Chapter 8 #4
Leaning back in his seat, he fixed me with an inscrutable expression.
“Emotions influence our decisions, sometimes even more powerfully than brute force or torture. I use glamours when the results are more or less harmless. Most of the time,” he added.
Something dangerous flickered in his gaze.
“I did warn you I was someone not to cross.”
“Excuse me, but you never said anything of the sort,” I said.
He shrugged and I began to roll my eyes at him, but then he leaned in, his tone suddenly urgent. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you should know there’s a sort of damper on our powers,” he said.
From the wariness in his expression, I realized that he was revealing something significant. Information that could make him vulnerable.
“On all of you? Devereaux and the others, too?” I asked.
A nod. I didn’t want to consider how powerful they’d be without that damper in place.
I continued, “You said that your brands—the runes on your arm—were part of your punishment. Did you mean they were in retribution for your part in the rebellion?”
Casimir stiffened, but nodded again.
I thought again of the eye singed into his flesh. I shuddered to imagine the Daemon capable of inflicting such brutality. A reminder that they are always watching.
I had so many questions, but one in particular pushed its way to the edge of my tongue.
“Why did you call Evren a ‘Bludkravk’?”
Casimir’s entire body tensed at the sound of the word.
He fought to relax his spine against the chair again.
“It’s the caste name we use to refer to those with Evren’s particular…
talent for sadism.” A flare of resentment sparked in his umber eyes.
“In Ethervalean, ‘Bludkravk’ means ‘bringer of pain.’ His kind are also sometimes called Bloodweavers.”
There were others like him?
“Bloodweavers possess the ability to conduct electric current to cause extreme pain,” he explained.
“It cannot cause true nerve or muscle damage, but in rare cases it can lead to loss of mental stability and even death.” Casimir examined his hands for a moment before fixing me with that penetrating gaze again.
“You haven’t had the unfortunate experience of enduring his glamours firsthand, but they are most similar to intense electrical shocks. ”
From the way his brow was furrowed, I surmised that he was speaking from firsthand experience.
I gave a nervous laugh. “I guess I’m lucky I can’t feel his glamours.”
This elicited an unexpected frown from Casimir, as if the comment bothered him. Was he, too, wondering why Evren’s glamours didn’t work on me?
I cleared my throat, dispelling the thought. “Forget Evren for a moment. What happens if Devereaux finds the Heir before we do?”
“Let’s hope we never find out,” he replied with a dark look.
I waited to speak again until a group of giggling freshmen passed our corner of the stacks. “Why do you think I can taste Devereaux’s lies, but not yours?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” The troubled expression did not dissipate from his face as he changed the subject. “You never gave me an answer. Will you let me train you to resist glamours?”
My mouth twisted into a frown. “Is such a thing even possible?” I asked.
He shifted in his chair, but his dark eyes remained locked onto mine. “Call it curiosity, but I want to see if someone like you can be taught to fight glamours.”
Someone like me?
I hesitated, giving myself ample time to mull over his offer.
On one hand, I didn’t have any other opportunities to learn how to fight off glamours.
On the other, it would mean working with Casimir, who I did not entirely trust, and who would undoubtedly take the opportunity to torment me for his own amusement.
The ghost of that familiar, arrogant smirk played on his lips. “Honestly, I’d be doing you a massive favor,” he said, and I fought the impulse to kick him under the table. Casimir huffed a laugh, as if he’d read the violence in my thoughts. “Do you carry your knife with you on campus?”
“No, it’s against school’s policy.”
“From now on, I want you to carry it.” As an afterthought, he added, “We should probably brush up on your hand-to-hand combat skills as well.”
I bristled at the implication. “I’ve been fencing since high school,” I said hotly. “I don’t need—”
“You know that’s not the same thing,” he cut in. “Besides, how long has it been since you last practiced? Weeks? Months?”
In truth, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bouted on the fencing piste—probably last fall with August. At best, I was rusty.
“Fine.” I gave a curt nod that I hoped retained some of my dignity, and then added, “I’m not sure how knowing how to use a dagger will be of much use when Devereaux could just glamour me to stab myself with it.”
“You agree to train, then?” he asked, arching a brow. “Surprised you didn’t put up more of a fight.”
“Would you like me to?” I asked in a tone laced with sarcasm.
“That won’t be necessary.” He stood, and I caught a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes before he turned away. “We start tomorrow.”