Page 138 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Before Atlas could respond, Everinne squeezed herself in front of him and faced the witch head on.
“I know you.” Her statement was met with calm resolve.
Surprise registered briefly in the witch’s eyes before she blinked it away. “You do?”
“Yes. You’re Belladonna.” Everinne smiled then, wide and beautiful. “You own the atelier in the shopping district.”
The corner of the witch’s mouth lifted into a wry grin. “I do.”
Belladonna.
The name triggered a distant memory in Atlas’s mind, and he startled. “Wait. Belladonna…as in, Aran Ruhdneah’s Belladonna?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m his.” Belladonna shimmied a little and crossed her arms over her chest with an air of disdain. “He made his choice long ago, and as you can tell, it wasn’t me.”
So itwasher. This was the notorious witch that won the heart of the High Prince of Faeven. Last Atlas checked, Aran was still madly in love with her. Unfortunately for Aran, he’d yet to make such a declaration, and it appeared as though Belladonna had every intention of holding it against him.
“Ah.” Atlas lifted a finger and winked. “But he wears the wound you gave him like a badge of honor.”
Her dark brows furrowed. “Wound?”
“You stabbed him once, didn’t you?”
A blush stained her cheeks. “I…yes. I mean, I did, but it was an accident.”
He shrugged, lifting his hands. “A forgivable offense in matters of love.”
Belladonna fumbled for words then, and Caedian wasted no time derailing the conversation.
“Why are you working down here, in the Marzena?” he asked, his gaze skimming their surroundings, his voice tinged with suspicion. “If you own an atelier in Starysa.”
For the first time, Belladonna appeared nervous. She glanced toward the door, her pale blue eyes peering into every corner of the shop. “Above ground is no longer safe for my kind. It is easier to run a storefront for the occult and obscure and not draw attention to myself down here than it is to always look over my shoulder.”
“Valid reasoning,” Veros mused, and Belladonna’s gaze narrowed in mild interest, as though she’d seen him before. “Tellme, have you seen anything unusual or suspicious as of late? Or overheard any talk of hunters or vanishing immortals?”
Belladonna bristled. “Who’s asking?”
Atlas leaned in casually, flashed his most charming smile, so his dimples were on full display. “Your prince.”
She startled, her eyes widening in shock as she looked between the group of them. Then she dropped into a practiced curtsy. “Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness. I didn’t recognize you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“The honor is all mine.” Atlas bowed, not missing the way Everinne watched him with mocking amusement. “But if you wouldn’t mind telling us what it is you know? It’s a matter of great importance.”
“I understand, Your Highness.” Belladonna pretended to busy herself by tidying a satin tray full of crystal spheres, each of them enclosing a different season. “I can only tell you what I know to be truth.”
“And that is?” Everinne pressed quietly.
Belladonna met her gaze and held. “The Mystic Obscura is not what it seems.”
“Obviously,” Veros drawled, and Belladonna cut him with a scathing look.
“It breeds danger and dark magic. The demonic and necrotic. They bind those who enter with blood, damning them to a lifetime of servitude. Of performances. Then traffic them to places unknown.” Belladonna shook her head and lowered her gaze. “The Mystic Obscura is treacherous. A plague unto all of Prava.”
Atlas’s heart tumbled into the pit of his stomach, where it roiled with acidic dread. Next to him, Everinne’s complexion waned, and he quickly slid one arm around her waist to keep her upright.
“Trafficked,” Veros repeated, the word ringing in their ears as numbness coupled with alarm settled between them.
The immortals were being trafficked. Hunted with purpose. It was far worse than anything Atlas ever could have imagined.
