Page 29 of Unveiled

Laird’s voice was small. “Taken where?”

The Apothecarist’s gaze went distant. “Back behind the Veils. Into the realms that do not forgive.”

Connor’s hands curled. He hated councils. Hated men who ruled without getting their hands dirty.

“And now?” Fraser asked.

“Now,” she said, and there was something like wonder in her tone, “we are here. In your cold, honest world. And do you know what is strange?”

Connor waited.

“No one disappears,” she said quietly. “Not unless they choose to leave. And it is terrifying. Because freedom is a thing you must learn to carry.”

Connor felt Fraser move beside him, a subtle tension.

Laird whispered, “That’s…good.” He frowned. “What happens to people from outside who find their way here? I mean, they shouldn’t, because this is Connor’s land, but what if…” His voice trailed off.

Connor nodded. “Good question. Hikers often stray onto my land, or motorists who break down on the main road somehow think this is the way to go.”

“It is,” the Apothecarist agreed. “But the answer is not mine to give. Ask Xiathen about it.”

Another brush-off.

Connor was getting sick of it.

His gaze flicked to the street, to the people moving with purpose, to the children laughing. “Any sickness? Any new incidents?”

The Apothecarist shook her head. “No plague. No sudden madness. A few nightmares. Some trembling. Some grief that has finally found room to breathe.” She hesitated. “And one more thing.”

Connor’s spine tightened. “What?”

“The marks,” she said. “I can sense them.”

Fraser’s gaze sharpened. Laird looked confused.

Connor’s voice went flat. “What marks?”

The Apothecarist’s eyes held his. “The binding marks. They are beginning to show on those who were named.”

Connor’s pulse thudded once, hard, and he forced his face to remain blank. “No one named me.”

The Apothecarist’s smile was small, pitying. “The Triarc did. Xiathen did. The village did. You can refuse the word, Connor Brannigan, but the Veils do not care about your disbelief.”

Connor’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Fraser’s voice was low. “Who else has a mark?”

The Apothecarist’s gaze slid past Connor, as if she could see Adrian in her mind’s eye. “The other Valour. The one who smiles like a blade.”

Connor’s stomach twisted. He didn’t ask how she knew. He didn’t want the answer.

“I was asked to request that you and the other Valour meet Xiathen at The Dry Pig tomorrow morning. They have news they wish to impart.”

“Great,” Connor grumbled. “More fucking secrets. Fine. I’ll call Adrian and let him know.”

A laugh rang out from farther down the lane. Bright, musical. It drew Connor’s attention like a hook.

A young woman stood outside a workshop, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned messily, her arms dusted with fine metallic powder. She held a small glass vial up to the light and smiled as if she’d captured something precious inside it. Light itself seemed to gather around her, faintly, like she was a hearth in human form.