Chapter 24
“Again,” I panted, pushing myself to standing as my legs shook violently beneath me.
We’d been training for over an hour.
Golden sunlight streamed in through the grimy stained-glass windows of the Grotto as I tried again and again to resist Casimir’s mental attacks. My thermos of coffee had long gone cold, and my patience was wearing thin.
No matter how hard I fought them, Casimir’s glamours superseded any resistance on my part.
At the onset of each vision, my senses abandoned me; I couldn’t see, smell, or hear anything apart from what he showed me.
His magic overwhelmed me entirely, blurring fiction with reality until discerning the difference between the two was impossible.
My mind was vulnerable and woefully unprotected.
Still, I bore his onslaughts like hot daggers driving into my skull until at last, Casimir took pity on me and withdrew.
Whenever I came to, I found myself on the floor, sweating and shaking uncontrollably.
His glamour was that pervasive.
“Let’s go again,” I gritted my teeth against another wave of nausea. One of the more unpleasant side effects of working with glamours was that they made you sick.
Casimir drew away, just as he had after every other time. He’d explained that, while not strictly necessary, it helped to maintain physical contact while glamouring me, and—to my increasing mortification—his touch never failed to set my heart thrumming.
I often wondered if he could hear my traitorous heart, but if he could, he had the grace not to mention it.
The aftereffects of his glamours were unpleasant enough.
The nausea, migraines, and body aches only amplified after each session ended, leaving my head pounding and my stomach roiling with acid.
I tried to ignore the jolt of nerves that surged through my arm when his fingers brushed my skin, and shuddered with regret each time he released me.
Before he could argue, I interjected, “I’m fine. Just give me a minute, and we can try again.” I just needed to wait until the room stopped swimming.
“You’re letting me penetrate your mind far too easily,” Casimir clipped. “Let’s take a break, we’re not making any progress like this.”
“I said I’m fine.” I was panting, trying to focus my gaze on the still-spinning room. But I knew the longer we waited, the worse my symptoms would get.
“You are far from fine,” he huffed a laugh. “What you are is a very bad liar.”
I bristled at the accusation. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a break.” I forced my lips into an unconvincing smile that turned into a grimace of pain. “I didn’t know the big bad Darkseer could get tired so easily.”
Taunting him was perhaps an unhealthy way of letting out my frustration, but I relished the opportunity, nonetheless.
I still hadn’t summoned the courage to ask him to go to the Jewel Ball with me, despite my erstwhile promise to Gwen.
The cowardly part of me hoped that we’d find some excuse to attend the ball together on Order business.
That way I wouldn’t be obligated to ask him to go as my date.
After the… incident that had occurred in my room a few hours ago, I just couldn’t stomach another rejection.
I’d experienced enough humiliation for one day.
Embarrassment still clung to me like a bad hangover in the wake of the kiss, but from the way he was acting, I could almost convince myself I’d imagined it—if not for the feel of my slightly swollen lips and the memory of his fingers, tangled in my hair…
Gods, why had I told him I wanted to keep things professional?
And how dare he believe me, when my words were so clearly at odds with my actions.
He’d felt the way my traitorous body responded to him—all too eager and willing.
But… maybe it was for the best. To desire anything more than friendship with someone like Casimir would be to invite disaster, and with what little time we had left to stop the ritual, neither of us could afford the distraction.
Knowing he was a dangerous kind of distraction did not stop me from wanting him.
Sometimes, I caught myself staring at his mouth, the outline of his lips on mine still burned into my memory like a brand in the moments before he glamoured me…
“Farrow?” I heard Casimir’s voice as though from a distance.
I came to with my cheek pressed against the cold, filthy stone, and the unpleasantly sticky feeling of sweat sliding down my forehead. The acrid smell of mildew filled my nostrils as I peered up at him from the Grotto floor.
“Do you always have to show me such horrible things?” I croaked.
Every time Casimir invaded my memories, it reminded me how utterly vulnerable I was—and indeed, vulnerability was what I’d signed up for when I’d agreed to let him train me—but I hadn’t expected this.
To have my mind flayed open for his glamour to brutally parse my memories apart, separating them like seeds from the flesh of pomegranates, was pure carnage.
I hated that I’d given him an open invitation to witness the worst moments of my life: my shame, my grief, my heartache.
