“Are you going to answer my questions? Or shall I just shove you back into my bag?” Or better yet, fling the accursed object into the sea at the earliest opportunity.
The Book cackled roughly, as though choked with smoke.
“Did you know my father?”
“Ask me no secrets, and I’ll tell you no lies,” the sprite taunted.
I ground my teeth together. “Fine, if you won’t tell me about my father, will you at least tell me more about this blood ritual the Order is planning?”
Silence.
“When will it take place?”
More silence. The Book refused to answer my questions, and my patience was quickly burning out.
I tried a new tactic. “Have any humans ever been to Ethervale?”
“So curious for one so weak and frail,” it wheezed. “You should not seek Ethervale, unless you desire a slow and painful death, Little Arrow.”
“I amnotweak,” I argued.
The voice gave a wheezy gurgle in reply. A minute of silence passed before a familiar, creeping scrawl began to materialize on the page before me.
Following their exile for staging a rebellion against the crown, the Daemons of the Bloodthorn Order had little hope of ever restoring their powers in full. One of the few methods to replenish such power is the bloodletting rite.
Performed during an astrological event, such as a full moon or eclipse, the blood ritual is designed to harness forbidden bloodmagic.
During the ceremony, a high priest or priestess must repeat incantations from the Book to call upon Sirenix, the Drekavac goddess of life and transformation. It is said that she bestowed the Daemons the gift of softmagic. But the moment she is summoned, the high priest must then betray her by spilling the blood of innocents. Blood is meant to satisfy Morana, Sirenix’s fallen sister and the goddess of death. Consuming the blood of the slain innocents is considered an abomination, and yet this must be done.
It wasn’t only a bloodletting ritual; Devereaux and his Daemons would also be drinking August’s blood.
Bile rose in my throat.
The Book had confirmed all of my worst fears, and then doubled them. Incantations, ancient rituals, and—to top it all off—spilling the blood of innocents in some twisted, sacrificial offering to a Daemonic goddess. The Bloodthorn Order, it seemed, lived up to its name.
Cursive spilled over onto the next page, and my eyes darted to the words that next appeared.
The donor who offers up their life force must do so of his or her own will. Once selected for a ritual, one donor cannot be substituted for another without the approval of the high priest or priestess.
The Book claimed that the consent of the donor was a requirement of the ritual. But why would August ever consent to be a donor? Nothing about this made any sense, and nausea rose like a wave in the pit of my stomach.
“Tell me how I can stop the ritual from happening.”
The sprite snickered. “No girl of mere mortal blood may interfere with the ritual. The draw to power is strong.”
“Please, just tell me how,” I begged.
“You are too demanding,” it whined. “I have told you, no girl of mortal blood may interfere?—”
“Fine!” I ground out, gnashing my teeth in an attempt to keep my temper under control. “What else can you tell me then?”
Silence met my inquiry.
Infuriating, stupid fucking sprite. Well, if direct questioning was getting me nowhere, perhaps baiting the Book might rile it to respond.
“Why won’t you speak to Casimir? He says that you only speak to him in filthy obscenities.”
A choking cackle, at once rasping and otherworldly, filled my ears. “You speak of the Darkseer often, Little Arrow.”