Chapter 8
“If you’re luring me into the forest to murder me and dispose of my body,” I said to the back of Casimir’s head, “then I’m extremely disappointed in your lack of originality.” We’d been walking for fifteen minutes, and I was struggling to keep up with his brisk pace.
The arrogant prick just assumed I’d show up.
That I’d be hungry enough for more details that he’d find me at sunset, waiting for him on the West Terrace.
And like a fool, I’d done exactly as he’d predicted.
In my defense, I had little desire to endure Gwen’s interrogation about whatever might or might not be going on between Casimir and me, and felt it was best to delay the trip back to the dorms by any means.
“Not going to the forest,” he called from up ahead. “Can’t you walk any faster? We don’t have all night.”
I muttered a string of profanities under my breath, but loudly enough that he might overhear.
A raven croaked dully in the dense canopy above as we reached the tree line.
Casimir must be leading us deep into the Lacunae Forest, in spite of what he’d said.
I was beginning to worry whether this wasn’t a terrible idea until, passing a grove of wild evergreen, we came upon a small chapel I’d never laid eyes on before.
It was constructed almost entirely of pale gray stone, inlaid with small, rounded, stained glass windows, the largest of which arched into a mandorla at the apex of its moss-covered facade.
An air of unkemptness surrounded the place, and on closer inspection, I saw that one of the glass panels had a spiderweb crack at its center, as though someone had tried to hurl a rock through it.
“I thought this school was supposed to be secular,” I said, frowning at the small inlaid sign which read, Chapelle de Saint Seraphina.
Casimir offered me a wry smile and reached into his pocket. “This place is mostly used as a hideout for society brats to drink and party. Saint Seraphina was allegedly the Protectress of Secrets.” He laughed softly, as though enjoying some private joke. “Haven’t you ever been here before?”
I shook my head as he began picking the iron lock with a shiny, metal object. After only a few seconds of tinkering, the lock gave a satisfying click, and the door creaked open.
“Did your mom teach you how to break and enter as well?” I chirped.
Casimir snorted. “Welcome to the Grotto,” he said, and I followed him into the chapel.
The arched ceiling was taller than it had appeared from the outside.
At the far end of the room stood an altar surrounded by dripping ivory candles, ensconced in rusting candelabras.
Casimir drew a metal lighter from his pocket and lit a few of the weeping candles.
The flames licked upward, illuminating several faded paintings of saints on the walls beneath clumps of dust-laden cobwebs that strung like hammocks between the rafters.
Flanking either side of the pulpit were a dozen wooden pews, waiting to seat a ghostly congregation.
Several of the pews bore evidence of wild bacchanals of days past. Empty wine bottles, stray corks, and cigarette butts lined the maroon velvet seats, which explained the lingering odor of smoke in the air.
The altar was devoid of any religious iconography, save for a defaced portrait of Ouverham’s dean, Sir Quentin Hendrix Winthrop III.
Along a filthy banner hanging on the wall behind the altar, someone had written “Death to Dynasties” in red paint.
I tore my eyes from the graffiti, my skin prickling.
“What did you say?” I asked, finally registering what Casimir had said.
“The Grotto,” he repeated. “No one actually calls it La Chapelle de Saint Seraphina.” He watched as I surveyed the room.
It hardly resembled a place of worship. It looked more like a den of hedonism, from the graffiti on the walls to the empty bottles of wine and puddles of wax melted on the floor.
Gingerly, I lifted an empty packet of cigarettes from one of the pews and flung it away.
“Are students allowed to be here?” I asked, examining a sticky pamphlet warning of the dangers of underage drinking on the bench beside me.
Casimir flashed a mischievous smile. “No, but that’s never stopped anyone,” he said, lowering himself onto the seat I had just cleared off.
I rolled my eyes in answer and sank onto the seat beside him, keeping a healthy distance from a nearby stain that looked suspiciously like blood. “Why were you goading August during class today?”
“Was I?” he asked, his tone betraying his amusement.
I narrowed my gaze at him. “Don’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about,” I shot back.
Finally, he shrugged and said simply, “It was fun.”
