Chapter 14 #3
“I’m asking you politely…”
…
My patience fizzled out. “Quit playing dumb, I know you’re in there!”
“So foul-mouthed for a little human girl,” the Book crooned, its tone a lethal taunt. “I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Malcolm guarded his secrets fiercely, too.”
My stomach dropped like a stone. It was impossible that the Book knew my father. Wasn’t it? Perhaps the sprite’s magic included mind-reading. Probably, it was just trying to frighten me.
“What do you know about my father?” I demanded.
No reply.
“Are you going to answer my questions? Or shall I just shove you back into my bag?” Or better yet, fling the accursed object into the sea at the earliest opportunity.
The Book cackled roughly, as though choked with smoke.
“Did you know my father?”
“Ask me no secrets, and I’ll tell you no lies,” the sprite taunted.
I ground my teeth together. “Fine, if you won’t tell me about my father, will you at least tell me more about this blood ritual the Order is planning?”
Silence.
“When will it take place?”
More silence. The Book refused to answer my questions, and my patience was quickly burning out.
I tried a new tactic. “Have any humans ever been to Ethervale?”
“So curious for one so weak and frail,” it wheezed. “You should not seek Ethervale, unless you desire a slow and painful death, Little Arrow.”
“I am not weak,” I argued.
The voice gave a wheezy gurgle in reply. A minute of silence passed before a familiar, creeping scrawl began to materialize on the page before me.
Following their exile for staging a rebellion against the crown, the Daemons of the Bloodthorn Order had little hope of ever restoring their powers in full. One of the few methods to replenish such power is the bloodletting rite.
Performed during an astrological event, such as a full moon or eclipse, the blood ritual is designed to harness forbidden bloodmagic.
During the ceremony, a high priest or priestess must repeat incantations from the Book to call upon Sirenix, the Drekavac goddess of life and transformation.
It is said that she bestowed the Daemons the gift of softmagic.
But the moment she is summoned, the high priest must then betray her by spilling the blood of innocents.
Blood is meant to satisfy Morana, Sirenix’s fallen sister and the goddess of death.
Consuming the blood of the slain innocents is considered an abomination, and yet this must be done.
It wasn’t only a bloodletting ritual; Devereaux and his Daemons would also be drinking August’s blood.
Bile rose in my throat.
The Book had confirmed all of my worst fears, and then doubled them. Incantations, ancient rituals, and—to top it all off—spilling the blood of innocents in some twisted, sacrificial offering to a Daemonic goddess. The Bloodthorn Order, it seemed, lived up to its name.
Cursive spilled over onto the next page, and my eyes darted to the words that next appeared.
The donor who offers up their life force must do so of his or her own will. Once selected for a ritual, one donor cannot be substituted for another without the approval of the high priest or priestess.
The Book claimed that the consent of the donor was a requirement of the ritual. But why would August ever consent to be a donor? Nothing about this made any sense, and nausea rose like a wave in the pit of my stomach.
“Tell me how I can stop the ritual from happening.”
The sprite snickered. “No girl of mere mortal blood may interfere with the ritual. The draw to power is strong.”
“Please, just tell me how,” I begged.
“You are too demanding,” it whined. “I have told you, no girl of mortal blood may interfere—”
“Fine!” I ground out, gnashing my teeth in an attempt to keep my temper under control. “What else can you tell me then?”
Silence met my inquiry.
Infuriating, stupid fucking sprite. Well, if direct questioning was getting me nowhere, perhaps baiting the Book might rile it to respond.
“Why won’t you speak to Casimir? He says that you only speak to him in filthy obscenities.”
A choking cackle, at once rasping and otherworldly, filled my ears. “You speak of the Darkseer often, Little Arrow.”
Its eerie laughter sent a shiver skittering across the back of my neck. I fought back a huff of frustration. “Who was the last Keeper to serve the Queen and council in Ethervale? I demanded” “Who did they name as their Heir?”
No writing appeared on the blank page, but the voice crooned, “I have answered your questions, and yet I receive nothing in return.”
I faltered. “What do you want?”
I wasn’t sure what I expected the Book to demand of me. But it definitely wasn’t what it asked for.
“Bring me a lock of his hair. I wish to possess a relic of the Darkseer.”
I sat up straight. I hadn’t realized how far I’d been leaning over the Book. “First you taunt me, tell me I’m weak, warn me how dangerous Casimir is, and now you want me to give you a lock of his hair?” I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “No way, choose something else.”
The Book gave a disgruntled hiss. “If you cannot complete this simple task, then perhaps you are not worth my time.”
“But—”
“Bring me a lock plucked from the Darkseer’s head. Or don’t bother coming back at all.”
I growled in frustration.
“And know this, mortal girl. I will know if you try to deceive me.”
“Wait!” I interjected. “What about the Heir? Would the Keeper’s Heir know how to stop the ritual?”
“You are grasping at shadows, mortal girl.”
“Just tell me who the last Keeper was,” I begged with increasing desperation. If I could only find the Heir—talk to them—I might be able to use their secrets as leverage against the Order. “Please, just tell me who was tasked with guarding the council’s secrets—”
“Remember, girl, Knowledge is seeing with both eyes open,” the voice trilled.
My blood ran cold at the warning—my father’s warning. The Book couldn’t possibly have heard that phrase before, but perhaps the sprite read minds?
“I will tell you only this. Beware eyes of venom, the winding coil’s twist, and death’s slithering kiss.”
Before it shut up for good, the Book imparted one last piece of advice in that rasping, childlike trill. “If you were smart, Little Arrow, you would flee. I’d run from him if I were you.”
And with that, dark ink spurted across the pages, spraying me with wet gobs of black liquid. I gasped and sputtered in surprise, spitting a mouthful of bitter ink onto the floor.
“What the fuck?” I choked out. Toweling off the worst of the inky mess from my face and neck, I ran to the bathroom to vigorously wash my tongue, but the taste of ink lingered, no matter how many mouthfuls of water I gargled.
I silently thanked the universe that I was alone, that there was no one to witness my stupidity.
The Book clearly delighted in humiliating and tormenting me, and I’d given it ample opportunity to derive pleasure from my desperation.
How ridiculous, to be attacked by a book. Even as I huffed out a hollow laugh at the utter absurdity of the sprite inking me like some demonic squid, its warning rattled in my ears.
I’d run from him if I were you.