Page 2 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

My head cocked. I’d seen my mother with the case days ago, just before she vanished off to some secluded witch retreat—one of those moonlit prayer circles she loved.

Or perhaps a group meditation to summon a demon.

Only Death knew. I thought it was all nonsense.

Incense and chanting wouldn’t change a damn thing.

But still... I appreciated it, even if I found the whole concept of praying for a shadebound—a monster in the world’s eyes—laughably useless.

It was like praying for death not to come when it was the only fate we were all guaranteed.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I got to my feet, smoothed out my skirt, and picked up the case from the floor.

Inside, I knew I’d find my mother’s ritual things—midnight clothes folded with care, wax-wrapped snacks enchanted against rot, her black protection candles and a worn tarot deck that had belonged to my sister.

Witchy things. Motherly things. Quiet love tucked in leather and spells. She could never quite bring herself to say goodbye. Not properly. But this—this was her way of trying.

I got nothing from it. At least, I was sure I was hollow as my heart thrummed faster.

“One of our friends in New York has a portal tree. You want to go to Lilah’s Lavender Farm,” my father spoke quickly.

“She can get you to Italy. From there, you’ll have to find your way to your mother.

Then I’ll come with your brother.” He paused.

“And Jinx—do not use your magic unless you have to. The demonic guardians at Mors Academy can track it.”

I met his onyx eyes. He looked as if he’d aged a thousand years older than his one-hundred-and-fifteen.

And as I tightened my grip on the case, two new thoughts slipped through the static: we lived in Salem.

How was I supposed to outrun the courts with a sentence already etched in magic?

More importantly, why did he want me to?

He’d stood there in that gilded courtroom for months during my trial.

He’d argued that I wasn’t evil, just afflicted.

That I didn’t deserve to die for my crimes—only to be contained.

To serve a purpose to all of magic-kind.

And the court, despite having a thirst for shadebound blood in the case of my father’s rival Judge Fiore, had hesitated.

Mostly . While Fiore and his cronies cried for execution, my father had offered to lock me up in Mors Academy to be turned into a weapon instead.

“You want to help me run?” I cocked my head, and a curtain of long black hair tumbled over my bare shoulder. My voice stayed even, but something unusual curled in my chest.

Was this what genuine emotion felt like? A pitter-patter of nailed boots in your chest. A hand clenched around your throat, forcing words out harsher.

“Of course I’m helping you.” He narrowed his eyes, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re my daughter, Jinx. I would do anything for you.”

I believed he loved me—truly. But love hadn’t looked like safety, not when it was dressed in courtroom rhetoric and quiet betrayal. Not when I’d forced myself never to feel it again, when love had only ever led to loss.

He’d peeled back every layer of who I was.

Said I was not like them . I was a vessel tethered to Death, threaded through with rot and inevitability.

Not my fault, he claimed. Just my nature to slaughter and bring agony.

Dangerous by design. A curse stitched into skin.

Murder was my calling, torture was my lifeblood, and others’ suffering was my air.

He painted me as something mournful and monstrous. He said punishing me for my magic would be like condemning a vampire for drinking blood—a need , not a choice. Something carved into my marrow before I ever drew breath.

And yet... even now, as he yanked my black faux fur coat from the door hanger, and offered it to me. I wondered about the truth. Who was he trying to convince? The court? Himself? Or me?

I wanted to ask. I didn’t .

The words curled behind my teeth, festering in the silence between us.

Maybe I didn’t ask because I already knew the answer.

Or maybe because asking meant admitting I cared what he thought—cared if he saw me as something worth saving or mourning.

Loneliness hummed under my skin, and—deep in that place where Death lived—a curse in a girl-shaped shell sat crying.

The only one who ever truly saw me was dead. But I was far too old, far too sharp-edged, to sit there whispering for a ghost to hold me.

Instead, I tightened my grip on the leather case and turned. My boots struck the floor—thick-soled, scuffed leather echoing softly through the lounge. I walked away instead of speaking. Instead of offering comfort or niceties—those flimsy, ornamental words people used to soothe the fragile.

I walked away without another word to the man who’d raised me for twenty-three years because it was easier than asking the truth.

Do you think I’m evil, Daddy?