The Bloodshade Encounters & The Songspinner (Shadeborn Book 2) Read online

  “Accommodations?” Dharma repeated. “Are you offering residence to your performers, Monsieur?”

  “A select few,” Novel answered, “though I can’t guarantee the building is entirely secure.”

  Dharma flashed a catlike grin.

  “I can,” she replied.

  As Novel and Baptiste watched, Dharma glided to the stage and hoisted herself so that she was sitting on its stairs. She crossed her stocking-covered legs and titled her head back to admire the grandeur of the Imaginique once more.

  “I’m a great persuader of people, Monsieur Novel,” Dharma continued, “and I have been talking to many residents of Piketon in the short weeks since you saved my life. I can promise you that no human will intrude on this place without your consent.”

  “I’m grateful to hear it,” Novel answered, remembering the deal he had made with her in the club’s back room, “but what of the vampires underground?”

  “Are you joking with me?” Dharma said with a giggle. “The vampires of Piketon are long gone. There are few supernaturals left in the town since you moved in. You are a vicious man, Monsieur. The name of Novel strikes fear into the hearts of everyone that hears it.”

  Dharma rose to stretch and prepare for her dance, leaving Novel to recede and take a seat in the front row. Baptiste sat down beside him, both men identical in their expressions of concern. The hunter put a hand on Novel’s forearm, but instantly pulled it back as the shade hissed with the recent sting of another feeding.

  “Did you hear what she said?” Novel muttered. “They think me a monster.”

  “At least it will keep you safe from violence,” Baptiste reasoned, “until you can learn to control the darkness that the bite brings.”

  Novel let his fingertips ghost over his sleeve, thinking about the feel of the hunter’s teeth in his skin. He shivered suddenly, overcome with a terrible fear.

  “Will it worsen in time, do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s bound to,” Baptiste answered, “if our arrangement stays the same.”

  The arrangement, as the hunter put it, was simple on the surface. Novel would keep Baptiste alive on the condition that he never fed on any other shade. Baptiste, in return, had agreed to do everything he could to help Novel contain the growing desire for carnage that plagued his soul.

  “Hey, Monsieur!” Dharma called from the stage, hands on her hips.

  Novel waved a hand at her impatiently, his thoughts in a scramble.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Khan.”

  “But where is the music?” Dharma scoffed.

  “Forgive me,” Novel replied.

  He made a sweeping gesture with his hands. A sudden eruption of music from the orchestra pit shocked Dharma and Baptiste. The hunter rose from his seat and peered down into the pit, marvelling at the instruments that had begun to play themselves in a startling rendition of Carmen’s Toreador Song. He looked back to Novel with a curious grin.

  “An opening night gift, from my friends,” Novel explained.

  The music quelled his worries, as it had time and again over the years. Dharma began to dance, but Novel didn’t have to watch her to know that he would let her join his troupe. Instead, he focused on those early memories he had of the theatre, the thrill of his first opera and the delight he took in pacing out the steps of a new dance. He could feel the darkness pulsing in his veins, the pleasure he’d taken in the destruction of the Populaire was always hanging just behind his enjoyment of the music. The hunger he had for violence would never truly disappear.

  Two visions came to his mind to silence those thoughts, as he had started training himself to think. One sight was the human corpse of the man who now sat beside him, stamping and clapping along to Dharma’s dance. The other was Baptiste’s withered form from less than a month ago, the rotting shape he’d taken before Novel’s mercy brought him back to life.

  “I’m here to help you,” Baptiste said suddenly. Novel realised he had been staring into space for quite some time during the audition. “For as long as you’ll keep me alive.”

  The shade looked into the eyes of the hunter, wondering exactly how long that offer of help would last.

