Those Who Shatter

Chapter 7: Duress

Jericho. Jericho. Jericho.

I always told myself that I wouldn't be one of those Settlers. The kind that forget that the shapeshifting Shade before them was not actually someone they used to know. I always told myself I wouldn't be fooled, that I was too smart for such a thing. Sitting in lessons with Serah Mallory and my tutors, I had been forced to pour over whole anthologies that archived the different looks, skills, rankings, and abilities of all the known Shade breeds. My studies were full of warnings when dealing with such creatures, but I had scoffed at all the stories. Every single one of them. Because if you ever saw your Comrade murdered by an Obake Shade, how could you possibly hesitate in killing the murderous creature even if it had adopted your dear friend's face?

I was a fool.

Jericho.

The name hushes in an echo between my ears, bouncing back and forth.

Jericho.

But studies don't speak of the emotional upheaval such an event can cause. How rationale can get warped into a hope so strong that uncertainty settles in its place. Studies fail to make you realize the horrors you read about could happen to you. That invincibility is a myth, that knowing how you would react in any given hypothetical situation is a lie. Studying failed to teach me anything more than what I learn in this moment: that trusting someone, loving someone, creates fools out of us all.

Because looking into Jericho Crosse's amber eyes causes my heart to go blind to the demon that lies beneath.

"Thought it would be that easy to get rid of me, eh?" Jericho says, and his voice—for the love of the Orbs! I realize I've forgotten the exact tone to that voice. How precise each word is, the slight English inflection to the ends of his words, clipping them upwards into a polite period.

The tip of my vitrum blade retreats from my Comrade in the same stuttering motion my thoughts tumble from my tongue. "What are you—how did you—why?"

Jericho tips his head to the side, watching me patiently because he knows sometimes I need more time to form my words than he does. But I can't think past what's right in front of me, so Jericho grins tightly, filling in the space for me.

"Why is such a vague statement, Guinevere. Why is the grass green? Why do dogs bark?" He laughs in that dry way of his, his gaze steady on my face. "So, I have a more concrete question to ask of you."

His eyes gleam passionately, and they're hard to look away from even though I want to look at all of him. He takes a step closer. "Have you found the key, Guinevere?"

"The key?" I ask numbly, thoughts slow and brain even slower, slugging through the sludge that clutters me. "The Lost Key? But you never told me—"

"I told you; you just need to remember. Where is it, Guin?" He takes a steady step closer, palms facing outward, and that's how I see it: the red-inked number tattooed into his wrist. 767. A demon's tattoo. The recognition rushes in so quickly and leaves me reeling.

"You're not real." My hand shakes around the blade.

"Trust your senses."

His patient, instructor voice calls to me, threatens to consume me, like we're back in the Orbs Hall, and he's teaching me how to fight. His face moves so close to mine that I can make out the light freckle on the corner of his right eye. My blood pounds, ripping my skin apart, as his lips open.

"You can feel my breath—" His words brush against my cheeks, and my fingers twitch—"You can feel my hand—" My heart lurches painfully when his hand stretches out over it.