Chapter Nineteen Dominic
Chapter Nineteen
Dominic
If there’s one thing I wanted to protect my Summoners from, it’s witnessing an Incarnate.
The carnage created by a Shade is one thing.
Incarnates are another. No one should have to face such a creature.
And there’s no doubt in my mind that’s what awaits us.
No living human would dare linger in the dead of night without a proper fire.
Not to mention the gore that surrounds the sole moving body.
I stop our wagon just ahead of the clearing, ensuring the creature can’t see us from where it sits. It will soon know of our approach, but I’d rather our option for a quick getaway isn’t immediately visible. “Calvin,” I say.
“On it.” He climbs into the front seat and takes the reins. His hood is already raised, tugged low over his eyes, and his movements are quick and alert. He’s used to these kinds of surprise interruptions to his sleep.
I round the wagon to where the other three emerge with their masks in place, the hoods of their cloaks up.
“First of all,” I whisper, “I’m giving you a choice here.
You can come with me or stay with Calvin.
To be honest, there’s little a Summoner can do to aid with killing an Incarnate.
They aren’t as easy to calm with art, and it can often enrage them instead.
But there may come a time in the future when you’ll have no choice but to stand beside me and face one.
If you want that time to be now, then come with me. If not, stay here.”
Inana is the first to answer. “I’ll go.” Her voice trembles, but there’s determination in it too. I didn’t expect anything less.
Harlow shifts from foot to foot, gaze darting through her mask toward the dark campsite. “I…I’ll stay with Cal.”
Bard clutches his cloth-wrapped mandolin to his chest, then finally nods, dipping his bronze wolf mask. “I’ll go.”
“Sit next to Cal,” I say to Harlow. “He doesn’t have a mask, so he’ll have to keep his head lowered most of the time. You can be his eyes. Keep watch. If any nearby Shades show signs of agitation, sketch calming images.”
She gives a jerky nod before rushing to the front of the wagon and scrambling up beside Calvin.
To Inana and Bard, I say, “Many of the same rules we use for Shades apply to Incarnates. Stay calm. Don’t react with fear.
Don’t make any sudden moves. The difference is that an Incarnate believes it’s human.
It has the memories of the body it consumed.
Anything that reminds it that its identity is false will trigger its rage and make it attack.
We will approach it as fellow travelers and speak to it as if it’s human.
The last thing we want is for the creature to suspect our intent and run.
We can’t afford to hunt the thing through the woods while getting chased by Shades.
As soon as I attack, the Shades will feel threatened and turn aggressive. That’s where you will come in.”
“You just said we could have stayed back,” Inana says. “How would you have gotten away without us?”
“My sword will be aflame,” I say. “I’ll be able to ward the Shades away. That doesn’t mean I won’t appreciate your aid. Yet you can still change your mind. You don’t have to come with me.”
Neither seems interested in reconsidering their choice.
“Come on, then. Follow my lead. Breathe.” Slowly, we make our way from the wagon to the clearing.
My steps are purposefully even, and the other two match their pace with mine.
Our soles crunch over the snow-dusted road, loud enough to alert the Incarnate of our approach yet not so loud that we come across as a threat.
This thing believes it’s human, after all, and travelers are known to share their campsites with others on dark nights.
As we draw near, I notice furs in the back of one of the wagons and crates in another.
The campers must have been trappers or traders.
Finally, the campsite grows clearer: the bodies slumped around the firepit, the Incarnate perched on a log, hunched over something in its hand.
I flex my fingers, craving the hilt of my sword but knowing now is not the time.
Without any source of light in the clearing save for the moon above, igniting my sword from behind would draw the creature’s eye at once and inform it of the threat.
Only calm, calculated attacks work on Incarnates. One chance. One swing of my sword.
Shadows shift in the dark, Shades creeping by with calm interest, keeping mostly near the trees.
The Incarnate doesn’t look at them or us as it continues to focus on whatever it holds.
A scraping noise fills the air, in time with the creature’s movements.
“We’ve got visitors, Norm,” comes a slow, feminine voice.
There’s something unnatural to it, a shift in pitch halfway through. A hollow rasp at the end.
The Incarnate halts its movements and looks to the side, toward one of the bodies. It’s too dark to make out details, but it’s obvious it’s fucking dead.
“Norm, did you hear me? Are you going to greet them?”
