The man's shadow dances on the wall, hazy in the dim candlelight. After stalking him for weeks, I know almost everything about him. Eamon Turner, bounty hunter extraordinaire. He's the one who captured the king's attempted assassin a couple months ago.
He turns his back towards the window, tugging off his shirt to reveal the red-scarred brand on his left shoulder blade. It's a souvenir of his past, a remnant of the time he tangled a little too closely with the Underworld and was punished for his efforts. Now, he works for the king.
This is my best chance-he's alone, and distracted by changing his clothes.
I shove the small mirror that I was using to see him from my vantage point, perched on the alcove above his window, into my pocket. It's a calculated risk to slip down and stand on the ledge, but it's one that I have to take. Nimbly, I climb down and tug a knife from its place in my thigh holster. I use it to pry the window open, which foolish Eamon has left unlocked. I would have expected more from an accomplished bounty hunter, but I find that men like him are often overconfident and careless. He probably doesn't worry about someone like me stealing into his room in the dead of night.
The window swings open silently. I creep into Eamon's room, my soft-booted feet making no sound on the wooden floor. Eamon's shadow moves on the wall to my right, mirroring the motions the man himself makes as he rakes a brush through his hair. In a sudden motion, I lunge towards the wall and slam my hand to his shadow's throat, calling out Eamon's greatest fear as I do-death. The shadow screams and writhes the moment I touch it with my black-gloved hand. Eamon whips around, his eyes wide and his face ashen.
The shadow's screams fill my ears. This is the part that I've never quite managed to get used to: the incessant screeching. It sounds like a banshee's wicked howl, rattling my eardrums and cutting straight through my head. I tighten my grip and pull the shadow from the wall, grasping it with both hands. It struggles for freedom, but there's no way it can escape unless I let it free. And I don't plan to. Not until I am given what I came for.
"Who are you?" Eamon's voice trembles like his body. Whenever I hold a person's shadow, they shake almost to the point of convulsions. I have never experienced the sensation myself, but I imagine it's uncomfortable to feel someone else's hands on your shadow, a darkened echo of your body and soul.
This power is heady, more intoxicating than a pint of ale. Sometimes, I fear that it will tear me in two.
"I want your gold," I say, my voice slightly muffled by the black cloth that I've covered the bottom half of my face with.
In this state, Eamon must do as I say if it comes as a direct command. I deliver my wish as a request, to test his will. It's become a habit that I find rather entertaining. Some people will snivel and beg at my feet for their shadow to be returned. They'll do anything I want, whether I command them to or not. What's more fun are the ones who try to fight me even as I hold their essence in my hands. These people are rare; I've only encountered two in the five years that I've been stealing shadows.
Eamon disappoints me. He fumbles in the top drawer of his dresser for a brass key. Then he opens his wardrobe and pulls out a heavy chest. His shaking hands struggle to put the key in the lock and turn it, but when he finally manages to do so, I am greeted by a sizeable sack of gold. At least fifty ducats.
"Once I leave," I say, "you will forget that I was ever here."
I release his shadow and grab the sack of gold. Blessedly, the shadow's screeches ebb away until they dissolve into nothing. It's lucky that only Eamon and I could hear the sounds of his stolen shadow's cries; otherwise, I would have been caught a long time ago.
Eamon grips his wardrobe door, teeth gritted in pain. It's an agonizing experience, to have your shadow ripped away and then returned, all in less than five minutes. But I always find it difficult to have sympathy for someone who can't even fight for his own life's essence and instead reverts to a simpering fool, willing to do anything at the behest of someone who might rip their shadow apart at any moment.
If it ever happened to me, I know I would fight. But I'm too careful to have my shadow stolen.
"Shadow Thief," Eamon whispers hoarsely. So he's finally realized.
I climb onto the windowsill and glance back at him, wondering if I made the wrong decision by leaving him alive.
"Guard your shadow closer," I warn him.
His eyes widen, but I don't wait around to witness his full reaction. Tucking the gold into the pouch hanging around my waist, I grab the window ledge and lower myself onto the balcony below. I let myself dangle from the railing for a few seconds before executing a solid landing on the ground below.
