Shade Struck

By Nina Smith

Shadow is in the grip of a nameless terror: The streets are empty, muses are missing, and Moon Troopers terrorise the night.

Flower will sort all that out when she's good and ready.

First, she must convince a bunch of Freakin Fairies to save the shade-struck Muse Champion from an untimely death. Then she'll go find her king and put an end to all this folly.

She certainly has no intention of getting caught up in anything illegal, like smuggling hundreds of tiny, trouble-making fugitives across worlds, fraternising with sworn enemies of the king, having a pitched battle with an evil she doesn't believe in, or ending up with a price on her head. After all...

Everything's fine. You can trust the king.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nina Smith
• Release date: Jan 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215696279

Nina Smith

Nina Smith is a compulsive writer and artist obsessed with snakes, theatre, vampires, fairies, and mythology. She is often to be found lurking in a little old house in a small seaside city, drawing critters and writing stories.

Book preview

His flesh hissed under the white-hot brand. The scar. His shame, burned into his soul in the shape of a star. He clawed at his own skin with broken, filthy fingernails, surely, surely one pain would wipe out the other.

Weakness is disloyalty.

The voice made his skin crawl. He clutched his burned wrist to his ribs. Every breath tore at his lungs, but he would escape. The terror could not hold him. He ran, feet sliding on long, wet grass, blood hammering like drums of war. No more walls. The prison lay far behind. He would be free!

He ran face-first into a tree trunk, bounced off, tripped on a rock and sprawled on his back in the grass.

A thousand Moon Troopers marched through his pounding head. The burn throbbed. He pressed his wrist into the cool wet grass, rolled over, dragged himself forward. His shirt soaked through in seconds. A great weight dragged at his neck.

He closed his hand around the chain that held that weight and yanked hard.

A single clear voice broke through the clamour in his mind. Nikifor, if you don’t tell me where you are right this minute I swear to Mnemosyne I’ll leave you here to find the Freakin Fairies on your own!

He yanked again. The chain broke. He collapsed, only to find himself head and shoulders over the drop-off. The sheer, chalky cliff face tilted. The flat ocean, far, far below, looked like oblivion.

Nikifor I mean it! Where are you?

He didn’t shrink away from the drop. Instead he opened his hand and took one last look at the cursed key that had hung from his neck for so very long. So small, so innocuous, two tiny intertwined rings that made him a monster, that had threatened to destroy his last tenuous grip on sanity ever since-

No. No, he couldn’t think about that. He twisted the two halves to break them so nobody could find and use the cursed thing. Then he let them tumble, tiny deadly streaks of light, far, far down into the uncaring ocean.

A gasp behind his shoulder. Nikifor, what have you done?

A coughing fit racked his ribs so hard he almost tumbled off the cliff. Strong hands grasped him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back from the edge. Some of the hardness went from her tone. Come on, get up out of the grass, it’s not good for you to get cold. We can’t be far now.

His voice came out like a rusty hinge. You’ve been saying that for days.

Then we’re days closer than we were. I can’t believe you just threw away your key!

Nikifor curled over on himself, trying to stifle the shuddering in his ribs. I’m sorry.

Sorry? That’s it? What kind of a muse just tosses his link between the worlds into the sea? What happened was tragic, but there will be other artists!

I will never inflict myself on another artist.

Nonsense. You’re a muse, it’s in your nature to inspire. What would the king say if he could see you now?

Nikifor flinched. Don’t let him, Flower. Don’t let him see me like this.

She gave a gusty, long-suffering sigh. I won’t. I promised you we’d find the Freakin Fairies, didn’t I? When they’ve cured you we’ll find the king. Come on, we need to keep moving.

He didn’t move. He’d caught sight of the scar. On his knees on cold flagstones. Unable to flinch or beg for mercy or feel anything but the pain. The shade whispered behind him, above him, in his ear.

Weakness is disloyalty.

His breath came shallow and fast. He raised the red, throbbing scar before his eyes.

Nikifor!

This time he’d really made her angry. He got to his feet and swayed there, struggling to keep her in his sight, to keep his tenuous grip on reality. The scar, he said. It burns.

She laid cool fingers over his wrist and tapped him twice on the forehead. It’s all in there, remember? You’re hallucinating. You’ve had that old scar for twenty-five years.

