Page 1 of Of Shadows & Ash (Land of Shadows #1)

SHADE

October 31, four years ago

T here’s blood on my hands. Blood between my toes. Blood splattered in my hair. It’s everywhere—splashed across my chest, streaking the kitchen tiles, and horrifyingly, it’s smeared across my lips. The bitter, metallic taste sticks to my tongue, wrong no matter how justified this is. Guilt comes anyway, settling like a stone in my chest.

My kitchen looks like a butcher’s slab, except I’m the one holding the knife or, in this case, the axe. And sprawled at my feet is the Dearg Sidhe assassin. I’d admire how far his blood sprayed if it weren’t soaking into my jeans.

The adrenaline drains away, leaving me cold, clammy, and nauseous. My entire body trembles as I take a shaky step back, my bare feet sticking to the blood-slick floor. The broken beer bottle lies near his outstretched hand, the jagged edges smeared red. For a moment, I stare at him—the dean’s son, of all people—lying there, motionless.

I killed him.

My boyfriend.

Dropping the axe, I drag in slow, shaky breaths, trying not to completely lose my shit.

I remember smashing the bottle against his face, the sharp crack of glass meeting bone as I fought to keep him from pinning me down. He’d staggered, his hands going to his face, and that brief moment was all I’d needed to shadow walk to my weapon.

The axe is heavier than it looks, now lying where I dropped it. Blood drips from the blade in slow, deliberate plinks onto the floor, pooling next to the mess that used to be his neck. The beer bottle hadn’t stopped him—it had only slowed him down. Fae are stubborn like that. You can stab them, slice them, and leave them bleeding out, but unless you go for the kill— really go for it—they’ll just keep coming.

There’s no surviving that much blood loss, let alone losing his head, not even for a vampirish dark fae with his tricks. Hysteria bubbles up. I should check. Press my ear to his chest. Confirm that his blackened heart has stilled, but I can’t.

Instead, I force myself to look at the boyfriend who tried to kill me. We’ve only been dating since the start of term. Freshman year. I shake my head. He seemed too good to be true, and surprise, surprise, he was. I should’ve seen it. The glamour, the cracks. But I was too busy pretending to be normal, trying to escape the shadow of my royal lineage. And now?

I’m soaked in blood. And I have no idea what to do.

My gaze flickers to the kitchen table where my English essay lies half-soaked in crimson. The A+ in the corner is smeared beyond recognition. Bleeding for literature. That’s realism for you, I think, a laugh bubbling up. The hysterical sound is hollow and wildly inappropriate, but I can’t stop it.

My stomach churns. I bolt for the sink, leaving bloody footprints on the tiled floor. Clearly, luck is on my side; I don’t slip and break my neck. I scrub at my hands until they’re raw, but the blood clings like it’s mocking me. It’s beneath my nails, streaking up my arms and matting the silver strands in my black hair. Fuck. It’s not coming off.

Ash perches on the counter, licking blood off his black paw. He tilts his head, his lavender eyes watching me scrub blood off my hands as though I’m a kitten who wandered into a wolf’s den. His tail flicks once.

“Don’t judge me,” I mutter, voice cracking. “It’s not like I meant to kill the dean’s son.”

“Judging you? No, darling. I’m admiring you. Who knew you had it in you?” He yawns, showing sharp teeth, as if murder is an everyday occurrence—a fitting expression for a glamoured as a domesticated house cat and all-around know-it-all familiar, who clearly believes himself the true mastermind of the household.

“What am I going to do?” I continue scrubbing my hands, but it’s useless. There’s blood everywhere. It’s in Ash’s fur…

“If you think this is bad, wait ’til his daddy finds out.” He lets out a mocking purr that drips with schadenfreude.

“Fuuuuuuck,” I scream.

“Oh, what’s one dead dean’s son when you’re already the queen of darkness?” His eyes glint like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

I glance back at the body. It’s lying there, unnervingly still. I tell myself he’s not getting back up. I used blood manipulation to slow him down, a smashed beer bottle to his face, and my duskwrought axe to lop off his head.

Because what self-respecting university student doesn’t keep an enchanted axe under her bed?

