Steel Shadows

SHADOW

SHADOW“You’re sure this will work?”

Despite the evidence of Victory’s enhanced senses over the past week, putting her faith in time travel remained difficult. She stood with Toria in the museum’s basement, clutching Toria’s warm fingers within her cool hand.

But putting faith in her daughter’s magical ability was effortless.

“The spell worked. I have no idea about this next part,” Toria said. “But wherever we end up, this time we’ll be there together.”

Victory closed her eyes. With any luck, the next time she opened them, they would stand in the ruins of Nacostina, decades after the Last War. Decades in the future. Somewhere close to their own time.

She hadn’t prayed in a long time. She wasn’t sure who or what she should pray to now, so instead, she focused on one idea. Home.

Without warning, a mysterious force jerked Victory away. The stillness pressed in, like invisible hands grasping at her clothing and limbs. The silence screamed in her ears. The voices she’d heard in the shadows when they first traveled to Nacostina coalesced into words. Not Loquella, not Qin, nor any of the other languages she’d learned and forgotten over her lifetime. But she understood nonetheless. Her body obeyed no orders, else she’d have clawed at her ears to force out the voices.

One comes.

We know this one.

One is too early.

One does not know us.

Shock reverberated through the impenetrable void, as if the entire universe experienced outrage at such an oversight.

The oppressive touch shifted. Now, hands caressed her in mingled curiosity and affection. No difference between the pressure on her clothes, on her body, within her skin.

One will.

Victory’s entire sense of self spun away, twisting itself inside out.

Scenes played out, overlaying her twisted vision. The visions spooled out of the void and pummeled her with images. Dreams, memories, scenes—familiar and not. A life both lived, and unlived.

Campfire light haloed Asaron, the wild man with tangled red hair, as he kneeled above her in the darkness. Gentle hands pushed her against the bedroll, in counterpoint to his gruff voice. “Don’t panic. Your body is still healing.”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m Asaron. What’s your name?”

“I… don’t know.”

“That’s okay. We’ll find you a good one.”

The scene shifted. Asaron moved away, the world twisting around her and night stars shimmering into a mosaic pattern. Brilliant colored tiles spiraled on the wall opposite the couch where Victory lounged. Gentle fingers touched her wrist, and she accepted the goblet of blood from the demure serving girl. When the servant scurried away, her cotton robes fluttered in the nighttime breeze that came through the narrow windows under the eaves.

“I’ve done well for myself since you’ve been gone, Victory.”

She shifted her attention from the departing servant to the woman who reclined across from her, garbed in black fabric that should have seemed drab next to the tile wall. Her progeny smiled under her hooked nose.

Victory raised her goblet in a toast. “I didn’t expect this sort of welcome, Fatima.”

“You’re always welcome in my home, Mother. None of this would exist without you.”

The tiles behind Fatima’s waterfall of black hair took on a life of their own. The many-hued mosaic swirled together, blending into new patterns, and Victory fell forward among them.

The carriage jolted on the unpaved road. Her spine would need days to recover, but her progeny Jarimis had insisted they could not afford to turn down this hunting party invitation. He patted her knee, and his golden rings glinted in the full moonlight. “We’re almost there, Mum.”

“I imagine this is less about finding potential clients and more about access to the viscount’s library, isn’t it?” Victory shifted on the carriage bench, glad she never traveled in a corset and dreading the change into appropriate evening wear when they arrived at the estate.

Jarimis caught her fingers with his. “For once, it’s not about a book. I heard the viscount’s daughter had need for a security detail to accompany her to Londinium for the season. I may have promised an introduction.”

“Oh, Zvi.” Victory drew her handkerchief to her face. “I’ve already heard the rumors about that woman.”

But when she lowered the slip of cotton, the jolting travel had stopped. She stood alone on a flat, gray surface. The colorless sky melded with the ground on the horizon, difficult to distinguish even with her vampiric eyesight. Jarimis’ cool hand in hers had returned to Toria’s calloused grip, but her daughter was nowhere to be seen outside that solid connection.

The invisible, searching caresses returned, and Victory shuddered away from the touch. “Hello?” Her voice fell flat against the blank expanse, as if she stood in a sound-proofed booth. “I need to get home.”

Toria’s hand twitched in her own, but she held fast. What did her daughter see in this weird space between time?

The creeping hands never faltered, but the voice echoed through the air.

We will return one to whence one came. We will wait for one.

The tugging sensation behind her sternum closed its grip, yanking her out and away.