Chapter Eleven
Connor
Connor nodded reluctantly. He’d have liked to continue, but truthfully, he wanted some time to organise his thoughts, and from the drawn look on Adrian’s face, the Frenchman could do with some rest. Whatever was on his collarbone had been irritating him and he found himself rubbing it constantly.
“Very well. Tomorrow we’ll come back and you can tell us more. I need to understand what we’re facing and how to protect ourselves. No more woo-woo. I need definitive answers. I need to make sure all our people are safe.”
Xiathen inclined his head. “You shall have them, to the best of our ability. This is something we need to research to find the answers you seek.”
“Good. I’ll be here at nine tomorrow.
He turned to Adrian, and said, “I’ll see you then. Get some rest, and if anything happens—like more of those shadowy things lurking around—call me. It’s best we address this threat together.”
Adrian smiled faintly. “You simply can’t help being a bossy bastard, can you? Normally, I’d rip someone’s throat out for daring to tell me what to do. For you, I seem to have more tolerance.”
He walked toward the inn door. “Tomorrow, then. Stay safe, everyone.” He disappeared outside, and Connor watched him go.
Bossy bastard, am I? You haven’t even scratched the surface, my friend.
***
The next morning, on his way to meet Xiathen, Connor remained in no mood for any more riddles or secrets. He’d already planned a solo shift for tonight to get rid of the pent-up frustrations he was carrying.
He’d barely made it down the main street—if you could call a single ribbon of cobbles stitched between slate-roofed cottages and low stone walls a street—before people began to notice them. Not in a gawping, touristy way. More like the way an animal notices a change in wind direction.
Adrian stood in front of the Inn, waving at the children playing in the street, doffing an imaginary hat at people standing outside the market and the village shops. Connor felt as if every step was a negotiation with the ground, to be taken at one step at a time.
“Don’t encourage them,” Connor muttered as he drew near. “We’ve enough on our plate, and don’t need anyone else sharing bloody mysterious prophecies or delivering dire ditties of destiny.”
“Such alliteration,” Adrian commented with a grin. “Quite impressive.” His mouth twitched. “And I’m not encouraging anyone.”
“You are.”
“I’m looking at the buildings and being sociable.”
Connor shot him a look. “You’re dying to visit every damned shop in the village and make new friends.”
Adrian didn’t deny it. As peoples’ faces appeared in windows and doorways, he greeted them. Connor had to admit it felt right. No phones. No whispering. Just a quiet, collective assessment. It should’ve felt hostile. Instead, it felt like being recognised.
They passed a shop with a sign painted in gold leaf: Morrigan & Thread.
The window display was a riot of felt and velvet, feathers and braided cords, hats perched on stands like small, proud creatures.
A top hat with a band of dark green. A flat cap stitched with silver thread.
A wide-brimmed thing that looked like it had been made from midnight.
Adrian slowed. Connor didn’t. He took two more steps before realising Adrian wasn’t beside him and turned back, irritated. “What?”
Adrian nodded at the window. “It’s a hat shop.” He looked like a child at Christmas.
Connor huffed. “It’s a bloody hat shop, so what?”
The door opened before either of them touched it.
A man stood in the doorway, tall and narrow as a lamppost, his hair a storm of grey curls held back with—Connor blinked—what looked like a hatpin shaped like a tiny sword.
He wore a waistcoat the colour of old wine and a measuring tape draped around his neck like a priest’s stole. His eyes were sharp and amused.
“Connor,” he said, as if they’d had tea last week. Then his gaze slid to Adrian. “And Adrian. Come in. You’re letting the draught in.”
Connor froze. “How do you—”
“Names?” The man waved a hand as if batting away a fly. “Everyone knows names. It’s the shape of you that’s interesting.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “We’re not buying hats.”
Adrian snorted.
The man’s smile widened. “No. You’re not buying hats. You’re trying not to attract attention in public. Different errand entirely.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Morrigan,” the man said with a small bow. “Hatmaker. Keeper of heads. Occasional therapist, though I don’t advertise it. Come. Come. It’s warmer inside.”
Adrian stepped in first. Connor hesitated a beat, then followed. Connor assumed Adrian had decided refusing would be worse than whatever compliance cost them.
The shop smelled of steam and cedar and something metallic, like rain on iron.
Hats lined the walls in neat rows, but the longer he looked, the less neat they seemed.
Some of them shifted slightly on their stands, as if settling.
One feathered trilby gave a delicate shiver, as if offended at being stared at.
Morrigan shut the door with a soft click that sounded too final, and immediately, Connor tried the handle. It opened. Of course it did. Morrigan watched Connor with the patience of someone observing a dog who didn’t know it was safe.
“Right,” Connor said. “We’re leaving.”
