Page 112 of Shadowlands Omega

“Don’t!” She slaps a hand over his mouth.

“You can’t be serious,” he whispers again, pulling away. “You really fancy him that much?”

“Fancy him? What are we, five years old? And shhh! Keep your voice down.”

“What are you talking about? He can’t hear us.”

“If you keep talking about my drawings, I will light your hair on fire.”

“If you try, I’ll slap you upside the head.”

“You do, and you will lose yours.” I don’t look up from my wardrobe, where I’m putting on the pretense of sorting through identical cloaks.

“Ancestors, he can hear us.” Cyprus continues to whisper.

I can’t help the twitch of my lips. I know her brother would never hurt her and that he’s joking, but I don’t much like the threat. I turn to face them and he turns to face me, his shoulders slightly sagged in his defeat. It’s my triumph and I can feel my own shoulders roll back, but that’s not the only reason. I abandon my fake cloak project and prowl forward. Couches and divans litter the space like unwanted clutter. I’ve never liked them and the only reason I don’t get rid of them all now is because I can imagine fucking Kiandah on each of them.

Kiandah hasn’t smiled. She doesn’t laugh. There is no levity in her movements, only panic. She’s got her hands in the bookcase and is feverishly trying to smash books over the scrolls to cover them.

“I can hear you just fine. Your words. Your breath. The shifting of your feet on the floor. Your pulse, how it races.”

I inhale deeply and the skin across my many wounds stretches, even though I’m on my way to being fully healed — as fully healed as scratches and bites delivered by the undead ever will be. Scars still decorate my sides from my first confrontation with them on the North Island. And I still bear scars on my back from the whip. But I have no feelings about my scars, those from the whip especially. I do not worry if they are revolting or beautiful. They are as they are. And Kiandah holds them in reverence.

I pull my arms behind my back and clasp my hands together, letting my unbuttoned shirt fan open across my chest. The blood is surging through my body. I feel like a beast on the hunt. “What did you draw, Kiandah?”

Kiandah curses. Her brother starts. He tries to whisper to her again, a fact I find amusing. “Just show him. What’s the big deal? You drew them long before you ever started to…fancy him,” her brother spits, looking even more defeated at the prospect of his sister fancying anyone, let alone prepared to marry…

I chuckle darkly. “Kiandah, I will not be upset. Show me. What evil things did you draw and write about me? What hateful images did you use?”

She hesitates, then looks at me and I can see the very faint traces of a blush in her dark brown cheeks. She shakes her head no.

I feel sorry that she is so worried, but there is nothing she could have in there that would deter me from loving her with every ounce of my beastly heart. Whatever she drew and once thought of me, I will change her mind if I have not already.

“Kiandah, my love…” She melts a little more. “Why don’t you just make this easier on everyone and hand them over? I’d hate to have to wait until you were asleep. I’m sure your lovely drawings would be better revealed in the daylight.”

She pulls them from the bookcase slowly and clutches them to her chest. When I snatch at them, she twists away, like she might use her body to keep them from me. “A human shield is not an effective shield. Arrows, like bullets, pass through easily.”

“You going to shoot me, Yaron?” she bites. There is defeat in her tone. Fire there, too. I am a reach away from grabbing and punishing her properly, as is her due.

“I would rather shoot myself, Kiandah. But I will see those sketches.”

She groans, her head falling back on her neck. She drops her scroll and lifts her head up, shoulders back. She slaps Cyprus in the chest with her artwork and snaps, “Cyprus, could you not have been a little more careful?”

He guffaws, truly sounding like a younger brother, and throws out his arms. “What is the big deal, Kia? They’re just drawings. You did most of them a million years ago, anyway.”

“Hand them over, Kiandah.” I lift my hand towards her. “Do not fear. I won’t be angry. No matter the contents.”

Her lower lip juts like she’ll say something, but eventually she sighs and slaps the scroll into my palm. I take the crumpled papers, my heart beating with surprising urgency in my chest as I retreat to the closest ceiling-to-floor window, through which the entirety of Orias is visible. I unfurl the scroll and stare down at the first drawing.

I frown. The drawing is of a man. Not me, but an older male. He’s mid-draught of a pint of ale and the depiction is so realistic, I can feel the condensation of the cool beverage on the side of the flagon and I can smell the sweat wafting from his skin. I can read his exhaustion in the lifelines running across his palms. I set the page aside on the wide window ledge and paw through the next pages, finding various depictions of townspeople mid-activity in various sizes and shapes but all impeccably drawn.

“These are impressive, Kiandah. You have incredible talent…” My voice trails off.

“What are you looking at him like that for?” her brother grumbles, but Kiandah says nothing to me or to him. She’s been waiting for me to arrive at this page.

I flip to the next and the next…and the next and the next. I move them aside, setting them down one by one, but the sheets are stacking up. Some slip onto the floor and I let them scatter. They’re all the same. No, they’re all different, but the subject matter isn’t. They’re all me. Over years. Years and years of drawings of me. Some are scenes that are plausible. Me, speaking to the shadow people. Me, in the village. Me, once as she saw me in the halls of the castle.

But many are clearly visions found only in her thoughts. Me, shirtless in the bath. Me, spinning her close to my chest on an empty dance floor. Me, staring down at her face, the grey at my temples accentuated in lighter shades of charcoal so that it matches the color of my eyes. Me, me, me, me, me, me me mememememememe.

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