Who gave it to me? The familiar fear gripped his ribs.

We’ll find out. The king will help us, but first you have to get well. Look. She moved her fingers away from his wrist. Look at it Nikifor, it’s just a scar.

He looked at the pink outline on his skin. His shoulders drooped with relief. Just a scar.

Now come on. Flower walked away.

He took two halting steps after her. A cold wind knifed through his wet shirt, rippled the long grass that swept from the forest to the cliff edge, quivered the branches of the Ghost Figs reaching their naked, cracked limbs into the unforgiving sky. His breath rattled in his throat. The scar went bright red, red like molten lava. Smoke curled up from his skin. He yelled in fright and fled for the safety of the trees.

A definitive twang. His foot snagged on something taut and thin, which sent him sprawling face-first into the grass.

A wicked little chuckle erupted from the trees.

Nikifor raised himself up on his elbows, confused. Flower?

Flower walked slowly towards him, her hands in the air, palms up to show she was unarmed. It’s alright, she said. I think we found the Freakin Fairies.

He struggled into a sitting position. Five men and three women, all little more than half his height, emerged from the skeletal Ghost Figs, their dark hair tangled in knots and bedecked with objects he suspected had started life in the mouth of a snake. They wore pants and long-sleeved shirts of tough black leather etched with curling silver designs. Silver dots traced intricate, curling patterns over the women’s faces. Are you Freakin Fairies? he blurted.

One of the women loosened a knife at her belt. Who’s asking?

Flower began to reply, but the fairy shook her head and pointed at Nikifor. Let the shade-struck one tell us.

Nikifor looked up and up and up. The Tormentor’s shadow made him cold. The brand glowed. His eyes hurt in its light. Flagstones hard and cold beneath his knees.

He forced words through frozen lips. No. No don’t do it, it’s madness, please, no, don’t do it!

A small, leathery hand curled into his hair and yanked his head back. The fairy’s black eyes loomed so close he could see the flecks of silver in them. She clicked her fingers in front of his face. Each tiny sound hit him like a thunderclap.

She looked over her shoulder at Flower. What’s wrong with your husband?

Flower’s voice took on the familiar thread of steel. Do I look like the kind of grass eater who’d marry a vibe addict?

I don’t know what you muses get up to in private. Vibe addict, you say?

Her contempt cut him like a dagger. Correct.

Silence.

The Freakin Fairy turned his face this way and that, studying him. Hmph. For how long?

Twenty-five years now, on and off. He’s tried to get off, but-

But he didn’t, blah, blah, blah, spare me, Muse. Twenty-five years on the vibe, why isn’t he dead?

I don’t know. I brought him to seek your help.

I know. We’ve been watching you blunder around for days.

Flower’s voice rose, laid bare the anxiety she’d hidden under so many layers of hard, stubborn determination all these weeks. Why didn’t you make yourself known sooner?

We had too much fun watching. The Freakin Fairy tugged twice on Nikifor’s ear. Don’t have long, do you sonny? You’ll be dead in two days.

Dead? The creature who haunted him would never release him that easily. Death seemed very, very far away.

The Freakin Fairy snorted. Pathetic.

Will you help us? Flower didn’t plead, and she didn’t demand. Her words fell like flat, exhausted silver doves dropping out of the air after a long, long flight.

Why should we?

Flower dug into the rucksack she carried, pulled out a wooden box and opened it. I brought payment.

The Freakin Fairy went over to look in the box. Nikifor had traded his last spare shirt and his dead father’s gold ring for that tumbled pile of springs, screws, pendulums, watch hands, and nails. He turned his head away.

The fairy peered into the box, her eyes wide. Her fingers trembled over it, but she snatched her hand back. You offer this rubbish? In return for fixing up that great lump?

Flower closed the box. If you don’t want them-

The Freakin Fairy snatched the box from her. They’ll do for now. But he has to do something for us when he’s cured as well.

That is acceptable.

Nikifor breathed out. An almost indescribable relief filled him, but only until he looked up and found the shade bending over him.

Weakness is disloyalty.

The Tormentor raised the glowing brand.

The flesh on his wrist smoked. Anger flared. He clawed at the scar, determined to dig it out and defy the monster once and for all.

You! The Freakin Fairy shook a fist at him. Stop that!

He took to the scar with his teeth.

