by Finn, K. C.
“Pretty gown,” Lily said. “Better than that last one. Be grateful you were drugged up last time I came in, it was yellow and hideous. This pink one suits you much better.”
“Fashion advice in a hospital?” Jazzy mused. “Yep, you’re my best mate all right.” She gave her a broad grin.
A silence settled upon them as Lily pulled up a chair and sat down by her friend’s bedside. There was so much that Jazzy needed to know about the showdown that had taken place, but Lily couldn’t bring herself to even start to recount the tale. She wasn’t sure her own voice could stand it after what her bruised and battered lungs had been through.
“You know I’m going to be in a wheelchair now, don’t you?”
Lily looked up at Jazzy. She was still smiling, but there was something sad behind her dark eyes.
“Yeah the doctors told me,” Lily said, looking down again. “Your mum and dad should be boarding their flight to Manchester right about now.”
“It’ll be nice to see them after a whole year,” Jazzy answered. She reached out and poked Lily’s chin. “Don’t be so glum. I’ve thought about it, and I could be dead, right? And I’m not dead, and neither are you, so we’re okay.”
Lily let out a laughing sigh. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive,” Jazzy replied. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’m lucky to be here.”
“Aren’t we all,” Lily added.
The door to the private room swung open on its own and Novel stepped in. He looked sinister under the fluorescent lights, and he was scowling viciously as he stalked towards the girls. His long black coat billowed on an unseen breeze as he gave a withering look back in the direction he had come from.
“That blasted nurse didn’t want to let me in,” he griped, looking at Jazzy as though it was somehow her fault. “She immediately decided that I couldn’t possibly be a friend of yours. The cheek!”
“I’ll be sure to let her know in future that the guy dressed as a Victorian serial killer is a dear old pal,” Jazzy replied.
Novel looked down at his black suit and frowned. “It’s a good job I quite like you, Jazmine,” he said darkly.
Lily swiped at his arm, and he came to stand behind her chair, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek. He put his hands on her shoulders and Lily took hold of them, grinning as Jazzy caught a glimpse of something shiny on her finger.
“He gave you the ring!” she exclaimed. “That’s on the wrong finger, isn’t it?”
“Whoa, what?” Lily laughed. “Hold your horses Jaz. We’re not moving that quickly!”
“I think the three of us nearly dying is quite enough excitement for one year without a marriage to plan,” Novel added.
“It’ll happen,” Jazzy promised with her wicked smile.
“Stranger things have been known,” Novel conceded, starting to smile again. “My father becoming a lightsider, for one.”
“How is he?” Lily asked, turning to look at Novel.
“Weak,” Novel replied with a roll of his eyes, “but his mouth still works all right.”
The girls both laughed at his disdain, until Jazzy shifted and found herself in pain. Lily moved to help her adjust her bed, but Novel held out a hand and let his command of gravity do it for her. Jazzy smiled at him in gratitude as her body shifted with unseen strength, a thoughtful look crossing over her face.
“Do you have the Book of Shade with you?” she asked.
Lily nodded bemusedly, fishing in her oversized handbag.
“Always, from now on,” she replied.
Jazzy beckoned her to hand the crimson tome over, and Lily obliged. Her friend opened the book, flat across her motionless legs, and flipped its blank pages rapidly.
“When the book showed me the words for the protection charm, there was something else, right at the back.”
Lily and Novel watched with interest as Jazzy forced the book to open at the very last page. Just as she had said, a series of words formed on the page in front of her. Jazzy cleared her throat a moment and smiled.
“Dear Human,
Though you do not possess the power of the shadeborn, be not blind to the power that is owed to you. In mortal hearts there is capacity for magic, and in mortal eyes the presence of a special kind of sight. The strongest of spirits is required for the task, but know that you are suitable, should you wish to undertake it.”
“What does it mean?” Lily asked. “A special sight?”
Novel took the book and analysed the page, rubbing his chin.
