Chapter Five Inana #2
“She’s awake.” The voice slithers from the Shade, just as slow, deep, and ethereal as it sounded in the hallway.
Sharp breaths strangle my lungs as I stare at the creature.
It’s semitransparent with a body like rippling black smoke, its silhouette so like a wolfhound.
Most Shades manifest in vaguely humanoid shapes, with too-long limbs and featureless faces, their edges forever wavering and shifting.
Some, though, appear as beasts like this one. “She was warm.”
“I don’t know about warm, but she is pretty,” says a second voice, familiar in its seductive, lilting tone. One of the other Shades that spoke in the hall. Even though I can hear it, I see no sign of it.
“You think anything with a face is pretty,” the Shadowbane mutters under his breath.
“The brunette is pretty too.”
“She’s a child, Lust. Not even eighteen.”
Lust. Is that the Shade’s name? Or its…origin?
Everyone knows the monsters are born from the seven human sins.
They coalesced from mankind’s wickedness during One Hundred Days of Darkness, and more continue to be born on dark nights or in shadowed places.
It never occurred to me each Shade might embody a singular sin.
It also never occurred to me a Shade could talk, yet here we are.
“I didn’t say I wanted to fuck her, you godsdamned pervert. I just said she was pretty. I wouldn’t fuck the big one either…though I might let him fuck me.”
The Shadowbane heaves a grumbling breath. “I’m sure you would.”
“I can’t believe you let her join us without offering a single apology.” That’s another voice I recognize, the sternest one. “She should have gotten on her knees and begged forgiveness for the disrespect she showed.”
“I didn’t know you liked them on their knees.” Lust’s voice again. “So do I.”
“Of course I do. It’s the sincerest show of respect.”
A chuckle. “That’s not at all why I like it.”
“Gods, enough,” the Shadowbane says.
“Do you find it as strange as I do that our new master talks to himself?” Harlot’s whisper is so unexpected, I nearly jump from my skin. Pulling my gaze away from…whatever the hell is going on in the driver’s seat, I find the young woman is awake and has shifted closer to me.
Keeping my voice low, I say, “Almost as strange as the voices that talk back.”
She furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”
“The other voices.” When she looks only more perplexed, I add, “You can’t hear them? You see them at least, right? His shadows?”
Harlot glances to the front of the wagon. The Shadowbane’s posture has stiffened. He knows we’re awake and can probably make out our conversation. She gives a wary nod. “I can see them. Or…one, at least.”
“Shadowbanes cast abnormal shadows.” This time it’s Bard who speaks. His head is still lowered, but he stretches his legs and tugs his mandolin tighter to his barrel chest. “That’s how you can tell you’re in one’s presence.”
“I’m not talking about actual shadows,” I say.
“I’m talking about the Shades he controls.
” Bard says nothing, and Harlot only shrugs.
Why don’t they seem as disturbed as I feel?
“Are the two of you fine with this arrangement? How’d you even get wrapped up in it?
You aren’t the ones who inadvertently attracted attention to yourselves. ”
Harlot pulls her head back. “What do you mean, how did we get wrapped up in this? We were chosen first. He spoke to Bard and me between performances and made us an offer to buy out our contracts. Freedom after six months of service? That’s better than Rockefeller’s terms.”
I blink at her. “You agreed, just like that? You didn’t feel…threatened?”
“Not any more than usual. You’re the only one of us who made a scene.”
“Yes, well, he didn’t mention anything about service or freedom until after he’d already pinned me to the floor and promised to hunt me down if I ran from him.”
A corner of her lips quirks. “And you didn’t beg him for more? Honestly, Seamstress, if you wanted to brag, you could have just said so.”
I level a look at her. “I didn’t get some civilized offer between performances like the two of you.”
“Probably because he knew you’d be the hardest to convince.”
“Why do you say that?”
She gives a derisive snort of laughter. “We’re not like you, Seamstress.
I don’t know your story, but it’s safe to assume we’re all fugitives.
Our options are limited. We can be beggars, servants, or dead.
For Bard and me, it matters not whom we serve or how we do it.
I don’t care about art, aside from the opportunity it gave me to work at the Wretched Lair, and now as a Summoner.
You and Bard may share a similar passion for your craft, but he plays for himself, while you play for your audience. You relish being seen.”
I’d argue that the masks we wore during performances say otherwise, but that’s not what she means.
And she’s right. I crave the attention and love witnessing the effect my art has on others.
Were it any other way, I never would have been caught the first time.
I would have kept my storytelling private instead of sharing my secrets between bedsheets, my head resting on the chest of the man I loved while I spoke treason like a lullaby.
Still…
“Aren’t you at all concerned about what he’ll have us do?” I ask. “What duties does a Summoner perform? It’s clear we’ll use our art to attract the Shades he hunts, but to what extent? What if we’re merely bait?”
“I’ve been bait my whole life,” Harlot says, tone empty. “I’m not too concerned about what fucking flavor I am now.”
“Language, Mary.” Bard’s sharp tone rings out through the quiet night.
Harlot’s eyes snap to him, her expression volleying between startled and amused. Then it softens. When she speaks, her words are laced with pity. “My name isn’t Mary, Bard.”
Slowly, he lifts his head and stares at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. He runs a scarred hand over his face, clearing the daze from his eyes and replacing it with a haunted look. “Sorry,” he grunts out, voice muffled against his palm. “Mary was…”
He doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t need to.
