Chapter Thirty-Nine
NIC
I awaken slowly. First a prickling in my fingertips and toes, then tiny shards of ice up my arms and legs until, finally, my eyes open.
I’m in a gilded velvet chair, wrists and ankles bound to it with intricate golden buckles. Torture devices hang from the walls on every side. Knives, saws, hammers, and screws still flaked with the blackish remnants of what can only be old blood.
I have never been in this room before, but I know it because I have seen it in a dozen secrets at the Liar’s Den. It is a basement chamber in Magnus St. James’s residence. A place where Magnus gets secrets out of people the way I avoid: through pain.
The door opens, silent except for the click of the latch, and in walks the gang lord himself clad in a pristine black-and-white tuxedo with tails, gold-and-pearl cuff links, and matching buttons.
His dark salt-and-pepper hair is carefully combed away from his face, and his iron-gray mustache has been recently trimmed.
His soft blue eyes—so much like Magnolia’s—crinkle at the corners when he meets my gaze, and if I didn’t know so many of the details of his treachery, I might think him no more than a friendly grandfather type.
“Hello, Liar,” Magnus says, folding his hands in front of him so his solid-gold wristwatch catches the light of the flickering candle on the wall. “How kind of you to join me.”
If I’m to keep Lola safe—from both Magnus here and Laurel out there—I cannot let him see how I care for his daughter, and I need to get out of here as soon as possible.
“You’ve wrinkled my suit.” I raise a brow, nodding at the dirt on my sleeves. “It’s a Larani.”
“Yes, well, you’ve been difficult to get ahold of. I was forced to use extreme measures.” He grimaces kindly. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, of course.” I cock my head. “What can I do for you?”
The crime lord’s smile tightens but does not falter. “You can start by telling me where my daughter is.”
I could deny knowing her location, but he won’t believe me. No, I’ll get much further if I treat this as the Liar would—as an entertaining game.
“You don’t happen to have snacks, do you? Being drugged can make one ravenous.”
His smile fades. “Tell me where she is. Now.”
“Didn’t this conversation happen already about four months ago?” I ask, pretending to think back. “Yes. You came to my tournament finale, then tracked me down and questioned me, didn’t you? And did I give you any information that was helpful?”
His eyes go lethal. “You did not.”
“What was it that happened next?” I furrow my brow dramatically.
“You used your vile magic on me.”
“Ah yes!” I brighten. “What an excellent memory you have.”
Magnus takes four slow, intentional steps forward, leaning past me to pull a long, serrated blade from the wall.
“Most people might have learned from that experience,” I drawl, unbothered as he levels the weapon in front of me.
“Most people would,” Magnus agrees. “I did.”
“Oh? And what did you learn?”
Magnus’s eyes glitter as he lowers the serrated edge of the blade to my arm, resting it casually against the expensive fabric of my sleeve. “Check your pockets, Donnic Sinclair. Oh, wait, you can’t, can you? You’re all tied up.”
“You told your goons to take my voratium, didn’t you? Pick all my pockets till there’s nothing but lint? Maybe my handkerchief ?” I laugh. “Did they tell you there was only a single scrap of voratium, or did they let you think they’d bested me?”
Magnus’s face goes stony, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing.
I can practically see the gears turning.
Magnus St. James is used to being able to get inside people’s heads in a way no other non-magic person has ever been able to do as effectively—it’s something I’ve long feared and admired about him.
He knows precisely which weapons to wield, which people to threaten, which words to speak to make people do exactly as he wishes.
But that’s the rub. It only works on people with things they’re afraid to lose. And all I’m afraid to lose is the daughter Magnus St. James would never hurt.
He has no power over me.
“You’re going to cut off my arm?” I ask with a chuckle. “Best get on with it, then.”
Magnus’s nostrils flare. “I just want to know where she is. What your brother has done with her.”
“Don’t you think,” I muse, “that if Magnolia wanted to, she’d come to you?”
“Why don’t we cut this chat short and you tell me what I need to know?”
“‘Cut.’” I laugh. “Good one.”
Magnus draws in an exaggerated breath. “Donnic.”
“Oh, please, call me Liar. Donnic is a stuffy old priest’s name.”
“Where is she?” Magnus growls, digging the blade in so hard it shears through my sleeve.
I don’t even flinch. “Saw away, old man. But can you at least call down one of your little lackeys to bring snacks? Maybe cashews. Or cheese.”
When the crime lord breaks the skin, when the blood stains my jacket, when the pain is sharp enough to draw bolts of electric adrenaline through me, I laugh.
Thanks to the moonshard magic thrumming through my veins, my body will repair itself. Limbs will regrow, skin will mend.
Hopefully St. James will tire, and when he does, I’ll make a break for it.
I just pray it won’t be too late.