Dark humour is the only thing holding me together, but even that’s wearing thin. I lean over the sink, clutching the edges as nausea rises. What the hell do I do now? Call the police? Sure, and say what? Hi, there’s a dead fae assassin in my kitchen. Oh, don’t mind the decapitation. It’s a cultural misunderstanding.

No. They’d never believe me. Not with the blood, the axe, or the fact that his father is the bloody dean. Fucking changeling. I can’t explain this. I can’t fix this.

“This is a mess,” I mutter. I have an exam tomorrow. I should be studying.

“Killing is easy. Cleaning up? Now that’s where the real art is,” he says with infuriating amusement because he’s clearly not about to help.

Ash leaps down from his perch, his paws landing silently on the blood-slick floor. He steps delicately around the pool of crimson, like that’s going to matter, given the blood all over him. He pauses by the assassin’s head, batting at it with one paw.

“Don’t,” I warn, voice shaking. “Just…don’t. I’m going to get kicked out of school, I’m going to get arrested, I’m going to jail for the rest of my life. I don’t know what to do!”

“Relax. A life sentence isn’t truly the rest of your life. If you’re really good, you’ll get out in fifteen,” he says with unbothered practicality, as though he’s offering cooking tips. “And you do know what to do. You just don’t want to call her .”

He’s right. I don’t want to call her. We’ve got issues—not the garden-variety mother-daughter kind, either. Try, “Sorry, but you can never see the rest of your family again because of some stupid fae laws that say half-breeds like me are a cosmic no-no.” Oh, sure, not everyone feels that way, but clearly enough do if my first university boyfriend is an assassin. And knowing her, she’d waltz in, take one look at this mess, critique my cleaning skills, and say something encouraging like, “You’re too soft to be a proper Shadowborn Witch.”

Classic Mum.

Except…

I sigh. I grab my mobile with shaking fingers and call the one person who might have an answer. Gods, I wish mindspeak was easier this far from the Veil. The phone rings twice before she picks up.

“Mum.” My voice is barely a breath.

“They’ve come for you,” she says, her voice cold as winter steel.

“Yes,” I whisper.

The line goes dead.

The shadows in the corner of the kitchen deepen, pooling like ink. They ripple and shift, and a figure steps through as though carved from the darkness. Her sharp eyes take in the scene—the blood, the body, the gore—with practised calm.

“Well,” she says, her lips quirking in dark amusement, “you certainly didn’t half-ass it, did you?”

“Mum!” I hiss, horrified.

Her grin fades. “It’s a body. Big deal.”

“That’s not helpful!” I snap.

Her expression softens. “Shade, listen to me. This is bad, yes, but it’s not the end. We’ll deal with it.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Really? How exactly do we deal with a decapitated fae assassin on the kitchen floor? Do we magic him alive again and pack him off to some faraway place with no idea who I am? Because I’d love to hear that plan.”

Her jaw tightens. “Even I have limits. You don’t undo death without consequences, and those consequences aren’t ones I’m willing to risk. If I tried, I might end up the one lying dead on this floor. Is that what you want?”

I shake my head, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “No. Of course not. But?—”

“There’s a way out,” she interrupts, her voice quieter now, almost gentle. “But it comes with a price.”

My stomach twists, but I nod. “What do I have to do?”

She doesn’t answer. She reaches into her coat and pulls out a coin. It glints silver in the dim light. My stomach lurches at the sight of it.

“Mum, no.”

She meets my gaze. “We don’t have a choice.”

Mum trained me for this, for the inevitability of blood and betrayal my whole life. Now that it’s come to this? I feel like I’m failing. Numbness washes over me. I nod.

She begins a chant in a lilting, ancient tongue. It feels like the room tilts sideways as the spell falls from her lips, and I know—deep in my bones—that this isn’t something she does lightly. The air thickens, pressing against my skin. Shadows in the room come alive. They crawl across the floor, spilling over the tiles, and reach for the body like eager fingers.

The darkness condenses, folding in on itself until it forms the shape of a man. A deamhan who’s tall, otherworldly, and breathtakingly beautiful in the way only something truly dangerous can be. He surveys the room, his chin tilting with clear disinterest.

“Leanan,” my mother says, her voice tight.

