Though the sun had long since risen, Viktor had drawn the curtains tight. The room remained cloaked in a half-light, thick with sage and the faint metallic sting of iron. The shadows here didn't weaken with the dawn—they only gathered deeper.
He'd felt stronger lately. Not healthier, not clearer—but stronger. It was a dangerous distinction.
And Ayoka? She had begun to change with him. Mirror him. Grow bolder, colder—even if her manner with others remained warm, almost charming. Yet beneath that soft-spoken kindness, she'd developed some habits that made Viktor pause. Questionable ones. Seductive ones. Dangerous, in the way only the most tempting things could be.
Perhaps he should have slowed the intimacy. The nights he took her into his arms left them both more potent by morning, and not always in a holy sense. His guests had begun to look... worse. Paler. Unnerved. Some claimed sickness. Others simply never woke.
Folk already whispered about him. Said he moved like a man marked by fate, with too many secrets under his skin. They called him vampire—not just for his pale hands or late nights, but for how guests left quieter than they came. He didn't do himself favor. Viktor had long favored dark brews, bitter and metallic—some said they had blood in them. He wore black and wine-colored coats with too much silver. His smile had a way of unsettling folks.
Worse still, he kept company with the vampire slavers in New Olerans. Never bought a soul, but drank with them. Let them talk. Listened too well.
People didn't need much. A whisper here. A death there. Viktor made it easy.
He blamed the Dacruals—the old European bloodsuckers. Always the poster boys for curses. But Viktor? He knew better. He wasn't one of them.
He was something else entirely. And Ayoka—his beautiful wife, as he often called her in the privacy of his thoughts—had been doing the Lord's work for him, in her own strange way. Maybe worse. Maybe better. But undeniably his mirror, sharpened and set loose.
Viktor stood alone in the glow of a dozen candles, each one lit by his own hand despite the hour. The curtains remained shut, blocking the sun's reach, but he'd lit the room like a chapel—warm, golden, falsely inviting. His coat hung open, shirt half-unbuttoned, the strain of sleepless nights etched beneath his eyes. The fire crackled, but the warmth didn't touch him.
He felt the presence before he heard the words—cool and coiling in the corners of the room. The shadows thickened like breath against a closed window, and Viktor knew he wasn't alone.
"You've noticed it too, haven't you?"
The voice emerged like a familiar whisper, soft and smooth, from the folds of shadow that dressed the corners of the room. The Shadow Man never needed doors—he preferred entrances that felt like invitations.
Viktor didn't flinch. "Yes."
A long pause stretched between them, like the room itself was holding its breath.
"Five guests," Viktor continued, his voice quiet. "I've buried five since she started walking the halls at night. Some didn't even have marks. Some just… stopped breathing. The others? Doors cut, blood drawn, screams they couldn't explain. And every time, she looked more at peace."
The Shadow Man stepped forward—or maybe he unfolded. Shadows peeled from the corners like silk, slow and deliberate, like stage curtains parting for a secret play. His figure glided across the candlelit floor, casting no footsteps, only the hum of something ancient.
"She's awakening. You know that, don't you? That little snake's beginning to remember." He circled Viktor, trailing smoke from the edge of the hearth like a shawl.
"But she'll slow down soon," the Shadow Man added with a conspiratorial grin. "You must keep her here. Let her grow. Let her rise. Her power will settle, but not unless it's rooted."
He paused near Viktor's shoulder, voice a low purr. Viktor's gaze was flat, unreadable—a man who wasn't playing games but knew how to entertain devils. "I heard it through the great vine—well, your shadow, more accurately. It's humming about her now. Follows her like a whipped dog. She sings, and it twitches. You think that's coincidence?"
With a theatrical flick, the Shadow Man reached down and peeled Viktor's shadow from the floor like it was silk. It writhed and shimmered, clinging to his fingers before winding around his arm.
He twirled with it—dancing lazily, mockingly—his form gliding over the rug like vapor. The shadow stretched and flinched in time with his steps.
Viktor shivered. A chill ran sharp along his spine, but he stood firm. His jaw tightened, hands steady at his sides. He did not speak. He did not blink. He simply watched as his own darkness danced without him.
