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

It’s clear they were talking about something—most likely me—as they all go quiet and turn to stare.

Titus, as I expect, gives me a welcoming smile, which I return without effort. I do this knowing he’s going to kick my ass for a few hours in the gym, but I’m coming along well with the whip and I’ve learned a lot more attack maneuvers than I’ve learned doing my mixed martial arts with Duane.

Zaid has that perpetual disgusted look like he just sniffed dog shit.

Carrick, as he’s wont to do, takes in my appearance from top to bottom. I’m dressed a bit differently than my normal jeans and hoodie. Today, I met with a new retail merchandise supplier, so I made a mature choice to dress up, which, to me, means losing the jeans.

I’m digging my outfit, which is a mustard-yellow dress with small geometrical prints in white. It’s long-sleeved, empire-waisted, and comes down in a sedate ruffle around the bottom at my knees. I chose a pair of tights in a bold argyle print of green and cranberry and topped it off with old-fashioned lace ankle boots that have a slight heel in distressed brown leather.

It’s funky.

It’s Seattle, and, to me, this constitutes dressing up. However, I do believe it’s the first time Carrick has seen me willingly dress up for work and that may be why his expression is only slightly inscrutable with a touch of surprise.

“We’re going out tonight,” Carrick announces.

Frowning, I snap my fingers. “Darn. I forgot to wear a gown.”

Titus snickers. Zaid purses his lips and turns away, marching off to God knows where and clearly having no room for me today.

Carrick’s not amused as he shakes his head. “We’re going out hunting.”

“Hunting?” I mutter in confusion.

“Hunting for Dark Fae,” he clarifies.

“When you say ‘hunting,’ do you mean we’ll kill them?” My stomach starts to churn. I don’t think I can kill another creature, dark or not. Maybe that’s why I inherently wanted the whip, so I could use it mainly for self-defense.

One of Duane’s first lessons he imparted to me in self-defense was that the best defense is to run away if possible and don’t engage in the fight. I wholeheartedly agree with this.

“We’re only going to be identifying them,” Titus says, indicating he’s coming along, which makes me happy. He’s far more fun than Carrick. “Let’s see how you do in crowds and with distances.”

I nod, eager to go. Carrick looks pointedly at my outfit. “What you’re wearing isn’t appropriate. You need something that will let you be a little more nimble.”

“Then let me go change into some workout clothes. I’ll be ready in a flash.” I don’t wait for a reply but head off in the direction of his gym.

Five minutes later, I have on black workout leggings, a long-sleeve Under Armour t-shirt, and a zip-up Nike jacket with a hood, also in black. It’s not like I planned to dress in black so I could blend in with the night, but all the workout clothes that were purchased for me are in the same color, which is fine by me. I don’t care what I look like when getting sweaty, so I pull my hair back into a ponytail, ready to go hunting.

Carrick and Titus await me when I make it back to the elevator. Titus is in his normal track outfit—charcoal gray pants and black sweatshirt—and Carrick is wearing something similar, except his is in all black.

We look like three people who might be openly making our way to a gym or covertly plotting to rob someone.

Instead, we end up on top of a roof.

* * *

Titus and I sit side by side, backs leaning against a three-foot-high edging made of brick that runs the perimeter of the roof, which is only high enough to ensure someone doesn’t tragically topple off the side. The building is only five stories and I have no clue the contacts Carrick has to have for us to have access, but he went up the internal fire escape stairwell and pulled out a key to the locked door that led outside. Most obvious answer is he likely owns this building.

As soon as Titus and I stepped onto the roof, Carrick merely said, “I’ll be back soon.”

That was over half an hour ago.

Titus has his legs kicked out, one ankle over the other, and is flipping a knife—no clue where it came from—through his nimble fingers.

I have no weapons so I examine my nails, wondering if I should get a manicure. I’ve never been the type to do those things, but my hands are taking a beating with all the hand-to-hand combat Titus puts me through. Maybe just some buffing and shining would help.

“Didn’t he say he’d be back soon?” I complain aloud.

Titus merely says, “Yup.”

Which is exactly how he answered the same exact question when I asked it about ten minutes ago.