Chapter 8 #2
"Shh, you're alright. You're fine. Just a bit of shadow poisoning.
Probably a lot of shadow poisoning actually.
When's the last time you took a break? Do shadow users get vacation days?
They should get vacation days." My hands smooth his hair back from his face.
It's wet with sweat and probably other things.
He needs a bath. And a haircut. The back's getting shaggy.
Does he own shampoo? Good shampoo? Not the terrible kind that strips all the oils out.
"Why do you all insist on dying? Is it a guild requirement?
Is there paperwork involved? Are your socks wet?
They look wet. Wet socks are how you catch pneumonia. "
My magic pours into him, finding all sorts of problems. Old wounds that healed wrong. Organs that are basically giving up. Everything's poisoned by shadow magic. How is he even walking around? Does he not feel pain? He must feel pain. Everyone feels pain. Has he been ignoring it?
The convulsions slow. The black bile stops flowing. Under my hands, his body starts remembering how to be human instead of a shadow repository.
"That's it. Just breathe. Normal breathing, not the dramatic dying kind.
" I keep smoothing his hair. He has a scar on his scalp.
Old. Probably fell off something as a child.
Did his mother fuss over him? Does he have a mother?
Do shadow users have mothers? Everyone has mothers.
"In and out. Very simple. Even you can manage it. "
His shadows curl around us. Not threatening—more like curious cats. They wrap around my arms, which should probably worry me but they're almost warm. Strange. I thought shadows would be cold.
"Ruvan." He mumbles it into my lap. Still mostly unconscious. "My name. 'S Ruvan."
"That's nice. Very dramatic. Suits you." I'm checking his pockets for anything that might explain all this blood.
Wallet—nice leather, probably expensive.
Some coins. A folded paper that looks official.
No handkerchief though. What kind of person doesn't carry a handkerchief?
"Though Night Manager had grown on me. It was descriptive. "
The paper has writing. Lots of writing. His name again—Ruvan Valdris.
Master of Shadows, which sounds like a job title someone made up to sound important.
Guild Registration (Exempt by Shadow Statute), whatever that means.
And then, in smaller letters like someone forgot to mention it: Shadow King of Vespera.
"Oh." I look down at him. Still shaking but normal shaking now. Like he's cold, not dying. "Well, that explains the dramatic entrances."
The Shadow King is in my lap, covered in someone else's blood, barely conscious from shadow poisoning I just healed.
When was the last time he slept in an actual bed? With proper pillows? Not just collapsed somewhere between murders?
His eyes flutter open. Dark. Confused. Struggling to focus on my face.
"Did you just..." His voice sounds raw. "Did you heal me?"
"Someone had to. You were being very dramatic about the whole thing." I help him sit up slowly. He sways. I steady him with one hand on his chest. His heart's racing but strong. Good. "Also, you're covered in blood. Is any of it yours?"
He looks down at himself like he's just noticing. "No."
"Good. Then we can deal with that later." I study his face. Still too pale, but the black veins are fading. "Can you stand? We need to get you inside before you collapse again."
"I don't collapse."
"You were literally convulsing in a puddle of your own bile five minutes ago."
"That was... different."
"Different how? Were you trying a new floor-cleaning technique? Because I have better methods. Less painful ones. Have you tried vinegar?"
He tries to stand. Makes it halfway before his knees give out.
I catch him—barely. He's heavier than he looks and I'm not exactly built for catching falling crime lords.
My hip bumps against his side as I struggle to keep us both upright.
Do they make courses for this? "Supporting Your Local Crime Lord 101"?
"New plan," I pant. "You're going to put your arm over my shoulders and we're going to walk very slowly to wherever your room is. Then you're going to bed. An actual bed. With sheets. You do have sheets, right?"
"I don't—"
"Bed. Sleep. Possibly soup if you're good." I start moving us toward the door. "No arguments. I've had a very trying morning and I haven't even dealt with the mushroom situation yet."
We make it maybe twenty feet before the shadows shift with purpose. A woman steps out of nowhere. Leather everywhere. Knives on her belt, probably more hidden. She's got one of those faces that makes you want to apologize even when you haven't done anything wrong.
"Interesting," she says.
"Joss," Ruvan mumbles. "Perfect timing as always."
"I was handling the Blackwater situation. Also, the Radiant Court's been asking questions about unregistered light magic users." Her eyes don't leave me. "I see you've been busy."
"He was dying," I explain, still struggling under his weight.
My back's going to hurt tomorrow. Should have bent my knees more.
"Shadow poisoning. Very advanced. Are you going to help or just stand there being ominous?
Because he's heavy and I think he's getting heavier.
Do unconscious people get heavier? It feels like they do. "
She tilts her head. Then, moving like someone who's done this before—probably a lot—she takes Ruvan's other arm.
"His quarters are this way," she says.
Between us, we manage to get him through corridors I don't recognize.
Up stairs that creak ominously. There's a draft coming from somewhere.
Of course there is. These old buildings are all drafts and dampness.
His feet are dragging. Are his boots waterproof?
They don't look waterproof. Through a door that's definitely reinforced with more than wood.
