Page 37 of Shadow King
The absurdity of my current situation hits me, and suddenly, I’m full-on laughing, unable to help myself. Because Dis is sitting in my summoning circle, trapped and powerless, treating the Great British Bake Off like it’s the most important battle he’s ever witnessed. It’s ridiculous and delightful, and I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much.
Dis looks at me, his expression shifting, softening just slightly in a way that makes him look less like an ancient weapon and more like something almost human.
“What?” I ask, still smiling.
“You have a pleasant laugh.” The words are simple, but there’s warmth in his voice when he says it, genuine warmth that makes my breath catch.
The words hit me sideways. I wasn’t expecting them, wasn’t expecting the warmth in his voice, wasn’t expecting the way my stomach does that swooping thing again. Nobody’s said anything like that to me before. Nobody’s noticed my laugh or cared enough to comment on it.
“Thanks,” I manage, my throat feeling tight. “I guess.”
“Another battle,” Dis says, leaning forward. “I want to see if that man with the beard can redeem himself after his earlier failure.”
I laugh again, I can’t help it, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest.
And sitting here in my barely furnished flat with a shadow king in my living room, watching baking and listening to Dis’s increasingly passionate commentaryabout honour and technique, I realise something that makes my chest feel strange.
For the first time since the fire, I feel something other than anger or grief or desperate determination. For the first time in months, the constant weight of rage and loss lifts just slightly, just enough for me to breathe. Just enough for me to remember what it feels like to be something other than furious and broken.
It won’t last. I know it won’t last. Reality will come crashing back in eventually. Everything will fall apart the way it always does.
But right now, in this moment, none of it seems to matter as much. Right now I’m just watching TV with someone who makes me laugh, someone who treats baking competitions with the gravitas of military campaigns, someone who looks at me with those impossible blue eyes and tells me I have a pleasant laugh.
And somehow, impossibly, that’s enough.
Chapter 11
Kill Them with Kindness
Thecoffeeshopisin the middle of the lunch rush when it happens. A man in an expensive suit storms up to the counter where Brian is working, his face red and his jaw tight. He has the look of someone who’s had a terrible day and has decided to make it everyone else’s problem.
“This coffee is bitter, you burnt the beans,” he snaps, slamming the cup down so hard that liquid sloshes all over the countertop.
Brian looks up with that enormous smile of his. “Oh no! I’m so sorry about that. Let me make you a fresh one right away.”
“I don’t want a fresh one. I want my money back.”
“Of course! No problem at all.” Brian starts working the till with cheerful efficiency. “These things happen. I hope the rest of your day is wonderful.”
The man blinks. He seems thrown by Brian’s relentless niceness. I’m leaning against the back counter, hand edging toward the baseball bat we keep under the spare takeaway lids for situations exactly like this. But Brian isstill beaming, still radiating sunshine and good vibes like it’s his job. Which, I suppose, it kind of is.
“And you should train your staff better,” the man adds, trying to regain his momentum. “This is unacceptable service.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Brian agrees enthusiastically. “I’ll work on that. Thank you so much for the feedback!”
The man opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again like a fish gasping for air. “I...” he starts, then stops. He looks utterly bewildered, like he’s forgotten what he came here to do in the first place.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Brian asks brightly. “We have some really lovely pastries if you’d like one on the house?”
The man stares at him, then at me, then back at Brian. “No,” he says finally, sounding dazed. He takes his refund and wanders toward the door, looking vaguely confused, like he’s just been hit over the head with a sack of flour.
Brian waves enthusiastically. “Have a great day!”
The door chimes. The man is gone. I stare at Brian, who is already wiping down the counter and humming something cheerful. “What the fuck was that?”
“What?” He looks up at me with those big innocent eyes.
“That man was ready to tear you apart.”
