Page 1 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

E very shadebound heard Death’s Call once and chose whether to answer. I never chose. He whispered to me since I was stillborn. Like a lullaby for a dead girl.

And now I was stuck.

The first sip of my hawthorn tea burned. Far more than my thinking ever could. My mother had mixed the leaves herself. She was a nature witch fond of making potions for every ailment, even silent ones. I hadn’t got the heart to tell her it was vile. Worse than vile.

Maybe I had been cursed since my death-birth, or perhaps I had simply sinned far too often.

I was leaning towards the sin part. I did enjoy a good sin.

Though over-steeped leaves and decaying voices inside my head were more entertaining for me, than the nervous pacing that filled my family living room.

Jaw hardening enough to give me a headache, I glanced up at the ochre-painted wall opposite my seat. The silver clock ticked closer to my supposed doom. It ticked impossibly louder as I fought the urge to hurl the china cup in my fingertips.

It was witching hour. But I didn’t believe in that nonsense. The only thing the clock did now was remind me that our city was on hour thirteen of a winter snowstorm I would not see the end of. Sad, considering storms were my favourite. I was only happy when the world was in black and white.

I considered stepping outside into the snow and just lying down in it.

Perhaps let the storm bury me like a relic, turning me into a frozen sculpture the world would forget.

It would be quiet out there. Peaceful, even.

No eyes watching. No judgement passed. None of the spectacle I’d been living through for the past eight months.

Bad enough I’d had to quit my bland assistant job at my mother’s store.

I wanted none of that nonsense again. I just wanted the cold.

And the stillness of being nobody again.

I wondered if that would be easier than everything else. Then I swallowed the thought like broken glass and straightened my spine.

“Want a cup of tea while you pace yourself into an early grave?” I asked my father dryly. “Or perhaps some new shoes to wear when you’ve put holes in those?”

Father ignored me. I wanted to smite him for it.

I didn’t . My hand even twitched. But love was a hideous leash.

Though my emotions were... different, bordering on the morbid little goth girl levels.

I still felt the usual mortal ones. Like love, fear or disgust .

I was a dead girl walking, and one would have presumed it gave special benefits.

Like not having to force tea down my throat to be polite.

Or listen to a man pretend he didn’t know his daughter was a vicious criminal. But spoiler: it did not.

I was still drinking tea. Still listening to obnoxious pacing. And still wondering if my execution date could come faster. Or if my father knew he had denial down to an art form that even Caravaggio would have admired.

Another bitter sip went down my throat when the world shifted.

Quietly at first. Like snow falling. The air clung to my grey-paled skin as I stiffened.

A low tremor hummed beneath the cherry floorboards, rattling the candle stubs on the windowsills opposite.

My black pleated skirt tickled the tops of my bare thighs.

A human would have thought they imagined it. But I knew better. I knew that hum. That breathless, bone-deep static that came before Death knocked.

He was calling me again. This time, at least, I knew what for. Even before he whispered in my head, Your judgement is coming. Prepare yourself .

Foot tapping against the ground, I looked at the stained-glass windows. My reflection was paler than normal. My face split by shadow.

The dustless lounge smelt of burnt herbs and fireplace ash.

The glass jars along the high stone shelves shimmered faintly—bones, beetles, and sprigs of wolfsbane catching what little moonlight flickered inside.

Books with cracked spines slumped across every surface—one shelf for my mother’s grimoires alone.

A row of foxgloves hung upside down above the fireplace, their purple petals dried to brittle curls in just the way my mother liked them.

It was home. And the last place I’d see as a free woman.

It was also not the source of Death. He was still not making himself truly known beyond my thoughts.

Aggravating bastard.

I swore I heard a chuckle as my father continued to pace in the far corner of the room. His striped suit clung to his tall frame; the charcoal fabric was impeccably pressed. A cane tapped softly against the floor in his clenched left hand, catching my attention from my search. I narrowed my gaze.

“You really are going to put a hole in the floor,” I muttered. “Mother is going to be mad at you. That’s original hardwood.”

