11. Bow to the Darkness

eleven

Bow to the Darkness

Alessia

W e enter the tree, slinking down the stairs. I lead the shadow to the infirmary. Sconces flare to life the moment I push open the door.

The scents of antiseptic and mildew linger in the air. Dried herbs hang in rows on the stone walls. Once fragrant and vibrant, the colors have long faded to shades of crusted brown and sickly grey.

Tarnished silver instruments and cracked ceramic bowls sit abandoned on various shelves. Cobwebs adorn the corners, exposing the years of neglect. Dripping water echoes through the room, coming from the sink to my left.

In the center of the dimly lit chamber, a single medical bed sits, its metal frame rusted and worn. Tattered linens drape it, but at least they’re clean. My first few weeks down here, I washed all the bedding in the court.

I’m glad I did.

My shadow dumps the man on his side atop the cot, and he yelps in pain.

The relief in my muscles is immediate. I soften as the cloud of darkness invades me, curling back into my depths. My head spins, and I grip a nearby counter to keep from tipping over.

I need to feed .

Pushing the unsettling comment aside, I quickly search through the cupboards of old herbs and ancient-looking medicine jars. I find alcohol, a clean rag, and yellow gauze. It’ll have to do. I snatch it, and dust swirls up, causing me to sneeze.

I rush back to the man’s side and pry my tunic from his head. It did a fine enough job of staunching the blood loss, but the wound needs to be cleaned.

“This might sting,” I warn him, dumping some liquid onto the cloth.

He hisses when I press it to his gash, his eyes rolling back into his head. Tears streak down his face, and his voice is hoarse as he moans. A boulder sits in my chest as I work, hoping I’m doing enough to save him.

Once the blood is cleaned up, it’s easier to see the cut. It’s not nearly as deep as I assumed. He needs stitches, but there’s not much I can do about that. Instead, I use the gauze to bandage him, hoping it’ll be enough for now.

Between the blood and sweat caking his skin, I fear he’s close to dehydration. He needs water—likely food, too.

“Can you help?” I ask, intending the words to be for my shadow-self. “Or will you kill him?”

“I’ll do anything…” The man whimpers. “Please don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

His wide eyes are filled with tears and terror. My heart skips a beat when I realize it’s me he fears.

He thinks I’m fae.

I am fae .

My pulse pounds in my temples, racing from the adrenaline. He thinks I’d kill him .

A dark tendril bursts forth from my skin, extending toward a cupboard. It retrieves a glass cup, fills it in the sink, and then places it in my hand.

What is he doing here? On your land, near your court?

I pause, contemplating the questions.

“Please,” the man’s throat bobs as he eyes the cup. He reaches for it, wincing. His eyes flutter, and muscles pop in his throat as he tries—and fails—to lift his head.

He wants to hurt you, yet you are helping him.

It’s enough to keep me from handing him the water.

“What are you doing here—in Avylon?” I ask, keeping my face blank to not betray my sympathy for him. I might as well do what the fae would and find out information.

He whimpers.

Guilt roils inside of me as I realize how disgusting my actions are—withholding his care to glean information from him. It’s manipulative, harmful, horrible… but I can’t stop myself.

I hold the cup out of reach, trying not to hate myself. “Who sent you?”

His glazed eyes zero in on the cup. “I volunteered.”

“You need to give me more than that,” I say softly.

“Queen Wyetta paid my family handsomely.” A sob bursts from him. “I have two young boys at home, and the offering was—”

“She’s hiring people to cross the Gleam? Why?”

What reasoning could the human queen have for paying people to enter Avylon? She, of all people, knows how dangerous it is.

He curls in on himself. “I don’t know.”

“Give me more than that,” I demand.

“My family—” He sobs. “They want nothing to do with me anyway. Figured they’d at least be set up for life this way. Figured I’m good as dead either way.”

“You need to give me something if you want my help,” I say, working to keep my voice stern.

For a second, I almost consider summoning up my shadow-self’s cruel hardness to take control so I can shut off my sympathy, but no. I need to feel this. This is what will keep me human—my empathy, my guilt, my heart .

I need to feel the repercussions of my actions.

“I don’t know what else to give you!” The man’s voice cracks and tears streak down his grimy face. “Rumor says she’s announcing something big at her Revival Fête in a few days.”

I squint. “Her what?”

“Revival Fête. Celebrating the return of her health.”

There was speculation the queen was sick. I can’t say I’m glad to hear she’s doing better. “What was wrong with her?”

