Page 64 of Veil of Dust

The water deepens, lapping at my thighs, cold and thick with silt, but I push through, silent, relentless. A gator’s eyes glint to my left, watching, waiting, but it doesn’t move. It knowsI’m not food, not tonight. I’m something else, something the swamp respects, a killer carved from its own dark.

Her words echo in my head—“I’m not him,” she spat, her eyes full of Leon’s blood and The Elder’s shadow.

Another sound, faint, a whisper of cloth against bark. I freeze, body low, machete ready, every sense honed to the bayou’s pulse. They’re out there, and I’m coming, a shadow with a blade, a promise of blood for blood.

My heart beats steadily, not with fear, but with purpose. Vespera’s mine—her bar, her life, her trust—and I’ll bury anyone who tries to steal it. The swamp knows it, the gators know it, and soon, Alfeo’s men will know it too, in the split second before they die.

I move again, faster now, following the trail, the machete hungry in my hand. The bayou’s gut opens before me, and I step into it, ready to carve my way through, for her, always for her.

A shadow moves across the path ahead, flickering through the mist like a ghost born of the swamp itself.

I raise the machete, my grip tight, muscles coiled, ready to strike.

The blood on it isn’t dry yet, still slick, warm from the men I cut down, their lives staining the blade red.

A figure steps out from behind a willow tree, its branches trailing low, heavy with moss that sways in the humid breeze.

Hooded. Face covered, swallowed by shadow, not a hint of skin or eyes to read.

No sound, not even the crunch of mud underfoot, just an unnatural stillness that sets my nerves on edge.

No movement beyond the nod they give me, once, direct, deliberate, like a signal meant only for me.

“More is coming,” they say, voice low, rough, cutting through the bayou’s hum like a blade through flesh.

Then they vanish.

No rustle of leaves. No footsteps sinking into the mud. Just gone into the mist like they were made of it, swallowed whole by the swamp’s dark heart.

Order? A killer sent to watch, to warn?

Bayou witch? Some myth come to life, born of the swamp’s secrets?

Doesn’t matter. Their words sink into me, heavy, true, a promise of more blood to spill.

The message is clear: More of Alfeo’s men are coming, and I’m still standing in their way.

I wipe the blade on my thigh, blood streaking across already-ruined fabric, dark and wet, blending with the mud and sweat. The edge still drips, a steady patter into the water at my feet, marking my path.

There is no rest here. There’s no time, no space for pause when the swamp’s alive with threats and Vespera’s safety hangs in the balance.

I just turn and head back, my boots slogging through the mud, each step a fight against the bayou’s grip, water swirling around my calves, cold and thick.

The wound on my arm throbs, a deep gash from the last blade that caught me on the way out, a desperate swing from a man who knew he was already dead. Blood soaks my sleeve, warm and heavy, trickling down to my wrist, mixing with the swamp’s filth.

The bar’s lights flicker in the distance, a beacon through the trees, pulling me forward, promising her. My legs burn, my breath rasps, but I can’t slow down, driven by the need to see her face, to know she’s safe.

By the time I stagger into the bar, my shirt sleeve is soaked, clinging to my skin, the fabric dark with blood and swamp water, heavy as guilt.

My arm’s torn open, muscle sliced, a jagged wound that pulses with every heartbeat, raw and angry under the neon’s glow.

The door bangs behind me, a harsh sound that echoes in the quiet bar, announcing my return like a warning.

Vespera turns from the counter, her silhouette sharp against the shelves of liquor, eyes snapping to mine.

She drops the towel in her hand, white cloth hitting the floor, forgotten.

“Jesus,” she says, voice sharp, laced with worry she doesn’t hide, her gaze locking on the blood, the mess of me.

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