Sundown tried to ignore the curious stares of strangers as she trudged through the streets of the town. The attention made her skin crawl. She was not used to people taking notice of her, much less gawking.

  Perhaps the locals were eyeing the state of her outfit. One of her hands fiddled with the buttons of her red-stained, white blouse, making sure they were secured all the way up to her neck. Not that she need have worried. Most people were probably ogling her legs, dressed in men’s trousers, one pant leg torn open at the thigh.

  They certainly wouldn’t be staring because of her figure. Calling her “lean” would have been generous. Though nearly twenty-five, Sundown had the figure of a fourteen-year-old boy who had yet to hit their growth spurt.

  People could have been surprised at seeing a woman her size carrying a sword almost the length of her whole body. She didn’t really need it, but it had come in useful the past couple of days, and was deceptively well-balanced. But lots of people carried swords in Evensmoor, so she was hardly unique there.

  No, Sundown could have passed for an average—if bedraggled—stranger, with nothing too notable about her, save for one thing: the body she was dragging behind her with a bloodstained rope.

  The body was not human, despite its general form. Head, arms, torso—yes. But no legs, no clothing, and no face. Its skin was like diamonds, gray until it caught a bit of light. It scraped the cobblestones as it dragged along the road.

  The locals gave her a wide berth as she approached her destination. On a narrow street off of the main thoroughfare sat a white-walled, two-storied building with a tall brick chimney pouring white smoke into the air. The houses on either side shied away so as to leave space to walk around back.

  One woman had arrived in front of the house just before Sundown did. The woman glanced at her, then did a double take and backed off the step.

  “Here to see the seer?” the woman said with forced cheerfulness.

  “You were here first,” Sundown said.

  “Oh, it’s alright,” the woman said with a toothy smile. “Go right ahead. I don’t mind.”

  Sundown didn’t bother arguing. She let go of the rope she was using to drag the faceless monster and walked up the steps to knock on the door.

  A man with long black hair answered the door with a bit more vigor than was necessary.

  “If you’re here for an appointment, I’m sorry but I’m behind. If you’re here for a requisition, I’m sorry but I’m behind. If you’re…what in the shades?”

  He stared past Sundown at the body behind her.

  “I’m Sundown,” she said, trying to catch his attention. “I heard you were looking for an apprentice?”

  “Is that a Faceless?” he asked with a slight tightness to his voice.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I dispatched it yesterday.”

  The seer licked his lips. “Ah. How, might I ask?”

  Sundown shrugged. “I just snapped its neck.”

  His face was blank.

  “I’m a bloodwitch,” Sundown explained.

  Understanding blossomed on his face, then disappointment.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sangremancy is a very useful skill, but I need someone who can deal with shades and geists—a shadentheurgist.”

  Sundown’s heart dropped. “I’m a quick study, and I’ve had experience with geists.”

  The seer gave her a kind smile. “I don’t need a student; I need an assistant.”

  He motioned her aside and looked to the woman who had arrived before Sundown. “What can I help you with?”

  “Could the Faceless be of any use to you?” Sundown offered.

  “I don’t typically craft spells that call for Cursed as components, but a little bit of Faceless blood can be useful. Get a glass vial or two and I’ll give you a fair price. Next?”

  Sundown caught his arm and held it tightly. “I need a job.” She emphasized with a squeeze.

  “I don’t have much use for a bloodwitch,” he said.

  “I’m not picky, and I’m not squeamish. I’ll do anything within the realm of reason for money.” She tried to put on a sultry, hopeful look. “If you’re interested.”

  He looked uncomfortable and glanced down. Then his eyes drifted to her feet, and his concern became confusion.

  “What is…where is your shadow?”

  Sundown sighed. “I lost it.”

  “Lost it.” The seer stared blankly at her. “You are…not dead.”

  “I have a hearty constitution, I guess.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. You shouldn’t be alive with no shadow.”

  “Fascinating. I’ll let you study me if you have a few coins to offer.”

  To her surprise, he considered it.

  “Come inside,” he said at last. “I may have a use for you after all.”

  The seer, Aalyndr, led her into the back of his house. The center of the room featured a table, which—aside from the hodgepodge of herbs, wands, crystals, shadowboxes, and tools whose use Sundown could only guess—was currently occupied with a large dark mass.

  A shade.

  Sundown eyed it cautiously. It had large white orbs for eyes, and they appeared to follow her as she walked towards the back of the seer’s workshop.

  A tendril of darkness ran off the table towards her, and she gasped.

