Swallowing hard, I taste the sour beginnings of anger, the realest, strongest thing I’ve felt in days.
“I thought it would make you both give up the job,” Lyda whispers, still not meeting my eyes. Tears spill onto her cheeks. “I thought, if you wanted each other badly enough, more than you wanted the job, you’d give it up, and then you’d both live long, happy lives. I was trying to save you!”
At last, she looks up, her eyes gleaming. “If you keep playing with death, you’ll end up just like him.” Some of her sadness gives way to anger. “Is that what you want?”
Bristling, I lean toward her, gripping the counter. “I have a score to settle with Evander’s killer, and unlike you, I don’t run from a fight.”
“Is everything all right out there?” a dry voice calls. There’s a rustling from deep within the shop’s back room, and slowly, a shrouded figure emerges. Lyda and I carefully avoid each other’s eyes as the apothecary joins the baroness at the counter.
“Good afternoon, Sparrow,” the apothecary rasps. A faint whiff of mint and rosemary wafts under my nose, no doubt because the apothecary has stuffed fresh bundles of herbs under his shroud. Most of the Dead prefer not to stink like the corpses they are, and that’s fine by me. “What can we get you today?”
“I need another month’s worth of your strongest calming tonic.” I nod to the jar of liquid glittering a cobalt promise, then shrug and pretend to look annoyed. “Healer’s orders.”
“Are you sure, Sparrow?” The apothecary rests a gloved hand lightly on my forearm, making me flinch. “That’s a powerful tonic. I’ve never heard of anyone taking it for so long without becoming . . . dependent upon it. The side effects can be rather nasty for days after a dose. Shaking fits. Dizzy spells. Even hallucinations.”
Staring into his masked face, my thoughts begin to wander. I know I can’t bring Evander back, but if I could, would it be what was best for him, for us? Would I ever be satisfied with staring into a mask instead of Evander’s stunning eyes? Would we be able to embrace? Or would I be too repulsed by the thought of rotting skin and the stench of a corpse rising from his shroud? Surely it would all be worth it to have him at my side again, whether I could see him or not. To hear his jokes and keep his company . . . but even if I had to kill him to stop him from becoming a Shade?
Suddenly, a little of my anger at Lyda fades. She’s been through this before. Her husband became a Shade, and she had to slay him. Of course she doesn’t want to be constantly reminded of the son she lost. To pick up a shirt that still faintly smells of Evander, of sandalwood and fresh-cut grass—and wonder, like I am, if things could’ve been different this time somehow. Of course she’d want to get rid of his belongings.
As I cast an apologetic glance at the baroness, I notice the apothecary is waiting for my reply. I imagine him giving me a questioning look behind his mask and cross my arms, making it clear I’m not going anywhere until I get what I came for.
“I’m certain it’s what I need,” I say at last.
“She’s a grown woman,” Lyda tells the apothecary. “If you won’t pour it for her, I will.”
She catches my nod of thanks, and her lips twitch the slightest bit. The look she gives me is almost maternal, taking me back several years. This must be her way of saying she’s sorry, hopefully for more than just today. I hope it’s for the years of standing between me and Evander, when it all turned out to be for nothing.
The apothecary heaves a rattling sigh and gathers several empty vials from under the counter, thrusting them at the baroness. “Very well, Lyda. I’ll leave you to finish up here.” With a quick bow to me, he trudges toward the back room, his black shroud trailing on the floor behind him like an elongated shadow.
Lyda doesn’t say a word as she fills the vials from the big glass jar. The sound of the potion sloshing in the vial helps loosen the knots in my shoulders and stomach. I curl and uncurl my fingers and gaze around the shop, desperate to occupy the little moments until the potion’s burning through my veins and I’m back in control.
I’m trying to name the different herbs hanging in dried bunches overhead when a strange tingling at the back of my neck makes me whirl around.
There, blocking the shop’s only exit, is a Shade as huge and hideous as the one that killed Evander. It must be the same one, because there’s a bony stump where its arm once was. I don’t know how it even fit through the narrow door, or what the blazes compelled it to come out of the Deadlands. It trains its dark eye sockets on me as it opens its yawning mouth wide, and I fumble for my sword.
“Lyda, get back!” I shout. She’s still behind the counter, but that’s hardly a barrier to a Shade.
At last, I brandish my blade, daring the monster to come one step closer.
“You ready to lose the other arm?” I snarl. The Shade creeps toward me, then scuttles back against the door, its skeletal fingers dragging the ground. Mocking me. It knows it can outrun me.
I charge it. I may not have a fire potion at the ready, but if I’m lucky, I can at least do some damage.
“Sparrow!” Lyda gasps. Her voice is high and harsh in my ear. She’s right beside me, the foolish woman, which means she leapt the counter and headed right toward the danger. “What’s gotten into you?”
I break my stare with the Shade for just a moment to gape at her. Her eyes are wide and wild.
When I glance back at the Shade, it’s gone.
I lower my sword, heat rushing to my face as Lyda checks me for fever. “There . . . there wasn’t anything in here with us just now?”
Lyda grips my shoulders, forcing me to look her in the eye. “Odessa. What did you see?”
I wave her and her concerns away, though I’d be lying if I said what just happened didn’t get under my skin. I’ve got to keep it together long enough to kill the monster that took Evander. I’ll be no use to anyone if I can’t tell the real monsters from the ones in my head, and I’m far from doing a good job of holding on to my sanity.
*
Someone knocks on the door of my palace room, a sharp and purposeful sound. I bury my head in my pillow to muffle it. The doorknob rattles. More knocking follows, and a smooth male voice says, “Special delivery from Prince Hadrien Wylding, for one Odessa of Grenwyr!”
I shake my head at the familiar voice. Sitting up, I call, “I know it’s you, Highness!”
“It’s Hadrien, as I’ve told you countless times.” The smile in his voice is unmistakable as he adds, “And if you know it’s me, why aren’t you opening the door, Sparrow?”
I’m pretty sure the wardrobe in the corner of my room is judging me as I try to smooth my rumpled uniform. I hurry to unlock the door, only to be greeted by—
“That’s a lot of flowers, Hadrien. Surely they aren’t all for me?”