Chapter 5
The apothecary door clicked shut behind August as he stepped out onto the deserted street. Fog had rolled in from the bay, swallowing the distant buildings. Soon, it would be too thick to see anything at all.
He had the tonic. Now he just needed to get home.
But he only made it a few steps before curiosity dragged him to a stop. He pulled the bottle from his pocket, lifted it to the streetlamp, and watched the liquid slosh inside.
Could it actually work?
If Lottie had come with him, she’d scold him for even considering trying it here instead of waiting for the safety of the cottage. She’d call him an idiot—lovingly, of course—and, as always, she’d win. He’d sigh, give in, and slip the bottle back into his pocket before heading home.
Which was exactly why, when he’d left just before dusk, he’d taken a plain dagger instead of Lottie’s and slipped out without her knowing.
If the tonic worked, the entire trip would be worthwhile, and she couldn’t be angry with him.
August sighed and pulled the stopper.
Here goes nothing.
The viscous liquid barely touched his tongue before his stomach revolted. It tasted like rotten fruit filtered through dirty dishrags. He spat it onto the street, but the bitter, acrid taste clung to his tongue like the grime at the bottom of a pond.
“Gods,” he gasped, spitting again for good measure. No way he was drinking that without something to wash it down.
He wiped his tongue on his sleeve as he looked up at the light filtering through the stained-glass windows of the nearby pub.
One drink.
He’d force this swill down, then head straight home.
The smell of tobacco smoke and roasting meat met August as he pushed through the heavy oak door.
A fire crackled in the massive hearth, warming the small space.
The walls, covered in intricately carved wood paneling, featured gilded accents that were clearly aiming for sophisticated, though they’d missed the mark and barreled straight past it to gaudy.
August grimaced at the old ship anchor mounted on the far wall, a tacky centerpiece for an already dreadful design.
There were far fewer patrons than he had guessed from the level of noise. Six, maybe seven, around a single table, though August didn’t dare look up long enough to count. A near-empty pub wasn’t great for staying hidden.
A bald man slammed his hands on the table and pushed up from his chair, but his legs didn’t catch him. He hit the ground with a thud, and the others erupted in laughter. They were clearly hours into a night of heavy drinking.
Good. At least if they were drunk, they wouldn’t recognize him. And even if they did, they’d forget by morning.
August chose an empty table at the back of the room and sank into a chair, then set the tonic bottle down, staring it down as he traced a knot in the wood with his finger.
The usual creeping sense of being watched intensified until the air seemed to crackle and buzz with the tension of it. August tugged his hood low and ducked his head.
This was a mistake. He never should’ve come in here. Why hadn’t he just gone home?
He tapped his boots against the ground, his legs itching to bolt.
Relax. It’s just a bunch of drunks.
There was no immediate danger. It was probably just an anchored watching him. Nothing out of the ordinary. Besides, if he left now without ordering, it would draw attention.
One drink.
August jumped as a glass of clear liquid landed in front of him. He looked up to find a curvy woman with kind brown eyes and auburn hair, an apron tied around her waist. Just a server.
“I didn’t order this,” he said, nudging the glass back.
“It’s from the handsome fella by the fireplace.”
August frowned, the thought of some stranger sending him a drink making him more uncomfortable than he already was. “Thanks, I guess.”
Her smile creased the corners of her eyes. “He said to tell you happy birthday.”
August’s heart stuttered a painful, frantic beat, and his gaze darted to the fireplace. There was no one there. “Where? Who was it?”
She scanned the room with a thoughtful hum. “Don’t see him. Guess he left.”
A coincidence, August assured himself. An unlikely mistake.
But even as he fed himself the lies, dread crept in. He’d felt the air vibrate. He should’ve made the connection.
His fingertips prickled, his power reacting instinctively to the threat.
What was Felix doing in Bedwyck?
“I need to—” August shoved up from the table, not bothering to finish the sentence. He barreled out onto the deserted street, the sounds of the pub muffling as the door fell closed behind him.
His hand went to the holster at his hip, but he hesitated, his fear and resentment at odds.
Go home.
As much as he wanted to bury the dagger in Felix’s chest, he wouldn’t win that fight.
A large raven glided soundlessly from the fog and settled on a weathered sign. It ruffled its inky feathers, then fixed him with familiar hollow eyes.
Every muscle in August’s body tensed. He’d never trusted birds. Shifty, unnerving things. But this one, he trusted least of all.
They stared at each other for a long moment, locked in a silent standoff, until the bird finally took off in a flurry of wings and smoke, disappearing down a dark street.
Conjuring required concentration and line-of-sight. If that raven was here, Felix wasn’t far. He was toying with August. Baiting him.
August spun and bolted in the opposite direction. He couldn’t fight Felix, didn’t stand a chance against his magic. But he could outrun him.
The raven appeared again, this time perched on a windowsill. August veered sharply, plunging into a narrow side street. He listened for any sign of pursuit.
Nothing but his own too-loud footsteps.
The street widened into a vast park entrance. Darkness swallowed the distant edges, and dense fog choked the soft glow of the gaslamps. Paths extended out from a central gazebo like spokes on a carriage wheel.
He hurried forward and slipped into the shadowed structure to catch his breath.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a hand clamped onto his arm, spinning him around and slamming him hard against a marble pillar.
“August Ellingwood, back from the dead,” Felix mused, eyes still glowing pale blue with illusion magic.
August drew in a sharp breath as the cold barrel of a gun pressed beneath his chin.
He had no doubt Felix would do it, knew he would pull the trigger.
After all, he had already done it once.