Chapter Twelve
I don’t have to wait long before Margaret lets out her first snore. I light a candlestick and tiptoe down the hall, past Mother and Father’s room, then Lewis and Charlie’s. As I pass Albert and Elsie’s quarters, the door creaks open slightly, beckoning me to peek inside. I squeeze through the gap, letting the warm flicker of the fire cast long shadows on their two tiny cots.
In the dim light, a figure stands over Elsie’s sleeping form, his back turned to me.
My heart skips a beat. “Lewis?” I whisper.
The figure glances over his shoulder. Two red eyes find mine, glowing softly like smoldering embers. Shadows seep from his flesh, enveloping him in a haze.
Not Lewis.
The shadows lash out, extinguishing the candle, plunging us into darkness. In that instant, he leaps through the open window. The candlestick clatters to the floor as I lunge after him. I stick my head out into the damp night air, but when I look down, I find the rosebushes below are undisturbed. Above, a raven glides on moonlit wings toward the forest in the distance, where steep cliffs surround the valley and dark falls cascade over the rock face.
“Aster?” Albert murmurs, rubbing his eyes.
“Go back to sleep.” My voice shakes as I close the window and kiss Albert’s forehead. I take up the candlestick once more and slip into the hall. The moment I reach the staircase, I break into a sprint. I dash through the kitchen, out onto the west lawn. By the time the stables come into view, my breathing is ragged and my heart threatens to burst from my chest.
Will is already there, propped against Caligo’s stall, a black cloak slung around his shoulders. He must know by the look on my face what I’ve seen because he holds a finger to his lips, his expression urgent.
“Not here,” he says.
We take Caligo to the conservatory, his hooves churning up dirt as we race through the apple tree tunnel. I follow Will inside, and he closes the door behind us. Liv and the other pixies are gathered around the old oak tree, singing and dancing, undeterred by our arrival. Somewhere close by, a howl splits the air.
I start, reaching for a weapon I don’t possess, but Will appears unaffected.
“Just the wolves,” he murmurs.
Will sheds his cloak, draping it over my shoulders. It’s lighter than I expected, and it’s as if I’ve been robed in a blanket of relief. The tension in my muscles eases, my head clears. The terror of what I saw only minutes ago fades beneath the incessant fluttering in my belly as he fastens the hook loosely around my neck. Warmth seems to bleed through the fabric, caressing every inch of my skin with its soothing heat. It smells like him—like roses and damp earth.
He furrows his thick brows, his green eyes glittering. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
I nod, my mouth dry. “It was right in front of me, but I didn’t… I couldn’t—”
“There was nothing you could do.” Will’s eyes darken, and he glances at the ground. “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
I take a step back, the cloak suddenly heavy on my shoulders. “What do you mean?”
He runs a hand through his long black curls. “Last night, what you saw at the fountain,” he begins, his voice low.
“Your eyes,” I murmur. I thought I may have imagined the way his eyes appeared lit from within, glowing golden where they should have been green.
The muscle in his jaw twitches. “I drew power from the Manan in the blood. It strengthened my ability to… influence . It gave me power like that of an Underling.” He looks down at his hands. “It was wrong of me to use my ability on you, but I needed time to explain, and I couldn’t risk doing so out in the open. I acted on instinct, and for that, I am sorry.”
My muscles tense, my heartbeat racing. He used magic to force me to sleep—he stripped me of my own free will. I grit my teeth, prepared to tear him to pieces with my words—or my bare hands, if given the opportunity—but his fingertips graze my arm, and it’s as if, at that single touch, my fury passes through me, leaving only understanding in its wake.
“I would have done the same thing,” I admit, “had I been in your position.”
He looks almost relieved until I cross my arms.
“But now I’m here,” I say, quirking a brow. “So explain.”
He withdraws his hand, his expression unreadable. “The humans and Nightweavers who serve the Underling queen do so because she promises to give them similar power. Those who choose to follow her are no longer human—no longer living. Not truly.” He looks up, searching my face. “They lose their humanity and become shape-shifters who must consume blood in order to survive—beings who can appear to you in any form they please. We call them Shifters.”
“Shifters?” I echo. “But how—”
“It doesn’t take much.” His throat bobs. “Just a bite.”
“A bite?” My voice falters as I remember the dream I had just after Owen was killed: the teeth that pierced my shoulder.
He dips his chin, his expression grave. “When I told you that my people saw your ability as a curse…”
I stagger away from him. The cloak slides from my shoulders, lands in a pool of black velvet. “Are you saying that I’m a—that I—”
“No,” he insists, taking me by the arm, drawing me toward him. I stumble over the cloak at my feet, and I reach out to brace myself for a fall, my palms colliding with his chest. He tenses beneath my touch, but when he looks down at me, his gaze soft, his voice gentle, I feel as if I’ve fallen in an entirely different way. “If you’d been bitten, you’d know it,” he says. “The mark it leaves would have rotted your flesh, and the Underling venom in your system would have already turned you.”
In a moment of weakness, I don’t pull away. I’ve never been held like this—never been comforted in this way. It almost feels like too much. He’s too kind. I’m too close.
