Chapter 2

CHAPTER2

Callan stared at his hand.

Three rings. Myth had taken three rings from him. The one with the large “ruby,” the simple silver one, and the one with the small sapphires set along the entire band.

His hand looked a little empty without them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his hand bare like this. Before he’d been with Athan, surely.

No, that couldn’t be right. The ring on his pinky had been a gift from Athan, and he’d acquired the sapphire one after that.

It would have been more convenient if Myth had taken Athan’s ring.

Callan had expected Myth to take only one ring. His desire for the jewelry had been very loud, but those desires had been banked, too. Like somebody who didn’t allow himself to want, not really.

Strange way of it, for a thief.

The morning sun peeked through the shutters and made its way across the room, until the rays landed across the bed and highlighted Callan’s mostly-bare hand. Athan’s ring hummed warmly, and the damned phoenix feather in his chest pulsed in return.

If not for the feather, he’d have fallen into the shadows and chased after Myth already.

Unfortunately, between the very nice sex, the morning sun, and the feather, Callan was simply tired.

It was strange to need to rest. Callan hadn’t felt this mortal in a long time. The shadows still called to him, and they’d obeyed him in the pitch of night, but they no longer came to him as easily as they once did. This pitiful amount of sunlight shouldn’t have hampered him as much as it did.

“I bet you’re happy,” Callan said to the feather, rather sarcastically. Fucking Athan.

It wasn’t enough that Athan had ruined his plans. He’d forced his feather inside Callan, just to cripple him. To force Callan into the light.

Athan really was a bad lay, too.

Not at all like the thief from last night, who’d wanted so badly but couldn’t let himself give in. Those were always the more interesting ones. The hunger, the desires, locked away and begging to be allowed to blossom into something filthy and oozing and beautiful.

You didn’t get the amulet.

Callan grimaced against the acid voice inside him. “I didn’t.”

My patience is growing thin, Callan’s master growled. My powers are wasted on you.

They were wasted on everyone, Callan thought, thinking of the rancid, corrosive touch of his master’s magic. Underneath that, everybody was nothing but waste and refuse, taken apart and put back together better.

Put back together stronger.

“Take them back, then,” Callan muttered, and on his next breath his chest filled with acid. It ate away at him, taking bits of pieces of him and leaving them behind as the blackest sludge.

Callan cried out in agony as the acid coursed through him and eroded his body. Flesh and bone that hadn’t been solid for centuries was reduced to black sludge. He was nothing but refuse, the tar that clung to the bottom of a person’s shoe.

He was the shadow nobody noticed, always following, always ready to devour.

His master’s power broke Callan down, each moment pure agony. Callan panted without lungs, sobbed without eyes.

Only the area around the phoenix feather remained as before.

Not clean, not pure. No, Callan had never been either of those things. But his master couldn’t touch the feather any more than Callan could.

His master hissed at the feather’s protective warmth before pulling away entirely, draining out of Callan and leaving only rot behind.

Find it!Find the amulet! Bring the thief too. I’ll devour his blood as I should have devoured the bitch who sealed me.

“Yes, Master,” Callan said, pulling his form back together and finally sitting up from the bed.

He made sure to stay in the shadowy parts of the room while he straightened his clothes. There was a bowl of water in one corner for morning ablutions, and although Callan didn’t need to clean himself, he splashed water on his face anyway.

The water was dark enough that Callan was able to see his reflection in it. It was the same face he’d had since he’d tied himself to his master, all those hundreds of years ago. He’d changed his hair a little, to match the modern styles, and of course his eyes were no longer the blue they’d once been.

Still, not bad for a being his age. He barely looked a day over forty.

He was the same, yet he was not. Ground down, remade, destroyed and built up again.

He was still admiring his reflection when he felt the footsteps on the shadows. A moment later, the door swung open.

“Oh! Apologies, milord. I didn’t realize…” the barmaid from last night said.

Callan straightened and turned to face her, smiling. “No worries.”

She eyed him warily, but she remembered the coin he’d given her, too. She wanted more. She wanted—

Callan met her eyes, diving into the darkness of her pupils. She whimpered but didn’t move, frozen in place while Callan searched the depths of her.

She wanted to escape. She wanted to be free. She wanted to be safe.

Above all else, she wanted to be left alone. No more men groping her. No more father who whored her out. No more mother who beat her.

It would be trivial to consume her. Callan would give her what she wanted, and lock her in a dark room where she’d have all the solitude she’d ever wanted.

Callan closed in on her, placing his hands on her jaw and tilting her head up. She licked her lips, wanting him and recoiling from him all at once.

“Where did the little thief go?” Callan asked in a whisper.

The question startled her out of her trance, and she stumbled away from him. For a few seconds, she panted through her fear, clutching at her heart.

“The… the thief?” she asked, her voice hollow.

“The man I was with last night. Surely you remember him. Priyanese. Small, pretty, shoulder length hair?” Callan smirked at her. “Or were you so busy taking my coin you saw nothing else?”

