Calypso’s condition for answering our questions before the drain is that Dean must agree to what she calls a “blood contract.” She slices an inch-long gash into both of their palms, then has them shake on it, warning us that the moment we have all the answers we seek, the process of draining Dean’s powers will automatically start.
Then, as if she hasn’t just drawn blood in her living room, she leads us to a long, wooden table in the center of the hut and gestures for us to sit. “Tea?”
This woman really is something else.
I glance around at the others. The last thing I want is tea; I just want answers. To my relief, everyone seems to agree.
“Please,” I say. “I have to know. Am I a guardian, or not?”
Calypso’s vibrant, golden eyes flash as she says, in a voice smooth as silk, “Of cours
