Chapter 19 #2
Bits and pieces of the night began to return to me like gradual ripples in the shallow, murky tides of my memory.
I closed my eyes, trying to see through the fog.
It was difficult to decipher which memories were real and which were the result of wine-induced delusion.
The stains of blood on my dress and the pain in my shoulder were undeniable, as was the memory of the smell of iron and the cold edge of Zhara’s dagger pressed against my throat.
I didn’t want to consider how much of a fool I’d made of myself last night. I didn’t want to remember the blood on my fingers, the feel of cold tile beneath my cheek, or the warmth of Casimir’s lips on mine—
Wait—his lips? Did that actually happen? No, I must’ve hallucinated it. A side effect of that terribly wonderful poison.
“How long have I been out?” I asked a little shakily, running my fingers through my knotted hair to assess the damage.
“Nearly two days.”
Two days?
“What?” I said, aghast. “What day is it?”
“Sunday.” He grimaced. “We didn’t get back until nearly three in the morning on Friday. You passed out in the foyer, so I carried you to the car. You were dead weight.”
I scowled at the smirk on his face, but he ignored me.
“I wasn’t nearly as inebriated as you were, so I drove us back. And before you make any nefarious assumptions, I slept on the couch,” he added, nodding toward the sofa.
I groaned again. “I’m never going to another party.”
“I can see now why you avoid them,” he agreed, fighting back a grin. “Let’s see…” He began tallying on his fingers. “You were assaulted by Monty Prescott, confronted by your ex, attacked by a Daemon, and then drank poisoned wine. Did I miss anything?”
“I didn’t drink the wine. Zhara forced it down my throat,” I growled.
“Is she the one who punched you, then?” He sighed and reached out to graze a knuckle along a bruise blooming along my jaw. “I suppose I’ll add her to the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of people I now have to kill.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not going to kill anyone.”
“Who says I haven’t already?”
I frowned up at him. “You wouldn’t.”
He gave me a roguish grin in reply.
Deciding to table the murder conversation for now, I asked, “What did the Order want last night, anyway?”
The smile slid from his face. “Devereaux came to me with a…proposal. I refused him, of course.”
The vagueness of his reply struck me as evasive. “Are you going to tell me what he offered you?”
“No. But you should know that Devereaux is looking for the Book of Erebos, so you’ll need to keep it hidden well. Don’t just stash it in your dormitory.”
“Obviously,” I said, as if the Book in question wasn’t stowed under my mattress at this very moment. “Why don’t you want to tell me what Devereaux offered you?”
“Because it doesn’t concern you,” he replied, his jaw tight.
My eyes narrowed in suspicion.
More lies. More evasions.
His expression grew serious. “Devereaux called you ‘Arden Farrow.’”
I stared at him. “So what?”
“Does anyone else at Ouverham—apart from me—know your true name?”
My eyes narrowed. This was not the first time he’d mentioned the importance of names. “I’ll tell you after you explain why it matters.”
Casimir pinned me with a sharp look. “Tell me who knows,” he enunciated each word with cold intensity.
I huffed in exasperation. “Fine! August knows my real name. And Gwen, of course.”
He nodded pensively. “No one else?”
“No one else,” I said firmly.
Casimir looked mollified, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.
“Why can’t you tell me why it matters? What happens if Devereaux learns my name?”
He shifted uncomfortably. Again, I had the sense that he was evaluating me with his gaze, deciding how much information he could trust me with.
After a moment, he said, “You’re safe exactly up to the moment Devereaux realizes ‘Farrow’ isn’t your true last name.”
Until Devereaux learned my true last name, Flynch. Farrow-Flynch, to be exact.
I stared at him in bewilderment. Because all Devereaux had to do was either torture August or break into the school records, and he’d have my name sealed on his lips forever.
I shook my throbbing head in confusion. I was still so dizzy from the aftereffects of the wine that, in my haste to get up, my foot slipped.
Casimir caught my elbow before I went crashing to the floor.
With a groan, I wrenched away from his grip.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would Devereaux’s knowing my true name make me unsafe?”
He sighed as I slumped to the floor. “A name is tied to a person, body and soul. Simply put, knowing someone’s true name gives them power over you.
If a Daemon like Devereaux knows your name, he can invoke it in a ritual or offer it to the Book of Erebos.
Names have power in Ethervale, and your mortal one is no different.
