Chapter 23
When he finally made it to the cottage, August burst inside and collapsed onto the chaise lounge in the sitting room. He lifted his arm, letting his sleeve fall back to reveal the sprawling black veins. They were halfway down his forearms now. It spread so much faster when he used his power.
He grabbed Lottie’s dagger from the small end table and tucked it in the sheath on his belt. The dull antique one was still in the park where he’d dropped it, but he wouldn’t miss it. He’d only brought the alternative to prevent Lottie from coming with.
August reached into his cloak pocket, searching for the tonic, but save for the strange caern, it was empty.
He groaned in frustration as he pulled out the small object.
He must have left the bottle at the godsdamned pub.
The entire night had been a waste. All he’d done was let Felix know he was nearby.
He tossed the caern aside, and it clattered against the wooden floor.
Then again, that knowledge went both ways. Felix was in Bedwyck. Now August could . . .
With a sigh, he lay back on the stiff cushions.
Could what, exactly? He wanted Felix dead. Wanted justice. Revenge. But Felix could overpower him with a single word.
He stared up at the ceiling, studying the persistent vines that had pushed their way inside through the thatched roof.
“How’d it go?”
August sat up in a panic, his skull pounding with the beat of his galloping pulse. “Gods, Lottie,” he gasped. “Don’t do that.”
“You went, even after I asked you to wait until morning. And you left me here.” The betrayal was clear on her face, but after a pause, she softened. “Well, did you find it?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t exist anymore.”
Her eyes dropped to the darkened veins in his arm. “They’ve gotten worse.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. Thanks.” August buried his face in his hands. The darkness was eating through him. He was dying, and it terrified him.
“So, what now?” Lottie asked.
“I don’t know.” There was nothing left to try. She knew it as well as he did. They’d searched endlessly for a solution as he’d steadily gotten worse. His imminent death was racing up to meet him, and he had no way to slow it down.
“I’m tired, Lottie,” he muttered. “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
Her hand hovered over his arm. “How did it spread so much since this morning?” she asked. “You didn’t—”
“I had to.” He yanked his sleeves down, covering the markings.
“Auggie, you can’t keep messing with the veil.”
“I ran into Felix,” he blurted.
Her eyes went round. “In Bedwyck? What’s he doing there?”
“I didn’t really get a chance to ask.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to settle the ache.
Silence filled the room like the slow creep of smoke.
Finally, she asked, “Are you alright?”
He shrugged. “I mean, I’m still dying, so no, not really.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
Would he know when it happened?
It was the question that haunted him the most.
When August was fourteen, he ventured past the copse of trees at the far end of the castle grounds to find a secluded garden, much smaller than the sprawling, manicured one near the cemetery.
This one was overgrown, bursting with vivid pinks and yellows and reds.
He never wandered that far from the familiar paths, preferring the safety of what he knew, and he wasn’t sure what drew him away that day.
In the garden was a woman in a maid’s dress, crouched to study a rosebush, her grey face set in a troubled frown. August had gone still at the sight of her.
Don’t look up, don’t look up.
But she did.
A ragged gash, like a grotesque smile, split her throat.
August took a step back, his stomach twisting. He wasn’t sure how far her tether would let her wander, how far he’d have to run.
But she didn’t come for him. She stood, her expression brightening with recognition.
“Erynda,” she called. His mother’s name. “The state of this garden is unacceptable. Does your mother know?”
August took another careful step back.
His grandmother died when his mother was young. Assassinated with the rest of the family during the attack on the castle twenty-some years prior to the latest war. His mother was the sole survivor.
“She loves this garden,” the woman continued. “If she finds out Howard let it get to such a state, she’ll be heartbroken.”
He didn’t know who Howard was. A gardener, maybe? But clearly, this place hadn’t seen a gardener in years.
The anchored woman waited a moment for a response, then crouched again, eyes back on the rosebush, clicking her tongue in disapproval.
She was trapped in a lonely garden, oblivious to the fact that she was dead, that decades had passed, leaving her behind.
That night, August had dreamed it was him in the garden, dreamed of his own ashen skin and clueless grey eyes, of the world moving on without him.
Was that what would happen when this darkness finally drained the last bit of life from him? Maybe he would move on, past the Hollow Dark, and have a peaceful afterlife in Naethara.
No, with his luck, he’d end up in one of the hells.
“We should leave,” Lottie said.
August slanted a look at her. This cottage was the only constant left in his life. He wasn’t eager to give it up. To start over. Again.
“I’m not leaving.”
“Felix knows you’re close by. What if he followed you?”
He thought of the two lost in the park, the gunshot, the blood beneath Felix’s fingers. He would have gone for a healer.
“He didn’t follow me.”
Was Marlow still with him? Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Felix bled out on a dark street somewhere.
The thought was a relief.
“You can’t stay here,” Lottie pressed. “We need to find someone to fix you.”
August closed his eyes. The darkness was heavy, like tar in his lungs, and the thought of moving again was too much to bear. “I just need some rest. I’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Fine. Have it your way.”
When he opened his eyes, she was gone.
He tugged at the laces of his boots, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. He needed sleep.
Whispers stirred, like dry leaves skittering across cobblestones, and pinpricks danced across his fingertips. He ignored the sound. It wasn’t the distressed whisper of an anchored this time. It was different. The gentle, persistent call of the Hollow Dark, tugging like a string drawn taut.
Come home, it seemed to say.
His muscles longed to follow, his mind pleading for him to return. To let that place devour him. It would’ve been so much easier than the constant battle.
If he didn’t have Lottie to keep him grounded, he might have already lost himself to the pull.
August held on firmly, his hands moving to grip the sofa as he waited for it to pass.