There was the cold tang of iron on my tongue. There were Neha’s vacant, unseeing eyes—a wound across her throat so deep it nearly separated her head from her body. There was the gurgling sound of August choking on his own blood, and Evren’s screams of agony as my dagger wrenched his eye from its socket. I tasted, saw, and heard every horrible fragment of that night, over and over and?—
Casimir was speaking again. “Devereaux arranged the scene of their deaths so that it appeared like an occult ritual gone wrong,” he explained. “Are you?—?”
“I’m fine,” I gritted out before he could finish. “Just—still processing.”
Casimir wasn’t fooled by my lies today anymore than he’d been when we’d first met. Wordlessly, he handed me a glass of water. “When you’re ready, I have something for you.” He leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve a small leather journal. Before he handed it to me, I recognized the familiar soft brown leather. The inscription on the front cover read:
M.F.
My father’s journal.
“How did you?—?”
“I snuck into August’s dormitory early Monday morning, before the police searched it for evidence.” His lips formed a thin line of disapproval. “Ouverham is going to try and cover up the—incident—as quickly as possible.”
“And Gwen?” I urged him.
Casimir rearranged his features into a carefully neutral expression. “We can talk about that later,” he said evasively. “You should take a bath, you look terrible.”
“What happened to Gwen, Casimir?” What wasn’t he telling me? Terror hung about me like a cloak, heavy and suffocating.
His eyes burned with restrained emotion as he explained, “I spoke to Veronika yesterday. Gwen is fine, just a little shaken. Veronika gave her a draught that causes a mental fog, and I…” he hesitated. “I erased her memories of that night.”
“You—what?” I gaped at him in horror.
Casimir’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Arden, humans can’t know about Ethervale. They might compromise our secrecy.”
“So your solution was to erase her memories?” I exclaimed.How dare he?“Without even talking to me first?—”
“Look, Farrow.” Oh, we were back to last names, were we? “After the ritual—Veronika and I were trying to do damage control. You were practically comatose—I didn’t want to wake you. The school can’t find out what happened in the Grotto. It would endanger the students. We—we did things that I’m not proud of.”
“Like dosing my best friend with poison to make her forget what happened?” I gave a hollow, humorless laugh. “You should’ve made me forget, too.”
Casimir looked at me sharply, his eyes blazing. “Do you really mean that?”
I wanted to mean it.
Begrudgingly taking Casimir’s suggestion, I padded over to his washroom and drew a scalding hot bath. While I waited for the tub to fill, I began to read my father’s journal. At last, I would know the secrets that had lain buried for so long. In the wake of August’s death, it was a hollow sort of satisfaction.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat soaking in Casimir’s massive tub, staring at the pearlescent tile wall, too stunned by what I’d just read to notice that my fingers were pruned and the water had long gone tepid.
A knock at the door wrenched me from my troubled musings. Abruptly, I recalled my anger over Gwen, over how Casimir had stolen her memories from that night.
He should never have violated Gwen’s mind. It was true, she’d gone through something truly harrowing. She’d seen her lover slain and bleeding out on the altar. But Casimir… he’d taken the choice from her. We could’ve trusted her with this secret, surely.
In agitation, I toweled off, dressed, and snagged a comb through my knotted hair. I flung open the door, armed for another argument, but stopped dead at the sight of the blood seeping through Casimir’s shirt.
“Why are you still bleeding?” I demanded. “You were wounded days ago, I thought Daemons healed quickly?—”
Guilt flashed over his expression, but before he could conceal his injury, I seized the hem of his shirt and tugged, exposing the dark, ragged wound left by Zhara’s star-shaped knife. I could not suppress my gasp of horror. It looked significantly worsethan it did last night, as if the outer edges had stained his skin a dark purple.
Casimir’s mouth grew tight. “It’s nothing. It’s fine,” he said dismissively.
“Why isn’t it healing, then?”
Casimir hesitated. “Veronika believes Zhara’s blade was laced with a Necro Hex.”
I gazed back at him, horrified.