Page 42 of The Immortal’s Mark

Birdsong flutters against my eardrums in musical trills, the small bright sounds rousing me from a blissfully unconscious state even though I’m standing upright.

Sunlight pricks against my eyelids. I lift a hand to shade my eyes, and sheer fabric whispers across my forearm.

I open my eyes and stare.

Pale, unfamiliar material billows around my arm, connecting to satin at my shoulder. Smooth fabric hugs my torso, extending past my hips to skim mid-thighs. It’s a robe of some kind.

Where am I?

I stand on cobblestone, but the scenery around me is distorted. Blurred. The world is quiet, aside from the sounds of nature that interrupt the stillness.

Is this a dream? Or…

I gulp. Is this a vision?

There’s only one way to tell.

My slippered feet ghost over cobblestone and then grass. A tug hums low in my chest, a fishhook tied to an invisible string. I follow it.

Two shapes wait on a stone terrace in the distance. I drift closer, feet making no sound.

Recognition lands like a punch and roots me where I stand.

Des sits in a white-washed chair on the patio, his gaze thrown far past the horizon, like he’s trying to see all the way to the sea.

Sprawled at his feet is Argos, looking just as distant and forlorn as his master. His massive head rests on the ground, unmoving as his eyes trail up to Des. When the Immortal doesn’t move, Argos releases a loud huff and closes his large brown eyes in sorrow.

My palm finds my sternum. Pressure blooms there, tender and helpless.

Instinct presses me forward, urging me to touch Des’s shoulder, to do anything I can to alleviate his distress. I step onto the first stair.

Movement in my periphery freezes me. Another presence eases through the open door behind them.

Alex.

Fog lifts from the edges of the scene, and the world around me snaps into focus.

I’m at the mansion. This terrace is on the east wing, one of the quieter spaces in the massive building.

“Are you determined to sulk, then?”

Neither Des nor Argos looks at him.

“I am not sulking,” Des replies, flat.

“No?” Disbelief threads Alex’s tone. “What would you call this? Silent brooding? Either way, it won’t help Bella…or Darcie.”

Des still doesn’t look his way. “Our teams scour the earth for Bella as we speak. There is nothing else I can do.”

What is he talking about?

Since the moment Des learned Bella was gone, he has thrown himself into finding her. He plans, organizes, and strategizes. He leaves the mansion for days on end as he searches for her himself.

Where is this defeatist attitude coming from?

I scan him, searching for any sign of injury or illness, but find nothing.

“Darcie would not want you to stop searching for her friend,” Alex says. “You need to conquer…this.”