Chapter 24 #2
‘I need to talk to Eira,’ I say dully.
He blinks. ‘Have you lost your mind?’
It’s a distinct possibility. He tugs me inside, pulling me down the corridor and leading me into the room that was locked last time.
It’s a small study with books lying open on the desk – journals lifted from Eira’s library, I think, if the handwritten scrawls are anything to go by.
I’m surprised she’s let him keep them. Notes in smaller, neater writing fill the margins.
‘You’re lucky Eira’s not here,’ he says. ‘What do you mean, you want to talk to her? About what – how she tried to kill you? Or have you forgotten?’ He waves a hand in front of my face. ‘Are you listening?’
Not especially. My attention drifts, almost vacantly, from the books to him. He’s in a wine-red shirt today. ‘Daisy. Answer me.’
I’m struggling to focus. The colour of his shirt reminds me of the temple.
Something flickers inside me, something other than the desire to squash each and every emotion I have.
People are dead because of his contest. Astin is – I clench my fists.
Astin isn’t dead. Not if I have anything to say about it.
His gaze tracks lower, taking in the state I’m in, the blood on my hands, and his mouth parts, while excitement gleams in his eyes. Nice to know the thing that gets him going is the idea I’ve returned from mortal danger. ‘You retrieved it, didn’t you? Tell me you did.’
I don’t respond. Eira needs to be stopped, if I want to save the captives, but I’ve got to talk to her about Astin’s hex first, and, honestly, I’m not feeling all that helpful where Damian is concerned.
I study the book closest to me, catching sight of Clarabelle’s name before the pages are snapped shut.
‘Don’t get distracted,’ Damian says. ‘The potion. Where is it?’
I swerve before he can pat me down, crossing to the other side of the room.
I have no idea how I’m going to get out of here without handing the potion over, but the moment I do, the clock starts ticking.
Stalling for time, I scan the shelves on this side, stuffed full with what looks like more journals, all belonging to Souleaters no doubt, tabs sticking out from every page.
Honestly, he’s more obsessed than Astin.
‘Eira doesn’t mind you having these?’
‘Some things are worth the risk, and she doesn’t come in here. The room is kept locked.’ His tone is clipped. ‘Daisy. Why won’t you answer my question?’
‘You’re not afraid she’ll use magic to unlock it?’
‘She knows better than that.’ He prowls closer. ‘She would do anything to keep me happy. If I ask for my privacy, I get it. I will always find a way to get what I want, no matter the cost.’
Something about that statement makes me freeze.
No matter the cost. I go cold. That wraith, in the temple .
. . I was too consumed by Astin to give it any thought.
Damian told me Eira set up enchantments to stop him getting the cure, but he didn’t mention what those enchantments might do to anybody else.
Realisation is a sinking stone in the pit of my belly.
The cure wasn’t warded against him. It was warded against all of us.
‘You knew,’ I whisper. ‘You knew what would happen.’
He chuckles, but there’s no humour behind it.
Just a gentle kind of mockery, like he can’t believe we fell for it.
That we were all running around, doing his bidding, hoping for whatever scraps of a reward he was willing to give, while he lounged around this house waiting for us to die on his behalf.
I let myself feel sorry for him because of his hex, but in reality he’s no better than the humans who don’t see Souleaters as people – worse, even, because he doesn’t care about anyone.
Anybody other than himself.
‘Has anything you’ve ever said been true?
I bet Eira isn’t actually forcing you to stay here, is she?
You must have loved And all the while you’ve been planning to kill her.
Kill us. You sent us to our deaths.’ My voice doesn’t sound like my own.
It’s high-pitched and shrill, while a buzzing sounds louder and louder in the back of my head, because here, right here, is the person responsible for Astin’s death – he’s not dead I can save him; he’s not dead I can save him – and he’s laughing about it.
My fingers twitch. I need power. Magic. And there’s a human in front of me.
If only his emotions weren’t so flat. Cold. Even the excitement at getting what he wants is subdued.
‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’ Damian says. ‘The question remains, did you succeed?’
