Shadow's Touch

by T. M. Hart

  But in answering my question, there was a tightness in his jaw. And again, there was that pained way in which he spoke. “It is downstairs.”

  I had thoroughly searched the manor, and I knew there were no bedrooms on the first floor. There was the massive foyer, dining rooms, sitting rooms, two ballrooms, libraries, dens, the kitchen and butler’s pantry, but no bedrooms.

  And as always seemed to be the case lately, a shiver ran down my back. “You mean,” I clarified, “down in that abandoned wing? Underground?”

  He gave an imperceptive nod in response.

  “Why don’t you move—”

  He whipped his head in my direction stopping where he was. “You speak about things of which you have no knowledge.”

  I bit my lip, having stopped with him. And after a moment’s pause, I nodded. His eyes were that electric blue now and they sparked in the darkness.

  I was about to comment on them. To ask him about them. But he began to climb the stairs once again, walking right into the shadows ahead and disappearing into them. I hustled after him, determined not to lose him. And we walked the rest of the way to the chamber in silence.

  As we neared, I saw that the doors were already open and the light of a small fire flickered and swayed across the wall in the hallway. I could hear shuffling within.

  I followed him into the chamber, and the first thing I saw were the books burning in the collapsed fireplace. I inwardly cringed. I made a note to collect some firewood from outside. At this rate the tomes and journals in this room would be gone by the end of the month.

  There was a little pot sitting on one of the old bricks among the fire, and the Crone was standing above in her ragged robe with the cowl drawn. She was stirring the contents of the pot with great difficulty.

  In a brittle and ancient voice, she wheezed something in the Dark Tongue. He turned to me. “She says you need to stir the pot.”

  “Okay, sure,” I replied, crossing to the Crone. Before I reached her, she let the spoon drop with a thunk against the pot. Then she turned to rummage through a little burlap sack.

  When I went to pick up the spoon and resume stirring the pot, I noticed two things. The pot was empty, and the spoon was not a spoon at all but a stick. Still, I grabbed the end of the stick and began to stir. Only, it wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s stuck,” I said.

  The Crone swiveled in my direction. She released her pinched fingers over the pot, as if adding an ingredient, but her fingers were empty. She said something again in the Dark Tongue.

  “She said to stop being so weak and stir it. She said if you want the ward, you must stir the ingredients.”

  “It’s stuck,” I repeated, looking up at him. “And there’s nothing in here.”

  Instead of a reply, he stared at me, unimpressed. I couldn’t take the clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, so I redoubled my efforts. I used both hands and the full force of my weight to try and lean into it. But still nothing.

  I was about to write off the Crone as completely senile, when one of the burning books caught my eye. It was open, and as the fire burned the page, I noticed gold script within the book begin to shine and shimmer.

  I was mesmerized. I couldn’t look away. The pages did not continue to disintegrate. Instead, it was as though the fire had cleansed the dust and dirt. It had burned away all that was unnecessary until these inner pages were revealed.

  I couldn’t understand the script, but as I stared, I felt warmed. The darkness surrounding us, hanging heavy in the room, encompassing the manor, settling all around the property grounds—was gone. It was no longer a looming presence. All that remained was the bright, golden, shining Light in front of me. And I felt that same bright Light flare somewhere deep within my chest.

  I was vaguely aware that the flames before me began to take on a violet hue. Somewhere in the recess of my mind, I realized that my eyes must be glowing. And while I was standing there, transfixed, the old bat attacked me.

  “Ow!” I yowled in pain, holding my eye. She had jabbed her knotted finger straight into it. I turned to ward off any other advances from her, but she simply flicked her fingers over the pot as best she could with arthritic movement.

  “What was that for?!” I screeched. But as I still had my other eye open, I could see that the bottom of the pot now held a violet glow.

  The Crone mumbled something, and he supplied, “She needed a tear.”

  “Well maybe next time she can ask first,” I grumbled.

  The Crone continued with her labored mumbles, pointing the same bent and bony finger at his chest.

  There was a flicker of something across his face at her words, but he gave a slight nod. The Crone shuffled over to stand in front of him. The hood of her cowl just reached his midsection. She raised her hand and placed one gnarled finger over his heart.

  I gave a gasp when she began to push into his flesh, stabbing her finger through skin and muscle all the way up to her knuckle. She turned her hand as she went, reaching as far into him as possible.

  I was about to take a step to stop her, but he noticed my movement. “She needs a drop of blood from my heart,” he explained through gritted teeth. And then with a sickening squelch, she pulled her blood-soaked finger out.

  Wine red blood poured from the hole in his chest in a stream down his abdomen. Yet he had remained stoic throughout, with nothing more than the clenched jaw and blackened eyes that he seemed to always emote.

  The Crone hobbled back to the pot and flicked her fingers over it once again. A single drop of his blood fell to join the violet glow. She grumbled something at me again, and I didn’t need him to translate this time. I grabbed the stick and I found that I was able to move it. I began to stir the pot.

