Page 58 of Cursed Shadows 5

Just that one niggle, and I understand.

My lashes lower. “I cannot be bargained into reproducing for your bloodline. No matter the protection you have offered me, the help you have given, or the monies I might need—I will not do that.”

Melantha’s mouth twists, bitter.

And so I know I read her correctly.

“Daxeel has spoken very little since he has woken,” Melantha tells me, her tone as dark as her eyes that level me, “and in that silence, so much is said. He is at battle within himself, in a quiet soul. If I am to convince my son to reproduce now, before he leaves for the risk of the other world, then it can only be done with you.”

Sometimes I am selfish, yes. And this is one of those times.

I am sorry, my Eamon, but—

“If the duty lies with Eamon, then you must pursue it with him. Not me.”

With that, I take a curt step back and incline my head in a swift dip, then I leave her on the street.

11

DAXEEL

††††††

Daxeel finds himself here often but always in the Quiet, whether the beginning, the middle or the end, he finds himself wandering to the lane across the street, where he stands a while.

The time of a phase can be sniffed out in the air of Cheapside: The stone beneath his boots is damp and not yet rinsed; the water in the fountains has grown a film of algae and bird filth; the blind hour between the last fragrance of the bakery and the first baked dough of the new phase means that the air is devoid of the fresh scent; the sugary stink of the sweetshop takes over, and it's enough to crinkle Daxeel’s nose in the shadows.

At the mouth of the lane that leads to the rear of a butchers, he stands. Just stands, in the thickest pockets of darkness.

Worse than the sugar, the stench of low-grade meat ruins the air around him, burns his nostrils and twists his mouth with a touch of disgust.

If he let his mind be stolen by the nostalgia of the stink, he would be deep in memories of the barracks, where mediocre cuts of meat meant a good phase, a time he would have been pleased to smell such fatty, farmed flesh when everyone knows the best cuts are wild caught.

But those memories, times of the barracks, they don’t touch him. Instead, his thoughts are swarmed with other memories.

Of her.

Only her.

The shadows melt him into darkness, where he once belonged; now, there is an edge of separation, as though the Cursed Shadows are licking at him, trying to lure him back into their fold, merge together once more. It shrouds him in the dark, and yet the blue of his eyes are faint lights she might see if she bothers to look out the window.

She doesn’t.

Nari has her back to it, the window, the street… her watcher.

Her hands are lifted to her head, her fingers firm on her temples, and she massages them as if to soothe away a headache or the stress of her chosen life.

A life that doesn’t include him.

Daxeel’s mouth tugs with a frown.

Nari turns her cheek.

Daxeel studies the profile of her features. His eyes graze the curve of her nose, then the pout of her puckered lips before brushing over the arch of her soft neck. His gaze is a caress, one that aches his chest with that thumping hollow feeling he’s grown too used to, one he thought—hoped–would vanish with the bond.

Nari drops her hands to her sides. The tension in her shoulders loosens before a small grin tugs at her perfect mouth.

His insides constrict.

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