The Revelation of Light and Dark (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 1)
“Let’s sit over here,” Mr. Byrne suggests, sweeping a hand to a grouping of furniture to the right of his desk. There’s a small European-styled couch in gray silk against the wall and two settee chairs adjacent at each end. A low, rectangular glass coffee table sits in the middle.
I take the couch for no reason other than it looks incredibly uncomfortable, and I don’t want to get too relaxed. Mr. Byrne removes his suit jacket, drapes it over the chair to my left, and then settles into it. Crossing one leg over the other, he props an elbow on the armrest, and puts his chin in the palm of his hand, casually observing me.
Finally, he says, “Now… start from the beginning and tell me all about these abilities you have.”
CHAPTER 7
Finley
“Mr. Byrne,” I say, leaning forward on the couch and narrowing my eyes, “how about you tell me what in the hell I’m seeing first?”
“Call me Carrick,” he orders. Doesn’t ask, which would be the polite thing to do. I can tell he’s used to commanding situations at all times, and that rankles me down to my bones.
When I don’t reply because I’m not about to jump to do his bidding and I’m stubborn in ways he can’t even imagine, his lips curl into a wry smile. “The whole Mr. Byrne thing makes me feel old.”
I’d almost laugh at that, as it’s the first laid-back sort of comment the man has made but there’s a scoffing sound and I look over to see the bald man—who I’m just going to assume is a butler until someone says different—walking into the office. He’s carrying a tray with what looks like a tea service on it.
Fairly sure he’s scoffing at my temerity, and by his expression, I can tell he thinks I’m impertinent to be standing up for myself, or rather standing up to the great Carrick Byrne. Regardless, I sit back against the couch cushion and hold my tongue, and I will continue to do so until he leaves.
Carrick glances at the man and smiles, nodding to the table. The butler bends at the waist, sets the tray down, and efficiently pours two cups of tea from a pot. He serves one to Carrick first and then, looking completely put upon, picks up the other cup with a tiny plate under it and hands it across to me. I give a curt shake of my head, declining the offer. Not about to drink a damn thing they offer me.
The butler shrugs, straightens, and lifts the cup to his mouth, taking a tiny sip while glaring at me over the edge. I blink in surprise at his audacity, my gaze going to Carrick. “Do you think your butler should be a part of this conversation?”
The little bald man actually growls. “Butler? Please… I serve no one but myself.”
I turn my attention back to Carrick, throwing a thumb at the irate man. “Who is he?”
“That’s Zaid.”
“Zaid?” I inquire, shocked at the oddity of the name.
“Zaid,” Carrick repeats.
My head swivels, and I look at the bald man. “Z-E-D. Zed.” I test the name out on my tongue, and it’s simply weird. “He doesn’t look like a Zed.”
“It’s spelled Z-A-I-D,” Carrick replies in exasperation. Leaning forward, he settles his cup of tea on the glass table and straightens in his chair. Turning to me, he says, “I want you to look at him.”
I don’t do as he asks—orders really—instead, I keep my eyes lasered onto Carrick. “Why?”
“Focus on him,” he instructs, nodding toward Zaid and ignoring my request for an explanation.
Sighing, I shift on the couch and face Zaid, the man who is not a butler but serves tea. I stare at him, focusing on his eyes as if we’re in a staring contest. I’ve already tried to see if he had a glamour as I walked past him a bit ago, but that was just mere seconds. Now, I rivet my gaze on him and open myself up once more. He stares back smugly as he holds his teacup.
My brows pinch inward, and I lean forward as I concentrate harder on his face. I will the skin to melt away and for whatever is underneath to come forth.
Nothing. Not even a flicker. Not even a rumbling in my belly of a weird vibe.
Taking in a breath, I hold it and laser beam my eyes onto his small dark beads, giving forth every amount of effort I have within me so I can see him for who he truly is, because I know he’s something different. Otherwise, Carrick would have never ordered me to study him.
A sharp pain strikes me dead center of my forehead, so explosive I clap my hand to it and fall backward onto the couch. “Son of a bitch,” I cry out, pressing the palm of my hand to the area right between my eyebrows. The pain starts to immediately ebb, but there’s a dull throb left behind.