Chapter 72
The sounds of the city were familiar and calming as the grip of sleep loosened. Felix ran a hand over the rough sheets of his bed, in no hurry to open his eyes. He was still tired.
When he pulled in a slow breath, the scent of decay caught in his throat, and he startled upright, taking in the room.
It was his bedroom. Only, it was different. The walls were cracked, and dead, colourless vines curled in through his window. Golden sunlight filtered through the tattered curtains.
For a moment, he thought he must be dreaming. But the usual ache in his leg assured him he wasn’t. He sat up, reaching for his prosthetic, and after fumbling sleepily with the straps, had it fastened back in place.
He felt strange. Disconnected in a way he couldn’t explain. He flexed his fingers, trying to pinpoint the difference.
Cold pressed against his chest, as if someone had packed snow against it while he slept. He unbuttoned his shirt and stared down at the smudged black handprint over his heart. When his finger brushed the mark, the icy feel of it sent a shiver through him.
What happened?
Then, his thoughts caught up with him.
He was at The Raven’s Perch. It wasn’t in the Hollow Dark anymore.
The ministry. The royal guards. Ashcroft.
He shoved off the bed, stumbled through the hallway, and almost lost his footing as he rushed down the rickety stairs to the pub below.
He found Marlow first, and the relief was staggering. She was here. She was safe.
Lark and Niall sat across from her in the wooden booth. Niall’s face was marred with burns, partially healed, and an angry cut stretched across Lark’s cheek.
Felix stumbled forward, dizzy and off-balance, catching himself on the back of a chair. Marlow was there in a breath, her arms wrapping around him tight enough to force the air from his lungs.
He squeezed her back as his gaze took in the pub. It was worn and cracked, more grey vines forcing their way through the windows. The rest of the tables were empty.
This place had spent two years on the other side of the veil, but it was still standing. Mostly.
“Gideon’s dead.” The words tumbled out as if Marlow had been fighting to hold them in, and Felix’s brow furrowed. He sifted through the chaos of it all, remembering.
August had killed him.
Felix still wasn’t sure what the guard had done, but he knew August hadn’t been the one in control.
Was he still dangerous? Had Felix fixed whatever had twisted him?
He loosened his grip and pulled back to look at Marlow, and she answered his questioning look with a nod to the back of the pub.
August lay curled up on his side on the cushioned bay window bench, his eyes closed. He looked exhausted and hollowed out.
“Hasn’t said a word since he brought you back.”
Felix’s gaze snapped to Marlow. “Brought me back?”
Her smile was weary and didn’t reach her eyes. She touched her thumb lightly to his temple. “You were dead, Felix.”
The weight of the words almost knocked him backward.
Dead.
Two gunshots.
His fingers sought the place she’d touched. Nothing. No mark, no pain.
How was that possible?
He looked back at August, and even through the horror of it all, he felt a smile touch his lips.
How many secrets do you have?