“Was that you, Lust?” I whisper as I stride toward the cottage, my heart thudding heavily. Which, for a Shadowbane, is an anomaly. My heart should be slow and steady, an occasional beat hardly worth my notice. “Did you…possess me somehow?”
“That was all you, lover boy,” Lust says into my mind. “Though I admit I enjoyed it almost as much as you did.”
Did I enjoy that? Was joy the fiery heat I felt when I saw the petulant expression on her face? I’d sooner think it was annoyance, and I’m sure that’s what it was at first. But when she looked at me up close, her ire wiped clean as she studied my face, something flared in my chest. I wanted to see her hatred all over again, and I wanted to be the cause. Me. Nothing else. Not our situation or preconceived notions or generalized suspicion. Just me. My voice. My words. I wanted to be the flint that sparked her fire, and fuck if it didn’t feel good in the moment.
But that’s the anomaly. I shouldn’t feel like that for even moments at a time. Because it almost made me feel likebefore.
Ever since my partial Absolution six years ago, my emotions havedulled. An expected result of the astrotheurgical ritual that strips one’s lunar energy—humankind’s darkest aspects—from their soul. Had it been a full Absolution, I’d feel an even lesser range of emotion.
In a logical sense, I remember what it was like to feel everything to extremes, rising or falling in vicious spikes or hollow valleys. Anger, fear, joy, attraction. I remember flirting and fucking and being lost in the throes of pleasure. I remember how it felt to stir someone’s desire or have them stir mine. To lock eyes with someone I found beautiful across the room, beginning a dance of seduction with words, looks, and small touches that culminated, whether an hour or a month later, in sweat-soaked bodies and breathless voices that screamed each other’s names. I remember the games of sex and courtship. Not that I participated seriously in the latter, for I knew I could never be a husband, only a temporary lover. My fate was sealed from birth, and my upbringing ensured I never forgot, each day dedicated to my studies. Fighting. Sword forms. History. Scripture. All to prepare me for my chance at becoming a Shadowbane.
Inana catches up to me and brushes past, pulling me from my thoughts. Her shoulders are stiff, her entire being radiating with rage. My eyes fall on her tangled red-blond hair, a windswept strand whipping me in the cheek as she enters the cottage before me. I suck in a breath, scenting apples and honey. I’m struck with the urge to catch that tendril between my fingers, tug it—
I halt in place, my hand halfway to reaching for her hair. Curling my fingers, I fist my hand until my nails dig into my palms. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Keeping to the wall and as far away from Inana as I can manage in this crumbling shack, I watch as she joins the other three around an old stove. Thank the gods Calvin has managed to light it and cook an entire meal without burning the whole place down, though it remains unknown whether his fare is fit for human consumption. He’s a shit cook at the best of times, and that’s when he isn’t fiending for my blood or collapsing from blood loss.
He stirs the pot as he learns his new companions’ names, then ladles stew into copper bowls. His is the only posture that’s relaxed, but he’s currently high as all hell and very much used to this routine. Aftertwo years serving as my blood source, he knows new Summoners are always like this—on edge, one foot yearning for the freedom I promised while the other seeks the first chance to run.
“I didn’t expect three of you,” Calvin says, handing a bowl to Harlow, Bard, then Inana. “We normally only work with two.”
Inana scoffs, her gaze shooting to mine. She knows from her conversation with Harlow last night that I approached Harlow and Bard first. “Was I just an afterthought?”
I fold my arms and lean my back more firmly against the wall. “You were a liability,” I say, tone even. Normal. Thank fuck. “You almost became a Sinless’s pet, maybe worse. Marcus asked me to intervene.”
“Marcus?” Harlow echoes.
“Ah, Rockefeller,” Calvin says. “How’s the bloke?”
Inana’s suspicion deepens. “You were already acquainted with Rockefeller?”
I clench my jaw. Of course my business partnership with Marcus Rockefeller would feel like a betrayal to her. Despite the outwardly aloof relationship he has with his performers, Rockefeller provides them with the kind of hope few outlaws are given. And he always makes good on his word. Unless, of course, I’m in the market for new Summoners. “He and I have an arrangement. One he can’t refuse even if he wants to. I did him—and you—a favor when I claimed you as my Summoner.”
“Are you suggesting I thank you after you gave me very little choice but to serve you?”
“Indeed I am. Would you rather I let Lord Wheaton drink you dry? Make you his pet and force you to do his bidding as his mindless thrall?”
She pales, but doesn’t back down. “You admitted you’d sooner have let him have his way with me. You didn’t intervene because you wanted to.”
“You’re fucking welcome,” I say with a mocking wink. On the inside, annoyance writhes in my gut, yet another emotion I shouldn’t feel. Doesn’t she get that I didn’t have to do a damn thing? I could have refused Rockefeller’s plea to help her. Ishouldhave. I can’t save everyone, and I can’t afford distractions. There’s a reason I didn’t want her from the start. I knew she was trouble the moment I saw her atthe Wretched Lair, when my shadows stirred in an undeniable pull toward her. Her every word entranced them, made them soalivewith interest. I watched her first performance from far across the room. Her words were too distant to hear, but I saw her motions. Her crafted hearts. I tried to watch her second performance up close, but I had to step away just to keep my shadows from reaching out to her—whether to strangle or embrace her, I know not.
While it’s essential my Summoners are effective enough to attract wild Shades, they can’t be so talented that my own act unruly.
“What happened to your previous Summoners?” Bard says, one of the few times he’s spoken directly to me. His voice is a slow, deep monotone, and his scarred face provides a welcome distraction from Inana. Though his question isn’t the most pleasant to answer.
Noticing my hesitation, Harlow adds, “Did you send them off on a ship across the sea like you promised you’ll do for us?”
“Some,” I say.
“And the others?”
I heave a sigh, my silver blade suddenly heavy against my back. “Dead.”
The three Summoners assess me with narrowed eyes.
“Look, what we’re doing isn’t any more dangerous than what you were doing in Nalheim. You know that, right? That you were flirting with danger at the Wretched Lair? Inana is proof of that. Your work as Summoners will be dangerous too, but I will do everything in my power to protect you.”
Their distrusting expressions only deepen.
