Nightbane (The Lightlark Saga Book 2)

She was in a market.

It had been a month since Isla had dueled with the Nightshade in the forest. She hadn’t expected to see him again, of course. He was repulsed by her.

She was repulsed by him.

Her days were spent training with Terra and Poppy and meeting Celeste in secret.

She had a million things to think about, but sometimes, her thoughts would drift to the Nightshade ruler.

Grimshaw. In her mind, she called him Grim. It seemed fitting, given the dread his memory caused. Losing the duel meant Grim could slay her the first chance he got at the Centennial. It pained her to think one mistaken visit to Nightshade could cost her years of training and preparation. Especially since she was working with Celeste.

Isla had spent the last three weeks looking for an object that was central to her and Celeste’s plan to survive the Centennial: a pair of gloves made of flesh that would allow them to absorb a whisper of power. She had searched every dark market in every newland, without success.

Except for Nightshade.

It had a famed night market that now operated during the day. A place where ungodly things were sold and traded. She had heard whispers of it in the darkest corners of the other agoras, which had been a bit like monsters whispering about even bigger monsters.

Skin gloves had to be made while a person was alive—they couldn’t be taken from a corpse, which might have made attaining them slightly easier. According to the few merchants she had trusted enough to ask, they used to be far more common years before, when more power could be absorbed. Nowadays, after the curses, the amount of ability the gloves could muster was useless.

In most cases, anyway.

If any last pair of skin gloves still existed, they would be on Nightshade. She had promised herself she would never return, but—

Isla drew her puddle of stars, then it was done.

With mastery, one day, she might be able to portal anywhere she wanted. For now, she could only return to places she’d been before. The moment she landed in Grim’s castle, she imagined he might step out of a wall and put his broadsword to her chin. But the hall was empty.

She didn’t linger or explore—that was what had gotten her found out last time. With quiet steps, she made her way out of the palace and into the busy streets. Women wore clothes she had never seen in other realms’ lands—boots that reached their thighs, dresses with chain mail woven through, pants that were glossy and shimmering. Compared to them, Isla was wearing far too much clothing. She kept her head down and her hood—a black one she had procured in another market—buttoned at its front, so as not to show what she wore beneath, the only other dark-colored clothing she owned, a deep-plum silk dress meant for sleeping.

Get the gloves and get out, she told herself.

The night market smelled of rotting flesh and boiled blood. Her black hood dropped so low it almost obstructed her vision as she wove through the crowds. No one paid any attention to her. She was the least interesting thing in the market.

One stand exclusively sold teeth. There were barrels of them—most looking distinctly human.

Another had skulls tied on strings. Some were small as fingernails, others as large as boulders—what creature could possibly have such a large head?

“Nightbane,” someone whispered from a stall. She slowed in front of it, curious. There were small vials of something dark. The seller’s face lit up at her attention. “Takes away all troubles and pain . . .”

Nightbane. She had never heard of it.

The seller reached for her, as if to place the vial in her hand, eyeing the gems she wore on her fingers, and she kept moving.

Crimson wine filled a cauldron a woman with fingers that looked suspiciously like claws stirred with what looked even more suspiciously like a femur. Poison. It had to be poison. The woman met her eyes, and Isla quickly looked away.

Gloves, gloves.

She looked for flesh, and—gulp—found it rather quickly.

A stand had skin spread out across racks, some still in need of more thorough cleaning. Isla nearly gagged. She parted the curtains of the shop and entered, sinking her face into the folds of her cape to try to mute the smell of decay. Disgusting. She couldn’t fathom the type of people who could regularly visit the night market, let alone work here.

Gloves. Gloves. She searched, hoping to find them. If no shop sold them, she would have to find someone she could pay to make them for her. That possibility made bile crawl up her throat. No, the best thing would be to find some already made, preferably from the skin of a child murderer, or someone equally as deserving of such a cruel, torturous death.

She parted another wall of curtains. The shop was like a labyrinth, and some of its sweeping walls felt too thick—skin?—and she was suddenly sweating beneath her cloak. She tried to hold her breath as much as she could as she scoured the shelves and racks for something resembling human hands . . .

Until she did find human hands.

Or, rather, they found her.

