“Sorry,” he amended, “I just didn’t expect…”
“What did you expect?” I shot back, anger leaching into every word. “Did you think there’d be a good reason August would want to hide our… liaisons?” My cheeks were hot with the shame of finding myself close to tears.
He sighed. “You’re going to be unreasonably stubborn about this, aren’t you?”
My answering glare was full of spite.
He muttered something that sounded a lot like, “For fuck’s sake. I’m starting to wish I’d just left you alone in the library that night.”
I was starting to wish he had, too.
That Casimir Wrayburncould be a Daemon was inconceivable. Impossible. Yet, as I sprawled across my bed laterthat evening, my mind raced, turning over every alternative possibility.
Casimir was an irritating, arrogant prat, it was true. He was even terrifying, on occasion, but he couldn’t truly be a Daemon, could he? He looked just like other boys—alright, not exactly like other boys. He was arrestingly beautiful—but to think he wasn’t human? I lay in the quiet of the dormitory, listening to Gwen’s soft snores, thinking of Casimir’s honeyed-gaze, dripping with heat—the way every nerve in my body ignited with excitement and dread when he was near—and beneath that, something else was burning just under my skin. Something dangerously like desire.
A desperate kind of curiosity surged through me. I wanted answers, and I had a hunch as to where I might find them.
Shoving aside my trembling nerves, I checked to make sure Gwen was still asleep and then climbed over the bed to retrieve the box my mother had sent, which contained a small pile of my late father’s belongings. As quietly as possible, I combed through the collection of books and trinkets, ignoring the pang that rose in my chest when I came across my father’s favorite oak pipe—and gasped silently when my fingers grazed upon the soft velvet cover of a small book.
The faded title readTales and Folklore of Lacunae.
One of my favorites from childhood, it contained a treasure trove of poems and local tales, though by now most of the pages were too worn and faded by time and use to read. Prying open the cover, I skimmed the pages until I found the poem I’d been searching for.
“The Daemons of Lacunae”
On neigh an isle off the sea
Lives a folk of true malignitie
Within the caves thou dare not wend
For thou who tread shall blood expend
Afore Ostara, their nimble hands
Embroider tapestries with silken strands
Thy skin a weft, thy hair a lattice
Mortal flesh woven into malice
Ere sly of foot and sharp of eye
May keep a mortal oft alive
In Ethervale, the daemons plaie
And changelings in Lacunae stay.
I’d heard the poem often as a child but never thought much about its meaning. But now, as I read under the dim light of my bedside lamp, each verse sank heavily into my bones. Here it was, the confirmation I’d dreaded ever since that conversation with Casimir. Proof of the existence of the Daemons of Lacunae. The Drekavac. A chill wrapped around my limbs, causing gooseflesh to rise along my arms. Had my father known the daemons were real? No, I thought. Of course not. He wouldn’t have read these stories to me if he’d believed in them. If he had, he wouldn’t have read them alongsideThe Brothers GrimmandThe Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies.
For the first time, the gruesome nature of the poem dawned on me.
For thou who tread shall blood expend.
The warning was clear enough. Any mortal who dared enter the realm of the Daemons would be bled, their skin woven intotapestries. The image threatened to turn my stomach, but then my attention snagged on another phrase:
In Ethervale, the daemons plaie.