Chapter 15
THE GRAND SCHEME
WHEN SUYIN ROLLED OUT OF BED AFTER A RESTLESS sleep, the sky was still dark, thanks to the painfully long nights in Hell. She knew she usually went to bed after twelve hours or so, but other than that, she had no way of tracking the passage of time.
She tried not to think about how worried everyone back home would be.
She’d missed all her shifts at Le Repaire, and she was pretty sure she’d missed a coven meeting by now too.
She wasn’t a big social butterfly, but she also had some non-witchy friends who would be wondering why she wasn’t answering their calls.
There wasn’t anything she could do about it except ensure that Murmur’s spell was successful. The sooner he accomplished whatever he was trying to do, the sooner she could go home.
After washing up, she dressed in black leggings and a hoodie and then zipped up her boots. She ate the last of her box of granola bars as she climbed the stairs, making a mental note to ask Murmur to get her some more food.
She entered the top floor but hesitated outside the library. She wasn’t sure what to expect after what had happened last night. She still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened last night.
It felt like everything had shifted between them, but she didn’t know how Murmur was going to play it. Would he explain why he’d freaked and kicked her out of his room? Or would he just act like it had never happened? And which option would she prefer?
Probably the latter, she decided. Clinging to denial suited her just fine.
She couldn’t avoid confrontation forever, so she took a breath and pushed open the door. Unsurprisingly, Murmur was there, crouched at the edge of the big sigil, repainting the lines with what had to be blood. If she’d needed a reminder of what he was, that was a pretty solid one.
The fireplace and lanterns had been lit, and the room was full of comfortable warmth and light. Murmur had braided his hair today, and the thick white rope lay down the middle of his back. His tail curled around his feet, the end flicking like a cat.
Just the sight of him made her stomach clench.
Clinging to denial, remember? She shoved the feeling away and came up behind him. “Is that what I think it is?”
He glanced over his shoulder. The moment their eyes met, whatever connection had awakened between them last night sparked back to life. There was an awareness of her in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
He arched a dark brow. “Since you went ahead and familiarized yourself with the contents of my desk, you should already know what it is.”
Distracted as she was, it took a moment for that to sink in. When it did, she stiffened. He continued watching her with a knowing look—a heated knowing look.
He knew she’d gone through his desk, and … he didn’t seem pressed about it.
She coughed. “Angel blood, then?”
He went right back to painting the line with controlled brushstrokes. She stared at his back, noting the strength apparent in the controlled movements of his shoulders.
“Correct,” he said.
She waited with bated breath for him to chew her out, to threaten to throw her back into the dungeon, to warn her to never touch his shit. Instead, he just kept on painting. Several minutes of tense silence passed before she started to believe he was really going to let it go.
“Where did you get angel blood?” she dared to ask.
“From the angel chained up in my dungeon,” he replied, still focused on his lines.
Her eyes bugged. “There’s an angel—Who? How?”
“He was given to me as a gift. A peace offering of sorts.”
She scrubbed her face, trying to digest that information. That is so fucked up. This whole situation is fucked up, and I think I’m losing my mind.
She probably should’ve started planning an angel rescue mission—because weren’t they supposed to be the good guys?—but instead she was marveling at how Murmur seemed to be in a sharing mood. She wasn’t wasting an opportunity like that.
She studied the back of his head some more. The memory of the night before resurfaced again, and her stomach flipped over.
She ground her teeth. She had to stop these stupid thoughts. He was her captor, and she obviously needed therapy in a bad way.
“Pass me the second bowl of blood from the table?” he asked. She did so, careful not to spill a drop, and he took it from her without looking away from his work.
She stared at the red fluid, noticing it showed no signs of clotting. “Did you use the same potion on the bowl that you used on the vial?”
“Yes. I use it every time I use a blood sacrifice. The recipe is in one of the books I gave to you. If you’re going to be practicing Sheolic magic, you should learn it.”
“I’ll take a look.”
He balanced the fresh bowl in one hand and continued painting with the other, still not glancing up. Was he that unaffected by what had happened last night? Or was he just skilled at hiding his thoughts?
