“Aleksander Withers, you bring news?” a voice from his right asks, and there, in the tiniest white swimsuit Grayson has ever had the misfortune to see, is Patrick Carnell toweling himself off. His body is lean, with olive-toned skin revealing muscle and sinew over heavy bones. He’s almost as tall as Rowan, but it’s more than size that makes him move with the confidence of a man used to having everyone anticipate his needs.
Grayson’s heart rate spikes so sharply that he feels woozy, and he sways, nearly crashing into the bushes in front of him. Carelessly, he sticks out a hand to brace himself on the hedge, but it slides through.
Fuck, thank the Goddess. It’s a dream—just a dream.
But the waxy green leaves are cool under his fingertips, too. How is that possible? How can he be here but not here?
Slowing his panicked heart with a deep breath, he watches as Carnell throws a towel over a lounge chair. He doesn’t bat an eyelid in Grayson’s direction, and Grayson is so grateful that he hasn’t somehow teleported from the safe house to wherever Carnell has been hiding in Clearwater.
Teleportation—ha. What is his life now?
How he would explain that to Gideon does not bear thinking about.
As it turns out, Grayson’s relief is short-lived.
Carnell’s visitor, Aleksander, is the magic user—the Arcanas—who had nearly killed both Grayson and Nix with his reckless attempt to restrain them.
He’s almost unrecognizable in such a short time. Where he once appeared young and healthy, that illusion is gone. Now,he’s gaunt, much like his employer, with stringy blond hair and sunken, nearly black eyes.
A walking skeleton, he is missing two teeth, and when Grayson breathes deeply, he can smell decay beneath his father-in-law’s slimy olive oil scent. It’s as if something is devouring him from within. Even Nimue’s descriptions of the effects of drawing on The Plain with evil in your soul couldn’t possibly account for such rapid deterioration. Right?
Is Withers using dark soul magic?
That thought lands like a stone in Grayson’s gut, followed by another: this is not a dream.
There’s no way he could imagine that scent, not from the billions available to a Were’s nose. It’s pure corruption, exactly what Nimue described.
Freezing, Grayson is immobilized for an instant, wondering how he got here. Whether they can see him, smell him—but neither man pays his hiding spot in the bushes any notice.
“I bring the best of news, sir,” Withers says. “My contact in the Guild says a new Apprentice registered yesterday. My instincts were correct—there is a new magic user in Jay Rhodes’s pack.”
Carnell sets his teacup down with a sharp clatter, and at the sound of Jay’s name, he jostles the saucer.
“Go on, and I won’t remind you again: that is my son’s pack.”
“My apologies, sir.” Withers bows, but from Grayson’s hiding spot, he sees the way the man rolls his eyes. “Your son has brought a brand-new magic user to Clearwater.”
“Apprentices are children, no?” Carnell’s tone is skeptical. “Or the man you saw last week? He was incredibly powerful, no? Two magic users in his employ seems unlikely.”
Grayson frowns. Why would Withers think there were two magic users? He’d only seen Grayson at the safe house. It makes no sense.
“There has to be two, sir. Apprentices are under the age of thirteen, and the one I saw was definitely all man.”
The teacup smashes against the patio.
Carnell stares at his minion. “A man and a child? Are you certain? What was his name? His guardian’s?”
“My contact couldn’t tell me anything. The Guild magically protects that information. No matter how much persuasion I applied, my contact couldn’t say.” Withers shrugs.
“Ah, yes.” Carnell chuckles darkly. “The Guild protects its Apprentices’ personal information better than their Adepts.”
Grayson stiffens. Withers has an insider within the Guild. That cannot be good.
Straightening, Withers’s tense expression flickers with distaste before he pastes a dark smile on his thin lips.
“You are correct, sir. Apprentices’ records remain private until they are licensed and of age.”
“Inconvenient.” Carnell sits in contemplation for a moment, nibbling on his scone, leaving Withers shifting subtly from foot to foot.
