The Book Of Shade (Shadeborn 1) (26 page)

E
PILOGUE

“Surprise!” Lily said as she poked her head around the hospital room door.

“Balloons! No-one’s brought me balloons yet!”

Jazzy reached out from her bed eagerly to take the teddy-bear-shaped helium balloons that Lily was offering her. Her friend dumped a selection of chocolates onto her bedside table and observed the young girl where she was propped up in bed.

“Pretty gown,” Lily said. “Better than that last one. Be grateful you were drugged up last time I came in, it was yellow and hideous. This pink one suits you much better.”

“Fashion advice in a hospital?” Jazzy mused. “Yep, you’re my best mate all right.” She gave her a broad grin.

A silence settled upon them as Lily pulled up a chair and sat down by her friend’s bedside. There was so much that Jazzy needed to know about the showdown that had taken place, but Lily couldn’t bring herself to even start to recount the tale. She wasn’t sure her own voice could stand it after what her bruised and battered lungs had been through.

“You know I’m going to be in a wheelchair now, don’t you?”

Lily looked up at Jazzy. She was still smiling, but there was something sad behind her dark eyes.

“Yeah the doctors told me,” Lily said, looking down again. “Your mum and dad should be boarding their flight to Manchester right about now.”

“It’ll be nice to see them after a whole year,” Jazzy answered. She reached out and poked Lily’s chin. “Don’t be so glum. I’ve thought about it, and I could be dead, right? And I’m not dead, and neither are you, so we’re okay.”

Lily let out a laughing sigh. “Are you sure about that?”

“Positive,” Jazzy replied. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’m lucky to be here.”

“Aren’t we all,” Lily added.

The door to the private room swung open on its own and Novel stepped in. He looked sinister under the fluorescent lights, and he was scowling viciously as he stalked towards the girls. His long black coat billowed on an unseen breeze as he gave a withering look back in the direction he had come from.

“That blasted nurse didn’t want to let me in,” he griped, looking at Jazzy as though it was somehow her fault. “She immediately decided that I couldn’t
possibly
be a friend of yours. The cheek!”

“I’ll be sure to let her know in future that the guy dressed as a Victorian serial killer is a dear old pal,” Jazzy replied.

Novel looked down at his black suit and frowned. “It’s a good job I quite like you, Jazmine,” he said darkly.

Lily swiped at his arm, and he came to stand behind her chair, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek. He put his hands on her shoulders and Lily took hold of them, grinning as Jazzy caught a glimpse of something shiny on her finger.

“He gave you the ring!” she exclaimed. “That’s on the wrong finger, isn’t it?”

“Whoa, what?” Lily laughed. “Hold your horses Jaz. We’re not moving that quickly!”

“I think the three of us nearly dying is quite enough excitement for one year without a marriage to plan,” Novel added.

“It’ll happen,” Jazzy promised with her wicked smile.

“Stranger things have been known,” Novel conceded, starting to smile again. “My father becoming a lightsider, for one.”

“How is he?” Lily asked, turning to look at Novel.

“Weak,” Novel replied with a roll of his eyes, “but his mouth still works all right.”

The girls both laughed at his disdain, until Jazzy shifted and found herself in pain. Lily moved to help her adjust her bed, but Novel held out a hand and let his command of gravity do it for her. Jazzy smiled at him in gratitude as her body shifted with unseen strength, a thoughtful look crossing over her face.

“Do you have the Book of Shade with you?” she asked.

Lily nodded bemusedly, fishing in her oversized handbag.

“Always, from now on,” she replied.

Jazzy beckoned her to hand the crimson tome over, and Lily obliged. Her friend opened the book, flat across her motionless legs, and flipped its blank pages rapidly.

“When the book showed me the words for the protection charm, there was something else, right at the back.”

Lily and Novel watched with interest as Jazzy forced the book to open at the very last page. Just as she had said, a series of words formed on the page in front of her. Jazzy cleared her throat a moment and smiled.

“Dear Human,

Though you do not possess the power of the shadeborn, be not blind to the power that is owed to you. In mortal hearts there is capacity for magic, and in mortal eyes the presence of a special kind of sight. The strongest of spirits is required for the task, but know that you are suitable, should you wish to undertake it.”

“What does it mean?” Lily asked. “A special sight?”

Novel took the book and analysed the page, rubbing his chin.

“The message is for all of us to see,” he proposed. “I would suggest that means that we’re supposed to help you, Jazmine.”

Jazzy gave a reluctant sort of grin.

“You know that time I went to see Lady Eva?” she asked Lily, who nodded ferociously, “well, one of her ghosts struck a chord with something from my past.”

“There’s something you haven’t told us?” Lily said.

Jazzy dropped her head low.

“Quite a lot of things, actually.”

End Of Book One

There now follows a preview from:

Volume Two

of the Shadeborn series, which delves into the past of your most beloved characters, and also gives hints to Lily’s fate in the future, which will continue in Volume Three as a full-length novel.

Volume Two consists of two separate stories:
The Bloodshade Encounters
– which recounts the history of how Lemarick Novel met the enigmatic Baptiste Du Nord – and
The Songspinner
– which contains the devilish adventures of Salem Cross.

