Page 27 of Cursed Shadows

“Scared o’ what?” I ask but he ain’t really payin’ attention to me. He wave his hand lazily over his shoulder an’ nearly knock me over.

“Ghosts,” he say, still walkin’.

Then, as if on cue, we hear a scream right in front o’ us. It’s comin’ from beyond the street lamp an’ I can’t see nothin’, but I know someone is gettin’ their ass handed to ‘em. Then, the scream stops an’ we hear somethin’ movin’ ‘round—somethin’ big.

It growls.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BARON

Grimreap

Shadow Realm

Two days ago, I was headed to Grimreap with the sole intention of securing poisons and gathering intelligence. Due to one fateful moment of indecision, I’m now marching along the alleys of the city with five of the most wanted beings in the three realms. If I weren’t terrified that we may never get out of here unseen, I might find some humor in the situation.

As it stands, I feel for the first time (in the history of my known memory) like I have something to lose. With this knowledge of my new, or rather old, identity comes a hope I’m holding in my chest—a feeling so alien it takes more than a moment for me to identify the sensation. My lifelong need to understand the context of my resurrection fuels me forward, along the dark corridors.

Yes, I told them I work alone, and I do. I fully intended to part ways, but at the idea that I could have my memories restored to me by this Transmutation Stone of which Cambion spoke, I decide to stay. At least, until he creates the stone and we learn whether my memories can be made available to me…

Venturing out at night in the city is something I try to avoid. There’s no such thing as superstition and lore in Grimreap—there’s only truth. And that truth’s a monstrous one. Grimreap is, indeed, a city of ghosts. In this place of dread, countless dead men walk, dragging their crude weapons through the shadows and looking for mortals to challenge their territory.

At night, Grimreap is silent—eerily windless, like the breathless undead. Its stillness feels sinister, almost mocking—its preternaturalness rising out of an apparent resentment of the life it lost. The battle that was fought here is the most infamousin the Great War’s history. A century ago, beings from the three realms perished here as they fought against one another. We were a land divided—some wanting the balance the three kings promised, others swayed by Variant’s propaganda, believing they would benefit from a single leader. The three kings were forced back and Variant and his followers took control not only of Grimreap, but of the entire Shadow Realm.

Because Variant is a creature of light and, therefore, can’t exist in the Shadow Realm for long, he gifted the realm to the King of the Unseelie, Theren. And Theren’s nothing more than Variant’s flunky, who does whatever the bastard tells him to.

What a sad day it was when the three kings failed.

And you were once one of those kings,I remind myself.

That is, if I believe the stories the strangers tell.

And I’m not convinced I do. I don’t trust them. Perhaps I trust the angel. But only because I’ve seen her wings and witnessed the vision that passed between the two of us. What she revealed to me was as true as I can remember.

I wonder why she didn’t mention the woman’s voice,I think to myself.Why didn’t she tell the others?I have no answer, so I don’t ponder the question long. Instead, I allow my shadows to radiate around me, detecting my surroundings, trying to determine where the threats lay ahead and around us. I’m more than sure Dragan is doing the same, as he’s extremely quiet.

Being undead, though, I’m even more perceptive at detecting my shadow kin’s presence. Faint whispers, voices from another time, barely audible memories travel across the still air and it appears I’m the only one to hear them. I doubt the others are aware of just how many spirits linger outside light’s reach. What’s more, I doubt they realize all such spirits are unfriendly.

I lead our group through the weaving alleyways of the city with more confidence than I feel. When I enter a cold patch of air, I turn a different direction. When I sense a creature nearby,I double back. Mercifully, our journey moves us forward with relative ease, and I’m even starting to believe we have luck on our side. My focus is so intense I barely hear the thin, almost metallic buzzing of the small sprite near my ear. Barely, yet I hear it all the same.

The sound of his wings distracts me, as do his questions. Still, the answers are important, because all of them should understand what they’re up against. Their reaction to the manticore made me realize they have no real idea where we are. Well, the gargoyle might; he’s a creature of shadow as I am. Yet, he hasn’t seen the true darkness I have. He hasn’t been to the other side. None of them understands this darkness—it’s an emptiness that encapsulates me, that drives me, that eats me. It’s an emptiness that defines me.

When I think of their frightened reactions to the manticore, I want to laugh—and then I want to shake sense into them, to make them understand. Therearecreatures here that are truly worthy of their fear, and manticores aren’t among them.

When the sprite begins driveling on about some inane subject, I swat at him without even thinking. I’m desperately trying to get a better sense of our surroundings, but I’ve lost my perception. I realize my mistake too late—we’ve come to a section of road we can’t cross and immediately in front of us, we hear a terrified scream. It’s a ghastly, dry voice—more than death, but less than life.

The problem with haunted cities is that it’s impossible to tell if experiences are currently happening, or if the sounds on the wind are just lost souls cursed to replay the moment of their death for all eternity. I assume we’re hearing the sound of a woman meeting her fate, perhaps hundreds of years ago. I’m forced to wonder what killed her, and more, if her attacker possesses the strength to cross from the spirit world into this one. I sorely hope not.

Grimreap is a city born from ashes and death lingers in every doorway, every crossing, and every alley. The undead are never far beneath the surface, here, though few are afraid to cross the boundary into the land of the living.

A low growl makes me stop in my tracks; my legs tense and my ears strain toward the sound. Something large is moving in front of us, but even with myDarkvision, I can’t define what we’re dealing with.There’s a thud, then the sound of something being dragged, followed by another thud. Whatever it is, it’s coming closer.

Finally, our visitor steps into the flickering light of the torch and I breathe a sigh of relief that it’s not something more intimidating. A gaunt creature—thebone devilis nearly skeletal, with muscular atrophy—stands before us on all fours. It’s a devil, but the flesh of its body is nearly gone, leaving only bone and making it look as though it’s completely white. Its jaw is unhinged, revealing a mouth filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth. Its head is comprised of long, pointed horns. The same horns follow the length of its spine, ending in a tail that’s perhaps five feet long.

The sprite starts crying from the angel’s lap and, fairly soon, his cries become wails.

Thebone devilstumbles forward, its pointed, bony tail scraping the old, worn cobbles of the alley. Its limp causes it to stagger, and it growls again, this time brandishing its tail above its head. I crouch, dagger drawn and prepared to fight when, suddenly, a prismatic bolt of multicolored rays shoots out from behind me.

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