he asked. “That is not a question that matters.” What mattered was that Costin was a creature being offered back his soul, and there was something like a spirit in the room doing the deed. “How long would I have, old man?” “Centuries.” The Whisper sounded pleased that Costin was not denying him. “And though that sounds sufficient, it might not be. Winning back a soul that was willingly cast into darkness is a terrible matter, Costin. This might be all but impossible.” “And if I fail?” “Your soul will be forfeit to the place you cursed it to. For eternity.” He would dream—feel—fire forever. Images of his teeth slashing through skin, breaking through the bone that mixed with the blood he wished to consume . . . “What else?” Costin asked. “What else must I do?”
