Chapter 15
My shadows report she's drooling on the pillow she insisted I needed. The expensive one. For my neck that's been aching for years. Two hours and seventeen minutes of sleep, which I know because the shadows count her breaths like they're getting paid for it.
I should be sleeping. Haven't closed my eyes in four days. Maybe five. But there's work in the basement, and by work I mean making the Tide Runner understand what happens when you kill seventeen of mine.
The basement's worse than the main floor. Water damage creating rust patterns that look like dried blood. Convenient.
Corven's where I left him six hours ago. Still breathing despite his feet. The toes went first—shadow blades cut through bone when you solidify them right. Clean cuts if you know the angles.
"Evening." I pull up the chair Olivia brought down here. For humanitarian reasons. So they could sit while being questioned. She said questioned like we have conversations.
My shadows drift upward. They're wrapping Benedikt's body in the good sheets—the ones with barely any paint stains that Olivia brought from her apartment. "Everyone deserves dignity," she'd said. He's the eighth. Tomás is next. Someone will have to tell his four-year-old daughter.
Corven spits. Misses. Blood and saliva land on his ruined leg.
"Still feeling defiant?" I manifest a shadow blade, thin as paper. "Good."
"Fuck yourself."
"Creative." The blade slides under his fingernail. Wet sound of separation. He screams. "Let's try again. Who funded your suicide mission?"
"Already told you. Guild initiative."
"Your equipment was too good for standard guild funding." I remove the nail entirely. Pop. "Those water crystals? Expensive. Imported. Someone wanted my attention."
He's hyperventilating. Helps with pain. Olivia would know why—something medical about oxygen. She'd explain it while making him tea.
The thought makes my shadows twitch toward the ceiling. She's rolled over, taking my pillow, one arm hanging off the shadow furniture. Her breathing catches. Bad dreams.
"Focus." Another nail. Another scream. "Who. Funded. You."
"The—the light freaks. The Radiant fucks. They paid us to test if you'd gone soft."
The Luminary's people. Too pure to get their own hands bloody.
"And?"
"And what?" He's crying. Snot mixing with blood.
"What did you report back?"
"That you're fucked. You've got a healer. Unregistered. Light magic." Wet laugh. "They think she's corrupted. Healing shadow users is against their god."
My shadows surge. Temperature drops.
Eleanor Voss. Two years back. The Luminary's people got her for "purification" after she healed the wrong person.
When we found her, she'd been burned from the inside out.
Light magic turned against her until it consumed everything.
Cooked meat and sanctified oils. Her fingers had clawed at her own chest trying to dig out the light.
They'd carved prayers into her skin while she burned.
"They think healing is corruption?"
"Healing you is. Shadow and light aren't supposed to mix." Babbling now. "They're planning something. The Luminary wants her. Says she needs purifying."
"How many survived?"
"Fifteen? Sixteen? Regrouping at Dock Street warehouse."
"Security?"
"Two door guards. Maybe another inside. We weren't—"
Shadow blade takes his throat. Quick. More mercy than deserved, but I'm already planning. Fifteen Tide Runners who saw Olivia's magic. Who could tell the Radiant Court.
None of them see sunrise.
Joss waits upstairs. Always waiting.
"Productive?" She's cleaning her nails with a knife.
"Radiant Court funded them."
"Interesting." Not surprised. "And the healer?"
"What about her?"
"Organizing medical supplies. Made infection salve for Davis. Convinced Tooth to eat vegetables." Pause. "Your shadows keep drifting her way."
They are. Right now. I force them back. They resist.
"Your point?"
"No point. Observations." She stands. "Dock Street warehouse?"
"How did you—"
"Voices carry." Already moving. "Strike team?"
"Just us. And Grimm."
"Against fifteen?"
"Sixteen."
She studies me. The blood. The exhaustion. The way my shadows pull toward Olivia's corner.
"When's the last time you slept?"
"When's the last time you minded your business?"
"Twenty years ago." She heads out. "She made flatbread earlier. Ridge saved you some."