It didn’t matter. She forced her mind to focus on what really mattered: gathering information. She took a breath and asked, “Are you really a seer?”
“Yes.”
“Do your visions always come true? Every time?”
“Yes.” His tone was casual, but the subtle tightening of his shoulders said more than his words did. “From what I’ve seen, anyway.”
“Have you ever changed a vision before? Prevented it from happening?”
“No.”
There was silence as that sank in. Murmur kept working and Suyin stared at him.
“So what are you going to do?” She shouldn’t care. He was right—his death would be the ultimate convenience for her, the easiest way to escape.
He set the bowl down and shot her a look over his shoulder. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Trying to learn as much as I can?” She shrugged. “Of course I am. I’m stuck here, and only an idiot wouldn’t see the value in making the most of a bad situation. Not to mention, you can’t blame me for being curious about a spell that involves my blood and my grimoire.”
His eyes narrowed, but it seemed more deliberative than threatening.
“I don’t know for certain that the future I see in a vision can’t be changed.
In fact, factors suggest it can be. I can only hope that this time will be the exception to my past experiences.
I’ve certainly never been as motivated as I am now. ”
She didn’t know what to say to that. They were discussing his potential death, and he made it sound inevitable. Not only that, but he’d just revealed a critical weakness.
Before, he’d convinced her that assisting with his spell was the fastest way for her to get free.
But if his spell was really a way to save his life, then technically, she could be motivated to stall his progress until the vision caught up with him.
Then she would have both her revenge and her freedom.
But … she didn’t want him dead anymore. Whether that was because she wanted answers and knew he had them, or for some other, much stupider reason she refused to consider, she didn’t know.
“What happens if you can’t change it?” she asked.
“Then I die, and I can only hope I’ve succeeded in changing what happens afterward.”
“As in, after your death?”
“Mhm.” He continued painting once more.
“But … there is no afterward for a demon. Everyone knows that demons don’t have souls, so when they die, they just dissolve into energy.”
“That has been the accepted explanation, yes.”
“You’re saying it’s not the truth? That there’s something more?”
He set the bowl and paintbrush down and rose suddenly to his full height. She blinked up at him towering above her. Somehow it always came as a surprise how big he was.
“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head, “when did you acquire that grimoire of yours?”
“The one you stole?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even bother to look sorry about it.
“My mother gave it to me right before she died.”
“And what did she tell you about it?”
Her mouth twisted. “Basically nothing. She told me it belonged to my father, it contained important information, and I was to guard it carefully.”
He cocked a brow. “Didn’t do a very good job of that, did you?”
She shot him a glare. “I kept it for over thirty years. And I might have taken better care of it if she’d told me what it was for. I read it a hundred times, and it was always gibberish.”
“That’s because you were reading it through the lens of your accepted reality.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His head tilted the other way. “I still find it hard to believe you truly have no idea what you are.”
She ground her teeth. She would have punched his perfect, dead face if she could have reached that high.
“What I am is pissed off because I’m sick of people withholding information about my life from me.
First my mother, now you. I was expected to protect some precious book without knowing why, and now I’m expected to open up a Suyin-exclusive blood bank for your stupid spell that you won’t fucking explain to me! ”
Murmur maintained that annoyingly calm facade.
She glared at him, breathing heavily as her anger burned hot.
She wanted to demand he acknowledge what happened between them last night and stop acting all cool and collected, like he wasn’t thinking the exact same shit she was every time their eyes met.
“I don’t have time for this,” he growled, looking away. “This is not on my list of things to do in any way, shape, or form.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He stepped out of the sigil suddenly, fluid strides carrying him between the painted lines. Then he strode to his desk and dropped into his chair, beckoning impatiently for her to approach.
As she came up beside him, he pushed aside a few loose papers to reveal her grimoire and pulled it closer. “Right,” he began. “I’m going to give you the briefest explanation possible because, as I said, I really don’t have time for this.”
She stared at the side of his face, scarcely believing what was happening. Was he actually going to tell her what she wanted to know?