For a long, breathless moment, I couldn’t quite process what I was seeing.
Atlas Blackwood moved with the kind of unhurried confidence that suggested he belonged anywhere he chose to stand. The heavy wooden door of the bar groaned open before him, spilling a sliver of dim candlelight onto the deserted cobblestone street. He barely hesitated before stepping inside, disappearing into the shadows beyond.
I stiffened, my pulse skipping in sharp surprise. Atlas Blackwood, here at this hour.
The realization slithered through me, cold and unwelcome. Whatever business he had in town—especially in a place like this—was none of mine. And yet, as the door swung shut behind him, sealing him away from my view, unease coiled tight in my chest, leaving behind a distinct, inexplicable wrongness.
“Did
