Chapter Thirteen
Adrian
The sound of bootsteps crunched on the frost behind him.
Adrian startled. Connor stood behind him in the frozen courtyard, arms folded, hair wind-tangled, eyes narrowed in that way he had when he was pretending not to worry.
“I’m cold,” Adrian said.
“No,” Connor replied. “You’re hiding.”
Adrian’s lips twitched. “And you’ve become a mind reader overnight?”
“Aye. Turns out you’re easy to read.”
Adrian scoffed. “I assure you I am not.”
“Then explain the troubled look about you,” Connor said, stepping closer. “And the way you keep rubbing your chest as if you’ve a stone stuck under your shirt.”
Adrian’s fingers curled reflexively over the mark. Connor’s gaze dropped to the movement. “What’s hurting?” he asked softly.
Adrian shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
Connor didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just waited. And gods, that was worse than scolding would have been.
“It’s—” Adrian exhaled. “The mark. It feels different.”
“How different?” Connor asked. “On a scale from ‘annoying itch’ to ‘full-blown I want to slice it off’?”
Adrian laughed despite himself, a small, startled sound. “Somewhere in the middle.”
“Middle is concerning,” Connor said.
Adrian glanced away, embarrassed by the sudden tightness in his throat. “It’s warm,” he said. “Off and on. At first, I thought it was nothing. But it’s getting worse.”
Connor’s expression hardened, not at Adrian, but at the invisible threat beneath his skin. “You should’ve said something.”
“I didn’t want to worry anyone.”
Connor huffed. “You can’t walk into a storm made of monsters and say I don’t want to cause concern.”
“It’s not the same,” Adrian argued. “This is private.”
Connor’s jaw flexed. He looked away for a long, silent moment, battling some thought Adrian couldn’t read. Then, “Let me see it again.”
Adrian jerked as if burned. “Absolutely not.”
“Adrian.”
“No.”
“Adrian.”
“What part of no—”
“If it’s getting worse, we need to know what it’s doing.”
Adrian bristled. “It’s my skin. My body. It’s not…”
Connor stepped even closer. Not looming, not crowding, but radiating a stillness so steady it made Adrian’s pulse trip over itself. “I’m not asking to take anything from you,” Connor said quietly. “I’m asking to help.”
The mark pulsed again. Harder. Hotter. Adrian winced involuntarily, and Connor’s hand shot out, steadying him with a warm grip on his arm.
“What the fuck?” Connor’s face darkened. “That’s not normal. I can feel it too.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening either.”
Connor nodded once. “Then we’ll figure it out.”
“We?” Adrian echoed.
“You’re not alone in this,” Connor said. A simple, unarguable truth. “Not anymore.” He smiled as if thinking of some old memory. “Believe me, there are others looking out for us.”
Something in Adrian’s chest tightened and warmed at the same time. A feeling he refused to examine too closely. He stepped back. “Thank you. But I should speak to Xiathen first. They know more of the old symbols than I do.”
Connor’s eyes softened. “Aye. And I’ll come with you.”
Adrian blinked. “No. Really. You don’t have to.”
“I’m coming.”
Adrian threw his hands up. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stalling.”
Adrian glared.
Connor didn’t budge.
They were halfway around the bend of the Apothecarist’s workshop when the raised voices reached them: sharp, indignant, and not even remotely subtle.
“You cannot put that much mandrake into anything meant for human consumption,” Luciana hollered from inside the shop.
The Apothecarist retorted, scandalised, “His face already turns the shade of a ripe tomato at the slightest provocation. What harm could a little extra mandrake do?”
Adrian slowed, then stopped entirely. “Oh no.”
Connor sighed. “Oh aye.”
Then a third voice, smaller, miserable, and quite alive, drifted out. “Please stop talking about my face.”
Laird.
Connor and Adrian exchanged a look of pity and braced themselves before stepping forward. The scene inside the workshop courtyard was chaos bordering on theatre.
Luciana and the Apothecarist stood on opposite sides of a worktable, jabbing fingers at one another with the enthusiasm of two people who truly enjoyed arguing. Potion vials bubbled angrily between them. A diagram floated overhead, spinning in circles as if it too wished to flee.
Laird sat miserably on an overturned bucket, his cheeks already pink from the attention. At the sight of Connor and Adrian, Laird gave a weak, pleading wave. “Please. Help.”
Adrian winced. “Oh no.”
Connor clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ve got you, lad. I think.”
Luciana pounced. “Perfect timing. Tell the Apothecarist that sautéed mandrake is the only reasonable stabiliser for a non-blush potion.”
“Sautéed?” Connor repeated, horrified.
“For the last time.” Luciana threw her hands up. “Cooking it reduces blood flow reactivity.”
“It absolutely does not,” the Apothecarist snapped. “It increases it. He’ll glow like a lantern.”
Laird whimpered softly. “Please don’t make me glow.”
“We won’t,” Adrian assured him quickly, but questioned his certainty.