The flatbread's burnt on one side, raw on the other. Ridge guards it like it's precious.
"She said you needed to eat."
"She says many things."
"She was right about the infection."
I eat it. Char and flour. Then I remember—Asha asked about flatbread yesterday. Wanted to learn. Her mother never taught her. Olivia promised to show her when things settled. Now Asha's wrapped in sheets upstairs.
"Ready." Grimm appears, wiping his blade.
We dissolve into shadow roads. Copper and ice. My body protests. I push through.
The warehouse sits where Corven said. Poorly guarded. Desperate.
"Silent entry."
Guards die before they scream. Shadows solidify in their throats. Expand. Bodies drop.
Inside, I let them see me first. Let them think they know where the threat is.
Grimm takes left. Four rush him. Water wraps his legs, pulls him down. Miscalculated—
Joss moves. Two down before they know she's there. Ice spear through her shoulder. She doesn't pause. Opens him from groin to sternum.
I take center.
First one gets water up in a spiral. Pretty. Useless. Shadows punch through him. Blood paints the wall.
Two more rush together. Their water merges. I split into shadow. Pure darkness.
When I solidify, they're in pieces. Shadows separated them at the joints.
"Please—" Young one. Younger than the kid Olivia healed. "Please, I won't—"
Shadow takes his head. Quick.
The violence feels right. This is what I'm for. Not portraits. Not vegetables. This.
Grimm's bleeding. Leg cut deep. I cage his attackers in shadow. Bones break. Four bodies drop. He nods thanks.
"Boss. Found documents."
The Luminary authorizing payment. Calling Olivia "corrupted light" needing "cleansing."
My shadows explode outward. Even Joss pauses.
"Finish them."
We do. All of them. No survivors. Just bodies.
The return's harder. Shadow roads demanding payment I don't have. Black spots. Grimm stumbles. We're all running empty.
Back at the warehouse, deep night. My shadows race to her corner. She's awake. Organizing supplies by candlelight.
"Go clean up," I tell Grimm. He limps off.
Joss stays. Blood seeping from her shoulder.
"You're shaking."
"Fine."
"When did you actually sleep?"
Can't remember. Everything blurs except violence.
"Check on the healer. Make sure she's not being charitable."
She's right. I head over, shadows racing ahead. Stumble. Catch the wall. Shadows sluggish. Almost collapse.
She's on a crate hanging sheets. Wobbling. Hair tangled with sleep. Same dress as yesterday, blood on the hem.
Through the shadow bed I made, I feel her warmth. The indent where she was lying. When she shifts on the crate, I feel it through every shadow here.
"Need proper walls," she says without turning. "Sheets don't block sound. People need privacy for medical things."
"Medical things."
"Embarrassing injuries. Emotional breakdowns. Crying for dead friends." The crate wobbles. I move forward.
"Where were you?"
"Tidying loose ends."
"Tidying." She turns. Sees the blood. "You're covered in... tidying."
"Yes."
She climbs down. Walks over. Lavender soap. Her hand rises, drops.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Lying?"
"No."
"Going to fall over if I stop watching?"
"Possibly."
Small smile. "There's a chair. Sit."
"I should—"
"Sit."
I sit. Can barely stand anyway. The shadow chair molds to me. When she sits on the shadow bed, I feel it. Her weight. How her dress settles. This connection through darkness.
"You need sleep."
"Need to coordinate defenses—"
"Need sleep. Real sleep. Not closed eyes while planning murders."
"That's time management."
Another smile. She organizes supplies that aren't there.
My shadows pool around the chair, too tired for form. Still reaching for her. She doesn't flinch when they touch her ankles.
"Just five minutes."
I close my eyes. Through shadow connections I feel everything—her weight shifting, her warmth, her humming. My exhausted body stops fighting. The shadows respond to her instead of me.
Five minutes. Then back to being Shadow King. Planning death. Managing territory. Pretending I don't feel her through every shadow.
Last thought: she's humming about shepherds. Or sheep. My shadows tell me how her chest moves, how she almost smiles when a note sounds right.
Just five minutes.