"Different how? Were you trying a new floor-cleaning technique? Because I have better methods. Less painful ones. Have you tried vinegar?"
He tries to stand. Makes it halfway before his knees give out. I catch him—barely. He's heavier than he looks and I'm not exactly built for catching falling crime lords. My hip bumps against his side as I struggle to keep us both upright. Do they make courses for this? "Supporting Your Local Crime Lord 101"?
"New plan," I pant. "You're going to put your arm over my shoulders and we're going to walk very slowly to wherever your room is. Then you're going to bed. An actual bed. With sheets. You do have sheets, right?"
"I don't—"
"Bed. Sleep. Possibly soup if you're good." I start moving us toward the door. "No arguments. I've had a very trying morning and I haven't even dealt with the mushroom situation yet."
We make it maybe twenty feet before the shadows shift with purpose. A woman steps out of nowhere. Leather everywhere. Knives on her belt, probably more hidden. She's got one of those faces that makes you want to apologize even when you haven't done anything wrong.
"Interesting," she says.
"Joss," Ruvan mumbles. "Perfect timing as always."
"I was handling the Blackwater situation. Also, the Radiant Court's been asking questions about unregistered light magic users." Her eyes don't leave me. "I see you've been busy."
"He was dying," I explain, still struggling under his weight. My back's going to hurt tomorrow. Should have bent my knees more. "Shadow poisoning. Very advanced. Are you going to help or just stand there being ominous? Because he's heavyand I think he's getting heavier. Do unconscious people get heavier? It feels like they do."
She tilts her head. Then, moving like someone who's done this before—probably a lot—she takes Ruvan's other arm.
"His quarters are this way," she says.
Between us, we manage to get him through corridors I don't recognize. Up stairs that creak ominously. There's a draft coming from somewhere. Of course there is. These old buildings are all drafts and dampness. His feet are dragging. Are his boots waterproof? They don't look waterproof. Through a door that's definitely reinforced with more than wood.
His room is exactly what I expected—cold, dark, functional. Not a personal item in sight. Just weapons and shadows and the lingering smell of copper. No plants. Not even a sad one. How does he breathe in here?
"Bed," I order.
"I have contracts to—" He tries to pull away. Fails.
"Bed. Now. Or I'll start singing that song about the fish merchant until you comply. You know the one. With the verse about the halibut. It's very long. Seventeen verses. I know them all."
He goes to bed.
"Watch him," I tell Joss, who hasn't stopped studying me. "I need to get my supplies. If he tries to get up, sit on him. Not literally. Well, maybe literally. Use your judgment."
"I don't take orders from—"
"From someone who just saved his life? That seems awkward." I'm already heading for the door. "He needs water. Lots of it. And no shadow magic for at least six hours while his system recovers. Do you have clean cups? Please tell me you have clean cups. I saw the state of your kitchen yesterday."
I leave her there, staring after me. Clean cups are important. Hydration is important. These are basic things.
The compound is significantly easier to navigate when people aren't pretending you don't exist. I find the main door—now mysteriously unbarred—and my cart right where I left it. Several guild members appear with theatrical surprise.
"Oh! Olivia! We didn't know you were here!"
"Very convincing, Finn." I hand him a sack of potatoes. "Help me get these inside. Your boss just had a medical emergency and I need to make soup."
They exchange glances but start hauling supplies. Word spreads fast in places like this. By the time everything's in the kitchen, I have a dozen helpers and Ridge looking much better than yesterday. Pink in his cheeks. Pink means blood flow. Blood flow means not dying.
"Feeling alright?" I check his forehead. Much cooler.
"Better. That medicine worked." He pauses. "Is it true? About the boss?"
"Shadow poisoning. Bad case. He'll be fine though, but someone needs to talk to him about work-life balance. And vegetables. Mostly vegetables." I'm already organizing vegetables for prep. Have they eaten breakfast? It's getting late in the morning. They probably haven't eaten. "Right. You—tall one—we're starting with the mold situation after lunch. It's literally trying to kill you all. Which seems redundant given your profession but still. And has anyone fed the others? They get cranky when they're hungry. Crankier. More cranky than usual."
And somehow, between one breath and the next, I'm organizing the complete rehabilitation of the Shadow Guild's compound while their leader sleeps off his first healing in decades. Which he needed. Desperately. I've never seen organs that tired. Do shadow users not believe in preventive care? Is there not a magical equivalent of an annual check-up?
