Chapter 38
No one spoke. No one moved. More than a dozen pairs of eyes turned to stare at me.
It felt like déjà vu, like that moment in the Tusk when I’d dared to defy Evren in front of the Order and found myself the unwitting focus of scornful attention.
Devereaux’s mouth hung open in shock. I waited for something to snap as the tension in the room wavered on a knife’s edge.
“If I die tonight, the council’s secret dies with me,” I warned.
Evren gave a disbelieving snort. “She’s bluffing, Dev. There’s no way she’s the Heir.”
But Devereaux hesitated, looking wary.
Muttering broke out among the assembled Daemons.
The adrenaline pumping through my veins had worn off, exhaustion rapidly taking its place.
I wanted so badly to sleep. To take my friends and run.
But I held Devereaux’s gaze, determined not to allow the barest hint of indecision to flicker across my face.
Devereaux spoke softly. “Am I to believe that our search for the Heir ends with you?” His lip curled into a sneer. “What proof can you give us?”
“How about the fact that my blood is immune to the Bloodweaver’s glamours?” I offered. A bead of sweat dripped down my back. It was only a hunch, but I suspected that being the Heir was the reason my body was immune to Evren’s glamour, and likely why I could taste lies.
Evren snarled, “That’s a lie!”
“Is it?” I taunted him, relishing this moment perhaps a little more than was wise, given the circumstances. “Remind me, what name did I use when we exchanged our vows? Arden Farrow, wasn’t it?”
Evren’s face was contorted with rage. Devereaux looked troubled, and I wondered if he was replaying the scene in the Tusk in his mind, when he’d watched his Bloodweaver try and fail to subdue me.
“Or maybe you’d like more concrete proof?
” I said. “Perhaps you ought to send your dogs to ransack my dormitory again? I’m sure they could rustle up a few family photographs.
” Not bothering to hide my irritation, I added, “Or maybe you’d like me to describe my father instead?
Let’s see. Medium-height, gray-haired, smoked a pipe and loved whiskey. ”
Devereaux’s face visibly paled.
“Wore round glasses that make him look like an owl. Does any of that jog your memory?” I bared my teeth at him in what must have been a vicious smile.
The Siphoner’s silver eyes narrowed at my insolence, but he stepped closer, scrutinizing my features as though they might reveal flashes of my father’s.
“Well, well,” he murmured as recognition flashed across his face.
“I didn’t realize Slyfoot had a daughter.
This is a night of revelations, indeed…”
Slyfoot?
A cold, prickling awareness slid down my spine. Why did that name sound so familiar?
“I knew Malcolm as a mortal emissary called Slyfoot… ” Devereaux explained.
“Of course, I never made the connection, what with your different surnames… ” He barked a short, amused laugh, though nothing about the situation was humorous.
“How clever, to give you a different name. To think, all this time… you were right under our noses. Slyfoot’s daughter… Extraordinary.”
With a sickening realization, I realized why the name sounded so familiar. I had come across it in my father’s storybook, the Tales and Folklore of Lacunae.
Ere sly of foot and sharp of eye, may keep a mortal oft alive…
Sly of foot.
Slyfoot.
A ragged exhale was forced from my lungs, but Devereaux was speaking again, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
“Nymara’s spies and emissaries always operate under code names, you see. The duty of passing messages on behalf of our Queen is not without its risks.”
“Yes, your father must have bargained for certain protections against softmagic while he was in Ethervale. Many of the Queen’s emissaries did. I suppose it might explain your immunity to certain glamours,” he conceded with a sidelong glance at Evren, who scowled.
“You believe he bargained for magical protections? For me?” I repeated, feeling stunned. It was surreal to think that Devereaux could have known my father—had possibly known him better than I ever had.
Devereaux didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still glinting with curiosity as he studied me. “I admit, I’ve never heard of a mortal bestowing such protections on a mortal child…” He frowned. “And yet you are not like most mortals, are you, girl?”
Even now, at this moment of peril, I couldn’t help but marvel at my own ignorance.
Devereaux’s explanation of my father as a mortal emissary clicked another piece of the puzzle into place.
It explained my father’s secretiveness, his mysterious absences, and his obsession with local folklore.
He’d insisted that I take fencing lessons, and he’d wanted me to hone my special abilities like a weapon.
My father had ensured I was bestowed with protections that would enable me to survive even after his death.
And all this time, he’d acted as emissary to the Order—had leveraged his position within Ethervale’s court to gain protections for himself—and for his progeny.
In hindsight, all of it felt so calculated, so planned.
Except—none of that explained why had he had posthumously sent me to Ouverham?
Had my father wanted me to discover who he truly was?
And if so, why not tell me everything while he was still alive?
Instead, he’d thrown me into a nest of snakes without warning.
“You’re right, I’m not like most mortals, I’m the Keeper’s Heir. And you’ll agree to my terms, or the secret dies tonight,” I said. To emphasize the point, I pressed the edge of the blade against my neck, coaxing a thin rivulet of blood to run the length of my throat.
Don’t call my bluff. Believe me.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pressed harder, gritting my teeth against the sting of the blade—
“Stop!” Devereaux blurted out.
I nearly collapsed with relief, but my knees held.
“I won’t end my life if you swear that Casimir, Gwen, August, and I may leave this place alive.”
A low, rasping laugh slipped free of Devereaux’s lips before he spoke. “Sinclair’s life is not yours to bargain with, girl.”
My stomach lurched. “Why—”
“He is dead,” he interrupted.
A heavy silence fell, weighted by the shock of his declaration.
“The Darkseer may leave the Grotto unharmed.”
“What about Gwen?”