Is that really necessary? Flower’s voice asked from far away.

You want him fixed or what?

A rush of air and a blow to the back of the head. Darkness.

When Nikifor next opened his eyes, five Freakin Fairies dragged him along a forest floor. Flower followed behind; beside her walked the shade of the Tormentor.

He closed his eyes again.

Chapter 2

Weary to the bone, Flower watched the Freakin Fairies drag Nikifor out of her sight. She made to follow, only to meet with a terse stay there, Muse.

She obeyed. Freakin Fairies were famously hot-headed and handy with their blades, and she had no intention of ending up a skeleton holding up a `beware of the fairies’ sign in a backwood like Quicksilver Forest.

She sank onto one of the tree stumps that crowded around the deserted fire pit and put her head in her hands. What she wouldn’t have given a couple of decades ago for the chance to study a whole Freakin Fairy tribe up close. Not now. Now she just wanted to curl up under a blanket in an actual bed and sleep. Warmth from the smouldering fire barely reached her. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She’d got Nikifor this far, but the Freakin Fairies could still take it into their heads to just put him out of his misery. The one muse who could have helped him had been missing for months, maybe years, who knew? King Pierus had always preferred solitude. Anything might have happened to him.

She let out a long sigh. Her breath warmed her palms. Nikifor had been half-dead and completely shade-struck when she found him three weeks ago. Getting him off her hands would be both a blessing and a curse, because now she had to think about what to do next.

Muse.

Flower lowered her hands.

A very old Freakin Fairy watched her from across the fire. He had a full head of dreadlocks, every one of them quite white. A map of lines ran across skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones and a hooked nose. A thick grey rabbit pelt covered his shoulders, and he carried a staff topped with a goat’s skull coated in quicksilver.

Flower put her hand to her forehead to show respect. Father.

The wrinkles around the old fairy’s eyes deepened. Who are you calling Father?

Flower inwardly cursed the amateur mistake. So much for being a seasoned diplomat. I’m sorry, I-

You’re sorry? That’s what your friend kept saying. What have you both done?

Exasperation set in. We did nothing!

I doubt that. He leaned forward and grinned, revealing incisors as silver as his goat skull. Muses are rarely innocent.

Flower kept silent rather than get herself in any deeper trouble.

After a moment or two of waiting for her reply, the fairy gave a deep chuckle. What’s your name?

Flower.

He raised an eyebrow.

Her cheeks reddened. For the absolute seven thousandth time she cursed her parent’s separatist ideas. Other muses had good, decent names that described the kinds of things they inspired. She didn’t. Flower of the Great North Island Beyond the Night Flickered Sea.

I can see why you’re sorry, the Freakin Fairy said. I would be too with a name like that. He gave her a long, hard stare.

Tired, hungry, fed up and not in the mood to kowtow to fairies right now, Flower squirmed.

I am Coalfire Quicksilver, he finally said. Head. Not Father. Head of the Quicksilver clan. We’re not Bloody Fairies, we don’t go in for all that Council of Fathers rubbish. I’m the boss and that’s the end of it.

Flower’s cheeks burned now. She hadn’t dealt with Bloody Fairies since the Vampire War ended twenty-five years ago. I apologise, she said. We have travelled far and I must plead exhaustion.

Coalfire raised a finger. You’re not finished yet.

Flower shook her head. No, I’m not finished. If you will agree to care for my friend, I must travel on.

Why?

To find my king.

The ghost of a grimace crossed his face. Why?

Because- she looked about at the shadows. Looking over her shoulder had become second nature lately. -I think he’s in danger.

Why?

She shifted on her seat and chose her words carefully. Things have changed in Shadow City.

Coalfire leaned in toward her. Eyes, so heavily flecked with silver almost no black remained, bored into her. Why?

Flower glared, about a hairs breadth away from losing her temper and storming away. She’d never seen the point of discussing politics with fairies. Look, I really don’t have time for this, I need to go find the king!

Why?

Because I want to know why the damned Guild locked me out of my office! She stopped, took a deep, calming breath, pushed her long hair behind her shoulders and rearranged the folds of her skirt. I do apologise for yelling, it was very impolite of me.

I’d apologise too if I were a muse, Coalfire said. Your lot has a lot to answer for.