Before The Storm

The air above the city was thick with heat and gunpowder. The rioting had ceased some time ago, and a hazy orange sunset now filled the July sky. The fighters would go home to refuel in all senses before the next bout, and perhaps a few hours would pass before the streets of Paris rose up in flames and fury once more. By chance alone, eight o’clock had been a good time to meet, though the spot where the two friends were intending to stand was now occupied by a burnt-out grocer’s cart, the horse of which had bolted when the first shots rang out in the nearby square. Lemarick sat on the corner of a rooftop, looking down at the little junction where he was supposed to be waiting, with the scent of burning wood rising to attack his nose.

“Why is it, pray tell,” a voice sounded behind him, “that I always find you on rooftops?”

There was no sense in answering Edvard with the truth, for he would not understand it. Though they were the same species, Ed was a very different creature to Lemarick most of the time. Lemarick rose from his outpost and turned his back on the smouldering city, observing his friend after such a long time apart. Edvard had not aged, of course, and his mousy brown hair was as ragged as ever, though his long, brown cloak gave him away as more than a simple peasant. Beneath the rich fabric, he wore the height of Germanic fashion: a tunic adorned with shimmering gold buttons and decor.

“Good Lord,” Lemarick spluttered at the sight of his finery. “If the revolters see you in those clothes, they’ll have your head. Use your sense, man! Do you want to be tried as an aristo?”

Edvard gave a grin and a little shrug. “Let them come,” he said loudly. “What are fifty angry humans to a threesome of shades?”

“Three?” Lemarick answered, looking around.

“Come, my friend,” Edvard replied, pulling at the air between them to hurry his companion along. “There is someone I want you to meet.”

Lemarick let himself be led, the smug smile on Edvard’s face forcing him to roll his eyes. He felt a familiar hand clamp his shoulder and heard the exhalation of pride he’d been expecting.

“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” Lemarick asked. It was always a girl where Edvard Schoonjans was concerned.

“This one’s different,” he answered, but his friend had heard that so often in the last thirty years that he was hardly listening. “No really,” Edvard insisted. “This is
the
girl. I think this is it. She is… the one.”

Like so many other ‘ones’ before her, Lemarick had no doubt that this would be the first and last time he would meet his companion’s latest triumph. The building they had been standing on was a small museum that had been raided some time ago, its artefacts desecrated by the protestors as they fought against the regime of the aristocracy and their precious heritage. Edvard led the way down the stairs into the building proper, where the silhouette of a slim girl stood observing the remains of a smashed vase that had once belonged to King Louis XII. Above the podium where the pieces were splayed, a series of words had been etched into the wall with a blade.

“Eddie,” the girl began to speak without looking around, “what do these words say?”

“Death to Capet,” Lemarick answered for him, his eyes travelling over the French inscription and translating it immediately.

She turned, and even Lemarick had to acknowledge her beauty. The youth was small and delicate looking – not the usual girl Edvard roped in – and she looked thoughtful and intelligent, her sea green eyes bright with ideas. She had a look of a Spaniard about her, for though her skin was fair, it glowed a little like pale gold, but her lashes were as dark as the roots of her sun-bleached ringlets of hair.

“Capet?” she asked. “Who is he?”

“It is the great royal house of France, and the symbol of the aristocracy,” Lemarick answered.

The girl smiled as understanding dawned. She looked about nineteen to a human eye, which meant she couldn’t be far from Lemarick and Edvard’s own ages, perhaps only a quarter century or so would separate them. She extended her hand, breaking into a smile.

“You must be Lemarick,” she suggested. “I must say I didn’t expect you to be blonde. Edvard painted you rather darkly with his description.”

The edge of Lemarick’s mouth curved ever so slightly.

“Then he represents me well,” he answered, taking her hand and bowing his head to it. “Lemarick Novel, of the French Novels.”

He had long since stopped using his father’s name, finding that his mother’s house afforded him a very different standing with those who were well-informed on shade families. Typically, people either beamed when he told them he was a Novel, or took their hands back very sharply and made their excuses to run away. The girl in question did neither. She just gave him another somewhat bashful grin.

“My name is Ugarte,” she answered, “from the house of Hechizo.”

Spanish. He had been right in his appraisal. Ugarte was clothed simply, dressed only an ordinary frock of a pastel yellow tone, with none of the expensive additions that Edvard sported. She was much less likely to cause a stir than he was, and Lemarick found he respected her modesty and decorum instantly.

“Isn’t she a wonder?” Edvard beamed, swapping his hand from his friend’s shoulder to wrap it around Ugarte’s back. She walked out of his touch instantly.

“I’m not happy with you,” she announced plainly. “You told me Paris was a romantic place. Do you know how many bodies I counted on the way up here?”

Lemarick could hazard a fair guess, but said nothing.

“How was I to know there was a revolution on?” Edvard answered with genuine apology in his tone.

“This is France,” Lemarick said dryly. “There’s
always
a revolution on.”

“There must be something we can do?” Edvard said, turning to Lemarick with a familiar pleading look. His wide eyes begged his old friend to save him from humiliation, and Lemarick could do little but oblige.

“I’m sure there’s plenty of fun to be had on the streets tonight,” he replied. “As I hear it, the revolters have taken a lot of ground today. I expect there will be some celebrations at Montmartre.”

“Is that a nice place?” Ugarte asked with a hitch in her voice.

Lemarick didn’t have the heart to lie to her.

“Not really, but it will do.”