Devereaux rolled his eyes callously, but he said, “Are we negotiating, now, girl?” He chuckled. “If you share the secret, then yes, you may take Riordan with you.”
“I…” My mouth struggled to form words. Could I do this? Could I sacrifice Neha in exchange for Casimir and Gwen? It was unspeakable. Unforgivable.
Devereaux scrutinized me closely for a moment. “Well?”
“Alright,” I croaked.
“One more thing,” Evren said. “The mortal bitch must relinquish her blood protections. For real, this time.”
I winced and then nodded. “Okay. We’ll use my dagger to seal the bargain. You may approach—unarmed,” I said, eyeing them warily.
Evren’s smile slid off his face and curled into a sneer.
“Oh, may we approach the altar? How generous of you.” He shook his head in disgust. “You really have some nerve, girl. Fine. We will allow you to spill our magical blood during the vow-making, damned be the gods.” He lowered the Umbra Noctis from Casimir’s throat, and I let out a ragged breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Antidote first,” I said.
In an exaggerated show of impatience, Evren stalked over to where Casimir was bound and tipped the vial between his pale lips. I watched Casimir’s throat work, watched his mouth twist into a grimace at the taste.
“Happy?” Evren deadpanned. “Now can we begin?”
I nodded, still with that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the scent of blood filling my nostrils.
Evren and Devereaux approached the altar, the former rolling his eyes when I went rigid with fear, raising my dagger instinctively.
Devereaux looked wearied, but Evren’s eyes burned with anticipation. “This time, I’ll make sure it sticks.”
The look of grim anticipation in the Bloodweaver’s gaze made my palms slick with nerves. I knew what that look meant. He was eager to make me hurt, to elicit the pain he was denied when I’d tricked him during our first bargain.
“I, Arden Farrow Flynch,” I began, wincing on the last word, “do solemnly vow to share the secret entrusted to me by the council with Devereaux Graves. I—” I stopped abruptly.
A wild fear was creeping into my veins, twisting around my tongue and closing over my airway like tangled sinew.
Every instinct screamed at me to stop. My very blood sang out against these vows as an abomination of my inheritance.
“And?” Evren prompted, a vicious smile curving his mouth.
Dread coiled around my throat. To be at the mercy of a Bloodweaver, a Bludkravk, would be a terrible thing.
But what choice did I have? With gritted teeth, I brought my knife across my palm.
I averted my gaze, but not quickly enough to stop myself from seeing my blood spill onto the dais where it mingled with August’s and Neha’s.
I caught a glimpse of the gash across August’s throat, his gray skin, and felt my stomach lurch.
Gwen was crying but unharmed. Neha lay prostrate next to a dizzyingly large pool of blood.
She wasn’t moving. Oh gods. I tried to calm my shallow breaths and focus on the task at hand.
Evren thrust his hand forward impatiently and I forced my fingers to remain steady as I carved an identical line through the flesh of his right palm. My stomach churned at the sight of so much blood, dark and viscous as it fell to the dais, some of it seeping beneath my silver heels.
Devereaux went last. We each swore our vows and spilled our blood in turn.
Evren’s vow to allow Casimir and Gwen to leave the Grotto was brief and to the point.
For his part, Devereaux made superfluous use of flowery, poetic language, and by the time he was finished, Evren looked ready to explode.
But then—metal rolled across my tongue, and I knew the bargain was sealed.
It was all I could do to suppress my gasp as my arm burst into flame. I grasped at my left arm, knees buckling. The pain was so intense, it was all I could do not to scream.
A second rune had appeared to join the first. It was the Threxian rune, the Ethervalean symbol for debt.
Λ
“The bargain is now sealed,” murmured Devereaux.
“It is sealed,” Evren echoed, wrapping his hand in a silk handkerchief. “Now, tell us the secret,” he added impatiently.
Like a drug injected into my veins, I felt the compulsion to obey his command sluice through me. Unbidden, my lips parted to answer—
“I vowed to share it with Devereaux Graves, and no one else,” I reminded Evren. Devereaux could decide whether to share it with his cronies.
While Evren glowered at the pair of us, Devereaux leaned in to let me whisper into his ear.
“There’s a way to end bloodbargains.”
He drew back, looking both elated and expectant. “Well, go on girl, tell me how to end them.”
“I don’t know how,” I replied truthfully. “That’s all I know.”
Devereaux gaped at me, and then his expression twisted into a glower to match Evren’s. “You deceived us,” he growled, his fury as palpable as the taste of iron on my tongue.
“I didn’t deceive you!” I protested. “I’ve told you everything!”
“What the fuck did she tell you, Dev?” Evren tugged at Devereaux’s elbow, and in a lower voice, added, “Entrust the secret with me, Dev, and I’ll make her spill whatever else it is she’s hiding.”
“No, you idiot!” Devereaux bellowed, wrenching free of his grasp.
“She cannot conceal anything regarding the secret according to our own bargain terms.” He muttered a string of expletives under his breath, and then resumed his disparagement.
“Fool, don’t you see? The girl has duped us into believing she knew more than she did—”
“But what did she tell you? She must’ve known something!” he argued.
A flash of silver hair at the far end of the Grotto snagged my attention away from Evren and Devereaux’s bickering.
It was Veronika. She was watching me intently, a warning gleam in her quicksilver eyes.
She glanced over to where Casimir lay, gray-faced and envenomed, and then back at me, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
I stared. What did she mean by it? Slowly, she lifted her arm.
My eyes darted to her wrist, where an eye—the Moros—was burned into her skin. It was a twin to the one Casimir bore.
Knowledge is seeing with both eyes open.
Veronika winked at me as one by one, the members of the Bloodthorn Order began to fall.