31. Dreams and Nightmares
N ico was running through the forest, screams chasing at his feet. Sometimes, he thought he recognised the sounds. He definitely heard Jon screaming for his mama. Other times the sounds weren’t human enough to be voices.
His mother’s hand was gripping his so tightly that it hurt. Usually, he’d complain about that. Not today. Not right now.
They raced through the undergrowth, clothes snagging on brambles. Nico didn’t cry about that, either, he didn’t dare.
He couldn’t hear Jon anymore. He couldn’t hear anyone. The world was sucked of all sounds apart from his mother’s ragged breathing and the pounding of his own heart.
They reached Umbra’s temple. It was a place Nico knew well. Though his people were roamers, whenever they could, they came to the house of Umbra. It was home to his folk.
His mother pulled him inside and took him to the back of the temple, hiding him behind the altar. She grabbed his shoulders.
“Nico, Nico, my dearheart,” she rushed breathlessly, “wait here. Hide. Do not come out, no matter what you hear. Promise me. Promise me!”
“I promise, Mama.”
She yanked him into her arms, so hard Nico thought his chest might break. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it to stop.
“I love you,” she whispered in his ear. “Remember that. If you remember nothing else…” Her body shuddered around his. When she kissed his brow, he realised she was crying. He had never seen her cry before.
“ Umbra protect what I cannot. ”
And then she was gone. Her footsteps echoed down the steps. Shouting followed, but no screaming. There was only the noise of the knights yelling, and of steel meeting something wet… followed by silence when there was no one to yell at anymore.
Nico stayed exactly where his mother had left him as the knights searched the temple next, his heartbeat drowning out all sound. He held his breath, his shadows trembling at his feet. He wished he could make them stronger, harder. Others in his tribe could. Old man Takeda used his for sawing wood. The carpenters would whittle with them. When he was a baby, his mother had used hers to rock him to sleep. If Nico could make his sharper, he could slice the knights’ swords apart, or cut off their belts and run away while they struggled with their clothes. But his shadows were as soft as lamb’s wool, and in the end, he didn’t need them. The knights barely searched. They weren’t looking for anyone as small as he was.
Nico stayed in the Temple, crying until there were no tears left inside him, until hunger overtook pain and his mother’s instructions seemed less important somehow.
He crept out of his spot. The temple’s steps were wet with blood. He stared at the pattern for some time, as if waiting for it to rearrange, to morph into a shape like the shadows would fall from the walls.
He knew who the blood belonged to, just as he knew what the smoke in the distance meant, and why he shouldn’t go towards it.
Just as he knew no one was coming to find him. He was all alone in the world. All he loved was ash.
His shadow twitched at his feet, pulling out of his body and wrapping its arms around Nico’s trembling form. For a moment, Nico stood there, shaking, uncertain, not knowing what to do, where to go.
Something twitched at the edge of the glade. A shadow in the undergrowth, cloaked and dark. A person and not a person, a figure made of something deeper than darkness, something primordial, ancient, older than the earth itself and younger than the smallest measure of time.
Nico didn’t know who or what it was, but it didn’t matter. He was a shadowmancer.
He would go where the shadows led.
Viola wasn’t satisfied with the cane, but she was aware that she was now probably making the project worse. She needed something to keep herself occupied, though, so she tiptoed along to the library. The door to the adjoining room was open.
Never one to ignore her curiosity, Viola slipped inside. This had to be Nico’s study. It smelled strongly of incense and paper, his shelves stacked not just with books but scrolls and other curiosities—the skull of a basilisk, rocks and stones, the antlers of a wendigo and several masks of different colour and shape. Nothing here had any real value except for a single jewelled calla lily in deepest plum, sitting pride of place on Nico’s desk in a small chipped vase made of pieces of seaglass. Viola’s fingers brushed the crystal petals, each one rimmed in gold.
The rest of the room was filled with maps and plans and newspaper clippings, blueprints of towers and castles, notes on guard rotas or contacts within the homes, all pinned to the walls. The Crown would have killed for this information. Viola knew she ought to be making note. She also knew that she wouldn’t.
A notebook on Nico’s desk read ‘Nefarious plans’. It was full of his latest schemes, all heists and robberies, nothing murderous. She skimmed through it, discovering a table at the back when Nicodemus kept a tally of all the times they’d beat each other. He crossed out the word ‘knight’ when he’d learned her name.
Viola smiled, picking up a pen.
Shall we call it even? she wrote.
