A month passed.
I left Shadowboon a month ago, and I still had not heard anything from him. When I left the assassins' hideout, that was the last I saw of him. I worried, of course. My biggest fear was that the clone spell would not last as long as I believed. All that pain for nothing. The thought still made me shudder.
I met the girls again when I returned to the castle. Pure coincidence. I was rooftop-hopping back toward the palace district when I spotted them gathered by the harbor. I guessed they had stayed close to where they had disposed of the assassins' bodies. The water made a convenient grave. Hopefully no pollution issues. The harbor opened to the ocean, so maybe it was fine? The bodies could have been washed far away into the grimy deep.
I dropped down beside them, making an entrance. Catherine spun toward me, tense and ready to fight, until she realized who it was.
The air down there smelled of salt and old iron. Seagulls wheeled overhead, screaming at nothing.
I felt another pang of guilt when thinking about the girls having been here all alone. But then it quickly disappeared. They could handle themselves just fine, and I'm not sure how much water, food, or sleep they really needed.
"Father," Catherine breathed, relief softening her posture.
I put on the expression I imagined prophets should wear. Calm, confident, slightly haunted. A perfect moment to lean into the role.
"I have seen him," I said gravely.
They froze.
"The prophet of Entropy," I continued, lowering my voice as though the waves were eavesdropping. "A blot of black in the world. A force slipping through the cracks of order. A truly terrifying enemy."
Their eyes widened with the weight of destiny. Exactly what I wanted. Though, if they could have looked less ready to murder, that would have been great.
"So those we killed... those assassins..." Juliet murmured.
"Misguided men and women, deceived by The Enemy, but it was a step forward," I told them. "Swift action against darkness. I am proud of you."
Truth: I was bullshitting so hard I should have been fined for public indecency. They should probably be in prison for killing people, but they accepted my words like holy writ.
"We will be vigilant," Catherine vowed, fist against her chest. "We will not falter."
Their resolve crystallized. Guilt pricked me. I was turning their belief into a weapon against something that wasn't real, with a dark prophet who was... me. But that was the story, right? What a mess.
Now, a month later... nothing.
No message. No letter. No calling card. Not even a "hi."
Days and nights really stretch longer without news, or when you're expecting it any day.
I turned away from the window. "Where the hell are y..."
A figure leaned in my doorway like it had always belonged there. Purple hair. My face.
"Hi," he said casually.
"You took your time," I replied.
"What?" He tapped his temple.
"Thought I died?"
"I considered it, yes."
He smiled, proud and very much alive. Then he dropped onto my bed. The mattress groaned. "Well, I've been busy and am thoroughly exhausted."
"So, what is up?" I asked, sitting in a nearby chair.
"Oh, you know. Nightmare theatrics. Political manipulation. A light resurrection or three. Normal stuff."
"Run that back slowly."
"First: the man behind the assassins is a high-ranking noble with delusions of grandeur. Greaves Woodborn. Related to Deimos Amoon. A cousin of some sort."
"He wanted the king dead?"
"Yeah. And his family. And anyone in the way of his shiny new empire." Shadowboon clicked his tongue. "Ambitious. Stupid. Classic corrupt noble. Very recruitable."
"You recruited him?"
"Partnered is the term," he corrected. "I offered him something bigger than monarchy: cosmic rebellion. Religious power. A spot on Team Entropy. Maybe a continent to rule later."
I nodded.
"Oh, and I revived three more girls," he added, as if discussing groceries. "Another goo trunk. More pieces this time, but I managed." He lifted three fingers. "An orc: Regan, The Tower. A dark elf: Morgan, The High Priestess. And a fox girl: Medea, The Sun."
"Tarot cards."
"As good as constellations."
"Medea, like Euripides?" I asked.
"Yep."
"And Regan? …Like King Lear?"
"Yep."
"And Morgan?"
He gave me the kind of look you reserve for someone who has failed a very easy test. "Morgan Le Fay. King Arthur?"
I actually laughed. He looked pleased with himself.
