there and washed away in an instant.
Was she trying to see the black stains on his soul?
“That’s strange,” she murmured, her voice distant in his ears, so far away that it couldn’t rouse him.
He drifted in the warm haze, floated on it, calm and at peace even as some part of him tried to remain aware, desperate not to be left vulnerable or open to attack.
She blinked and everything shattered, fragmented into a thousand shards that rained down to reveal the drawing room of her home.
Hartt sucked down a hard breath, followed it with another one when he felt as if he couldn’t get enough air, as if he had stopped breathing at some point. Maybe he had. He looked around and forced himself to see where he was in a vain attempt to ground himself in the present just in case Rosalind wasn’t done. He couldn’t leave himself open like that again.
Not with Mackenzie out there.
She could teleport and she knew who he was. She had been injured, but her condition could be better than he believed it to be. It would have been easy for her to follow him back to the guild when Fuery had teleported him. He exhaled hard, expelling the tight knot in his chest with it.
She could have followed him to the guild but not here. Elves left no trace of the path they had taken when they teleported. There was no way for her to follow him here. He was safe.
He idly lifted his left hand and rubbed his right shoulder.
“Is it still bothering you?” Fuery’s low voice held a note of caution, a wary edge that revealed he knew the reason Hartt had touched the place where the female had stabbed him.
His friend might as well have come out with it and asked if he was thinking about her. Was she still bothering him? Yes. For some godsdamned reason, he found it impossible to keep his mind off her.
Had he hurt her?
Had Fuery?
Rosalind cleared her throat. “I said, that’s strange.”
He looked across at her, growing aware of her again. She didn’t look pleased.
“What’s strange?” he said, before she could unleash a spell on either him or Fuery as payment for not responding when she had spoken earlier.
“I can sense other magic on you… like a… lingering trace.” She looked him up and down, her gaze turning scrutinising, tinged with mistrust. “You been near witches when they’ve been using spells?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Then paused.
“Maybe. I was at the celebration at the Fort William fae town, tracking a mark. I don’t recall encountering any witches using spells though.” He had brushed past a few, but the scent of magic hadn’t been strong on them, and he would have sensed it if they had been using spells.
“It’s definitely the trace of a spell.” She stood and bent over, leaning towards him as she peered into his eyes, her blue ones narrowing as her rosy lips compressed. Her right eyebrow slowly rose. “Definitely a spell. Too weak for me to know what it was, but it was strong when they cast it.”
That wasn’t a comfort.
Vail frowned at him. “Who have you been in contact with recently?”
“It needs to be physical contact to leave a marker like this,” Rosalind added.
Hartt thought about it and could only come up with three names. “Fuery, Shaia and Mackenzie.”
“Is she a witch?” Vail’s deep voice gained a dark edge and Rosalind gave him a pointed look. His expression shifted towards sheepish. “Witch with a W.”
Hartt had been around a few times when Rosalind had accused people of saying ‘Witch with a B’, something she took particular offence from. Hartt suspected it had to do with how Vail had probably acted when they had first met. His prince didn’t trust witches. In fact, he tended to prefer they were dead and it had been by his claws.
“No.” Hartt shook his head again and then slowed as he frowned. “I don’t think so. I am not sure what she is, but I am sure she isn’t a witch.”
That was explanation enough for Rosalind. “Anyone else?”
He pursed his lips, sighed and ran back over the last few days. Mackenzie kept popping up. Mackenzie’s fist striking him. Mackenzie’s fingers gripping him. Mackenzie’s lips pressing against his. He banished her, but she refused to go, kept tormenting him, right at the front of his thoughts. Fuck, she was trouble. More than he needed. Maybe he should have talked to his client about her.
“My client,” he