Shadows and Shade Box Set

by Amanda Cashure

  A real laugh.

  Damn, I love that sound and the way his eyes change, less black and more emerald. It sends warmth cinching through my stomach.

  Everyone turns to stare at him; at least I’m not the only one. Pretty sure I am the only one thinking he’s too damn handsome right now. And if anyone else starts making him laugh like that, I might get jealous.

  “Did you guys know he could make that sound?” I ask, shutting my eyes again.

  No one says anything.

  The sound of his laugh dissolves before Killian speaks, “What were the commander’s charges?”

  “Something to do with stolen weapons,” I say. “Expensive ones or something.”

  “The few weapons in the cave were peasant grade,” Killian says.

  “I didn’t get details,” I mumble.

  “I don’t understand. How did I meet Killian on the street, but Shade was already with Pax?” Roarke asks.

  “And why were you naked?” Seth asks.

  I force my sleepiness back enough to open my eyes.

  “We are no longer talking about my nakedness,” I tell them.

  Order them.

  I can’t put my finger on how my clothes vanished. They were destroyed. Not even strands or threads or buttons left. But I wasn’t paying attention to that. Pax’s body, pulsing with anger, and with lines of gold ripping over and through him – all of that is raw in my memory, and I shiver as I try to push past those big details to find the smaller details. How the window shattered. Why I didn’t get cut. And my clothes.

  Killian makes a ‘hmm’ sound, but they’re all still looking at me.

  “I thought you had stripped off to get his attention,” Seth says, pointing at Pax. “Because that would have worked. When he started ripping the place apart, I was at the other end of the market. I was hoping you’d stop him.” He nods at Killian. “And having the horses ready was the next logical move.”

  “I was trying,” Killian says.

  Everyone looks back at me. I know there’s a giant hole in this story. Things just don’t make sense. Killian was way over by the door. Pax way out in the middle of the sand. Me pressed close to the furthest wall. But the bubble is still there; we checked already.

  “The bubble disintegrated my clothes – when I went through it,” I stumble over the suggestion.

  Killian nods really slowly. How much does this man hold back? How much does he know or guess and then just sit around waiting for the rest of us to catch up?

  “What do you mean?” Roarke asks. “You went through the barrier?”

  “I must have.”

  “But it’s still there?” Pax asks softly.

  “I think I went straight out of Killian’s perimeter and into yours. I think it hurt too,” I say, holding my hand up for Pax to get his first good look at the lightning-like lines from my fingertips almost to my elbow.

  He traces his fingers along my skin, growling softly.

  “I’m going to have to inspect you every time we’re apart if getting hurt and hiding injuries from me is going to become a regular thing.”

  “I wasn’t hiding it,” I say, at the same time I’m thinking, What does ‘inspect me’ mean?

  “She needs to try and get through it again,” Roarke says.

  “We’ll just get Pax to blow up another merchant market,” Seth teases.

  “Not tonight, she’s too weak,” Killian says.

  I realize I’m having a lot of trouble following their conversation and, instead of trying harder, decide not to try at all.

  “Maybe the potion is running out of power?” Seth says, followed by a rushed conversation between him and Roarke.

  “Still weak,” Killian repeats.

  Pax’s chest rumbles with his reply, “Thane is keeping his distance.”

  Yep, too tired to properly hear what they’re saying.

  * * *

  Pax’s fingers brush down the length of my jaw, stopping at my chin, the sensation stirring me awake. They linger, before insisting I turn to look up at him. The gold in his eyes seems to dance as it reflects the firelight. Looking at me. Just me.

  “I was falling asleep,” I grumble, frowning up at him.

  Something flies over my head, is snatched out of the air and held down to me.

  “You ate half a roll and two candies,” Pax says, holding the dried piece of beef out for me.

  “No food,” I growl, pushing it away. “Sleep.”

  One corner of his mouth pulls back into a smile. “You’re cute.”

  “No, I’m not.” I’m never cute, and right now I’m just cranky.

  “If there was a CuteSeed it would be you, Vexy,” Seth says.

  I try to twist to glare at him, but being one armed and trapped against Pax makes that a little hard.

  “No, I’m not,” I grumble.

  “She’s pulling her cute-angry face,” Roarke adds.

  I stab my finger at Killian, just daring him to say something.

  “Cute-about-to-kick-you-in-the-balls face,” he says.

  I growl, a real this-is-pissing-me-off growl.

  “I’m not cute. I’m a death trap. None of you should be near me. And I was trying to sleep.”

  “We’ve got this,” Pax says. “Roarke will figure it out, Seth will draw it out, and Killian will kill it.”

  “That usually works,” Seth says.

  “What am I supposed to do then?” I ask.

  “Stay alive,” they all answer.

  All of them, in complete and annoying unison.

  “Eat, Kitten,” Roarke says, tossing something else across the fire.

  Pax catches it, then unfurls his fingers, palm flat, and offers it to me. Another candy.

  “Smile,” Seth says.

  “Heal,” Killian adds.

  “Then sleep,” Pax says.

  I groan at them. That’s so corny, guys. But a heartbeat later the candy is in my mouth and my eyelids hang low again.

