Page 614 of Shadowblood Souls
Thief of Silver and Souls (Rites of Possession #1)
What if it takes a monster to save a kingdom?
I'll never forget the sight of my little sister's lifeless body—or that my rogue magic killed her.
Sorcery like mine is punishable by death. So I live in the shadows, stealing from the corrupt to give to the needy. Maybe a little good can wash the blood from my hands.
It seems like a decent plan... until I try to help a dying noblewoman and somehow steal her soul instead.
Now her ghost is demanding I take up the quest that got her killed: exposing a conspiracy at the royal college to unleash a deadly power on the entire kingdom.
Do I want to infiltrate the cutthroat world of haughty elites? Gods, no. But if I can save the kingdom, I could save my own soul too.
So I'll pose as a refined lady, attending their classes and fancy balls, sneaking and spying like I learned on the streets. But I can't tackle this threat alone. I'll need to win the trust of the dead woman's allies: four arrogant noblemen.
Four damaged yet dangerously enticing men. No matter what they stir in my heart, I can't afford to let them get too close.
Because if they discover the monstrous things I'm capable of, saving my soul will be the least of my worries...
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THIEF OF SILVER AND SOULS
1
The scars on my back scrape the wagon’s underside through my hooded tunic. I creep onward in my hunched pose, absorbing the prickle of pain.
It’s a reminder of where I came from.
The heroes in fables and histories don’t scuttle around beneath horse-drawn wagons in the shadows and dirt. They stride forward under the sun to carry out their virtuous deeds.
If the stories are true, you’d figure most of them stood ten feet tall and shone sunlight out of their exalted asses too.
But I’m not any kind of hero. I’m a monster with a broken soul.
I’d like to think that qualifies me to identify other sorts of monsters. Like the charm merchant who owns this wagon, whose soul I’m willing to bet is at least badly smudged.
He’s parked off to the side of the ramshackle square on the fringes of the city, and a small crowd has already gathered to ogle his wares. With every false promise that rolls off his lying tongue, my grimace deepens.
The trinkets jingle as he holds up one and another. “Blessed by Elox himself! Keep this charm close, and you’ll be free of illness for a year. This one, touched by Prospira’s promise—plant it with your gardens for twice the yield.”
Sure, and my spit turns shit into gold.
The arid breeze sends a tickle of dust into my nose. I stifle a sneeze and ease even closer to the swarm of legs just beyond the wagon.
The shadows and the dirt-brown fabric of my tunic make me all but invisible, but I tug the hood farther over my pale hair just in case.
A voice I recognize speaks up, sweet but thin. “Will the Elox-blessed charm help someone who’s already sick? My son—he’s been down with a fever.”
I wince. It’s Zuzanna—the housewife with the dotted curtains and Elox’s mark carved into every wall of her rickety house. Her appeals to the godlen of healing haven’t brought any miracles yet. Her frail son is ill more often than he’s not.
But she can’t help grasping at any slim chance she gets.
The merchant answers in a tone slick as oil. “Oh, for one already ill, I have a stronger charm. It only costs a few bits more.”
Murmurs ripple through the gathered onlookers. I can taste the tang of hope in the air—but it’s all in vain.