  “Thereos, behave,” Aalyndr commanded. “We don’t feed on guests, no matter what state their shadows might be in.”

  The shade seemed to sigh, and the darkness retracted. Sundown relaxed, but decided to keep an eye on it just in case it tried again.

  Aalyndr pulled a tome off of one of the assorted bookshelves that lined his walls.

  “What job do you have for me?” Sundown pressed.

  He thumbed through the book absentmindedly. “You need your shadow back,” he said almost to himself.

  “Is it all that important?” Sundown asked. She needed money, not a prescription.

  He glanced up. “How many living people do you see walking around without one?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve lasted this long.”

  “I’m not sure.” He read in his book for a few more moments, then pointed to the page. “Without a shadow you’ll slip out of existence into the Etheric Plane.”

  “Which means?”

  “You die.”

  The words took a moment to impact on her brain. “What?”

  “You’ve got three weeks to live; the next Evernight is your deadline. Heh, ‘deadline.’”

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  Sundown did not smile. “I can’t die. Not yet.”

  “A fine sentiment. I would recommend getting your shadow back.”

  Sundown pushed her feelings down, focusing on the moment. “Alright. How do I get it back?”

  “How did you lose it?” Aalyndr asked.

  “I…I don’t know. I woke up one morning and it was gone. Can you help?”

  He drummed his fingers on the back of the book. “I don’t know if I can help you with this. I’m not well-versed in shadentheurgy—hence Thereos behaving so poorly. And I don’t know the procedure for reattaching a shadow, even if you find it.”

  “I can’t pay for anything,” Sundown warned. “I’m looking for work. I can’t afford basically anything.”

  He nodded. “I guessed. That’s why I’m offering a deal. A…sort of trade of services.”

  “You know something that can help?”

  “I know someone that can help.” Aalyndr did not sound overly hopeful.

  “Who?”

  “His name is Chane. He’s a shadow hunter.”

  “Oh.” Sundown frowned.

  “To be fair, he’s a decent man outside of that.”

  “It’s not like my hands are clean of violence,” Sundown said. “I just wasn’t planning on working with someone…like that.”

  “It’s up to you. You’ve lost your shadow. He specializes in finding shadows.”

  “Specializes in taking them, you mean.”

  “And hunting down shades. Your shadow would technically be a shade if it’s disconnected from you.”

  Sundown waved her hand. “We’re sorting straw. The bigger question is, would he actually help me?”

  “I said Chane is a decent man. If you set him free, I’m sure he would—”

  “Set him free?” Sundown glared. “He’s in prison?”

  “Only recently. Less than a fortnight.” He shrugged. “Just until they figure out how to kill him.”

  “Figure out…who is ‘they’?”

  “The Hendrguard, of course.”

  Sundown cursed, and the seer raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t planning on shoving an ember down the pants of the Hendrguard.” She crossed her arms. “What do I even get paid for this little rescue mission?”

  “Not dying is pretty good payment,” Aalyndr said.

  “Great. I love eating ‘not dying’ for breakfast. It has such a savory punch to it.”

  “You’ve got quite the tongue.” The seer shook his head. “Chane is…not my friend, per se, but certainly someone I would rather not see dead. I’ll give you three scythers for getting him out.”

  Sundown scoffed.

  “And you get the added benefit of someone who will help you not die.”

  “Potentially help me to potentially not die.”

  He held up his hands. “Your choice.” He turned and put the book back on the shelf, then went around his workshop checking on the state of various bottles, bowls, jars, and plants that he appeared to be experimenting with.

  “Two scythers now, two more and a pith when I bring him back.”

  Aalyndr turned back to her. “You drive a hard bargain for your own life.”

  She shrugged. “Take it or leave it.” It was a bluff, and a dangerous one, but she couldn’t help herself.

  He pursed his lips as he thought, then gave a small laugh. “Alright. Deal.”

  She shook his hand. “Deal. Where do I find him?”

  Chane was already talking to the rats. The Hendrguards wouldn’t talk to him, except to try to coerce information from him. He hadn’t seen a shade to speak to in almost a week, thanks to the lanterns they kept at full brightness in each corner of his cell. Other than the occasional passerby shouting epithets through the window, he had a distinct lack of conversation to pass the time. And the only thing worse than being in prison was being bored while he was there.

  Chane tried to remember times he had been in worse spots. There weren’t many he could count.

  They had robbed him of clothes and dignity, forcing him to stay upright in the center of his cell by shackles on his wrists and around his ankles, so as to limit his access to shadows. Chane was not a small man, and whenever he fell asleep, he worried he would wake up to a broken or dislocated wrist. The food was bad, and the toilet was just a bucket behind him that they occasionally emptied.