Before Isla could scream, someone placed their fingers over her mouth and pulled her backward, straight through another set of curtains.

Into an alleyway.

She was shoved against a wall, her hood falling, the back of her head colliding with wet bricks. Something dripped against her forehead from far above and slid down her cheek.

A man whose flesh hung off his bones like the skins in the shop towered before her. He looked old, which meant he either had generations of children or had been alive more than a millennium.

Or . . . by the crazed look in his eyes and the faint yellowing of his skin, he had dabbled in something dark enough to have leeched away his life.

With a motion quicker than his appearance suggested he would be capable of making, he wrapped her hair around his other wrist and pulled.

Isla cried out behind his filthy palm. The man ignored her, inspecting her hair like it was a treasure.

“Yes . . .” he said, eyes sparkling. “This would fetch a pretty price . . . Wildling hair. Shiny temptress locks. Must get the root . . . that’s the best part. The whole scalp, that will do nicely.” He pulled a long, curved knife from his pocket.

Isla had a blade through his chest before he could point it in her direction.

It shocked her. The only other person she had stabbed was Grim.

The man’s mouth turned into a curious shape, and his eyes were not on her but her hair as he crumpled to the ground.

A group of guards chose that exact moment to walk by the entrance of the alley. One stopped. Took a look at the man bleeding at her feet. That didn’t seem to disturb him that much.

He might not have pursued her if she hadn’t taken off, wielding the ruby blade she had just fished from the man’s rib cavity. It was an admittance of guilt. But she couldn’t stop herself.

She bolted, and he followed.

The group joined him.

Isla hurtled back into the market. She ducked and wove herself into the crowd, not turning around to see how close they were to catching her. She pulled her starstick out of her pocket and saw it was faintly glowing.

Thank the stars.

All she needed was to hide long enough to draw her puddle, and she would be gone, gloves be damned.

She ducked beneath a low-hanging row of axes, jumped over a tangle of snakes sitting in front of a shop—fangs not even removed—and tried to find a place to hide.

By now, everyone was watching.

Risking a glance behind her, she realized why. Many, many guards had joined the pursuit.

Did they have no one better to chase in this wretched market? she thought.

Then, she remembered what the old man had called her. Wildling. He’d still been alive when she left him. Had he told the guards?

Wildlings weren’t supposed to be here. There weren’t laws against it, but who would be foolish enough to travel to the infamous Nightshade lands? Her. She was foolish enough.

She ran faster. They were on her heels.

The boiling blood—she tipped the cauldron over onto the streets, and it sizzled as it burned their feet. They cursed, and she was off again.

She turned a corner, into another branch of the market, and searched desperately for another path, but they were too quick, right behind her.

Her blade gripped in one hand and starstick in the other, she wondered which one she would have to use as she turned and climbed up a short wall. She ran as fast as she could, turned again, and found a nearly empty part of the market, half abandoned. Without risking a glimpse behind her, she fell to her knees.

Mercifully, though her starstick seemed temperamental on Nightshade, it worked. It was a simple, practiced movement. Drawing her portal, watching it ripple, preparing to jump through—

Before it fully settled, she heard footsteps in front of her. The puddle shrank and disappeared.

She looked up, only to find Grim standing in the center of the road.

“You,” he said.

You.

The guards caught up to her then. She was roughly hauled to her feet, against one of them. He smelled of smoke and sweat. Before she could reach for her dagger, a dozen blades were at her throat.

Grim’s eyes did not leave hers as he waved his hand and said, “Take her to the cells.”

Her wrists were shackled to the ceiling. It had been hours, and her arms ached. The guards had taken her cloak, as if it had disgusted them that she dared wear their color. They had taken her starstick too.

Grim appeared in front of her cell and frowned. “Is that supposed to pass for black?”

He was looking at her silk dress.

She hadn’t intended for it to be seen. She wasn’t wearing anything beneath it. Her hands weren’t available to cover up parts that she didn’t want him to see, but he didn’t even bother looking, giving her body the most cursory of glances before meeting her eyes.

“Demon,” was all she said.

“Fool,” he responded.

That she could not argue with.

She was the biggest fool in the realms for returning to this place when something bad happened every time she did.

