Chapter 5 #2
“I was in Vancouver when I first heard that the Order had reestablished a chapter at Ouverham College. I’ve known Devereaux long enough to suspect he was plotting something…unsavory.”
Reestablished? So, this wasn’t a new society after all. More lies that had somehow evaded my detection.
“And what unsavory activities do you suspect him of plotting?” I pressed. “Does it have anything to do with this ritual?”
Casimir hesitated. “Possibly,” he said, pausing to pull a cigarette from the gold case inside his jacket.
I huffed in irritation. “You can’t smoke in here,” I said.
Smoke plumed around Casimir’s dark figure like a cloud as he exhaled, and I glowered at him. “Can’t Daemons get lung cancer?”
Ignoring my goading, he took a drag on his cigarette with obvious satisfaction. “I doubt it,” he replied, shrugging.
“What about the others? Are they Daemons, too?” I asked.
He nodded. “Everyone but Sinclair, of course,” he said. A cruel smile curved his sensuous mouth. “I hope you would’ve noticed if your boyfriend was a Daemon.”
I ground my jaw to keep myself from making a cutting retort.
“One of the others—Neely, I think—mentioned a ritual. I know you probably won’t tell me what that entails,” I said, allowing silence to fill the space as Casimir took another long drag.
“Look, I just need to know—is August in serious danger?”
Something flickered in Casimir’s eyes, but he gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Why should you care what happens to Sinclair?” He stamped out his cigarette on the sole of his boot.
A chill that had nothing to do with the damp cold of the alcove shuddered through me.
I bit my lip. It was true, I shouldn’t care what happened to August, not after he’d burrowed me away like a shameful secret, like a toy he only took out to play with when he was bored.
Not after he’d grown tired of the charade and discarded me with little explanation.
A darker part of me might enjoy witnessing his emotional and social downfall, but I would never want anything truly terrible to befall him.
“I have my reasons,” I replied vaguely. But I wasn’t finished interrogating him.
“What did you mean when you told Devereaux not to glamour me again?” I asked.
Casimir was watching me as though he might carve me open with his eyes alone. “Drekavac Daemons have access to two kinds of magic: bloodmagic, which is technically forbidden, and softmagic. Glamours are a form of softmagic.”
“Magic,” I repeated.
“Does that frighten you?”
A heavy silence fell while I considered Casimir’s question, suddenly acutely aware of his close proximity in the small, dark alcove. With that cold mask carved into the hollowed cheeks and angles of his face, he was fearsome; a thing of beauty and terror to behold.
A slow, sardonic smile tugged at the corners of Casimir’s lips, as though reading the fear written across my face. “I thought so,” he said quietly.
I stiffened. “I’m not afraid of you,” I said. “I’m not sure I entirely believe you—but if you wanted to hurt me, you would’ve already done so. You’ve had plenty of chances.”
I thought back to that night in the Labyrinth, remembering the smoke from his cigarette rising in the darkness, the way he’d watched me with burning intensity—as he did now—the feel of the brass lamp under my fingers, the fear thundering in my veins.
How easily I’d dismissed my instinctive fear; how quickly I’d ignored my body’s own alarm bells. His beauty had disarmed me.
Surprise flared briefly across his features, but he nodded absently.
Covertly, I slid my hands behind my back to hide my trembling fingers. If Casimir saw through me, he didn’t comment. I forced myself to meet his eye. “Are you going to hurt me, Casimir?”
I was beginning to comprehend just how defenseless I was when it came to him.
The way his beauty clouded my judgment; the way I couldn’t taste his lies.
The fact that I didn’t know anything about Daemons, other than the fairy tales my father had told me as a child.
Cross them once and you’ll never be seen again.
I was wholly ignorant of the untold ways he might ruin me.
His eyes grew even darker, the rich caramel of his irises nearly indistinguishable from his pupils.
My breath hitched in my throat, betraying my fear, as he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
The brush of contact sent a cascade of shivers down my spine, and heat flared in my veins.
I scarcely dared to breathe—he was standing so close.
Finally, he drew away, shaking his head.
“No, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Glad to hear it,” I replied dryly, but my shoulders relaxed in relief. “I’m more concerned about Devereaux and the rest of the Bloodthorn Order. The one with auburn hair—Evren. He tried to glamour me, I guess. He touched me, but nothing happened.”
Casimir looked at me sharply, his eyes wide. “What do you mean, nothing happened? You didn’t feel—pain?”