He frowned. “That last vision was all you. I came across it in your memories.”
I struggled to remember through a haze of pain. And then I recalled the pale, skeletal hand reaching out of the wardrobe. A disfigured face with a blood red mouth and two gleaming eyes, coal black and ruthless.
“Oh,” I mumbled, rubbing at my temple.
He’d come across one of my frequent nightmares.
“It’s just a dream I have sometimes,” I explained. “Probably my subconscious trying to remind me to call my mother.” I attempted to smile and choked on a dry heave.
Casimir offered me a hand, which I ignored. I rose to my feet, rubbing my aching lower back and wincing at the thought of how sore I’d be tomorrow.
He cast me a look that was torn between amusement and exasperation.
“Would you rather I show you colorful visions of puppies and rainbows?” he asked.
“Or perhaps you’d like to see the Gilded Circlites running around campus in their undergarments.
Would that increase the likelihood of a breakthrough? ”
In spite of my irritation, a smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. “What did you just call them? Undergarments?”
He huffed impatiently. “Stop waiting for someone to save you from the glamour.”
My mouth fell open in outrage. “I am not waiting for—”
“You aren’t fighting hard enough. You just keep letting bad things happen to you,” he cut me off.
I recoiled as though he’d slapped me.
But he was right. Every time he showed me a memory, I simply absorbed the blows.
When he’d showed me a vision of my mother criticizing my behavior, or the time August had ditched me to meet with Bryce and Margot, I took the hurt and buried it deep inside.
Despite my reputed temper, in those instances where someone I loved truly gutted me, I folded inward—an act of self–preservation— just as I had on the days when those memories had occurred.
And now, Casimir was asking me to rewrite history.
“Maybe now would be a good time to take a break,” Casimir said. His expression brooked no argument.
My shoulders slumped in both relief and disappointment, but before I could sit down, he stopped me with a light touch to my elbow.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that you get to rest, Farrow.” He barked out a laugh, his eyes glittering with mirth. “No, I thought now would be a good time to refresh your combat skills.”
“What?” I balked. “You can’t be serious—I was this close to vomiting into that bucket not two minutes ago!”
Casimir clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“What if you encounter a situation where you’re forced to fight after being put under a glamour?
Knowing how to defend yourself under the added strain of nausea or dizziness is critical.
Need I remind you how much of a disadvantage you’re working with, Farrow?
” His eyes narrowed. “Even the weakest Daemon is significantly more powerful than you are.”
I glared at him. “Yes, thank you. I get it, I’m a weak, mortal girl. You don’t have to keep reminding me,” I spat.
His low chuckle echoed off the high ceilings. “You are right now, but maybe you don’t have to be. Come on, draw your blade and assume a fighting stance. I’m sure you remember that at least.”
I ground my jaw hard enough to fracture a tooth. Did he have to be so fucking cruel?
Casimir’s obsidian dagger caught the light as he unsheathed it, the blade gleaming like quicksilver. It was the same one he’d stolen from Zhara.
I swallowed nervously. “We’re going to practice with real knives?
” I was used to practicing with sabres—fencing swords—which were long and blunted at the tip.
Fighting with daggers was entirely unfamiliar territory.
Shakily, I drew my own dagger from its sheath.
It felt heavier than lead against my palm.
Why hadn’t he told me about this in advance?
I wouldn’t have worn jeans if I’d known we’d be doing this sort of training.
Casimir’s answering grin was entirely too smug. “Unless you have a pair of training blades lying around somewhere? Yes, Farrow, we’ll be using real daggers. And don’t worry about me,” he added. “Like I said, I heal quickly.”
I muttered a curse under my breath.
He laughed at my terrified expression. “Alright, how about this? I’ll keep my blade sheathed, so there’s no risk of drawing blood. Sound fair?”
I sighed in relief at the offer and gave him a curt nod. On instinct, I shifted into a fighting stance, leading with my left foot and swaying slightly to ensure that my weight was distributed evenly. Despite my admittedly lax practice as of late, my muscles remembered the basics of defensive form.
My eyes never left Casimir’s face as I gripped onto my dagger, holding the handle in such a way that the blade faced outward, thereby preventing my opponent from simply seizing my weapon.