  PIKETON, the present day

  The Colour Of History

  No matter what had happened at the theatre that day, Lily was determined not to be late for Jazzy. She strode through the streets of Piketon in the streaming August sun, her heels pressing hard against every paving stone. After several mighty steps, she realised her powers were leaving small cracks in the stones, but she did nothing to stop the surge in her veins. Novel walked in step behind her, wincing up at the baking sphere of light in the sky.

  “How is it,” Lily said sharply, suddenly reeling to face him, “that you’ve lived over two hundred years and never bothered to learn to drive?”

  “I’m not a fan of motorcars,” Novel said, his tone simple and emotionless.

  The local hospital was on the other side of town, another twenty minutes away on foot. Jazzy was expecting them to be there in less than fifteen. Lily stormed on through the half-empty streets, for the town of Piketon had emptied of its usual student populous as the summer progressed. Novel picked up his pace, long legs striding as he reached out for her wrist. With a vicious instinct, Lily shook her hand away from his grip and he found he couldn’t hold onto her. His forearm was still too weak from Baptiste’s feeding.

  “You’re not really angry with me for not telling you that I can’t drive,” Novel stated simply.

  “Yes I am,” Lily snapped back, “I’m angry with you for not telling me a lot of things right now.”

  They walked side by side for a few minutes more as Novel struggled to phrase the explanation he so badly wanted to give. The colour of the history between he and Baptiste was such a deep shade of red, and so much death and darkness had surrounded them in their early years of acquaintance. Now, they had found a peaceful arrangement that worked, but there didn’t seem to be a way to make Lily understand that that arrangement was for the best.

  “Answer me this,” Lily said, her voice suddenly lower, and trembling a little. “How long has this been going on? How long have you been… feeding him?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Novel replied.

  “Tell me,” Lily said, her anger rising once more.

  “Almost ninety years,” the illusionist answered.

  Lily made a noise that caught in her throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

  “You’re right,” she choked, “I don’t want to know.”

  “I’m the only thing keeping him alive,” Novel tried.

  Lily’s steps slowed little. She almost turned her head to look him in the eye, moving for one fraction of a moment before focusing once again on the path to the hospital.

  “He’s a vampire,” she said quietly, “surely any old blood will do.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Novel replied.

  This time when he took her hand, Lily resisted less. He gripped her securely, even though she deliberately let her fingers stay limp and unyielding against his.

  “There is no common name for what Baptiste is,” he explained in a low tone. “When you drink the blood of a vampire, you become a vampire. But when a vampire drinks the blood of a shade, he becomes something else entirely. We call him a bloodshade.”

  “Who’s we?” Lily interrupted. “How many more people know your secrets that aren’t me?”

  “Of the living, there’s only Baptiste and I that know. And now you.”

  Lily thought for a moment, chewing on her lip. Her hand had begun to grip Novel’s fiercely, and the kindred flame was burning dimly at their touch. He let her go when he spotted it, slipping his arm around her shoulders instead as they walked on.

  “He saved me, Lily, from a future far worse than death,” Novel said, his lips close to her ear. “I can’t just let him die. He’s the only one of his kind.”

  “That’s not the part I’m upset about,” Lily re
plied, her anger now abating to leave a strange emptiness in her stomach. “Every moment I’m with you, I have to remind myself to take the weird, spooky things that you do in my stride. They’re part of my world now.”

  “Then, what’s the problem?” Novel asked.

  The hospital was finally in sight. Lily stopped at the roadside, waiting to cross. She finally looked into Novel’s eyes, finding the blue spheres full of unspoken apologies. She hated the fact that he had gone back to his stern, unsmiling look because of her discovery. Things had been so good between them, in these last few days before the move.

  “Don’t lie to me when I ask you this,” Lily began, taking in a deep breath to shake out her demons.

  “I swear I won’t,” Novel replied.

  “Can you promise me that there are no more horrible secrets about you that I’m going to discover?”

