Page 38 of Veil of Dust

But it wasn’t a bluff.

Still, in this room, I don’t feel it. Not with her looking at me like that. Not with her standing steady.

She puts the rag down.

Her hand lingers on the bar. I notice the slight shift in her fingers. She’s not shaking, but she’s tense.

So am I.

My blood doesn’t scare her.

It never has.

We don’t say anything.

We don’t need to.

Whatever that thing in the swamp was—whatever it meant—it’s coming. I know that.

But I’ll face it.

Because she’s here.

Because I want to.

Chapter 8 – Vespera

I stack the bottles one at a time.

Tequila first—golden and sharp, catching the light. Then the gin—clear and clean, a contrast to everything running through my head. The vodka crate’s swollen from the rain, wood soft and warped. I pry it open, bracing it with my foot, and pull out what’s still intact. The necks clink as I line them up. Twelve glass eyes watching me do work that no one else signs up for.

My hands are steady. Everything inside me isn’t.

Tiziano came back hours ago. Blood stained his shirt. Mud marked his boots. His voice was raw, as if he’d scraped it across the bayou. He said one word: “Done.” That was it.

He didn’t say what happened.

He didn’t have to.

I know what he is. I know what he’s willing to do.

I’ve replayed it over and over anyway. The blood on his sleeves, the way it clung to the fabric. The way he stood—not proud, not guilty. Just finished. Like someone who doesn’t second-guess anything.

He went upstairs afterward, leaving mud streaked across the floor. I mopped it twice, but the smell still lingers—metallic and heavy.

I shut the vodka crate and shove it back under the bottom shelf. The wood groans under the force.

The storeroom smells like cleaner and sweat. But underneath it, there’s that trace of iron I can’t shake. A smell that means something violent came through here and didn’t apologize for it.

He walked in like he brought the swamp with him. Left it here, in the floorboards, in the walls. In my skin.

I haven’t stopped feeling it.

My body doesn’t show it, but inside, my pulse hasn’t calmed. Not since I saw him.

I shove a full crate into place too hard. The wood cracks under my hand. A sliver jabs into my palm. I pull back fast.

Tiny cut. Barely anything. A bead of blood appears, bright against my skin.

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