“The message is for all of us to see,” he proposed. “I would suggest that means that we’re supposed to help you, Jazmine.”
Jazzy gave a reluctant sort of grin.
“You know that time I went to see Lady Eva?” she asked Lily, who nodded ferociously, “well, one of her ghosts struck a chord with something from my past.”
“There’s something you haven’t told us?” Lily said.
Jazzy dropped her head low.
“Quite a lot of things, actually.”
End Of Book One
There now follows a preview from:
Volume Two
of the Shadeborn series, which delves into the past of your most beloved characters, and also gives hints to Lily’s fate in the future, which will continue in Volume Three as a full-length novel.
Volume Two consists of two separate stories: The Bloodshade Encounters – which recounts the history of how Lemarick Novel met the enigmatic Baptiste Du Nord – and The Songspinner – which contains the devilish adventures of Salem Cross.
PARIS, 1789
Before The Storm
The air above the city was thick with heat and gunpowder. The rioting had ceased some time ago, and a hazy orange sunset now filled the July sky. The fighters would go home to refuel in all senses before the next bout, and perhaps a few hours would pass before the streets of Paris rose up in flames and fury once more. By chance alone, eight o’clock had been a good time to meet, though the spot where the two friends were intending to stand was now occupied by a burnt-out grocer’s cart, the horse of which had bolted when the first shots rang out in the nearby square. Lemarick sat on the corner of a rooftop, looking down at the little junction where he was supposed to be waiting, with the scent of burning wood rising to attack his nose.
“Why is it, pray tell,” a voice sounded behind him, “that I always find you on rooftops?”
There was no sense in answering Edvard with the truth, for he would not understand it. Though they were the same species, Ed was a very different creature to Lemarick most of the time. Lemarick rose from his outpost and turned his back on the smouldering city, observing his friend after such a long time apart. Edvard had not aged, of course, and his mousy brown hair was as ragged as ever, though his long, brown cloak gave him away as more than a simple peasant. Beneath the rich fabric, he wore the height of Germanic fashion: a tunic adorned with shimmering gold buttons and decor.
“Good Lord,” Lemarick spluttered at the sight of his finery. “If the revolters see you in those clothes, they’ll have your head. Use your sense, man! Do you want to be tried as an aristo?”
Edvard gave a grin and a little shrug. “Let them come,” he said loudly. “What are fifty angry humans to a threesome of shades?”
“Three?” Lemarick answered, looking around.
“Come, my friend,” Edvard replied, pulling at the air between them to hurry his companion along. “There is someone I want you to meet.”
Lemarick let himself be led, the smug smile on Edvard’s face forcing him to roll his eyes. He felt a familiar hand clamp his shoulder and heard the exhalation of pride he’d been expecting.
“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” Lemarick asked. It was always a girl where Edvard Schoonjans was concerned.
“This one’s different,” he answered, but his friend had heard that so often in the last thirty years that he was hardly listening. “No really,” Edvard insisted. “This is the girl. I think this is it. She is… the one.”
/>
Like so many other ‘ones’ before her, Lemarick had no doubt that this would be the first and last time he would meet his companion’s latest triumph. The building they had been standing on was a small museum that had been raided some time ago, its artefacts desecrated by the protestors as they fought against the regime of the aristocracy and their precious heritage. Edvard led the way down the stairs into the building proper, where the silhouette of a slim girl stood observing the remains of a smashed vase that had once belonged to King Louis XII. Above the podium where the pieces were splayed, a series of words had been etched into the wall with a blade.
“Eddie,” the girl began to speak without looking around, “what do these words say?”
“Death to Capet,” Lemarick answered for him, his eyes travelling over the French inscription and translating it immediately.
She turned, and even Lemarick had to acknowledge her beauty. The youth was small and delicate looking – not the usual girl Edvard roped in – and she looked thoughtful and intelligent, her sea green eyes bright with ideas. She had a look of a Spaniard about her, for though her skin was fair, it glowed a little like pale gold, but her lashes were as dark as the roots of her sun-bleached ringlets of hair.