The words came out sharp, but beneath them was a silent plea: say something, look at me, remind me I’m still yours.

He didn’t look at me. Instead, he continued his restless strides as his tanned skin glowed. Too alive for someone who fed on the dead with pointed teeth designed just for tearing flesh.

Tight curls of inky hair framed his face. Not quite long enough to hide his frown as he looked at his bloody watch. For the last few hours, he’d checked it again and again.

“Really, father. I think you’re worrying about nothing.” My teacup trembled slightly in my hand. “We both know what is coming. I made my peace with it the second I had to quit my job and hide in the house to avoid the mobs with their pitchforks. Why haven’t you?”

The pipe between his lips had long gone out. He still hadn’t said a word. Or looked at me.

I was starting to get offended.

The magic I’d sensed announced itself before my mouth could open again, as if it was waiting for my doubt to bloom just wide enough for it to slip through.

It shimmered into reality like frost creeping across a windowpane.

Gradually forming a globe of cold, white light.

Lilac smoke spilt from its centre in delicate spirals, curling outward like petals blooming in reverse.

The glow lit up the lounge, casting long, unusual shadows as ash blew from the fireplace.

My father hissed, baring his fangs as though he could incite fear into an inanimate magical orb.

I didn’t flinch. Of course I didn’t. I merely raised my drink to my lips and took another sip, the teacup warm against my fingers. A small crack now formed in the side.

I’d known this moment was coming. Death never missed his appointments.

I never expected to get away with such a crime.

The voice that followed the light was not human. It was ancient and as smooth as obsidian. But far sharper than a rock could hope to be.

“Jinx Draconis.” My father got impossibly still as we listened. “For thirteen cases of torture, kidnapping, and murder, the great court of Mortavia has found your sentence.” A pause, not long enough for me to breathe, then, “A jury of your peers has found you guilty on all counts.”

I did not breathe at all then. I just cosplayed the corpse I wished I was.

My father seemed to join me as the haunting voice carried on talking through the ringing in my ears.

“Your sentence: one hundred years of servitude to Mortavia’s protectors, to be served with immediate effect. As of this moment, you are property of Mors Academy. You are a defender of our future, and a martyr for our cause. Only Death and penance can absolve your fate.”

The orb pulsed once—a final, satisfied heartbeat—then vanished, leaving behind nothing but silence and smoke.

I finished my tea as I blinked a few times, staring at the cup for a sign in the leaves that things were not different now.

There were no signs. And not just because I wasn’t a damn seer who could actually read tea leaves. There was only the thought that I’d wished I’d painted my nails. The black varnish was peeling.

My sister always said peeling nail varnish should have been a crime.

For a flicker of a second, I wondered if something was wrong with me because the only other thought echoing in my head was that I didn’t have any peers.

Not really. And somehow, that bothered me more than the sentence itself.

To an old prison and military academy, that I was rather disappointed to be heading to.

I preferred the idea of dying again. Meeting Death in the flesh was on my bucket list.

It was the only thing on it. Other than dropping my cousin Ichabod off the top of a great tower. I couldn’t stand him.

Before I could set the cup down, my father vanished in a blur of vampire speed.

He returned seconds later, reappearing in the doorway with a black leather case.

Its buckles were latched, the handle worn from years of use.

My mother’s name was etched into the material, and perhaps a regular person would have felt something at that.

I just blinked again, eyes burning as the hexagonal stone necklace around my throat changed from inky black to red. The colour my twin had enchanted it to switch to when I lied and hid things. Purely because she thought it amusing, to give me a gift that allowed her to read my emotions.

Father crossed the room, set the case gently beside me, and rested one hand atop it. He treated his fated mate’s possessions with the same care he treated her. Normally it was enough to make me heave; people in love was bad enough. But people who were fated by unknown magic to be in love? Hideous .

“Your mother packed this,” he whispered in Italian. The language his ancestors had spoken since the Mortal Realm had been one with our home world.