Chapter 3

The Shadow Master

The silver chain around her neck is cold against my wrist. I grip it tight, feeling it dig into my skin as I watch her sleep. I sit here for hours, utterly still and mesmerised, until the sun begins to rise. The rain hammers down outside. It's peaceful. Just that and the soft and steady sound of her breathing. So calm.

Her eyes dance behind her closed lids, and she twitches a little. But Archie's blood has given her a brief high and hopefully quietened her mind.

My shadows stir. A darkness that lives and breathes. A hundred souls all merged into a twisted power. And all of it is focused on her.

My little poppet doll.

My other hand has her miniature form made from straw, clay and her blood. I hold it gently, fighting the urge to take control of it.

Control of her.

I could make her sit. Kneel. Roll over and widen her legs.

I could refuse to let her move a muscle unless I wanted her to. Make her rest her hand on my chest and look up at me as she did when she first discovered what I was.

No other looked at me with such wonder when they discovered I was a Shadow Master. They all ran in terror, fainted or pleaded for mercy.

Or I took their souls for my own.

Not her. She called me beautiful.

Such a strange little witch.

But I won't take control of her.

The shadows want me to. They want her to yield and forgive. They want her to be our poppet doll again. Our plaything to control and own.

I want that, too.

But I want her to want it. To beg for it. Then, she can know how it feels to be refused. To be teased and denied.

Watching her drown in this pointless pit of anger and self-pity is infuriating.

But I know it's a pit we pushed her into.

My fingernails dig into my palms as the shadows shift, spreading out towards her like a veil of death.

‘Quiet,' I warn them, the room trembling at my words. ‘She's mine. Not yours.'

They retreat, sinking back into me.

They crave her as much as I do. They want her darkness to join theirs. And she has such delicious darkness in her. It was always there, but deep inside, lost to all that light she has. Her connection to her earth magic outshone the blood magic, and that's what we need to get her connected to again.

If I kill her with my shadows, her soul would be mine forever. Mine to wield. To own. To command.

Tempting.

I manipulate the little doll I made of her so she rolls over to face me. Her lips part, and her lashes flutter.

She is mine. I own her. Just as much as she owns me, and that makes me want to crush this damn doll and sever that connection for good.

I could.

Just kill her and be done with this. We lived without the blood of a blood witch for decades. And Neve is still out there. The only other blood witch left alive.

Now, her I could lock up in a pit and drain for the rest of time. I would thoroughly enjoy watching her suffer.

Images of Neve writhing in pain, down in the depths of our cells, make me smile. I would gladly unleash my shadows on her. Watch them twist and break and tear her apart from the inside out.

Ashe whimpers.

I've gripped her doll too hard. I've crushed her, just as I do in her dreams when I place those stones on her body.

I drop the poppet.

She has no fucking right to make me feel like this!

A blood witch. That's what she is.

Nothing but a blood witch.

I'm a demi-god. I'm darkness and death.

She should run in terror at my mere presence.

The rage swimming in my heart disappears as she lets out a little whimper.

She didn't run from me.

She was the only one who didn't.

That glint in her eye when she heard what I was lives with me. Her smile and questions. Asking if I am happier here than I was before. Calling me beautiful.

Perhaps she saw herself in me. She lived with the shadows, too. With the souls in the mirrors. With the spirits lurking in the shadows.

I sigh deeply, my entire body sagging under the weight of the truth.

I can talk about killing her all day and all night. But I know I won't.

I'm totally and utterly obsessed with her.

I'm in love with her.

She's the air I fucking breathe, and I would rather live in a world where she hates me than live in a world without her.

I lean down to pick up the poppet, the soft, silver hair brushing against my fingers as I collect it.

And when I lift my head, Ashe, my real poppet doll, is sitting up.

Completely sober, and her narrowed eyes, full of wrath, staring right into my soul.