She set the notebook back down, her gaze falling to a nearby text and the small picture falling out of it. She tugged it free of the pages.
It was a watercolour of the view from her room at sunset, and she—or at least a dark-haired woman of similar stature—was staring out at it. Nicodemus had coloured the sunset, but not the figure. She wondered why.
The book though was just what she needed. She wanted to read something he liked, and if the book was in here, it was probably a sound choice. She returned to his room with the volume in hand, using the sketch as a bookmark in place of the ribbon neatly folded in her bedside table back at the barracks.
He was sleeping soundly now, no longer radiating heat. If it wasn’t for his cool pallor, he’d look almost peaceful. Viola bent over and brushed the hair from his forehead, wondering whether or not to kiss his brow. Her fingers lingered on the spider-web pattern of his scars.
The only thing that had ever unnerved her about his appearance was how distractingly pretty he was.
Nico was getting better. Viola feared she was getting much worse .
She sighed and settled down in the chair. She cracked open the book, and started to read.
The bad dreams faded, replaced by one filled with sunlight. Nicodemus dreamt he was dancing with Viola in a meadow, her smile as radiant as the skies. When she laughed, music played. Or perhaps her laugh was the music. It was a dream, after all. It didn’t have to make sense.
“You’re a good dancer,” Viola whispered.
“I’m good at a great many things, Windbright. There’s no need to sound so surprised.”
He expected her to laugh at that, but instead she leaned into his ear and whispered her name. “Viola, ” she reminded him. “You’re supposed to call me Viola now.”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, as shiny and bright as the reddish-purple petal of a calla lily. “Viola,” he whispered. “I should like to kiss you now.”
The inches between them fractured further. “I should very much like to be kissed.”
A darkness rumbled inside him, cold and cautioning. “I’m afraid,” he told her.
Her brow furrowed. “Of me?”
Yes, her. Mostly them, and what they could be together . Also something else, something he’d forgotten about.
Viola’s body hummed against his.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he blurted out.
“You don’t have to.”
For a moment, Nicodemus let himself believe that. He let himself forget that he was doomed to hurt almost everyone around him. He let himself believe in exceptions, and good things, and her.
He drew his shadows round them both and kissed her to prove it.
Viola turned the page. “ The Duke saw no way out of his pred—” She paused. The word was a long one with far too many vowels. And that was coming from someone whose name was mostly composed of them. What was it? “Prediction? Predetermine?” She knew a lot of words from listening to people. She wasn’t always sure what they were supposed to look like on paper.
“Predicament,” came a weak voice from the bed, “and please stop butchering that book. It’s one of my favourites.”
Viola clenched the side of the volume, trying not to look up immediately, to school her face into a mask, one that didn’t give away the tide of relief swelling against her heart. “Don’t be a dick,” she managed, barely looking up. “You know I can’t help it.”
“ Villain, ” he reminded her. “Although you’ll forgive me if I don’t bow this time.”
Finally, her eyes met his, bleary with sleep. His temples twitched with pain. Viola placed down her book, slowly inching towards him, not sure where to sit or what to say and fighting both the urge to bolt from the space entirely and the stranger, more desperate urge to throw herself on top of him and possibly cry.
The latter was a stupid idea. She’d definitely hurt him.
She’d probably hurt herself .
“How are you feeling?” she managed instead.
“Like I got crushed by a dragon.” He groaned, trying to sit up in bed. Viola leaned forward to assist, not particularly successfully. He paused as she tried to pull up his pillows.
“Something wrong?”
“Ah, no, just—Gods.” He sank uneasily backwards. “It was just my leg, right? Because it kind of feels like… everything.”
Viola lent over to the side table, fiddling with the vials Cordelia set aside earlier. She unstoppered one and placed it to his lips, hoping he didn’t notice her shaking fingers.
His lids fanned shut. She didn’t think he was capable of noticing much right now.
“You have quite a few injuries, but the leg is the worst. Lela assures me it’s all fixable.”
“Excellent. That’s… that’s good…”
She hovered around his head, not really sure what to do next. His closed lids still twitched, the potion taking its time. “We can try to knock you out again if you prefer?”
He shook his head. “No. I want to be awake. How long have I been out?”
“About a day. Can I get you anything?” she asked, hoping he’d give her a quest, something to fetch, something helpful and far, far away .
His fingers brushed the back of her hand. She hadn’t realised how close they were, how her hand was right next to his on the bedsheets. His smallest finger tugged hers, tips interlocking.
