Chapter 34 #2
Ouverham College’s board of fellows had clearly dipped into the endowment funds to see the ballroom decked out in elegant silver drapery.
On the far side of the ballroom, a string quartet played melodically next to a row of cloth-lined tables where I could only assume the university patrons might purchase an outrageously overpriced dinner toward the fundraising efforts.
Noting the enormous champagne tower, overflowing with the effervescent liquid,
Casimir and I exchanged a dubious glance.
Neither of us wanted to risk being drugged with Daemon wine tonight.
Instead, we opted for alcohol whose origins we could clearly identify.
I scanned the faces in the crowd as we made our way through the ballroom, searching for a flash of pale blonde hair or a pair of cruel emerald eyes.
Casimir noted my unease. Nothing slipped past his notice, it seemed.
After downing his measure of bourbon in one gulp, he turned to me, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”
I stared at the proffered hand. “Shall we what?”
He sighed as though I was being uncommonly daft. “Dance, of course. You do know we’re in a ballroom, don’t you?” he said, feigning an expression of mock concern. “Or should I be worried that the concussion you sustained gave you lasting brain damage?”
I scowled. “Insulting me seems a poor strategy to tempt me to accept your offer.”
He chuckled. “You’re right. I’m sorry, you aren’t brain-damaged. Just… distracted. But please, Miss Farrow,” he said in a low purr, offering me a deferential bow. “Allow me to distract you from your distraction.”
I fought back a smile. “Fine.”
I was grateful the string quartet seemed hellbent on playing only the most somber arrangements, which meant that we could sway across the dance floor as slowly as we liked, with my feet in little danger of crushing any toes.
Dancing wasn’t so bad, I thought, as Casimir’s hand dipped lower on my back, drawing me as close as propriety would allow at such a stuffy affair. To no one’s surprise, Casimir was an excellent dancer. My mouth twisted into an expression of irritated amusement. He arched a brow in question.
“It’s nothing.” I sighed. “Just—why am I not surprised to discover you’re a good dancer, too?”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No,” I said hastily, wrapping my arms more securely around his neck. I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to get closer to Casimir, even if he was being aggravating.
He smirked down at me. “Glad to see that my plan is working.”
I couldn’t deny he had an undeniable talent for distracting me. The knot in my stomach had unclenched somewhat during the course of our dancing.
“Have I told you how divine you look tonight?”
I flushed and looked away.
“I admit I am surprised you actually wore the necklace,” he said, his eyes dipping to the serpent clasp at the hollow of my throat. “It suits you.”
“Is flattery part of your plan for distracting me?”
He grinned. “No, but you are certainly distracting everyone else here tonight, looking the way you do.”
“With any luck, they’ll find the chainmail intimidating,” I quipped. Casimir’s hand moved to brush against the cold chain links at my waist, making me shudder.
And then he gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, believe me, you do look intimidating, but it’s not because of the chainmail.”
My retort died on my tongue as he leaned closer. The expression in his dark eyes was positively predatory, reminding me of the sultry comment he’d made at Bryce’s manor.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re the most dangerous thing at this party.”
If only that were true.
He grinned in earnest and then dropped his gaze to my neck. “Who glamoured you?” He frowned as his thumb traced the side of my neck where my love bites were now hidden.
I laughed even as my face heated at the memory. “No one did, it’s concealer. You know, makeup?”
He opened his mouth to reply, and then suddenly went rigid, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
His gaze was fixed on a point just over my shoulder, and when I whirled around, I found August standing there on the dance floor.
His eyes were tired, his skin pale and gray.
He wore a boxy tuxedo that was much too large on his shrinking frame.
A wave of pity and fear had me swallowing my reproach.
“Hello, Arden,” he murmured, but his eyes said, “I wish you hadn’t come.”
“Hey,” I replied uneasily. “What’s going on?”
“I need two minutes of your time. Please, Arden.” His eyes flicked to Casimir, wary of his protective stance. “Alone.”
To my surprise, Casimir hesitated for only the briefest of moments before giving a curt nod. “Two minutes. I’m counting, Sinclair,” he said, pressing my hand to his lips in a possessive gesture before handing me over to August.
