S. Into the Dark

You know, I really thought you were going to kill me that time.

I’d never seen you that angry. Your whole little body shaking with righteous fury. That was a new one. I’d seen you resentful before - on occasion, downright catty - but never furious. I didn’t think you had it in you.

But there you were, knife in your hand, blood all over you, and white as a sheet - no, I’m getting ahead of myself. Never was much of a storyteller. Could spin a yarn, sure - but the facts? Harder to lay down.

Still, that’s where it all started, isn’t it? All this ‘Hellebore’ business. That night; the last time I saw you.

What a night.

It was the tail end of winter, I think, just before the thaw. Nights were cold and long, days still grey and smoky, but you could feel the shift in the weather coming. Still enough darkness for enterprising folks like us, though. Enough shadow to work with - more than enough for an ambitious bit of window-shopping.

And don’t start - I still don’t agree that it was a bad idea. A little dicey, maybe. A touch overconfident. But disastrous? Not particularly. We’d gotten out of tighter binds. The job went wrong, sure, but all jobs go wrong. Trick is knowing it’ll happen. Stay loose, be ready to think on your feet. Didn’t I teach you that?

Well, it went sideways. The Serpents were hissing and spitting, as they do, and I’d lost you in the chase. You can’t even say that was out of the ordinary - we often split up, made our separate ways, found each other again after it all blew over. That’s why we had a meeting spot agreed in the first place. So you can’t say I was abandoning you, taking the left fork out of Fortunato Lane when you went right.

If you were a little faster, you’d have seen me serpentine, shake up my route a little to lose them. You always stuck to the same old routes, every time. Like clockwork. I can hear your irritated little voice now. “An unfamiliar route is an unreliable route!”, and any counter-example I gave you meant nothing. You’d scowl and huff like I was trying to get you killed. Never did take well to the idea of chance.

That was something else I was trying to teach you. Spontaneity. Unpredictability. Keeps you hard to pin down, keeps you free. It’s worked for me so far, hasn’t it?

But like always, you went down the right fork, along the canal that goes past that old burnt-out chapel. Tricky little bit of thoroughfare, where the big stone wall looms over you, scorched brickwork higher than your head, and you’re one crumbling plank away from falling into the water. Less travelled, sure, but if they’re already hot on your heels…

I guess that’s where that lowlife from the Black Serpents caught up with you. I don’t know what happened then. I wonder if you tried to escape one last time. Could have scrambled up the building - your usual trick - or taken an unexpected dive into the canal. Imagine that! He’d never have dared to follow - you’d be home free, even if you came up goblin-green and halfway to growing gills.

But maybe you didn’t think of it in time. Maybe he was just too fast.

So, you took the only option you had.

Nice job, by the way. You did it just like I taught you. Quick draw on the knife, one step in and under their guard, straight across the throat. Messy, yes, but it gets the job done. Nothing he could have done about it. Should have admired your work.

So I was proud, when I heard about it, yes. Don’t remember if I had the chance to tell you, with the shouting and the threats and all. But I was.

Meanwhile, I was off - up the left fork, through the Silvergate, down into that nice little warren of alleyways they call the Brambles. That twisty, thorny maze of alleys and drainpipes has always been kind to me. From there, I was home clear. Took my time heading to the meeting spot, in case they were still out looking. And to give you time to catch up, of course.

Do you still remember that spot? East of the spire of St Amaranto, just a few crooked streets over from that dead-end alley where we first met. In a brick alcove behind a statue of old De Nucci, craggy stone features scowling down at every passer-by like they owed him money.

Well, I waited there for a good long while. Long enough that I wished I’d brought a flask, or something to smoke. I wasn’t worried, not yet. Didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary - just guessed that they were giving you more trouble than usual, or that you’d ended up on the wrong side of a canal and had to go the long way around.

It was only when the sky began to lighten - streaky silver clouds in the east - that I got… well, not worried, exactly. But there was a tightening in my chest. Something’s off.

