“So, what was that place?” Felix kept his eyes on the ceiling as he asked.
August drew in a long breath. “I call it the Hollow Dark. It’s . . . ” He paused, searching for the right words. “I think it’s kind of an in-between place. Not quite Naethara, but definitely death.”
Felix tipped his head, curious eyes finding August. “Weweredead, then?”
“No, but the place itself is death. It’s where the anchored are.” August flicked a quick glance at the bald man beside him. “I think perhaps that’s why I can see them. Because I can see through the veil that separates the two places.”
Felix’s peaceful expression shattered. “Wait, hold on. Anchored? Like, the dead?”
“I . . . ” August fumbled for a response. He’d forgotten that Felix only knew about the veil, not the rest of his curse.
“You can see anchored?” Felix pressed.
August couldn’t take the secret back, and he wasn’t sure he’d even want to, so he just said, “Unfortunately.”
Felix’s excitement was a palpable thing. He swung his legs around and sat up in one graceful movement. “That’s brilliant!”
“It’s really not.”
“Are there any here?” Felix scanned the pub with wide eyes. “Like, right now?”
“Two, actually. But at least these are quiet.”
Felix’s eyebrows lifted. “The dead can talk?”
“They usually never stop. I’ve gotten pretty good at tuning it out, but some are infuriatingly persistent.”
Felix spat a laugh, and August scowled.
“It’s not funny,” he muttered. “It’s endless and awful.”
When Felix spoke again, the humor was gone from his voice. “Alright, I’m sorry, Auggie.”
A moment of quiet passed between them, the woman’s manic whispers growing louder at the edge of the room.
“Have you always been able to see them?” Felix asked.
“I have.”
“What do they look like?”
August thought about Callum and the other dozen anchored tethered to the castle.
“Some look like regular people,” he answered. “Save for the blur at their edges and the lack of colour. Others are barely there, almost like a mist.”
August wasn’t sure what determined how they appeared, but he’d always wondered. Some of them looked the same every time, while others changed from day to day. Did they choose it? Was it dependent on their moods?
Felix scooted back on the bench, his unwavering gaze locked on August. As uncomfortable as it was talking about this thing he hated, he liked the way it made Felix look at him. He enjoyed having his attention. So he kept going.
“I’ve seen a few who look how they would have at the moment of death, wounds and all.”
Like the woman in the garden with the gash across her throat. Those were the worst kinds.
A smile snuck across Felix’s lips. “Fascinating.”
“No, it truly is not,” August said. “Imagine being a kid and trying to sleep while a man with half his skull missing sits at the end of your bed, confused and looking to you for answers. Imagine the shadows constantly moving in your periphery and being too afraid to turn and see what it is. My entire life, I’ve felt completely alone, and yet I’m neveractuallyalone. Ever.”
For a long time, Felix said nothing. August kept his eyes on his lap while the ticking of the clock gave a steady beat to the muffled sounds of the city.
