The Hidden Mark (Veilborn Academy #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

LINDSAY

I’m not cut out for customer service.

Never have been. Never will be.

But tips are tips, and until I figure out how to blow this town for good, I need the damn money.

So I fake a smile. The kind that says, Please leave me alone, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.

It works about half the time. The other half?

They tip me too well anyway. I don’t know why.

Maybe they like my attitude. Maybe they can’t tell I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than refill their coffee. Who knows.

I top off a guy’s coffee at the counter without a word. He grins at me, like we’re old friends. We aren’t. He’s one of those trucker types passing through, and if he calls me “darlin’” one more time, I’ll pour this sludge over his head.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he drawls.

Sweetheart? Not much better.

I arch a brow. “You sure you wanna thank me? Pretty sure this stuff could take the rust off your rig.”

He laughs, dropping a crumpled five into the tip jar for a two-dollar coffee. I shrug and fish the bill out before he can change his mind.

Two booths over, a pair of older ladies wave me down.

They are the type who come in every week after church—blue hair and heavy perfume clouding the air.

Not the same vibrant color of my blue hair…

no, it's the kind of color they get from using that blue rinse to combat their gray hair from turning yellow.

One slides her empty plate toward me. “Hon, would you be a dear and bring us a slice of that peach pie? And maybe smile a little, hmm? That frown will cause wrinkles.”

I force a smirk. “You’ll get the pie. The smile costs extra. Gotta save up for that Botox.”

They chuckle like I just told the world’s funniest joke. One of them tucks a ten under her saucer. Patting it to make sure I catch the move.

I shake my head as I walk away. No idea why they tip me at all. Maybe they think it’s charming. Maybe they’re just used to ornery waitresses in this part of nowhere.

Or maybe…it’s something else.

I shove that thought down. Same way I shove away everything else that doesn’t make sense in this town.

I’m halfway through pouring another round of burnt sludge into chipped mugs when the bell over the door jingles.

I glance up. Habit. But there’s no one there. The wind blows the old door open sometimes, but it doesn't look breezy outside today. My grip on the coffee pot tightens. The lights overhead flicker once, buzzing loud enough to grate on my last nerve.

Old building. Old wiring. Not exactly a shock.

But the air feels different. Not the barely working AC kicking on or the way it smells in the early afternoon after the breakfast and brunch rush is done, and we can finally breathe again, different.

This is thicker. Like the whole diner’s holding its breath. I turn back toward the counter and stop cold. There’s an envelope sitting there.

I didn’t put it there. No one walked behind me. No one could’ve without me seeing them.

It’s thick. Heavy. The kind of parchment that belongs in a museum, not in my rundown excuse for a workplace. No stamp. No return address. Just my name scrawled in perfect black ink across the front.

Lindsay Elise Blake.

My middle name hits hard. No one calls me that. Hell, I barely remember the last time I even heard it. Maybe before my gran died, when she chastised me because of something Old Ethel told her.

My pulse jumps. I scan the diner. No one’s watching me.

Of course they aren’t, I'm being paranoid. I pick up the envelope. It’s warm. That’s not normal, and I’m pretty sure not caused by paranoia.

I rip it open, hands not as steady as I’d like. The paper inside smells faintly of smoke and…herbs? Something old. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It brings with it the feeling of the air before lightning strikes.

By blood and birthright, you are hereby invited to attend Blackthorn Academy for the Arcane, under the protection of the Veil. Your presence is required before the next full moon.

I stare at the words. Read them again. And again.

What the fuck?

I don’t know what the hell this is. Some kind of joke?

“Very funny, Clark,” I say to the only possible person that could have put the envelope there, our cook, if you can call him that…he burns most of what he tries to cook. If you like dry chicken, have him cook it; it’s guaranteed to need at least three glasses of water to get one bite down.

“What?” He draws the question out, clearly half-baked. That’s his normal state, so maybe he just doesn’t have very many brain cells left.

The lights flicker again. Harder this time. The buzz ratchets up until my teeth ache. I wince, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing my temples. Jesus.

When I open them, my gaze catches on the corner booth. The one that’s been empty all morning. There’s someone sitting there now.

Black coat. Black gloves. Dark sunglasses.

And dark hair, just long enough to curl against the collar of his coat.