  The violet hue slowly became streaked with white, until an intense bright Light began to flare from the pot. Then from within the folds of her robe, the Crone procured a handful of rocks. She held her open palm containing the rocks above the pot. However, I noticed—with my good eye—that among the small rocks, was the ring I had been presented. My ring for this marriage.

  The Crone dumped the handful of rocks into the pot and with the sound of the stones pinging upon the metal, the Light was extinguished, and the burning fire snuffed out. The room was cast into blackness. Yet, after a moment’s pause, the faintest bit of Light began to glow from within the pot. I leaned over, peering in. Each stone pulsed with a tiny flicker.

  The Crone scooped up the rocks from the pot and placed them into her robe. She mumbled something and began to shuffle to the door. Before she exited, she swiveled her head in my direction. I could still see nothing but blackness beneath her hood, but I knew she stared at me. And although she said nothing, I felt as though she was demanding in some way that I not let her down. That flicker of faraway power sparked from her, and then she left.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “She’s taking the stones to place around the manor. They will bar entry for The Contessa and the Umbra.”

  I looked back into the pot, noticing that a tiny glow of Light remained. It was the ring. The Crone had not taken it with her but left it in the pot. From the shadows he said, “You are to wear it. Do not take it off. It will act as a shield from certain dark magics. The Contessa will be unable to reach you through dream casting. However, be warned. It cannot protect against the Umbra.”

  “Can I trust her?” I asked, uncertain as to what to think in regard to the Crone.

  “Yes.”

  I hesitated to pick up the ring. “It’s from The Contessa,” I said, cringing at the thought.

  “Not really,” he countered.

  I looked over at him. He had come closer without my notice. The hole in his chest had closed.

  “She told me earlier that it was she who extended the proposal.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but the ring is not hers to give. She found it here at the manor.”

  “Who’s is it?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

&nbs
p; “Was it your father’s?”

  “I don’t have any family,” he replied.

  “Was it the Shadow King’s?” I amended.

  He didn’t answer, and I took his silence as a yes. If it had been his father’s then by right, it would be his. It also made sense for The Contessa to offer it with the proposal. It had made the gesture all the more authentic.

  “Seems a little awkward to take it.” I commented.

  He exhaled, and I could hear the heft of irritation in it. “You are difficult. You insist on staying here. You beg for help in concerns to The Contessa. And when you are provided with a means for your desires, you suddenly hesitate to accept.”

  “Fine!” I reached down and grabbed the illuminated ring, which had been mixed with my Light and his blood. Then I shoved it on my finger. “There. Okay?”

  But I was silenced as I locked eyes with him. There was something. Something amplified. It was as though something muddy and murky had just been made a little clearer. As though it had been pulled closer to the surface.

  Goosebumps broke out over my skin. I was now certain there were much larger forces at play here. Whatever I had thought, whatever I had believed, I now knew I had been utterly naive.

  And I did something then that I had never done in my life. I did something that I thought only weak people did. Something I had thought I would always be too strong for. Too bright for.

  With my eyes locked on his and a certain clarity beginning to surface . . . I honest to god fainted.

  Chapter 22

  A note had been left on the pillow next to my head. Sloppy, uneven writing had been painstakingly scratched onto a piece of paper. It simply read:

  Do not take ring off. Do not leave.

  I crossed to one of the towering windows in my room and drew back the curtain. The sun was setting. I had slept away another day.

  I slid down the window casing and sat on the floor wrapping my arms around my knees. Leaning my forehead against the glass, I watched the evening shadows blanket the grounds. The darkness of night was coming.

  I indulged for a moment. I imagined that my mother had not been terrified for my safety as a child. I imagined that I never took a fighting lesson, never picked up a weapon. I imagined what my life would be like if I had only pursued ballet, and music, and art.

  I even took the fantasy a step further and pictured a life for myself without the obligation of my lineage. I created a simple childhood for myself. One that involved running barefoot through fields and having friends and siblings.

  Perhaps I wouldn’t have had these intimacy issues, as Killian had called them. Perhaps I would have met a simple farm boy. Maybe we would have fallen in love, tumbling through the fields under a clear blue sky. We would have been married and had little babies.

  I would have been soft and sweet. He would have had rough hands and tanned shoulders. We would have had a simple life, not wanting more than one more day with each other.

  But it was a futile exercise . . . I let the thoughts go. There was no point in wondering what my life could have been like under different circumstances. I was here now. What mattered was what came next, not some false illusion of what I wished had come before.

  I picked myself up. I was still wearing the same leggings and t-shirt from the night before. They felt dirty and tainted. I made my way into the bathroom and found that I had enough power for a fire. Warmth and light illuminated the space.

  I ran hot water, turned on my music player, and stripped down. I looked down at the ring. It felt odd to keep it on, but I would do whatever was necessary to keep The Contessa at bay.

  I didn’t sit and luxuriate in the hot water, though. As soon as I was cleaned up, I dressed in a fresh pair of leggings and one of the cropped tees I had folded in the closet. I brushed out my wet hair, leaving it loose to dry.

  As I passed through the main living space of my quarters, I noticed a tray had been set out on the dining table. However, I hurried right by without eating and exited the suite.

