Reign of the Fallen

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  I shake my head under the quilt. Her words make my stomach churn, so I poke an arm out of bed to feel around for the latest vial of potion Danial left me.

  But Valoria grabs my hand and gives it a firm tug, surprising me again with her strength.

  “Just go. Please.” I roll over, putting my back to the princess. “There’s nothing you can do, Valoria. I’m not one of your inventions. I’m broken, part of me is missing, and you can’t fix me with copper wires or a piece of string.”

  For a highborn lady of fine breeding, Valoria’s sigh is a lot like a growl. She strips off my quilt and grabs me by the shoulders.

  “Your mother brought you into this world as a whole person,” the princess huffs, pulling so hard that I slide to the edge of the bed. “And last I checked, you still are one. No matter what or who you’ve lost. Now get”—she jerks on my arms—“up!”

  I cling to the bed, and Valoria stumbles backward alone.

  “Fine.” She straightens, smoothing her rose-patterned gown. “You win today. But I’m coming back, same time tomorrow. And I’ll bring extra muscle if need be.”

  “By Vaia’s grace, why?”

  “Because that’s what friends do.” She turns on her heel and strides from the room.

  Once she slams the door, I drain a vial of potion in a huge gulp. I don’t know what the princess expected. I can’t be anything to anyone right now, which she’d know if she’d bothered to listen to me. I hurl the empty potion vial at the wall and watch it shatter.

  XI

  The bells on the apothecary door jingle merrily, making my head throb as I step inside. Worse than the noise is the smell, which is somewhere between a musty attic and a healer’s closet full of pungent herbs. Mysterious spicy fumes leak from spilled bottles.

  I stride to the back counter, shoving my shaking hands in my pockets as I walk. It’s been six hours since my last calming potion, six hours since I drank the blue liquid that keeps me floating just a little outside myself, outside the worst of the pain. The potion that banishes the thoughts that would destroy me, of blood and sightless creatures, of rotting flesh and a soul-shattering scream.

  Danial says it’s time to stop abusing the potion or risk terrible side effects, but he doesn’t understand that I need this to survive, to keep seeing my silent visions of Evander, all I have left of him. And if Danial won’t fetch the potion for me anymore, I’ll just buy it myself. Vaia knows I’ve got enough gold to afford what I need, between my savings and what Evander left sitting in Grenwyr Treasury under my name.

  Maybe he did see this coming, or something like it, after all.

  My insides twist into hundreds of tiny knots when I think of using Evander’s coins to buy a calming potion that makes me numb, makes me see his phantom so I won’t forget his face. But he’ll never know, so I guess it’s not really hurting anyone.

  As I wait for the apothecary or one of his assistants to appear, I drum my fingers on the long counter and my hand comes away caked in dust. The wall behind the counter is stacked to the ceiling with glass jars, and one in the middle is full of the bitter-apple liquid I badly need. I study the waist-high counter, trying to decide whether I can jump it, when a soft voice gasps, “Odessa!”

  A jolt runs through me. I straighten and glance at the woman who’s appeared behind the counter, her usually beautiful features pinched in a frown.

  “What are you doing here?” Lyda Crowther demands, leaning against the other side of the counter so we’re nose-to-nose.

  At almost the same time, I blurt, “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Lyda’s always worked a few days a week at the city apothecary. She doesn’t have a keen eye for mixing potions—hers are blue, of course, not brown—but she says she likes working much better than sitting in the manor all day arranging tea parties, and the head apothecary was in need of someone to manage the front of the shop. But Lyda shouldn’t be here today. Not with Evander so recently laid in the ground.

  “Odessa.” Lyda’s voice is low and urgent. She grips my upper arm, her fingernails pricking my skin beneath my thin shirt. “Are you all right?”

  Blinking, I realize I’m leaning against the counter with a hand pressed to my forehead. “I’m a little dizzy,” I confess as I take in Lyda’s appearance. “But I’ll be fine. The more important question is, how are you?”

