Jon Sprunk - Shadow's master

She could only imagine what Caim was going through, all alone without her. Had she made the wrong choice becoming human? If she were still Fae, she could find him in a heartbeat. Now she was locked away with two hundred and twenty-seven paces of stone ceilings and corridors between them.

Kit choked back her anguish as she realized she could feel Caim's presence. She looked down at the floor. That's where he was, exactly two hundred and twenty-seven paces away. Best of all, she knew he was alive, knew it down deep in her newly solid bones.

Rejuvenated by this knowledge, Kit took up the wire and started on the lock again. Once she was free, she would track down Caim, break him out, and they could flee. She blew a stray strand of hair from her eyes and squinted down into the lock. Just hang on, darling. I'll find you.

Kit was jiggering the wire back and forth in the lock when footsteps echoed outside the room. She snatched out the wire and slipped it under her leg as her new “master” entered. Kit watched Lord Malphas take off his outer robe, and a burly Northwoman came to take it away. Then the shadow man looked at Kit until she squirmed. She had stared into the eyes of snakes and wolves and some really big monster fish that prowled the seas, but this man's look disturbed her. It wasn't lust for her naked body, which she could have handled. It felt like he was peeling off her skin with his eyes.

“Jai asta raelano, mei hai?” he asked. You're a long way from home, aren't you?

Kit's breath left her lungs. Her native language sounded foul coming from his mouth. She sat in her gilded prison and shivered, glad for once for the bars between them. After a few minutes, he went to another wing of the suite and left her alone.

Kit let out the breath she'd been holding. Forcing her hands to be steady, she took out the wire and got back to work. On her next try, something clicked. With one eye on the doorway, Kit lifted the latch.

The door of the cage swung open.

Kit waited with one hand on the bars, listening for any nearby movement, but all was quiet. Telling herself to be brave like Caim, she slipped out of the cage and went to the front door. She could have cried with joy when the latch opened. The hallway outside was empty. Kit thought for a moment. If she left now, there was no turning back. Her absence would be noted and a search was likely to ensue. How fast could she get to Caim? She had no way of knowing.

With a deep breath to calm her nerves, Kit grabbed a yellow silk duvet from the back of a chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. She could do this.

She stepped through the door, pulled it closed behind her, and hurried down the cold stone corridor.

“Armenis of Freehold. Dalros Vicencho. Fur-Furio Three-Finger. That duelist from Mecantia with a lisp.”

The names echoed back to Caim as he dredged them up from his memories and spoke them aloud. A list of all the men he'd killed. Some he didn't have names for, but he remembered exactly how they'd looked when they died. So much blood. I'm a killer. It's the only thing I've ever been good at.

Shackled once more to the wall, he stared up at the lights. He was tired down to his bones, but he couldn't sleep. I'll be dead soon. Then I can sleep forever.

“Chiel-No, what was his name? Chellish the Mad. Yes. Edric Klapsur.”

Caim looked up to the shackles holding his wrists to the wall. Blood had run down from his right hand and formed a crust around that cuff. He tugged, but it was too tight and the metal didn't have any play. And even if he managed to slip out of the stocks, where would he go? The door was solid iron-he'd seen that in his comings and goings-and locked from the outside. They'd taken everything except his smallclothes. Well, old boy, I think this might be the end.

How would they do it? Beheading? Draw and quarter? That seemed a little extravagant for the quiet man sitting in the black throne. Maybe they'll send someone down here to slice my throat and be done with it.

He was about to resume his list of names when he caught a flicker of movement in the far corner of his cell. Had the lights dimmed? Though no shadows existed anywhere in the tiny room, he couldn't see into that corner. It was just a grayish haze.

It's him. He had been waiting for the swordsman to return since the audience with the Shadow Lord. He wasn't sure why, but something in the warrior's gaze had made Caim think that they shared some kind of connection. Yes, we're both killers. We know our own. “You just going to stand there and look at me?”

When there was no answer from the misty corner, Caim yanked at his shackles and cursed. “You want to cut my throat? Then do it already!”

Caim fought his bonds and shouted until he was breathless, slumped against the wall, but his efforts evoked no reply. With a grunt, he looked down at the floor and kept his gaze there while the blood throbbed in his eardrums. After a few minutes he looked up. The haze was gone. He was alone again. Or maybe I'm going fucking crazy down here.

The cell door rattled. Caim took a deep breath. If they let me free, even for a moment, I'll damned well take one of them with me. He clenched both hands into fists, not caring about the pain. The soldiers were fully armored, but he might be able to get his fingers inside one of their visors. Take out an eye. Pluck a dagger from a sheath and plunge it under a gorget. He let out the breath, and almost choked when the door swung open.

“Caim?”

This isn't real. He tried to swallow, but his throat had closed up. I've gone mad. It can't be.

A wan face peered into the cell. Her eyes widened as she entered. “Caim!”

Then she was draped across him. He buried his face in her hair, afraid to believe it was really her. Then he noticed the bloody knife in her hand. “Kit? What happened? Did they hurt you?”

She planted a kiss on his mouth. Her lips were hungry, her tongue darting out to caress his, and for a moment he forgot all about his captivity, the time they'd been apart, everything. The moment could have lasted forever, as far as he was concerned. When she pulled away, he kept his eyes closed. Then he felt her fumbling with his shackles. Caim opened his eyes and found himself staring at her chest, and not minding at all.

“I'm fine,” she said, sorting through a ring of keys. “But you look pretty rough.”

Caim advised her to try the small iron key he had seen his captors use. “Where did you get that knife?”

The lock holding his right wrist clicked open, and Kit moved to the other one. “I stole it from a mess hall not too far from here.”

Caim sighed as his hands were released and pinpricks raced into his extremities. His right hand began to ooze. “And the blood?”

Kit handed him the knife, hilt first. “Here. We need to get moving. Can you walk?”

“I can try.” Getting to his feet took a painful effort even with Kit's help. His legs wobbled, both knees screaming out as they took his full weight. But once he got up, he felt a little better. The returning sensation caused his right hand to throb. “So are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she asked.

Caim looked her up and down. She wore a short yellow smock that hung a few inches below her bottom. It was a shapeless rag, but she made it look damned good. “You're real.”

She smacked him in the arm-his good arm. “I was always real, dummy. You just couldn't feel me before.”

“And I'm not complaining, but-”

“It's a long story. But I promise I'll tell you everything once we get out of this place.”

“Is this something you did purposely, Kit? Why would you-?”