FOUR
Angela dreamed of teal-blue eyes that were too bright and too clear.
They filled the darkness like twin beacons, fixed on her with an intensity that made her chest ache.
His face was carved with an unsettling beauty that came from an unfair bone structure that was unnervingly dangerous and undeniably sexy all at once.
Along with a restrained power that radiated from him like a storm locked behind glass.
Zarek.
He stepped closer, his boots soundless against an unseen ground, the silver on his blades catching the light, as his gaze never left hers. “You will forget.”
“No.” Angela shook her head. She didn’t want to forget him.
His expression hardened, and the surrounding air shifted in a way that made the world warp and fold inward, where shadows swallowed shape, stretching his form into a cloak that drank the light.
It was a Black Cloak with eyes that burned red with fury.
“Then die.” Its vile voice hit like a deep horn of horror against her heart. White, bony hands lunged for her throat, forcing the cold to slam into her skin and the air in her lungs to vanish, only for her to fall into a space where there was no floor.
And she kept on falling.
Angela woke with a scream trapped in her throat, bolting upright in bed.
She sucked air deep into her burning lungs with her heart hammering so hard it made her dizzy as sweat soaked her sheets. Thankfully, daylight filtered through the curtains of her room.
“Just a nightmare,” she whispered hoarsely, laying back on her bed and sinking into her pillow.
But her throat still ached, her head throbbed, and her tongue felt thick and dry. She groaned at the near-empty vodka bottle on the nightstand.
“Just great,” she muttered. “A hangover nightmare.”
Beside the bottle, the clock glared back at her: 8:34.
“Oh, no.”
She was out of bed in seconds. Shower, painkillers, teeth brushed, then she threw on some clothes and slicked her hair back into a ponytail because she couldn’t be bothered fiddling with it.
The makeup went on fast, just enough to hide that pasty, I’ve-been-up-all-night-drinking look she remembered well from her college days.
Dressed in a long skirt, knee-high black boots, and a fitted turtleneck to hide the marks on her neck, she paused at the reflection in the mirror to scowl at her mismatched eyes.
Some days she hated how noticeable they were and wore contacts just to avoid the questions or that double-take from strangers like something was wrong—until they worked it out. But today, she couldn’t be bothered.
Grabbing her bag and coat, she was out the door.
Being late was rare for her. It was unacceptable, really. Having learned her lesson well, back in the day when judges loved to pounce on those late for court, and how they’d penalize clients instead, to then sit back and call it judicial procedure.
Yeah, right.
The bell above the glass door chimed as Angela rushed into the bookstore with the chilly wind at her heels.
“Sorry I’m late,” she called.
The Alchemist’s Apothecary was half bookstore and half apothecary.
It smelled of dried herbs, old paper, beeswax, and a faint mixture of whatever incense blend her aunt burned that day.
Sage or rosemary if a storm was coming. Cedar and myrrh when the seasons turned.
Nothing overwhelming, just enough to linger in the air while soft music played in the background.
Assorted shelves lined the narrow walls, crammed with everything from dog-eared paperbacks to leather-bound volumes whose spines had been repaired more than once.
Between them hung bundles of herbs tied with twine, and jars of roots and petals, labeled in careful script.
Candles competed for space with assorted crystals, charms, trinkets, and whatever voodoo whatnot her aunt had procured.
The shop was cut in half where the line blurred between bookstore and apothecary.
On the apothecary counter, measuring cups, spoons, and scales were stacked beside the well-used mortar and pestle worn smooth with use.
Nearby sat the display stands showing a freshly chosen oracle card and what it said about today.
Near the door was the bookstore counter, the only place where items were paid for because Aunt Claudine believed money transactions should never mix with the healing, in case it diluted the craft of her esoteric arts, so she’d say.
Overall it was ridiculously cluttered with items from occult wisdom to How-To Grow Herbs and Preserve Your Own Food, with Goethe’s Faust and too many versions of Shakespeare. Most of all, it was blessedly normal, and it always felt safe.
“Rough night?” Aunt Claudine called from the back, emerging with a tray of mismatched teacups and a porcelain pot that had seen decades of use.
Her strawberry-blonde curls were piled into a messy topknot.
Her vintage cotton dress was cinched at the waist, where a fresh bandage peeked beneath the short sleeves.
Probably new ink, as her aunt was working on a full sleeve.
Angela yanked off her coat. “I had another no-show for a dinner date. Lucky me.”
She stepped behind the counter and straightened the framed photo that sat on the shelf, which never stayed straight. It was a photo of her mother and Claudine laughing side by side, with Angela wedged between them wearing braids, braces, and an awkward smile.
“Remind me never to be a seat-filler again,” she added. “Or go on another blind date. Or any date, for that matter. Ever.”
“You shouldn’t give up on men.” Claudine laughed as she poured tea, then handed Angela a cup. “Drink. Before you do anything else.”
“Do I—”
“Ah. I insist.” Claudine pushed the cup closer to make her drink as if she were a child, then studied her over the rim of her own cup. “You look terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
Angela sipped her cup, it tasted minty at first, then green tea and apple, with a hint of pomegranate. It was Claudine’s latest tonic replacement for fruit juice.
“I had a nightmare.” Angela rubbed at her temples where the headache hadn’t quite gone away. “Don’t ask. I can’t remember it. Thanks to the vodka.”
“Ooh, I’ll make a tonic for the headache, hon.” Claudine headed for the apothecary counter.
Angela opened her mouth, then closed it again. Resistance was pointless when it came to this family and their herbal remedies. “While you whip up some witchy woo-woo,” she said, reaching for her purse, “I’ll grab breakfast from Mr. Chang’s.”
“Get something greasy,” Claudine called after her. “Trust me, it works like magic.” Her aunt’s tinkling laugh followed Angela out the door.
Sliding on her sunglasses, Angela stepped into the street.
The wind carried a bite that whipped against her face as the sunlight stabbed through her skull, while traffic noise pressed in on all sides.
It was so bad she nearly ran back inside to crawl onto the office couch and hide her head under some cushions.
But then—
It stopped.
The headache vanished, and the tension drained like water down the sink, leaving the world blissfully silent as a calmness settled over her.
When underneath…
Oh, it was him.
“Zarek.” It felt like he was close. It was so weird, as if she could feel his energy coming from across the street, that she turned to search for the source.
But when she faced the street corner, it was empty. There was no man from the shadows in dark leather armor, loaded with weapons like a hero from a fantasy novel. Just everyday pedestrians, streetlights, and storefronts.
That’s when the noise rushed back all at once, the wind snapped at her coat, as engines roared loudly, making Angela wince.
“I’m losing my mind.” Imagining things, sensing the presence of people who shouldn’t exist.
How was it that she’d forgotten her nightmare but couldn’t forget the rest of last night? When she wished she could, even if it meant forgetting Zarek.
This had to be some lingering residue from the nightmare she couldn’t quite shake, amplified by the vodka still sloshing through her system, and the fact she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s lunch because she got stood up for dinner!
But thankfully, the headache didn’t return. Wait… The nausea was gone, too.
She frowned, glancing back toward the shop. “What was in that tea, Auntie?”