I huffed in irritation. “You can’t smoke in here,” I said.
Smoke plumed around Casimir’s dark figure like a cloud as he exhaled, and I glowered at him. “Can’t Daemons get lung cancer?”
Ignoring my goading, he took a drag on his cigarette with obvious satisfaction. “I doubt it,” he replied, shrugging.
“What about the others? Are they Daemons, too?” I asked.
He nodded. “Everyone but Sinclair, of course,” he said. A cruel smile curved his sensuous mouth. “I hope you would’ve noticed if your boyfriend was a Daemon.”
I ground my jaw to keep myself from making a cutting retort. “One of the others—Neely, I think—mentioned a ritual. I know you probably won’t tell me what that entails,” I said, allowing silence to fill the space as Casimir took another long drag. “Look, I just need to know—is August in serious danger?”
Something flickered in Casimir’s eyes, but he gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Why should you care what happens to Sinclair?” He stamped out his cigarette on the sole of his boot.
A chill that had nothing to do with the damp cold of the alcove shuddered through me. I bit my lip. It was true, I shouldn’t care what happened to August, not after he’d burrowed me away like a shameful secret, like a toy he only took out to play with when he was bored. Not after he’d grown tired of the charade and discarded me with little explanation. A darker part of me might enjoy witnessing his emotional and social downfall, but I would never want anything truly terrible to befall him.
“I have my reasons,” I replied vaguely. But I wasn’t finished interrogating him.
“What did you mean when you told Devereaux not to glamour me again?” I asked.
Casimir was watching me as though he might carve me open with his eyes alone. “Drekavac Daemons have access to two kinds of magic: bloodmagic, which is technically forbidden, and softmagic. Glamours are a form of softmagic.”
“Magic,” I repeated.
“Does that frighten you?”
A heavy silence fell while I considered Casimir’s question, suddenly acutely aware of his close proximity in the small, dark alcove. With that cold mask carved into the hollowed cheeks and angles of his face, he was fearsome; a thing of beauty and terror to behold.
A slow, sardonic smile tugged at the corners of Casimir’s lips, as though reading the fear written across my face. “I thought so,” he said quietly.
I stiffened. “I’m not afraid of you,” I said. “I’m not sure I entirely believe you—but if you wanted to hurt me, you would’ve already done so. You’ve had plenty of chances.”
I thought back to that night in the Labyrinth, remembering the smoke from his cigarette rising in the darkness, the way he’d watched me with burning intensity—as he did now—the feel of the brass lamp under my fingers, the fear thundering in my veins. How easily I’d dismissed my instinctive fear; how quickly I’d ignored my body’s own alarm bells. His beauty had disarmed me.
Surprise flared briefly across his features, but he nodded absently.
Covertly, I slid my hands behind my back to hide my trembling fingers. If Casimir saw through me, he didn’t comment. I forced myself to meet his eye. “Are you going to hurt me, Casimir?”
I was beginning to comprehend just how defenseless I was when it came to him. The way his beauty clouded my judgment; the way I couldn’t taste his lies. The fact that I didn’t know anything about Daemons, other than the fairy tales my father hadtold me as a child.Cross them once and you’ll never be seen again.I was wholly ignorant of the untold ways he might ruin me.
His eyes grew even darker, the rich caramel of his irises nearly indistinguishable from his pupils. My breath hitched in my throat, betraying my fear, as he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The brush of contact sent a cascade of shivers down my spine, and heat flared in my veins. I scarcely dared to breathe—he was standing so close. Finally, he drew away, shaking his head.
“No, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Glad to hear it,” I replied dryly, but my shoulders relaxed in relief. “I’m more concerned about Devereaux and the rest of the Bloodthorn Order. The one with auburn hair—Evren. He tried to glamour me, I guess. He touched me, but nothing happened.”
Casimir looked at me sharply, his eyes wide. “What do you mean, nothing happened? You didn’t feel—pain?”
I shook my head, suppressing a smirk at the look of utter incredulity on Casimir’s face.
“He was gripping my hand as hard as he could, but I couldn’t feel anything—” But my sense of triumph vanished as I remembered how Devereaux’s compulsion had certainly been more than effective, easily coaxing my body into compliance like a doll.
But I could taste Devereaux’s lie, I thought, recalling the caustic taste of it with disgust and more than a little pride. My gaze slid back to Casimir, the only person, mortal or otherwise, whose lies I couldn’t taste. My only exception.
“That… doesn’t make any sense,” he said as he began to pace the narrow space within the alcove. “Not affected by Evren’s abilities? Impossible…” He trailed off into incoherent mutterings before he fell silent. Then, he abruptly stopped pacing and turned to look at me, his expression indecipherable. But behind his eyes brewed a tempest of warring emotions.
“I’m telling the truth,” I said, a little defensively.
His lips twitched. “I didn’t say that you weren’t.”