“You didn’t steal it?”
I pause, her follow-up question not one I would have anticipated.
“From a living person?” she clarifies, likely due to the confusion upon my face.
Again, I laugh, shaking my head. “No. I assure you I did not.” I shift, turning slightly in her direction. “I’ve answered two of your questions now. Your turn. How doyouknow what sits upon the table?”
She stammers and the tray in her hands rattles.
I heave a sigh, quickly realizing I’m not going to get a coherent answer out of her.
“Raevi,” I interject firmly. She silences herself and miraculously the tray stills. “I do not care if youarea necromancer. In fact, if you are, your services are needed. Help me figure out who this soul belongs to.”
Her eyes narrow in a rather scrutinous stare. “You don’t know whose it is?”
“I don’t,” I reply. “Regardless, it doesn’t belong here. I shouldn’t have brought it.”
Had I known what it was before leaving the hells, I certainly wouldn’t have. If Vaelyn or Netharis noticed it missing from the hells, neither have said anything. Whether unnoticed or unimportant, there’s no guarantee it will remain such.
One slow step at a time, Raevi crosses the room. She lowers herself to the floor, resting upon her knees as she places the tray upon the table and gives me a distant stare across the short expanse.
“You stole a soul not knowing whose it is?” she asks, lifting the teapot as she turns over a teacup.
Is this creature admonishing me?
“For what it’s worth, I stolean obsidian boxnot knowing what lie inside,” I retort, growing prickly with my defense.
She doesn’t lift her eyes from the dark red, steaming liquid as it pours from the kettle. It swirls into the cup and the mild, spicy scent of cinnamon and rose hips wafts into the air between us.
“And you’renota necromancer?”
My brow archeshighwith her question.
I used toferrythe dead, notreanimatethem.
Blood mage would be the more appropriate title if we’re doling them out based on magical skill. But I know better than to be a blood magic practitioner as aliving creature. The spells’ usefulness rarely outweigh the cost to cast them.
“How much has Oraphia told you?” I answer her question with one of my own. “Do you understand who you serve?”
At this, her eyes meet mine as she sets the teacup and saucers before me, near the middle of the low table.
“I’ve been told enough. Oraphia made it clear you’re not a typical fae,” she deigns with a slight nod. “But I think there are things even she doesn’t know.”
Not a typical fae is putting it rather mildly.
What I need to know is whether she understands I’m part demon. The last thing I want to do is blurt the detail and have her go running and screaming from the room. She’s too timid, too quiet a creature and she doesn’t strike me as the type who would be willing to sit alone in the same room with someone like me.
“And you find it acceptable to be employed to attend anot typical faewho happens to have ahellishitem stored in ahellishbox?” I ask, carefully studying her face for any trace of her thoughts betraying her calm facade.
Her dark blond brow quirks ever so slightly.
I would have missed it had I not been staring.
“All castle staff assigned to your care know the… nature of your blood,” she says, and the care with which she chooses her words is telling.
And thank the gods for it, it makes this conversation easier.
“So you’re fine in the company of a demon, but a necromancer… that’s where you draw the line?” Darkened amusement threatens to tilt my lips in a grin.
