If he had really done this, if his shades had been able to escape the confines of the cell and travel throughout the prison while he slept, what else were they capable of? Could he do the same thing deliberately, while he was awake, not in anger but in focused, cold concentration?
The shades would fight for him; that, he knew. But could they be his eyes and ears, his spies? How far from Niko himself could they travel, and what information could they gather? Could they, for instance, open a cell door?
He tried at once, but met with only the slightest stirring. The shades were well-fed after their encounter with Katerina. Gods, had they fed on her Light, the way they’d wanted to do with Morozov? Had they drained her?
Sickness swirled in his gut. It was bad enough that the Darkness within him could infect her at any moment, flowing down their bond to creep into her soul. But after what had happened in the clearing after the battle in Kalach, and now this…
They had to get out of here. They had to find Gadreel, to discover whether there was any truth to the demon’s assertion that he knew how to carve the Darkness out of a Shadow’s soul, the way he’d claimed when Niko’s blade had pierced his heart. They would use him, and then Niko would kill him, whether the demon had told the truth or not.
A thought occurred to him, terrifying in its simplicity. Demons were animated by the shard of Darkness that lived inside them, the same Darkness that fueled the shades. In Kalach, Niko had called the shades to him, absorbing them into his body and vanquishing them before they could devour the village. What if he could do the same to Gadreel—coaxing the shard of Darkness from inside the demon’s body and taking it into himself?
It was a horrifying idea, to be sure. But if he could figure out how to wield his shades at a distance, then perhaps it was possible. Perhaps he didn’t need to get close enough to Gadreel to Change and rip out the demon’s throat.
If he absorbed Gadreel’s Darkness, it would cancel out his own Light. Any hope of redemption would be lost to him. But if the demon had been lying, if there was no way to heal his soul, then he would rather die than go on this way.
If worst came to worst, then, he could take the Darkness into himself. Maybe he could take all of it, every bit of the evil force that threatened to devour their land. And then, before he could hurt anyone else, he could prevail upon Katerina to incinerate him and hurl the remains into the Void, returning the Darkness to its rightful home.
She wouldn’t want to do it, of course. She believed in his redemption. But if there was no other choice, she would see reason. And until then, he could use his shades as instruments of their salvation. He would command them never to leave his side without his permission, and sleep lightly, so as to call them back if need be. They would never touch Katerina while he slept again. And in the meantime, he would practice, testing their limits. He would learn what they could do, and when the time came, he would be ready.
Yes, every time he used the shades meant ceding a little more of his soul’s territory to the Darkness. But what was the alternative? Die here, for surely the trial they’d been promised was little more than a formality?
Resolve settled over him, cold and implacable. He would damn well give up a chunk of his soul to save Katerina. He would give anything.
For the first time since he’d woken in the interrogation chamber to find one of his own blades at his throat, Niko felt the stirrings of a welcome emotion: hope.
Chapter Thirteen
KATERINA
Katerina was losing track of the days.
She had screamed herself hoarse, demanding to see Niko, to no avail. There was no way of telling whether the sun had risen or set, no window to indicate the passage of time. Her only clues lay in the food shoved through a slot in the bars at intervals: rough porridge in what she assumed was the morning; black bread with a chunk of cheese sometime later; thin, watery cabbage soup to follow.
She still wore the gear she’d been captured in, soiled and reeking of sweat, and what little water they gave her, she didn’t dare use to wash. Her wrists chafed and bled, but they refused to uncuff her. When she’d complained of the cold, they’d finally given her a threadbare blanket, but no pillow or pallet; she slept on the stones, the cell bare save for the chamber pot in the corner. Once a day, a guard came in to empty it; two others always accompanied him, chaining Katerina to rings that protruded from the wall and holding her there at knifepoint until the first guard had completed his onerous task.
It was humiliating, as was the fact that she couldn’t access her magic, no matter how hard she tried. Were she in full possession of her gifts, she could have vanquished these men in moments. But no. Filthy and chained like an animal, she had no choice but to endure whatever torment they chose to inflict.
They didn’t beat her, though she half-expected them to. Nor did they try to take their pleasure from her. Though the guard assigned to chamber pot duty was a mere mercenary, the kind she’d often seen policing Rivki’s streets, the other two were always Shadows. For once, she was grateful for the prophecy, which rendered her body off-limits to them.
What they did do, though, was ignore her. Throwing her dignity to the wayside, she’d pleaded for information about Niko—where was he? What had they done to him?—and about the tribunal that supposedly awaited them. But no matter whether she begged, cursed, or posed rational questions, the guards assigned to her cell refused to speak.
No one else spoke to her, either. Dimi Zakharova didn’t return, the guards who shoved her food into her cell thrice daily never said a word, and when she tried again and again to contact Niko through their bond, she was only met with silence.
There had been one night, though, where she could’ve sworn he’d been with her, holding her, kissing her, his tongue tracing a line down the column of her throat and over her breasts. She’d felt his touch on her skin, hot and yearning, felt him thrust inside her in that familiar, delicious rhythm, his hands on her hips urging them both onward, shivers racking her body until she cried out, aching for more. And he’d given it to her, claiming her over and over again with a single, unspoken assertion: Mine. Mine. Mine.
“I love you,” he’d whispered afterward, still buried inside her. “Come whatever storms.”
It had felt so real. But when she’d reached for him, wanting to make sure he was truly with her, her fingers had met nothing but air. It had been a dream, just like all the others she’d secretly nursed over the years: a world in which she and Niko could love freely. Where one day, they would have a family of their own, a little girl with dark eyes and raven locks, or a boy with irises as storm-gray as his father’s and red hair like hers. They would live in a cottage of their own, and Niko would cook all their meals lest Katerina poison their family by accident, and they would give their children the gifts of bladework and spellcraft, and show them the power of a love so strong, it defied death itself.
Deep in Katerina’s most secret heart, she had longed for this, and believed somehow it was possible. But now, imprisoned and with the clock ticking closer to Niko’s return to the Underworld each day, the fragile skein of hope she’d clung to for so long had begun to fray.
She’d been so sure they’d spend every hour of their promised six months together, searching for a way to break Niko’s curse, to defeat Gadreel and drive the Darkness back into the Void. Never had she imagined that she would have to watch him die a second time at the hands of the Druzhina Guard, helpless to save him…and that her own life would be forfeit, too, parting her from her Shadow for eternity.
It was unthinkable.
Footsteps echoed on the stone floor beyond her cell, and wearily, she dragged herself to her feet. Maybe it was pride or simple stubbornness, but she refused to let her jailers see her crumpled on the floor like a pile of rags.
“What’s tonight’s delicacy?” she called, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard over the running water in which the bowls of burning herbs still floated. Gods, she was beginning to think death would be preferable to ever smelling the combined stench of wormwood, mugwort, and garlic again. “Let me guess. Stewed rat? Ah well, at least that would add some protein to that wretched soup.”