In the cover of midnight darkness, I hurry back to Lockard Alley. Even though I can hardly see in the new moon's blackness, my feet know this path well. I skip over potholes in the cobblestone ground, cursing the worthless king with every step. For how much money he skims from his people, you would think that he might consider repairing the roads.
The buildings loom over me, tilting slightly inwards. Like most streets in Durnwall, the ones I follow are slightly crooked, built on soft land near the river that has shifted considerably over the years. Sometimes I wonder if, in just a few more years, the buildings will tilt so far towards one another that the rooftops will touch. While this would be an unfortunate development for building owners, it would certainly make my job easier, to be able to skip from rooftop to rooftop.
The building that I room in is made of crumbling brick, so dilapidated that I worry it'll collapse at any moment. Even for a skilled thief, it's impossible to climb the rickety wooden staircase without making a great deal of noise. Every step creaks and groans at the slightest bit of weight. I think even a feather would tip the balance.
My room is at the end of the hall on the fourth floor. The building's owner, a pleasant old woman with her hair perpetually in rollers, warned me that it was the worst room she had. But as an out-of-the-way place that no one would ever wish to visit, it suits my needs.
I unlock the door with the key that hangs around my neck and step inside. The musty room is simply furnished with only a bed for me to sleep on and a dresser to keep my few belongings in. But it's home, and has been for the past two years. And, besides, I don't need anything elaborate or fanciful. I've never had that, and I don't particularly want it.
I'm pleased with this gold, though. It'll last me a few months, if I'm careful.
"Nyx Madden."
My knife is out in a flash, and I glance around the dark room warily. Why would anyone come in here? Has someone found out who I am? That's impossible-I'm cautious to the point of being meticulous. Briefly, I wonder if one of my acquaintances from the black market has tracked me down. I'm on good terms with most of the vendors there, but they're the only people who could conceivably discover my identity. The items I regularly buy-special oil for my boots, to keep my footsteps silent; clothing that doesn't rustle when I move; weapons that promise to strike true-are the sort that might arise suspicion, especially when one purchases them as often as I do.
The man chuckles, then speaks again in a voice as low and dark as the night sky. "I've had my eye on you for the past month."
My heart jumps into my throat. I don't recognize this man's voice, but I can't be afraid of him, no matter what. I can't lose control of the situation. This is my room, and he has no right to be here. Striding forward through the darkness, I reach for the dresser. I have matches and a candle there.
A strong hand closes around my wrist, rough skin pressing against mine. My breath catches as though my throat is a stopped bottle. Then I come to my senses and twist free of the man's grip, slashing my knife through the darkness where I know he must be standing.
I miss.
"I'll take care of it," the man says. A flash of light illuminates his face as he strikes a match and puts it to one of the candles.
My heartbeat quickens. I do know him. Or, at least, I know of him. His intricately carved deer skull mask, with its pitch-black antlers and splintered bone, is unmistakable.
The Lord of the Underworld is standing in my bedroom.
The candle's glow flickers over his mask. It's a ceremonial mask, one sometimes worn for festivals and the like to display an affinity with the natural world and to show an appreciation for death. It's an attempt to please the gods-though no one ever wears them so casually.
I can see the Lord of the Underworld's eyes through the mask, but that's all. They're icy blue, the color of the sky at dawn. Something about the way he looks at me makes my stomach queasy, like I'm about to jump off of a fifty-foot cliff.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. There's no urgency about his movements. If he knows who I am, he should be more protective of the shadow lurking over his shoulder, but he doesn't seem concerned. There's an indolence to him, a causal air that I know is meant to make me feel like he's in charge.
Well, this is my territory.
I tilt my chin up slightly. Defiantly. "I know who you are, too."
"I see my reputation precedes me," he says coolly.
"Why are you here?" No one's ever seen him in person, and I know for a fact that the Lord of the Underworld doesn't do house visits. No, dirty work like that is reserved for his underlings.