  Lyda purses her lips, like she’s not sure how to answer. There are no smudges under her eyes, and her pale skin is flawless as ever. Her stiff, high-collared sapphire dress is neat and unwrinkled, and her hands are perfectly manicured. But I know as well as anyone that we all wear scars others can’t see.

  “I’m managing,” Lyda says at last. “Elibeth’s taking some time off from her duties at the kennels to help me sort through all of Evander’s things. We’ll be donating them to the Convent of Death.” She draws a heavy breath. “And Meredy’s on her way home as well, though I wish it was under happier—”

  “You’re giving away Evander’s belongings? All of them?” My face warms, and heat creeps up the back of my neck.

  Lyda reaches out to smooth my hair, and I pull away. She lowers her hand, frowning again. “I’ve been through this before, remember?” Her voice is just above a whisper, like she can’t bear to hear the words coming from her own mouth. “With my husband. And for me, the best way to move on is to purge the manor of reminders of the deceased.”

  “The deceased?” I repeat the words through numb lips. “Did you ever bother asking Evander what he wanted you to do with all his things if he—if he died?” My vision grows hazy, as though Lyda’s standing behind a cloud of smoke, but I continue. “Or how about asking me? He was mine, and no one’s asked me what I thought he wanted!”

  Silence settles over us as we lock eyes, the perfumed air too thick to carry sound. Lyda’s eyes are round with shock or revulsion or something else I can’t name.

  I struggle for what feels like hours to get my tongue and throat working again. “I mean,” I finally manage in a steady-enough voice, “he was my partner. And I loved him. He was going to tell you. We were going to move to the palace together.” I pause to wipe the sweat beading on my forehead. “Right after we killed the Shade, he was going to tell you.”

  “I already knew,” Lyda says slowly. She glances down at her hands, making it impossible to read her expression. “I’ve known for a year or so. Love is difficult to disguise.”

  “You knew,” I repeat flatly. “You knew we were in love, but you reminded Van all the time that he couldn’t marry a necromancer with your blessing—why?”

  Swallowing hard, I taste the sour beginnings of anger, the realest, strongest thing I’ve felt in days.

  “I thought it would make you both give up the job,” Lyda whispers, still not meeting my eyes. Tears spill onto her cheeks. “I thought, if you wanted each other badly enough, more than you wanted the job, you’d give it up, and then you’d both live long, happy lives. I was trying to save you!”

  At last, she looks up, her eyes gleaming. “If you keep playing with death, you’ll end up just like him.” Some of her sadness gives way to anger. “Is that what you want?”

  Bristling, I lean toward her, gripping the counter. “I have a score to settle with Evander’s killer, and unlike you, I don’t run from a fight.”

  “Is everything all right out there?” a dry voice calls. There’s a rustling from deep within the shop’s back room, and slowly, a shrouded figure emerges. Lyda and I carefully avoid each other’s eyes as the apothecary joins the baroness at the counter.

  “Good afternoon, Sparrow,” the apothecary rasps. A faint whiff of mint and rosemary wafts under my nose, no doubt because the apothecary has stuffed fresh bundles of herbs under his shroud. Most of the Dead prefer not to stink like the corpses they are, and that’s fine by me. “What can we get you today?”

  “I need another month’s worth of your st
rongest calming tonic.” I nod to the jar of liquid glittering a cobalt promise, then shrug and pretend to look annoyed. “Healer’s orders.”

  “Are you sure, Sparrow?” The apothecary rests a gloved hand lightly on my forearm, making me flinch. “That’s a powerful tonic. I’ve never heard of anyone taking it for so long without becoming . . . dependent upon it. The side effects can be rather nasty for days after a dose. Shaking fits. Dizzy spells. Even hallucinations.”

  Staring into his masked face, my thoughts begin to wander. I know I can’t bring Evander back, but if I could, would it be what was best for him, for us? Would I ever be satisfied with staring into a mask instead of Evander’s stunning eyes? Would we be able to embrace? Or would I be too repulsed by the thought of rotting skin and the stench of a corpse rising from his shroud? Surely it would all be worth it to have him at my side again, whether I could see him or not. To hear his jokes and keep his company . . . but even if I had to kill him to stop him from becoming a Shade?