“No, I…” She shook her head. “He left before dawn. I dunno where he went. But… I heard him asking about sorcerers yesterday. There’s only one in the area.”

A sorcerer around these parts… Callan chuckled to himself. There really was only one in the area.

“I guess that solves my problem,” Callan said to the barmaid, sliding closer to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she shuddered. “By the way. Your father is very, very drunk right now. It would be trivial to slide a knife through his ribs. And if you dropped that knife into a dark, shadowy corner… it’s unlikely anybody would ever find it again.”

Her eyes widened, and her lips trembled. “I… I can’t…”

Callan trailed his fingers along her neck. “It’s easy. I can help you. You’d never need to deal with him ever again. And your mother… she wouldn’t know. Not for sure. But she would wonder. She’ll have nightmares of joining your father’s fate.”

The barmaid shook her head, but it was a feeble protest. She didn’t even flinch when Callan stepped into her shadow and wrapped his tendrils around her wrist.

He pulled her down, down, into the dark of the shadows. It was only for a second, just to the other room. Barely enough time to gasp. But when they resurfaced, the barmaid was panting and leaning into him.

Callan placed the knife into her hand. It was the same knife she used to cleave meat in the kitchen, edges a bit jagged from constant use.

“There you go,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing to her passed-out father.

She looked between her father and the knife. Her hand shook.

If she wanted to, she could still leave, of course. Callan wouldn’t force her hand.

But she didn’t leave. She walked the few steps from the shadowed doorway to her father’s bed, and she leaned over the man who still reeked of last night’s alcohol.

“You deserve this,” she whispered, and plunged the knife into his chest.

Blood gushed out, splattering all over the barmaid’s hand. A few drops reached her face.

The man tried to scream, but Callan wrapped a shadow around his throat and kept his voice from escaping. The man was left flopping around like a fish on land, until his last dying, gasping breath.

The room was so full now. The barmaid’s hunger, expanding outward. Sated, but not. Awoken, crying out for more. Callan drank it down, filling the empty spots inside himself and sighing in satisfaction.

Better than any meal.

Not better than sex with a desperate, hungry little thief. But close. Enough to lift some of the exhaustion.

The barmaid stumbled back from her father, knuckles white around the bloodied knife. “Oh. He’s dead.”

“Yes,” Callan answered, sliding closer to her.

She turned to look at him. “That was easy.” She sounded surprised.

Callan extended a dark tendril to her. “Give me the knife. Nobody will know it was you.”

She looked down at the knife, and for a few seconds, Callan thought she might keep it as a memento. When she finally dropped it into him, Callan could feel how she already missed it.

“What if it happens again?” she asked once her hands were empty. “What if another man—”

Callan grinned widely. “You know what. It’s easy, after all.” He covered her hands in dark and removed every last drop of blood. Then he leaned closer and licked a lone drop of red from her cheek. “It’s easy, and it feels good. They deserve it.”

“They deserve it,” she repeated with conviction. She met his eyes, and for the first time since Callan had laid eyes on her—for the first time in years—she smiled. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Callan laughed and dropped into the shadows once more.

* * *

Callan could have gone straightto the sorcerer’s atelier, but he went to the markets instead. He was forced to walk, the sun out in full force and angled in such a way that the main road sustained no unbroken shadows.

The walk wasn’t unpleasant. Everybody always assumed that Callan despised the light. It weakened him, but he’d never found a single light that didn’t cast equally large shadows. Even if the shadows weren’t always where he wanted them to be.

The main market street had stalls all along the curb selling everything from food to clothes to trinkets. Callan wandered a little aimlessly, ducking into shaded areas to browse wares, until he finally spotted what he wanted.

A jeweler.

The man tending the stall beamed at him. “How can I help you, sir? Looking for a fine gift for your beloved? Or…” He noticed the rings on Callan’s fingers, “perhaps something new for the sir himself?”

Callan held up his hands to look at them. Seven rings on one hand, and only two on the other. They’d been uneven even before Myth had taken three.

“For myself. Show me the fanciest rings you have.”

The merchant was more than happy to bring out the expensive wares, eager to make the sales.

“My lord has very fine tastes,” the merchant said. He pointed to one ring with a shining dark stone. “Onyx, from Tewatika across the sea. They say it was stolen from the royal vaults by a young thief—”

Callan was already laughing. “Yes. I want that one for sure.” His eyes caught on a ring with a deep orange garnet. “What about that? What story does it have?”

The merchant was confused, but didn’t question the sale. “Um… Garnet. The ring itself once belonged to a princess in one of the cold southern kingdoms. To prevent her fingers from freezing in the dark winter nights, she had a stone enchanted with a fire to keep her warm.”

Callan shook his head. “No, that’s the wrong story. Just the onyx ring, then.” He handed the merchant several gold coins and pocketed the ring before the merchant could think to complain.

The onyx ring looked good next to the pearl one Athan had given him. But his hand was still too bare.

Time for something a little more colorful. After he met Myth and divested him of that amulet he didn’t want but couldn’t part with, Callan would get a full set.