“What the salamander wanted…” My voice trails off as I lose myself deeper in the monster’s eyes. Deeper in Bard’s soulful tune. Deeper in the rhythmic scratch of Harlow’s pen on paper.What is it you truly want? What is it you crave?I wonder.
The dragon’s head swivels closer again, and I lift my hand in response.
“Inana,” Dominic rasps and steps closer, prepared to ward the monster away with his burning sword. “What are you doing?”
“Wait,” I whisper back, though not even I know why I’m reaching out to the Shade. Only that it feels…natural. The dragon’s form continues to undulate with every strum of Bard’s strings, and I know in my bones, in the pulse of my heart that beats to that same tune, that we three artists are fully in control. We have the Shade under our influence like a thrall to a Sinless’s blood. If only I could understand it a little more. Give it a little more of what it craves.
I keep my hand outstretched and let it inch closer yet again.
What do you want to be?
My eyes drift over its dark body, slender neck, barrel chest, and dangerously long claws. Then to the wings folded against its back. Wings it hasn’t tried to use. Wings it doesn’t fully comprehend.
Warmth floods my chest, my blood, my soul. The shape of my story forms in my mind so quickly it almost makes me dizzy. “For so long, the salamander waited and wondered what he was missing. He was so lost in thought he nearly stepped off the edge of a cliff and tumbled into a glassy lake below. He stopped himself in time, his own reflection startling him. That’s when it dawned on him, as he met his own face on the surface of the lake, crowned by the crescent moon shining in the sky above. He realized then, he wasn’t a salamander at all.”
The Shade goes still, its form frozen. No, not frozen, but radiating faster and almost too subtly to see. Its form on the brink of change.
“Didn’t you know,” I whisper, “that your wings were made to fly?”
It leans closer again, its snout mere inches from my hand. Bard’s song takes on a hopeful tune, one so agonizingly sweet it brings tears to my eyes. I match my tone to it, weave my words into the dance of his strings. “Didn’t you know…at the top of the tallest tree in the darkest and quietest forest, there lived a colony of squirrels?Flyingsquirrels, the moon’s most sacred demons, beloved by Goddess Vanna.”
Harlow’s quill ceases scratching over her paper. “What the hell is a flying squirrel?”
My lips curl as I recall the few I spotted in the woods outside Dunway, on days where I strayed outdoors close enough to sunset to catch sight of the nocturnal creatures.
“As tiny as my fist,” I say to the dragon—and for Harlow’s sake—curling my outstretched hand before it, “with a long fluffy tail and whiskers that frame their noses. Their eyes glittered like jewels of the night, and their ears were small and rounded. From fore- to hindpaw stretched a fleshy, soft membrane, a wing unlike any other. They ruled the dark, gathering acorns of shadow and stashing their treasures in meadows. They’d climb to the tip of the tallest tree, singing songs to Vanna in trilling voices. Then they’d spread their limbs, reach for the stars…”
I open my palm again, and the Shade touches its snout to my skin. The dragon shatters at my touch into a dozen tiny shadows, flying squirrels with crescent moons on their brows.
“…and fly to the constellations.”
Chapter Fourteen
Dominic
I don’t know where my fascination ends and my three shadows’ begins. I don’t know why I obeyed Inana when she told me to wait, why I let her reach out to touch a Shade instead of swinging down my sword like I normally would when one has gotten too close. I don’t know why a single tear trails from my eye in the wake of my Summoners’ art. All I know is that I’mfeelingagain. Fear and awe and…this strange fluttering hope that tightens my lungs as I watch the flying squirrels glide from tree to tree, testing out their new means of flight with palpable glee.
“They fucking did it,” Calvin says, climbing down to the bed from the driver’s seat.
“They did,” I say under my breath. I didn’t exactly doubt them, for they performed well in the clearing, adapting to the threat. But this…this was something else. I’ve never faced a Shade composed of many shadows, and a fucking mythical creature at that. I was prepared to end our first attempt with the swing of my sword and face it again the next night with an actual plan.
I don’t know if I should feel proud or terrified of my Summoners’ effectiveness. Or perhaps simply mesmerized by their talents—talents that would have enchanted the world five centuries ago but are nowbranded as sins, forcing them to express themselves only in the darkest and most dangerous—
I suck in a breath, realizing my emotions have gotten the better of me again. My eyes move to Inana. What is it about being physically near her that does this to me? I take a step away, then another, much to my shadows’ protests. Even Pride has dropped his indifference, grumbling as I pull them away. Sloth refuses to budge, staring up at Inana with canine adoration. “Heel,” I whisper, and he reluctantly obeys. Once all three have pooled back into me, I feel some relief from that overwhelming surge of emotion.
With a slow exhale, I run my thumb over the etched diagram at the base of my blade, smearing the blood until the flame extinguishes. Perhaps it would be wiser to keep it burning in case other aggressive Shades are near, but it takes a lot of energy to hold the power of a god. If I let it burn any longer, I’ll need more blood. And I’ve never been one to waste what Calvin so generously provides.
Fatigue digs deep in my bones. I sheathe my sword and sit on the edge of the wagon bed, arms propped on my knees. It almost feels too quiet without Bard’s tune or Harlow’s rapid inking. Or Inana’s melodious voice.
Calvin crouches beside me, holding out his wrist. “Need a fresh bite?”
“You know the answer.” I level a dark look at him. He knows I won’t take fresh blood unless I’m out of other options. Storing small amounts in vials feels more like a medical procedure and less like the curse of what I am. It may not be much, but it sets me apart from the Sinless who drink from their sources without restraint.
“Suit yourself.” He takes his wrist back and leans against the wall beside me. We watch the three Summoners gathered on the opposite end of the wagon. Harlow hugs her sketchbook to her chest, posture tense as she studies the shadow squirrels playing in the night. Bard tilts his masked face to the sky, though it’s hard to tell if he’s watching the Shades or is lost in whatever dark memories he carries. Then there’s Inana. She leans over the wagon wall, the beads dangling from her mask and swaying with her every move as she points at one flying squirrel that soars in a graceful arc from one bough to another.
“Almost makes Shades seem cute, huh?” Calvin says.
“Almost,” I say. “Until you remember what they really are.”
