Chapter Twenty-Two Inana
Chapter Twenty-Two
Inana
I can’t get my conversation with Dominic out of my head, but when the morning dawns and he wakes, I don’t have the nerve to ask about it. Not with the others around. What he told me felt private. It was private. Because I’m the only one who’s seen his scars.
At least the only one of his Summoners. I haven’t a clue if Calvin has. From how long they’ve been traveling together, he must have seen Dominic shirtless at least once.
I watch the two of them across the small glade we’ve made camp in since daybreak.
They’re seated near the fire, engaged in an activity I purposefully positioned myself far away from.
Since Dominic consumed all his remaining vials of blood, Calvin is filling new ones.
I firmly avoid looking at the thin line of crimson on Calvin’s forearm or the rivulet that fills the vial.
You’d think I’d be desensitized to blood after last night, but what they’re doing makes me particularly squeamish.
Dominic is turned away, so I can’t see his blood, but I know he’s filling a vial for Calvin too.
Apparently his healing has been stabilized and he’s mostly back to normal, though when I changed his bandages this morning, his wound looked just as raw as it did last night.
Shadow wounds really must affect him far worse than regular ones.
Yet cuts of any kind leave scars.
“Are you going to help, or are you going to keep staring and pretending you’re not?”
Harlow’s voice has my cheeks blazing. We’re in the middle of pouring freshly purified water into skins after having gathered it from the river that runs along the road.
Now that it’s been boiled and cooled, it can replenish our dwindling stores.
Meanwhile, Bard is rearranging the wagon, after having scrubbed Dominic’s blood from it to save Calvin from whatever uncontrollable urges he experiences when surrounded by too much of his drug’s scent.
“I wasn’t staring,” I mutter, and refocus on my task. We’re on the opposite end of the glade, at least, so Dominic probably can’t hear us.
“So you’re going with pretending. All right,” Harlow deadpans.
“I’m just…thinking.” I purse my lips to keep from thinking out loud, no matter how desperate I am to share what Dominic said.
“Well, stop thinking. The sun is already beginning to set. We’ll be back on the road in an hour, I bet.”
Harlow’s probably right. We’ve had all day to sleep and rest and recover from the horrors of last night.
None of us could relax enough to sleep through the remainder of our journey, so we waited to sleep under the safety of sunlight.
I think we’ve all come to understand why Dominic keeps a nocturnal schedule, even when traveling.
As terrifying as it was to come across an Incarnate at night, or to travel through Shade-infested territory when they’re most active, it’s far more unsettling to consider not moving during such treacherous hours.
I do my best to stay focused on my task and not dwell on what Dominic said last night, but that only makes me aware of how cold my fingers are.
My skin practically screams as I plunge the waterskin into the pot of water, which has more than cooled; it might as well be frozen.
We haven’t seen an increase in snowfall, but the air maintains a bite.
Maybe I should take back what I said about loving all the seasons.
Spending winter on the road is a far cry from the cozy days spent by the fireplace in Dunway.
Though I suppose it isn’t officially winter yet. Solstice is…
I wrinkle my nose as I try to sort out today’s date. Keeping track of the week is less vital now, unlike when I served Rockefeller.
I tilt my head at Harlow. “How many days until solstice?”
She shrugs. “Two? Or maybe it’s tomorrow?”
“Huh. One or two days until my birthday, then.”
“You were born on the winter solstice?”
“Much to my mother’s displeasure,” I say.
“Congrats on surviving another year as a sinner, I guess,” Harlow says without even a hint of enthusiasm.
I huff a laugh, but her words remind me of Dominic’s.
The only one of us who has ever sinned gravely enough to create Shades…is me.
I’m so desperate to ask what he meant by that. Last night I was more focused on the contradiction of his words versus the holy texts, but if he’s right…
What grave sin was he talking about? What did he do that was so awful it created Shades?
When he said the only one of us, did he mean of me and him?
Or did he mean all of us as a crew? I can’t imagine how he could be guilty of worse sins than us.
We’re outlaws running from crimes ranging from murder to treason.
We’re artists, whom the holy texts call the worst kind of sinners—
My mind stumbles. Stutters. Lingers.
If one thing in the holy texts is a lie, then anything else can be.
What if…
What if art isn’t a sin?
Hope, vindication, and a dash of fury flood my chest for all of a second. Then I remind myself of all the proof I’ve seen. All the terrors I’ve witnessed. Despite what I want to believe, I know some things to be true.
Shades are attracted to lies.
Shades are also attracted to art.
Shades are attracted to violence.
Shades are attracted to crime.
Shades are also attracted to childbirth, I remind myself. But that is reasoned away by the holy texts, stating that procreation is a sin because of how it mocks our creators. Regardless, everything fits so seamlessly under the umbrella of sin when explained by scripture.
I clench my jaw. I’ve never liked the holy texts.
How can I like something that calls me impure while positioning the Sinless as the epitome of perfection?
Yet just because I dislike something doesn’t make it false.
When all I’ve seen is evidence supporting the texts, I’ve had no choice but to believe them while simultaneously hating them.
So…
Is it possible the texts contain numerous lies? Or is it just the part about how all sin creates Shades?
My mind spins to make sense of that. Even if it’s the single deliberate falsehood in the texts, it’s huge.
If only the darkest kinds of sins create Shades, then humanity has been burdened with undue blame.
Sure, it’s clear even our most mundane sins attract Shades, but we’ve been blamed for creating them with those same actions all this time.
All.
This.
Time.
For five hundred years.
What the fuck does that mean, and why?
“What the hell, Inana?”