My hand hovers over my pocket, torn between needing to protect the potion so I can use it as leverage and wanting to smash it for all the trouble it’s caused, but I’m too obvious, too agitated, and his eyes immediately follow the movement, and widen.
‘You did, didn’t you? I have to admit, I hoped you’d be the one to make it out. ’
‘Because you knew only one person would? How? Why?’
‘There was no guarantee anybody would,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘I had to hedge my bets.’ He taps one of the books, a battered red tome with the spine partially falling apart.
‘I learned of the temple in these old journals. The enchantment protecting the potion was placed years ago. The wraith is bound to the hall, so I invited as many people as possible. All I needed was for one victor to outrun it, escape before they were caught, and here you are.’
‘Lucky me,’ I say, but I think there’s more to the enchantment than Damian realises. The wraith took one look at me and disappeared. Maybe only a Souleater is allowed to touch the cure, to prevent a human forcing it upon us.
‘Not that lucky.’ Damian gestures at the blood staining my hands.
‘It’s not mine.’
‘Ah. Well.’ Another shrug. Another dismissal of the lives lost. But then his eyes soften and he says gently, ‘I meant it, you know. I am glad it was you who made it out.’
Whether that’s true, or if he’s trying to make me forgive him, I don’t particularly care. ‘People are dead, Damian. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Don’t talk to me about shame.’ He closes the gap between us. ‘I have lived with shame my whole life. Why should I care about the lives of those who looked down on me? Who slammed their doors in my face and laughed at the sight of the gloves? When did they ever care about me?’
Tears trail down my face. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to –’
‘It gives me every right. You try being called Deadbeat Damian every time you leave the house. I have proven over and over again how wrong they are, and they still, they still point at me in the street. No more.’
‘Getting your revenge on Eira won’t gain their respect.’
‘You have no idea what it’ll gain me. Once I’m rid of Eira, I’ll be able to have everything I want. Everybody in this hexforsaken city will be on their knees for me. And the ones that refuse? Well. I’m sure you can imagine.’
I gape at him. ‘Have you lost your mind? You can’t .
. . you can’t kill people simply because they don’t respect you.
Damian, I know what it’s like to be rejected by people for what you are.
But . . .’ I think of Astin, and the way he kissed the line of magic on my stomach.
‘Surround yourself with the right people, and they won’t reject you.
They won’t. You could have a fresh start somewhere else.
With your emeralds, you could go anywhere, reinvent yourself –’
‘I shouldn’t have to.’ He shakes his head, strands of hair drooping wildly over his forehead, the collar of his shirt askew, like the closer he gets to what he wants, the more his composure fails him. ‘I shouldn’t have to run away to be wanted. I will make them want me instead.’
I thought my heart had cracked enough in the temple with Astin, but another piece manages to splinter.
I’ve ignored my lifelong loneliness by focusing on the needs of others, while Damian has allowed himself to be so consumed by his that it’s broken him; he can no longer see anything beyond his own desire to be seen, and loved, by all the wrong people.
‘How is killing Eira going to do that? Do you think they’re going to make you the next Clarabelle? That next year we’ll be purchasing Damian figures from street corners instead?’
He laughs, but there’s no humour behind it. ‘No. No, I don’t think that.’ He stretches out a hand. ‘My plans after Eira’s death aren’t your concern. Now. Hand me the potion. I won’t ask again.’
‘And if I won’t?’
He lunges. I dart out the way. He’s between me and the door, bigger and stronger than me, and if he removes his gloves . . .
I yank the bottle from my pocket and hold it in the air. ‘Come for me, and I’ll smash it.’
Given the lack of damage done when it fell from Astin’s hand in the temple, I suspect it may be indestructible, but Damian doesn’t need to know that. His jaw locks, and I can tell he’s grinding his teeth. Then his shoulders sink – but it’s not in defeat, rather in the manner of an army regrouping.
He rakes a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to return to the collected Damian I met in the ruined castle.
‘It doesn’t have to be this way. Once Eira’s gone, we can work together.
What if I find a way to replicate the potion?
We could stop all Souleaters. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Just give me the potion.’