"I expected you to be a little more welcoming." He's amused; I can hear it in his voice.
"I'm not a particularly hospitable person; as you can imagine, most of my visitors try to kill me." My grip on my knife hilt tightens. Maybe he's here to kill me. If he tries, I need to be fast enough to kill him first. But I'm interested in hearing what he has to say, so I don't throw this knife into his chest just yet.
He tilts his head, considering me. "You're fiery. I like that."
His words set loose a strange tingle in my stomach. By the gods, what is that? "Tell me what you want, before I kill you."
The Lord of the Underworld nods slowly. "I have an assignment for you, Shadow Thief."
My heart drops. He knows who I am-he knows both my real name and my enthrallment moniker. I have to humor him, lest he turn me in.
"An assignment?" I've accepted some employment in the past, but I'm always diligent about it. I like to do my research on whom I'm working for and who their target is before I agree to anything. But no one has any information about the Lord of the Underworld, other than how dangerous he is. The stretch of his hand covers not only the town of Durnwall, but the entire kingdom of Itoria as well. Yet, somehow, not many have ever met him, and no one has seen his face. His knowledge is unparalleled, though: he does know who I am.
I wonder what he would do if I were to rush at him and tear his mask away. He has his reasons to hide his face, of course-keeping his identity a secret is doubtless a vital part of keeping himself alive. I do the same. Yet I can't help but wonder if he's hiding something else under there. A hideous scar, perhaps. My guess is a burn mark that covers his face, marring it so irreparably that not even a sorcerer could fix it.
"The palace ball is swiftly approaching," says the Lord of the Underworld. "A night of dancing and a day of feasting to celebrate the prince's nineteenth birthday."
The mere mention of the Silver Prince makes me want to roll my eyes. He's notoriously callow, only a shadow of what a crown prince ought to be. I've never met him in person, of course, but I've seen him in passing. He's been known to drag his guards beyond the palace walls to indulge himself in brothels and bars, unbeknownst to his father. I once witnessed his guards half-carrying the drunken prince back to the castle while he laughed and sang a bawdy drinking song.
That was two years ago, before I had secured this room for myself, before I had forged my own path as the Shadow Thief. I was starving that night, freezing my toes off in the dead of winter, and that idiot prince was warming his belly with mead and gorging himself on fistfuls of rare delicacies. He had not a care in the world. A man like that could never understand the feeling of worn-through boots and hands so cold they curl like pill bugs.
I despise him.
"I need someone skilled in the art of disenthrallment to steal his shadow," the Lord of the Underworld says. There's an expectancy in the silence that follows this statement, as though he believes I will jump at the chance to take the prince's shadow.
Inside, I must admit that I'm curious. "What would you do with him?"
His low voice is as smooth as honey. "I know how you've suffered under the king's rule. Only a girl completely on her own and with nothing to lose would resort to stealing shadows for a living. I'm just like you, Nyx. And with the prince under my control, I can ensure that no one else suffers as you and I have."
Is he just like me? Is he an orphaned child who lost his parents to the king's inability to take care of his subjects? As far-fetched as I find that claim, I'm certainly intrigued by it. Life in Itoria is a struggle for many, including myself, and to change that so no one else must suffer would be incredibly gratifying. And, of course, the mere thought of taking down the prince sends a thrill rushing through me.
I can hear the smirk in the Lord of the Underworld's voice when he says, "I need a beautiful girl to seduce him. Besides that, you're the best disenthraller in Durnwall. No; you're the only one who can do it."
My face grows warm, and I hope that the dim candlelight doesn't give me away. "Liar."
"It's true. Haven't you heard of his proclivities towards the brothels? I don't think you'll find it difficult to seduce him. And, if you manage to impress him, I'm sure he'll tell you anything you want to know...including his greatest fear."
