I harden my heart and push all thoughts of beauty and attraction to the back of my mind where I can pretend they don’t exist. Without them, I can linger on logic instead. Another answer comes to me.
“Do you scar because you’re only half Sinless? Because your healing isn’t as strong as a pure Sinless’s?”
He gives me the barest of nods. Gods, I wonder if part of the reason he keeps so much from us is that there are numerous things hecan’ttell us because of his vows.
“Put your cold hands on me.” He must be delirious to say such a thing, and it reminds me of when I touched him earlier tonight, when we were together in the driver’s seat.
“My hands aren’t cold right now.”
“They’re cold enough,” he says. “Please. I’ll be burning up until my wound closes. Just touch my forehead at least.”
I grimace, debating whether I should obey. This isn’t at all part of my job description, so I can refuse. Yet there’s something charming about how vulnerable he’s being. I doubt he’s fully lucid, which makes him slightly less insufferable than usual. Maybe I can use this to embarrass him later.
Giving in, I press my fingertips to Dominic’s forehead. His skin is hot, making me realize my hands are in fact cold. I didn’t notice when I was tracing the lines of his scar, but I was distracted by other thoughtsthen. Now all I notice is Dominic’s warmth seeping into my fingers. Or maybe my coldness is melting into him. I turn my hand over, cooling him with the back of it. Then I do it all over again to his cheek. Then his neck.
His chest rises and falls, his breaths even, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. I continue touching him, my mind wandering.
It drifts back to the camp, to the Incarnate. To its gory attempt at creating art with a bone taken from one of its victim’s friends. Her husband, perhaps. My stomach turns, and my fingers go still in the crook of Dominic’s neck, a comfort among the awful visions playing over and over and over in my mind.
I can’t help but ponder who that woman was before. Crafting beautiful axes with what she thought was innocuous workmanship. Did she know she was attracting Shades with what she did? Did her companions know? Did she continue to create despite the risk?
My heart sinks with guilt as these same questions turn against me.
I’ve always been aware of my sin. Of how desperately I crave to tell stories despite knowing the dangers.
I always argued with myself, eager to prove that art wasn’t truly a sin. It never felt like one. Fiction has never felt like a lie in the same way deliberate deceptions do. Yet I’ve seen the proof many times now. Shades are undoubtedly drawn to art. After getting caught twice, I was left jaded and uncertain whether I should hate myself or hate the world. I wasn’t the only sinner, after all.
I’ve heard folk lying through their teeth during broad daylight. I’ve watched my neighbors leave their lovers’ houses when their spouses were waiting for them to come home. I’ve seen innocents arrested by the church’s priests and cruel Sinless positioned as gods. If I think too hard about the state of the world, it fills me with despair.
That’s why I let myself sin again and again. Because art is often the one thing that feels pure, regardless of what the holy texts say.
But what I saw today…
My eyes well with tears.
“I’m not a good person,” I whisper. Not to anyone but myself. I doubt Dominic can hear me through the haze of sleep. “I sin and sin again. Shades are born from our sins, which means I’ve made thosecreatures. I could have made the one that…that killed them.” My voice breaks on the last part.
The silence that echoes grows as heavy as an accusation.
Then I realize Dominic’s breaths aren’t quite so labored anymore.
I stare down at him and find his eyes open.
He lifts his hand and brushes his warm fingers along my cheek, my jaw, swiping tears I didn’t realize had fallen. “No, Inana. The only one of us who has ever sinned gravely enough to create Shades…is me.”
I frown. He can’t…he can’t mean that.
“But the holy texts…they state that Shades are born from human sin.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with him. He can’t possibly be lucid, to have said such a thing. Yet I can’t stop the words that pour from me. “They say new ones are born every night from our sinful actions. They state nothing about the sins needing to be more or less grave, only thatallhuman sin creates and attracts Shades. Everything we know about the Shades, the gods, One Hundred Days of Darkness…It’s all there. Spokenandwritten by King Kaelum, a Sinless who can’t lie. His words are validated by the church. So what the fuck do you mean?”
“Keep going,” he says.
I wish he would just tell me, but my mind is spinning faster than I can control, drawing out the next thought. “If the texts contain omissions or falsehoods, then…then either they weren’t written by King Kaelum, or…”
I swallow hard and utter treason.
“Or the Sinless can lie.”
“And if that’s the case?” Dominic says.
