Chapter 7
“You,” I hissed, and my breath hitched with fury. “What the fuck did you do?” I scratched at the red lines in a feeble attempt to remove them but only succeeded in sending a jolt of pain shooting up my leg. “Ouch!” I yelped.
“Don’t shout, Farrow. We’re in a library,” Casimir scolded. He stood, entirely unaffected as he watched me fume. Bored, almost.
I was going to kill him. “What the hell is this?”
“We made a veilbound bargain,” he explained with a shrug. “That mark is evidence of our magical contract.”
I could only stare at him from my crouched position on the alcove floor. The tips of my fingers had gone white from pressing hard into the flesh of my left thigh.
Casimir.
I was furious beyond words. “So you branded me with magic?”
He rolled his eyes at my outrage. “Veilbound bargains aren’t sealed with brands. That mark—” he pointed to my leg “—is more like a tattoo, only it’s not permanent. Bloodbargains, on the other hand… Let’s just say they leave more permanent scars.”
“Undo it, now!” I demanded.
But he just shook his head. “Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” he said.
“But—” I spluttered, “that’s not fair!” Tears began to blur my vision, and then I was crying. How horribly predictable.
At last, Casimir gave a resigned sigh, as if I were the one being unreasonably difficult, despite having just tricked me into having his fucking name tattooed into my thigh. But my tears must have moved him at least a little, because he moved closer to examine the damage.
Finally, I thought as the tears spilled over and rolled down my cheeks. He’s going to remove it.
Casimir reached out to catch the last tear before it fell from my chin. He brought it to his lips, tasting the salt on his tongue. “You can be so dramatic,” he remarked, and my eyes widened as he yanked up his sleeve to expose his forearm. “Look. I have your name tattooed on me as well.”
And there it was, carved into the crook of his right forearm.
Arden
My gaze narrowed on his tattoo—on my name, emblazoned there. I was so shocked that I stopped crying.
And then the rage returned.
“How come yours is on your arm, but mine is on my thigh?” I gritted out, gesturing to my leg. Then, realizing how much of my skin was still exposed, I hastily tugged my skirt back down, my cheeks heating.
Casimir smirked at the movement.
And then I realized—he was amused at my reaction—as if my embarrassment at this minor exposure was prudish. For him, the sight of a bare woman’s thigh was inconsequential; nothing he hadn’t seen before. I ground my teeth.
“How long?” I asked.
His name felt irrevocably etched into my skin, and while the burning had ceased, it still prickled like a constant, unwelcome reminder of what I’d just done.
Casimir shrugged. “It will remain on your skin for as long as our bargain is intact,” he replied. “Now, tell me about your alleged abilities before I lose my patience.”
I bristled at his demand. How dare he demand anything of me after he’d just marred my literal flesh!
But my anger was dissipating, replaced by trepidation at the prospect of revealing my secret.
I could count on my hand the number of people who knew the truth.
One of them was dead. One was my mother, who vacillated between outright denial and deep shame when it came to my gift.
Gwen was the third confidant, and I’d never seen a reason to inform August. Now, I would have to add Casimir Wrayburn to that list.
Casimir, who I could never trust. Casimir, who had lied to me and tricked me into a magical bargain. Casimir, who was not even mortal. Casimir, whose brows were raised in expectation. Waiting.
I gave him the most venomous glare I could muster and said, “I can detect a lie, any lie.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then laughed aloud. “Really?” he said, taking one step toward me, his eyes alight with excitement. “Okay then, prove it. Tell me if I am lying. Let’s see…”
But before he could voice whatever truths or lies he’d settled on, I cut him off. “The thing is,” I began with a grimace, “it turns out you’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s immune to my gift…”
“You must be joking.” Casimir barked a laugh, running a hand over his face, and I was struck by a strong urge to slap him. I curled my traitorous fingers into fists.
Oh, how I wished I was joking.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I went on. “I’ve never…Growing up, I got into trouble for calling out adults for telling lies. Mostly harmless ones. With you, it’s different.” I frowned. “Even when I know you’re lying, I can’t taste the deceit. Not like I usually can.”
I was four the first time I’d tasted my father’s lie.
I could still recall the shock of his revelation etched across his prematurely lined face with perfect clarity.
I’d asked for a cookie from the pig jar, wanting more than anything to spoil my dinner.
When my father had lied that it was empty, a bitter layer of ash suddenly coated my tongue, like I’d just licked a pile of chimney sweepings.