  Oh, and they kept trying to kill him. That got on his nerves.

  So, he talked to the rats, just to keep himself sane. He wasn’t sure it was working.

  Thus it came as no great surprise when one of them spoke back to him.

  He was working on a sonnet, something to pass the time and keep his mind sharp, when one rat poked its head under the bars of his cell and seemed to listen to his poetry.

  “What do you think?” he asked it. “Too much alliteration? Or should I include some internal slant rhymes, just to keep it interesting?”

  The rat stood on its hind legs, and he wondered if it were deciding which part of him to nibble on first.

  “I think you look a little worse for wear,” it said in a curt, feminine voice.

  “Speak for yourself,” he said automatically, then wished he hadn’t. “I mean, your fur is matted, you’ve got gashes on your back—you’ve got to take better care of yourself.”

  “For what? Is there some rodent royalty coming to town?”

  “You’re awfully sarcastic,” Chane said with a frown.

  “You’re the one talking to a rat,” it retorted.

  He sighed. He knew his boredom would eventually come to this.

  “Look, do you want out of here or not?” the rat said, taking a few steps forward.

  Chane fumbled for words. “You…ah, what?”

  “I’m here to get you out. You want out, right?”

  He looked closer at the rat. It was definitely not moving like a rat should. Its movements were jerky, and it didn’t appear to be breathing.

  “You’re a wight,” he said.

  “Technically I’m a bloodwitch controlling a wight,” the rat said. “This one happened to be handy. Hold on a moment…”

  The rat went stiff and still, and Chane had a chance to process what it was saying to him.

  Someone was here to get him out of prison. Finally!

  But who?

  “Sorry,” the rat said. “Guard walked by. I’m not too far away from your prison. You’ve sure attracted a lot of shades, by the way.”

  “What do you want for setting me free?” Nobody was doing him a favor. Somebody wanted something.

  “We can discuss terms later. It’s complicated. I just need to know you won’t run off the moment I get you out.”

  He stretched painfully. “I’ve been forced to stand up or hang by my wrists for the past week and a half. How far do you think I’m going to be able to stagger before you catch me?”

  “Fair enough,” the rat said. “Let’s see about getting those shackles off, then.”

  “Forget that,” Chane said. “I need darkness. Can you turn off the lanterns?”

  The rat looked at the corners of the room. “Probably.”

  “If you can turn off even just two of them, I can do the rest.”

  “Alright. Hold tight.”

  The rat crossed the floor in a jerking fashion to the lantern in the far corner. Chane tried to crane his neck to watch, but it was too sore and stiff to get a good look.

  There came a slight squeak of metal, and the light in the corner dimmed until it went out.

  He felt the shades stir beneath his skin. They had grown languid from the constant harsh light, hiding beneath the tattoos he had created to house them. As darkness returned, they began to awaken.

  The rat moved behind him to the other corner, and he tried to listen for sounds of its progress up the wall.

  “Oops.”

  A loud clank sounded through Chane’s cell, and he winced at the sudden noise.

  “The lantern hat wasn’t properly secured,” the rat said. “Sorry!”

  “Get it turned off, quickly!” He tested the chains, flexing his sore shoulders to ensure they would do what he needed them to.

  He could hear the sound of guards in the outside room as they fumbled for keys and called for backup.

  “Hurry!”

  The light behind him dimmed, and for the first time in a week, he felt it.

  Shadows.

  The two lanterns in front of him cast competing shadows behind him, and he felt the shades seep out of him into the darkness.

  The Hendrguards burst into the block, and their faces turned bleak with horror as they saw the extinguished lanterns behind him.

  Chane grinned as his eyes turned black.

  And darkness swallowed the room.

  Sundown was violently kicked out of her wight’s mind as something cold and sinister filled the room and ripped the rat’s body apart. She jolted out of her trance-like state, gasping in agony at the sudden destruction of her wight.

  Confused screaming filled the air, and just as suddenly the jail was quiet again.

  Hurrying across the empty street, she peered into the jail’s windows, but could see nothing.

  “Chane?” she called. She didn’t dare open the door.

  The door opened on its own, and out stepped a very large, very naked, very bloody man. Blood covered his torso, dripping from his arms and, concerningly, from his mouth.

  “You are?” he asked brightly, staring down at her at almost double her height.

  “Sundown,” she said flatly.

  “Chane,” he said, extending a hand dripping in viscera. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  And then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the steps, unconscious.