He laughs. “More like who didyoupiss off?”
I shift my weight in my seat and turn toward him more. “What are you talking about?”
“I’d rather not have both eyes match. I think I’ll sit this one out,” he says.
I stare at him, hoping to pressure him into talking. He stares back, clearly not backing down. “Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?” he asks
“Just didn’t take you for the timid type.”
He tilts his head to the side as if my words entertain him. “Not timid, little Caderyn. But also, not stupid.”
The tables fill up around us, and Professor Moravek walks in, his black robes billowing behind his hurried footsteps. Long, bony fingers steeple in front of him as he turns and faces us. His face is a mosh of unbalance—a large, crooked nose, thin lips pulled to the side, and deep-set, sunken eyes that regard us with borderline animosity. There’s a tic in the left one.
Maylin’s mink-brown eyes meet mine from across the room. She gives me a small smile in clear understanding and agreement that he gives us the creeps.
“Everyone, open the drawer in front of you and remove the small knives that have been sterilized and readied for your use,” the professor instructs us, his shrill voice like nails on a chalkboard.
Makon pulls the drawer out on our table, and we each remove a small knife, the tip pointed and stained from repeated use. “What’s with the dreary expressions today?” he asks under his breath.
“Life,” I answer simply, as I prick the tip of my finger and squeeze the blood into an empty vial.
Makon makes a long gash across his palm and lets it drip into his. “That’s a cop-out. We’re soldiers. Life is always going to be hard. I have a feeling you’re used to its harsh blows, so what’s really eating at you?” He’s oddly perceptive. Not something you would assume on first impressions. I’m starting to think Makon has layers that he doesn’t show many people.
“I don’t know who to trust, what’s real, and what’s not. Nothing is really black and white, is it?” I continue squeezing the blood out of my finger.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching me. I pull my eyes from the vial and give him my attention.
“Finally catching on, are we?” he asks, a serious look leveled at me.
His vial is already filled with blood, considering he made a much larger gash in his hand. “Your blood, my blood, and I bet even one of those useless Veils if I cut them open. It all flows red.”
I chuckle. “Couldn’t resist throwing an insult in their direction, could you?”
“Never,” he deadpans.
I don’t miss the way I referred to them as “their” and not “our.”
One by one, we pour our vials filled with blood into the large dish sitting atop each of our tables and whisper the incantation written on the blackboard. The blood from my finger and Makon’s palm swirls together, becoming a combination of him and me. A unification of power and the possibility of.
We dip our fingers into the mixed blood and draw the symbol on the blackboard on each other’s wrists, each repeating the same incantation. Makon pupils are blown wide, and I know without a doubt mine match.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, and I bite down on my lip.
A rush of adrenaline courses through the veins when blood magic is performed. The feeling can be highly addictive, which is why this particular magic is dangerous for a Noctryn. Too much use, especially without the necessary skills and a reliable dark object to ground them, can lead to incurable madness. A certifiable way to earn yourself a room at Harkin House, where padded walls and insanity are the only company offered.
I latch onto the edge of the table, my fingers curling around it. Makon rotates his neck, the corded veins popping out as he does so. The professor doesn’t tell us what this exact hex does, so we wait and ride out the high.
A dark cloud washes over my eyes. A murky memory, one not of my own, floats to the surface. Regardless of how firmly I try to lock it in its Cimmerian cave, it drifts to the forefront like a tendril of fog. Onyx marble floors gleam beneath my bare feet as I walk through the halls of a luxurious structure. The cathedral ceilings are carved from stone, intricate ruins etched into their hard surface. Arched windows are open, allowing the winter breeze to float through the passageway, causing the candles in the hanging chandeliers to flicker.
The soft sound of my breath is my only companion as I make my way through the grand halls of what looks to be a castle. The dark colors and gold-rimmed portraits lining the walls speak of wealth and expensive taste. Snow blows in through an open set of doors, falling across the shiny marble floor. I leave footprints in it as I push forward, opening another large set of doors to my right.
The high-pitched laughter of a small child draws my attention to the center of the room. He’s lounged in a throne, hands over his eyes as he speaks a language I don’t understand. Possibly Casacian, but I can’t be sure. It seems as if he’s counting. His dark hair sticks up in disarray, and his little feet are kicking back and forth as they hang over the armrest.
I step farther into the empty room. It’s large, with a domed ceiling and dark marble floors. A crimson runner stretches all the way to twin thrones and is soft and plush beneath my bare feet. One throne is larger than the other. Behind them is a large tapestry backdrop that hangs from the ceiling, featuring a familiar crest. An obsidian crown with twin swords is crossed behind it. The same crest that Sanderson Thurboult had on the locket that was draped around his neck in his portrait.
