Page 2 of Shadebound
“Want a cup of tea while you pace yourself into an early grave?” I asked my father dryly. “Or perhaps some new shoes to wear when you’ve put holes in those?”
Father ignored me. I wanted to smite him for it.
Ididn’t. My hand even twitched. But love was a hideous leash.
Though my emotions were... different, bordering on the morbid little goth girl levels. I still felt the usual mortal ones. Like love, fear ordisgust. I was a dead girl walking, and one would have presumed it gave special benefits. Like not having to force tea down my throat to be polite. Or listen to a man pretendhe didn’t know his daughter was a vicious criminal. But spoiler: it did not.
I wasstilldrinking tea. Still listening to obnoxious pacing. And still wondering if my execution date could come faster. Or if my father knew he had denial down to an art form that even Caravaggio would have admired.
Another bitter sip went down my throat when the world shifted. Quietly at first. Like snow falling. The air clung to my grey-paled skin as I stiffened. A low tremor hummed beneath the cherry floorboards, rattling the candle stubs on the windowsills opposite. My black pleated skirt tickled the tops of my bare thighs.
A human would have thought they imagined it. But I knew better. I knewthathum. That breathless, bone-deep static that came before Death knocked.
He was calling me again. This time, at least, I knew what for. Even before he whispered in my head,Your judgement is coming. Prepare yourself.
Foot tapping against the ground, I looked at the stained-glass windows. My reflection was paler than normal. My face split by shadow.
The dustless lounge smelt of burnt herbs and fireplace ash. The glass jars along the high stone shelves shimmered faintly—bones, beetles, and sprigs of wolfsbane catching what little moonlight flickered inside. Books with cracked spines slumped across every surface—one shelf for my mother’s grimoires alone. A row of foxgloves hung upside down above the fireplace, their purple petals dried to brittle curls in just the way my mother liked them. It was home. And the last place I’d see as a free woman.
It was also not the source of Death. He was still not making himself truly known beyond my thoughts.
Aggravating bastard.
I swore I heard a chuckle as my father continued to pace in the far corner of the room. His striped suit clung to his tall frame; the charcoal fabric was impeccably pressed. A cane tapped softly against the floor in his clenched left hand, catching my attention from my search. I narrowed my gaze.
“You really are going to put a hole in the floor,” I muttered. “Mother is going to be mad at you. That’s original hardwood.”
The words came out sharp, but beneath them was a silent plea:say something, look at me, remind me I’m still yours.
He didn’t look at me. Instead, he continued his restless strides as his tanned skin glowed. Too alive for someone who fed on the dead with pointed teeth designed just for tearing flesh.
Tight curls of inky hair framed his face. Not quite long enough to hide his frown as he looked at his bloody watch. For the last few hours, he’d checked it again and again.
“Really, father. I think you’re worrying about nothing.” My teacup trembled slightly in my hand. “We both know what is coming. I made my peace with it the second I had to quit my job and hide in the house to avoid the mobs with their pitchforks. Why haven’t you?”
The pipe between his lips had long gone out. He still hadn’t said a word. Or looked at me.
I was starting to get offended.
The magic I’d sensed announced itself before my mouth could open again, as if it was waiting for my doubt to bloom just wide enough for it to slip through.
It shimmered into reality like frost creeping across a windowpane. Gradually forming a globe of cold, white light. Lilac smoke spilt from its centre in delicate spirals, curling outward like petals blooming in reverse. The glow lit up the lounge, casting long, unusual shadows as ash blew from the fireplace.
My father hissed, baring his fangs as though he could incite fear into an inanimate magical orb.
I didn’t flinch. Of course I didn’t. I merely raised my drink to my lips and took another sip, the teacup warm against my fingers. A small crack now formed in the side.
I’d known this moment was coming. Death never missed his appointments.
Inever expected to get away with such a crime.
The voice that followed the light was not human. It was ancient and as smooth as obsidian. But far sharper than a rock could hope to be.
“Jinx Draconis.” My father got impossibly still as we listened. “For thirteen cases of torture, kidnapping, and murder, the great court of Mortavia has found your sentence.” A pause, not long enough for me to breathe, then, “A jury of your peers has found you guilty on all counts.”
I did not breathe at all then. I just cosplayed the corpse I wished I was.
My father seemed to join me as the haunting voice carried on talking through the ringing in my ears.
