Page 33 of Cursed Shadows 5

He swerves his gaze around the bedchamber, expecting to see her tucked away in some shadowy pocket of air. But the room is empty.

Hollow.

Prickles thorn his flesh. Goosepimples cascading down his arms from his shoulders before a tense shudder jolts him only once.

At his sides, his hands have fisted into steel balls. His nails cut into the flesh of his palms, prick him enough to draw tiny droplets of inky blood.

His frown lowers.

He watches the slight trails of darkness seep through the gaps between his clenched fingers.

Daxeel draws in a breath, one deep enough to roll his shoulders back and set his jaw firm. His nostrils flare around it,tick, tick, tick, then he loosens it with a scoff.

It was her voice.

Undeniably her.

Yet she isn’t here.

The room is as hollow as that ache in his chest.

The black powder must not be finished with him.

He turns back for the bed, the crumpled sheets, the stink of his cloth-washed flesh. He returns to slumber.

7

††††††

I passed the phase in bed, drifting in and out of slumber. I could have stayed longer, waited for my body to feel restored to its full health, waited for my mind to leave exhaustion behind, waited just to avoidthis—

This very moment I go to face Eamon.

My boots scuff over the rocky stone path, a narrow street between the wonky walls of towering dwellings, too old, sinking into the uneven earth.

At the birth of the Quiet, the air is thinner, sharp to inhale, and the streets are empty. So as I walk towards the silhouette leaning against the corner wall, I know it is Eamon before I can make out his features through the shadows.

The first thing I notice about his appearance is the shine of his brown boots, a gloss that tells of buckles and straps and new leather. His boots are crossed at the ankles, and on the ground next to him is a bulging satchel.

He hasn’t spotted me yet.

The incline of the sloped, crooked street means I pick up my feet to close the distance between us. My boots are made for the Sacrament, and so they are soft on landing with each step; steps that bring me closer the little pocket of light dusting over Eamon from the street lantern.

It is so dark in Kithe that Eamon purposefully stands under the light of a lantern just to be easily seen.

This Quiet, he is dressed well. His breeches are littered with thin pockets and strappy holsters, unlike his usual look of plain trousers and a blouse; and the lumpy sweater he wears is enough to have me wondering if he has weapons holstered to his body, hidden under it, as I suspect there are weapons in some of those many pockets.

As I approach, Eamon turns his chin to his shoulder.

Gold greets me, not gold like Dare’s gilded gaze, but muted gold like honey glazed over bark. Amber, warmth, home.

Eamon looks at me for the quickest of moments before he’s pushing off the wall and moving for me.

I stop on the street—

And that stills Eamon.

He frowns at me, at my stagnancy when I should be running at him, throwing my arms around him, holding him so close that we can never be apart again.

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