“You can,” Morrigan agreed. “But you won’t. Not yet.”
Connor’s accusing gaze snapped to Adrian.
Adrian lifted his hands. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t invite him.”
Morrigan’s eyes glittered. “No, no. The village invited you. I’m merely the first to offer a chair.” He gestured to two mismatched armchairs near a small stove.
Connor didn’t sit. Adrian did, and the moment he did, Connor’s breath hitched.
Adrian frowned. “What?”
Connor’s hand went to his chest, his fingers splaying over his sternum as if he’d been struck there. “Nothing.”
He felt a tug low in his ribs, a thread pulled tight between them. Not pain, not exactly. More like awareness. Like a door that’d been closed all his life had been opened a crack, and now he could feel the weather outside.
Connor took a step back. The tug sharpened. He stopped, startled, and the tug eased. He and Adrian stared at each other, Adrian’s eyes mirroring his own uncertainty.
Morrigan’s expression softened into something almost kind. “Ah. There it is.”
Connor’s voice came out rough. “What is?”
Adrian swallowed audibly. “I don’t know.”
Connor’s eyes were dark with fury and fear. “Is this some kind of trick?”
“It’s not a trick,” Morrigan replied softly. “It’s a consequence.”
Connor rounded on him. “Of what? Of that binding thing? That was supposed to be symbolic. A ritual. A—”
“A tether,” Morrigan supplied. “A vow with teeth.” He moved to a worktable and picked up a simple, black, soft-felt hat. He turned it in his hands as if it were alive. “You two thought a binding was a promise,” he said. “It is that, but in this village, promises are not metaphors.”
Connor laughed sharply. “We didn’t promise anything.”
Morrigan’s gaze flicked to Adrian, quick as a knife. “Are you sure?”
Adrian sighed. “We said words. That’s all.”
“And the village heard them,” Morrigan said. “The land heard them. The old oaths that live under the stones heard them. And because you are what you are, Connor, and you are what you are, Adrian—”
Connor’s fingers curled into his palms. “Don’t talk in riddles.”
Morrigan set the hat down and leaned on the table. “As you wish. Plainly, the binding is waking up.”
Connor saw Adrian rub absently at his shoulder. “Is that still annoying you?”
Adrian shook his head. “No. It’s an itch.”
Connor’s eyes flicked to Adrian’s collar. “Let me see.”
“No.”
Connor’s jaw flexed. “Why not?”
“Because it’s—” Adrian stopped. “Because it’s private.”
Morrigan’s gaze sharpened. “The mark’s showing.”
Connor’s head snapped up. “What mark?”
Morrigan sighed, as if watching two people insist the sky wasn’t blue. “The binding mark. It begins as heat, then an itch, then it breaks the surface. Like a bruise deciding to become a tattoo.”
Adrian shook his head, his veins prominent. “That’s not what it is. I told you it was a rash.”
Connor stared at Morrigan as if he’d confessed to a felony. “You’re saying there’s a mark on him.”
Morrigan tilted his head. “On both of you, eventually.”
Connor angrily spit out, “No.”
Adrian’s hand went to his shoulder, his fingers pressing through fabric. Morrigan’s voice softened. “It’s not a brand. It’s a sign. A visible anchor. The village likes its truths to be legible.”
Connor took a step toward Adrian without thinking. The tug between them tightened, warm and insistent. Adrian’s breath caught.
Connor stopped abruptly, as if he’d walked into an invisible wall. His eyes widened, not with fear this time, but with shock. He’d felt the same thing and couldn’t deny it.
Morrigan watched them, and with the casualness of a man discussing the weather, he said, “You asked about consequences.”
Connor rasped, “We didn’t ask.”
“You’re asking with your bodies,” Morrigan replied. “The binding does three things, if it’s allowed to complete.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Allowed.”
Morrigan held up one finger. “First, it makes you aware. You’ll feel each other’s proximity. Not always. Not constantly. But when it matters.”
Connor’s mouth twisted. “That’s ridiculous.”
Adrian showed no emotion, but Connor heard him gulp.
Morrigan held up a second finger. “Second, it makes you responsive. Emotion bleeds across. Not thoughts. Not words. But the shape of feeling. Fear. Calm. Rage. Relief.”
Connor’s gaze snapped to Adrian, suspicion flaring. Adrian’s face was blank.
Morrigan lifted a third finger. “Third, it makes you inevitable.”
Connor went very still. “Explain.”
Morrigan’s smile was small. “It doesn’t force love. Don’t look at me like that. It forces collision. It brings you into the same rooms. The same moments. The same choices. It removes the easy exits.”
Connor’s laugh was humourless. “So it’s a trap.”
“It’s a catalyst,” Morrigan corrected. “The binding doesn’t create what isn’t there. It accelerates what is.”