“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 himbetterthan 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,maywe 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.”