The thing blinks, and it’s gone.
“Sensing things with my Darkness is useless to you,” Killian grumbles.
“It’s Darkness?”
“No.”
“It’s in the Darkness?”
“No.”
“It’s from the Darkness? Killian, help me out here. I’m no good at guessing games. Remember when I first met you and suggested you were a plumber?”
He grunt-chuckles. “If you can see him, you’re seeing with my Darkness.”
“So it’s a him?”
“I think it’s a her, and it’s a pest.” And just to highlight his opinion the guy smacks his shoulder hard and makes the shadowy-creature dart out from under his collar and fall back into his hood.
“That’s mean,” I say, grabbing his hand so he can’t do it again.
Killian glares at my fingers. “It doesn't have pain receptors.”
That’s the worst excuse! “Doesn’t make hitting it any less cruel.”
“Having a pest in your shirt is cruel.”
I smile up at him. “That thing’s always in your shirt?”
“Mostly. Shirt. Boot. Saddle bag. Hides in my room when we’re at the Castle.”
“For how long? I didn’t see it at the Castle or on the road,” I say.
Killian pokes me between the eyes. “Seeing with my Darkness.” He says each word like they’re offending him, then he pinches my nose. “And stop smelling with it too. Allure is useful. Chaos is useful. Smelling is not useful to you. You need to learn to use my strength like everyone else does.”
He doesn’t let go of my nose, and when I speak, my words are all nasally. “Okay, looks like we’re not talking about the funny shadow-thing anymore.”
“Agreed.”
He drags me the last few steps past the fallen log – by my nose – making me hiss and snort. We are already out of sight, and if I could look over my shoulder, the cottage and clearing would be muffled by trees, but we’d still have a good vantage point. Anyone down there, though, will have a tough time spotting us. So, at least no one else gets to find this funny.
Killian sure does, smiling as he lets go of my nose and grabs my arm instead. I rub my nose with my free hand because nothing about Killian is gentle. He squares himself off in front of me, which sends sparks of nervous-fear down my spine. He’s looking a lot like he might be about to teach me something. Which is bad. I eye his hands, hoping to spot the moment he draws a weapon before he has a chance to stab me with it.
“Free yourself,” he orders.
My instinct is to kick him in the balls, but he stomps on my toes before I can move.
“Argh, what was that for?” I demand, jumping on one foot but still trapped in his grip.
“Use your other hand to pry my fingers off.”
“You could have just said that to begin with! Shade, I’m going to hold your wrist, and you’re going to use your other hand to free yourself – how hard would that have been?”
He huffs at me, then waves my trapped arm in front of my face. “Free yourself or I cut it off.”
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
Crap – I think he would.
Desperately, I wriggle and twist while pulling, pushing, and even squeezing his fingers. He doesn’t budge. Nothing.
He draws the short dagger from his side. The man is loaded up with weapons – the big curved blade strapped to the front of his belt is his most impressive – but his smaller dagger still gets my heart racing.
“Killian,” I plead.
“Escape,” he threatens, lifting the weapon into the splintered fractures of morning light. Deliberately, I’m sure, because the glinting steel triples my heart rate.
Crap, crap, crap.
I can’t escape. This isn’t a new skill; it’s a new torture. No matter how much I struggle and pull, he doesn’t budge, and Killian is always, always serious. The weapon moves, and I give up on his hand – lunging at his torso instead. At his neck, actually, with my teeth bared like I might actually use them.
He takes a big step back, drops the blade, and stops me by putting his palm on my forehead. That’s all it takes, and I’m at his mercy again.
Why the chuck did I just try to bite him?!
“More motivation,” he mutters, yanking me by my wrist across to the fallen log.
“Killian,” I say, partly in warning, but mostly in confusion.
He lifts the great big tree trunk with one hand, tugs my arm downwards hard enough to make me stagger, trip, some-chuckin’-how end up on my damn back in the dirt, then lowers the log back down.
“What are you doing?” I scream.
The opportunity to struggle is over before I’ve even realized what was happening.
He doesn’t say anything, just settles the log into place and steps back.
Most of the weight of the tree is taken by several scattered rocks and some broken branches beside me. The log is still well and truly on me. There’s no sugar-coating how stuck I am, but I’m not being crushed to death. Which is a bonus.
“Killian, let me up. It’s damp down here, and I’m getting a wet bum. It’s too early for this crap. Breakfast, Killian, that’s what people do in the morning. It’s breakfast time. Not crush Shade time.” As I rant, I squirm and wriggle and fail.
I try to push myself out from under it or move it just the tiniest bit – enough to slither free – with every ounce of strength I have. One whole second later, I realize that escape isn’t possible, but proving that to Killian means I genuinely have to try.
The rough bark and ridges in the trunk feel awkward, but I press my palms flat one more time and push as hard as I possibly can. Hard enough to feel like I might pop something vital inside my skull.
Nothing.
“There, I tried, now get me out of here,” I gasp.
He just laughs. He’s already collected his blade from the ground, and he perches on a sizable boulder, pulling a small piece of cloth from