Even as I’d gagged on the flavor, I hadn’t immediately understood what it meant.
My father had just smiled indulgently, his hands up in surrender.
“You caught me, Little Arrow. How did you know?”
I’d rolled my eyes like it was obvious. “Papa, I tasted your lie. It was yucky,” I’d said, wrinkling my nose in distaste.
My father had decided to test his little theory further by presenting me with verifiable fibs and falsehoods until I refused to play the game any longer, so disgusted was I by the acrid flavor that took hours to scour from my tongue.
Casimir’s eyes grew wide. “You can taste lies?” His tone betrayed surprise and something approaching awe. “That’s…fascinating.” His expression suddenly turned wary. “Why did you think I was lying to you earlier?”
I scrutinized his features for traces of deceit, noting the way he phrased the question. He hadn’t said, “How did you know I was lying?” He hadn’t admitted to misleading me. His expression remained neutral. Blank.
I hesitated, uncertain as to how to explain my strange ability.
Anxious as to how Casimir would react. “I’ve learned to recognize the signs that go along with the flavor of lies.
You know, evasive eye contact. Body language cues.
Giving too much detail. Things like that.
I guess I became something of an expert at ferreting out dishonesty. ”
Casimir’s gaze probed me as if he, too, was searching for truth in my expression. “I see…” he said, watching me closely. “And what does a lie taste like?”
No one, with the exception of my father, had ever asked me that. Could I tell Casimir, knowing he was a Daemon? Could I trust him? I glanced up at him and found curiosity burning in his eyes. Interesting. “Before I tell you, I need to know I can trust you.”
“And how might I demonstrate that?” he inquired. Suspicion flickered in his eyes.
“Give me something in return,” I said, thinking quickly. “Promise me that you’ll stop smoking the death sticks.”
My father used to smoke a pipe—a small thing, made of ivory and scrawled with symbols. The scent of burnt tobacco permeated everything in his study. Ever since he’d died, I’d grown to loathe the smell.
Casimir’s brows shot up in surprise. “You want me to give up smoking?” he asked, aghast.
“It’s only fair, since you tricked me about the veilbound—whatever—tattoo,” I argued, not caring that I sounded peevish.
“I will do no such thing.”
“Fine,” I said, shrugging. “I guess you’ll be stuck forever wondering what lies taste like, then.”
At this, Casimir scowled. “This small piece of information can hardly be worth giving up the one thing that brings me pleasure,” he said.
I fought back a smile. “Whatever you say.” I folded my arms over my chest. There. I thought. Let’s see how long he can stand not knowing.
I watched with no small amount of pleasure as Casimir’s eye twitched in irritation. A muscle in his jaw clicked, and then—
“Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll stop smoking. Around you.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s called a compromise, Farrow,” he cut in. “Or haven’t you heard of one?” He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn fucking girl.”
In spite of his grumblings, triumph rose in my chest, and I grinned up at him. “We have a deal then?” I said.
Casimir gave a stiff nod of affirmation.
“Well,” I began, “most of the time they taste like charcoal or burnt ash. Every now and then I meet someone whose lies are more… harmless. Like white lies. Those sorts of fibs usually taste more neutral. Like wood or bark. The boldest lies taste like acid. Like a chemical burn.” I shuddered at the sensation that ghosted across my tongue, the echo of Devereaux’s corrosive lies.
“Go on,” Casimir prompted.
“Everyone’s lies taste different,” I explained. “Like a signature. If someone lies often enough, I can usually memorize their individual flavor. The problem though, is that nearly everyone does it.”
He nodded thoughtfully before lifting a playful brow. “Can I ask, how is it you know what wood tastes like?”
I flattened him with a scowl. “I don’t, obviously. It’s just an inference.”
A mischievous smile lit up his face. “How am I supposed to know you don’t go around licking trees or something in your spare time? I’ve heard stranger things.”
“Hardly,” I rolled my eyes at him, and he chuckled in response.
“And I’m an exception to your ability?”
“The only exception.”
For a moment, Casimir said nothing; he just continued to stare at me with an intensity that made my spine tingle. Again, there was the sense he was attempting to penetrate my mind with his eyes alone. Then he nodded abruptly, breaking my trance.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said, lowering his chin in a clear dismissal.
I balked. “You’re just going to leave me with this?” I gestured to the brand on my leg.