  Slowly, the illusionist’s arm came away from Lily’s shoulders. The green man beeped as the traffic lights switched to red, and Novel broke from her side to make the crossing. When they were past the stalled traffic, Novel looked to the sky again, to the burning sun that made his skin ache. He glanced back at Lily, every feature of her face contorted by hurt feelings. The pheromones buzzed in a golden cloud above her head: those signatures of the air that only vampires should have been able to see.

  “No,” Novel answered, “I can’t.”

  End Of Story One

  The

  Songspinner

  Shadeborn: Volume Two

  by

  K. C. Finn

  PIKETON, the present day

  Full Stop

  The kitchen of the Theatre Imaginique was so well-organised that Lily would swear it ran by magic. Lady Eva, the Gypsy Madame, stood in the centre of a rabble of bubbling pots and clattering pans, attending to each one as though they were impatient children waiting to be fed. Great vents of steam blasted from different delicious concoctions as the stout lady opened their various lids. Lily waved her hand occasionally to generate a cool gust of air and push the steam from her face. It was good practice for her skills, of course, for she had no other reason to be loitering in the kitchen.

  “Here Lily, dear,” Eva said, producing a spoon, “try this one, and see what you think.”

  Well, Lily reasoned, there may have been one other reason to loiter.

  “Mmm, delicious!” the young shade exclaimed, with a mouth full of hot beef broth. It sizzled on her tongue, the flavours rich and deep.

  “Excellent,” Eva said, ladling a healthy bowlful which Lily eyed greedily. “In that case, take this to Salem.”

  Lily’s heart sank into her growling stomach. Salem? Why was it her job to feed him all of a sudden? She wouldn’t dare be rude to a woman as kind as Lady Eva, but that didn’t stop her face from showing contempt as she replied.

  “All right,” she sighed. “Where is he?”

  “The same place he’s been parking his rear since the incident,” Eva answered, already engrossed in her whistling pots once more.

  Lily knew where Eva meant, but she’d been hoping the former shade might have given up his vigil in the small sitting room by now. Balancing the soup bowl carefully in her grip, Lily wound her way down the Imaginique’s narrow corridor towards the sitting room’s door. As usual it was tightly shut. Salem didn’t appreciate visitors any more. Lily knocked just once, watching the bowl wobble in her grip.

  “No,” came a rich voice from within the room.

  “You have to eat,” Lily protested, slowly raising her hand to the door.

  She concentrated her energy, feeling the burning in her blood as it pulsed from her fingers right up to her shoulder. The power of gravity emanated in an invisible wave from her outstretched hand, and the door swung open with a violent bang. Lily was so surprised by her own lack of delicacy that the soup bowl went flying into the atmosphere, but her shade instincts took over and returned the bowl to her grip with barely a drop of broth split. She wished desperately that her intentional magic could be as successful as her subconscious powers, but now was not the time to discuss such things out loud. Magic was no longer Salem’s favourite subject.

  Salem Cross sat in the armchair that faced out at the window, overlooking the side-street where the theatre was placed. There was absolutely nothing to see except the bright summer air, since the August sun had risen to its full height and the shadows of the world had all but disappeared. Salem’s slightly greying hair was slicked back against his head with the minimum effort it required to not look like a tramp, but he’d been wearing the same clothes for several days now. The oversized t-shirt and track pants did not suit a man who had always cut a dash in suits of silver and cobalt blue.

  Lily set the soup bowl down on the coffee table beside him, but Salem didn’t even acknowledge her presence. He hadn’t jumped when the door crashed open, nor did he so much as blink as his bright eyes stayed focused outside the window pane. Lily stood for a moment, expecting him to take the bowl, then put her hands on her hips and sighed loudly and deliberately. Nothing.

  “Look, if you don’t eat it, I’m going to have to tell Novel,” she reasoned. “That didn’t go so well for you last time, if I remember rightly.”

  Salem gave a little cringe at the sound of his son’s name. Lemarick Novel had not been back to the small sitting room for several days, not since Salem had thrown a tureen of borscht at Lady Eva, when she chided him for wasting away and refusing his food. Nobody else had been privy to what happened in the sitting room later between father and son, but Salem had begrudgingly accepted one meal a day since then, and his black eye was almost healed.