“Capet?” she asked. “Who is he?”
“It is the great royal house of France, and the symbol of the aristocracy,” Lemarick answered.
The girl smiled as understanding dawned. She looked about nineteen to a human eye, which meant she couldn’t be far from Lemarick and Edvard’s own ages, perhaps only a quarter century or so would separate them. She extended her hand, breaking into a smile.
“You must be Lemarick,” she suggested. “I must say I didn’t expect you to be blonde. Edvard painted you rather darkly with his description.”
The edge of Lemarick’s mouth curved ever so slightly.
“Then he represents me well,” he answered, taking her hand and bowing his head to it. “Lemarick Novel, of the French Novels.”
He had long since stopped using his father’s name, finding that his mother’s house afforded him a very different standing with those who were well-informed on shade families. Typically, people either beamed when he told them he was a Novel, or took their hands back very sharply and made their excuses to run away. The girl in question did neither. She just gave him another somewhat bashful grin.
“My name is Ugarte,” she answered, “from the house of Hechizo.”
Spanish. He had been right in his appraisal. Ugarte was clothed simply, dressed only an ordinary frock of a pastel yellow tone, with none of the expensive additions that Edvard sported. She was much less likely to cause a stir than he was, and Lemarick found he respected her modesty and decorum instantly.
“Isn’t she a wonder?” Edvard beamed, swapping his hand from his friend’s shoulder to wrap it around Ugarte’s back. She walked out of his touch instantly.
“I’m not happy with you,” she announced plainly. “You told me Paris was a romantic place. Do you know how many bodies I counted on the way up here?”
Lemarick could hazard a fair guess, but said nothing.
“How was I to know there was a revolution on?” Edvard answered with genuine apology in his tone.
“This is France,” Lemarick said dryly. “There’s always a revolution on.”
“There must be something we can do?” Edvard said, turning to Lemarick with a familiar pleading look. His wide eyes begged his old friend to save him from humiliation, and Lemarick could do little but oblige.
“I’m sure there’s plenty of fun to be had on the streets tonight,” he replied. “As I hear it, the revolters have taken a lot of ground today. I expect there will be some celebrations at Montmartre.”
“Is that a nice place?” Ugarte asked with a hitch in her voice.
Lemarick didn’t have the heart to lie to her.
“Not really, but it will do.”
SALEM, MA, 1692
August 20th
Five humans had been put to death yesterday, but Alexander Cross found that he still had stomach enough for his breakfast. Charlotte brought him a plateful of hot delights but served nothing for herself, sitting across from him at their rickety table, her eyes blazing into the thin fabric of his shirt. Alexander began to eat, seeming reactionless to her awful look, despite the way it prickled his skin. When he had finished a few mouthfuls and realised that Charlotte was not going to leave him alone, he shook himself once and gave her a thoughtful sigh.
“Well, at least if they turn on you, you wouldn’t be hanged for another seven months, not until the baby’s born.”
If Charlotte had been a shade, she could have set him aflame with her presence alone. As it was, she seemed to be giving it her best human try.
“Why should they turn against me?” she snapped.
Alexander shrugged casually.
“These people do appear to be pointing the finger of blame left, right and centre now,” he mused, “and the trials have turned to utter madness.”
“And so have I, it seems,” Charlotte answered, “trusting you.” She looked down at the table, her resolve shattering as her voice broke at last. “You’re not going to marry me, are you?”
“No,” he answered. It was the first moment of honesty they had ever shared.
Charlotte nodded to herself, sniffing.
“I shall be ruined. Pregnant, shunned, alone.”
“You could move towns,” Alexander suggested amiably. “Go somewhere else and tell them the father of your child died in an accident. You’ll be pitied and helped.”