  I passed down the long hall and made my way into the master chamber. With the little power I had I began two more fires in both hearths.

  I started pulling books out, wiping them off and stacking them up. After last night, I was convinced they held important secrets, ancient knowledge, great power. I was going to go over them and see what I could find.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jumped to my feet into a fighting stance, startled by the silky deep voice floating from the shadows. When he stepped forward, I relaxed, releasing a slow breath. “Don’t do that,” I scolded, and I began to dig through the books again.

  “Go back to your room,” he directed.

  “No.”

  “Why are you in here?”

  “I have to start somewhere.”

  “Meaning?”

  I huffed and stopped rummaging through the books to glance at him over my shoulder. “Meaning I think there’s something to these tomes. Something significant about them.” I tried to shoot my best scowl in his direction.

  In all honesty it wasn’t his questioning that irritated me. It was his presence. The pull, the awareness—they were so much clearer now. I understood things I hadn’t before.

  After last night, now wearing his ring, I knew we were connected. Bonded. It was a fact I could no longer deny.

  The need to be closer to him made my breathing faster and my skin hotter. Everything was amplified around him. Every little movement I made ignited sensations that would ripple to my very center.

  I slammed shut the book I had been flipping through. A whomp reverberated through the quiet dark of the cavernous room and the fire in both hearths flickered. I stacked up as many books as I could in a hurry and began to make my way to the chamber door.

  I had to get out of there. I needed more time to figure things out.

  I made it past him. Past where he lurked in the shadows. I had just enough control to get back to my quarters.

  But he grabbed my arm. And I let the books I was holding tumble to the floor. He spun me around, keeping the firm grip on my arm with one hand and shoved his other hand through my hair, fisting a handful of it at the base of my neck, forcing me to look up at him.

  His nostrils flared. His jaw ticked. The perfect angles of his face were tight with anger. And his eyes crackled with electric blue sparks while branching with black veins.

  “You need to leave,” he hissed.

  I glared at him. Trying to hate him. Trying to blame him for all the conflicted emotions I was experiencing. Angry that he made me feel things I had always wanted but had given up on. Angry that he never wore a damn shirt.

  I tried to shake my head. But his grip on me tightened.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” he seethed. “Have I not suffered enough? Why do you torment me?”

  My chest was rising and falling in a hectic pace. Pressed against his. Meeting him breath for breath.

  “I’m not doing anything to you,” I replied, pouring all the defiance and vehemence that I could into each word.

  “No?!” he challenged. “Each day I lie in bed, stiff and aching, thinking of you. Wanting you. Constantly haunted by you. The smell of you, the sight of you, the sound of your voice—it all covers me. Unrelentingly. Without cease.”

  He tightened his grip on me. Pressing his body into mine. Forcing me to feel all the hard planes and angles of him. Overwhelming my body with his. Surrounding me.

  “No matter where I go. No matter what I do. I cannot escape you. How much more am I to take? You win. I will do whatever you want. Just release me of this.”

  He brought his face closer to mine. “Because if you do not. You will pay. You are strong. You are capable. You are skilled . . . But you are no match for me. If you continue to do this to me. I will lose control. And you will not like it.”

  At his words something inside me exploded. I pushed myself into him even harder, bring my face right up to his. “I win?” I gritted. “I win?”
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  I pushed against him. He took a step back but didn’t let go of me. “Are you really so thick?” I gave another push and he took another step back. “I don’t want this either!” I gave another push against him and he backed into a large sitting chair.

  I gave a final shove against him and pushed him down into the chair. With his grasp still on me, I had no choice but to follow him down. Then I was straddling him, with my knees bent on each side of him.

  I was hot and wet and throbbing, and I didn’t even pause. I did what I wanted. I took what I wanted.

  Whatever force was pushing us together, it was too powerful to fight. We were two meteors colliding, and we could not change course. It had been foolish to ever even try. We had been set on this trajectory from the start, and I was finally willing to accept that.

  I grinded against him, feeling how bruisingly hard he was. Shockwaves exploded, radiating from my core. I threw my head back with a cry. And his large hand wrapped around my throat.

  There was so much strength, so much power in his grip. But he didn’t squeeze. Instead he tilted my head to the side. And then his mouth was over my pulse point—an energy center. He sucked, and I cried out again at the explosion of pleasure it caused.

  I could feel him draw on my power, on the very little energy I had at the moment. But instead of draining what I had, the act caused a little of my Light to recharge. I felt a warmth spread through my chest.

  I ground my hips against him again and again. Unable to stop myself. A slave to my impulses. Giving in to the need and the want.

  And I felt the chaos he housed envelop me. But it didn’t become my own. I was too swept up in lust and desire to care about the dark forces which haunted him.

  The darkness, the despair, the longing, it all swirled around us. But we were somewhere in the center of it. Somehow untouched by it.

  He tore his lips from my throat. “Can’t stop it,” he gritted, bucking against me, bouncing me on his lap.

  “Then don’t,” I begged, grinding against him again.

  He bucked against me a second time, clamping his hands over my ass to pin me in place.