Wasn’t much I could do about it, though. Gods only know where you’d gotten to by then. Either you’d be coming back, or you wouldn’t. All I could do was wait. If I was a different kind of man, maybe I’d have prayed.

But yes, I was relieved when I heard the scrape of boots on brick, the rustle of your coat. The sound of someone climbing up, and then your grubby little face popping up over the edge.

I laughed, I think. I’d had plenty of time to think over a good quip to greet you with. “What took you so long?”, if I remember right.

Then I saw the look on your face.

You pulled yourself up into the alcove, shaking so hard that I thought you might slip. Then I was worried, ombretta, and I’m not just saying that. You looked like you’d seen a ghost, or were halfway to becoming one. I thought all that blood was yours.

But it was fire, not fear, in your eyes. Hells, it could have been both. You were at that brittle point where it could shatter either way - fight or flight.

“You.”

You spat the word like you’d been waiting hours to get the bitter taste out of your mouth. “You left me.”

Your hand rose, slow and deliberate. The knife slid from your sleeve. I could see the blood starting to dry, rusty stains over the hilt and your fingers. I’ll confess, I was quietly reaching for a dagger of my own, even as I tried to calm you. There was something in your eyes, your gritted teeth, that had me wary. I hadn’t seen this temper in you before. I didn’t know what else might be coming.

I was beginning to get a picture of what happened. Hadn’t realised why it was so important, though.

“Easy, ragazzo.” Not the best move. You always hated when I called you that. “What’s the matter?”

“You…” You pointed with the knife again. “You left me behind.”

I chuckled, though my heart wasn’t in it. That blade in your shaking hands wasn’t reassuring me. “So you said. But we’re both here now, aren’t we?”

I was still trying to figure out if you were injured. Hard to see, under the coat, and you backed away every time I tried to step closer.

“Stay back,” you hissed.

I took the hint. Hands where you could see them, all relaxed and easy. That didn’t put you at ease, still prowling back and forth like a fox in a trap.

“You left me behind, and…” You really were struggling to get the words out. You were always quiet, of course, but most times if you had something to tell me, you’d say it. I suppose fury choked you up. At least you weren’t crying.

“They caught up with me.”

“The Serpents?” About what I’d expected. But I still wasn’t sure who’d come off better. “Look, if you were unscathed enough to get here, you’ll be fine. Show me what’s hurt, I’ll stitch you up, they’ll have forgotten about us by the morning. No hard feelings, eh?”

Your whole face contorted. That brought me up short. Crouching there, teeth bared, you looked like nothing more than a feral animal. Your knuckles were white around the knife in your hands. You held it like you weren’t done with it yet.

“I had to kill him!”

Your voice broke on kill.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. You were still fresh to it, in those days, despite how much it seemed you’d been by my side for years. We were thieves, opportunists, scavengers. A cut aside from the Black Serpents and their profession. You’d never had to cross that line that I was so used to sidling over.

Hells, I can’t argue it’s an easy thing to do, the first time. I ever tell you about mine? I couldn’t stop shaking for days. Couldn’t get it out of my head. The sound he made as his throat was cut. How warm the blood was. I even cried, a little. So, you see - I’m not the heartless villain you’ve written me as, that you’ve locked away in your resentment. I felt it too. I’ve just had more time to toughen up.

I hear you’re not so opposed to dealing out death these days, anyway. The first one’s always the hardest. After that, you get the hang of it. So you learned that one from me, too. You’re welcome.

Back then, though, I understood it wasn’t nothing. You were still a kid, really, even if you rankled at any suggestion of it. Or you were, until that night.

You stood there, the weight of what you’d done heavy on your shoulders. That’s the thing about killing. Once the blood’s dried, the reality’s sunk in, it stays with you. There, in front of me, I didn’t see a kid. Not a killer, either, though that’s probably how you were feeling. I saw a survivor, someone who’d taken the worst of what the city had to offer and come through alive.

I guess I was proud of that, too.

