A Discovery of Secrets and Fate (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 2)

“In a minute,” Carrick replies in his erudite voice that’s neither European nor American, and it doesn’t hold a hint of worry within. He moves my way, Zaid following.

Taking a chair opposite me, he perches on the end and rests his elbows on his knees. I stay slumped in the same position I’ve been in since arriving. Zaid stands a few feet back from Carrick, his arms crossed. Instead of his normally grumpy face, his expression is filled with concern.

His daemon face, that is, with protruding brow, sunken cheeks, and black eyes. I don’t even see his human countenance anymore.

“How long did you know Fallon was a Dark Fae?” Carrick inquires in a clipped tone, the accusation heavy in the air.

My mouth parts in surprise. “What?”

“How long have you known your sister was a Dark Fae?” he repeats.

“The minute I saw her face morph,” I snarl. “Are you accusing me of hiding it?”

“She’s your sister, Finley,” he replies softly. “It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think you would try to protect her.”

My gut is burning. Not from the bourbon, but with white-hot fury over his inference. I push up from my slump, straightening my spine. My fists clench hard into the diaphanous material of my skirt. “That’s ridiculous. You saw my reaction to her. It was physically painful to be near her when she changed. And since you can see fae as well, you know damn well she changed right there. When she… when she… died right in front of my eyes.”

If I weren’t hurting so badly, I might be ashamed, but I bend over with my arms over my stomach and the tears come forth in earnest. Free-flowing, hot, and salty. They drip onto the material of my skirt, creating more translucency. I take in a breath, which is a mistake because then I start sobbing. Wracking, painful sobs of misery and grief that don’t stop until I start to hyperventilate.

I can’t get the image out of my mind… the creature Fallon turned into. For someone as dark and evil as she’d become, she was so white all the way around. Pale skin, platinum hair, and almost colorless eyes. She looked like some kind of sinister ice queen and was terrifying to behold.

A weight settles on the couch beside me, then large hands come to my shoulders to pull me up straight. Carrick murmurs, “Take some deep breaths, Finley. Come on… inhale deep.”

Without question, I do what he asks, drawing as much air into my lungs as I can and holding it until it burns. It takes my mind off my loss for a moment, and I’m able to let it out in a quavering rush. I do it again, and again, and one more time, until Zaid is squatting in front of me with another glass of bourbon.

Not a lick of empathy on his face, eyes still cold and detached, yet that singular thoughtful action of bringing me liquor touches something in me. A tiny hiccup comes out and I give him a watery smile. “Thank you, but no.”

Zaid rises, then sets the bourbon on a table to the side of the couch. My breathing evens out, and I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. A linen handkerchief is produced out of nothingness, yet it’s Carrick holding it out for me to take. I do, dabbing at my eyes and then realizing my nose is completely stuffed up, so I blow hard into it. I ball the snot rag up in my hands and grip it tight, my gaze going hazy as I stare at the pretty silver-and-gray rug beneath my feet—one with a sandal and one without.

“It’s clear something happened right then to cause Fallon to change,” Zaid points out. By the firm nature of his tone, I suspect that’s what he and Carrick were talking about by the elevators.

Angling his body toward me on the couch, Carrick asks, “What time were you born?”

My eyes snap to him, and I’m confused by the question. Why does it matter?

But then it hits me… some catalyst caused the change and it happened on her birthday. “Fallon was born at 8:28 PM.”

“I wasn’t looking at the clock,” he murmurs thoughtfully, gaze going to Zaid. “But that’s about the time it happened.”

“But what does that mean?” I ask.

Lips pressed flat, Carrick just gives a helpless shake of his head. “I don’t know. But she wasn’t always a Dark Fae, then suddenly she was near the time of her birth on her twenty-eighth birthday. That has to be significant.”

Bitterness wells up within me. “So you believe she wasn’t a Dark Fae before? And that I wasn’t hiding it?”

“I was fairly certain,” he admits blandly, rising from the couch. “I sensed nothing about her in the times I’ve been around her, and I don’t know of any fae or daemon that can hide their nature from me. But as you’ve proven to be a human who sees fae, I still have to consider all possibilities.”