Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

bodyguard? What kind of idiot
are
you?”
    “I’m a princess.”
    He stops laughing and gives me a critical look. With every passing moment, his arms tremble more.
    “You don’t want to kill me,” I say, and nod to the vambrace on his arm. It’s smooth black leather, and the swirling silver etchings form ancient runes across the surface of the vambrace. “That thing will kill you if you harm me or run away. It’s magic.”
    He snarls and glares at the vambrace. Then he glances back at me, a cruel smirk on his lips. “Your kind doesn’t use magic. How could you have gotten your hands on a magical item?”
    “Look at it,” I command. “It’s old. Old enough to have been made when humans
did
use magic.”
    Lor frowns down at it. “But I’ll still have the chance to kill you before I die, right?”
    “I saved your life,” I say quickly, desperate for some way to calm him. “My father was going to kill you. I stopped him.”
    His lip twists into a sneer, but it’s not as vicious as before. “And why should I believe that?”
    “Because you’re alive. Do you honestly think the king would willingly let you live? You’re an Angel. You trespassed on human land.”
    He sucks in his lip and nibbles at it, his jaw working back and forth. I wonder how his jaw is working at all; my hand is aching from that punch.
    “I’m the reason you’re alive,” I repeat. “Taking you as my Guardian was the only way to save you. Guardians are exempt from most laws.”
    He raises an eyebrow. “Including the trespassing law?”
    I nod. “That law can’t touch you now.”
    He cocks his head. “Why would you save me?”
    “I have my reasons.”
    “You want to be a little more specific?”
    “No.”
    Lor scoffs and finally removes his hands from the wall. He wobbles for a moment, and then falls to one knee. Bracing one hand on the ground, he glances at his side and mutters a curse.
    “Your stitches burst,” I say.
    “Yeah, I can see that.”
    “You should get back in bed.”
    He whips his gaze up, piercing me with a glare. “What is it with you and obvious statements?”
    Blackness. Then candlelight that illuminates the room in eerie flickers. And red. Burning red eyes that bore into me, desperate and pleading. Those eyes belong to the man kneeling in front of me on the dirt floor. Black hair, and pale skin, and soft features. He almost looks like a child, but I know he’s not. He’s a monster.
    “Please,” he whispers, voice wavering.
    I shake my head, disgusted by the sound of his grovelling. And then raise my knife.
    I gasp and look around. I’m still in my room, brightly lit by the fireplace and chilly from the stone floors. No candles. No dirt in sight, expect for the stains on Lor’s clothes.
    I sag against the wall and close my eyes. Why are these visions hitting me now? Why do they come to me at all? Why red eyes, and not black?
Why?
    All of my visions have always been impersonal. Just sounds and sights, and the occasional smell from the past. There’s no thoughts in them. No talking. Nothing to identify them to a particular owner.
    Except for these. These visions—the ones I haven’t had since Ashe died—are just as disturbing as they are unique. Because they contain thoughts— thoughts that somehow feel like they belong to me.
    I open my eyes, remembering that I’m trapped in a room with a dangerous Angel. Lor is still crouched on the ground, glaring up at me. A log crackles in the hearth. The fire flares, casting light across the room. For the first time, I see Lor’s face clearly, without shadows or distance obscuring it.
    His eyes are red.

Fourteen
    “Something wrong, sweetheart?”
    Lor’s question brings me out of my daze. I blink a few times, clearing my thoughts. Lor has red eyes, and so do the men in my visions. But that could just be coincidence, right? There’s no reason to panic.
    “Sorry,” I murmur, although I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I clear my throat, then swallow hard.
    Lor cocks his head to the other side, reminding me of a little of a confused puppy. “What just happened? You zoned out for like a minute.”
    I shake my head and press a hand to my forehead. “Nothing. Really. I’m just tired.”
    He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a growl. Somehow, I know he’s laughing at my lame excuse.
    “Really,” I insist weakly.
    He nods and then presses his forehead against his knee. His chest expands in a