To seal a binding magical contract like a bloodbargain requires the use of true names. ”
“But, he already knows my mother’s name,” I pointed out.
“Ah, but Daemon magic follows genealogy through patrilineage.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course it did. Daemons were an utterly patriarchal bunch.
Casimir tilted his head as he considered me.
“It strikes me as odd that your father wanted you to use your mother’s last name.
I suppose it’s rather lucky all the same, because whether we like it or not, August obeys a new master now.
It’s only a matter of time before he slips up under the pressure and reveals your true name, especially if they’re regularly subjecting him to torture. ”
I winced at his casual reference to torture, knowing he was right. August had protected me thus far, and I was lucky Devereaux was ignorant of my full name. But how long would it be before he discovered the truth?
I clenched my jaw defensively. “August has held out this long. He hasn’t betrayed me.” Not yet, anyway.
Casimir’s face darkened, his umber eyes suddenly cold as they met mine. “I wonder if Sinclair knows he’s got you in his corner, defending him?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said impatiently. “Even if August never reveals my true name, Devereaux can glamour me and hurt me just as easily without my name.”
“True,” he conceded. “But if he attempts to use your name to trap you into a veilbound bargain or invokes your name in a curse, it’s likely nothing would happen. It would be non-binding.”
I twisted my head to cast him a skeptical glance from my position on the floor. “Whereas bloodbargains follow another set of rules,” I said, recalling our earlier conversation.
“Correct. Names aren’t always required to enshrine bloodbargains due to the use of blood in the vow-making. Now,” he said with an air of exaggerated patience, “will you please get up from the floor?”
I allowed him to help me to my feet. “When Zhara lured me upstairs, disguised as August—she looked exactly like him,” I said, frowning. “How can she transform into other people?”
“She’s a Morpher. Those of her caste tend to dwell in shadow and darkness. They possess an uncanny ability to cloak themselves in particularly convincing glamours. Including human ones.”
“I… tasted her glamour in the air,” I admitted. “It was like… iron.” I was careful to omit the word blood.
Casimir jerked around to stare at me, his amber eyes wide. “You tasted Zhara’s glamour? Are you sure?” Beneath his astonishment, there was something like triumph glimmering in his gaze. “Well, I guess I was right.” He smirked. “You can be trained to detect glamours.”
“I suppose,” I said skeptically. “Zhara also conjured a goblet of wine out of thin air.” I shuddered at the memory. “Is that… normal, for Morphers?”
Casimir shook his head. “No. It just so happens Zhara is both a Morpher and a Metallurgist. It isn’t a common ability, but Metallurgists can wield and manipulate metal and ore.”
“Why did she bother to glamour herself in the first place?”
Casimir shrugged. “Perhaps she planned to offer you the Daemon wine while morphed as August. She figures you trust August and would be more willing to accept the wine from him than someone else. She might’ve chosen to appear as someone else—another friend or trusted person—but she can’t just morph at will.
Her powers are already drained significantly, and she would need to steal the essence of that person to morph.
August was likely just the easiest option. ”
I swallowed. “And you didn’t—Zhara, is she—”
“She’s alive,” Casimir rolled his eyes. “For now, anyway. Though I expect her pride is somewhat wounded after being caught out by a mortal girl.” He handed me a glass of greenish-looking liquid that smelled bitterly like celery. “Get back on the bed and drink this,” he ordered.
I wrinkled my nose at the concoction.
“You can finish your story once you stop looking like you’re one foot from the grave,” he said.
“What is it?” I eyed the glass suspiciously.
“It’s not poisoned,” he reassured me with a wry smile.
“Though it would seem I’m too late to spare you from that particular fate.
It’ll help reverse the symptoms of the poisoning.
I made you drink a bit earlier—well, to be honest, I poured it down your throat—” he grimaced.
“But I was afraid if I gave you any more you’d aspirate. ”
I sniffed at the pungent, chartreuse liquid and grimaced.
Casimir sighed at my histrionics. “Don’t be difficult,” he scolded.
Feeling too nauseated to argue, I clambered back onto the bed, pinched my nose, and downed the contents of the glass, shuddering at the thick texture coating my tongue. It tasted even worse than it looked, like bitter parsley and grass.
“Ugh!” I coughed, handing back the glass. For a moment, I thought I was going to puke again, but the feeling passed. Sitting up against the pillows, I glanced around the loft, marveling at Casimir’s peculiar brand of organized chaos.
“Please continue,” he prompted.