“Right,” I said, clearing my throat as I tucked the lock of hair into my fist.
Casimir nodded and leaned back into the sofa, glancing over at me expectantly.
“Need something else?” he deadpanned.
“Nope, I’m all good,” I said quickly and escaped back up the ladder, not wanting to suffer Casimir’s ire for another moment.
Indigo crept over the gloaming darkness outside the windows as dawn approached, staining the fir trees a deep ocean blue. With a jolt, I recalled it was Monday. Morning lectures would start in less than four hours. Normally, I would’ve tried to catch a few more hours of sleep, but my mind was wide awake, restlessly rifling through everything that had happened over the past week, and mulling over unanswered questions. Like, what would happen to August if we couldn’t figure out how to stop the ritual? What if the Order found the Keeper’s Heir first? What if Devereaux killed the Heir before we could glean the council’s secret? What was the nature of the blood ritual itself? How did bloodmagic work, and what made it so unstable? Andwho the hellwas Isolde? A creeping suspicion told me she was probably Casimir’s ex-lover. My stomach twisted into knots at the thought. Perhaps most troubling of all were the Book’s snide comments about my father.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…”
“Malcolm guarded his secrets fiercely, too.”
When I could no longer repress my curiosity, I hissed into the dark room, “Casimir? Are you awake?”
“No,” came his gruff reply.
“We need to talk. I still have questions.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“It is tomorrow,” I pointed out.
His frustrated groan was muffled. “Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferably persistent?”
I snorted. “Did you or did you not make a veilbound bargain promising to help me stop the Order? If so, I’m going to need more information.”
“I don’t remember any stipulation in our agreement that said I was obliged to answer fifty gods’ damned questions at six in the morning.”
In retaliation, I tossed a pillow down at his head. It missed, but just barely, and Casimir hissed in irritation.
“In the interest of saving my head from further projectiles,” he said resignedly, “I will answer two questions, and then you will stop badgering me.”
“Fine.” I hid my smirk as I clambered out of bed and back down the ladder. I sank into an armchair across from the sofa and fixed Casimir with an intense look. “Tell me how bloodmagic works. How is it different from softmagic or glamours? And if Nymara is the only one allowed to use it, how does Devereaux plan to enact it during the ritual?”
“That’s three questions,” he observed wryly, but answered nevertheless. “First, you should know that, like all Daemons, Nymara’s powers are bestowed by the goddess Morana and thus influenced by the celestial movements. All of us—Daemons and morals alike—are marked by our beginnings and our ends. Life and death have always held significance in Ethervale, and blood is often the price that the magic demands. Nymara has proven herself more than willing to pull from that well of power. She’s willing to kill for it.” He gave a hollow laugh. “It’s why she’s our Queen. She’s ruthless.”
I remembered that Nymara had killed her own husband, Caladryn, to seize the throne for herself. “The Book said that during the blood ritual each of the participants must consume the blood to derive the power bestowed by Morana,” I quoted. “Does that mean—are they going to kill people in order to harness this forbidden magic?”
The unspoken question hung in the air between us.
Casimir was silent for a moment. “If August has volunteered to act as a donor, that means he’s bound to uphold his promise. Bloodbargains are permanently binding.”
“That’s not an answer,” I shot back.
“Honestly? I don’t know Farrow. The only bloodmagic ritual I participated in was under… unusual circumstances.”
“Meaning?”
“I was drugged,” he murmured, so softly I could barely make out the words. “I don’t remember the details. But the taste of human blood is difficult to forget.”
Despite the shadows gathering around his face, the light streaming in through the windows was enough to see the hatred burning behind his eyes.
I shuddered to imagine what he’d endured as a child. His parents, being ambitious courtiers, had forced him to experiment with bloodmagic in the hopes of amplifying his Darkseer powers. And what about the woman whose name August had invoked last night, the one whose mysteriously tragic fate clearly haunted him?
“Unless you want her to end up like Isolde.”
Curiosity blazed within me, and the next question slipped out before I could consider the consequences of asking it. “Casimir, who is Isolde?”