The grin widened. "You'll need to take her to that little cabin of yours. Isolated. Quiet. For the safety of others, of course." He gave a playful glance toward the ceiling. "And bring the child. I'm not a monster, Viktor. Not today."
The Shadow Man lingered, watching Viktor with a flicker of appreciation. "You really do make the dark dance, you know. I like that. You'd be a fine asset for the immortal side of this war—if you ever stopped pretending you still had a choice."
Viktor swallowed hard. He knew what that meant. A guilty tremor ghosted down his throat as he turned away, heading to the cabinet. He poured a drink—vodka for himself, and two glasses for his guest and the guest's shadow, placing them on the table with deliberate care.
"I've seen her smile in ways Genevieve never did. I've seen her shadow move before she does. I've seen her whisper in a language older than anything I learned in the north," he said, voice low.
"She still has a choice."
The Shadow Man laughed, sharp and echoing. "You technically still own the little snake, Viktor. That's why the Sonster approved of you two being my priest and priestess. That's why I'm building a trap—for those who hurt people like her."
He leaned in, voice syrupy and sly. "But since I'm a kind deal-maker, I'll give you a little hint from a friend of fate. When Sabine steps into this room, that will be the only moment you can set the girl free—from little old me."
Viktor's brows furrowed. He turned slowly. "What's your angle?"
The Shadow Man shrugged with theatrical flair. "I have a harem, Viktor. And sometimes, they insist I offer more choices to the likes of you. You've become something of a favorite among them—like watching a scandalous mirror show. You glower, you ache, you hesitate just right. They say it makes for good theatre."
He lifted his glass like he was sipping holy water. But the liquid inside had vanished. So had the vodka Viktor had poured moments ago—gone, as if swallowed by the shadows themselves. Across the table, the Shadow Man's glass reflected a murky shimmer, but it held nothing.
And Viktor's shadow, too, was missing—slipped beneath the floorboards or tucked behind the firelight.
"Immortals like us—we live long, Viktor. Too long, sometimes," the Shadow Man mused. "Holding grudges? That just makes the shadow in your glass cruel. And cruel doesn't age well. Bad for the wrinkles."
Viktor said nothing, but the meaning wasn't lost on him. When time stretches like a blade, you try to forgive—not to be noble, but to survive. You never forget. Sometimes, you get justice. Other times, you keep walking, even if your hands still burn from the past.
Viktor narrowed his eyes as he pulled out the nearest chair with a tired sigh, lowering himself into it with the kind of quiet dignity that came from carrying too much weight for too long. He was done standing. Let the devils come to him.
"Don't you want her free from this? Don't you feel even a sliver of pity?"
Viktor narrowed his eyes as he pulled out the nearest chair with a tired sigh, lowering himself into it with the kind of quiet dignity that came from carrying too much weight for too long. He was done standing. Let the devils come to him.
"Don't you want her free from this? Don't you feel even a sliver of pity?"
The grin faded. Something bitter flickered behind the Shadow Man's gaze. "Her people sold her to men like you, Viktor. Not the Russians. White men. And not always for coin—just beads, soap, scraps. One tribe betraying another. Even ones who had just tasted freedom themselves—they turned and bought her too, like survival gave them permission."
He let the words settle, then added with a wry smile, "She's a pretty little snake, isn't she? But even snakes leave a trail. And hers has a bit of blood in it. So many owners, but only a few survived."
He paused. Viktor expected shadows to twist, to rise up and act out history like a dark puppet show—but none came. This time, there were no theatrics. The Shadow Man simply spoke.
"We broke each other before the ships came."
Then his eyes darkened. He leaned back, fingers steepled, gaze drifting somewhere past the flickering candlelight as if weighing whether to share more. Viktor watched him closely, wondering if the Shadow Man knew more about Ayoka's past than he let on. Then again, he had brought up the Sonsters. For all Viktor knew, they had a soul book tracking every choice he and Ayoka had ever made.
Still, he said nothing. Let the devil speak.
"Then the Celestial deities from old Spain came—powdered and proud. They tried to sell me too."
Viktor blinked, uncertain. "Please… explain more."
The Shadow Man smirked. "I forget—you don't really know history like I do."