Only silence answers, but the creature chuckles as if the dead had replied.
The scent of rot invades my nostrils, not at all the delectable aroma of fresh blood.
This campsite must have been in this same state for at least a day, the cold preserving the bodies somewhat.
It’s a miracle the situation hasn’t escalated, though this road doesn’t see much traffic in the winter, and even if someone were to pass by, no one would be foolish enough to stop.
No one but a Shadowbane.
I glance back at my Summoners, give them an encouraging nod, and enter the ring of bodies. “Mind if we share your fire for the night?” I ask, infusing as much nonchalance into my voice as I can.
The Incarnate doesn’t answer right away, instead resuming whatever it’s doing with its hands.
It’s impossible to see more than a vaguely female form dressed in leathers, its face cast in shadow.
The scraping sound returns. “Don’t mind them,” the creature says.
Its voice cracks, shifts in pitch again.
“They’re wary of strangers. Take a seat.
Soup’s gone, but we’ve got plenty of company to go around. ”
“Thank you,” Inana says, voice steady. I’m shocked she had the courage to say anything. She and Bard claim the only empty log while I position myself between them and the Incarnate, crouching by the firepit.
“Fire’s out,” I say. “Let me take care of that.”
“Much obliged,” says the Incarnate.
I shift to the side, where logs are stacked beside one of the bodies, probably the person who’d been tending the fire.
My heart thuds in my chest, in time with the Incarnate’s scraping sounds, as I arrange the logs and tinder in the pit.
Then, with careful moves, I extract my tinderbox and strike the flint and steel until sparks catch.
Remaining crouched, I shift my gaze to the Incarnate.
As the flames grow, our surroundings brighten a little at a time, reflecting off the snow on the ground.
Inch by inch, the Incarnate’s form is revealed.
The person it consumed was likely in her forties, with brown hair tied back with a leather strap and a fox pelt draped over her shoulders.
The Incarnate managed to replicate the clothing with precision, but its face is where its imitation struggles.
Its skin is pale, its mouth too wide. Its eyes are as round as coins, blinking in disharmony.
Its limbs are longer than they should be, wrists too steeply angled.
My eyes drop to its hands, and I finally discover the source of the scraping sound.
It holds a steel carving tool that it scrapes against something long and…
I swallow hard. It’s a bone. A tibia, perhaps, based on the length, and still coated in flesh and sinew.
But that’s not the most unsettling thing.
What’s worse are the creature’s fingers.
It carves toward the hand that holds the bone, and with every too-aggressive scrape of the carving tool, the curved metal tip slides too fast and pierces the Incarnate’s fingers.
Fingers that no longer have tips, only shredded, bleeding nubs that drip.
Drip.
Drip.
To the crimson-stained snow at the creature’s feet. Yet it continues to carve away, oblivious to its wounds or pain. It may have copied its victim’s body, her memory, but the creature can’t mimic her nimble moves or the craft the woman once partook in.
Bile rises in my throat, and my pulse quickens—
I suck in a breath, realizing the source of my spike in fear.
It’s my proximity to Inana, awakening my emotions at the most inconvenient time.
A glance from my peripheral vision shows the terror in her eyes, the tremors that rack her frame.
Bard manages to keep his calm somehow, but maybe he’s not looking at the creature.
Regardless, my fear combined with Inana’s is too distracting. Yet I don’t dare move away from her.
“Sloth,” I whisper, and he knows exactly what I want him to do. He emerges from the shadows beneath me and settles in front of Inana, resting his head on her lap with a soft whine.
Inana lowers her masked face to Sloth and strokes his head with shaking hands. Through my connection to the dog, her touch is a ghost of a caress against me too, and we both relax, if only slightly.
I allow myself a brief glance at the bodies around us.
All are dead, though some are in better condition than others.
The one nearest me is female, a gash over her throat.
On the other side of the growing fire is a male, his stomach flayed open, straight through his leathers.
Then there’s the one the Incarnate called Norm; he’s missing a leg, an arm, and a head.
“Nice dog,” says the Incarnate to Inana. “What breed?”
I open my mouth, but Inana manages to answer. “A wolfhound.”
The creature chisels away at the bone.
Scrape.
Drip.
Scrape.
Drip.