“Talora.” His lips curl into a sharp smile. “What a mess you’ve made. And you’ve dragged me into it. Again.”

Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with every passing second. That’s when it hits me—just how much noise you make in a tiny flat when you’re trying not to be murdered by a fae assassin hell-bent on spilling your blood. The neighbours—well-meaning, overly curious cunts that they are—must have called the police. Fuck.

My mother sighs. “We don’t have time for this.”

He makes a show of adjusting the cuffs of his finely tailored jacket before finally deigning to look at me.

“And who is this?” His voice drips with curiosity and condescension, like he’s discovered a stray dog lounging on an antique settee. He pauses, his nostrils flaring delicately as he sniffs the air.

I freeze. The sensation is oddly intimate, like his scrutiny reaches deeper than the blood I’ve been scrubbing.

“Oh, my.” He practically purrs, eyes widening in mock surprise. “You smell delicious . What are you?”

He sniffs again, and I suppress a shiver, unsettled by the way his gaze lingers, as if he’s dissecting me. “No, no…you’re not fully fae. And I sense a touch of demon—” His gaze flits to the mess on the floor, one brow arching high. “—but I could be confusing that with this little bloodbath you’ve got going on. Honestly, darling, was the axe entirely necessary?”

I open my mouth, but he waves a hand with a flourish that sends the shadows swirling around him. “Talora,” he says, turning to my mother with exaggerated delight, “your glamour on this creature is simply divine.”

“She’s not—” my mother begins, her tone sharp.

But Leanan barrels on, ignoring her. He takes a step closer to me, his hands perched on his hips as he looks me over like he’s appraising a painting at an auction.

“Look at you! Bewitching little Shadow Witch, aren’t you? Oh, I love it! The subtle power, the delightful undercurrent of barely restrained darkness. She must be your daughter. There’s no denying the resemblance. You’re both sharp as knives, with an aura of…latent destruction.” He claps his hands together. “This will be fun !”

My mother’s hands ball into fists. When she speaks, her voice is cold enough to frost the windows. “Enough!”

Leanan blinks, affronted, then places a hand over his heart. “I’m only trying to make the best of this deliciously messy situation you’ve dragged me out of retirement for.” His gaze shifts to me, and his grin sharpens. “Really, the least you could do is introduce us properly. I’m dying to know if your daughter inherited your penchant for rebellion.”

I swallow hard, glaring at the demon.

His grin grows sharper by the second. “Though, judging by the way she’s scowling at me, I suspect she’s inherited more than your rebellious streak. This one has fire ! I adore her already.”

“Are you done?” I snap, digging my fingernails into my palms to keep the hysteria from taking over. “Or do you need to sniff me again before you actually do something ?”

His brows shoot up, his grin widening. “Oh, she’s got a mouth on her! You didn’t warn me about this, Talora. I’m obsessed. Please tell me she’s cursed too. It’ll be the cherry on top.”

“I’m not cursed,” I grind out. “I’m covered in blood, there’s a decapitated fae on my floor, and I’m out of options . So, unless you’re here to help, just…just leave!”

Leanan lets out a theatrical gasp. “Leave? In the middle of such juicy family drama? Darling, that would be a crime in itself.” He moves closer, his tone dropping into something silkier. “Now, what is it you really desire?”

I force myself to meet his eyes, ignoring the way his presence makes my skin crawl. “I need this gone. The body. The blood. His existence. All of it.”

His dark eyes glint with mockery as if he’s savoring some private joke. “And what will you give me, child?”

I falter. My mother steps forward, holding up the coin. “This,” she says.

His lips curl into a slow, satisfied smirk as he takes it, the subtle shift in his posture radiating an almost predatory delight. “Ah, the coin of Ana. Such a precious thing, and you’re handing it over. Just like that. How desperate you must be.”

“Fix this,” she snaps.

I stare at the coin. The silver gleams, but not like something new and polished. It’s been worn smooth by hands that touched it before humans figured out fire.

And then—because apparently staring at an ancient coin isn’t disorienting enough—I’m somewhere else. I’m a small child again, sitting on a library floor with sunlight falling in soft, dusty beams across my chubby little hands. Meadowsweet wafts from my Mamó Bee’s tea, but before I can focus, the memory twists.