She sighed. There he went, just like every other fairy in Shadow. Surely you realise the actions of a few muses do not reflect–

Don’t care. Why were you locked out of your office?

I don’t know. She obviously wouldn’t get anywhere until she told him the whole story, so she blundered into it with what little dignity she could muster. Ever since the Vampire Wars ended, I have had the privilege of being my king’s Chief Representative Diplomat in Shadow. I have been responsible for ensuring all the tribes were respected and all of Shadow’s cultures equally represented to the Guild, in addition to overseeing the welfare of all the fairy clans.

Coalfire spat into the fire at the mention of the Guild. I’m sure that was a thankless job.

It had often felt that way, but Flower chose not to comment. A year ago I started an investigation into reports of disappearances among the Bloody Fairies and the Bloomin Fairies.

Coalfire’s face hardened. What did you find out?

Nothing. Flower bit out the word. The Guild has blocked me at every turn. The Moon Troopers won’t talk to me. And when I tried to use my wider contact network, I discovered muses missing too. She paused to collect her thoughts. Of course I threatened to go to the Shadow City Chronicle with the story if the Guild did not go about conducting a full investigation.

Coalfire shook his head. And now you wander about asking why you got locked out of your office? I thought muses were meant to be intelligent.

Flower ignored the insult. That was when I realised no order has come direct from the king in months, perhaps years. I believe he is in grave danger. I must find him and help, because he is the only one who can stop whatever it is that is happening.

And what is happening? Coalfire poked at the fire with his goat’s head, sending up a shower of sparks.

I don’t know. Flower stood up and brushed off her skirts. And that’s all I can tell you. Now with all due respect, I must take my leave.

Sit.

She sat back down. One didn’t argue with Freakin Fairy clan heads when they gave an order in that tone of voice.

You will not leave, Coalfire said.

Flower opened her mouth to argue.

He held up a hand for silence. You will stay for as long as your friend does. We are not so backwater here as to have not heard of the Muse Champion and what he is capable of. If the treatment fails and he decides we are the enemy, you will be needed to control him.

Control him? I barely got him here!

Not my problem. Coalfire gave her another gleaming grin. Don’t worry about your king. That long tall streak of nastiness can look after himself for a few more weeks.

He pointed at a small, silver-daubed hut across the village. That house is for guests. Go get some sleep, you look like you’ve been dragged sideways through a cyclone.

Flower had to stoop to get through the door. Inside, she hit her head on the roof anytime she straightened her back, but she had no energy left to care. She’d make Coalfire Quicksilver see sense, but she’d do it later.

An oil lamp sat on a narrow shelf inside the door; she lifted it to look around the dark interior of the hut. The light reflected off splashes of silver on the walls, an empty table, a basin next to it and in the far corner, a bed. She kicked off her boots, which had holes in them, then peeled off her wet socks. Feeling a little guilty because Nikifor surely had no such luxury right now, she left the lantern on the table and laid on the bed. Her feet hung over the end. The rough blanket smelled like smoke. She pulled it up and closed her eyes.

For a while she drifted in a pleasant, warm daze. She hadn’t slept in a bed in weeks. Even when she had slept it had been with one eye open in case of Moon Troopers. She sighed and turned over.

The key around her neck throbbed in time with her heart. Right on the edge of sleep, she could finally visit the five thousand and forty six artists she inspired. She clasped her right hand around the key and let herself drift through the lives of each and every one of them. Ali the stonemason carved almost every day. Sculptures grew under his hands like living creatures while he hummed his little tunes. Wendy, locked in her bedroom, wrote secret poetry under the light of a full moon again. Starr–she used to be Edna, but Flower had helped her choose a new name–studied classical ballet.

Flower smiled. So many creative souls, all happily inspired.

But then the smile faded. She stirred and shifted on the bed. One writer frustrated her every effort. The girl had a mind like a volcano, but she would not sit down and write. She wouldn’t even open up enough to let Flower learn her name.

Flower paused over the space she knew this girl occupied. She curled her hand around her key and let the magic flow. She left the channel open and sank further into sleep. Even in dreams she worked. She stood behind the girl and observed her bright pink hair, the tension in her hands, the hockey stick that leaned against the tacky black vinyl covering her desk. She wondered if it would be any easier to get this girl writing if she could go to her world and shake the inspiration into her.

But that wasn’t allowed.