“I used to have a bloodhound. Good for hunting.” Its last words dip into a horrifying rasp, but the Incarnate doesn’t seem to notice. “See, Norm? I told you we should have gotten another.”
“Prepared for winter?” I ask, slowly reaching for the vials at my waist. My fingers linger between two different ones. The first is Calvin’s. The blood I need to ignite the flame on my sword. The other…
It would be fruitless to test the second vial of blood on the Incarnate.
Even if I discovered this Shade is one of the two I seek, it wouldn’t change a damn thing.
Incarnates cannot shift back to their base form; they must be killed.
For all I know, the remaining Shades I’ve spent years hunting have already become Incarnate and been killed by other Shadowbanes.
It’s impossible to know for certain, and I must keep looking until the very end. Even if it’s hopeless.
Besides, any wrong move might trigger the Incarnate to attack. I can’t risk my Summoners’ lives just to answer a question that changes nothing.
I move my fingers back to Calvin’s vial.
“We’re more than prepared,” says the Incarnate. Its voice continues to dip between octaves, between smooth and sinister. “Hunting may be scarce for the next few months, but we’ve got plenty of pelts to sell from our last hunt. Plus, I make and sell these.”
It takes all my restraint not to flinch back as it extends the bone toward us, though none of us can bring ourselves to look closer. The creature’s too-round eyes flick between us, eyelids blinking one at a time. Its lips pull back from its teeth, and for the briefest moment I fear I’ve fucked up.
But then it dons a smile. Too much teeth and too wide for comfort, but a smile nonetheless.
“Ah, right. This one ain’t finished. Not much to see.
” It places the bone in its lap and reaches for something by its feet.
As it extends the new piece, I see it’s an axe with an intricately carved handle.
“Don’t be scared. It’s not art, it’s just a tool. Nothing wrong with making tools.”
My stomach sinks as understanding dawns.
That’s why this campsite was attacked. Whoever this woman was before she was copied and consumed by a Shade, she dabbled too close to creativity.
While it’s true that crafting tools is considered an essential trade and not close enough to art to draw a Shade’s interest, the intricate whorls and patterns she carved made these something new.
Beautiful. Imaginative. Something so impressive a Shade took too much interest and sought to become her.
The Incarnate reaches farther. “Here, take a look.”
Bard accepts the tool, turning the bloodstained handle over in his lap.
“I’ll sell it for a gold piece.” The monster’s grin widens as it picks up the bone again and resumes carving.
I remove the vial of Calvin’s blood from my holster.
Uncap it.
Dab some onto my thumb.
“Though I’ll be done with this one in a few more hours, if you’d prefer a custom piece. What do you say? How do you want this one to look?”
I bring my thumb between my lips and feel the rush of energy course through me as the iron tang melts over my tongue.
“Come on, tell me,” the Incarnate says, demand in its voice. It lifts its gaze to Bard. “You want a wolf, like your face?”
“All right,” Bard says. “A wolf, then.”
The creature’s round eyes grow larger, focusing on Bard’s mask. Then Inana’s. “You’ve got strange faces.”
My pulse quickens all over again. Incarnates can’t usually distinguish between human faces and masks. It’s time to act. Carefully. Quickly.
I tip another smear of blood onto my thumb.
The Incarnate lowers its eyes back to the bone and carves again.
Scrape.
Drip.
Scrape.
Drip.
With my other hand, I reach behind me, gripping the hilt of my sword.
Scrape.
Drip.
Scrape.
Drip.
It halts, shadows streaming from the tips of its blunted, bleeding fingers. “This one doesn’t look quite like that one.” Its voice dips low, taking on a chilling edge, then rises to a shout. “This one doesn’t look like that one at all.”
I rise to my feet, unsheathing my sword, but the Incarnate mirrors my motions, hissing in its rage. Movement surges from the trees, Shades drawn to the outburst.
“Bard,” I say, and press my bloodstained thumb to the diagram on my blade, then drag the finger down its length. It ignites at once. The Shades recoil, halting their progress, but the Incarnate isn’t afraid of the light. It hisses again and launches toward me.
Bard rings out a beautiful chord just as I swing my burning blade.
Just as the Incarnate flings out a hand, sending a spear of shadow from its fingers.
Just as pain lances through my flesh, piercing beneath my collarbone.
Just as I send the creature’s head tumbling from its stolen body.