Her eyes flick to the book, and I belatedly realize its upside down. Great.
“Your shadows are agitated,” she observes, stepping further into the room. Her light makes my skin prickle uncomfortably. “And you’re not alone.”
“I was,” I insist, but my shadows betray me, reaching briefly toward the corner where Bael disappeared like they’re missing him.
Seraphina’s eyes follow the movement, and her expression sharpens with suspicion. “The light reveals all truths in time, Ashley Dawn. Remember that.”
She backs out, closing the door behind her, but the threat in her words lingers like poison in the air.
That night, I dream of being hunted through Greyson’s endless hallways, my wings fully extended and impossible to hide. Elara and Seraphina lead a procession of light Nephilim, their combined brightness burning away every shadow I try to hide in. Their light is so intense it feels like being slowly cooked alive. Just as they corner me in the library, my shadows rise oftheir own accord, forming a protective barrier of living darkness between us.
I wake with a gasp, my heart hammering, and sheets soaked with sweat. I’m disoriented for a moment, the dream so vivid I can still smell the ozone scent of their combined light. Then I realize my actual shadows are lashing protectively around my bed, responding to my nightmare like guard dogs. Across the room, Iris sleeps peacefully, unaware of the dark tendrils that had momentarily filled our room like living smoke.
As I force my shadows to settle with shaking hands, one thought keeps circling: I’m running out of time. Eventually, someone will discover what I am.
And then the real fucking nightmare begins.
Chapter Five
Practice makes perfect.
The abandoned dance studio on the east wing’s third floor is perfect for midnight practice—mirrors along one wall that reflect moonlight in fractured silver patterns, wooden floors worn smooth by generations of students until they gleam like polished bone, and enough space to work without knocking things over. According to the thick layer of dust coating everything, no one’s used it in years. The air smells stale and forgotten, with an underlying hint of old rosin and sweat that speaks of countless hours of practice by students long gone. The moonlight streams through tall arched windows, casting long rectangles of silver across the floor that shift and dance as clouds pass overhead.
More importantly, it’s far from both the light Nephilim dormitories and my room, where Iris might sense my midnight wanderings despite my best efforts to shield my emotions. The stone walls are thick enough to muffle any sounds, and the isolation feels like a protective cocoon around my secret practice sessions.
I stand in the center of the room, eyes closed, focusing on my shadows while my bare feet press against the cool wooden floor. They curl around my ankles like affectionate cats, responsive tomy feelings but not my direct commands. That’s the fucking problem.
After my embarrassing performance in Professor Winters’ class and my conversation with Bael in the library, I’ve been obsessively practicing every night for a week. Progress is frustratingly slow, like trying to write with my non-dominant hand while blindfolded.
“Extend,” I whisper, picturing shadow tendrils reaching toward the ballet barre across the room in a controlled, deliberate motion.
My shadows eagerly shoot out in every direction instead, wiggling excitedly at their freedom like puppies let off their leash rather than forming the controlled extension I’m attempting. Some reach toward the mirrors, others spiral up the walls, and one particularly enthusiastic tendril explores the dusty chandelier overhead. I sigh in frustration, tasting dust and failure.
“They’re not pets to be commanded,” says a deep voice from the darkest corner of the room, smooth as dark chocolate and just as tempting. “They’re extensions of yourself.”
I spin around, heart leaping into my throat before recognizing the familiar presence. Even in my surprise, my body responds to his voice—pulse quickens, skin flushing with awareness. “Seriously? We need to discuss your stalker tendencies.”
Bael steps out of the shadows, his tall form materializing as if the darkness itself is giving birth to him. He wears all black, as usual—dark jeans that hug his legs, a fitted t-shirt that emphasizes his broad shoulders, and boots that make no sound against the wooden floor. His dark hair falls loosely around a face that belongs on ancient statues of fallen angels, all sharp cheekbones, and perfect features that shouldn’t exist on anything mortal.
“You’re practicing wrong,” he says, ignoring my comment about his creepy habit of appearing from thin air.
“I’m trying, okay?” I snap, frustration bubbling over like ashaken soda bottle. “It’s not like there’s a ‘How to Pretend You’re Not an Ascendant for Dummies’ guide.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I catch a glimpse of those sharp canines that mark him as something other than human. “Perhaps there should be.”
He circles me slowly, his own shadows moving with perfect precision around his feet, each motion deliberate and controlled. Up close, I can smell his scent—something dark and masculine that reminds me of winter nights and forbidden desires. It’s distracting as hell.
“The difference between Dark Nephilim and Ascendants is fundamental,” he explains, his voice taking on a teaching tone. “Their shadows are tools, separate from themselves. Yours are part of you—living extensions of your essence.”
“That’s not helpful. I need to make mine look like theirs.” I cross my arms, aware that the motion presses my breasts together but too frustrated to care about modesty.
“You’re approaching it backward.” He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “You’re trying to treat your shadows like foreign objects when you should treat them like limbs.”
I can feel the heat radiating from his body despite his normally cool temperature, and it’s making my thoughts scatter. “My limbs don’t have minds of their own.”
“Don’t they? You don’t consciously tell your heart to beat or your lungs to breathe. Yet they respond to your needs, speeding up when you’re afraid, slowing when you’re calm.” His green eyes hold mine, and I feel like he’s seeing straight through to my soul. “Your shadows function similarly. They’re autonomic responses that you need to bring under conscious control.”
The explanation actually makes sense, which is more than I can say for most of the supernatural bullshit I’ve been dealing with lately. “So how do I do that?”
