I follow her to stand on the other side of the counter. Shoving bundles of herbs and some nasty-looking red-capped mushrooms to the side, I drop the wooden box, opening it with a flick of my wrist to reveal the knife. The blade seethes with twisted essence — enough that the cu-sith presses ghosts of his claws into my brain as a warning, like I’m a fucking idiot and can’t see that shit for myself.
Never mind that my beast knew Bellamy was glamoured, wearing Zaya’s face, before I did.
Bellamy eyes the blade for a moment. Then she sniffs, all haughty like she’s totally above the dire crafting it would have taken to make it. “You’re a fucking cu-sith.”
“Sure,” I sneer. “I’ll just get him alone in a soundproof area and bark him to death.”
She stirs something in the largest pot, glancing down at her handwritten notes. She’s got other books strewn about, presumably from Ingrid’s collection. “I assume you’ve tested it? The power of the cu-sith?”
“I’m not the fucking idiot you assume I am.”
She smirks. “Executions for the Authority? How adorable, brother.”
I stop myself from reaching over the counter and snapping her neck. It’s a near thing, but I manage. Ironically, it’s her calling me ‘brother’ that bothers me the most. She’s not wrong about the ways the Authority used me in the early days.
“Blood spells and rabid berserkers crafted just to please daddy?” I counter mockingly. “Ridiculously cute, sister of mine.”
She flinches. And I know it’s not because of ‘sister.’ Covering, she moves to chop up some of the mushrooms. “Tell me about the blade,” she says, her tone even and cool now.
“Touch it and find out yourself,” I say, being a fucking asshole because I don’t want to touch the blade myself. But she … with her clear eyes and healthy glow … she’s scared to touch it. Like a recovering addict might be scared to come into contact with the object of their addiction.
Bellamy goes back to ignoring me.
I let her, fucking pissed but not stupid enough to push it right away. Giving her time to fucking cave, I search through the two bedrooms, finally finding a pair of old sweatpants that vaguely fit me. I take a piss and wash my hands and face. The bathroom still smells like Ingrid. It might be the soap scented with rosehip oil.
I shove away the memory of having stumbled across the red-haired healer, Disa’s chosen mate, about a year after Zaya’s faked death. Ingrid touched my arm and looked at me with so much fucking pity that I drank myself into oblivion right after.
And she knew … Ingrid fucking knew that Zaya wasn’t dead.
When I return to the kitchen, Bellamy has the knife out of the box and set on a silver tray on the dining table. She’s in the process of chalking runes around it, closing the circle as I step up across the table from her.
My stomach rumbles. We both ignore it.
Even over as many years as it’s been, the blood on the blade still looks fresh.
I don’t recognize the language or origin of the runes, but they vaguely resemble the ones the Outcast fucking carves everywhere, throwing power around indiscriminately. Like our uncle has enough power to just burn it, waste it. Like he was never taught to hide in the shadows, stalking, lying in wait for his prey, and only then tapping into the core of —
“They know you took the knife,” Bellamy says, nodding toward a phone now set on the corner of the counter, next to the box.
“Nothing happens on this property without Zaya knowing,” I say, my voice level. Though I do glance out the front windows to see if we’re about to be besieged.
“I told them I was looking at it. Got a bit more info, not that Rath wanted to be forthcoming. You are all fucking assholes. I pity poor Zaya, having to manage you three.”
“Zaya doesn’t have me to manage,” I snap.
She snorts. “Right.”
“The knife.”
Bellamy presses her essence into the runes she’s chalked. Energy runs through them, shifting toward and under the knife. The blade lifts on a lick of that essence until it hovers around Bellamy’s eye level. She leans in, then starts the blade on a slow rotation with a quick flick of her fingers against the essence holding it.
“Why the tray?” I ask, interested despite myself.
“Solid silver,” she says absentmindedly. “Not just plated.”
To ground the blade, maybe? If Bellamy’s control slips?
“Our father used this blade to kill our uncle,” Bellamy says, as if I don’t already possess that information. “The two of them were also soul bound. Legend would have it that either of them killing the other should have been near impossible.”
