Page 9 of Corrupt Shadows

Living under an alias isn’t the worst thing, and as for my magic, I have benzos and liquor for that. It works better than any of the experiments Edward did.

I shudder as the memories of being locked in their basement—after his wife had rescued me from the first of many murder scenes I have witnessed—come floating back. Everyone presumed me dead with my family, and Edward and Antoinette took me in, telling everyone they’d adopted me from a poor family. No one had seen me in town.

I’ve lived under three names, but Fallenmoore haunts me the most. I’ve found the name scrawled in ledgers from witch hunters, journals, and more. Despite doing my best to get a hold of anything that may help me understand my magic, coven, or family, there’s little to find. Moreover, I have to be extra careful so as not to draw attention to myself.

I learned one important fact though: the Fallenmoore witches were the last to possess death and shadow magic.

That night comes back to me. I was only six, but the memory doesn’t fade like the rest from my childhood. When I close my eyes to the sun beaming over the street below, I can see the blood splattering up the wall as I watched through gaps in the vent, from my secret hiding spot. I had just managed to escape after they’d set the fire. When Edward and Antionette found me, I was barely conscious.

I open my eyes and inhale deeply. The cigarette stings my fingers as it burns down to the butt, so I drop it into the ashtray. I think about that night often. If it weren’t for Antionette’s pleading or Edward’s beliefs that I had been delivered as a test to him—to remove the evil and save me—then I wouldn’t be here now.

And five more people would still be alive.

I light another cigarette, ignoring Gomez flapping at the glass behind me. With a long exhale, I breathe out a long puff of smoke and lean on the black iron railing, looking down at the small shops with slate roofing and marquees. Shoving away the memories of the past, I think back to last night instead—and my current threat. I’d recognize that upside-down cross anywhere. I texted Rosa earlier, curious about the stranger she’d spent thirty minutes talking to while I’d hid away. While she told me he’s just passing through, I can’t shake the feeling he knows who and what I am. Why else would one of them be in Darkwood?

But he didn’t say anything to me. My tattoos were covered, and he really could just be passing through, like Rosa said. Of course, she doesn’t know why I didn’t reappear after seeing him last night.

I try not to overthink, which is an impossible task. I blow out a puff of smoke and look through my bloodshot eyes at the road below. It’s quiet, and with a population of a little over four thousand, there’s less chance of me being found. I only hope the man from the Order doesn’t return, that I’m just being paranoid.

I need to keep a low profile until I’m sure he’s gone.

I examine the tattoo snaking up my arm. More purple roses with thorns and vines have appeared, intertwining with skulls. Despite my best efforts to have them covered up or lasered off, they always come back. Unlike regular tattoos, they’re formed from shadow magic.

They appeared when I was fourteen and have been growing ever since. First, the ones on my thighs appeared, followed by a sleeve down my arm, with parts growing onto my fingers. Now, one is partially growing at the base of my spine. My grandmother and mother had the same ones, but once they mastered their magic, the tattoos stopped growing.

They deserved what they got. My family was a bunch of murderers, and despite trying to be nothing like them, I ended up going down the same path.

You killed him.

Edward’s words—the man I formally called dad—haunt me. An ache cuts through my chest, and I check my phone to distract myself. The cigarette’s cherry kisses heat against my face as I inhale deeply, then hold the drag for a few seconds in my lungs.

I open the messages from Jay.

Want to come over tonight? My parents are making dinner.

I read his second message.

No pressure or anything. I can come to yours instead if you want. Night in?

My stomach’s in knots. I hate leading him on. It’s why I broke things off last time. But he’s willing to go along with my sexcapades, and as much as I hate to admit it, a part of it stems from loneliness. Despite being a recluse, I still crave to be held.

Going to dinner with his parents is my version of Hell. I don’t fancy being stuck in a room with his rich parents, who force him to work at the diner they own while they made a woman, who has only been in town for six months, manager. Brittany might be the biggest bitch I’ve ever met.

Jay deserves to be in charge of the place. God knows his parents have enough businesses. They want him to prove himself first.

Fuck Brittany and fuck his parents too.

I type back, blowing out a long exhale of smoke and relishing in the nicotine buzz prickling my brain.

Spending tonight with Rosa. Tomorrow?

I hit send, then quickly send a second message, so he knows family dinner is absolutely off the table.

Takeout at my place. Chinese?

The little dots appear within seconds, followed by a text.

I’d love that.

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