Chapter 21
My thoughts on the walk back to Ash Hall were muddled by anxiety over my last conversation with Casimir. I was too distracted to evade the hand that darted out of the shadows and pulled me into an unoccupied classroom.
A flash of auburn hair and bronze skin, and then—
“There you are.”
Evren’s cruel green eyes slanted into view.
I struggled against his grip and nearly succeeded in slipping away, then his fist collided with my jaw, gnashing my teeth against the inside of my cheek. Blood pooled in my mouth, hot and metallic.
“Devereaux wants a word,” the Bloodweaver hissed in my ear. For emphasis, he twisted my wrist behind my back, eliciting a gasp of surprise and pain.
He drew back, his lip curling in disdain.
He thrust me onto the tiled floor with a grunt.
The Bloodweaver had dragged me into one of the biology classrooms, and we weren’t alone.
Devereaux Graves stood before a large glass display of meticulously pinned insects.
Row after row of emerald beetles, tiger moths, and swallowtail butterflies suspended in the slanted morning light.
As a Literature major, I’d never spent much time in Ouverham’s science labs, but now I found I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the glittering tableaux.
“Thank you, Evren,” Devereaux dismissed him without turning around.
“I’ll be right outside, if you need me.” Evren offered him a curt nod before departing, clicking the door shut behind him.
I spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “What do you want from me?” I demanded.
“Merely to speak with you,” Devereaux intoned, turning halfway toward me to frown at the blood splattering the tile floor, then raising his cold eyes to mine, his gaze appraising.
In spite of my fear, I could admit that the Siphoner was attractive—he possessed the same cruel sort of beauty as Evren, only with pale hair and features that sharply contrasted with his dark clothing. A Daemonic sort of beauty, I thought.
He arched an elegant brow, as if unimpressed by my appearance. “I hope you will prove more reasonable than your Darkseer.”
My Darkseer.
I bristled at the term. “Is this about your proposal to Casimir?”
“Of course,” he said.
His honesty surprised me, and I steeled myself for whatever else must be coming.
“As I suspect he’s already told you, I’ve offered Casimir a place at the ritual.
” Devereaux tore his eyes away from the display of pinned butterflies and strode over to a cabinet.
Opening it, he procured a large glass jar filled with live butterflies, all madly fluttering their cerulean wings.
“Predictably, he refused,” he added, plucking a single butterfly from the jar.
I watched, transfixed, as Devereaux placed the butterfly on his index finger, gazing at it in admiration as its wings opened and closed serenely.
With a sickening lurch, I recalled the live butterfly Devereaux had pinned to his lapel at Bryce’s party, the way its wings had fluttered so pitifully.
He’d made an innocent creature suffer and die, and for what? Some sick decoration?
Bile rose in my throat.
“I know how much you care for Augustus,” Devereaux said, still watching the butterfly. “And I would hate for you to suffer such a devastating loss. There might be a way to ensure that he survives the blood rite, assuming you agree to cooperate with me.”
My muscles tensed as a sudden rage coursed through my blood like wildfire.
I felt an overpowering urge to hurt Devereaux for dangling August’s life over me like some sick bargaining chip.
As per Casimir’s suggestion, I kept my silver dagger hidden beneath my clothes at all times, stashing it underneath my pillow at night.
But even armed, I was too rusty to stand a chance in a fight against a Daemon like Devereaux.
I needed to be smart about this. Threats would only enrage him, and bargaining was out of the question.
Swallowing the last dregs of blood on my tongue, I cleared my throat.
“From what I hear, you’re a prince without a throne.
” I forced my brows to raise in challenge as his silver gaze landed sharply on me.
“It sounds like you’re the one who needs something from me, so forgive me if I don’t leap at your offer. ”
Devereaux smiled wickedly at my provocation, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“It’s true that my rightful position as Heir was stolen from me,” he said.
“My father died under dubious circumstances, leaving my Uncle Caladryn to act as Protector of the throne.” His light tone was belied by the way his features hardened.
