Page 65 of Shades of Silver City

Tasia,

I didn’t want to wake you. This soup and tea should help your throat. Please continue to rest and make yourself at home. The bag on the floor is also yours. I hope I got the right supplies.

Be back soon,

Archer.

P.S. The chicken is for Scathe.

My stomach flutters, and my lips stretch into a smile. Not only did he notice I wasn’t feeling well, but he cared enough to send me something to help. I don’t remember the last time anyone went out of their way to make me feel better.

My eyes linger curiously on the cloth bag sitting beside the island. I hadn’t noticed it at first. Giddy excitement bubbles up.

“Your daddy is secretly a good guy, huh?” I ask the dog, my smile still firmly in place. “He can be an asshole, but I think he’s a secret softie.”

The Phantom is definitely nothing more than a persona. Each day that I see more and more of the real Archer, the better I understand his soul-shade.

“You better not tell him I said that,” I tease Scathe.

He whines, which I interpret as a sign of agreement.

I hum to myself as I pull out the items in the bag —a container of soup, a cup of tea, two salads, and a plate of chicken and rice. Everything’s in sealed, unmarked beige containers. Biodegradable by the looks of it.

Opening the soup, I take a big inhale, and my mouth waters. It smells divine—some sort of veggie-and-herb medley. Scathe whines loudly, pawing at my leg.

“Oh, you’re hungry?” I ask him in a soft voice.

He sits back and releases a single yelp.

Holding up the chicken plate, I ask, “Is this supposed to be for you?”

Panting with excitement, he does a little tapping dance with his front paws and spins around in circles.

The chicken appears to be unseasoned. It’s cut into small bites and rests on a bed of white rice with some plain, steamed broccoli and carrots on the side.

“Enjoy,” I tell him as I set the plate on the floor.

Scathe licks my hand, then turns his attention to the meal, devouring the food with gusto. I follow suit, drinking my tea and slurping my soup without hesitation.

Once I’m full, I turn my attention back to the cloth bag, eager to see what Archer dropped off. Probably clothes or something.

When I open the velcro closure and peer inside, I choke on my spit. “What the hell?”

My eyes widen as I pull out the items.

A twenty-four pack of colored pencils. A box of crayons. Two good-sized sketch pads—the exact textured, heavyweight paper I prefer to use. Blending tools in different sizes and shapes: tortillons and color shapers and kneaded rubber.

And a pack of a hundred high-quality oil pastels in a heavy wooden box.

A feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced zips through me. Gratitude. Awe. Surrender.

Clutching the heavy box of pastels to my chest, I squeal and bounce on my feet like an excited child. Scathe keeps me company as I set up on the floor and dive right in.

Gods dammit. Archer is really living up that gold soul-shade of his. That might be worse than him being a savage, selfish gangster, because his goodness gives me a sense of hope I haven’t had in a long time. And with hope comes the ability to get hurt.

Something tells me that Archer Acciai is way out of my league.

Prohibition of Fae and Magic

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