to get blood everywhere.

  The tingling settles, but it wasn’t that bad to begin with. It should have been horrible – noses chuckin’ hurt – but instead it was a better distraction than the flour.

  It was… exhilarating...

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs make the whole damn building shake, and the glass in the window above the sink rattles in its frame.

  “Killian?” I guess.

  Seth makes a chuffing noise. “Because Darkness cares if your nose is bleeding?”

  He’s right.

  “Pax,” we both say.

  I don’t see what happens next, my head bent over the sink, but Seth steps quickly away, and a soft hand comes to rest on the small of my back. I have to check before I’m sure that it’s Pax’s hand because the sensation is hollow – dead. Empty.

  But it is Pax. Bright-eyed and damned handsome-featured Pax.

  “I promise I don’t normally have this much trouble walking and breathing at the same time,” I joke, each word nasally.

  He tucks my hair behind my ear, lines creasing his forehead. His worry makes me worry – and I like acting like nothing’s wrong.

  Faking usually works for me.

  He looks me in the eye, holding my gaze with his golden depths. I realize we really haven’t had a private conversation since that moment in the inn when I was telling him we need to undo this mating thing. And that little bit of quiet after I healed my arm.

  I know there are some intense factors – saving the world and all of that – but he’s pretty happy sitting on the other side of the fire. Quite content only coming near me when I’m unconscious. I’m grateful Seth has been left in the role of Shade-sitting – at least I have my Sethy. If I get really critical, it’s also easy to accuse Killian of sparring with anyone who is willing, just poking his head into my life here and there unless it’s to spar – or train – with me. And Roarke’s been up in the attic, buried in books so deep he doesn’t even acknowledge my need to pee. And Pax – Pax spends most of his time commanding from his throne.

  “It’s just a bleeding nose,” I tell him, relaxing my grip enough to check if the bleeding has stopped.

  I twist the tap, letting a dribble of water escape to rinse my
fingers, and start splashing water at my face.

  “You’ve got blood on your clothes,” he says.

  I’ve barely started trying to clean up when he flicks the tap off and picks me up.

  “Pax,” I squeal – not excited squeal, just shocked squeal. “I can walk.”

  “Walking, for you, is getting dangerous,” he says, carrying me up the stairs.

  I catch Seth’s eye. The guy’s sitting on one of the couches, smirking at me.

  “You need a proper shower,” Pax says – carrying me up the stairs.

  Kitten is curled in Seth’s lap not just crying – but sobbing. My woman is sobbing, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it. Pax went upstairs, but Killian and I have slipped outside. Not because I don’t have a lot of work to do in that attic, just because I can’t listen to her distress when I’m so helpless to make things right.

  “She’s crying,” Killian rumbles, adding, “Fuck necessary.”

  He stomps beside me down the pebbled path all the way to the cliff. The surface shines in places, reflecting the muffled daylight, but aside from the natural light and dark to it, I couldn’t have made it more smooth or clean if I actually tried.

  “Seth never said,” I begin, skipping over a few words to the more important part of the sentence. “Crying but alive is still our best option.”

  Killian stops, folds his arms over his chest, and offers a grunt at the wall like communication is possible.

  “It should last a few hours. We can feed her, then put her to sleep. She won’t need the potion while she sleeps. Then recharge it when she wakes.”

  I begin to pace, thinking about the potions and the Spring and the bubble and Kitten. Killian just stands with his arms crossed and his glare on the wall. Is a dead end the start or finish of a path?

  It hurts my head to think about it, but it hurts my chest not to.

  Solution.

  Solution.

  Solution.

  Harmony.

  Three Paces

  “You need a proper shower,” Pax says – carrying me up the stairs.