Fun? I bit back a snide retort. “You don’t like August.” It was a statement, not a question, but he didn’t contradict me. “Why?” I pressed. When Casimir didn’t answer, I stood up, prepared to leave him to his useless prevarications. “Screw this, I’m going back to campus.”
“Wait,” he interjected, reaching out to wind his fingers around my wrist. My breath caught in my throat at the unexpected touch. My gaze flicked between Casimir and the point of contact, gooseflesh rising along the back of my neck.
“Please sit down.”
Reluctantly, I obeyed, and he released me. My wrist felt strangely cold at the loss of his touch.
“I know you want to discuss a plan for dealing with the Order,” he began, his expression tentative. “But there are things you need to know first… Devereaux is looking for something that he needs to complete the ritual.”
“And you don’t want to tell me what it is he’s looking for?” I surmised.
Casimir’s troubled expression confirmed as much. “It’s not so much a what as a whom,” he said.
I waited for him to say more, resisting that fierce, unyielding gaze that seemed capable of searing through my very skin.
He spoke in a low, urgent tone, as if we might be overheard in this remote, decaying chapel.
“The Order is searching for someone who was entrusted with safeguarding a secret. A very valuable, very dangerous secret. Devereaux has good reason to believe that the person in possession of this information is here, at Ouverham.”
“They’re here, at the school?” I balked for a moment, and then the next question came out in a rush, “How do you know?”
“Decades ago, the council named a Keeper responsible for withholding critical information that, in the hands of an enemy, could be lethal.”
I interrupted, “And who are the council, exactly?”
“They function as Ethervale’s governing body, similar to a parliament, tasked with implementing legislation and decrees issued by the ruler, in this case Queen Nymara.
And before you ask, I don’t know what the secret is, but I’d wager it’s dangerous enough to threaten the ruling body’s leadership.
It’s something of an emergency safeguard, if you will.
Only a few Daemons outside of the council are entrusted with knowing the Keeper’s identity.
No one else is even supposed to know that they exist. It wouldn’t exactly come as a comfort to learn that the council’s secrets are entrusted to the hands of a mere mortal. ” He offered me a small smile.
“Do we have any idea who the Keeper might be?” There was no shortage of families on the island with well-guarded secrets—as well as a plethora of gossips.
Casimir shook his head, his expression troubled.
“No, but there are two more immediate issues that concern me. First, thus far the Order has had no luck discerning any traces of this person, apart from narrowing down their location to Ouverham College. This means that they will remain at the school for longer than we’d like.
As for the second, I suspect the person in possession of this secret is already dead. ”
I shook my head and said, “I don’t understand. What makes you think the Keeper is dead?”
“For one thing, I find it strange that Devereaux suddenly decided now was the time to open a new chapter of the Bloodthorn Order at Ouverham. Something has changed, and the most likely explanation is that Devereaux’s spies informed him of the emergency meeting the council held a few months ago.
Rumor is there was some sort of unexpected change. ”
“A change,” I repeated. “Like a sudden death?”
He nodded.
“So, then their search is pointless? If that’s true, then why has Devereaux Graves wasted two whole years waiting around at Ouverham College?”
“Devereaux is patient,” he said, dismissing my objections with a wave of his hand.
“If he tracked the Keeper as far as the Isle of Lorn, he will remain until he knows what’s become of them.
A year of waiting is nothing to someone like him.
And if the Keeper does turn up dead, it’s likely that the Order will use that information to discover who has been named their Heir. ”
“Their Heir?”
He nodded. “If the original Keeper is deceased, they will have bequeathed their responsibilities to an Heir. It isn’t necessarily someone blood-related, but it helps. Regardless of who it is, Devereaux will endeavor to find them.” He cast me a sidelong glance.
I let this last declaration settle over me like a dark shroud before I asked, “What happens if they find the Keeper’s heir?”
The look he gave me was answer enough. “They’ll likely torture a confession out of them and then dispose of the body,” he said.
Of course, I thought. It’s the secret that holds value, not the person in possession of it.
“But if, as you say, whatever secret the Keeper is guarding poses a threat to the council, why would they even bother hiding it in the first place? Why not destroy all evidence of a secret that could harm them?”
Casimir shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps the secret is kept for security purposes. In any case, we can surmise that the person charged with its safekeeping resides on the isle.”