  Suddenly, a little of my anger at Lyda fades. She’s been through this before. Her husband became a Shade, and she had to slay him. Of course she doesn’t want to be constantly reminded of the son she lost. To pick up a shirt that still faintly smells of Evander, of sandalwood and fresh-cut grass—and wonder, like I am, if things could’ve been different this time somehow. Of course she’d want to get rid of his belongings.

  As I cast an apologetic glance at the baroness, I notice the apothecary is waiting for my reply. I imagine him giving me a questioning look behind his mask and cross my arms, making it clear I’m not going anywhere until I get what I came for.

  “I’m certain it’s what I need,” I say at last.

  “She’s a grown woman,” Lyda tells the apothecary. “If you won’t pour it for her, I will.”

  She catches my nod of thanks, and her lips twitch the slightest bit. The look she gives me is almost maternal, taking me back several years. This must be her way of saying she’s sorry, hopefully for more than just today. I hope it’s for the years of standing between me and Evander, when it all turned out to be for nothing.

  The apothecary heaves a rattling sigh and gathers several empty vials from under the counter, thrusting them at the baroness. “Very well, Lyda. I’ll leave you to finish up here.” With a quick bow to me, he trudges toward the back room, his black shroud trailing on the floor behind him like an elongated shadow.

  Lyda doesn’t say a word as she fills the vials from the big glass jar. The sound of the potion sloshing in the vial helps loosen the knots in my shoulders and stomach. I curl and uncurl my fingers and gaze around the shop, desperate to occupy the little moments until the potion’s burning through my veins and I’m back in control.

  I’m trying to name the different herbs hanging in dried bunches overhead when a strange tingling at the back of my neck makes me whirl around.

  There, blocking the shop’s only exit, is a Shade as huge and hideous as the one that killed Evander. It must be the same one, because there’s a bony stump where its arm once was. I don’t know how it even fit through the narrow door, or what the blazes compelled it to come out of the Deadlands. It trains its dark eye sockets on me as it opens its yawning mouth wide, and I fumble for my sword.

  “Lyda, get back!” I shout. She’s still behind the counter, but that’s hardly a barrier to a Shade.

  At last, I brandish my blade, daring the monster to come one step closer.

  “You ready to lose the other arm?” I snarl. The Shade creeps toward me, then scuttles back against the door, its skeletal fingers dragging the ground. Mocking me. It knows it can outrun me.

  I charge it. I may not have a fire potion at the ready, but if I’m lucky, I can at least do some damage.

  “Sparrow!” Lyda gasps. Her voice is high and harsh in my ear. She’s right beside me, the foolish woman, which means she leapt the counter and headed right toward the danger. “What’s gotten into you?”

  I break my stare with the Shade for just a moment to gape at her. Her eyes are wide and wild.

  When I glance back at the Shade, it’s gone.

  I lower my sword, heat rushing to my face as Lyda checks me for fever. “There . . . there wasn’t anything in here with us just now?”

  Lyda grips my shoulders, forcing me to look her in the eye. “Odessa. What did you see?”

  I wave her and her concerns away, though I’d be lying if I said what just happened didn’t get under my skin. I’ve got to keep it together long enough to kill the monster that took Evander. I’ll be no use to anyone if I can’t tell the real monsters from the ones in my head, and I’m far from doing a good job of holding on to my sanity.

  * * *

  Someone knocks on the door of my palace room, a sharp and purposeful sound. I bury my head in my pillow to muffle it. The doorknob rattles. More knocking follows, and a smooth male voice says, “Special delivery from Prince Hadrien Wylding, for one Odessa of Grenwyr!”

  I shake my head at the familiar voice. Sitting up, I call, “I know it’s you, Highness!”

  “It’s Hadrien, as I’ve told you countless times.” The smile in his voice is unmistakable as he adds, “And if you know it’s me, why aren’t you opening the door, Sparrow?”