"They are like the others?" I asked.
"Same thing. Confused. Traumatized. Extremely loyal. Very strong. Very fast. It is like someone is shipping me pre-packaged acolytes. Weird, right?"
Very weird. Terrifyingly weird.
"Why'd you name them after the cards? Any reason Medea's The Sun?"
Shadowboon shrugged. "Not much reason. Same logic as before, mostly improv. Woodborn mentioned fox-folk aren't very clever, but she's so bright and joyful, so I thought The Sun fit."
He smirked. "Orcs are big and strong, so Medea got The Tower. And Morgan? Not sure. Woodborn said that dark elves are good at many things, so I just winged it when it came to what card to name her after."
"Where are they now?"
"A house provided by Woodborn. They are learning the teachings of Entropy. That part almost killed me, because I am making all of it up as I go." He tapped his chin. "I am also considering letting Woodborn adopt me."
"Adopt you?"
"Yes. Then I become a legitimate noble. Freedom to move in society. Less murder of children from the gutter, more eccentric heirs with spiritual hobbies."
"If he accepts the plan."
"Oh, he will. He is greedy. Greedy people do not let go of ladders that go upward."
"You trust him?"
"Absolutely not," he laughed. "But he trusts me somewhat. Maybe we can bond over the next few years."
I leaned against the bedpost.
"How did you explain your face being my face?" I asked.
"I didn't. I am not sure he realizes you exist. I just said that I have roamed the world for a few years and have taken a human form."
"Thought of a name?"
"I do not know. Something generic. Aiden. Max. Logan. Maybe Silas."
"All acceptable. Woodborn or Shadowboon as a last name?"
"Not sure. But I kind of feel like keeping Shadowboon. Silas Shadowboon. Or Sylas?"
"Good either way. Doesn't make that much of a difference."
"I think so too. Anyway, any progress on your end?"
"Not much. After the coronation and our return home, things have slowed. The girls have almost built their new home. They like it there. Far from others. It will probably become a small settlement over time."
"Settlement building? Interesting."
He thought for a moment and snapped his fingers.
"Right. I've got another surprise."
Something shifted behind him - a shimmer - and then a cloak of rippling black material unfurled across his shoulders, draping down like a living shadow.
I actually flinched.
"Ta da." He spread his arms. "Goo armor."
"Goo clothing. Anyway - cool."
"It is," he said proudly. "Turns out the substance responds to certain magical cues when properly cultivated."
He snapped again, and the cloak melted - literally liquified - and sank seamlessly back into his shirt, disappearing beneath the fabric.
"Did you just absorb your outfit?"
"Technically I drank my outfit. It stays inside me until I call for it." He patted his stomach. "Like a very fashionable parasite."
"That's kind of… gross. So you metabolized a cape?"
He flexed his hand, and a faint ripple of black pulsed beneath his skin. The sound it made was wet. "It's innovation," he said proudly. "Fashion by digestion. There is a trade-off," he added. "The goo drastically increases my weight when stored internally."
"How much more?"
"I think I weigh three times what I used to. But as a toddler, that's not as heavy as you'd think it is."
He tried to hop off the mattress. Instead the bed screeched, and he thudded to the floor like a dropped anvil.
"I just have to get used to it. Sort of like strength training, but instead of using weighted clothes, I use goo. Isn't it cool?" he asked, grinning.
I had to think about that for a moment. "It kind of is, and at the same time, it's not."
"It does not make me stronger, but if we ever fight one another, cool armor on both sides would look amazing."
I shook my head, equal parts impressed and concerned.
"So you are a walking armory with trauma minions and a noble sugar daddy."
"Stop making it sound weird."
"It is weird."
"It is, is it not?" He tried not to laugh. "It's not very breathable either. Remember the outfits the assassins had? Even though they had hoods, they had no face coverings because they wouldn't be able to breathe through them. Woodborn, the guy who made the clothing - I don't think he's good enough to create holes to breathe through."
"So, aside from clothes excreting powers... anything else?"
"Oh boy."