Like… why, kid? What’s your problem?
It’s not like we evenwantedyou here.
He crosses his arms and shifts his weight, like he’s already sick of us. Then he lets out this long, gravelly sigh, like it’s been scraped up from the bottom of his soul.
“You gonna keep staring, or are you actually gonna let me out of this binding?”
“We’re gonna keep staring,” Cassian answers, deadpan. “Unless you start telling us what the fuck you are and what you want.”
The teenager smirks.
“Is that your idea of stalling or…” He trails off, deliberately vague.
“I should redo the wards,” Nathaniel mutters. “If the summoning failed, there’s no reason to keep standing out in the open.”
He’s already moving toward the old salt lines when the boy shifts, his posture tightening, his eyes turning from hostile to something wilder.
“Don’t,” he says. “Wait a moment.”
That stops all of us.
Nathaniel pauses, blinking slowly. “Why?”
The boy glances at me, then at Cassian, then back to me again.
“Redoing the wards won’t help,” he says. “Actually… it’s one of the worst things you could do right now.”
Okay, now he’s really losing us. Me, for sure. As far as I know, the wards are the only thing keeping the wraith from breaking into our space. They're the only layer of safety we have left.
So why would he not want them?
Cassian’s the first to assume, and act on it.
“He wants us exposed,” he grits out, already drawing his Grim Reaper-made dagger.
No one stops him. I mean… I’m not exactly on board with solving every problem through violence, but in this case? There’s a certain logic to it.
The boy crawled out of Laura Collin’s remains, powered by her creepy locket and some of my blood. And let’s be honest, aside from my blood, those things practically scream evil.
Odds of him being some kind of hellspawn? Pretty damn high.
He lowers his chin, glaring at Cassian from beneath thick, black lashes.
“I don’t need you vulnerable,” he says. “It’s the opposite, actually.”
…Not quite the reassurance he thinks it is.
I glance between them, my pulse starting to tick up. Something about this whole exchange feels off.
“What does that even mean?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
He turns to me slowly, and something in his eyes makes my stomach dip. Cold. Measured. Like he’s already decided I’m a disappointment.
Then he exhales, sharp and heavy, like I’ve wasted his time.
“God,” he mutters. “You really don’t get it.”
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
