Page 175 of Anathema

“I’m attempting to put your mind at ease so you can enjoy the evening. Your scent is what identifies you as human,” she said in a quiet voice. “They will not detect it.”

“Wouldn’t they be expecting trickery to hide it, though?”

“Perhaps. But unfortunately for them, there’s no antidote for this potion. No way to undo or breach its cloaking effect. Now come.” As I drew back my arm, she swiped it up again, giving an impressive tug that splashed some of my drink across my hand. Without slowing her pace, she leaned into my ear. “You remember Propulszir?”

At my nod, she added, “Good. Use it. An added layer of protection.”

For god’s sake, this was reckless. A thought that urged me to run in the opposite direction as we neared the mage, who stood before a painting of an ethereal figure holding two orbs of light in his palms. I summoned the glyph to mind, focusing on its distinct details as hard as I could, but a strange sense of familiarity washed over me as I studied the image on the wall, a feeling of dread heavy in the pit of my stomach.

The moment the mage turned to face us, the drink in my hand slipped, nearly falling to the floor. If not for Rykaia’s quick reflexes, it would’ve made a clamor that surely would’ve drawn attention to us. Instead, there was only a minor spill.

The unmasked mage looked to Rykaia and back. “Excellent catch,” he said, his smile too familiar.

The scribe from Foxglove. The one who’d pried into Grandfather’s business and who I’d seen again at brunch with Moros, when he’d asked about the white stones.

Fortunately, the mask seemed to do a decent job hiding my identity and the shocked expression on my face.

“Are you ladies enjoying your evening?” he asked.

“Absolutely. The entertainment is top notch!” Rykaia sipped her drink, nudging me in the arm.

“Absolutely.” While I held a vague awareness of their conversation, my mind had wound itself around the possibility that he might’ve known what’d happened to my sister. The scribe would’ve surely been present for her Banishing. Asking outright would’ve been foolish, though. Clearly, he was one of those hunting me, based on the robe he wore. Perhaps he’d been hunting me all along.

Rykaia tilted her head back toward the painting. “Magekae, the God of Alchemy and Father of Immortality.”

“Yes. The embodiment of eternal life.” The mage glanced back at the painting. “Our most blessed savior.”

“As I understand, he was entirely obsessed with the Goddess of Death. Did he not imprison and rape her?”

At the mention of the goddess, I snapped out of my thoughts. “Morsana?”

“Yes.” He smiled back at me and turned to Rykaia. “Some believe as much. Radicals, mostly. Others believe it was he who saved her. Her true lover was said to be the God of Fear and Destruction. Deimos.”

“Was he not a mortal?” I asked, recalling the story Allura had told me.

“Prior to being cast into sablefyre, yes.” His gaze swept over me again, lingering at the whistle around my neck, then trailing downward. “Your masks are superb.” Except that his eyes weren’t on my mask, nor Rykaia’s.

I cleared my throat, trying to imagine something clever I could say to get him to tell me about what’d happened after I’d fled to the woods, the night of The Banishing. Anything I said would’ve revealed my identity, though. Instead, I bit the inside of my lip, the desperation clawing through me. An opportunity. A perfect opportunity to know if anyone had seen her afterward.

Except, I refused to do something foolish. More foolish than having walked up to one of the mages, anyway.

A second mage strolled up, that one wearing the hood and mask, making it impossible to see their face. Panic gurgled at the back of my throat, with two of them in close proximity, and I glanced away, focusing exceptionally hard on the Propulszir glyph.

“I see you’ve made friends, Anatolis.” The deep, articulate voice of the masked man, along with the respectful bow of the other mage, hinted at his stature.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your names.” Anatolis tipped his head, expectantly.

“Lady Anadara and Lady Sivarekis,” the other mage answered. His lips, exposed by the mask, stretched to a smile. “Did you miss their introduction entirely?” He chuckled, patting Anatolis on the hand, and I glanced down to see an onyx ring on his finger, his nails long and black to match.

“And this is our most esteemed Magelord, Akmyrios,” the lesser mage said.

“What a lovely charm, my dear.” Akmyrios reached out for my neck, but paused when I clasped my hand over the whistle.

“It’s a family heirloom.” I gave a feigned smile. “My apologies. I’m very protective of it.”

“As you should be.” The Magelord spun the ring on his finger. “Mine is an heirloom, as well.”

A third man strode up, in a white tunic and black surcoat, with embellishments of purple heraldry. The regal angle of his chin and thrust of his chest told me he was an authority figure. A disciplined man, the way he carried himself, perhaps military, given the weapons strapped to him.

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