I blink at her. “You agreed, just like that? You didn’t feel…threatened?”
“Not any more than usual.You’rethe only one of us who made a scene.”
“Yes, well, he didn’t mention anything about service or freedom until after he’d already pinned me to the floor and promised to hunt me down if I ran from him.”
A corner of her lips quirks. “And you didn’t beg him for more? Honestly, Seamstress, if you wanted to brag, you could have just said so.”
I level a look at her. “I didn’t get some civilized offer between performances like the two of you.”
“Probably because he knew you’d be the hardest to convince.”
“Why do you say that?”
She gives a derisive snort of laughter. “We’re not like you, Seamstress. I don’t know your story, but it’s safe to assume we’re all fugitives. Our options are limited. We can be beggars, servants, or dead. For Bard and me, it matters not whom we serve or how we do it. I don’t care about art, aside from the opportunity it gave me to work at the Wretched Lair, and now as a Summoner. You and Bard may share a similar passion for your craft, but he plays for himself, while you play for your audience. You relish being seen.”
I’d argue that the masks we wore during performances say otherwise, but that’s not what she means. And she’s right. I crave the attention and love witnessing the effect my art has on others. Were it any other way, I never would have been caught the first time. I would have kept my storytelling private instead of sharing my secrets between bedsheets, my head resting on the chest of the man I loved while I spoke treason like a lullaby.
Still…
“Aren’t you at all concerned about what he’ll have us do?” I ask. “What duties does a Summoner perform? It’s clear we’ll use our artto attract the Shades he hunts, but to what extent? What if we’re merely bait?”
“I’ve been bait my whole life,” Harlot says, tone empty. “I’m not too concerned about what fucking flavor I am now.”
“Language, Mary.” Bard’s sharp tone rings out through the quiet night.
Harlot’s eyes snap to him, her expression volleying between startled and amused. Then it softens. When she speaks, her words are laced with pity. “My name isn’t Mary, Bard.”
Slowly, he lifts his head and stares at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. He runs a scarred hand over his face, clearing the daze from his eyes and replacing it with a haunted look. “Sorry,” he grunts out, voice muffled against his palm. “Mary was…”
He doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t need to. Mary must have been someone dear to him. Perhaps around Harlot’s age. Maybe someone he lost the day he received all those scars. I wonder how often he finds himself tangled in the past, how often he relives whatever nightmare he came from. I’ve found myself in such dazed states before, haunted by blood, piecing together broken shards of memories I’ve still to fully recall—
“Speaking of names,” the Shadowbane says, his voice an unwelcome intrusion. My spine stiffens at the deep resonance of his tone. “It’s time for your first training exercise as my new Summoners. Exchange your real names. Going forward, we’ll be frequenting places populated by Shades, and the fewer lies we tell each other, the better.”
I scoff. “You want us to go by our real names. Names associated with…” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Names associated with our past deeds. Past crimes.
“That isn’t something you need to be concerned about anymore,” he says. “Shadowbanes can appoint whomever they wish as their Summoners, and those who serve them are above reproach. So long as you remain loyal to me, you need not fear persecution. Besides, I’m not asking you to share your surnames or to flaunt your identities before outsiders. Just share this piece of truth with each other.”
I bristle, and I’m not the only one. Bard, Harlot, and I exchange wary glances. Bard clutches his mandolin tighter while Harlot’s lipscurl. “What if I prefer the name I went by at the Wretched Lair?” she says archly.
“I’m not fucking calling anyone on my crew Harlot.”
I glare at the Shade hunter’s back. “Maybe you should go first, Shadowbane. Trust and truth go both ways. You already know our names, and you’ve promised us a dream of freedom. Sounds too good to be true, especially when we don’t know a damn thing about you or what it means to be yourcrew.”
He heaves a begrudging sigh. Then, shifting to look over his shoulder, he says, “Dominic.” His eyes sweep over us one at a time before lingering on me for too long. Moonlight glints over his face, and in that moment, three dark shadows stand out stark against the night: two humanoid Shades clustered close to one side of him, the wolfhound shadow on the other. All three stare at me with the deep, dark pits that serve as their eyes. These aren’t just vague imitations with featureless faces. They have mouths, noses, hair. The wolfhound has a muzzle and a tongue that lolls from it. What’s most unsettling, however, is the striking resemblance the humanoid Shades bear to the Shadowbane. They have his bone structure, his lips, his hair.
My blood goes cold. Everyone knows that if you ever see a Shade that bears your face, it’s time to fucking run. Because that Shade is out for your blood. And if it consumes its victim…
It becomes the worst kind of Shade.
An Incarnate.
I’ve never seen such a monster, but I’ve heard stories of them. Shades who consume the humans they’ve imitated become corporeal. They copy their victim’s bodies, to the best of their abilities, and become flesh and blood upon assimilating their prey. They’re less sensitive to sunlight. They can enter homes, no matter how well lit, and always leave a trail of carnage until they’re killed—something only a Shadowbane can do.
I don’t know how this hunter has taken control of Shades that came so close to becoming Incarnate, nor do I know if I should be impressed or terrified. All I know is I do not like the way they’re looking at me. To my relief, the sliver of moonlight retreats behind the trees, blanketing them in shadow once more.
I swallow hard, unsure if I should ask the question poised on the tip of my tongue. It leaves my lips despite my efforts to resist. “And your…friends? Do they have names?”
The Shadowbane—Dominic—goes rigid. The three Shades break into whispers, their voices layering over one another.