His room is exactly what I expected—cold, dark, functional. Not a personal item in sight. Just weapons and shadows and the lingering smell of copper. No plants. Not even a sad one. How does he breathe in here?
"Bed," I order.
"I have contracts to—" He tries to pull away. Fails.
"Bed. Now. Or I'll start singing that song about the fish merchant until you comply. You know the one. With the verse about the halibut. It's very long. Seventeen verses. I know them all."
He goes to bed.
"Watch him," I tell Joss, who hasn't stopped studying me. "I need to get my supplies. If he tries to get up, sit on him. Not literally. Well, maybe literally. Use your judgment."
"I don't take orders from—"
"From someone who just saved his life? That seems awkward." I'm already heading for the door. "He needs water. Lots of it. And no shadow magic for at least six hours while his system recovers. Do you have clean cups? Please tell me you have clean cups. I saw the state of your kitchen yesterday."
I leave her there, staring after me. Clean cups are important. Hydration is important. These are basic things.
The compound is significantly easier to navigate when people aren't pretending you don't exist. I find the main door—now mysteriously unbarred—and my cart right where I left it. Several guild members appear with theatrical surprise.
"Oh! Olivia! We didn't know you were here!"
"Very convincing, Finn." I hand him a sack of potatoes. "Help me get these inside. Your boss just had a medical emergency and I need to make soup."
They exchange glances but start hauling supplies. Word spreads fast in places like this. By the time everything's in the kitchen, I have a dozen helpers and Ridge looking much better than yesterday. Pink in his cheeks. Pink means blood flow. Blood flow means not dying.
"Feeling alright?" I check his forehead. Much cooler.
"Better. That medicine worked." He pauses. "Is it true? About the boss?"
"Shadow poisoning. Bad case. He'll be fine though, but someone needs to talk to him about work-life balance.
And vegetables. Mostly vegetables." I'm already organizing vegetables for prep.
Have they eaten breakfast? It's getting late in the morning.
They probably haven't eaten. "Right. You—tall one—we're starting with the mold situation after lunch.
It's literally trying to kill you all. Which seems redundant given your profession but still.
And has anyone fed the others? They get cranky when they're hungry. Crankier. More cranky than usual."
And somehow, between one breath and the next, I'm organizing the complete rehabilitation of the Shadow Guild's compound while their leader sleeps off his first healing in decades.
Which he needed. Desperately. I've never seen organs that tired.
Do shadow users not believe in preventive care?
Is there not a magical equivalent of an annual check-up?
The vegetables need washing. The mold needs killing. These people need feeding. And someone needs to check if they have actual bedding because I have concerns.
Just another Tuesday, really. Well, no. Last Tuesday I sold a painting. This Tuesday I'm meal-planning for assassins.
Except now I know Night Manager's real name. And that name comes with a title that should terrify me. Shadow King. The Shadow King. Of the whole city apparently.
Should be scary, that. The kind of scary that makes smart people move to different cities.
But honestly? Shadow King or not, the man clearly hasn't been eating properly. And that's what's really bothering me. All that power and no one makes sure he eats breakfast?
I start the soup. Bone broth this time. Good for recovery.
Good for people who don't take care of themselves.
The bones go in first—I managed to get good ones from the butcher, with lots of marrow.
That's where the nutrition is. Does anyone explain this to shadow users?
Do they have nutrition classes? They should have nutrition classes.
Good for Ruvan.
The name feels weird to think. Too personal for someone who walks through shadows. Too real for someone who was dying in my lap twenty minutes ago. But it's his name and he has to eat regardless of what I call him.
"More carrots," I tell Davis. "Healing takes calories. And protein. When's the last time any of you had proper protein? Not tavern meat. Real protein with all the bits that make your body work right."
He doesn't argue. None of them do. They just help, and pretend they weren't ordered to lock me out, and we all politely ignore that their terrifying master is currently sleeping off a healing that probably should have killed me to perform.
But it didn't. I'm fine. Tired, but fine. He needed it more.
The soup simmers. Needs more salt. Always needs more salt with bone broth.
The compound slowly becomes less of a health hazard.
Someone should oil those door hinges. The squeaking must drive them crazy.
And somewhere upstairs, the Shadow King is hopefully sleeping properly.
On his side, ideally. You're supposed to sleep on your side after traumatic healing.
I think. I should check on him. Make sure he's drinking water.
But first, vegetables. These carrots won't peel themselves. And someone needs to teach Finn the difference between dicing and hacking things into uneven chunks. Uniform pieces cook evenly. That's just basic kitchen science. I should make extra soup. There's never enough soup.
I'll check on Ruvan after—Ruvan. Still strange to think. After I get the soup properly started. Plain broth first. Nothing heavy. His stomach won't be ready for solids yet. That room needs better pillows. The ones he has looked flat. Flat pillows cause neck pain.
So many things to fix. The mold situation is urgent. Those hinges need oil. We need hand soap by the kitchen sink—how are they cooking without hand soap? But that's alright. One thing at a time. Soup first, then mold, then proper hygiene supplies.
The others must be worried. Do assassins worry? Of course they worry. Everyone worries. Extra bread will help. And where did I put that honey? The young one with the cough needs honey and lemon.