He blows out a breath and hangs his head, eyes fluttering shut. “I… no one knows…” he mumbles. “She’s old. Thought she wasn’t gonna make it.”

Not wanting him to lose consciousness, I tap his cheek. When he glances at me, I lean forward with the glass of water, helping him hold it up to his lips and drink.

“Thank you,” he says between sips.

The door bursts open, and someone blows past me, nearly knocking me off my feet. They pounce on the man, and searing-hot fear brands me from the inside.

“Tynan!” I scream, recognizing his sheared hair and stocky frame. “Don’t! ”

Something clatters to the ground. It slides across the stone, stopping near my feet.

The hunting knife.

A sickening squelch fills the air, followed by slurping.

My breath stutters, and panic floods me.

Sensing my terror, my shadow rises up around me like a half-wall, forming a barrier between me and the vampyr, who is currently bent over the man, drinking him dry.

“Move!” I try to rip through the inky wall to reach the man, but the dense fog is impenetrable this time. My heart races as I try to breathe slowly and settle my panic. “Return to me! Now!”

The shadow doesn’t budge.

I bang my fists against the darkness, irritated that it’s holding me back from saving the man. This was a mistake—I knew it.

“Don’t let Tynan kill him!” I yell. “Stop him!”

Yes. You’re right. He is mine to kill .

The wall of inky darkness explodes away from me, wrapping itself around the unpredictable vampyr. It yanks him from the human, sending him flying across the room. My eyes widen as my arms shake with the ghost of exertion.

I don’t know whether to be terrified or impressed by the ease in which he was tossed.

Too late, I turn my attention to the human to see one of my murky tendrils holding him down. He thrashes in the bed as the dark fog covers his mouth and nose.

“No!” I surge forward, grasping at the tendril.

It refuses to heed my command to stop.

I frantically claw at it, my heart pounding in my chest with each desperate swipe. The solid surface feels rough and unforgiving as my nails scrape against it. In response, fiery pain shoots through my own arms. With each scratch I make at the shadow, my skin grows more raw and delicate.

Red lines blossom on my arms, crisscrossing and marking my skin as if I’m clawing at myself. Blood beads up, dripping from the deeper cuts.

I stop my attack, stunned by the sight.

When the man clawed at my shadow, nothing happened. How come when I do the same thing, I’m wounded? It’s the second—no, third —time I’ve fought against my shadow only to injure myself.

I’m distracted by the thought until the man’s body falls limp.

Lazy and contented, the sentient fog soaks back into my skin. The weakness in my limbs subsides, and a newfound energy bursts through me, the aftermath of my shadow being fed a soul.

I sink to the floor beside the bed, trembling like a leaf in a storm. If this is how we recharge our power, I want nothing to do with this magic.

“Tynan?” I call, taking slow, deep breaths to keep my pulse steady. “Are you okay?”

He stands, rubbing his arse as his head snaps in my direction. As if it can feel the intensity of his dark gaze, the black smoke spews from my pores again, wafting like steam as it rises around me.

Tynan cracks a smile, blood dripping from his fangs.

“Holy shite.” His gaze flicks to the limp body on the bed. “That was…” He shakes his head, his smile growing. “Wanted the kill for yourself, eh?”

“I—no!” My legs quiver with shock and fear. “You had no right to barge in here like that. This is your fault. ”

His brow furrows. “The pixies summoned me. Said you were in danger.”

“They didn’t need to get you. I had things under control,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Our definitions of under control differ.” He huffs. “They did the right thing—I am the commander of Spiritus Court’s army,” he says, lifting the brow with the scar through it. “Or was that a crock of shite meant to placate me? Give me a false sense of responsibility—like my brother’s done for years?”

“What? I—no, of course not,” I mutter, my face growing hot at Tynan’s confrontation.

A bitter laugh leaves him. “There’s no army. I fell for it again.”

Striding forward, he reaches for the dead man’s hand, prying a second weapon free. He holds up a dagger with two fingers, cocking a brow, and then he points to the ground where the knife lies abandoned.

Irritation and embarrassment flit through me. How did I miss that? Worse, why did I not remove the hunting knife when I first saw it in the woods?

I was too distracted with my own inner turmoil to use my wits—that’s why. Instinctually, I want to blame my shadow, but I’m the one who let it get to me in the first place.

“Dunno who’s more of an idiot, this guy or—well, I don’t know if I can say you without my brother pummeling my arse,” he says with a bemused expression.