Mary must have been someone dear to him.
Perhaps around Harlot’s age. Maybe someone he lost the day he received all those scars.
I wonder how often he finds himself tangled in the past, how often he relives whatever nightmare he came from.
I’ve found myself in such dazed states before, haunted by blood, piecing together broken shards of memories I’ve still to fully recall—
“Speaking of names,” the Shadowbane says, his voice an unwelcome intrusion.
My spine stiffens at the deep resonance of his tone.
“It’s time for your first training exercise as my new Summoners.
Exchange your real names. Going forward, we’ll be frequenting places populated by Shades, and the fewer lies we tell each other, the better. ”
I scoff. “You want us to go by our real names. Names associated with…” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Names associated with our past deeds. Past crimes.
“That isn’t something you need to be concerned about anymore,” he says.
“Shadowbanes can appoint whomever they wish as their Summoners, and those who serve them are above reproach. So long as you remain loyal to me, you need not fear persecution. Besides, I’m not asking you to share your surnames or to flaunt your identities before outsiders.
Just share this piece of truth with each other. ”
I bristle, and I’m not the only one. Bard, Harlot, and I exchange wary glances. Bard clutches his mandolin tighter while Harlot’s lips curl. “What if I prefer the name I went by at the Wretched Lair?” she says archly.
“I’m not fucking calling anyone on my crew Harlot.”
I glare at the Shade hunter’s back. “Maybe you should go first, Shadowbane. Trust and truth go both ways. You already know our names, and you’ve promised us a dream of freedom. Sounds too good to be true, especially when we don’t know a damn thing about you or what it means to be your crew.”
He heaves a begrudging sigh. Then, shifting to look over his shoulder, he says, “Dominic.” His eyes sweep over us one at a time before lingering on me for too long.
Moonlight glints over his face, and in that moment, three dark shadows stand out stark against the night: two humanoid Shades clustered close to one side of him, the wolfhound shadow on the other.
All three stare at me with the deep, dark pits that serve as their eyes.
These aren’t just vague imitations with featureless faces.
They have mouths, noses, hair. The wolfhound has a muzzle and a tongue that lolls from it.
What’s most unsettling, however, is the striking resemblance the humanoid Shades bear to the Shadowbane.
They have his bone structure, his lips, his hair.
My blood goes cold. Everyone knows that if you ever see a Shade that bears your face, it’s time to fucking run. Because that Shade is out for your blood. And if it consumes its victim…
It becomes the worst kind of Shade.
An Incarnate.
I’ve never seen such a monster, but I’ve heard stories of them.
Shades who consume the humans they’ve imitated become corporeal.
They copy their victim’s bodies, to the best of their abilities, and become flesh and blood upon assimilating their prey.
They’re less sensitive to sunlight. They can enter homes, no matter how well lit, and always leave a trail of carnage until they’re killed—something only a Shadowbane can do.
I don’t know how this hunter has taken control of Shades that came so close to becoming Incarnate, nor do I know if I should be impressed or terrified.
All I know is I do not like the way they’re looking at me.
To my relief, the sliver of moonlight retreats behind the trees, blanketing them in shadow once more.
I swallow hard, unsure if I should ask the question poised on the tip of my tongue. It leaves my lips despite my efforts to resist. “And your…friends? Do they have names?”
The Shadowbane—Dominic—goes rigid. The three Shades break into whispers, their voices layering over one another.
“She wants to know our names.”
“I think she likes me.”
“Don’t tell her a fucking thing.”
Dominic’s jaw tics, and he faces forward. Silence stretches so long I assume he won’t answer. I’m surprised when he finally says, “Sloth, Lust, and Pride.”
So I was right; his Shades are named after the human sins they were born from.
I already know Lust is the lilting voice, and I assume the stern one is Pride.
That leaves Sloth as the wolfhound. There’s so much more I want to know.
How does he control them? Are they a threat to us?
Can he control any Shade, or only specific ones?
Does he force them to hunt down their own kind?
“Your turn,” Dominic says, reminding me this isn’t the time to ask him questions, when we still haven’t completed his supposed training exercise.
The three of us continue to eye one another warily, none of us eager to volunteer, until Bard speaks. “Rykar.” His hands tremble, and he rushes to add, “But do not call me that. Bard will do, and if that feels like a lie, then don’t address me by name at all.”
No one argues with that, not even Dominic.
Harlot blows out a breath. “Harlow,” she mutters.
I give her a withering look. “Really? You chose a stage name so close to your real one?”
She shrugs. “I’m not the creative type.”
I disagree. She may claim she doesn’t care about art, but I’ve seen her drawings. They’re lewd and fantastic.
“Well, don’t leave us in suspense,” Harlow deadpans.
Right. It’s my turn to bare my truth. My heart races, and not just with fear.
There’s a sliver of rebellious excitement there too.
The thrill of not having to hide. The same thrill I felt every time I told my story at the Wretched Lair, knowing how much truth I’d layered in.
With equal parts trepidation and elation, I state my name out loud for the first time since fleeing my hometown. “Inana.”
“Great,” Dominic says, tone flat. “Now no more fucking talking until daybreak, unless you want to start your Summoner duties as corpses.”
I sneer at his back, though I belatedly realize his threat might not have been a personal one. Rather, he was reminding us of the Shades who freely stalk the night. Shades whose pitch-black eyes I can almost feel, watching us from the trees that line the road.