  I’m pretty sure the wardrobe in the corner of my room is judging me as I try to smooth my rumpled uniform. I hurry to unlock the door, only to be greeted by—

  “That’s a lot of flowers, Hadrien. Surely they aren’t all for me?”

  The bouquet, no doubt plucked fresh from the palace greenhouse—white carnations for endearment, cheerful yellow acacia for friendship, and, unsurprisingly, lilac for new affections—tickles my nose as I peer around the blossoms for a glimpse of the smiling prince.

  “They are. But never mind them.” He lowers the bouquet. “Read the invitation they come with. It’s far more important.” As his gaze sweeps over my face, whatever he sees there steals the sunshine from his deep brown eyes.

  Clearing his throat, he adds in a far more solemn tone, “My birthday festival is tonight. I came to invite you in person . . .” His fingers touch my cheek for the briefest moment, hummingbird-light. “And to see how you’re holding up.”

  I blink and look away, lost for words. When I raise my eyes again, Shadow Evander—often my only companion these days—stands behind the prince, pretending to kick Hadrien in the rear to make me laugh. I quickly bite my lip, resisting the urge to grin.

  “Sparrow, do you need to sit? Can I—? Here.” Hadrien sweeps into the room, pulling out a chair and gently guiding me into it. “Do you need anything?” he asks, even as I shake my head. “Water, perhaps?”

  Heat creeps back into my face as I remember yesterday’s disastrous visit to the apothecary. The potion made a fool out of me, and it’s threatening to do so again now, but I need it to keep the pain away. At this rate, I’m destined to become a public laughingstock.

  “I’m fine.” I realize my sweaty palm is soaking the invitation he handed me, and I pull the creamy piece of parchment from its envelope. It smells clean, like sage. Like Hadrien. The scent clears my head a little.

  “If you’re not feeling up to a party, I’ll understand,” Hadrien says, kneeling by my chair. “Just say the word, and we can pretend this invitation never found its way here. There’ll be other parties. Other invitations I can deliver in person.”

  I press my lips together, lost for words. I’m only staying at the palace until I can keep my head clear long enough to know the real Shade when I see it, so I can be sure I’ve killed Evander’s murderer. And once the Shade is dead, I assume I will be, too.

  I don’t know how to tell Hadrien that I’ll be wherever the real Evander is soon.

  “I’ll be there,” I blurt, surprising myself as much as Hadrien.

  “Are you certain?” He tilts his head, and when he meets my eyes, my breath catches in my throat. It might just
be another hallucination, but the look he gives me reminds me of one Evander and I used to share when we were alone. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  Behind him, Shadow Evander pretends to retch.

  “Of course. It’s . . .” I lower my eyes to the invitation to avoid his earnest gaze. “Perfect timing.” Hadrien coughs, as though he doesn’t believe that for a moment, but I rush on, “I needed an excuse to wear my favorite party dress again, and you’ve delivered it.”

  If he recognizes the false cheer in my voice, he makes no sign of it. He climbs to his feet, just to give me a deep bow.

  Shadow Evander flashes me a look of betrayal. I know he’s not real, but he looks it, and my stomach aches as I feel like I’ve hurt him all over again.

  “I’ve been losing sleep every night since it happened,” Hadrien says softly, jarring me back to reality. “I lie awake thinking of Master Crowther, and how we lost him far too soon. And Master Nicanor, too. I urged His Majesty to assign extra guards to patrol these halls and keep the rest of you safe, though they certainly didn’t prove their worth against the last Shade they met.” Admiration glints in his dark eyes as he adds, “You took care of that brilliantly on your own.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I never know what to say to Hadrien. I settle on, “I’d better bathe and change if I’m attending a party in a few hours. Unless you want me to show up in this.”

  “You look perfect in everything.” The prince’s smile returns as I gesture at my tired black uniform. “My only birthday wish is to see your face tonight.”

  I nod, once again unable to form words as my mind races.

  “See you soon, sweet Sparrow,” Hadrien calls as he closes the door on his way out.