Not just dark—inky, like the kind of black that drinks the light.

Too long for a small-town cop. Too neat for a drifter.

He doesn’t move. He’s as still as a statue as he just… watches. Me.

I freeze. The air in my lungs turns to lead. My stomach drops, the kind of swoop you get when your brakes fail at the top of a hill. Not fear exactly. Something more dangerous, a little more thrilling. My heart kicks against my ribs. Way too fast and too loud, at least to my ears.

He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t belong here in this shitty town. All clean lines and unsettling stillness. Like a man carved from midnight and moonlight. The kind of beauty that makes you stupid. The kind you regret in the morning as you’re sneaking out of their apartment.

And he’s looking at me. As though he’s been waiting. And I’m the only thing he can see.

Heat flares low in my belly. I hate that. Hate the way my body reacts when my mind is screaming, Don’t engage. I blink, hard. He’s still there.

Shoving the letter deep into my apron pocket, I grab a glass, filling it with ice water just to steady my hands. When I glance back at the booth, it’s empty.

My pulse stutters hard. That’s great. Now I’m hallucinating customers. I definitely need an actual night’s sleep. No more reruns of Charmed or Buffy the Vampire Slayer for me.

When my shift finally ends, I’m jumpy as hell. The letter’s still in my apron pocket, burning a hole through the fabric. I haven’t looked at it again, although my fingers itch to pull it out and read it again now.

Whatever it is—whatever it means—I want no part of it. I’m not Harry Potter, and I’m sure as hell not running off to some magical Hogwarts. Even if I was obsessed with that whole world as a kid. That isn’t real life.

But something feels wrong. Like eyes on the back of my neck. As though I’m a rabbit and the shadow of a hawk is circling.

I grab my bag and shove out through the front door instead of the back today. Sun’s high. Sidewalks are busy enough. Broad daylight should help, even if it is a little chilly for a late summer day.

I’m halfway down Main when Old Ethel materializes in front of me.

No warning at all; it's like she popped out of thin air. I swear she should wear bells. She’s wrapped in one of her tangled, sagging shawls, silver hair braided with tiny bones and beads.

No one knows where she gets them. I’m not about to ask.

Her clouded eyes fix on mine. Rumors say she’s blind now, but the way she fixes on me, I’m finding it hard to believe right this second.

“Well, well,” she rasps, and it reminds me of the sound of dry leaves scraping pavement. Her gnarled fingers catch my forearm before I can dodge. “The wind’s shifting, child. You feel it? A storm is brewing.”

I roll my eyes, trying to tug free and shake off the way her words sink into me at the same time. “Feels like summer.”

She laughs. Low and eerie. “Not the kind of wind you measure with a weathervane.” Her grip tightens, fingers digging in. “Storm’s coming for you, girl. Best run fast. Or learn to fly. You’ll be swept up like Dorothy going to Oz.”

“What—?”

But she’s already moving, a glide more than a shuffle, disappearing around the corner. My skin crawls. Attempting to shake it off, I head toward home. She had always been a little crazy. But my Gran always seemed to take heed to her words, so they are hard to shrug off completely.

Half a block later, I'm startled again when a vicious bark tears the air.

“Shit!” I stagger back as a hulking mutt hurls itself against a chain in someone’s yard, snapping and snarling. The metal groans but holds. Heart pounding, I force a breath. “Jesus, get it together.”

Sun’s still shining. Street’s still normal. Dog’s just a dog. Old Ethel is still strange. You’re fine.

I adjust my bag and keep going, forcing my steps to stay even.

But then I hear footsteps. Behind me. Slow. Steady. Not rushing or random. Tracking.

I glance back. Nothing but concrete and sunlight. A harmless summer day. Except it doesn’t feel harmless. The air presses in, thick and electric. Every nerve in my body is on high alert. Instinct screaming to move.

I round the next corner fast, then nearly sprint the final block.

I hit the door and unlock it in record time, slamming it shut behind me, twisting the lock, and throwing the deadbolt for good measure.

Chest heaving, I lean against the wood. My pulse won’t slow.

I hold my palm to my stomach as I try to calm down, but my skin won’t settle.

The letter’s still in my pocket. And it feels like it's calling to me. My breath comes in hard bursts.

I’m safe. I’m fine.