“I’m not an idiot,” I mutter.

“You didn’t think to check for weapons before bringing a plaything home?”

I frown, clenching my teeth in irritation. “I made a mistake. ”

“Mistakes get you killed.”

It’s not worth explaining myself. He’s right. I’ve gotten too confident in my few measly months away from the lord’s estate. But it doesn’t replace the fact that I’ve spent most of my life imprisoned.

There’s a lot I missed out on learning. Clearly, common sense is one of those things.

All the more reason to keep myself cooped up away from everyone else—especially Rainer. If we had had sex… we’d be bonded right now. If I got myself killed, I’d get him killed.

It reinforces the walls I’ve erected. This is exactly why I’m staying away from him.

“Why did the pixies get you instead of just telling me?” I ask quietly, trying to distract myself from the harsher realities. “They didn’t need to involve you.”

Tynan shrugs coolly, and his arrogance reminds me so much of Rainer for a moment that I almost feel at ease.

“You slammed the door in their tiny little faces,” he says. “Cruel.”

His gaze locks on my bleeding arms. I stiffen, expecting him to charge me for a moment. He must notice the change in my demeanor because his fangs retreat with a slick pop . My eyes widen at the exhibit of control, and my shoulders soften just a hair.

“Oh, don’t look at me like I’m terrifying. I’m not gonna eat you.” He gives me a smug look. “Sobriety has been great for my self-control.”

“Surprisingly, you’re one of the least scary things in this realm,” I say, sighing. Especially now that I know he wasn’t losing control—he was trying to protect me.

Based on my observations of Tynan, he’s not as crazy as he portrays himself to be. Yeah, he killed Felix, but to be fair, he was drunk, hungry, and tasked with murdering the assassins who venture into his territory. It’s hard to criticize him for acting in accordance with his instincts and responsibilities.

Honestly, he’s much more like Rainer than either of them will admit.

My eyes flick to the deceased man on the bed, and I cringe. He’s slumped forward with his head hanging. A smudge on the base of his neck steals my attention.

I stride to the bed. Carefully, I lean closer to the marking.

A number identifying him as a prisoner is tattooed on the base of his neck. I’ve heard Edvin’s pals talking about it before.

This man is not from the Trade—there’s no lightning bolt marking. But his words about Queen Wyetta paying him to do her bidding make sense now. If he was imprisoned and desperate, the promise of support for his estranged family likely sounded worth the risk. He knew he would die coming here, but still, he did it.

“Have all the humans you’ve encountered had similar markings here?” I ask Tynan, pointing out the tattoo.

His smile drops, and he grips the man’s hair, yanking him forward better to see the skin at the base of his neck.

“I’m normally focused on the front of the neck, not the back.” He snickers. “I’ve seen it before, though. Yeah.” He releases the man’s hair.

I can’t suppress my surprise, and my mouth drops open. If Wyetta is sending prisoners—not actual assassins… she is sacrificing them. She must know they won’t return, which means it’s all a setup.

If there’s anything the fae have taught me, it’s that not everything is what it seems .

What trick is she pulling?

“Why is she sending prisoners?” I ask, appalled.

Tynan shrugs, rubbing his jaw.

“The Revival Fête,” I say under my breath. “We need to figure out what the announcement is.”

“No,” Tynan scratches his stomach. “I’m starving. You can figure that out. I’m going to get breakfast.”

I scowl. “It’s afternoon. And you just ate.” I point to the man.

Tynan chuckles. “That was barely an appetizer. Your greedy little shadow stopped me.”

I cringe at the reminder, not wanting to acknowledge that I’ve added more blood to my hands.

It makes me even more hesitant to see Rainer, but I need to warn him about this. Something isn’t right here. I worry Queen Wyetta is purposely provoking the fae… but why? To get us to strike first so she can have a reason to declare war?

A boulder sinks into the pit of my stomach.

Tynan clears his throat. “So, you gonna finish him?”

I recoil. “Wha—no!”

“Can I?” He licks his lips, eyeing the body.

“Absolutely not.” I glare at him.

“That’s what I figured. Hence why I’m going to get breakfast.” He waves and exits, leaving me alone with the corpse.

Great.

The darkness within me stirs, but I growl.

“Stay,” I command, balling my hands into fists as if I can keep the shadow from seeping out. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

But despite its persistence, I refuse to lose myself. I will not bow to the darkness.