“You don’t sound sure,” I say, struggling to find my voice.
“I’m sure about you, Aster,” he murmurs, searching my eyes. “You are no Shifter.”
Something inside me breaks open. Cracks. Shatters.
I’m so tired, and Will is here—he’s here and he’s warm and safe, and when his arms enfold me, my resolve crumbles. He hesitates at first, as if he’s crossed a line I didn’t know existed until now. But then he pulls me closer than before, holds me tighter than I thought possible, and I wonder if the past few days have left him longing to be comforted, too.
A voice within whispers, Friends don’t hold each other like this . But I’m not listening. Not right now. Not when Will’s thumb grazes my spine, and my focus narrows to this one moment—that one touch.
Emboldened by his embrace, I bury my face in his shirt, inhaling the cloying scent of flowers and damp soil. I long for Mother and Father’s solace, but how can I go to them, how can I tell them what I know—what I can do—when all they want is for me to move on? Mother and Father know more about the Nightweavers than they’ve let on, and I believe they know more about the Underlings than they’re willing to tell. If I tell them I saw a Sylk—that I’m hunting Owen’s killer—will they think I’m cursed, too? Will they think I’ve lost my mind?
For what feels like too long, I let Will hold me, my cheek pressed against his chest as I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Finally, I draw back, his arms still wrapped around me like a shield.
“Your ability is rare,” he says, seemingly oblivious to the way his hands press against my lower back. “On the front, soldiers have to use special equipment to detect Sylks. I’ve never met anyone who could see the shadows like you can. At least, not anyone who has not yet turned fully into a Shifter.”
“But why?” I manage to ask, my voice thick. I’m all too aware of the intimate nature of our embrace, and yet, I can’t bring myself to break contact. “Why can I see them?”
He shakes his head, withdraws his hands, and I instantly miss the feel of his arms around me. “I don’t know,” he admits, his fingers lingering near my elbow as if he’s only just realized how close we were. “But what you saw tonight was no Sylk.”
I tuck a tangle of hair behind my ear, and the movement jars him into action. He draws back his hand, rubs the nape of his neck. A bashful grin tugs at the corner of his lips, his cheeks rosy—a look all too human, too humble for someone like Will: someone with the power to break bones with the flick of his wrist or bring a man to his knees with the twitch of a finger.
Friends , I remind myself, thinking clearly now that his arms are no longer around me. Just friends.
I clear my throat, fidgeting with Owen’s bracelet. “You think it was a Shifter?”
His boyish grin fades. He nods grimly. “A Sylk is just a shadow in this realm until it possesses a human, and when it jumps into a new body, it kills the former host. But Shifters are purely corporeal—they are always flesh and bone, never smoke. And unlike Sylks, they don’t require a host. They can transform entirely on their own.”
I make a quick mental note of the different types of Underlings I’ve learned about so far: Sylks possess. Gores consume. Shifters transform.
Will rubs his jaw. “It’s just as I feared. The Guild is hoping to recruit you. If you hadn’t been there tonight…”
His unspoken words hang in the air. If I hadn’t been there, Elsie and Albert would be dead.
“What can I do?” I hate how small my voice sounds, how helpless I feel. I thought the Sylks’ ability to possess and the brutal, bloodthirsty nature of Gores were terrifying, but now I’m dealing with an entirely new Underling—a monster who can look like whomever and whatever they please. At sea, I was always so sure of myself. Killing was easy when it was a matter of survival. A sharp blade or a quick draw is all I’ve ever needed to stay alive, to win a fight. But how can I kill something that hides in the shadows if I do not learn how to fight in the dark? And in that darkness, will I become nothing more than a shadow, too?
“There’s nothing to be done. Not tonight.” Will bends, takes the bundled cloak in his arms. “The Shifter will show themself again, and when they do, they will lead us to the Sylk. Until then…” He turns away from me and heads toward the old oak. He spreads the cloak on the grass and lies down, his hands beneath his head. “Care to join me?”
I lift a brow. “That’s it? There’s nothing we can do, so you’re going to take a nap?”
“Technically, it’s not a nap if it’s past my bedtime.” The corner of his lip kicks up into a grin as he pats the space beside him on the cloak. “I heard you pirates have a penchant for storytelling.” He points at the glass ceiling. Overhead, the night sky twinkles, the constellations like a living tapestry of the legends for which they’re named.
I lie beside him, careful not to infringe on the narrow sliver of space between us, as if he didn’t hold me in his arms only moments ago.
“That one,” he says, pointing to Astrid and Her Crown of Seven Candles. “What’s its story?”
I glance at him sidelong. “I’d rather talk about what happens once we’ve caught the Sylk.”
He sighs, mimicking one of Jack’s dramatic fits. “I’m well aware of your obsession with killing,” he says, letting his head fall to the side, his eyes finding mine.
I snort, fixing my gaze on the stars once more, but heat creeps into my cheeks under his probing stare. “Then surely you know what I’ll do to you if you stand in my way?”
From the corner of my eye, I see him smile crookedly, revealing teeth as bright and as brilliant as the stars themselves.
“I can dream.”