I hate that what he’s saying makes sense. Gods, of course we’ll have to work at night. Shadowbanes can track down criminals and claim bounties whenever, but hunting Shades is something that can be done only under the cloak of darkness. That’s why it’s rare to meet aShadowbane. I never came face-to-face with one in my village, despite a few having been assigned over the years to take care of particularly aggressive Shades.
“Are you ever going to tell us what exactly we’ll be doing as your Summoners?” Harlow asks, brow arched. “Are we just bait, like our lovely Seamstress suggested last night, or do we have a chance at surviving six months in service to you?”
“Your survival depends on you,” he says. “Listen to me, obey, and don’t fucking betray me, and you’ll survive. I’ll train you as best as I can before we take up our first post together at Thornfal village. First, there’s a final member of our crew to pick up.”
Not long after, Dominic navigates our wagon off the main road and down a narrow forest path. We reach a wide, sunlit clearing beside a rushing stream. At the center of the clearing are the remains of what must have once been a stone cottage. All that’s left is a foundation, three crumbling outer walls, and a partially collapsed thatched roof. Even though the architectural style is similar to those in rural villages, it must be centuries old. No one would have dared to live so deep in the woods after One Hundred Days of Darkness. The forest has been a breeding ground for Shades ever since.
A male figure darts out from the ruined cottage, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of the wagon. “Thank the gods,” he says as Dominic tugs the reins to bring the horses to a halt. He’s dressed in brown britches, a tan tunic, and a vest that’s unbuttoned and possibly inside out. He looks to be around Harlow’s age, perhaps a couple years older, with pale blond hair, blue eyes, and soft features despite a subtle gauntness about him. Even in his drab clothing, he’s as lovely as the boys who work in Nalheim’s brothels. Which is to say pretty but a touch underfed.
“What happened?” An edge of concern laces Dominic’s voice as he descends from the box seat. The three of us in the back of the wagon make no move to exit, instead exchanging a wary glance before turning our attention to the two men.
The young man stops before Dominic, wringing his tremblinghands, one of which is bandaged. Now that he’s closer, I note a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a greenish tint to his skin. “I fucked up.”
“Don’t tell me…” Dominic’s worry shifts into what looks like annoyance as he runs a hand over his face. “I left you a full vial. That should have been plenty for three days.”
“It should have been, but a fucking Shade, Dom. It nearly stopped my godsdamned heart. I took a mere swig and suddenly there it was, creeping around the corner with long, spindly fingers. Startled me so bad I dropped the vial, shattering the whole thing. Then of course I cut myself on the glass. It couldn’t have gone worse.”
“Damn it, Calvin.”
“Damn me, I know,” he says, eyes pleading. “I wasted your blood, and no one is more sorry about that than me. As you can see”—he lifts his hands, which tremble harder—“I’m barely hanging on to my sanity. I’m too cold. I’m too hot. A fucking spider dropped on my head just five minutes ago and I haven’t a clue if it was real.”
A chill seeps into my veins. I know what this is. He’s addicted…to Sinless blood, and he’s currently going through withdrawal. I’ve only ever witnessed this once, when one of the Wretched Lair’s part-time performers turned up shaking and sweating and hardly able to hold her lute. She’d been claimed as a Sinless’s blood source the weekend before, and he in turn fed her his blood, only to discard her by the end of the week. A luckier fate than the harpist from last night, but I haven’t a clue how long she went through withdrawal. I never saw her again.
What’s most concerning, however, was that the man named Calvin saidyour blood,which means Dominic has made this man his thrall.
“When did you drop the vial?” Dominic asks.
“Like an hour after you left. I’m telling you, mate, this has been a nightmare three days.”
“Fuck.” Dominic reaches under his cloak and extracts a dark vial. It’s barely out of his hands before the other man uncorks it and downs a sip.
“Oh, gods,” Calvin says with a moan, eyes closed as he tips his head back. His tremors cease and his greenish pallor is replaced with a rosy flush. “Fuck me sideways and reverse it, that’s good.”
Dominic casts a glance at the back of the wagon. There’s something like an apology on his face, but his tone is flat as he says, “Crew, meet Calvin.”
Calvin corks his vial, eyes widening as his attention shifts to us for the first time. His pupils are blown wide, his expression overly cheerful. With a sheepish grin, he wipes the back of his unbandaged hand over his mouth, smearing a speck of blood over his bottom lip. “Shit, sorry. That’s not the first impression I wanted to make.”
His sweet yet bloodstained smile so greatly contrasts with the terror building inside me. I grip the side of the wagon until my knuckles turn white, my gaze volleying between Dominic and Calvin. Gods, it never occurred to me Shadowbanes had the same potent blood as the Sinless, being that they’re only halfsouls. Does that mean…
“Do you thrall all of your crew?” Harlow asks, speaking the question that’s trapped in my throat. Though her voice is level, her posture is as tense as mine.
Bard clenches his hand tighter around his cloth-wrapped mandolin, a murderous glare in his eyes. It might be the most animated I’ve ever seen him, and bloody hell, it’s frightening.
“I do not,” Dominic says.
“He really doesn’t.” Calvin waves a placating hand. “I’m a special case, I assure you, and I’m not thralled. What we have is an arrangement of equals. I give him my blood when he needs to feed—”
My eyes flash to Dominic. “You feed on blood. Just like the other Sinless.”
He holds my gaze but doesn’t answer.
“Not as often,” Calvin says. “Never for pleasure, like those overly thirsty fucks in the Sacred Cities. He feeds when he needs to, and in exchange, he lets me live.”
“He lets you live,” I echo.
Dominic closes his eyes and speaks through his teeth. “You’re making it sound worse, Cal.”
“Sorry,” he says with a chuckle. “What I mean is, well…” He begins unwrapping the bandage and steps closer to the wagon. The cloth over his palm is stained crimson, but when he holds his hand out to us, there’s only the smallest of cuts at the base of his thumb. “I have arare disease that prevents my blood from properly clotting. Sinless blood aids healing. See? That’s why he gives me his blood. So I don’t fucking die from a paper cut, or in this case, a tiny piece of glass.”