He leaned in. "Those powdered immortals tried to sell me like a relic. I remember. And we're still fighting them. Over there. Over here. Even among ourselves. That's what empires do—they don't start wars. They just teach you how to keep them going."
His voice softened—low and rough. "I was chained up alongside the very people who worshiped me. Can you imagine that? A god watching his own believers watch him, helpless. I felt like a failure. Powerless. Like a broken altar left in the mud. The saddest part? They never blamed me. Not once. And they should have. They should have hated me for not even trying."
He rubbed his thumb along the rim of the glass, then let both hands move, gesturing through the air like he was trying to sketch the memory into the room. "There was a storm that night. A furious, howling thing that cracked the sky wide open." His fingers splayed, mimicking the motion of lightning.
"The crew panicked. Those powdered deities and their men started throwing slaves overboard like sacks of grain. Just tossed them into the sea." His hand dropped hard against the armrest, mimicking the fall.
"I've done evil things, Viktor, I won't lie." He looked up, eyes glinting. "But not like that. Not like that."
Viktor didn't respond—couldn't. He sat still, listening with a trace of horror in his eyes, as if seeing a part of the world he had never let himself believe was real.
He looked away, shadows shifting behind his eyes. "They had chains made just for me. Warded. Branded. Built to tear divinity apart. I only survived because I was valuable. Something rare to the right buyer."
He breathed deep. "My sister—bless her—she called in a favor once I hit land. The Native American immortals came. Quiet and fast, like wind through trees. They got me out before the others finished what the sea started. Turns out, they hated those powdered immortals more than anything. Said they brought sickness when they crossed into Mexico—and into what they now call America—gave their people diseases wrapped in gifts and promises. And they remembered."
For the souls. For the lost. For the ones broken and drowned.
And for a brief moment, Viktor wondered—his heart pulling sideways like a tide—why the sister hadn't come for her brother sooner. If she could call in a favor from the Native American immortals, why hadn't she paid for a portal to save her own brother? Viktor didn't know. And he didn't ask. Some questions weren't meant for the living.
He had always thought the Shadow Man to be pure evil. And make no mistake—he was still a wicked deal-maker, a smiling god of traps and bargains.
But as Viktor sat there, watching shadows perform for the dead and the damned, he started to think he really was cursed with a knack for making his darkest deals with the only devils who made sense. Maybe that was his real luck.
Maybe, just maybe, the Shadow Man wasn't the worst one.
The Shadow Man straightened, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and prophecy. "Stay open, Viktor. The town I'm shaping—it's part snare, part sanctuary. A reckoning dressed in civility. A place to mend wounds, spill blood, and settle old scores with the kind of forces that don't die easy."
The candlelight flickered like a held breath. "I'm letting you bring Ayoka and Malik because when else will you walk outside without worrying about the KKK, or worse, during this coming war? And when it comes—and it will—you won't have a choice."
He tilted his head, grinning, then stepped closer. Viktor didn't flinch, but his muscles tensed as the Shadow Man's cold hands slid up onto his shoulders, a mockery of comfort.
"Relax," the Shadow Man purred, lips close to Viktor's ear. "You already made a choice the moment she walked into your life."
The voice dropped lower, more intimate, more dangerous. "Might as well finish our little deal. Not the one you sold Sabine. Not the stories you weaved to free your brother. I mean the real deal—my vengeance, little salamander."
Viktor's face darkened. He nodded once, slowly. "I'll uphold the bargain," he said, though the words tasted bitter. He didn't want to be some devil's favored servant. The power the Shadow Man offered—he'd felt it, even relished it—but he knew better than to grow greedy. That path never ended well. "Because paying the full price... might be too much."
The Shadow Man leaned in, his voice curling low, but his hands rose gently—almost tenderly—as he smoothed Viktor's hair back into place, like a father fixing his son before a reckoning. "This might be the only time you've made the right choice for her. You still technically own her, even if you hate to admit it. You never truly freed the little snake."
A knock echoed at the door.
The Shadow Man vanished in a curl of black smoke.
Viktor didn't move at first. Then he said, quietly, "Give me a minute."
Only after did he rise and open the door.