Page 19 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)
Not yet at least.
“You could give me a straight answer for once,” she growled. “Just tell me, yes or no? Is it possible for you to see into my past?”
“I can see into your memories,” he corrected.
“I can see whatever you saw. That is all. Will that give you any more answers? I doubt it. Already you have realized that there is much you ignored or did not see, and that has nothing to do with me. You were unobservant. Your entire kingdom was ripped out from under you without you realizing why or who did it. None of that is my fault.”
“Yes, but you can help.”
“Why should I help you?” He hopped off the altar and crouched in front of her. He couldn’t stop himself from stealing another touch of her skin, gliding his finger underneath her chin as he lifted her face to look at him. “Convince me, nightmare.”
She hesitated for a few moments. Perhaps because she speculated about what he wanted her to do, perhaps she was wondering what she could offer a god like himself.
Eventually, she looked him straight in the eye. “I have nothing to offer that you want. That’s the trick in this, isn’t it? You want me to think that there’s something I can trade. But there isn’t.”
“There is one thing you can do for me.”
“I’m not bringing you into this world. Not without knowing why you want to be here so much.”
Tossing her head to the side, he strode away from her in anger.
The spiking emotion pushed into his heart like she’d shoved a dagger into that empty cavity.
The girl asked too much. She wanted him to give her something freely, without a bargain.
He didn’t do that. He wasn’t a benevolent god anymore. Not to witches, and not to her.
“Is it not enough for me to say that I miss being alive?” He paused in front of the cracked windowpane, covered in grime from years of neglect.
“I miss what it feels like to stand in the sun. To see the dappled shadows of leaves on the ground. To taste wine on my tongue and feel the heat of a fire.”
“You don’t miss the touch of a woman?” she asked, her voice dry and unexpectedly cruel. “Or a man, if that’s your interest.”
“Why would I miss that?” The words were bitter, and she was lucky he didn’t whirl on her in anger.
“Touch is cruel to someone like me. Who touches a deathless god with tenderness when the intent behind those touches is to sacrifice me in the end? Why would I miss the touch of those who see me as nothing more than a bargaining chip? A bid for power that they can control? No, I do not miss the touch of anyone.”
Phantom pains danced down his arms, his chest, his back. All the spots where he had been maimed, tortured, tormented.
Sacrificed.
He heard the sound of her rising before he knew she had moved. One moment she was kneeling before the altar, and the next she stood beside him, though he noted she left a sizable distance between them. Out of respect or fear, he would not guess.
“I don’t know what memory plagues you, but I do know what it is like to be manipulated.
” She swallowed, her throat working, before she took a deep breath and plunged ahead.
“I’m not asking you to give me anything.
I just want you to help me walk through my memories so that I can notice what I didn’t before.
I need to know what I did not see before I continue forward. ”
“You do not need me for that.”
“But it will be a lot faster if you help me.” She wrapped her arms around her chest before turning to him.
“I cannot and will not bring you back to life without fully understanding this world that I am now part of. You want me to be a witch? Fine. I’ll be a witch.
I will learn everything there is to know about being a witch, and then I will make my choice. Satisfied?”
“I don’t want you to be a witch,” he hissed. “I want you to be a gravesinger.”
“Then I will be a gravesinger.”
It was a shitty bargain, and he knew it. But it was likely the only bargain he’d give her.
He looked her over, watching her squirm under his gaze the longer he stayed quiet. If she truly dedicated herself to becoming a gravesinger, to learning spells and investing her time here with Sybil, there was a chance she would realize its benefit. All witches had a patron.
All witches made deals.
It kept her closer to him, closer than she was aware. His little nightmare likely thought this just meant she got his help for longer, but that was not at all what she was agreeing to. Every spell she used drew upon his power, tying them closer and closer together.
So he nodded. “Fine. You have a deal, Jessamine.”
She held out her hand, as if that made all of this more official.
Rolling his eyes, he ignored her offered hand and reached out for her face instead.
Placing his hands over her eyes, he let the power roll from between his fingers and attach to the orbs there.
He muttered a word in the old language, a word that would force her back into her memories, then drew his hands back.
Her dark pupils spread into the whites, spiderweb patterns breaking through her skin and stretching across her cheeks and forehead. She blew out a shaky breath. “I can’t feel your hand anymore.”
“That’s because I’m not touching you, nightmare.”
She lifted shaking hands to touch her eyes, skating over her forehead before she let out a little sound of distress. “My eyes. I can’t see, Deathless One. What did you do to my eyes?”
He leaned closer, breathing out a low growl in her ear before replying, “I took them so you could see. Did you think magic would come without a price?”
The whimper almost made him feel a little bad for not preparing her. Almost.
As it was, he cupped his hands around her shoulders and squeezed. “Now, remember.”
“I can’t… I can’t see…”
“Jessamine.” He gave her a little shake, her head snapping back and forth before she focused on him again. “Remember.”
Then he dove into her memories with her at his side.