Harlow’s voice snaps me out of my stupor all over again, and I realize I’m losing water from the skin I’ve filled, tipping it too far to the side while fumbling with the cork. I right the waterskin, but the cork slips from my frozen fingers and rolls across the snow-dusted glade.
“Damn it.” I thrust the waterskin at Harlow so I can chase down the cork.
It doesn’t roll far, stopping beneath a cedar.
The tree’s wide boughs have created a shady space devoid of snow, and I crouch beneath them to reach for the cork.
My fingers are about to close around it just as something catches my eye.
I snatch my hand back and glance at the dark shape that stands out against the shadows cast by the tree. It’s a squirrel, but…
Not just any squirrel.
It’s a Shade.
I take in its small, semitransparent form, its pitch-black eyes, the flap of skin that extends from foreleg to hind leg on each side, the crescent moon perched on its brow.
My mouth falls open. It can’t be. Can it?
It stands right beside the cork, tilting its head at me, tiny nose twitching.
I can’t imagine it’s just a coincidence that this Shade looks exactly like the ones we convinced the dragon to shift into.
It’s either one of the very same Shades, or it’s another that took shape based on one of them. Either way, it’s all the way out here.
A chill runs through me, but I don’t know if it’s out of fear or awe.
Fear, I try to tell myself, especially after what I witnessed yesterday. I should fear them. I should hate them. I should reach for my mask and don it before the squirrel can seek to steal my face and become an Incarnate.
But even though I understand this to be the most suitable reaction, I can’t bring myself to obey.
At least logic is partly on my side. I need not make any sudden moves to whip out my mask; Shades seek to steal the faces only of those who enchant them with sin.
Nor do I need to chastise myself for not succumbing to fear.
Our jobs as Summoners depend on us staying calm and not reacting.
So I let myself be still for a few moments while the flying squirrel assesses me with what feels like benign interest. Then, slowly, I close my hand over the cork and prepare to rise—
The Shade moves, scurrying closer. I freeze, breathing slowly to control my instinct to flinch back.
I may not be in the throes of fear, but I’d recoil from any creature who darted too quickly at me.
The Shade takes a few hesitant steps closer, whiskers twitching as it watches me with those wide, dark orbs.
Then it sits back on its haunches and brings its tiny paws to its fat little belly.
Just like Sloth’s, its fur looks so real, despite being made of wisps of shadow. And the way it’s looking at me…
Holy shit. It’s adorable.
My lips curve in unrestrained delight as I watch the squirrel bring a paw to its rounded ear, grooming itself. I can’t take my eyes off it—
Something enormous bounds toward us under the tree. It brushes past me, throwing me off-balance, and I realize it’s Sloth.
“Sloth, to me,” Dominic says, his voice coming from behind me. How long has he been there?
The shadow dog pays his master no heed and charges for the squirrel, his jaws closing on air as the other Shade darts up the tree trunk. Sloth chases it in a circle, leaping up to snap at it while the squirrel jumps from branch to branch, squeaking in fright as it tries to evade the wolfhound.
“No, Sloth,” I call out. “Leave it!”
Sloth, of course, doesn’t listen to me either, and evades the laws of nature by padding straight up the damn tree trunk—because he’s a fucking shadow and can do what he wants—and onto the bough where the squirrel has sought safety.
His jaws snap above the branch, narrowly missing the squirrel, who leaps off just in time…
To land on my godsdamned shoulder.
My muscles seize at how close the Shade is to me. That it’s on me. Maybe fear has begun to dawn after all, but I’d react the same no matter what wild creature leaped upon me, no matter how cute or evil said creature was. And that isn’t the worst that happens.
As Sloth jumps down from the tree and barrels toward me, the squirrel squeaks in fright again and takes the opportunity to run down the length of my arm and up my fucking sleeve.
Now it’s my turn to start squealing, as the rodent’s shadowy body brushes up my arm, down my back, and…
Where now? Where the hell is it now?
In my panic, I’ve risen to my feet and darted out from under the tree, and now I spin, slapping at my clothing and trying to shake the rogue Shade out.
I think I felt it dart down my leg, but it could have been my petticoats, so I shake out my skirts even more, jumping up and down as I unhook my cloak.
Once my panic subsides and I’m fairly certain the squirrel is gone, I stop in place, panting.
All eyes are upon me, Dominic staring from a few feet away, the rest frozen in the middle of their tasks. Harlow still holds the waterskin, devoid of the cork I’m certain to have lost.
“What the hell was that?” Dominic says. There’s no sign of Sloth, but of the three shadows he casts on the snowy ground, one wavers in agitation.
I smooth my skirts with all the grace I can muster. “There was a squirrel.”
“A squirrel?” Dominic echoes.
“Inana and her squirrels,” Harlow says, rolling her eyes as she tops the waterskin with a spare cork. Why didn’t I do that?
I’m about to defend my honor, but I can’t bring myself to describe what happened.
What would they think if I confessed the squirrel was not just a Shade but the Shade, one of the ones we shaped with our art?
What would Dominic say if I told him a Shade crawled inside my clothing?
I have a feeling he’d make me strip down naked to ensure it wasn’t still there, and—for the love of the gods—why is that thought making me hot and bothered?
No, it’s the panic. The panic and the shaking of my skirts. If Dominic really wants to know, Sloth can tell him.
“It’s…fine. I’m fine,” I mutter, and stride back toward Harlow.
“Why didn’t you let me eat it?” comes Sloth’s voice, barely audible over the sound of my steps crunching through the snow. “She was going to pet it! She was going to love it more than me.”
“Enough,” Dominic whispers. “You’ve got serious abandonment issues.”
“They’re your abandonment issues,” Sloth snipes back. It occurs to me, after I’ve already finished my waterskin chore and moved on to another, what a strange thing that was to say.