Chapter 16
He's actually sleeping. Not that fake sleep where his eyes close but his shoulders stay tense and his hand hovers near a weapon. Real sleep, the kind where his mouth falls open slightly and there's a tiny bit of drool that I absolutely will not mention when he wakes up.
The shadow chair holds him carefully. His head's tilted at an angle that's going to hurt later, but I can't adjust it without waking him.
The blood on his shirt has dried to rust-brown patches.
That can't be comfortable. Does dried blood itch?
It looks like it would itch. Maybe it's crusty?
I've never actually touched dried blood on purpose.
Morning light filters through the grimy windows—well, the ones that still have glass—and catches the silver in his hair.
There's definitely more than last week. Am I aging him?
Is that what happens when you make the Shadow King eat vegetables and worry about clean sheets?
Sorry about your premature graying, here's some soup?
The warehouse is freezing. My breath comes out in little puffs, and my toes are already going numb through my thin shoes. Should have brought slippers from the apartment. Do assassins wear slippers? They should. Cold feet lead to illness.
His hands are unclenched for once. I've never seen them relaxed before.
Even when he was sitting for the portrait, there was always this readiness, like he might need to strangle someone mid-brushstroke.
But now they're just... hands. Long fingers with those shadow scars, yes, but normal human hands that need rest. When did he last trim his nails?
They look decent actually. Better than mine.
I fetch my good blanket—the one my grandmother made that weighs enough to crush a small child—and drape it over him carefully. He shifts slightly but doesn't wake. Just burrows deeper into the shadow chair that adjusts around him. His breath makes little fog clouds in the cold air.
"There. Much better than that disaster of a shirt."
When I step back, some of his shadows peel away from the chair and wind around my shoulders. Not threatening or cold, just... there. Warm, actually.
"Oh, are you coming with me?" They settle more firmly. "Alright then. But we need to be quiet. He needs to sleep."
I pat them gently. They seem to warm further.
The warehouse looks even worse in daylight.
Every beam of sun shows new horrors. That's not just mold in the corner—it's an entire ecosystem.
Those mushrooms have probably learned to communicate.
The puddle by the far wall has colors that shouldn't exist in nature.
And the smell—like wet dog mixed with old cheese mixed with despair.
Has anyone made breakfast? Probably not. When did Finn last eat something that wasn't burnt bread? Is Gray Streak's stomach growling under all that professional menace?
My mental list grows with each step: industrial-strength cleaner, mold killer, something for the rust, soap (so much soap), proper mops not just the stick-with-rags situation we have now, buckets that don't have holes, maybe some lime for the really suspicious stains...
"We need coin for supplies." The shadows tug gently toward the medical corner. A nudge, not a pull. I follow because apparently this is my life now, taking financial advice from sentient darkness while my sort-of-maybe-something sleeps off several days of violence.
They guide me to a box tucked behind the medical supplies. Locked, but the shadows flow into the mechanism and click it open.
"That's very useful, thank you." Inside are coins. Lots of coins. More money than I've ever seen in one place. "Oh. Oh my. That's... we don't need all this. Just enough for cleaning supplies. The basics."
I take exactly what we need for soap and mops. The shadows wrap warmer around my shoulders.
"See? We're being careful with money. That matters, even for—especially for—people in the stabbing business."
Gray Streak is by the main doors, looking professionally menacing at nothing in particular. He does a double-take when he sees me.
"Are those...?"
"Shadows, yes. They wanted to come along." I adjust them around my shoulders. "We need cleaning supplies. This place is actively trying to kill us with spores."
He stares at the shadows, then at me, then back at the shadows. "Boss's shadows."
"Well, yes. He's sleeping. First real sleep in days, so we're being very quiet about this." I show him my small handful of coins. "Just enough for basics. Soap, mops, something for the mushroom situation."
"The boss is sleeping and his shadows are..." He gestures helplessly.
"Helping with errands, apparently." The shadows nuzzle against my cheek. "Are you coming? I need someone who knows where to buy industrial cleaning supplies."
He follows because what else is he going to do? Outside, the morning sun makes me squint. The shadows adjust, creating a little hood of shade. Very considerate.
"This is not normal," Gray Streak mutters.
"Nothing about our situation is normal. We're living in a disease factory.
Focus on what we can fix." I look around the district.
Gray morning light, everything smelling like rust and old rain.
