Page 14 of The Baker’s Shadow
I clutch the bag so hard the fabric tears. Yarrow root spills across my palm, bitter and dusty. “What do I do?”
“You survive.” Mariska’s milky eyes fix on mine. “And you pray the shadow-born remembers what he gave you. Because if he doesn’t come back to collect...” She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
The sun is setting by the time I leave the shop. The sky bleeds orange and purple across the water, turning the marina into a watercolor painting. Beautiful. Peaceful.
I want to scream.
My feet carry me on autopilot. Away from the docks, through the narrow streets, toward home. The bag of yarrow root swings from my fist. I need to get inside. Lock the doors. Pretend this isn’t happening.
I pass Mrs. Chen’s hardware store on my way back. The lights are still on even though it’s past closing. Through the window, I see her moving behind the counter, and for just a moment—maybe a trick of the light, maybe my exhausted brain—her reflection in the glass doesn’t quite match her movements. Like there’s a half-second delay, or like the reflection is doing something slightly different.
I blink and it’s gone. She’s just Mrs. Chen, counting the register, normal as always.
I keep walking. Add it to the list of things I’m too tired to process.
The alley cuts through between Main Street and Harborview. A shortcut I’ve taken a thousand times, barely wide enough for one person, the brick walls pressing close on either side.
I’m halfway through when I hear the footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate. Two sets, maybe three, echoing off the walls.
I speed up. The exit is just ahead, fifteen feet, ten.
A shadow blocks the mouth of the alley.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Backlit by the streetlamp so I can’t see his face. But I recognize the expensive leather jacket, the smell of cologne that costs more than my rent.
One of Preston’s men.
“Mrs. Mercer.” His voice is smooth. Polite. The kind of polite that comes before violence. “Mr. Garrett would like a word.”
I stop walking. Behind me, the footsteps close in. Trapped. The brick walls suddenly feel like a vise.
“I’m not selling.” My voice doesn’t shake. Small victory.
“That’s disappointing.” He takes a step forward. The light catches his face. Square jaw, cold eyes, the kind of handsome that’s been used as a weapon his whole life. “Mr. Garrett’s been very patient. But patience has limits.”
Another step. My back hits the wall. The yarrow root bag falls from my numb fingers, spilling its contents across the filthy pavement.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” he says, and it’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard. “Just going to help you reconsider.”
His hand reaches for my arm.
The shadows move first.
Not slowly. Not rising like smoke. They explode. Ripping up through the concrete with the sound of something tearing, something breaking free. Black tendrils thick as pythons erupt from every crack, every gap, every dark space in the alley. The smell hits me like a slap. Iron and ozone and something older, something that makes my hindbrain scream predator.
Preston’s man jerks backward, but he’s too slow. The shadows wrap his throat like a noose. His mouth opens, whether to scream or beg, I’ll never know, because they squeeze, and the sound that comes out is wet. Choked. Wrong.
Behind me, someone shouts. Boots scrape pavement. Metal hisses against leather. A knife being drawn. I spin just in time to see the blade catch the dying light, just in time to see it plunge toward where my spine was a second ago.
The shadows catch it mid-arc.
They don’t just stop the knife. They consume it. The blade disappears into the darkness like it was never there, and the man holding it stumbles forward into empty air, off-balance, already screaming.
And then he’s there.
Malak doesn’t walk into the alley. He doesn’t appear. He is. Like he’s been standing there the whole time and reality just forgot to render him until now. Tall enough that his head nearly brushes the fire escape overhead. Angular in ways that don’t quite make sense, like his bones were put together by someone who learned human anatomy from a book.