  “I’ll eat it,” the former shade grumbled. “Just give me time.”

  Time was all anyone had been giving Salem Cross. It was clear that his choice to become a lightsider had delivered a shock to his system. After five centuries of doing whatever he wanted as a superior being, the sacrifice of Salem’s powers had left an empty shell in place of the charismatic maestro Lily had once known. Novel grieved for his father, so much that he couldn’t bear to discuss how long and painful Salem’s recovery might be, but the very same thing had been the topic of conversation between every other person under the Imaginique’s roof.

  Lily couldn’t help the guilt she felt inside. Fed up as she was with Salem’s morose mood, he had returned and trapped the loathsome Mother Novel within the sphere of his sacrificed powers, allowing Novel to return Lily herself from the brink of death. She perched on the windowsill, blocking Salem’s view, and the older man gave a sneer. He was still only in his late thirties by human biology, but every one of Salem’s five hundred years showed when he locked his deep blue eyes on hers. They spoke volumes of regret.

  “What is it now?” he snapped.

  “What are you doing in here, all day on your own?” Lily asked.

  “Thinking,” Salem answered.

  “About what?” Lily pressed.

  It wasn’t her business, Salem’s frosty look made that clear enough. But Lily was determined not to leave without getting some glimmer of vitality from the man who had stepped in and saved them all from the darksider’s wrath.

  “Have you always been called Salem?” she added.

  “No,” he snapped. He rolled his eyes and slumped down in his chair.

  “I think it’s a really cool name for a shade.”

  “Cool?” Salem said, baffled.

  Lily smiled inwardly. She had caught his attention, at least.

  “You know,” Lily continued, “Magic and all that.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “Being a shade named Salem is like being a Jew and naming yourself Auschwitz,” he replied, every word as bitter as the withering look in his gaze. “The word represents the worst persecution our people ever went through.”

  Lily frowned. “Then why do it?”

  “It was statement,” Salem replied, “and I didn’t choose it.”

  Who did?

  The question hung in her mind, but she knew by Salem�
�s stare that he was done with questions for now. Lily followed his thoughtful gaze back out of the window, to the blazing sunlight of the August afternoon.

  SALEM, MA, 1692

  August 20th

  Five humans had been put to death yesterday, but Alexander Cross found that he still had stomach enough for his breakfast. Charlotte brought him a plateful of hot delights, but served nothing for herself, sitting across from him at their rickety table. Her eyes blazed slowly into the thin fabric of her lover’s shirt. Alexander began to eat, seeming reactionless to her awful look, despite the way it prickled his skin. When he had finished a few mouthfuls, and realised that Charlotte was not going to leave him alone, he shook himself once and gave her a thoughtful sigh.

  “Well, at least if they turn on you, you wouldn’t be hanged for another seven months. Not until the baby’s born, at least.”

  If Charlotte had been a shade, she could have set him aflame with her presence alone. As it was, she seemed to be giving it her best human try.

  “Why should they turn against me?” she snapped.

  Alexander shrugged casually.

  “These people do appear to be pointing the finger of blame left, right and centre now,” he mused, “and the trials have turned to utter madness.”

  “And so have I, it seems,” Charlotte answered, “trusting you.” She looked down at the table, her resolve shattering as her voice broke at last. “You’re not going to marry me, are you?”

  “No,” he answered. It was the first moment of honesty they had ever shared.

  Charlotte nodded to herself, sniffing.

  “I shall be ruined. Pregnant, shunned, alone.”

  “You could move towns,” Alexander suggested amiably. “Go somewhere else and tell them the father of your child died in an accident. You’ll be pitied and helped.”

  Charlotte’s anger flared once more. She rose from the table and rounded on the man she thought she’d loved.