Chapter 17 #2
Julian took a key from the inner breast pocket of his jacket and fitted it into a lock on the top of the glass.
With ease, he raised the glass top of the case until it rested at an angle against the stone wall behind it.
Killian and the rest of the room leaned closer to get a better look.
Even Elyse seemed entranced by the cache.
“The necklace, please,” Julian crooned to Elyse, holding out his hand.
Without taking her gaze off the Blade of Hanael, she obeyed, tossing him the curse-repellent necklace. Julian laid it atop the velvet among the rest of the objects.
“In addition to the necklace Madame Crenshaw has provided,” Julian said, turning to face the group, “we have several other items to choose from tonight. Mr. Veneer has provided the original recipe for transportation potion.” His slender, manicured fingers indicated the worn parchment.
Killian furrowed his brows. Why would anyone want a copy of a recipe for something so easily produced?
Surely it was worth something as a collectible, but not priceless.
It wasn’t even in good condition. The ink was smudged and illegible in places, and it appeared to have several burn marks marring the instructions.
He must have been wearing his confusion plainly, because Death leaned toward him and whispered, “It is claimed that the original recipe can transport its master not only from one place to another, but between worlds.”
Killian looked up to find her gaze on him, assessing him with mild curiosity. “So the one we use now has been diluted over time? Lost in translation?”
“Precisely,” Death said with a nod.
Killian returned his attention to the case, peering at the next objects: two books nearly identical to one another, wrapped in aged black leather, their edges frayed. He had a good guess who had provided those.
“Nathaniel and Norvick have offered the Midnight Grimoire and the Obsidian Grimoire, respectively,” Julian said, confirming Killian’s suspicions.
Grimoires—Killian had heard the term used before. Ancient spellbooks, usually full of dark, powerful magic lost to common knowledge. He wondered if there was anything useful about trapping and killing a demon in either of the books.
“Mr. Southwick will be playing for the departed Niall Royce, who provided the Blade of Hanael before his untimely passing,” Julian said with a skeptical glance toward Elyse. He likely believed her to be the reason for the “untimely passing,” just as Killian did.
Thomes frowned at the mention of the Blade. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Demons are incorporeal. Everyone knows it. That knife is pointless.”
Julian’s lips pressed into a firm line at Thomes’s snark. The twins both shot Thomes glares, obviously appalled at his blasphemy, and Elyse rolled her eyes. Death said nothing, though her pale jaw spasmed almost imperceptibly.
“And Madame Death,” Julian continued, not addressing Thomes’s outburst, “has provided a letter that will tell its reader when their death will occur.”
Killian was instantly intrigued, but before he could ponder whether or not he would want to know the date of his death, the goddess herself spoke up.
“Actually, Jules,” she said, her voice taking on a saccharine tone, “if we’re making changes, I have a proposition.” She reached into her cloak, her pale hands swallowed by a darkness that seemed too stark, too tangible, and retrieved a small chest wrapped in chains and secured with a heavy lock.
Beside him, he felt Elyse go unearthly still.
“She’s cheating!” Thomes shouted, pointing a gangly finger at Death. “She used magic.” The twins looked equally vexed as Thomes.
Death’s stare was flat, unnerved. “I am thousands of years old,” she postured. “I cannot survive without some magic. Nor can I be denied access to the souls I harbor.”
“Put your finger down, boy,” Julian ordered.
“The wards here are to prevent magic that could lead to cheating or violence,” he said with a huffy look at the twins before returning his gaze to Thomes.
“I didn’t ward against your ridiculous hair, which was no doubt dyed using magic. Though I wish I had,” he added.
Thomes seemed reluctant to accept this explanation. He crossed his arms and scowled at Death.
Killian didn’t care. He was too enamored with the chest and the words Death had spoken.
“There’s a soul in there?” he asked.
Death nodded, and a shiver caressed Killian’s spine.
“Whose?” He didn’t need to ask. The knowledge was already pouring through him, a wave of possibility and conflict that threatened to drown him. He couldn’t breathe as he watched Death.
She smiled, a wicked confirmation. Her dark eyes rested solely on Elyse.
“It’s mine,” Elyse seethed. She crossed her arms, but her intense focus never left the chest. “If you think you can tempt me with that, you’re wrong. I’ve no use for it.”
Death’s smile spread slowly, her red lips stretching with arrogance. “You may not, but he does,” she said with a tilt of her head toward Killian.
Killian was aware of how everyone else gawked at them, their curiosity filling the small room.
He said nothing, too busy trying to comprehend his luck—and his calamity.
He could win the game, he had no doubt about that.
He could claim Elyse’s soul as the prize, and force her to reunite with it.
But they would be left without the Blade of Hanael.
Without a way to kill Lazarus. And that would mean letting Elyse down—the true Elyse, who deserved her revenge.
“Oh, this has become quite interesting,” Julian trilled. “Is anyone opposed?”
No one said anything. Either they didn’t dare to offend Death, or they were too enthralled by the shift in dynamic to object. Elyse opened her mouth to protest, but Julian said, “You don’t get a vote, love. You’re lucky to even be here.”
So the chest containing Elyse’s soul was placed in the glass box alongside the other prizes. And Killian had a decision to make.