Now, I’m not a child anymore. I’m somewhere else entirely. Across a dark sea, high on a mountaintop with swirling purple clouds where the air feels so thin, and the sky stretches so far it could swallow me. There’s power here, immense power, and without knowing how I know, this is the moment when time itself was discovered. Not invented. Discovered.

And yet, somehow, I’m still standing in the blood-soaked mess of my kitchen.

It’s like the coin is dragging me through memories, pulling them out of order and shoving them back in all wrong. I can feel it sifting through them, prodding at the edges, lingering on the ones I hold most dear.

I shiver. It’s not just invasive. It’s intimate . Violating.

He hums, turning the coin in his fingers before slipping it into his coat. “As you wish.”

Heat explodes at the base of my neck like the demon’s claws are carving into my skin, yet he hasn’t touched me. I grit my teeth as fire licks across my skin. Not fire. Ink. No—deeper than that. A brand that whispers in the back of my mind: The debt stands. It is seen. My vision swims, the edges darkening, and for half a second, I see something. A coin. Spinning. Falling. Gone. The searing sensation flares and then cools.

Stumbling, I clutch the edge of the table, and glance at the demon. Satisfaction drips from his shadowed features as if my pain is some kind of trophy.

“What did you do?” I rasp, my voice raw from the scream I couldn’t hold back.

“Marked you.” He shrugs like those two words didn’t seize my heart. “A promise, a bond, a warning. The Gloaming doesn’t like to be ignored.”

My hand trembles as my fingertips brush over the hot, tingling mark. The bastard branded my flesh, marking a bargain I can’t escape.

The demon steps closer. “Your mother’s little glamour is so immaculate, I think I’ll leave it be. Such a delicate touch—quite the artist, isn’t she? But you…” His gaze lingers on my neck. “We can’t have you strolling around with my mark on display for every demon, fae, witch, or wandering busybody to see, now, can we? My signature is very exclusive, darling. Unique, one might say. A little too desirable in certain circles. And I’ve got enough enemies who’d love to call on me without handing them an invitation. No, no, we’ll have to tidy that up.”

His fingers trace the air, a whispered incantation spilling from his lips. The mark on my neck burns, heat flaring beneath my skin as though the very blood in my veins is shifting. The sensation fades as quickly as it came. I use my reflection in the darkened kitchen window to find my neck is bare; smooth, untouched.

His smirk sharpens into something cold and ruthless. “You’re mine now.”

He waves a hand, draíocht rippling through the air. Blood vanishes in shimmering streaks. The body sinks through the floor, head rolling after, both dissolving into the tiles as if they’d never existed.

My memories of the assassin begin to dissipate, slipping away like the last threads of a dream. The prick, then murmurs an incantation, his voice smooth and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to undo the fabric of reality.

Ash snarls and darts between me and the demon, his eyes burning with defiance.

“Ash—” I start, but the plea gets stuck in my throat as the spell hits me.

His fur bristles, the lavender glow in his eyes flaring bright enough to rival the moon. He crouches low, his body poised to strike, but the magic sweeps through the room like a tidal wave.

Ash glares. Not at me but at the magic. At what it’s taking from us.

I’ll find you again. The whisper in my mind barely finishes before the magic grips me again. Something, no some one , I love just vanished.

My heart shatters, leaving a void so deep, I don’t think I’ll ever recover. Why? Who disappeared? The answer slips from my grip, taking with it the kind of love that feels irreplaceable.

The man, demon? locks his gaze on me. “Your name, heritage, family, and magic no longer exist.”

I flinch as he lists each item, despising how I can’t fight to hold on to myself. How I can’t remember exactly what I’ve lost.

“You will wake as Felicity,” he continues as if he hadn’t already shattered me, “a mere mortal with dead adoptive parents.”

My hand flies to my mouth to hold in the sob trying to fly free.

“And you, Talora.” He turns to the older woman. “The coin of Ana is not enough to cover your demand to break the sacred law of balance. The Ironlands will not tolerate your debt, therefore, you are banished to the Shrouded Moors. Forever. Never to return.”

Her breath hitches, then she lifts her chin. “Agreed.”