"Where's the nearest shop that sells proper cleaning supplies?
Not the gentle stuff. The kind that kills things. "
We end up in a merchant district because apparently assassins don't know where to buy mops.
The general store is bright and clean and everything our warehouse isn't. I breathe in the smell of soap and possibility.
When was the last time this place was mopped?
The floors actually shine. Our floors have textures. Multiple concerning textures.
"Good morning!" The shopkeeper's smile freezes when she sees Gray Streak looming behind me. Then she notices the shadows draped around my shoulders and goes very pale. "I... how can I help you?"
"We need cleaning supplies. Industrial strength. We have a mold situation that might be achieving consciousness." I start examining bottles. "What's your strongest mold killer?"
She wordlessly points to a shelf. I begin reading labels while Gray Streak stands there radiating menace just by existing.
"Ooh, this one says it kills bacteria too. We definitely need that. And look, this soap comes in lavender!" I hold it up. "What do you think?"
The shadows warm slightly, flowing toward the bottle, then retreat.
"You like lavender? Good to know." I turn to Gray Streak. "What about you? What's your soap preference?"
He stares at me. "My what?"
"Soap preference. We're buying twenty bottles, minimum. You'll be smelling it for months." I hold up the lavender. "Try this one."
"I don't—"
"Just smell it." I wave it under his nose. "We need consensus on these decisions."
He sniffs reluctantly. His expression shifts to something almost thoughtful. "It's... purple."
"That's a color, not a smell."
"It smells purple." He seems committed to this description.
"Alright, here." I grab another bottle. "This one's mint. Very different from purple."
He smells it with the same seriousness he probably uses for identifying poisons. "Sharp. Clean. Like winter."
"Excellent descriptive work! And this one's lemon."
"Too aggressive." He wrinkles his nose. "Trying to prove something."
"Oh, you're right! It is a bit shouty, isn't it? What about pine?"
Gray Streak takes the bottle, sniffs carefully. "Decent. Smells like forest."
"Good forest or bad forest?"
"There's no good forest. But this is... acceptable forest."
The shopkeeper watches this exchange with increasing alarm. Here's Gray Streak—six feet of scarred muscle and implied violence—seriously evaluating soap scents while I take notes.
"Eucalyptus?" I offer next.
"Medical. Like the healing ward but less blood."
"That's very specific. Rose?"
He sniffs. "No."
"Why not?"
"Too soft. We're not soft."
"We're literally selecting scented soaps right now."
"For strategic cleaning purposes." He picks up another bottle. "What's this one?"
I check the label. "Ocean breeze."
He smells it, frowns. "Lies. Oceans don't smell like this. Oceans smell like salt and dead fish and seaweed."
"This is more of an optimistic interpretation of ocean."
"Soap shouldn't lie." He sets it down firmly. "Lavender or mint. Those are acceptable."
"Pine was decent, you said."
"Decent isn't good enough for forty people to smell daily." He crosses his arms. "Lavender for the medical areas because it's calming. Mint for the kitchen because it's clean. Pine for the training areas because it's... sturdy."
"Sturdy? Soap can be sturdy?"
"Pine is sturdy." Complete conviction.
"You've really embraced this soap selection process."
"If we're doing something, we do it right." He examines another bottle. "What's 'spring rain'?"
"Marketing nonsense, probably."
He smells it anyway. "Disappointing. Rain doesn't smell like flowers."
"What does rain smell like?"
"Wet stone. Mud. That mineral smell." He looks almost wistful. "Clean, but real clean."
"That was unexpectedly poetic."
"Soap brings it out in me." Completely deadpan.
The shopkeeper interrupts, voice shaking. "Should I... should I get twenty of each? Of the ones you've selected?"
"Forty," Gray Streak decides. "We might need extra."
"Forty bottles of soap?"
"You wanted everyone clean. This is what clean costs."
The shopkeeper scurries away, probably to tell everyone about the Shadow Guild's soap preferences for the rest of her life.
"Forty bottles though?"
"You don't know how dirty some of them get." He looks haunted. "Tooth especially. Last week he came back covered in... something."
"I don't want to know."
"Neither did I. But I knew anyway. By smell."
"And that's why we need forty bottles of soap."
"Exactly."
Two women by the fabric counter, whispering but not quietly enough. One's wearing too much perfume—lavender, but the cheap kind that makes your nose itch.