Chapter Thirteen #2
A brief chase ensued around the workshop table, Laird surprisingly speedy for someone jingle-sparkling in panic. Connor grabbed him by the shoulders. “Lad, it’s a potion. You can outrun Luciana, but not inevitability.”
“That’s the worst pep talk I’ve ever heard,” Laird shouted.
Adrian stepped in, palms raised. “All right, enough. Laird, no more testing until we understand the side effects. Luciana, Apothecarist, maybe dial back the enthusiasm.”
Both conspirators groaned with identical, theatrical disappointment.
“But—” Luciana tried.
“No,” Adrian said firmly.
The Apothecarist muttered, “You’re stifling innovation.”
Adrian pointed at Laird’s glittering, musical eyebrow. “Innovation is jingling.”
Laird sagged in relief, leaning heavily against Connor. “Thank you.” His eyebrow chimed politely.
Connor patted his back. “At least it’s festive.”
Laird groaned. “I am never living this down.”
Luciana perked up. “Well, if Version Two causes whistling again, we can—”
“No,” Laird and Adrian said together.
Connor grinned. “Aye, for today.”
Laird’s eyebrow glimmered happily.
“Your shoulders are up around your ears.”
***
Adrian
Connor and Adrian found Xiathen in the Athenaeum, his long robes trailing across the mosaic floor as he sorted through stacks of old parchment and brittle tomes.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Xiathen said before Adrian even spoke.
Adrian frowned. “How?”
“The air around you is trembling,” Xiathen replied. “Marks do that when they stir.”
Adrian’s heart mirrored a stutter. “So it’s normal?”
Xiathen looked up sharply. “No. Not normal.” His gaze drifted to Adrian’s collarbone. “May I?”
Adrian nodded reluctantly. Xiathen lifted trembling fingers—not touching, hovering—and drew in a sharp breath. “The mark is waking.”
Adrian’s stomach dropped. “Waking to what?”
Xiathen stepped back, troubled. “To the one who placed it.”
Connor’s growl echoed like distant thunder. “Who the fuck marked him, and what does he have to do with anything? He’s not part of your community, is he?” Connor demanded.
Xiathen hesitated. “We need to talk to Melanus. She and the others have been scrolling through the ancient texts to try to discover what Adrian’s part in this is and why he is marked.”
Adrian wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold. “Why now? Why would it activate only after the storm?”
Xiathen’s eyes dimmed. “Because the Veil has shifted. Because our village has crossed worlds. Because old magic senses opportunity.”
Connor stiffened behind him. “Opportunity for what?”
Xiathen swallowed. “I can’t say. I don’t understand it either.” He placed a soft hand on Adrian’s shoulder. “Leave it with me. I will ask Melanus to tell us about her findings.”
***
Adrian didn’t sleep that night. He lay on the bed in his chamber, staring at the ceiling, counting every flicker of heat beneath his skin.
Each flare was stronger than the last. Each pulse sharper.
Each one left him more breathless, more shaken, more aware of the invisible thread pulling at his chest. Pulling him toward something. Toward someone.
He pressed a hand to the mark, his jaw clenched. “Stop,” he said. “Please stop.”
The mark answered with a faint, cruel thrum. He squeezed his eyes shut. If this is growing, how much worse will it become?
By the third day, Adrian couldn’t bear it anymore. The warmth had grown into heat. The heat into pressure. The pressure into a steady, rhythmic pull, like a hand closing around his sternum from the inside.
I need to speak to Xiathen and Melanus. He dressed quickly and started the walk to the village.
The day was beautiful, with blue skies, cold air, and verdant valleys and hills.
But he couldn’t enjoy the view. He was halfway to the village when a sudden burning made him catch his breath.
He stumbled, his breath hitching. Strong arms caught him before he hit the stones.
“Adrian?”
Adrian tried to speak. Couldn’t. His throat closed around the words. Connor’s arms steadied him, solid and grounding.
“I felt your pain, I had to come,” Connor said, his voice tight. “Where does it hurt?”
Adrian grabbed Connor’s wrist and pressed it to his chest. Connor’s eyes widened as the pulse flared under his hand. “Adrian,” he breathed. “It’s burning.”
Adrian nodded. “Yes. And I don’t know why. I don’t—”
The mark pulsed again so violently he clutched Connor’s coat. Connor held him through it, fury etched into every line of his face.
“That’s enough,” Connor growled, lifting Adrian’s weight as though it were nothing. “We’re getting answers tonight, whether Melanus is ready or not. And don’t argue. I’m, we’re not losing you to a damned glowing scar. You hear me?”
Adrian laughed, the sound breaking at the edges. “You have a terrible way of comforting people.”
“Good thing I’m not trying to comfort you,” Connor muttered. “I’m promising.”
They met once again with Xiathen and Melanus in The Dry Pig’s back room. The hearth burned low. The walls felt too close. Adrian’s mark throbbed like a second heartbeat. Connor stood so close their shoulders brushed. Melanus paced. Xiathen watched. And Adrian felt the world tilt beneath him.
Melanus’s voice cracked first through the silence. “We know why the mark is waking.”
Adrian’s fingers tightened on the back of the chair. “Why?” he asked.
Xiathen spoke gently, regretfully. “Because the Council is calling you home.”