Page 2 of Eternal Light (Fated in the Stars #5)

From Fractured Dreams (Grayson)

At first, Grayson thinks it’s a memory—one of those too-bright dreams that start before you’re fully under.

His dreams had always been vivid, leaving him feeling like they were more than his imagination and more like memories.

In the last few months, they’d started becoming sharper and more frequent.

Not just vague impressions, but vivid glimpses—pieces out of time, a hand reaching for his, the soft press of lips, those blue-glowing eyes.

Exhausted from the day’s revelations, he’d gone to bed with his mates curled around him in the nest, finally all together, lulled by the strange but welcome sense of security that Nimue’s small protections had woven around their temporary den.

In what seems like seconds, he’s dreaming of bright sunshine, heat, and the brilliant turquoise of a very expensive swimming pool.

A wrought-iron glass-topped table sits in front of the hedge-edged flower bed where Grayson stands—bare feet in cool black soil—and on it, there is a tea tray set.

The set includes a single blue-black and gold teacup and a single raisin scone on a plate that matches the cup.

A loud splash pulls his attention away, and Grayson turns his head in time to see a pair of bony feet break the surface of the pool. He wonders if this might be another one of his dreams, but every time he’s had one in the past, his pack has always been present, at least in part.

What had he been thinking of before he’d dreamed of this place? And why is he alone?

Before, his dreams had always turned toward historical settings—places his mind could place through time—and he’d thought it was just his active imagination.

But in retrospect, when they’d been at the first safe house and the dark magic user—because that’s what the human man had been—had somehow been looking for them, Grayson had unknowingly been accessing The Plain. The dreams were magical, and no, that’s not hyperbole.

But this feels different.

Then, the younger man hadn’t expected to find Grayson right there, but certainly hadn’t passed up the opportunity to try to hold him immobile while Carnell sent reinforcements.

Panicked, Grayson had yanked on his connection to Nix to save himself, nearly drawing too much from The Plain through their soul to do it.

It’s because Grayson doesn’t know how to regulate the flow yet. Nimue had shown him how to metaphysically tie a knot in it (Ha, yes, she had laughed too). It wasn’t enough to stem the flood entirely, just slow it down so he didn’t cause irreparable harm.

So, this feels something like that, but much more controlled, more on purpose. Grayson can feel a trickle of power deep in the center of his brain.

The soil under his toes is cool, as if the plants had been watered recently, and the screen of bushes hiding him is perfectly trimmed. The most recent pruning is clear in the edges of raw wood in front of his nose.

“Aleksander Withers, you bring news?” a voice from his right asks, and there, in the tiniest white swimsuit Grayson has ever had the misfortune to see, is Patrick Carnell toweling himself off.

His body is lean, with olive-toned skin revealing muscle and sinew over heavy bones.

He’s almost as tall as Rowan, but it’s more than size that makes him move with the confidence of a man used to having everyone anticipate his needs.

Grayson’s heart rate spikes so sharply that he feels woozy, and he sways, nearly crashing into the bushes in front of him. Carelessly, he sticks out a hand to brace himself on the hedge, but it slides through.

Fuck, thank the Goddess. It’s a dream—just a dream.

But the waxy green leaves are cool under his fingertips, too. How is that possible? How can he be here but not here?

Slowing his panicked heart with a deep breath, he watches as Carnell throws a towel over a lounge chair. He doesn’t bat an eyelid in Grayson’s direction, and Grayson is so grateful that he hasn’t somehow teleported from the safe house to wherever Carnell has been hiding in Clearwater.

Teleportation—ha. What is his life now?

How he would explain that to Gideon does not bear thinking about.

As it turns out, Grayson’s relief is short-lived.

Carnell’s visitor, Aleksander, is the magic user—the Arcanas—who had nearly killed both Grayson and Nix with his reckless attempt to restrain them.

He’s almost unrecognizable in such a short time. Where he once appeared young and healthy, that illusion is gone. Now, he’s gaunt, much like his employer, with stringy blond hair and sunken, nearly black eyes.

A walking skeleton, he is missing two teeth, and when Grayson breathes deeply, he can smell decay beneath his father-in-law’s slimy olive oil scent.

It’s as if something is devouring him from within.

Even Nimue’s descriptions of the effects of drawing on The Plain with evil in your soul couldn’t possibly account for such rapid deterioration. Right?

Is Withers using dark soul magic?

That thought lands like a stone in Grayson’s gut, followed by another: this is not a dream.