That's the most difficult part of disenthrallment: you have to call out the person's greatest fear before you can steal their shadow. Fear is the one thing that follows you around like a shadow, the one thing you can never escape. It trails behind you, lurking in the darkness but visible in even the dimmest of lights. I find it ironic that the only place you can escape disenthrallment is the purest dark-the greatest fear of a surprising number of people is the darkness. An equal number fear the metaphorical light: they don't wish for their true faces to be revealed. They don't want to be seen for what they are.
As I stare at the Lord of the Underworld's mask, its cracked white bone glowing yellow in the candlelight, I wonder if this is his fear. Is his magic word light?
"No one has ever been able to guess," he says.
My body grows cold, as though a draft has entered the room. It's almost like he read my mind. "I never guess."
"The prince might be fickle, but he's not as foolish as he seems. Learning his greatest fear will take some work."
Stalking Eamon Turner for weeks was no small feat. "I could handle it, if I wanted the job."
"I'm sure you can be persuaded." The Lord of the Underworld reaches into his pouch and tosses a bag of gold ducats at my feet. I won't deign to stoop down and pick it up while he's watching, but I can see that it's considerably larger than the sack I stole from Eamon.
"You pay upfront?" I scoff. "That's rather foolish. I could run off with it. I could fail. If I were to be caught, I would be put to death immediately."
"In which case, I would simply come back here and reclaim my gold."
I shrug. "Fair enough."
"And I don't pay upfront. That's your advance, should you choose to accept my offer."
It's hard to keep my eyes from bulging out of my skull. This amount is the advance? Everyone knows that the Lord of the Underworld is incredibly wealthy. He runs the largest criminal organization in the country, and has hundreds of people working for him. I've heard rumors that even higher-ups owe this man favors. There's no counting the number of assassinations he's ordered and affairs he's orchestrated or covered up. It's more than likely that the would-be assassin captured by Eamon was sent by the Lord of the Underworld. Not to mention the fact that he keeps many of the moneylenders in business through gambling profits. I've been to a couple matches at the underground fighting rings, and they're always standing room only. If I wasn't so concerned about revealing myself, I would enter one.
But this amount of gold... Well, with this amount of gold, I wouldn't have to steal shadows anymore. This money could keep my head above water until I find more honest work, something that doesn't wrench my soul. With every shadow I steal, I feel as though a piece of myself depletes. I wonder what it might be like to live in a world where I am not constantly fighting to survive.
"The payment is promising," I say nonchalantly, masking my thoughts before I lift my eyes from the gold. "I accept."
The Lord of the Underworld nods, unsurprised. "Good."
"But I hope you can tell me how to actually get into the castle. It's impossible to sneak in, even for me."
There aren't many buildings that pose a problem for me. I could slip into the third floor of a noble's mansion without issue, or slip inside a silver mine without batting an eye. But the castle is incredibly secure, and I've never heard of anyone sneaking in and not getting caught. I've always valued my life too much to try, but this vast amount of gold might make the effort worth it.
"You won't have to do any sneaking," he says. "Though I have complete faith that you would be able to infiltrate the castle if need be."
A shiver trickles down my spine. How well must he know me, to believe that I could get into the castle if I really wanted to?
"You'll be posing as the Duchess of Vaelune's niece."
"You know the Duchess of Vaelune?" She's a famously private woman, known for covering her face with a veil when less-favored guests come for a visit. If I were to guess at any noblewoman being well-acquainted with the Lord of the Underworld, the duchess would be the last on my list. She seems too refined, too eccentric. And what would she need from a man who runs the criminal underground of Itoria?
The Lord of the Underworld laughs, a suggestive sound that almost makes me shiver. "We are intimate friends. One of her servants will come to collect you in the morning."
He strides towards me until there are barely three inches of air separating our bodies. I catch the faint scent of bergamot emanating from him. It fills my nostrils and, in that moment, I know that I will forever associate it with this man.
"What is your name?" I ask. "I find it strange that you know mine and I don't know yours."
"Call me Victor." The smirk is back in his voice.
"Is that your real name?"
"Does it matter?" He brushes past me and opens the door. Before he steps into the hallway, he says, "Get some sleep. You'll want to look your best for the duchess tomorrow...and the Silver Prince."