Spare Princess

Shadows

Geneva

As I stand in front of the centuries old house, my eyes barely noticing the new paint on the facade, the smoke coming from the chimney, or the red hyacinths growing at both sides of the porch. I ignore the way that burning red contrasts with the grey of November and that it reminds me of the man at the graveyard with his lit cigarette and his cold gaze. I blame the sudden anxiety that grips me at the thought of him with the other one, the anxiety that usually comes when I am forced to be among people. And I definitely, definitely, am not looking at the hollow statue on my left.

The thing is, every fibre of my body wants me to look. To make sure he’s not there anymore. I mean, he is. At least the statue is. But the soul trapped inside isn’t. It’s not been there ever since last summer, almost a year and a half ago, when I tricked Ian and Victor into helping me to make a spell and free it. So, I want to look and allow myself to feel at least a little bit of satisfaction for doing the right thing at least once in my life. Yeah, I may have lied my way into it, but it was the right thing anyway. Probably the only good thing I’ve ever done in my entire existence.

The front door creeks open and a flushed Ian peaks his head through it. He's wearing an apron that says 'best a*ss in town' and it looks so out of place over his black jeans and hoodie.

“You are early,” he says with with narrowed eyes but he seems pleased as he moves away to let me inside.

“Didn’t have much to do around here anyway,” I shrug and hand him the bottle of wine as walk past him and roll my eyes. “It’s so boring to behave.”

Ian waves me off but again, there is no malice in the action. “People around here like it when you behave.”

“Sure,” I leave my coat and scarf in the hallway before I slip into a pair of slippers and follow him inside the house. “No, they just prefer it so they won’t have to give me any spare thoughts.”

“That’s not true…”

“Yeah, buddy, it is. Don’t worry, I know you and Victor are out of that equation,” I shrug. “It’s cool. I don’t care about anyone else around here anyway.” The moment the words leave my lips, I flush like a fool. It’s not like me to admit any kind of affection towards anyone. Affection makes people look weak. Needy. And I am neither of those things.

“Oh, we love you too, Gen,” Ian reaches out and ruffles my hair, his hazel eyes staring at my face for a second too long. “It suits you,” he points towards my hair.

“You are only saying that because with brown hair I can’t impersonate your favourite alpha girl.”

“No, I say it because the red highlights are exactly your thing,” Ian smirks. “Matches the evil glint in your eyes.”

I don’t reply to that. I really want to but I don’t have to make more points to convince him I am nothing special or unique and I won’t. He knows that already. And I am really not. Hell, I am not even a real person.

Exhaling the sudden sting through my chest at that thought, I walk right into the small living room and plop myself onto the patched couch, hating how much this place looks like a real damn home. Something made with love and care. I can sense the faint hint of wood smoke in the air, mixed with the cinnamon one from Ian’s muffins. The little soft lights at the corners are giving golden glows to the entire place. It’s all so domestic and cute that it makes me sick. Makes me want things that will never be mine.

Still, I make myself relax and sit crosslegged, leaning back with a sigh into the comfy cushions that smell of something fresh and clean. God, why do they have to be so soft?

Ian comes back from the kitchen a second later with my wine bottle opened and two tall glasses in hand.

“Wow, are we drinking this wine or drowning with it?” I whistle but still take one of the glasses and let him pour me a generous amount of the dark red liquid.

“Well, it’s been a long day, week actually,” he mumbles as he sits on the couch next to me. “Your b***h grandmother dying has been hell.”

We share a look. A look that says a thousand things that words can’t. Ian and I will never be the best of friends. We tolerate each other and unite against Victor’s enemies when the need arises, but that's it. Yeah, that's it, we will forever be tied together by our common worry about him. Victor is this strong, powerful shifter who’s got the entire world in his pocket, but me and Ian are probably the only people who know how deeply vulnerable and lonely he can get in his own grief, how lost in his feelings he can get.

“That bad, huh?” I murmur finally and look away, feeling guilty all of a sudden, even though Genevieve ruining Victor’s life is not technically my fault. Probably the only thing in the world that’s not my fault. Yet, I feel the burden of it nonetheless.

Ian’s eyes focus somewhere outside. “I mean, he’s not saying anything but you know him…”

Yeah, I know. My poor heroic brother who thinks that the only way to keep us safe is to sacrifice himself for us and bottle all his emotions up until he explodes. And man, how he explodes - his self-destructive ways are epic, even by my own standards.