There’s no way he could imagine that scent, not from the billions available to a Were’s nose. It’s pure corruption, exactly what Nimue described.

Freezing, Grayson is immobilized for an instant, wondering how he got here. Whether they can see him, smell him—but neither man pays his hiding spot in the bushes any notice.

“I bring the best of news, sir,” Withers says. “My contact in the Guild says a new Apprentice registered yesterday. My instincts were correct—there is a new magic user in Jay Rhodes’s pack.”

Carnell sets his teacup down with a sharp clatter, and at the sound of Jay’s name, he jostles the saucer.

“Go on, and I won’t remind you again: that is my son’s pack.”

“My apologies, sir.” Withers bows, but from Grayson’s hiding spot, he sees the way the man rolls his eyes. “Your son has brought a brand-new magic user to Clearwater.”

“Apprentices are children, no?” Carnell’s tone is skeptical. “Or the man you saw last week? He was incredibly powerful, no? Two magic users in his employ seems unlikely.”

Grayson frowns. Why would Withers think there were two magic users? He’d only seen Grayson at the safe house. It makes no sense.

“There has to be two, sir. Apprentices are under the age of thirteen, and the one I saw was definitely all man.”

The teacup smashes against the patio.

Carnell stares at his minion. “A man and a child? Are you certain? What was his name? His guardian’s?”

“My contact couldn’t tell me anything. The Guild magically protects that information. No matter how much persuasion I applied, my contact couldn’t say.” Withers shrugs.

“Ah, yes.” Carnell chuckles darkly. “The Guild protects its Apprentices’ personal information better than their Adepts.”

Grayson stiffens. Withers has an insider within the Guild. That cannot be good.

Straightening, Withers’s tense expression flickers with distaste before he pastes a dark smile on his thin lips.

“You are correct, sir. Apprentices’ records remain private until they are licensed and of age.”

“Inconvenient.” Carnell sits in contemplation for a moment, nibbling on his scone, leaving Withers shifting subtly from foot to foot.

“Describe the magic user from your previous altercation.”

“Certainly. The man I saw accessing The Plain was lean, had longish dark hair, and was very beautiful,” he says lewdly, adjusting the front of his pants in apparent remembrance.

Ew.

“Yes, you said that before. Was there an address listed for this Apprentice—here or in Nashville?”

Withers moves to deny access to that private information, but Carnell waves a hand dismissively.

“Why do I even bother asking?” He sighs. “And the other matter?”

“In the wind. But the magic is still in place—that’s all I can tell you. I’ve put a compulsion on the bond, but if I push too hard, I could accidentally terminate it. Then the entire arrangement becomes moot.”

“You mean, I’ll be a sitting duck.”

“I would never say it in those words, sir.”

“You would be the only one of you to hold yourselves back to date.” Carnell exhales sharply, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his lap.

“You say Apprentices cannot practice without a mentor or guardian. So we have two magic users in my son’s employ? Why, I wonder? Where have they gone? They were at the club, the hospital, and the Archive. Now they’ve disappeared again. What is that bastard up to?”

Withers huffs in barely concealed amusement at the implication that, while it’s technically Gideon’s pack—in Carnell’s mind, it is Jay who is thwarting him.

While Grayson finds that amusing, too, he is far more concerned that Carnell knew they’d been all over Clearwater and Tampa yesterday. At least he doesn’t realize the new magic user is Grayson. Or that he isn’t a trained Adept.

But more importantly, what does Carnell know about Jay’s parents’ murder? Does he know about Nimue?

A frisson of fear skates down Grayson’s spine.

“Sir, we mustn’t forget—the Adept was very strong. No doubt he’s hiding them. Our attempts to draw Rhodes out—”

“Stop. Saying. His. Name,” Carnell growls at the human, slamming his fist on the top of the glass table. It’s followed by a crack as the glass shatters and the tea service crashes through the frame to the patio stones below.

The hair on the back of Grayson’s neck stands up as Withers subtly draws on The Plain, anticipating an attack. Where Nimue’s connection had appeared orange and alive, Withers’s is an oily brownish-black, carrying that same rancid odor of decay on the humid breeze.

How Carnell hadn’t gagged on his raisin scone is beyond him.

“My apologies, sir.” Withers bows again but doesn’t let his magic go. “Perhaps we could play our last cards?”

Carnell smiles suddenly, his brand of polluted slime oozing from every pore—enough to make Grayson flinch in disgust. Standing, he stretches his arms over his head, the picture of nonchalance easily replacing his earlier fit of psychotic temper.