Page 50 of Cursed Shadows 2

I’m no artist. I admire.

As a dancer, I don’t choreograph. I imitate.

In the scripture halls, I don’t write. I read.

I don’t create. I am the spectator.

And if that’s not a talent in itself, I don’t know what is. Because if it weren’t for the ones like me, then who would be there to enjoy the art?

Is there art without an audience, or is the audience what makes it so?

Those thoughts rule me as I wander the exhibit. But I don’t get nearly enough time to enjoy myself here, to take it in for as long as I would like, since a party of humans come pouring in from the street. Though they are respectful of the art,quiet, I can’t risk any one of them looking at us too long. Especially Daxeel, who looks something of a brooding assassin behind his hood.

Stealing his hand in mine, I loosen a loud sigh and steer him out of the gallery. “One more stop,” I tell him.

From the garter belt hidden under my skirt, I tug out a flattened stack of currency. The money is fake. Paper notes I glamoured from leaves some moons ago.

Gently, I place them on the sticky table.

Opposite me, Daxeel spares the notes a fleeting glance too quick for the human eye to catch, then he cuts his stare to the approaching waitress.

I’ve learned the best way to get them over to my table fast is to pay upfront with extra.

And I know my order by heart, so she doesn’t get the chance to ask before I say, “Deep-fried Mars bar. Red spaghetti.” With a glance at Daxeel, I add, “And black pudding. No salt.”

I don’t order drinks. None take my fancy and I doubt I can get Daxeel to try anything at all, but if I can, I’ll spend that energy on black pudding, not a beverage.

The waitress stalks off for the bar.

“You frequent this restaurant?” The judgement in his tone matches the run-over look he gives the brown, aged décor.

“I think it’s more of a tavern.” I shrug, then lean over the grubby table with a grin. “Will you eat what I ordered? Black pudding bleeds. I thought you’d like that.”

He just gives something of a noncommittal grunt, his eyes never landing on me, but sweeping every inch of the establishment.

“You look like an assassin.” I rest my chin on the heel of my palm. “All stares, hoods, shadows and silence.”

He swerves his gaze to mine. “This place is disgusting.”

Beneath the hood, dark tendrils of hair graze over his forehead and perfectly shaped eyebrows. I notice a small, slight cut on his bottom lip, one that wasn’t there the last time I saw him. Sparring, I should think.

“It’s like any tavern,” I say with another shrug. “You’re just determined to hate it all.”

His eyes flash from the shadows of the hood. “I speak not only of this establishment, but the entirety of the realm. It’s disgusting.”

My mouth turns down with a frown.

Before I can respond, the waitress rattles over with a tray stacked with plates. She sets the three dishes down, slips the money from the table edge, then stalks off without another word.

“But look at the lights.” I steal Daxeel’s gaze away from the plates. “They aren’t glowjars or lanterns. Look out there,” I turn to face the window next to our booth. “Those moving things, they are calledkars—and they take people places like our horses and carriages do.”

“I smell them.” He exhales softly through his nose, a disappointed sound. “They are poison. They pollute the air, kill the land—you smell it, too.”

I do.

It’s in every single flutter of air, a pungent stench that scrapes its way down my bones and burns the back of my throat.

I feel the earth weep.

---