Flower reached out. Let me in, she said. Let me help you write.

The girl made an impatient gesture, seized her hockey stick and stormed out of the room, leaving a blank notepad sitting on the desk.

You have to write sometime! Flower yelled. It’s people like you who tear holes between the worlds you know!

Damn it. Yelling at them wasn’t allowed either.

Chapter 3

The fire of a thousand suns burned his blood to ash. Limbs shaking. Ice. Sweat. Limp strands of hair clung to his skin like seaweed. He’d teetered on the edge of this precipice too many times before, cheated death only by falling back into the nightmares of vibe.

Live or die. This time he knew when the sweats started even the vibe would not save him. He didn’t want it to. Not after what he’d done. Not if it meant reliving-

He jerked upright. Hardened hands pushed him down, yanked on his hair, pulled his head back. Flames spilled out of torches. The darkness jumped and flickered around a face etched with intricate silver dots. Thick, bitter liquid touched his lips. The taste made him gag and choke. A hand slapped him across the face, then pinched his nose until he opened his mouth to gasp for breath. More bitter liquid. He swallowed convulsively.

Silence. Bodies pressed in. Low voices, words he couldn’t make out. The restraining hands eased. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth. The liquid burned in his gut. Don’t eat or drink anything made by fairies. Ever. His father taught him that before he could even walk. Never trust a fairy. Ice spread from his gut to his bloodstream, cooling the fire burn by burn. He felt for the reassuring presence of the key, but his fingers found nothing.

No. Gone, cast into the depths, so that he might never inflict his distorted inspiration on another artist.

Nothing else mattered. Not even what the king might do when he discovered Nikifor had cast away the most precious thing a muse owned. The shaking lessened. He could almost control his hands. Voices came into sudden, sharp focus around him.

...completely lost touch with reality.

What did he expect? Damned muses, messing around with vibe. You’d think they’d know better.

What now?

We’ve done what we can. He’ll survive the night or he won’t.

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. The bolt shot home on the outside.

Nikifor closed his eyes. He didn’t want to know where he was, or if anybody had stayed with him. He should never have agreed to let Flower bring him here. He should have stayed in Shadow City and died in the gutter, the only fit fate for muses who killed their artists with nightmares born of vibe.

His skin stayed slick, wet, clammy. The darkness had the dank chill of the underground. The flicker and jump of the single torch burning against the far wall hypnotised him. A tall, thin shade lurked beyond the firelight. Nikifor’s skin crawled.

Look at you now, the Tormentor said.

Nikifor put his face in his hands. He rocked back and forth. You’re not real. You’re not real.

Of course I’m real. The voice, more familiar to him than his own hands, held utter cold, cold like the human Nikifor had killed in the depths of vibe, cold like the nights he spent in his dreams, waking beside the corpse, begging forgiveness from those lifeless eyes.

You’re not real. Go away.

It really doesn’t have to be like this. The voice dropped, soothed, a spider strangling him in silken webs. You could redeem yourself. You could be the Muse Champion again, if only you were not such a coward. You are strong. Undefeatable. Break down the doors. You are in the place where vibe was invented, all you need do is kill the Freakin Fairies and take what they have. The vibe will keep you alive. Strong. You need nothing else.

No. His whisper was ragged. I will never do that.

You dare defy me? A hand reached out for him.

Nikifor rolled off the low bed and into a corner. He pressed his hands to his forehead, trying to squeeze the vision out of his brain. You’re not real. You’re not real.

You’re a coward. The Tormentor stalked him, the branding iron glowing white hot in his hand. Weakness is disloyalty.

Nikifor dived around him and scrambled to the other side of the room. Go away! His voice broke on his own terror. When he raised his hands to his face, he caught sight of the scar. Smoke rose from seared flesh.

The Tormentor stalked his retreat. Each dread footstep echoed like a heartbeat. Worthless, he said. You who can slay a thousand vampires in a night, but hide inside, afraid of death.

It’s not–I’m not– Nikifor edged along the wall.

Not afraid of being killed? Then you may as well end it. End your miserable, cowardly existence.

Leave me alone. You’re not real.

Oh I’m real, my boy. The shade moved. A fist caught him in the temple and sent him sprawling across the stone floor. Nikifor hit his head when he went down. Something hot and wet crept down his face. He welcomed the darkness that followed.