Raven poured the blood into the cup and then stuck it in the microwave, setting the timer for a minute and a half.
“To get the chill off it,” she said, as though that explained anything.
As the mug went around in circles, Raven turned to her. “Nobody has any real proof. And Salt’s rich. That’s why the Cabal won’t do anything. As for why Knight didn’t use what he had, I don’t know. Depends on what he had.”
“You can’t expect me to believe you didn’t read through Knight’s book while you had it,” Charlie said.
Raven smiled. “Oh, I did. Lots of information, most more relevant to shadow-wearers than alterationists, but absolutely nothing that seemed like it could take down anyone.”
Charlie frowned. “Other than whatever Knight had, would Salt have any reason to want him out of the way?”
“Knight was against his being a Cabal member, and now that Knight’s gone they’re bending the rules and letting Salt join, even though Malik’s already representing the puppeteers.”
“So they’re not going to have anyone from carapace?”
Raven’s gaze went to the mug, turning on the plate, her expression remote. “It’s not fair. Knight helped build the Cabal. He was one of the early gloamists to be open about shadow magic.”
Charlie opened her coffee and took a sip, thinking about Red, and what Salt had said about Vince. “What was Knight’s connection to the Liber Noctem?” He might not have one, but she hoped that by putting it like that, Raven would believe she knew more than she did.
“The Book of Blights?” The microwave beeped and Raven dumped the contents of the mug into the stainless dog dish. “He thought it was hilarious that Salt got scammed into paying so much for it, I guess.
“That’s the problem with rich gloamists. They buy up all the magical books, because they can, and then use that knowledge to tie other gloamists to them. Salt wouldn’t follow anyone’s rules, and now he’s going to be the one making the rules.”
There were stories of cults formed by gloamists in the early days of shadow magic becoming public. Lots of bloodletting to juice up their shadows. Lots of creepy robes and creepy sex. And in the end, lots and lots of death.
When Charlie thought of what a gloamist organization run by Salt would look like, she imagined the high-class, corporate version of those cults. But people would join. He had the books and the money. And the bigger his organization became, the more influence he’d have with the other gloamists. His seat on the Cabal would mean no one could stop him.
Shoving the empty, bloodstained mug back into Charlie’s hands, Raven went to the door and set the dog dish down on the step.
“Do I want to know?” Charlie asked, eyebrows raised.
“You will in a minute, whether you want to or not.” Raven appeared immensely amused. “Why do you want to know about the Liber Noctem—didn’t Salt’s grandson make off with that before he kicked the bucket? Why do you want to know any of this?”
Charlie flopped down on a bench, near a stack of flash magazines. “Something’s gone wrong, and I guess I’m caught up in it. I can’t walk away now, even if I wanted to—and I don’t. What I really want is to figure out who’s been lying, and about what.”
Raven snorted. “Probably all of them, about everything.”
Outside, a passing cloud changed the way the moonlight fell. Charlie saw a few shadows slipping toward the bowl.
They were faint, indistinct things even as they moved into the strong light of the bulb over the door. Barely noticeable. But the area around the bowl grew ever darker as more congregated.
The surface of the blood rippled, as though disturbed by some phantom cat tongue. Then it was all ripples.
“There is one thing about the Liber Noctem,” Raven said softly. “Knight knew a guy at an auction house and they let him put on white gloves and take a look before Salt bought it. He copied out some notes on the binding of Blights, but nothing else.”
Could he have overlooked the ritual to give Blights weight and form, or had it seemed so terrible that he simply didn’t want to know it?
Charlie sat there, more frustrated than ever, watching blood drain from the bowl. The shadows thickened around it, dense and dark. “How about the Hierophant? He’s supposed to be hunting down Blights, and you said it must be a powerful shadow that killed Knight Singh. It could be a Blight, couldn’t it?”
Raven sighed and looked out toward the edge of the parking lot, near the trees. “That guy, Stephen. I knew him a little before he was the Hierophant. It wasn’t even that he was a bad thief, it was that he stole the wrong thing from the wrong person. The gloamist who’d hired him hung him out to dry. Then they punished him by stitching that old Blight to him and, well, I don’t think things are going well. A shadow like that—conscious and whispering in your ear? Creepy as fuck. I doubt he’s going to catch anything.”
Charlie recalled Salt’s comment about powerful Blights being tethered to new wearers.
She recalled the Hierophant’s words too. Tell Red I want the book. Tell Red we can share. Tell Red that I will rip him to pieces.
“Why would a Blight agree to be tethered?” Charlie asked.
Raven shrugged. “Most don’t.”
Charlie gestured toward the bowl. “Those are Blights, right? But giving them blood, that gives them power, right?”
“A little,” Raven agreed. “You’re wondering why I’d want to do that.”
Charlie eyed them, thinking about Red, and the Hierophant, and the feeling of a shadow making her mouth move. “I was actually wondering how much blood it would take to make a shadow powerful enough to be a Blight, without its gloamist dying.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Raven, standing. “I’ll give you a demonstration of both.”
Her shadow shrouded her hand in what appeared to be a glove of fog. She reached out and plucked one shade up from where it licked at the bowl. It wriggled in her hand, but the other was holding what appeared to be a needle and thread, all formed from shadow.
It continued to twist, like an eel, or jellyfish, or some internal organ dragged outside of the body. And also like none of those things. If you looked fast, it might seem that Raven was miming holding something. That she stabbed an imaginary needle into an imaginary thing.
Charlie couldn’t decide if she was more disgusted or fascinated.
Raven saw her expression and smiled. “Every time an alterationist changes someone, we have to use some of our own shadow to do it. If we’re not careful, we’ll give ourselves away, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. But I’m careful.
“These little shadows—they’re nothing. No cleverness in them, barely any consciousness. Might not even survive being stitched to a person. But you’re right that, strictly speaking, they’re Blights. Shadows that have survived being apart from their wearer.”
On the steps, Charlie could see a few slinking off now that their feast was over, but some still remained, a translucent darkness, like a film in the air.
“This part might freak you out,” Raven said. “You can close your eyes if you want.”
There was absolutely no way she was going to look away, like a coward. “I’m good.”
Raven took the shadow and dropped it into her open mouth.
Charlie bit her lip to keep from making an astonished sound. That hadn’t been at all what she was expecting.
Raven continued with a smile. “When a gloamist puts a piece of their consciousness into their shadow, they grow a kind of homunculus. Power is only part of what makes a Blight. If you don’t want your shadow to be separate from you, don’t consider it as separate. Never name it. And never feed it blood that’s not yours, because that’s giving it energy that also isn’t yours.”
Charlie nodded.