In the next blink, everything fades.

* * *

I wake up groggy, disoriented, and inexplicably stressed. I search for a reason, but nothing?—

“Alright, you annoying git. I hear you,” I groan at my screeching mobile alarm. I overslept. Again.

After jamming my head and arms through the first cleanish hoodie I find in my flat’s unholy mess, I race out the door with my backpack half-zipped and my hair still damp from the quickest shower of my life. The campus cafe near the university looms with the promise of salvation or coffee, which for me is one and the same because I don’t do mornings. If I can get caffeine into my system, maybe this day won’t kill me outright.

The queue is mercifully short, but as I’m stuffing coins into the payment tray, disaster strikes.

“Oh, whoops!” exclaims a male voice, entirely too loud and cheerful for the hour. A splash hits my sleeve and drips down to the hem of my hoodie.

I jerk back with a yelp. “Seriously?”

The idiot standing in front of me dares to grin. He’s holding an enormous iced coffee with caramel drizzle that’s now oozing down the front of his cargo pants. Honestly, he deserves it.

“Oh no,” he says, his voice seeping with faux concern, as sickly sweet as his coffee abomination.

Did this tosser fling it at me as a pathetic excuse for a pick-up line?

“Did I get you? I’m so sorry. Here, let me help.” He reaches out with a wad of napkins, aiming for my chest like I’m a child who spilt soup on herself.

I step back so fast I almost crash into the woman behind me. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Hey, relax.” His smirk spreads, the kind that makes my fingers itch for something heavy to throw. “It’s just coffee. No need to get all worked up. I’m Jay, by the way.” He leans in, like I’m supposed to swoon because some plonker decided to ruin my morning with a sad introduction. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

There’s a moment where my brain freezes. A wave of nausea and confusion hits me before I shake it off. I lift my chin. I’m torn between fury and disbelief. Who is this guy? Before I can decide whether to scream or storm away, a sharp, no-nonsense voice prevents me from biting his head off.

“Oi! Leave her alone!”

The guy straightens, his smirk faltering.

I turn to see a woman stepping out of the queue behind me. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly chic in a tailored blazer over a cropped jumper and wide-legged trousers. Her shock of blonde hair falls in artfully tousled waves, catching the light in a way that seems almost intentional. She’s striking. Maybe it’s the glow of her skin, as if she walked out of a luxury skincare ad, or her vivid green eyes that look like they could belong to a forest sprite.

She moves with an effortless confidence, the kind that seems to shift the air around her, making people instinctively step aside. Her expression is a sharp blend of wicked amusement and barely concealed disdain, like she’s a gale ready to send this tosser’s dignity tumbling end over end.

She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Did you not learn basic decency at some point? Or do you just harass random women before nine a.m. because your mum didn’t hug you enough?”

“I wasn’t—” He flounders, but she doesn’t let him finish.

“Mate,” she says, her tone going from sharp to almost pitying, “she doesn’t want your help, and she definitely doesn’t want your phone number. Jog on.”

He flushes, mutters something under his breath, and retreats, leaving a trail of caramel drizzle in his wake.

She turns to me, her lips quirking into a smirk. “You alright, or do I need to chase him down and pour that coffee over his head?”

I blink, stunned. “Uh, no. I mean, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Good,” she says, grabbing a napkin from the counter and handing it to me. “You’ve got a bit of coffee—just there.” She gestures vaguely toward my arm, and I realise I’ve been standing frozen with it sliding down my sleeve.

She extends a hand, her smile easy and open. “I’m Cyn. You looked like you could use a friend.”

There’s something about her, a warmth that seems almost out of place on a grimy university morning. When she steps closer, the faintest hint of sweetness, mountain air, and pine wafts through the air, like she’s been walking through a spring forest instead of a crowded campus.

I take her hand a bit hesitantly. “Felicity.”

“Nice to meet you, Felicity. Now, come on.” She jerks her head toward the counter. “Let’s get you a replacement before someone else decides to throw a drink at you.”

I manage a weak laugh, and for the first time all morning, I feel like the world isn’t actively trying to crush me. Until I catch my reflection in the cafe window, and something there doesn’t look quite right.