Charlotte’s anger flared once more. She rose from the table and rounded on the man she thought she’d loved.
“That’s your solution?” she demanded. “Lies on top of lies? Why am I not surprised? Perhaps when I tell them my husband is dead, it won’t have to be entirely untruthful!”
She lunged for the knife Alexander had been cutting his meat with, and came down on him like a rock-fall, wild and heavy. The young man panicked, his eyes rushing to and fro as the shine of the blade slipped in and out of his vision. He wrestled fervently to get Charlotte back on her feet and out of his way, the two of them tumbling off his chair and onto the floor in the fracas. A woman possessed with scornful vengeance, Charlotte found herself atop the man who’d betrayed her and took her moment, pinning him down with the knife pressed tightly to his throat.
“I could have loved you, you know,” she spat.
Alexander closed his eyes, as if accepting the end of his life.
“God preserve me!” Charlotte screamed.
Her lover stood and dusted off his shirt as she floated in mid-air beside him. Alexander had never been all that good at gravity magic but, when the need arose, his instincts helped him to focus all the better. At other times in his life, Alexander had had no fear of the odd human making wild accusations that he was a demon or a witch, but in the town of Salem, these things were taken much too seriously at present. He let Charlotte drop to the floor where she connected with the boards head first, knocking herself unconscious in the fall.
Alexander needed a plan. He had left his family in Virginia quite some time ago, travelling from place to place in search of pretty girls and good living, of which he supposed he would never have his fill. Knowing that he would stay youthful and strong for many centuries to come, the young shade was consumed by hubris and often got himself into trouble. A plan would be handy now, when he needed to escape a town full of witch-hunters before they trussed him up like a chicken and sent him to the gallows ladder. He wasn’t sure that his skills with gravity would be enough to survive a lengthy hanging, and the thought sent him reeling with despair.
He burst out into the town square, where the bodies of the five accused witches had been cut down from the gallows, his stomach wrenching at the thought that he would be next if he couldn’t make himself vanish before Charlotte opened her big mouth. She had been a pretty little lover for a time, but her sudden pregnancy wasn’t the sort of th
ing Alexander Cross hung around for. Hung around. The young shade could hardly breathe as he stood in the square, wondering what was best to do.
That was the moment when the most beautiful girl in the world strode up to the gallows.
Alexander watched in fascination, his sharp blue eyes captivated by the sight of the vision before him. She wore all black in the baking August heat, the sun beating down on her as though it would defy her very presence in its glow. Her hair was as raven as her black lace dress, cascading down her back like a great obsidian river, exposed to the elements and unashamedly so. Was she in mourning? She was provocatively dressed, if she was. The young woman reached the steps of the gallows, observing the structure still caked in dirt and filth from the hanging the day before. She extended her pale fingertips to touch the wood and gave a smile with lips as deep as blood.
Not in mourning then, Alexander decided.
“Come here, boy,” she said, her voice carried across the square by an unseen breeze. “It’s rude of us not to make introductions.”
Alexander wasn’t sure if he wanted to make introductions or not, but his whole body drew him nearer to the girl and her funereal presence. He took slow steps to arrive before her, studying her strange, morbid attire and her amused look as he approached. She was petite, a full foot shorter than his impressive frame, and she stepped a little closer to appraise him better. The girl faltered a moment in her approach, stopping to lift the point of her dainty black shoe. The spongy remains of a half-smoked cigar lay crushed beneath her sole.
"There's a saying in Salem town," Alexander said with a grin. "That when a woman steps on a cigar, the next man she looks upon will be her husband."
The dark beauty gave him a wry smile.
"Do you think the same rules apply to shades?" she inquired.
A fellow shade. Alexander had not seen one in quite some time. He was not as talented as most of his kind with his powers, so he preferred to rule over impressionable humans instead. He remained motionless in his surprise, half-grinning and hoping she didn’t mistake his hesitance for idiocy.