Broken Veil (Harbinger #5)(26)

“Why, Cettie? Why?” he muttered to himself. She heard him approach.

She’d never felt so vulnerable before. Had he drawn a knife? Or a pistol? Had their battle alerted any of the hotel staff?

Cettie feigned a moan and tried, in a lethargic way, to sit up.

“No, no, no,” he said, dropping down near her.

Cettie opened her eyes and slammed her hand against his, piercing him with the poisoned needle.

Shock filled him.

He began to lift the pistol he was holding with his other hand. Cettie grabbed his wrist and fought to push it away from her head. She could not. He was still strong, and she watched his finger begin to flex on the trigger. The barrel was pointed right at her face.

She felt his inner conflict. He was supposed to kill her. That’s what he’d been told to do if she tried to leave. Yet he couldn’t. He cared about her. The feelings were not faked—they were real. She looked past the scars into the eyes, the eyes that were still his, despite the illusion.

“Don’t,” she begged, still wrestling against him.

And then he slumped to the floor, the toxin finally paralyzing his muscles.



Cettie bound him to one of the armchairs. His wrists and ankles were secured with cords she’d made from the excess furniture and curtains. She’d disarmed him as well, removing the various pistols and blades he’d kept on his body. She pocketed a pistol and a dagger for herself. Then, while the toxin raged inside him, she brought out her poisoner bag and prepared a dose of nightshade. Too much would kill him. The right amount would make him tell her what she wanted to know and rob him of his memories of the confession.

While tying him up, she’d tried to remove her kystrel from his neck, but the medallion had sent a powerful shock through her. She tried again, and this time managed to get it off his neck. A wave of pain, intense and unyielding, washed over her, and only receded when she put the medallion around her own neck—an imperfect solution, to be sure, but at least it was no longer in his possession. Her arm still tingled from the ordeal. Though she didn’t want to wear it, not anymore, she couldn’t face the pain of attempting to remove it again.

She could sense the kishion’s stupor through the magic, but he was aware of his surroundings still. The poisonous agent affected the nerves but didn’t make him unconscious.

After her preparations were done, she studied his face while waiting for the poison to wear off. His face was covered in a series of healed scars from burns and cuts. As if a bomb had exploded in front of him. Parts of his dark hair had been ignited as well, leaving gaps and splotches of waxy skin. The wounds were mostly on his right side. From the other perspective, she saw little evidence of it, except for a few small crisscrossing scars. His hands and neck had also been burned. The scars covered much of his body.

Who was this man? His personality and mannerisms were so similar to the Rand she knew. Had she ever met the real Rand Patchett?

She saw his fingers twitch. A little groan passed from his lips.

“You are reviving,” she told him. “The toxin should be wearing off. It’s a serpent venom.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I recognize it.” He grunted, and she saw him test the bonds, his fingers clenching into fists.

“I have some questions for you. And since I can’t trust your answers, I’m going to give you another poison. It won’t hurt you.”

“Cettie, don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll answer truthfully. Don’t bother with the nightshade.”

She shook her head. She felt a strange growing sense of power, as if the Myriad Ones inside her were weakening. “I cannot trust anything you would say to me,” she answered, bringing the nightshade powder over to him. She dumped it into her palm and knelt by the chair.

She felt his heart racing, his dread increasing.

“They’ll hunt you,” he said. “We all will. You know too much. Everyone you love will be murdered. You can’t—”

She blew the powder into his face. He thrashed against his bonds, his features twisting with discomfort. He shook his head, trying to get the poison off his face. Cettie stayed rooted to the spot, trying to see past the scars. His voice was exactly the same as it had always been, she realized.

His shoulders sagged, and the fight went out of him. She felt through the kystrel that his mind was addled. He was in a state of hypnosis. The nightshade did not last for long. She couldn’t give him any more because of the risk of killing him, so she needed to work quickly.

“What is your name?” she asked, leaning close.

“Will Russell,” he replied, his voice dead and passive.

That surprised her even more. Will Russell was the young man who’d deceived Sera all those years ago. She’d met him once, at Muirwood Abbey, when she’d taken to flying with Aunt Juliana’s tempest. His disfigurement had dramatically altered his looks, but now that she knew the truth, she could recognize him.

Sera had been told he was dead.

“Where is Rand Patchett? Is he alive?”

“Yes. He’s in the dungeon below the poisoner school.”

“Why? What use is he still?”

“He’s a slave. And I need access to his memories through the kishion ring.”

Cettie nodded to herself. “Do you know what our mission was supposed to be? Where we were supposed to go?”