Shadow Reaper

CHAPTER 1

The slums of Aravell were eerily quiet at the midnight hour. For most, it was risky to be out so late. The Nox Custodia strict penalties upon anyone caught after curfew, and they were known to be creative with their punishments. But seventeen-year-old Viridia Solace wasn’t worried about the Nox—one look at the insignia on her scarlet cloak and the city guards would keep their distance. She was more concerned by what lurked in the shadows. By who lurked in the shadows.

Her quarry.

The reason she was navigating the abandoned streets so late at night, when only the most desperate of citizens dared to peek around their sealed doors.

The most desperate of citizens—and the most dangerous of criminals.

Moving swiftly, Viri glanced down just in time for the moon-light to glint across a puddle on the cobblestones: vomit or urine or something equally unpleasant. Perhaps all three, judging by the foul odor. After years of hunting reapers deep into the slums, she still couldn’t get used to the smells of unwashed flesh, decay, and overflowing sewage. Some days she feared she’d scrub her skin raw and yet never be clean again.

Shuddering at the phantom feel of ichor on her feet, Viri paused at a grungy intersection and considered which way to go: west, toward Lake Mirtis, or east, where the uppercity bled into the Tridus Mountains. She closed her eyes to focus her mind, and a moment later her hand began to warm, followed by a tugging sensation inside her, an instinct urging her west.

Setting off deeper into the darkness, she quickened her pace as the hunter’s mark inked into her palm continued to heat up, guiding her to her prey. The mark—three interlocking circles rep-resenting her oath to protect, honor, and serve—was given to her the day she became a full-fledged reaper hunter. For most nov-ices, training finished at eighteen, but Viri had earned her mark a year ago at just sixteen. A prodigy, her mentor had claimed. But really, she’d just had more motivation than most to see every single reaper get what they deserved.

Rowdy sounds reached Viri’s ears from up ahead, the un-expected noise making her frown as she continued forward. She was closer to Lake Mirtis than she would have liked, and acutely aware of the dangers lurking beyond the Western Obelisk at the lake’s edge. This far out in the slums, the obelisk’s protective wards were significantly weakened, and that more than the Nox Custodia was why most sensible surface dwellers remained inside at night. Behind their carefully sealed doors, they were shielded from the drifting blackmist—and the agonizing death it afforded any who came in contact with it.

During the day, the four obelisks guarding the city forced the mist to withdraw to the outer reaches of Elverdine Isle. There it floated like a deadly cloud over the uninhabited forests and sea cliffs bordering the island, allowing the citizens of Aravell to go about their lives in relative safety. But come nightfall, when the ocean breeze picked up, not even the obelisks could keep the mist from wafting inland—which was why most Aravellians resided inside the mountains or beneath the surface in the undercity.

Viri, like any sane person, had a healthy fear of the blackmist, so she was eager to finish her hunt and return underground as soon as possible.

The mark on her hand suddenly seared, warning that she was nearing her target. A few steps later, she turned the corner of a dilapidated building to find the source of the rowdy noise: a run-down tavern on the verge of collapse.

For a moment, Viri just stood in the middle of the fetid street, wondering what careless patrons feared neither the mist nor the Nox. But then she shook her head and marched forward, ready to conclude her business. If things went to plan, she might even manage a few hours’ sleep before dawn.

Approaching the tavern—named the Dripping Barrel, ac-cording to the broken sign above the entrance—Viri walked straight through the moldy, splintering doorway, marveling anew at the midnight revelry. It was common for nighttime socializing to occur in the undercity and inner-mountains, where there was no need for a safety curfew and residents could do as they pleased at all hours, but it was rare to witness the same here on the sur-face, where breathing the very air after dark could spell doom.

The patrons inside the Dripping Barrel seemed oblivious to the dangers of the outside world, their conversations loud and laughter unrestrained. The pungent scents of spilled ale and reek-ing bodies burned Viri’s nose as she waded through the crowd, the mark on her hand still searing, telling her that not only was the reaper inside, but they were siphoning ellixen, right now.

Viri had always been more sensitive than most to the feel-ing of magic in the air—something that had aided her swift rise to becoming a hunter and protected her during many of her run-ins with the reapers—but not even she could pinpoint the exact location of her quarry. All she knew was that reapers never surrendered without a fight, and if this one had already begun siphoning, then their victim didn’t have much time left.

Urgency thrummed through Viri as she approached the middle-aged man serving drinks behind the grimy bar and called for his attention.

“What’ll it be?” he asked gruffly while pouring three ales in quick succession, foam spilling everywhere as he shoved them toward lively customers.

Viri gestured to the insignia on her scarlet cloak—the circu-lar hunter’s mark embroidered in silver over her heart—and said, “I’m looking for—”

“I don’t want no trouble,” the barman cut her off quickly. He eyed her up and down, taking in the black leather attire beneath her hunter’s cloak, her braided red hair with its unusual silver streaks, and her startling lavender eyes. “Whatever you’re looking for—whoever you’re looking for—you won’t find ’em here.”

The burning of Viri’s palm said otherwise, but when she scanned the tavern again, all she could see were cheerful patrons. There was no sign of magic—and no sign of death.

“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary tonight?” she pressed. “Any new faces or—”

Once again, the man interrupted her, sliding a tankard down the bar with enough force to leave a trail of liquid along the scuffed wood. “I already told you, hunter—there’s nothing for you here. Best take your business elsewhere.”

As he spoke, Viri noted the bead of sweat that trickled from his temple down his weathered cheek; the way his gaze rested uneasily on her, then shifted away; the tremor in his hands as he continued pouring drinks. And then, finally, she saw the slightest lift of his chin as he motioned to a half-closed door in the back corner of the room.

Viri gave a subtle nod and moved that way, ignoring the stick-iness gripping the soles of her boots as she carved a path between the noisy patrons—many of whom staggered away upon noting the color of her cloak—and approached the liquor-stained door.