“What could Hallowbane have to offer me?” I ask.
“We’re going to see a healer, a dryad with specialist knowledge. He can also be trusted to keep his mouth shut.”
He pulls a small vial from his pocket, a few drops of crimson liquid resting at the bottom.
My potion. I’d nearly forgotten about it, but Leon still has it after I gave it to him for safekeeping.
“I thought you could come with us and maybe get some answers of your own,” he says, handing me the vial.
I stare at it, thinking about how long I depended on this stuff—how sure I was that it was keeping me alive. I’m certain now it suppressed my magic. But was that all it did? I’m walking around now, healthy enough without having taken a dose for days. All the talk of me being weak at birth, of carrying some unnamed illness that made me fragile…That was all a lie.
But what if I’m wrong? The idea that Etusca simply deceived me my whole life is too painful to accept without question. The dryad was the only mother I ever knew even if we weren’t biologically related. Her concern for my health and safety was real, I was sure of it. Maybe there’s something else I haven’t considered, another angle for why this potion was so important beyond hiding what I truly am. I have to know—for better or for worse.
“Alright,” I say, slipping the vial into my pocket. “Thank?—”
The entire room disappears, so fast that for a moment I think I’ve gone blind. Then I hear shouts of warning from the others, and I realize we’ve just been plunged into sudden darkness. Large hands grab me, and I reach for the knife Stratton gave me before I hear Leon’s voice low in my ear.
“It’s me.”
There’s thudding and scraping—a hiss and a cry of pain. Then almost as swiftly as it arrived, the darkness retreats, withdrawing across the room in thick tendrils. I look around to see that Stratton and Phaia have blades held at their throats by a pair of huge humans, but Hyllus has another man pinned against the wall with one hand, and Damia has her foot on the neck of a fourth, who’s cradling his fist.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, but I do like to make an entrance.”
There’s a man standing in the middle of the room. His long black hair is tied back with a ribbon, and he wears a purple waistcoat and jacket that fit him to a tee. His tone is cordial, but his accent has a rough, Hallowbane twang to it.
Leon pushes me behind him, lifting his blade.
“I think you’ve gravely underestimated exactly how many men you’ll need to overwhelm us, my friend,” Leon growls.
The black-haired man flicks his eyes over Leon, and then to me.
“Well, it was a bit of guesswork, so there are six more waiting outside. But I wasn’t trying to overwhelm you. I just had to make sure we could have a chat without you trying to kill me on sight.”
Leon looks at Hyllus, who is listening for something, then nods. I guess he’s using magic to confirm that there are indeed more men waiting outside.
“And why would I want to kill you?” Leon asks, his blade still pointed at the man, who just shrugs.
“Who knows what’s on the cards when a group of strange fae come to stay at one of my establishments? Especially when I plan to blackmail them.”
His tone is mild, like he just told us he was going to invite us to dinner.
“What makes you think we’re fae?” Eryx asks.
“We get all sorts in the city. I make it my business to know exactly who is staying in my establishments and why. My employees are trained to spot deceptions like a fae glamour. It’s the shadows,” he says, and the tendrils of darkness creep a few feet back into the room. “No one knows shadows better than me.”
“So, you’re Corrin Wadestaff,” Leon says, and the man gives him an almost genuine smile.
“We’ve met?”
“No, but you meddle enough in the eastern trade routes for the fae to have heard of you.”
Corrin puts a hand to his chest. “What a shocking thing to say.Idon’t meddle. My businesses are all located here in Hallowbane, and I never leave the city.” His smile widens, an impish gleam brightening his eyes. “Though I may have some friends who know a thing or two about the trade routes. And one other thing—” Corrin turns to Damia. “Would you mind letting my man tend to his injury?”
She’s been ignoring the whimpering coming from the human under her foot. Now she meets Corrin’s gaze with utter disdain before looking to Leon. Her captain nods. She lets out a put-upon sigh, then releases her foot, letting her victim scramble to his feet.
His hand is a bloody mess, covered in small puncture wounds that were no doubt inflicted by Barb.
Corrin tuts. “Overkill, surely,” he says to Damia, who is examining her nails as if this man could not possibly be further beneath her interest.