The Apothecarist rounded on them. “Indulge me. How much mandrake do you believe is too much mandrake?”
“Any,” Connor said.
“That is incorrect.”
Luciana spun to Adrian. “And you, you have a brain. Tell him the herb of emotional fortitude is essential.”
Adrian held up both hands. “I’m not a potion brewer.”
“You don’t need to be,” Luciana insisted. “You need to answer correctly.”
The Apothecarist sniffed. “The herb of emotional fortitude is volatile, unstable, and worst of all—”
“It smells like tragedy,” Laird mumbled miserably into his hands.
Adrian blinked. “Tragedy?”
“Like someone boiled sadness with wet socks,” Laird said, his face flushing even redder at the thought.
Luciana pointed dramatically. “See? Proof it’s effective.”
Connor rubbed his face. “No, that’s proof it’s awful.”
Laird let out a strangled groan and buried his face deeper in his palms. “I don’t even blush that much.”
Everyone turned and stared at him, then he turned a deeper shade of crimson.
Adrian crouched in front of him. “Laird. You’re literally blushing right now.”
“I know,” Laird wailed.
Luciana patted him on the back nearly toppling him off the bucket. “That’s why we’re helping.”
“You’re experimenting,” Laird corrected miserably. “On me.”
“Same thing,” the Apothecarist muttered.
“No,” Laird insisted, panicking now. “No more experimenting. The last one made my ears steam.”
Connor perked up. “Oh? Did it actually? Like a kettle?”
“Yes,” Laird hissed, mortified. “I whistled.”
Adrian covered his mouth to keep from laughing.
Luciana turned to the Apothecarist triumphantly. “See? That was you using raw mandrake.”
“That was barely raw—”
“It was practically still screaming,” Laird shouted.
Connor leaned toward Adrian. “If we run now—”
“They’ll drag us back,” Adrian said flatly.
As if summoned, both Luciana and the Apothecarist spun toward them with unsettling intensity.
“You two will decide,” Luciana declared.
“The fate of the potion rests in your hands,” the Apothecarist added gravely.
Laird straightened and appeared desperate. “Please pick the one that won’t explode.”
“Or whistle,” Adrian murmured.
“Or glow,” Laird added louder.
Adrian sighed. “Why don’t you test both versions and see which works?”
Silence. Then Luciana and the Apothecarist lit up as though he had offered them forbidden magic.
“Of course,” they said in perfect unison.
Laird shot to his feet. “No. That is the opposite of what I want.”
“Too late,” Luciana said, grabbing a skillet.
“Far too late,” the Apothecarist agreed, reaching for a ladle with the joy of a man about to cause chaos.
Laird turned pleading eyes to Connor and Adrian. “Save me.”
Connor clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll supervise?”
Adrian groaned. “We’ve created monsters.”
Luciana brandished the skillet triumphantly. “No. You’ve created science.”
Laird stood stiffly in the centre of the Apothecarist’s workshop, looking like a man being marched toward his doom.
Luciana bustled around him with far too much cheer for someone about to administer something that glowed faintly and hissed. “Right, you big delicate flower. Version One first.”
The Apothecarist placed a protective cloth over himself, Connor, and Adrian with the solemnity of a man preparing for war. “This may or may not stain the soul.”
Laird whimpered.
Adrian stepped forward, trying to be supportive. “It’ll be fine.”
Connor snorted. “It absolutely will not be.”
Luciana shoved the first vial toward Laird’s hands. It bubbled a suspicious lavender. “This one uses sautéed mandrake. And no, you’re not allowed to ask why it’s bubbling.”
“I think I should,” Laird whispered.
“Drink,” Luciana ordered.
Laird gave Adrian a last look of desperate hope—which Adrian returned with an apologetic wince—then tipped back the potion.
The reaction was immediate. A loud FOOMP echoed through the workshop, and a puff of purple smoke enveloped Laird. When the smoke cleared, Luciana gasped. “It worked.”
Laird touched his face. “I, I don’t feel hot. Am I, am I still blushing?”
Everyone leaned in. It was miraculous. Not a whisper of pink.
Adrian smiled. “It actually—”
Laird’s left eyebrow burst into sparkling gold. And all of them jerked back.
The Apothecarist clasped his hands in delight. “Fascinating.”
Laird flailed. “My face is sparkling. Why is my face sparkling?”
“Oh, relax,” Luciana said. “It’s festive.”
“I don’t want to be festive.”
Each time Laird moved his brow, a small tinkling sound followed. Connor wheezed with laughter. “He sounds like a holiday ornament.”
Laird glared at him, which only made the eyebrow jingle louder.
Adrian covered his mouth. “Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.”
Luciana waved her hand dismissively. “It’s fine. It’ll wear off in a few hours. Now for Version Two.”
“No,” Laird yelped, backing up so fast he bumped into the table. “I’m not drinking another one.”
The Apothecarist brightened. “This one doesn’t involve sautéing.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Luciana lunged, vial in hand. “Just hold still.”
Laird dodged like a man possessed. “Get that thing away from me.”