But that isn’t the story I’ve promised my audience. My patrons may be a privileged lot, but they still value hope and happy endings.
I blink away broken memories and melt into the comfort of my fiction. “A monster cleaved open my chest, tore out my heart, and ended my life. But I clawed my way back from death and stand before you now. A patchwork heart may not be what I was born with, nor is it what I wanted…”
I force a liar’s smile to my lips, one my audience can’t see through my bronze mask but can hear in my gentle tone. In the fallacy of hope I leave them with.
“But a patchwork heart is like any broken thing that’s been mended. Beautiful. Stronger. New.”
I lower my head and dip into a curtsy while a few of my patrons offer a smattering of applause. No matter how much I may have entertained them, they aren’t known for their acclaim. To praise any artist too effusively would be akin to suggesting maybe art is enjoyable after all. Maybe it shouldn’t be considered a sin.
Yet even if anyone were rash enough to argue such a thing, it would matter not. The fact that Shades are drawn to artists more than anyone else—more than murderers, adulterers, and thieves—is proof of its wickedness. For the Shades were born from humanity’s sins, and to our sins they are drawn.
By the time I rise from my curtsy, most of my audience has dispersed, though one couple remains. Most likely they stayed not for an encore but because they’re so engaged in conversation they haven’t noticed my performance has ended. Turning away, I prepare to repeatmy story for the next crowd. I gingerly smooth out both silk hearts, tucking threads and ribbons in all the right places, especially my second heart. There’s a precise order for each thread so that the piece unravels and merges back together with relative ease. I tuck them back beneath my chemise, along with my bloody ribbons, and seal the front of my scarlet robe.
When I face forward, I find my new audience has already gathered. Not only that, but newcomers have entered the party, making the room even more crowded than before. I open my mouth, ready to speak my starting line—
My jaw snaps shut.
A pair of dark eyes snag mine, rendering me mute. My pulse quickens, though it takes several rapid beats of my heart before I understand why. It isn’t because the man is new to the party, or that he towers over the figures around him.
No, it’s his lack of a mask.
The hilt of a silver sword at his back.
The black linen shirt and dark leather jerkin he wears when everyone else is dressed in bright finery.
Of all the different ranks of Sinless, he’s the last I’d want to meet.
A fucking Shadowbane.
Chapter Three
Inana
There’s a hierarchy among the Sinless.
The original Sinless, King Kaelum, rules from the capital Sacred City at the heart of the Holy Continent. Beneath him are seven Sinless princes, made royalty not by birth or bloodline but by sacred appointment following their Absolution. Each prince rules over a walled Sacred City of their own, like Nalheim, where I reside now. Below the princes are the Sinless dukes. All three ranks are bestowed with solar astrotheurgy, the divine magic that allows them to ignite the Holy Braziers that dome their cities in light. The dukes’ lands, however, are not protected by silver walls, making them more susceptible to the threat of Shades. Still, they’re safer than unprotected villages.
At the bottom of the hierarchy are the Sinless lords and ladies. Neither are they royalty, nor can they perform astrotheurgy. Instead of ruling over land, they head the aristocracy. All good citizens aim to be turned Sinless, regardless of rank. They seek to be rewarded for their devoutness with the Absolution ritual that rids their souls of sin. Since royal positions are hard to come by, most aspire to simply reach the bottom rung of Sinless gentry.
The Sinless male with his harpist thrall is one of these lords. While he may rank low among the Sinless, he’s the highest among thegentry and common folk, and the last person I’d want to attract attention from. At least, that was before the Shadowbane entered the soirée.
The Shadowbane stands at the back of my crowd, his dark gaze too keen, too penetrating, and locked straight on me. I shift my face slightly, just to feel the weight of my mask and the sway of the bronze beads that dangle from it. To remind myself he can’t see my face. Should we ever meet on the city streets, he’ll have no clue he first met me here.
I’m safe.
Or as safe as I can be.
Shadowbanes are considered half Sinless. Sometimes called halfsouls, because only half their soul has been saved. They are given a partial Absolution, but the reason why isn’t public knowledge. Some say being partially stripped of sin allows them to carry out wretched tasks a true Sinless never could, such as killing Shades. Others insist it enables them to wield shadow monsters like weapons.
I haven’t a clue if any of that is true, but it’s clear the man in my audience is different from the Sinless lord. Where the other male appeared almost illuminated by his lack of shadow, the very air darkens around the Shadowbane. There is no effortless grace in his posture, no delicate perfection to his features. He looks to be a few years older than me, thirty at most. His shoulders are broad, his nose angled like it’s been broken, his sharp jaw dusted with a short beard. His dark hair is overlong, falling in loose waves away from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His striking yet rugged appearance so greatly contrasts with the gentlemen in the room, with their perfect coiffures, expertly waxed mustaches, and vibrant frock coats. That doesn’t mean he’s unattractive, only that his beauty is unconventional. He’s gorgeous the same way a lightning storm is—breathtaking despite its danger. Or maybe because of it.
Yet this beast of a man is the highest-ranking figure here. Shadowbanes serve directly under the royals and have more authority than the gentry. The sword at his back is evidence enough of that authority, for Shadowbanes are the only figures aside from the church’s priests who are allowed to carry weapons. And theirs are made from coveted silver.
Gods above, seeing a Sinless lord at the Wretched Lair is already rare enough, but a Shadowbane? My palms grow slick with sweat. Shadowbanes don’t tend to seek out entertainment like the Sinless lords occasionally do. Their purpose revolves around hunting down two things: Shades and bounties.
And since this is a Sacred City devoid of the former, that leaves only the latter.
Which is a big fucking problem for me, considering I undoubtedly have a bounty on my head. Not for the daisies I sewed on silk at the textile mill. That was a petty enough crime that the proprietress simply sold me off to Rockefeller. No, my previous crime is much graver than that.
