Casimir moved the bucket beneath me just in time for me to heave what little remained in my stomach. I was grateful that he’d also had the foresight to pull my hair back while I wretched.
“Jesus, Farrow,” he muttered. His face was pale, and a light sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. “I tried to wake you, but you were out cold.” His elegant features were drawn with tension. “Are you alright? I think you hit your head when you fell.”
I sipped the bottle of water he handed me and spat once more into the bucket. I felt sick, but triumphant. “I did it,” I rasped, weak but delirious with triumph. “I tasted the glamour. I fought it.”
I raised myself into a seated position on the filthy floor to face Casimir, who was still eyeing me with concern etched across his face.
Slowly, he relaxed enough to lean against the wall, his arms folded across his knees. “Fuck,” he swore. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Indeed, the color did not return to his face as the room swam into sharper focus.
I rested my head in my hands and gave a weak chuckle. “I wouldn’t think the Darkseer scared so easily,” I replied, a little shakily.
He swore again as he leaned forward and gingerly felt the back of my head. His fingers came away slick with blood. “I managed to prevent the worst of the fall, but you were thrashing around so much,” he explained. “You’re still bleeding, and I suspect you have a concussion. I should take you to the infirmary.”
I dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand, afraid that speaking just now might bring on another round of vomiting.
When the worst of the nausea passed, I shook my head. “No need for the infirmary. I’m fine,” I insisted. “And more importantly, it worked! I resisted your glamour.”
Casimir eyed me dubiously, watching as a trail of blood trickled from my head wound and onto my neck.
We were both still crouched on the grimy floor, Casimir kneeling over me, my elbow going numb from the weight of holding myself up. Cautiously, I sat up, taking it as a good sign that the room did not spin.
Wordlessly, he offered me a kerchief from his pocket, and I pressed it to the back of my head to stem the bleeding. After a moment, he asked, “How did you realize the vision was a glamour and not a memory?”
I stilled. It unnerved me that Casimir had watched as the scene unfolded inside my head.
“It was something Evren said,” I explained.
“That temper of yours is going to get you killed one day, Little Arrow.”
“I realized it was impossible he’d have heard it before. I knew it had to have come from my own mind, and therefore nothing I was seeing was real.”
When Casimir continued to look puzzled, I sighed. “Sometimes after my father came home from one of his week-long benders, we’d fight,” I explained. “Screaming at each other like banshees. One night, I just lost it. It wasn’t my best moment, but I—well, I destroyed his favorite typewriter.” I could still hear his bellow of rage as the paperweight collided with the metal keys. I cleared my throat. “That was the day my father told me my temper would be the death of me…”
Casimir’s expression turned stormy.
“After Evren repeated it in the vision, I reevaluated everything and realized the blood I was tasting was actually the remnants of a glamour,” I finished.
I waited for Casimir to ask me what exactly my father had said in retaliation that night. But he didn’t.
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m not sure this is sustainable. Look at you.” He gestured to my bleeding head, the bucket of vomit off to one side. “Look how sick it made you.” His lips twitched at the edges. “I say this as your friend, Farrow, but you look terrible.”
I returned his teasing with a scowl. “Are you my friend, Casimir?”
To my surprise, he smiled. It even looked genuine.
“I am, if you’d like me to be,” he said.
And there it was again, the version of Casimir that was sweet. And yet, the sweet Casimir was inextricable from the violent, vengeful one. The one that had broken Monty Prescott’s finger for daring to touch me.
“I will get better at this,” I said stubbornly. “I just need to practice.”
My determination did nothing to appease the worry drawn in the tight line of Casimir’s lips.
“We’re nearly out of time. And—don’t take this the wrong way, but your combat skills aren’t as proficient as I’d hoped.”
I was prepared to hurl a scathing defense in reply, but almost as soon as it formed, it died on the edge of my tongue. Our situation suddenly struck me as completely pointless and absurd. What the fuck were we doing? A Daemon training a mortal girl in combat and glamour resistance? I released a hysterical giggle that quickly escalated, and I laughed until my belly ached and tears streamed down my cheeks.