Shadelings

chapter twelve

Noah

Whatever mission she went on, it was not a good one.

She caught pneumonia; she hasn’t left her bed for a week; not even the alcohol can help her sleep. She always wakes up screaming, then ends up in a coughing fit. The entire time she’s been back, I've been taking care of her, sleeping in her bed, and wondering where the hell she went between training sessions with Arina. She hasn’t said a word to me.

“Hey,” Arina shouts. I snap my head to the side, then dodge the rock she launches at me. “Knock out of it. Training, remember?”

“Rings a bell,” I say, eyebrows raised. “Look at the targets over there.”

She does; I pull a blindfold out and tie it around her eyes within ten seconds, then I hand her a knife. “Now, aim.”

“I’m going to miss with this blindfold on,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is there a point to this?”

“Yes. Now aim.”

She sighs, and I can picture her rolling her eyes under the blindfold; nevertheless, she aims... and the knife lodges into the wall, several yards away from any of the targets.

She pushes the blindfold up and says, “Damn it.”

“You’re an eraser. You need to be able to hit a moving target, whether you can see it or not, based on memory. If you can’t hit a stationary target blindfolded, then we have some work to do.”

“We have twelve years of eraser training. Obviously, we have some work to do if it’s going to take up that much time,” she says, snorting.

“You got a point there,” I say, laughing. The girl has grown on me, even though she’s crazy and has an attitude. She met Ashlyn earlier, and they seemed to get along, which is good; Ashlyn needs to break out of her shell. Fucking gods, I sound like her godsdamn father.

“Of course I do. I’m a genius, didn’t you know?”

“I had no clue, actually.”

She sticks her tongue out at me, and I roll my eyes. The door to the gym opens behind us, and I turn around, ready to yell at whoever it is. I took this time slot for private practice, and private means no other people. But then, Ashlyn walks in.

“N-Noah,” she says, “um, since C-Cons-stance is sick, c-c-can I join you g-guys?”

“Sure, you can save me from dealing with this one.” I point at Arina, who stomps her foot and shoves my shoulder. Is this really professional? Is anything at Evercrest Academy really professional?

No. No, it is not--unless you’re a courier. They’re the ones that have to deal with the other, more formal countries. I still prefer killing people; that’s what made me a demon, after all.

“Ash, look at the targets over there,” I say. She complies, and I hand her a throwing knife, then blindfold her.

“Now, aim.”

“Uh, th-throwing kn-knives really aren’t my, uh, my th-thing.”

“Okay. Now, aim.”

She takes a deep breath, pulls her arm back, and throws. Her aim is good, but it falls short by a lot. Ashlyn pulls her blindfold up and bites her lip, then looks down. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“Your aim’s hella better than mine was, though,” Arina says, “’cause I can’t remember where people are.”

“It’s good, but you need more strength. Let me show you,” I say. She smiles up at me, and I hold her arms, showing her how to throw the knife. Ashlyn is a quick learner, all focus and eager to please. One day, she’s going to be better than all of us.

#

I collapse onto the bed next to Constance and pull the covers over me. “Hey, babe,” I say, resting my hand on her stomach, “how are you feeling?”

“Not good,” she says, brushing the hair out of her face. There’s my beauty.

“I’m sorry. Pneumonia sucks. Want me to get you some tea?” The last time I got pneumonia, I was probably thirteen. I don’t like to remember my childhood.

She takes in a breath, then coughs. “No, actually.” Pause. “You probably won’t want anything to do with me after I tell you where I was.”

“Doubtful,” I say, drawing my eyebrows together. “Where were you?”

Constance sits up and walks over to to her desk, then opens a drawer and takes something out, mutters a spell, and comes back. She hands me a locket shaped like a dragon’s wing, then opens it up. On one side is a picture of her, only younger, and some drow; on the other side are three babies. They look like a family.

“So, where were you?” I say, eyes glued to the locket. My voice stays casual, but my grip on the locket tightens--just a little.

“My husband’s funeral.” Emotionless.

I walk out of the room and into the kitchen, then put on a pot of tea. Husband. Dead husband. A harsh bark of laughter surfaces, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s my own. I wait, just standing there, until the kettle shrieks. I search her teas until I find something black and citrus-y. Probably good for her symptoms. I pour it into a mug.

Husband. Dead. Husband. Constance Dreamweaver--married. This whole time. I take the mug into the room, set it down beside her form. “My condolences,” I say, as emotionless as she was. Just push it down. All of it. Push it down, Noah. Push, push, push.

“Thanks.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have anything to say. Not yet, anyway. I need a moment to think. Fucking married? Seriously? Careful not to make too much noise, ‘cause I don’t want to disturb Mrs. Dreamweaver’s sleep, I shut the door and lean against it.

Married. Fucking hell, Constance.

cover on right by @_jelly-tots // song is "world so cold" by three days grace