He set the bowl down and shot her a look over his shoulder. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Trying to learn as much as I can?” She shrugged. “Of course I am. I’m stuck here, and only an idiot wouldn’t see the value in making the most of a bad situation. Not to mention, you can’t blame me for being curious about a spell that involvesmyblood andmygrimoire.”
His eyes narrowed, but it seemed more deliberative than threatening. “I don’t know for certain that the future I see in a vision can’t be changed. In fact, factors suggest it can be. I can only hope that this time will be the exception to my past experiences. I’ve certainly never been as motivated as I am now.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. They were discussing his potential death, and he made it sound inevitable. Not only that, but he’d just revealed a critical weakness.
Before, he’d convinced her that assisting with his spell was the fastest way for her to get free. But if his spell was really a way to save his life, then technically, she could be motivated to stall his progress until the vision caught up with him. Then she would have both her revenge and her freedom.
But … she didn’t want him dead anymore. Whether that was because she wanted answers and knew he had them, or for some other, much stupider reason she refused to consider, she didn’t know.
“What happens if you can’t change it?” she asked.
“Then I die, and I can only hope I’ve succeeded in changing what happens afterward.”
“As in, after your death?”
“Mhm.” He continued painting once more.
“But … there is noafterwardfor a demon. Everyone knows that demons don’t have souls, so when they die, they just dissolve into energy.”
“That has been the accepted explanation, yes.”
“You’re saying it’s not the truth? That there’s something more?”
He set the bowl and paintbrush down and rose suddenly to his full height. She blinked up at him towering above her. Somehow it always came as a surprise how big he was.
“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head, “when did you acquire that grimoire of yours?”
“The one you stole?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even bother to look sorry about it.
“My mother gave it to me right before she died.”
“And what did she tell you about it?”
Her mouth twisted. “Basically nothing. She told me it belonged to my father, it contained important information, and I was to guard it carefully.”
He cocked a brow. “Didn’t do a very good job of that, did you?”
She shot him a glare. “I kept it for over thirty years. And I might have taken better care of it if she’d told me what it was for. I read it a hundred times, and it was always gibberish.”
“That’s because you were reading it through the lens of your accepted reality.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His head tilted the other way. “I still find it hard to believe you truly have no idea what you are.”
She ground her teeth. She would have punched his perfect, dead face if she could have reached that high. “What Iamis pissed off because I’m sick of people withholding information about my life from me. First my mother, now you. I was expected to protect some precious book without knowing why, and now I’m expected to open up a Suyin-exclusive blood bank for your stupid spell that you won’t fucking explain to me!”
Murmur maintained that annoyingly calm facade. She glared at him, breathing heavily as her anger burned hot. She wanted to demand he acknowledge what happened between them last night and stop acting all cool and collected, like he wasn’t thinking the exact same shit she was every time their eyes met.
“I don’t have time for this,” he growled, looking away. “This is not on my list of things to do in any way, shape, or form.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He stepped out of the sigil suddenly, fluid strides carrying him between the painted lines. Then he strode to his desk and dropped into his chair, beckoning impatiently for her to approach.
