Slowly, I shook my head. “No,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. I pressed my hand against his chest, willing him to give me space to breathe. “Forget I ever mentioned it.”
He snorted, but his expression softened marginally as he took a step back. “Now what?”
I sighed wearily. “Let me sit with Gwen for a while. You don’t have to wait?—”
“I don’t mind,” he cut in.
I huffed. “Alright. Afterward…” I paused, assessing his expression. “Would you take me to see them? I think I need to see… for it to be real.”
Though I’d only said it to put off Gwen’s suspicions, it was true that I was probably in denial. It was the likeliest explanation for my lack of emotion, for the numbness that clung to my bones. It was as if my world had been split into two timelines: there was before the blood ritual, and after. The actual events of that night still hovered in my mind like a fog, a haze of blood and terror and nothing concrete. Perhaps seeing the carnage—the gruesome proof of what Devereaux had done to my friends—would help me reconcile the two realities.
Or perhaps it would break me.
42
Stepping into the infirmary was like entering another dimension entirely. The warm sunlight streaming in through the arching windows was at odds with the tense atmosphere inside the room. A heavy silence hung over the infirmary. In one corner, two older couples, August’s and Neha’s parents, were speaking to Dean Winthrop in low voices. The parents of the deceased wore their grief like a shroud, their shoulders hunched and their faces mirrored masks of numb disbelief. They did not notice our entrance.
Like a blow to the gut, I recalled how August had taken on the burden of restoring his family’s ruined name and fortune, an endeavor he aimed to achieve by climbing Ouverham’s prominent social ladder and pursuing a career in politics. The Sinclairs’ hope of restoring their once great family name were now dashed.
“Wait here,” Casimir murmured in my ear before striding into Dr. Hobart’s office to speak with a nurse. I obeyed, resigned to standing awkwardly in the middle of the ward while they spoke. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but after a few minutes, the nurse gave a heavy sigh, nodded, and got up from her desk, a ring of keys in her fingers. With a jerk of his chin, Casimir motioned for me to follow as she led us down a long, winding stone staircase that led to an underground cellar beneath the infirmary. I stiffened as we reached the bottom, the stale air mingling with the smell of blood and decay. This was where Ouverham was keeping the bodies until the coroner came to collect them. My stomach turned, bile threatening to rise, but I gritted my teeth and stepped into the makeshift morgue.
“You have ten minutes,” the nurse said, and with a nod, she exited.
Two bodies were laid out on a large marble slab and covered with crisp white sheets, obscuring their faces. They might’ve been anyone, but I knew better. I needed to see them. This was what I had come for, but my limbs had turned into stone and were refusing to obey. My gaze fell on the longer of the two bodies.
August,I thought.
Casimir shot me a sidelong glance. “Do you want to see him?” he asked quietly.
The shudder that ran through me had little to do with the frigid temperature of the cellar.
I nodded, unable to speak.
Casimir obliged, stepping carefully over and lifting the sheet that concealed August’s face.
Pale, gray skin. A sickening slash across his throat, the color a muted maroon, like some macabre Halloween decoration. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, but it was unmistakably him. August. The first boy I had ever kissed. I still recalled the feeling of his lips on mine, warm and tentative. My first love, now an empty vessel, cold to the touch. Bloodless. I looked away as my vision blurred, tears threatening to spill over. I let them, partly because I couldn’t bring myself to look at Neha, knowing she must look much the same, her tawny brown skin turned ashen, eyes empty and unseeing.
They were gone, and nothing I’d done had been enough to save them.
Later,back at the loft, Casimir lay supine across the leather sofa, ostensibly asleep. Reposed in a nearby armchair, I occupied myself by staring into the fire. Thinking. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Casimir’s wince of pain.
“Is your wound hurting you?”
“It’s fine.”
I glared at him. “If I’m not allowed to lie, then you aren’t either.”
He snorted at that, eyes still closed.
“Listen, I want to talk to you about what we’re going to do.”
“It’s not—” he began.
“I want you to take me to Ethervale.”
Casimir’s eyes shot open, and he cast me a wary glance. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.” I turned to face him properly.