“Ah, visitors,” the Graver said in a wet hiss. “There is no need for such violence. We welcome you.”
As it spoke, Vesper tilted his head to catch a glimpse of the face beneath the hood, and when he did, he gawked. Its flesh, the texture and pigment of aged parchment, sat oddly askew, moving off kilter with its mouth.
Vesper fumbled for words, unable to tear his eyes away. When Thorrin stepped forward, he nearly hollered in relief.
“Good day,” he said. Thorrin laid three of his fingers over hiscavaein a formal gesture and bent for a stunted bow.
Vesper kicked himself. Fuck, why didn’t he think of that?
Thorrin’s hazel eyes hesitantly flitted over the Graver’s strange face. “I hope we’re not intruding. We have come for information if you are inclined to humour us.”
The Graver removed his hood and Vesper stifled a gasp as he took in its empty eye sockets that twitched as if they held phantom eyes. The Graver spun and pulled the tent flap aside. “Come.”
Kyrith’s wary eyes met Vesper’s, maybe thinking the same as him. Why did the Graver offer its help so easily? And, like everything, what was the cost?
Vesper’s stomach sank. All of his comrades shared the same helpless look. If this was how they found answers, so be it.
Dimitri clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Put your sword away. We have your back.”
Vesper nodded, and though alarm lingered at the base of his skull, he slid his sword into its sheath.
As they entered the tent, a strange sensation prickled his neck. His instinct screamed not to touch the door, wall, or anything in this fucking hut, so he stood and crossed his arms over his chest, making himself as small as possible.
Animal hides and that same yellowed paper lined the interior of the tent. Some quality about it set Vesper’s teeth on edge, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Only a few pieces of simple furniture decorated the otherwise empty room.
Vesper shifted from foot to foot as he glanced at Kyrith whose jaw was set in a grimace. The Graver gestured to a series of benches around a square table and everyone sat except himself and Nefeli who stayed at his side. The Graver stood across from the table from Vesper and cocked its head. Studied him.
When Vesper finally found his voice, he said, “We’ve come for information. We’ve been told you have answers for us.”
“My brothers are preoccupied, but I am of service.” The Graver’s eyes did that strange spasm again, as they examined Vesper’s face. “Lay down your requests.”
The stares of everyone in the room bore into him as he cleared his throat. “What do you know of the permanency of death forthose unclaimed by the gods?” The question miraculously came out coherent, even though everything inside him melded in a party of anxiety, sweat, and bloody anarchy.
The Graver reached behind him for a cracked black cup before it strode to the opposite side of the tent and disappeared behind a flap. Vesper met Thorrin’s equally confused stare.
When the Graver returned, it extended the cup to Vesper. A flash of white peeked out under its sleeve, but he couldn’t decipher exactly what he’d seen.
“Bleed then drink,” the Graver slurred. “The remnants of your offering will provide answers.”
Hesitantly, Vesper took the cup and stared into the depths. The liquid appeared to be plain water, but his fingers found etchings on the side of the cup in a language he’d never paid enough attention to learn; it was likely Sellidic, though it could very well be Calmalian for all he knew. He traced them as if they would tell him what they meant if he focussed hard enough. When he looked up, he found Kyrith’s eyes locked on the symbols. Her lips pressed together and she gave a subtle shake of her head.
But he needed answers.
Or else his future and everything he had ever loved would be taken from him. He swirled the liquid and grit his teeth. Blood exchange was rarely a good idea, but if he drank it after it couldn’t be that bad, right? It wasn’t like he had to slit his wrist and shove it into the Graver’s mouth. And if he refused, he would let everyone down.Again.
So, Vesper removed a dagger from his belt and slid his glove from his hand with uneasy fingers. He pricked his thumb, but only deep enough to let a few beads of blood fall into the cup. Red tinged the water, then dissipated.
“Drink,” the Graver commanded. It met Vesper’s unsure stare with those empty sockets that now resembled endless, dark tombs.
Vesper lifted the cup to his nose and gave it a hearty sniff. The scent of something ancient, musty, and forgotten flooded his nose, like the scent of a room shuttered from sunlight for years.
He ignored both his instincts and Kyrith’s wide gaze and drank. The liquid hit his tongue, seized it really, wrapped it in icy rivulets that reminded him of the day he and Izzy had stumbled upon that deer in the woods and he’d used his Hollow magic for the first time. Because the way the liquid coated his mouth and throat emulated Death’s embrace. Despite his churning gut, he swallowed.
As he surveyed the clotted blood on the bottom of the cup, the black liquid nearly made a second appearance.
The Graver extended its hand across the table. Vesper’s stomach twisted, but he handed the cup back. And when the Graver’s hand came into focus, he now knew what that flash of white had been.
It was the Graver’s fleshless fingers.