“Of course, Caladryn was weak and utterly foolish when it came to politics. He betrayed me, and was then betrayed in turn. The Graves family is bursting with backstabbers and pretenders. I suppose it’s the reason why I have such difficulty trusting people,” he admitted.
“You and I have that in common, I think.”
My stomach twisted with distaste at the comparison. “Dead fathers, you mean?” I deadpanned. I was loath to admit it, but he was right about my trust issues. I huffed and added, “You haven’t even told me what you’re offering.”
Devereaux ignored me to gaze at the butterfly perched peacefully on his knuckle. “You know, the Blue Morpho isn’t native to our forests here on the Isle of Lorn. I had them shipped in specially.”
My brows furrowed in confusion. Why the hell was he talking about butterflies?
With his free hand, he lifted a square piece of cork from a nearby table and placed the butterfly onto it.
I watched, wide-eyed, as he drew two strips of wax paper over either side of the butterfly’s wings, trapping it against the cork.
Before I could so much as gasp, Devereaux drove a needle through the butterfly’s thorax, pinning it against the mounting board.
I released a cry of protest, watching in horror as the poor creature trembled in agony.
“I consider myself something of a collector of beautiful objects,” Devereaux said, turning to catch my eye, apparently unperturbed by my horror at what he’d just done. “I must admit, I’m intrigued by you, Arden. What is it about you that caught the Darkseer’s interest?”
My blood ran cold at the question. The last thing I needed was for Devereaux Graves to take an interest in me. He didn’t know my true name, nor my ability to taste lies, and I couldn’t risk him ever finding out on either count.
He plucked another pin from the table and began pinning the wings.
The butterfly’s feeble movements were growing weaker.
I closed my eyes before he drove the last pin into the last wing, condemning it to frozen mimicry.
“You call yourself a collector?” I spat, refusing to answer his question. “And you think that gives you the right to torture innocent creatures?”
Devereaux’s gaze darkened for a fraction of a second.
“Sometimes beautiful things must be tamed. Perhaps your Darkseer has not told you, but in nature, there is always a hierarchy. As Daemons, we prefer to formalize our hierarchy based on power and blood.” He stepped back and examined his handiwork.
“However much you like to pretend otherwise, I rather think this is the case for mortals as well.”
The butterfly was no longer moving.
I tore my eyes away from the creature, my stomach turning.
“The question is, will you do whatever it takes to save your friend, Arden?”
The combination of his sickening display of cruelty, his talk of hierarchy and caste, together with the metallic flavor of the blood still coating my mouth, proved to be too much. I heaved onto the tile, my vomit joining the taste of blood.
Devereaux pursed his lips in revulsion, but I hardly noticed.
How incredibly unlucky that the taste of blood and bile occluded my ability to discern lies at this moment. I had no way of knowing if Devereaux’s offer was genuine.
He was still waiting for my answer.
“What do you want me to do?” I rasped.
“Here are my terms,” he clipped. “When the time comes, you will help us lure the Darkseer to the ritual. We need his participation to ensure the magic is at its most potent.”
“And if I do, you’ll spare August’s life?” I gave a derisive snort. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “We can seal it with a veilbound bargain, if you wish. To appease both of our trust issues.”
For a fraction of a second, I seriously considered it. Could I betray Casimir to save August’s life? Could I do that to him, after everything? After he’d broken Monty’s finger and nursed me back to health after I was poisoned? I squeezed my eyes shut, willing this nightmarish scene to dissipate.
No, I thought. As much as Casimir might evade or omit the truth, he would never betray me outright. Not like this.
“No deal,” I ground out.
The slight stiffening of Devereaux’s posture did not escape my notice.
“What a shame,” he sighed, “that you seem as determined to be as stubborn as your friend.” He turned back to his display, his hands braced on either end of the glass case. “I’ll see you soon, Arden Farrow,” he said, dismissing me.
I fled from the room with the taste of blood and vomit still clinging to my teeth.