  “Did you see the potassium nitrate vendor?” Seth asks, shifting the conversation.

  “We don’t have time for that, Chaos,” Pax says, his tone vibrating against my cheek.

  “We always have time for fireworks,” Seth says.

  Roarke groans. “Don’t worry, you can’t get sulfur on this side of the realm.”

  “I’ve got a plan to… ” Seth keeps talking.

  Pax shifts, and I open my eyes to inspect my surroundings. Nothing. Just my guys and the black night.

  Roarke’s voice drifts across the fire, low and soft. Almost a whisper. “Pax, if she’s not going to eat, let the girl sleep.”

  “No, I’m good,” I say, wriggling my shoulder against Pax’s chest, trying to find my comfy spot again.

  Pax’s breath skims rhythmically across my skin. The guy’s silently laughing at me.

  “Beautiful, you have to sleep,” he says.

  My skin tingles.

  I don’t even want to repeat those words in my head, in case they realize how much they mean to me and move to live on the moon or some other distant location. Well, not they – just it. The words ‘you have to sleep’ are nothing in comparison.

  Just that one word.

  That I don’t want to repeat, but I do want him to repeat.

  “Say that again,” I mumble out over my sleepy tongue.

  “Beautiful. You. Have. To. Sleep.”

  Bralls, I think even my soul had a reaction to that.

  Someone lifts me up, laying me down with something soft under my head. I don’t even bother to look. Don’t care.

  Too happy.

  The girl’s had six hours sleep, that’s more than enough for a mortal.

  I lean down as I walk past and yank Roarke’s cloak out from under her head, tossing it across to the guy in a flutter of fabric. Then keep walking.

  “Why?” she groans behind me.

  “It’s morning,” I tell her.

  She struggles to her feet using one arm. Her left arm. She’s right hand dom
inant, and I’m enjoying seeing her survive on her left, more than I probably should. I managed to break my left arm – and I’m enjoying adjusting to that handicap just a little too.

  Challenges excite me. It’s who I am. I’m pissed that I broke it in the first place, or maybe I’m pissed that I couldn’t get the keys to work and the bars wouldn’t break. Either way, I’m pissed.

  Roarke is using a tree downriver as a target for his bow. Pax is stretching out on the grass, warming up for a bout with Seth. The horses have been moved to let them graze, and the sun will be up soon.

  I fish through my bags before returning to her. She’s finally managed to get up, smothering a yawn, rubbing her eyes, and peering around with relief. The black tar-like mist has already retreated.

  The weapons I purchased in Lackshir market, while Shadow watched Roarke purchase food supplies – and Pax ordered Roarke not to Allure the merchants into ridiculous bargains – land with a soft thud and metal-against-metal clink at her feet. Six kunai – small arrow-tipped darts, with red cotton wrapped around the shaft, and several ribbons trailing for balance. Six dragon darts – with twisted shafts and needle-fine points, barbed and with the potential to dip in toxins. And two blades.

  “Try the darts first,” I tell her, pointing at the nearest tree.

  She snatches them up without hesitation – leaving the new blades in the grass.

  Twirling the first dart through her fingers. Testing it. Not like a fighter, not yet, like a player. And if Seth has his way, they’ll be in a gambling den making money off dart games.

  “Where?” she asks.

  The tree is a pretty big target, and I find myself grinning as I approach it. Drawing my short dagger I carve three quick circles into the bark.

  Thank you, tree.

  She flicks her wrist, and before I’m even standing next to her all twelve darts are imbedded in the circles. None miss. None veer off course. None require calibration or experimenting with. All with her left hand.

  I clench my jaw to keep the thing from dropping off my face.

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  I don’t even let her retrieve them. Can’t improve much on that shit.

  “Arm yourself,” I tell her, pointing at the knives in the grass.

  The smirk on her face wipes off. Maybe I could have complimented her throws. Roarke would have. Seth would have cheered. Pax probably would have kissed her.

  She doesn’t need compliments or cheers or to be kissed by me.

  She needs to be able to kill the person who makes it past those darts and gets in close.

  Three steps backward, I draw my own short blade.

  “Arm yourself,” I grunt again, and wait.

  Emotions tick over inside her. Confusion. Uncertainty. A hint of temptation.

  Fear – but not enough to smell like ash.

  And the spiced-apple scent of curiosity.

  But she doesn’t move.

  “You swing. I block,” I say.

  “Then what?” she asks, still not moving to grab the knives.

  “You swing again, and I’ll block again.”

  “Why?”

  I twirl my blade between my fingers. Her hesitation is annoying, grinding at my patience. She needs to learn to fight – somehow I need to do that without drawing blood.

  Impossible.

  I slip my knife back into its sheath and search the grass for a solid stick of about the same length.

  “You swing, I block,” I tell her again, holding my new weapon in the air.

  Thirteen ways I could strip her skin from her bones, or slice along the length of an artery or vein, pace through my mind.

  She doesn’t need to know any of them because I’m not going to do any of them, and pressing upon her the fact that the weapon means nothing – it’s the opponent that matters – is not going to be productive. Not right now. Not when I’ve only just managed to get her to relax a little.

