“I could have killed you. Intentionally or by accident,” she says carefully. “Why did you attack me? What if I’d spun and hit you before you pinned me, before I knew who you were?”
I wonder if she’d still have that haunted look if she could hear the God as clearly as I just did — if he told her what he told me, that she belongs to him. What a marvel that is. I am not certain that I belong to anyone or ever will. Surely, I am the God’s, too, but he has made no such clear claim of me.
“Do you think you could have?” I ask, curious. “Killed me? If the fight had been fair?”
She levels a steel stare at me. “Care to try again?”
I gust a laugh. I can’t help it. The ridiculousness of all of this is too much.
“I do not. But I will confess one more thing to you.”
“Please, no more confessions.” The look she shoots me is far, far too old for her face. She runs her fingers over the etching of the sphere and turns it slowly.
“My confession is only that this place gives me the shivers,” I say carefully, watching her to gauge her reaction. I think I see a glimmer of forgiveness there.
She looks up, eyes dancing in a way that squeezes my heart — though whether that’s my actual heart or a result of the effects of this place … well, I can’t tell. I dare not trust my own judgment right now. I’m compromised.
She is deliberate in her answer, though still teasing. “Are you telling me that you don’t enjoy being bottled up in a rabbit warren a thousand years old, the whole of which is watched over by an imprisoned, sleeping demon suspended from the ceiling like a chandelier?”
“How do you know it’s sleeping?” I’m impressed. She’s very young and it was well hidden. It took me almost to the bottom of the stairs to realize it was up there dreaming whatever dreams fiends find.
“I’m a Vagabond Paladin, Poisoned Saint. Wherever demons sleep, their nightmares are full of me.” It is her turn to look chagrined when she says, “I would have liked to cast it out.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Don’t you have that ability? Is that not your specialty?”
She snorts. “Could you heal an entire army at once?”
I consider.
“But there are nine of us down here. Surely, together …”
My words trail off and she smirks again.
“How much do you think your friend Hefertus knows about the casting out of demons? Or the puffed-up Majester?”
“Hefertus could probably order the world to rid itself of the creature and it would be gone,” I say easily.
“And with it, whatever is left of his mind.”
I incline my head. She’s right, of course.
There’s a ghost of a smile and a dare in her eyes when she speaks again. “I hope you’re planning to get off your knees because I have something to show you.”
I hesitate, gust a tiny, rueful scoff — directed at myself, of course — and this time my smile is bashful. “I’m afraid I can’t get up yet.”
“Until I forgive you?” Her eyes twinkle. “Consider it done.”
“It’s not that.” Although forgiveness … I didn’t expect it, and it’s sweet as overripe raspberries.
“Until I promise to keep your secret?” Her tone is wry, almost mocking. “If impregnating a young woman amounts to murder, then likely we should see more men dangling from hempen ropes.”
“It bothers me that you trivialize my sorrow.” I’m sad to lose our teasing, but on this, I must be firm.
Has she had much dealing with men like me? Or with anyone who was not possessed or desperately looking for help with someone who was? She followed a knight around begging for scraps from her childhood. I should not expect her to see the world as most do.
“It bothers me that you are so prideful that you’re still on your knees,” she shoots back. “Fine. I will keep your secret. I’ll do better, if you like. We can search for this cup together.”
“Together?” I am wary. This is … better than I hoped for. I think. It’s certainly more than I expected. It’s forgiveness and a ghost of second chances — to protect rather than harm, to help rather than hurt. I’ll take it. I’ll do what I failed to do before and keep those dancing eyes from glassing over with the varnish of death.
