At least he seemed to have lost—
“Hey, hold on!”
Or not.
He needed to leave. Needed to get back home. He’d had enough celebrating for one day. As he pushed past the edge of the crowd, the boy slipped in front of him, forcing him to stop.
“You’re a skittish one, aren’t you?” he mused, gaze sliding from August’s eyes down to his mouth and back again.
August frowned. “What do you want?”
“To apologise.”
“It’s fine.”
“It is absolutely not,” the boy argued. “I tend to pick fights on my bad days. You’re clearly new to Fallowmoor, and that was a terrible first impression.”
“What makes you think I’m new to Fallowmoor?”
“Nobody who grew up here looks at it the way you do,” the boy said, then added, “I’m Felix.”
“Henry,” August answered. A version of his middle name and his chosen identity for the evening.
“Henry,” Felix echoed thoughtfully, as if testing it.
“I was just leaving,” August said, but before he could move, Felix reached out, fingers grazing the back of his hand, sparking every nerve in his body.
“Please. My manners were unacceptable. Allow me to make it up to you.”
August’s eyes flicked briefly to the point of contact. “It’s fine. Honestly.”
“At least let me buy you a pastry. There’s a stall with these meat crescents. The spices are just…” Felix closed his eyes and sighed. “You haven’t truly experienced this city until you try one.”
Go home, August urged himself, but his traitorous feet stayed rooted to the spot.
This was a terrible idea, and he knew it.
Yet when he opened his mouth to respond, the word that escaped was, “Alright.”
Relief washed over August as the bridge to the Trade District came into view. But it didn’t last. A man stood framed by the twisting iron railings, blocking his path.
Anchored or lost? It must be one or the other. Nobody in their right mind went out at night in this city.
The thought sent Lottie’s voice ringing through his head.
You’d have to be out of your mind to go to Bedwyck after dark. Just wait, Auggie. We’ll go in the morning.
Bedwyck had always been dangerous—a bustling port city with an abundance of unscrupulous types and a crooked City Watch. But the debut of the elixir changed everything. It was power in a bottle. An exclusive toy for the wealthy and the bored. Once people tried it, they couldn’t stop. Demand turned every wielder into a target, and their numbers plummeted.
Then, when the elixir addicts shifted into something less than human, that danger extended to anyone with a pulse. The lost were violent and animalistic, and they dragged Bedwyck into chaos.
Ashcroft’s apothecaries were selective murderers, killing only wielders for the production of the elixir. The lost weren’t so careful. They never checked for the pink rings of an elemental, the red of a healer, or the white of an empath. They simply cut people open. If the victim wasn’t a wielder, they left the body to rot. If they were, the lost cracked their ribs and tore out the heart.
August wondered what they’d do to him, with his charcoal eyes and silver rings.
Hewasn’ta wielder. Well, not exactly.
Yes, he could see the dead, but it wasn’t magic. It was a curse. Would they take his heart, anyway? Would it be inky black like his veins, full of whatever darkness was devouring him?
