Though it was silky, and strangely pleasant to listen to, it was too deep, too resonant, far more than any mortal man’s ever could be.
It said: “Hello, Sancia.”
* * *
—
Sancia stood very, very still, her eyes fixed on the shadow cast on the wall before her. She stared at it for what felt like an eternity, breathing hard.
She remembered the scrivers down below, their eyes ravaged and bloody, their throats slit. Don’t turn around, she thought. Don’t look at him. Don’t!
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” said the voice. “Though obviously…these circumstances are a little less than ideal…”
She blinked as the words rippled through her. The sound of his voice was like having chocolate and honey poured into her ear. Though she was terrified—and she was terrified—she had the sudden and curious desire for him to never stop speaking to her. She ignored it, and she stood there ramrod-straight, watching the shadow on the wall, keenly aware that the thing currently occupying this space with her had destroyed the interior of this ship like it’d been made of straw.
He’s right behind me…Oh God, he’s just right there…
Then the shadow moved—was it cocking its head?
“You can turn around, you know,” said his voice. “I did have some—how shall I put this?—issues with my original appearance. It was nearly as unpleasant for me as it was for them, but…I think I’ve found a suitable method to veil my form. You should be safe.”
No. Don’t. Don’t turn around. Don’t see.
“Or…don’t.” The shadow assumed a standing posture, like he stood on the air itself, and he began to pace around. “I mean, ordinarily I’d think—anything to make this situation a little more personable, but…” The detritus seemed to rattle as his voice plumbed the lower depths of his range. “It has been a long while since I’ve had a real conversation. Especially a conversation with someone like you.”
She was baffled by how untroubled, how plummy he sounded. This thing had been the cause of the deaths of hundreds of slaves, and a dozen scrivers—and yet now he addressed her like an acquaintance at the street corner.
But perhaps it made sense. A being like him would be worried by very little.
The shadow stopped pacing. Then it swelled on the wall as he grew near, and her stomach trembled with nausea.
Oh God, she thought. Tears sprang to her eyes. Oh God, please…
“You know why I’m here, Sancia,” he said. “And I’m sure you know who I am.”
There was a long, long silence.
She eventually realized he was expecting an answer.
“C-Crasedes,” she said.
The shadow shifted again, like he’d cocked his head the other way. “And I’m sure the construct’s told you all kinds of stories about me. Stories about how I’m a monster, some implacable, horrific thing…”
She thought of the imperiat, in the box at her side. Could she get to it fast enough, and turn it on? She very much doubted she could with him watching—and the utter devastation around her was an excellent reminder of what could go wrong.
“Yes?” said Crasedes. “Do you think me such a thing?”
She swallowed. “I…I saw the slaves and the scrivers down in the belly of the ship…”
“Hmm,” he said contemplatively. “That’s fair. This restoration was a far cry from ideal. I would have done it about a dozen other ways if I could have. But I knew I needed to be here as fast as possible—because the construct is lying to you, Sancia. If you keep helping her, I must tell you—she’s going to kill you and everyone in your city. And that, I guarantee you, will be just the start. Are you hearing me? Are you hearing me, Sancia?”
His voice seemed to echo inside her head, so much so it almost felt indistinguishable from her own thoughts.
She shook herself. Focus.
The shadow began pacing on the wall again, his limbs huge and spectral and distorted on the face of the dripping wood. “I need something from you, Sancia. I need you