Page 87 of Shadebound
“I can’t believe I did it.” She grinned as her fingers hovered above the glass. “Who are you?”
There was no sound in reply, but something moved inside the crystal again. Candlelight wobbled as a faint shape—like a face, half-formed and swimming—rose just beneath the surface, then vanished.
Eris’s mouth dropped open. Then she whispered, breath catching on the words, “Wait. You’re Jinx’s sister?” Nothing answered her. But her whole posture shifted—tension snapping through her spine like a rod had been threaded into her back. “Jezebel. Oh my god. You’re Jezebel Draconis.”
She slapped both hands over her mouth instantly, like she’d just committed a federal offense by speaking the name aloud. For a second, she just sat there breathing into her palms. Shoulders tight, eyes wide, legs drawn up like a terrified possum. Then—slowly—she dropped her hands and leant forward again, voice shaking.
“I—I’m not trying to bother you. I swear. I just—what you said earlier. In the mirror. About Jinx. You said someone was coming for her. That someone was here.” Her voice cracked at the end. She clutched the sphere between her knees, eyes locked on whatever faint light still flickered within it.
“Can you tell me who the killer is?” she whispered. “I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t know what to do with that. ‘The killer is here’ isn’t— it’s not very helpful information, if I’m honest.” She paused. “Unless you mean, like... physically here. In the tunnels. In which case I—I would like to leave. Immediately.”
The sphere sparked. A sharp, hot flash of white light. One of the candles blew out with a pop. She jumped.
“I’m sorry! I wasn’t being rude. You’re dead. I get it. You’re doing your best.” The glow inside the sphere pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then her back snapped taut like a wire had been yanked. Her eyes rolled up. Her mouth opened, breath catching in her throat as the magic flared around her. For a moment, she hovered—caught between something too big and too broken to hold. Then the candles all died.
And she collapsed.
I moved before the last flame went out. She was curled slightly on her side, limbs loose, hair sticking to her cheek. The sphere rolled a few inches away, its glow guttering to nothing. Her breathing was shallow. Her pulse fluttered under my fingers—too quick, but steady.
Not dead. Just stupid.
Too much magic, too little training. No shielding. No clue what she’d tapped into. It was a miracle she hadn’t burned a hole through the floor or summoned something worse.
I wrapped the crystal in the scarf tangled in her bag, shoved the rest of her supplies inside, and pulled the cord tight. She didn’t even twitch when I lifted her.
She weighed less than I expected. Carrying her was easier than the bags of supplies I lifted all day in my usual job.
I didn’t say anything as I walked. Didn’t make a sound. Just retraced her steps, taking care to avoid the squeaky tile and the cracked stairwell ledge.
Her dorm was still empty when I slipped inside. I laid her on the bed, pulled the blanket over her legs like I’d done it before. Set the bag gently on the floor. Placed the sphere on the windowsill so it could catch the fake moonlight—if ghosts liked that sort of thing.
She didn’t stir. But she wasn’t dead. I had done enough.
I stood there for a long moment, just looking at her face. She looked young like this. Younger than she acted. Small. Fragile in that way people who didn’t expect to die usually were. She had no business dragging herself into whatever mess was unfolding at this school. But she’d done it anyway. Because the dead had whispered. And because no one had warned her not to listen.
I slipped out the door and let it shut behind me with barely a click. The hallway was quiet. The shadows familiar enough for me to sink into.
I didn’t know what Jezebel Draconis had said to her. But I knew what it meant. Knew the only reason that Jezebel would try so hard to warn someone.
Someone was here for my dark delight. Someone vicious and unkind.
And I’d be damned if they got to her first.
Field Journal — Entry #583 - Classified
We’re built with sharp edges. Survival demands it. But even blades crave warmth. Shadebounds know the weight of silence after violence—the hush that follows cruelty like fog. Sometimes we’re the storm. Sometimes we’re the shelter.
It’s not contradiction. It’s balance. The same hands that break can hold. The same heart that burns can still ache. We don’t apologise for what we are.
We just hope someone sees the softness under the ash.
Chapter Twenty Seven, My Precious
