The Revelation of Light and Dark (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 1)

I’m a bit invigorated with this new flush of hope and optimism. Last night, I thought it was maybe time to cut ties with Carrick, but now I realize I might have more to learn from him.

And Zaid, too, grumpy though he may be.

But today, I need their commitment to do something different. I’m done trying to “hone” my skills by finding fae and daemons in bars. I have that down. Now I want to figure out why I am the way I am, and, more importantly, what I can do with it.

In other words… it’s time to level up.

“Follow me,” Zaid says flatly, and I blink out of my thoughts. He’s five paces ahead before my body reacts, and I move after him.

He doesn’t take me to the large living space we often sit in, the kitchen counter where he got me drunk, or even to Carrick’s office. Instead, I follow him around the perimeter of the floor toward the north side. We make a right turn, then another right down an interior hall. Zaid finally takes a left into what I recognize immediately as perhaps the most lavish and state-of-the-art home gym I could ever possibly imagine.

As someone who is no stranger to a gym, I appreciatively take in the cages set up with barbells, benches, and various weights. Racks of dumbbells line the walls along with bands, kettlebells, and medicine balls. There’s every type of cardio equipment I could want, including a treadmill, a bike, an elliptical, a rower, and a stair climber.

But be still my heart… In one corner, there’s a great set up—a heavy bag, a water bag, a speed bag, a grappling dummy, and two bags on stands for kicks. Attached to the wall are uppercut pads, my favorite punch of all.

The floor is dark gray with black speckles that look like concrete but has the slightest bit of bounce to it like rubber. Whatever it is, I bet it cost a fortune to lay. The three walls of the room are lined with mirrors so it’s easy to check form and technique when needed. One of my favorite drills is to just shadow box in front of a mirror to get warmed up and make sure my method is perfect.

The fourth wall is completely taken up with built-in cabinets of various widths and heights stained in dark gray, and I assume they may hold things like towels, wraps, gloves, cleaners, or first-aid stuff.

I’m so enraptured with the gym, turning around to take it all in, I fail to notice we aren’t alone in here. Near one of the dumbbell racks, Carrick and a man who is quite beautiful, scary, and intriguing all at once stand together. They’re both angled close to each other talking about something I can’t hear. Their stances mimic each other… legs spread wide and muscular arms crossed over their chests as if what they’re talking about is of great import.

Still just as shocking to me, Carrick is dressed casually in jeans, a button-down shirt, and loafers. It’s the second time I’ve seen him out of a suit, and I’m not sure which I like better. There’s no doubt, in either formal or casual wear, he’s still the most magnetic man I’ve ever known. His suits make him seem powerful and invincible, which I appreciate as I muddle my way through these scary times. But his street clothes make him appear more approachable, as if I could dare hope one day he might like me.

And I’m not talking about romantically. Just as one human—or whatever he is—to another. I would appreciate some routine kindness and respect, which would go a long way to alleviate some of the stress all this has caused me.

My gaze turns to the man Carrick converses with. The beautiful, scary, intriguing man is dressed as if he came to workout. He has on navy track pants with double racing stripes down the side, expensive-looking tennis shoes, and a gray V-neck that is perfectly molded to his torso, and by that, I mean it’s probably two sizes too small.

The man is huge—I’d venture to say six-foot-eight, maybe even seven feet. Chestnut-colored skin and a mass of black dreadlocks with a liberal sprinkling of gray. They’re held back by a red bandana.

He’s quite the perfect specimen of physical fitness with bulging muscles, a flat abdomen that I bet when tightened would resemble a washboard, and powerfully built legs that the loose track pants don’t quite hide.

Carrick breaks their conversation, his eyes coming to me as his arms drop from his chest. Bracing for the normal hint of disdain, I even wait for him to spend a little time on my eyes, but I don’t get any of that. Instead, he jerks his head toward his companion and says, “Finley… this is Titus.”