August went, if possible, even paler. He shuddered as Casimir stalked off to give us privacy, though I suspected he would not go far.
Awkwardly, August took my hand and slid his other around my waist. It felt strange to be this close to him after so much time had passed.
He looked so severely altered, the purple crescents beneath his eyes even more pronounced up close.
“How do you stand being so close to him?” he muttered, not meeting my eye.
I frowned at him. “What do you mean?” It wasn’t exactly difficult to be around Casimir, save for the fact that being in his presence frequently made me forget how to speak English.
“He’s not like us, Arden. He’s not even human.” His lips pressed into a tight line of disapproval. “You know he’s killed before, right?”
I tried to hide my flinch with a scoff. The information didn’t surprise me so much as it disturbed me, but I couldn’t let August know that. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?” I demanded. “If so, I’ll just call Casimir back over, maybe he can answer your questions—”
“No,” August shook his head, as if remembering himself. “It’s not.” His voice dropped to such a low volume I could hardly hear him above the din of the music and the chatter of dancers whirling around us. “I came to ask if you had uncovered the identity of the Keeper’s Heir?”
I regarded him suspiciously. Could I trust August? What would he make of the cipher’s message?
“Well, no. I thought it might be Bryce,” I admitted. “But we did uncover something else. An encryption.” I explained about the Book of Ereobos and the cipher’s decrypted message: “O Heir, thine own blood bestows deliverance.”
He stared at me, his feet halting abruptly. “That’s the answer to the Book’s clue? That the Heir’s blood “bestows deliverance”?”
“Does that mean something to you?” I scrutinized his face, trying to unravel the truth from his expression.
August’s grip on my waist tightened, his features contorted by warring emotions. “Arden, Bryce isn’t the Heir.” He reached out to touch the serpent clasp at my throat.
I stared into August’s sallow face, unblinking. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t the Darkseer tell you? He must have suspected it from the beginning—”
“Suspected what?” I demanded, even as I felt the blood drain from my cheeks, leaving them cold and hollow.
August seemed to be struggling to speak. “Arden, don’t you see? Your blood is the cure. You are the Keeper’s Heir.”
I heard the words, but could not comprehend them.
Me, the Keeper’s Heir? It was unthinkable.
The other dancers pranced and twirled all around us, but my feet remained firmly planted on the ballroom floor.
I could do nothing except continue to stare at August. I felt detached, disconnected from my body as though I were floating somewhere outside of myself, staring down at the scene from above.
“Your father was named Keeper for the council,” August continued in a hoarse whisper, though there was little possibility of our being overheard amidst the laughter of the dancers and crescendo of violins. “He died guarding their secrets.”
Nothing he was saying made any sense. I concluded that August must have gone mad.
Enduring months of acute stress and starvation at the hands of the Order must have finally unraveled his sanity.
My father couldn’t have been named Keeper.
For one thing, he’d never given the slightest inkling he knew about the existence of Daemons or Ethervale or the Bloodthorn Order.
My father had been a Classics professor.
He had died of complications due to alcoholism.
That was the end of the story. Not only was the idea of him being the Keeper absurd, it was impossible.
It was impossible, and yet the Sprite of Kign’s voice banged around my skull.
“Malcolm guarded his secrets fiercely, too.”
“August,” I began, a strange smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “You cannot be serious. My father couldn’t have been the Keeper. He didn’t know about Daemons—or magic—or any of it! He would’ve told me if he had.”
August shook his head and grimaced. “Not if he believed concealing his identity could protect you. The circumstances under which he became the Keeper are nebulous, but from what I understand, he didn’t exactly volunteer for the position.”
Still, I shook my head, flat out refusing to believe his words even as a pernicious sort of dread began to fill my stomach, heavy and thick as black tar. “I don’t believe you,” I whispered.
“Were there really no signs?” he hissed. “Did you never suspect he concealed things from you? Or why he collected so many books on local folklore”
“I… He was always conducting research…” But the rest of the sentence was drowned by a dull ringing in my ears. And then I recalled the old book, the one that my mother had sent along with a box of his belongings.
Tales and Folklore of Lacunae.
And within it, the poem, “The Daemons of Lacunae.”