  She bends down to grab the blades. Her brow creases as she takes in their design. She would probably strike me as confused if the coppery scent of self-preservation wasn’t flooding my senses. Perfect – I can work with that.

  She puts one back on the ground, turning the other through her fingers.

  The karambits are curved. The handle can be gripped blade-forward, or blade-facing-back along the arm. A finger loop at the end of the hilt means she can flip the blade mid-swing and cause some serious damage. They’re blades made for slashing and attacking.

  I need to teach her how to do that – how to attack.

  “I swing, you block,” she says.

  And I grin in reply.

  94 miles from Potion Master Eydis

  I slump down next to the remnants of the fire and try to catch my breath. The sun was peeking over the horizon when Pax finally called an end to whatever it was Killian was making me do.

  What it felt like was tripping over myself and slashing around without any success. I actually consider myself lucky that I didn’t draw my own blood.

  What he called it was training.

  I think he broke some brain cells when they knocked him unconscious yesterday. His idea of effective training and mine are so far apart they’re not even in the same language.

  His arm didn’t even slow him down. The splints and bandage are gone. If I could steal their healing for myself, I would. He is still favoring it, gripping the collar of his shirt to support the arm while we were training. And I couldn’t even use that to my advantage.

  Roarke sits down next to me – well, as far away from me as he possibly can and still be able to pass something to me.

  A book. My book.

  Or at least the book that I claimed. I accept it from him, not missing the way he slips his fingers off the edges before mine are even close. No accidental skin contact here.

  “Technically there’s nothing wrong with learning to read from this,” he says, tapping the green cloth cover with one finger.

  This book is the only non-essential thing I’ve ever held. Food is essential. A work tool is essential. A book is a luxury. Being told I can keep this book is a blessing, but given it holds the image of the Origin Spring, which makes my spine tingle with some long forgotten memory, it feels more ominous than pleasant.

  Which I’m not okay with. Inanimate objects, especially ones lacking sharp edges, shouldn’t have any power over me. I file that away for later, a private moment, and some serious reinforcement of the natural order of things, book on the bottom and me on the top.

  Okay, maybe not the top – but definitely above books.

  “But,” he continues, pulling something from his pocket, “Here.” He holds out a much smaller cloth-bound book.

  My fingers brush over the faded blue fabric. The corners are worn down to nothing, and the spine has permanent creases in it. A pine cone has been printed on the cover and brown lettering spells out the title – which I can’t read.

  “This is the book I learned to read from,” his voice whispers across to me.

  I’m drawn to it, shuffling across until my shoulder is flush with Roarke’s as I open the cover and peer at the faded gold lettering on the first page.

  “You kept it all this time?” I ask, my voice low to match his – even though I’m not sure why.

  He chuckles. “No, I found this at the book merchant yesterday. My copy would have been destroyed when Lithael burned our suite at the Black Castle. But this is the same edition.” He points to a series of fine print at the bottom of the page. “Printed by the WordSeeds on the Emerald River.”

  “He burned down your home?” I ask.

  “Well, technically it burned down in the fight. Any one of his Sabers, or the grimm, or even his son or his father, could have started the fire.”

  He slips the book from my fingers and thumbs through the pages, finding the one he’s looking for with ease. A series of lines that look almost like a sigil, but are clearly forming the outline of a wolf, look back at me.

  “AlphaSeed,
” he reads, trailing his finger over the bold lettering below. “Born of the Origin, you owe no allegiance, and none owe allegiance to you, for trust must be earned, and power must be protected – the beast that is leashed is one who cannot remain strong.”

  “Pax?” I ask, trailing my finger across the page just as Roarke had done. “How does any of this make sense to you? This word has a line straight through it, I can hardly see any of the letters!”

  “That word says ‘protected.’ All of the possessive and coveted words have lines through them.”

  He flips through to a new page, and a line swirls along the edge of the spine. It reminds me of Killian turning part of the prophecy to smoke – which is probably something I should corner him to get more information about. Just not any time soon. Not while Pax is so volatile and I’m pretty sure whatever Killian’s worried about in that line he turned to smoke has everything to do with Pax.

  And all of that pales in the face of a BeastSeed threatening our existence.

  “DarknessSeed,” Roarke reads. “Turn your face to the light, let the shadows fall behind you. Turn your face to the darkness, let those behind you see the light.”

  My gaze seeks out Killian, who’s getting some serious energy out of his system by throwing – and being thrown by – Seth in some unarmed fighting drills. He hits the ground with a hard thud, rolling to one side and springing to his feet. Seth circles around him, and Killian runs his hand down his injured arm.

  “Should he be doing that?” I ask.

  “He doesn’t mind pain, but he’s not stupid enough to leave himself with a permanent disability.”

  “What about his scars? They look pretty permanent.”

  Roarke shakes his head, the movement drawing my attention. His dark eyes are stormy with unspoken emotions.

  “The things that take the longest to heal are the things that get broken on the inside.”

  His hand is still resting on the book in my lap. I wrap my fingers around his.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I know the words are hollow and inadequate, but they’re all I have.

  He pulls his hand from mine, fear racing over his expression before he has a chance to school his features into an almost calm.