“I will talk to him,” I promise and cling my glass to Ian’s for a cheer. He looks at me and I can see the tension in his eyes loose a little.

“Thanks,” he sighs in something that looks a lot like relief.

“Enough with the sad thoughts. That b*itch doesn’t deserve them anyway. Tell me about the wedding.”

And just like that, Ian’s eyes light up and we spend the next hour drinking my cheap wine and talking about lighter, safer stuff. I listen to everything he has to tell me about his wedding plans and I am truly happy for him and Victor. They deserve all the best in the damn world and I am glad they got it. I’m just a little sad I won’t be able to see them getting married. One, I’m sure I won’t receive an invitation. Sending me one would be a social suicide for both of them, not that they’d even think about it. Two, even if I do get to be there, sweet little Veronica is going to kill me the moment she lands eyes on me and I really, really don’t want to see her ever again. It’s more than enough that I am forced to look at her f*ucking face every time I look in the mirror.

It’s already dark outside when we’ve finally downed the bottle and head towards the kitchen to set up the table. Victor just sent a text he’s on his way.

“Take the silverware from the upper drawer,” Ian instructs me as he arranges the plates on the table.

“Oh, the gold stuff? Why, I feel honoured, Mr. St. Claire,” I joke but head towards the drawer nonetheless.

And then I stop in my tracks, my eyes drawn towards the window, chills running though my back all of a sudden.

The hair on the back of my neck stands with tension and I can feel my breath freezing in my throat. The magic that runs through my veins, the only thing that keeps me alive, starts screaming at me.

“Ian, I want you to be very still,” I whisper carefully.

“What?” He asks, and comes to join me, his eyes focused outside, but I know he doesn’t see the shadow I glimpsed just seconds ago. It moves fast, mixing with the darkness of the night, and it reeks. I bet it knows how to hide from witches like Ian. But I am not a witch like Ian. I am a shadow, a mirror image of someone else, so I see.

“Put all the lights on, at the front porch too. Stay in the light.” I instruct Ian a second later when I am finally able to get rid of the sudden stupor. My heart is still racing in my chest, but I can’t think about my fear right now. I’ve seen even darker things than a hellish shadow lurking in the night. Probably it’s nothing. Those things just exist in the world. Not in Redwind, but still.

Ian doesn’t question me. I don’t know if he feels the presence of that thing too, but he’s ready to do as I tell him. Once the entire house is lit up, we meet in the living room.

“Care to tell me what happened?” Ian asks me, his eyes wary as they bore into me.

I don’t have time to reply to him though. I catch a glimpse of the shadow in the corner behind him. It rises from the empty space, drowning the light, growing in size with every beat of my heart.

“What the actual f*uck…” Ian starts but has no time to finish that sentence as the shadow lunges towards me, pushing him out of the way.

His body hits the wall and he grunts, but I don’t have time to check on him. I don’t have time to even think as the darkness solidifies in front of me into something without a shape, something that does not belong to the physical world but somehow slipped in anyway through the cracks. Just like me.

The realisation is too painful and blinds me for a second, but it’s all that the creature needs to attack again. It pushes me back and it feels like all the hatred used to create it is poured against me. It doesn’t hit me to move me out of the way. No. I can feel it in my bones. It’s here for me. To hurt me. All the light is drained from the room and the shadow only grows. That’s not how hellish shadows are supposed to act. And its presence that sticks to me like tar? It feels like I’ve been touched by an endless void of hatred and despair and for a moment it’s like I’ve been thrown in a vortex of all my past mistakes and regrets, right in the middle of the nightmares that keep me awake every night.

I scream. And then scream again because the pain from the blow is not only emotional, it’s also physical. Like someone just threw a fireball at me. And again and again. My magical powers are nothing to that shadow. Still, I somehow remember to use them and throw a spell at it. It hits it with a sizzle, the electricity burning through it but it’s not enough…

Another blow and I scream. Blood is running down my nose and mouth. I am knocked out on the ground and the shadow’s hatred is three times stronger now as it his mercilessly at me, trying to break me, to find the crack that will end me, because that’s its goal. Or the goal of whoever summoned it after me.