“Well, look at you,” I said, with a grin that probably made things worse. “First blood. Congratulations.”

I shouldn’t have said that.

Maybe I knew I was pushing it. But another day - under any other circumstances, perhaps - it would have worked. You’d have fed off my approval, learned a lesson, toughened up a bit. We’d have laughed. We’d have been friends again.

You remember that we were friends, right?

But you didn’t laugh.

Your jaw clenched. I swear your eyelid was twitching. You always did have a face like glass - I could see straight through you, read every petty little thought like a book. Every intention written clear across your features. So, I suppose I should have seen it coming. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it. That you’d go that far.

Then again - it’s always easier the second time, isn’t it?

One moment, you were locked in place, every muscle taut as a held bowstring. The next, you exploded.

The knife glinted as you lunged forward.

Not a warning swing. Not a half-hearted stab. You knew what you were doing. Knife in your hand, knife inches from my eye - faster than I could blink.

It was reflex that saved me. Long-trained reflexes - because, remember, I’ve been stabbed far more times than you have. I turned just fast enough that the blade kissed my cheek, glanced off the bone. Still hurt like hell, though. Fire bloomed down the side of my face, blood hot and stinging.

I caught your wrist before you could take another swing - because you really were going to, I could see the grim determination in your eyes. Twisted your wrist, shoved you back blindly - didn’t have a free hand to wipe the blood out of my eye, so I could barely see. You were just a death-mask blur in the dark.

You were still wrestling to bring the knife down again. I don’t think I’d realised till then how strong you’d gotten, how fast. Not the shivering urchin I once rescued. I was having to use all my strength to hold you off.

Your breath came in ragged sobs, spitting out desperate curses as you kicked at my shins. Language I’m ashamed to say you picked up from me. Gasping for breath myself, I tried to seize the reprieve, defuse you before things got out of hand.

“Alright, alright. Easy, now. You made it out. You won, didn’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. Again.

With a growl through your gritted teeth, you pulled your arm free, took another swing - this time under my guard, the dagger slashing upwards. I could barely draw steel to parry in time, pain stinging across my ribs as you strived for - what, a killing blow? Was that what you wanted?

You were certainly fighting like it. Our blades scraped once, twice - close, close again. Your strikes weren’t clean, but they were fast - the desperation of a bar brawl, a rat in a trap, fuelled by something still burning white-hot inside you. It was all I could do to fend you off. I didn’t want to hurt you. Believe me: even then, I didn’t.

I shoved you back again, before that knife could come too close to giving me a shave. Harder, this time - enough to send you into the wall of the alcove. You staggered, swore again, but didn’t drop the knife.

I lowered mine, just a little. You were readying yourself to lunge again, but I thought I had a chance.

“Kid,” I said, practically pleading at this point. You would always give in, if I asked nice enough. “Ombretta.” Too playful. “Shadow, please!” See? I was serious.

“Don’t call me that,” you spat, chest heaving. “You don’t get to call me that.”

That threw me. You never liked the nicknames, but that was your name. The one I gave you.

“You left me,” you said, quieter now. An icy kind of calm. “You knew I needed you, and you ran.”

I opened my mouth, but I knew I was out of answers. Out of options.

Except, of course, the option that’s always there.

You took a step forward. Knife raised again - poised low, ready. All that fury finally finding its shape.

What did you think would happen? That this would be our last, grand confrontation? You’d say your piece, and I’d apologise? Die valiantly in your arms? Another shadowy turn in your tragic backstory?

No.

I did what I do best.

Ducked around the statue, dropped from the alcove, rolled - side screaming with pain - running as soon as I was on my feet. Through the streets, through the alleyways, routes I knew you wouldn’t be able to follow. Hiding places I never got to show you. Maybe I knew I never would. Always need an escape route, remember?

I didn’t look back, blood still blurring my vision.

You’d said goodbye, in your way. So I said it in mine.

But it’s okay, isn’t it? You’ll get the chance to drag your apologies from me one day.

When I see you again.

25. My Hero >>