“When I die, do you die too?” I ask.
She nods, translucent tears swimming in her eyes. God, I have so many questions I wish she could answer. If she could talk…maybe I wouldn’t feel so terribly alone.
We watch the trees pass by for several minutes, and then she starts to pace, wringing her hands every few steps until she’s making me dizzy.
“Can you stop? I’ve been nauseous for an hour and this isn’t helping.” At her flinch, I sigh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you, but…you feel the Blade too, right? You can tell it’s…in pain?”
She nods and presses her hands to her heart. This is the most expressive she’s been in days. Like shewantsto talk to me but doesn’t know how.
“Why don’t you pull me in so I can see through your eyes anymore? Is it because we’ve read all the pages in the book?”
She gives me the saddest look and shakes her head softly. Her hair, almost an exact mirror of mine, falls into her eyes, and she brushes it away.
“If you wanted to,couldyou?”
Another shake of her head, but this time, she floats closer and rests her hand over my heart.
God, I wish I could understand her. But I feel like we’re finally about to get somewhere.
“Were youeverin control of it?” I shiver, though we took a curve a few minutes ago, and sunlight streams into the compartment.
Another no. “Not even outside the vault? Holy crap. You’re really as helpless here as I am.”
Finally, a nod.
“Okay. This is ridiculous. I have a damn doctorate degree in the Occult. We should be able to figure this out.” I rummage in the suitcase for a small notebook and pen, sit down, and start to write. My entire life, I’ve relied on long hand whenever I’ve needed to figure out a complicated problem. It calms me, and I can see patterns that no one else notices.
The grimoire holds the power of the Blade. It’s been in the vault for more than a century. Waiting? For what? Me—or any one in my line—to get close?
It needs more than me though. Because only a whisper can get into the vault.
Every time we got close to the vault, she pulled me into her reality. But she wasn’t in control. So maybe the grimoire is?
When we were “one,” we could turn the grimoire’s pages, read the warnings, and take on the power of the Blade.
She hears the call like I do. It’s impossible to ignore, but it’s not malicious. It felt comforting. Natural. Like it’s always been a part of me.
I frown at the words on the page. Shit. Why didn’t I think of this before? On the next page, I continue to write.
The Blade isn’t evil. It doesn’t know why it was created. It’s a pawn—just like I am.
My whisper sidles up beside me, points to the word “pawn” and then points to herself.
So I cross the last few words out and add,“just like we are.”
Drawing a line across the page, I start in on the questions.
Why don’t any of the past whisper keepers warn future generations to stay far away?
How does the grimoire get the whisper keepers’ last words?
Why is the Blade in pain?
Why did AURA need to give me the WCU when I’m obviously strong enough to make my whisper solid on my own?
My whisper jabs the last question repeatedly, almost frantically. She knows something. I circle the words half a dozen times, desperate for an answer.
“The WCU could send you away and trap me in the void. Were they afraid of me? Of what the two of us could do together?”