I shook my head, suppressing a smirk at the look of utter incredulity on Casimir’s face.
“He was gripping my hand as hard as he could, but I couldn’t feel anything—” But my sense of triumph vanished as I remembered how Devereaux’s compulsion had certainly been more than effective, easily coaxing my body into compliance like a doll.
But I could taste Devereaux’s lie, I thought, recalling the caustic taste of it with disgust and more than a little pride. My gaze slid back to Casimir, the only person, mortal or otherwise, whose lies I couldn’t taste. My only exception.
“That… doesn’t make any sense,” he said as he began to pace the narrow space within the alcove.
“Not affected by Evren’s abilities? Impossible…
” He trailed off into incoherent mutterings before he fell silent.
Then, he abruptly stopped pacing and turned to look at me, his expression indecipherable.
But behind his eyes brewed a tempest of warring emotions.
“I’m telling the truth,” I said, a little defensively.
His lips twitched. “I didn’t say that you weren’t.”
I huffed impatiently. “Why would Evren’s—glamours—not work on me?”
He shrugged. “Honestly? I have no fucking idea.”
Recalling August’s pale, frightened face, I redirected my thoughts.
“What are we going to do about August?” I demanded.
Casimir’s features were carefully neutral as he replied, “Sinclair got himself into this mess—of his own volition, I might add. Now he must face the consequences.”
I stared at him, momentarily taken aback by his casual condemnation. Agitation rapidly replaced any surprise I felt. “Why did you even come here, then? Since you obviously don’t care what happens to anyone.” My voice rose with my indignation.
His expression was stony. “My only concern is to stop Devereaux from finding—” He caught himself. “Whatever he’s looking for. That’s my top priority.”
“So, let me get this straight. You’re going to stop Devereaux from looking for something, and you don’t even know what that something is?” I snorted. “I don’t believe you for a second.”
He huffed a laugh. “Trust me, Farrow, the less you know, the better.”
“Try me,” I challenged him.
His answering smile was laced with irony. “I’m not that easy to bait.”
Frustrated, I stomped closer, ignoring the way his scent enveloped me. “We can’t just let them—”
But Casimir interrupted my protests with a sneer. “First of all, there is no we,” he growled, crowding me against the wall, his cold breath ghosting over my skin. “We do not have a problem. There is you and there is me. You have no reason to be involved with any of this.”
“Did you or did you not just hear me say that Devereaux threatened me?” I hissed back. “I’d say that makes me very fucking involved in what’s going on with the Order. And besides, if they’re hurting August—”
“Since when,” he interrupted me, his eyes pinning me to the spot, “is Augustus Sinclair my fucking problem?” He spat August’s full name like a curse.
“Fine,” I retorted, gnashing my teeth together. Whatever tether that tamped down my anger up until now released, leaving my tongue in danger of lashing out. “I’ll handle it myself. I don’t need your help.”
A low, sardonic laugh rumbled through his muscled chest. “That,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper, “would be incredibly stupid.”
“What I do is none of your business,” I reminded him.
“I’m warning you, Farrow,” he growled. “Don’t get involved. Devereaux and the others—well, what you experienced today was just a taste of what they can do.” His expression was torn between fury and panic. “You are the last person who should go anywhere near the Bloodthorn Order.”
Furious at his behavior, by how helpless I felt, I resorted to gnashing my teeth.
But Casimir wouldn’t let up. “Didn’t Sinclair ditch you just the other night? Why are you so worked up over this?”
I winced at the casual use of the term “ditch.” I forced my tone to remain calm, even as my chest rose and fell with anger. “Just because I hate what he did doesn’t mean I want him to be tortured to death,” I said.
“Tell me what happened between you two.”
“Why should I?” I shot back.
Casimir merely stared at me. His gaze was apprehensive, as if waiting for me to lash out or burst into tears. My shoulders slumped in defeat.
“You don’t understand,” I said. “Ouverham is a very insulated, very wealthy academic town. Half of its residents made their fortunes from gold mines dating back to the nineteenth century. And those families? They run the academic and social scenes. They dictate which societies get funding from the board, which students go on to become managers of hedge funds or politicians.”
Casimir frowned. “I know—”
I plowed on, “Inter-class romances are frowned upon—to say the least—and, well, August is very ambitious. He was determined to be inducted into an exclusive society. Clearly, even I underestimated how determined he was—but that’s why he…cut things off.”