Page 1 of Cursed Shadows

CHAPTER ONE

BARON

Grimreap

Shadow Realm

Three are men and one is a woman. She’s done an admirable job of hiding her body by draping herself in a gray cloak, but her female form is unmistakable. From beneath her hood, I see flashes of dark purple hair, and her hand reveals skin that is dark as night.

All are in disguise.

I can see the shadow magic weaving in and around them, shrouding them. Whoever wove the magical net is skilled; the only reason I can see through it is because I’m composed of shadow. Shadow magic animates me, it woke me from the grave.

Reveal True Form, I whisper, focused on the four of them. Instantly, the shadows scatter and only the truth remains, at least to my eyes. Their disguises remain intact to any within the tavern who care to look.

The woman is stunning. Her white hair frames a face of which I’ve yet to see an equal. I can see the lightness radiating from her and I conclude she must be fae. Or an angel, but the chances of her being an angel are slim. Yet, there’s something beyond the blazing light that surrounds her. I can see the tip of something dark, something sinister and shadowy. It makes little sense to me, and I have a hell of a time pulling my attention away from her.

Gargoyles,I say to myself as I study the two men on either side of her. Their rubbery, black wings and their immense size give them away. The third man is an elf and, as such, of less interest to me. Gargoyles, though… perhaps Crongus wasn’t as full of shit as I previously believed. And, since he mentioned a gargoyle, then isn’t it within the realm of possibility… I look backat the woman. She could easily be an angel. I can’t recall the last creature I beheld with white hair.

For some reason, though, it’s not the woman who keeps my attention now. It’s one of the gargoyles—and as I glance back at the elf across from him, I realize there’s something arresting about him, too. I’ve never laid eyes on either of them, but I feel as though I recognize them all the same. Yet when I try to place where from, I don’t have an answer.

I watch the table with curiosity, until I notice I’m not the only one. Three booths down, I recognize Ferchad, a weapons smuggler who is well known here. In typical blood-elf fashion, he’s pompous, righteous, and considers himself the biggest fish in the vile pond that is Grimreap. With him is my least favorite of his accomplices, Hendor. He’s a man so disfigured and grotesque, I can only guess at his race. But he’s large and mean, lacking the wits of his leader but able to deal twice the physical damage.

Ferchad is the type to constantly assert his dominance in a city that has little use for hierarchies. Still, there are always those weaker to exploit in whatever way possible, and Ferchad has a knack for finding them. Granted, he sometimes chooses incorrectly. He once made the mistake of coming after me, but quickly learned his lesson; now, he knows enough to leave me alone. I can’t say things are amiable between us, though we have an unspoken understanding to avoid one another. I haven’t and don’t wish to test the bonds of that tenuous arrangement.

I watch Ferchad gesture toward the two men whose faces I recognize but can’t place. Moments later, he notices the woman. Although she’s still in disguise as far as Ferchad’s concerned, she still appears as a woman—and most women in Grimreap have a price.

Ferchad walks over to the table. I can’t make out what he says, but I can tell by the tension between the strangers that he’sinsulted them. The largest one, the one whose face I can’t place, leans forward, his fists clenched tightly in front of him. Even from where I sit, I can see the vein on his forehead protruding. One of Ferchad’s cohorts returns from the bar to join the excitement, seemingly vibrating with aggressive energy.

Propping himself on his palms with his arms out straight, Ferchad leans over the table. I can sense there’s about to be a fight and I have every intention of being well on my way before Ferchad is even able to deliver the first blow.

After nearly a century as an assassin, I’ve become something of a master where unceremonious exits are concerned. Remaining unnoticed is a necessity. Thus, I slither my way around my table and covertly stick to shadow, invisible to prying eyes. I turn at the sound of a large thud to see Ferchad laid out flat on the ground. The large creature whose face I can’t place is standing over him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his arms rippling with power.

In that moment, the girl turns in my direction and looks up, directly into my eyes. I don’t know how it’s possible that she’s able to see me, but our eyes lock all the same. The seconds tick by and I find I’m incapable of pulling my gaze away from hers. I’m both dumbfounded and profoundly bothered that she can see through my shadows.

Finally, I break her gaze and glance at the door of the tavern. I need to depart now if I’m going to avoid the trouble that’s already started brewing. Yet, I find myself hesitating. I glance back at the girl and find her eyes still fixed on me.

I cannot explain why, but I approach the table where Ferchad’s just finished dusting himself off from his fall to the floor. He’s fuming, angrier than I’ve seen him in a very long time. And for good reason, he’s been made a fool of.

I have no interest in dealing with the vile man, especially since we have a fragile agreement between us, but the angel…

My interest lies where all of my interests lie: in selfishness. Everything I work toward will benefit me at a future date. And if ever there’s an opportunity that goes counter to Variant’s edicts, I’m more inclined to get involved. I hate Variant and his fucking rules.

Thus, if Variant wants to possess each and every angel, I will do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen. As a general rule, I will go to extreme lengths to ensure Variantnevergets what he wants.

I feel an inexplicable pull to the girl’s pale blue eyes, which haven’t stopped studying me. There’s knowledge in them, a wise understanding of the world and all within it. I have a strong desire to know those eyes, to see what they’ve seen, to understand what they understand. To see if they know anything about me.

Who I am… What I am…WhyI am.

Ferchad approaches the table once more. The large gargoyle made a mistake in pushing him; Grimreap is no place for power plays. Survival, for most, demands a bent head and the ability to allow things to roll off one’s shoulders. But gargoyles and elves aren’t typically the types to back down. Here, it could mean their death.

I step closer to the group and pick up Ferchad’s cold, slithering blood-elf voice from the crowd.

“You’ve made a mistake, friend,” he hisses to the gargoyle. “And it’s just cost you your lives.”

“No one will die today,friend,” the gargoyle spits back.

Immediately, something stirs within my chest and my mind. A flash of memory, like a blot of color against a canvas of gray. For the last century, there’s only been gray. My memories from before my revival have been only blank but now, something rouses me—an image from a half-remembered dream. Thestranger’s growling baritone pulls me forward, urging me to learn more.

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