“You,” he whispered.
He can’t mean that, she thought desperately. Or it can’t mean what it sounds like. He probably just wants company. Some people do, I hear—
She should go. She could fetch Cordelia. Lela would sit here, willingly, happily. Viola could do something else, anything else. Something useful and practical and less awkward—
And yet those weren’t the first words that came to her. Her first, strange instinct was to wind her fingers into his. “All ri—”
Cordelia burst into the room carrying a tray. Viola yanked her hand back, marching over to take it from her. The young girl’s face broke into the biggest of smiles.
“You’re awake!” she declared, scrambling to his side.
Nico grinned weakly. “Did you ever doubt me?”
“Not in the slightest. I knew you’d be back to bother me at some point.”
“Might need to wait on the bothering for a moment…”
“Not too long, I hope.”
“No, Lela,” he said with a smile. “Not too long.”
Sebastian used to look at Miranda like that, Viola remembered. He had this big grin just for her, whenever she did or said anything he thought was smart or adorable.
Sometimes, Viola wondered if he’d ever looked at her that way when she wasn’t looking. She imagined he probably had.
“I should head back to the barracks,” Viola announced. “Freya’s likely to have made her way back by now and I should check that the memory potion worked…”
The light in Nico’s eyes flickered. “Of course,” he said.
“I’ll come back in a couple of days.”
Nico half smiled. “Lela, could you go and get the bloodstone out of the vault in my study for me?”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. She ran off without a word.
Viola sensed she wasn’t supposed to leave just yet. She fiddled with the book she’d set aside, tugging at the sketch sandwiched between the pages.
“I found this,” she admitted, partly to fill the quiet. “Is this me?”
Colour darted across Nico’s cheeks. “The first time you came here. Don’t think too much of it—I was focused on the sunset.”
“Right.”
She wondered if that was the reason she wasn’t coloured in, or if he hadn’t thought her worth it at the time.
She wondered if that viewpoint had changed .
Cordelia was back before she could think too much about it, together with a velvet pouch holding a blood-red stone that she spilled out onto the bed.
“What is it?” Viola asked.
“When the witch I hired cast her enchantment to shield this place, she tied it to this stone—anyone whose blood touches it can see through the spell surrounding it. At the time, I thought I’d never add another person to it. I’m happy to have been wrong—twice.”
He looked up at Viola, who’d not yet spoken a single word. “Unless you don’t want to?”
“No, no. I want to. I just… are you sure?”
“You’ve had ample opportunity to kill me now, Windbright. I’m fairly sure you’re not going to do it.”
“Of course not, it’s just… it’s a big step.”
“Would you like to break out the fancy wine? Lela, to the cellar—”
“No! Oh, light above!” She seized the stone from the bed. “What do I have to do?”
“Just give it a droplet of your blood. There should be a needle around here somewhere—”
Viola, wasting no time, bit into her thumb and smeared a bloody print on the surface of the stone. It heated beneath her touch, glowing briefly, the blood being sucked into the centre.
“Umbra’s Shadow, there’s no need to be so dramatic,” Nicodemus said, rolling his eyes. “You could just have pricked your elbow… doesn’t your thumb hurt?”
“I’m sorry, is Nicodemus Nightshade telling off someone else for being dramatic?” she responded, ignoring the throbbing in her digit.
“I’m a villain, I’m allowed to be a hypocrite. Bones, see to her thumb—”
“Really, it’s fine.”
“I won’t be, if you get any blood on my shirt.”
Heat danced over Viola’s cheeks. She’d forgotten she was wearing it. She hoped her colouring hid most of her blush.
Cordelia passed her a small strip of bandage. Dutifully, Viola wound it around the damaged digit. “Thank you.”
“If you ever damage it too much, I can always give you a prosthetic,” Cordelia told her, wiggling her skeletal fingers. “I offered to do the same for his leg, but he’s weirdly attached to his flesh.”
Nicodemus groaned. “Bones, we’ve been through this before. Most people are.”
“Most people are dumb.”
“Yes, but not necessarily about that.”
“All right,” said Viola, edging towards the door. “I’m leaving now. ”
Nicodemus shifted up in bed, hand half stretched towards her. “Windbright—”
She leaned back into the room. “Yes?”
His gaze caught hers and lingered there, like sunlight warming through frost. His mouth opened, but then shut again. He dropped his hand. “It’s—nothing. I’ll see you soon.”