With barely a move of his finger, the chains holding her to the ceiling melted into ash.

She fell to the ground in an undignified heap.

Grim studied her while she clutched her wrists, both raw and red. “You swore not to return.”

Isla looked up at him. “No.”

“No?”

“The promise from the duel was that I wouldn’t return here, which, in the moment, meant your bathroom. Which I have no intention of ever doing again, don’t you worry.”

He looked at her with unfiltered disdain. “What are you doing on Nightshade?”

She said nothing.

Grim turned to go, and she rose to her feet. “You’re keeping me here?”

He looked over his shoulder. “You appear in my realm, using a stolen relic. You stab me in the chest. You return and hide in my chambers. Then, you return yet again and attack an innocent man in the middle of the street.”

She made a sound of indignation. “Innocent? He wanted to scalp me and sell my hair by the strand!”

Grim’s eyes narrowed. “What type of people did you expect to encounter at the night market, Hearteater?” he asked. That last word dripped with mockery.

“My name is Isla,” she said through her teeth, stepping closer to glare at him right through the bars of her cell.

“I will never call you that.”

“Why?”

He looked down at her. “Calling someone by their first name is a sign of familiarity. Of respect.”

Her nostrils flared. “You don’t respect me?”

“You don’t seem to respect your own life. Why should I?”

She scoffed. “Fine. Don’t respect me. I don’t care. You weren’t why I came here.”

“Clearly. Why are you here?” he demanded.

Isla crossed her arms, both in annoyance and to cover up her chest, inconveniently prickling in the freezing prison. “Why are you here?” she asked. “You clearly would love to see me rot. And it would benefit you at the Centennial.” As soon as she said the words, she regretted them. What if he turned away and never returned? What would she do? Escape was impossible without her starstick. She would waste away far beneath Nightshade. Even Celeste wouldn’t be able to free her. She didn’t even know Isla was venturing here for the gloves, didn’t know she had met the Nightshade ruler before—

“I believe . . . we might be able to help each other,” Grim said.

Shock rendered her silent.

“We are looking for the same thing.”

Isla frowned. “You’re looking for skin gloves?”

He looked at her strangely. “No. You are looking for a way to survive the Centennial, are you not?”

Of course she was. She didn’t say a thing.

“I have a deal for you, then.”

“A deal?”

He nodded. “I’m looking for a sword. I believe you can help me get it.”

“What sword?” And why would he possibly think she could help him?

“A powerful one that very few people know exist,” was all he said.

“What exactly does it do? What does it look like?”

He bared his teeth. “Do you think I’ll tell you so you can rush off and try to find it yourself?”

“I wouldn’t do that.” That was exactly what she was planning to do. “So, I help you get the sword. What do I get out of it?”

Grim looked pointedly at the bars. “For starters, you wouldn’t freeze to death in this cell, in that flimsy dress.” Isla had dropped her arms, but she covered her chest again. “And, if you can help me, I will not only agree not to kill you at the Centennial, but I will also be your ally.”

“You—you’ve decided to attend?”

“Only if you help me find the sword.”

His aid would be invaluable. With Grim by her side—along with Celeste—she might really have a chance of surviving the hundred days on the island.

Still. Grim couldn’t be trusted. She and Celeste had a plan. She would find a way to get the gloves. “No.”

Grim’s shadows flared around him. “No?”

She shrugged. “No.”

His fingers twitched, as if desperate to turn her to ash, just as he had done with the shackles. Instead, he said, “Very well,” and turned to leave.

He made it to the end of the hall before she said, “Wait. You wouldn’t leave me here, would you?”

“I would.”

Her eyes bulged. No, no, he wouldn’t.

Who was she kidding? He was the ruler of Nightshade. Famed for his cruelty. He had killed thousands in his lifetime.

His steps retreated once more, before she said, “Fine! Fine. But only if you return my starstick.”

His lip curled back in disgust. “Your what?”

“My portaling device.”

With a flick of his wrist, it was in his hand. “I feel strongly that I will regret this,” he said, eyes narrowed, as he slipped it to her.

She grinned, cradling it in her arms. It was her most prized possession. Grim just frowned at her.

That was how she made a deal with a demon.