Right? It’s like when I was little and would run up the basement steps because I was convinced something was going to pull me back into the darkness behind me. That’s it. The same creepy feeling. I’m in my head.

But the shadows in my little apartment look deeper in the afternoon sun.

The corners too dark, edges flickering at the edge of sight.

The air thrums with electricity. I yank the letter out of my pocket and throw it onto the table.

It skids to an innocent stop next to my empty fruit bowl. Why did I even keep it?

“I don’t want any part of this,” I mutter.

The paper pulses. Faint gold light running along the edges, brightening with every beat of my heart. I freeze. What the hell? Across the room, the shadows shift. Stretch. Start to move and pull away from the wall.

My gut twists. “No,” I whisper. “This isn’t real, it’s all in my imagination. Like when I was a kid.”

A tendril of darkness lashes out, cold as ice, wrapping tight around my ankle.

I stumble back, grabbing at a chair for balance.

The thing squeezes, leeching heat from my skin and burning me at the same time.

On instinct, I snatch the nearest thing off the table, a thin glass vase still holding the brittle stems of dead flowers I hadn’t thrown away yet. I hurl it hard.

The vase shatters through the shadow with a hiss, shards scattering across the floor.

The darkness recoils, writhing, but more tendrils slide across the floor toward me.

Multiplying as they flow over the dusty tile.

I back against the door, blood roaring in my ears, as I blindly try to find the doorknob.

Then the letter flares. Blinding gold light bursts from it with a crack that rattles the windows. In an instant, the shadows vanish. Completely gone. I stand frozen, breath ragged, staring at the table. The letter sits there, edges still glowing faintly. No scorch marks. No damage.

What the fuck?

Real.

This is real.

My ankle throbs—fiery and ice-cold at the same time. I shove up my pant leg, staring at the red welt where the shadow wrapped around me.

Fuck me. I’m not imagining this.

A knock hits the door at my back. Once. Twice.

Then silence. I hold my breath, listening for footsteps walking away.

No one should be here. I’m not exactly friendly with my neighbors, and my one and only friend moved two states over a month ago.

When silence answers my straining ears, my heart slams harder. I step back, pulse racing.

And the lock…clicks. All on its own. The deadbolt slides free. I exhale harshly before sucking in another breath for a scream. The door swings open.

A man steps through.

Him.

The one from the diner. The booth. Same dark coat, same too-still presence. But this time—no sunglasses.

His eyes steal my breath from my chest. Pale and luminous, like a full moon caught in a twilight sky. Too bright. Too knowing. As if they can peel back skin, bone, and everything.

Up close, he’s beautiful in the way predators are beautiful. A thing meant to be feared, not followed or tamed. And whatever glamour smoothes his edges, something in me knows; he’s not human.

Not even close.

“You’ve been summoned,” he says. Like this is nothing more than a job, and I’m just another task to be checked off. “The Veil will not wait.”

I can’t move. Can’t breathe. But the letter saved me. The shadows were real. And this man, whatever he is, just walked through a locked door like it wasn’t even there.

“Who the hell are you?”

He tilts his head. A flicker of a smirk, gone before it fully forms. He blinks once as his face smooths over.

“I’m your escort.”

“Bullshit.”

Those pale eyes flash, something darker beneath the glow.

“You’ve already drawn too much attention,” he says, stepping closer. No sound from his long jacket. No shift of air. He's just there. “Stay here, and you’ll be dead within days. Or worse.”

The letter flares on the table—bright, insistent, punctuating his words.

My mouth is dry. “You think I’m going with you?”

“I think,” he says softly, eyes glinting cold, “you don’t have a choice.”

He lifts a hand. The air tears, darkness slicing open beside him. Shadows writhe into what can only be called a portal, runes flickering cold and bright along its edges. I’ve watched enough of Charmed and Buffy to know a portal when I see one.

Almost every instinct screams: don’t trust him.

But the loudest one, the one I can’t ignore, says: follow.

He steps through first and doesn’t look back. He stops just beyond the threshold. Turns only his head to look at me. Moon-pale eyes meet mine.

“Come.” The word is a low and cold command that hums through every nerve. “Or stay here…and burn.”

His mouth twitches into almost a sneer before he turns his back and strides deeper into the shadows.