Chapter 37
Of course, fun means different things to different people.
For instance, if Finn told me we were going to have fun, I could expect a picnic in Central Park, where we’d gorge on sandwiches, cuddle in the sun-warmed grass, and then scramble to the tops of giant boulders and kiss as if we’d just conquered Mount Everest.
If Luvic told me we were going to have fun, I could expect a night of terrible karaoke where he’d pretend he couldn’t sing, or a cruise on the Hudson where he’d conjure a creature that looked like the Loch Ness Monster and freak out all the tourists.
Meanwhile, if Justice told me we were going to have fun, I’d know we’d be placing a bet on who would win the next hand-to-hand sparring match, and the winner would have to buy the other a pint of ice cream.
But what exactly did fun mean to a Clark?
If I had to guess, I would’ve expected death, dismemberment, and torture. Barring that, I’d imagine a day closed up in a dusty catacomb, cataloging historical documents written about death, dismemberment, and torture.
Last surprised me though. She was almost jubilant as we left Hell Gate and headed south.
She stopped for bagels, cutting the twenty-person line (and using illusion so the person at the front apologized profusely for unwittingly cutting in front of her).
She ordered three cinnamon raisin bagels, a tub of strawberry cream cheese, and an orange juice, then she paid with conjured money.
She dunked her bagels in the orange juice like a little girl dunking cookies in milk and offered me half a soppy bagel. Starving, I accepted.
But other than the bagel stop and throwing raisins to pigeons, Last didn’t take any detours.
Instead, when she saw a black Rolls Royce SUV driving south, she twisted her hand and tugged me inside when the driver pulled over.
There was already a middle-aged man in the back, very self-important and rude to the driver.
Neither of them noticed us. Last had made us invisible.
Still, she spilled her juice on the leather and dropped crumbs on the floor.
When the man complained about the driver’s inability to keep the car clean, Last twisted her hand and dropped a black widow spider onto his nose.
He shrieked and slapped his own face. Last laughed hysterically.
I tugged free the knot of illusion and unwound the spider.
The driver slammed on the brakes. He’d unwittingly taken us south to the burned and ruined husk of the Clark mansion.
Last was ready to conjure another spider—or perhaps something worse. She had that hungry look in her eyes that said she wanted to watch someone suffer. So I thrust open the door, grabbed her hand, and pulled her from the car.
“We’re here,” I said.
She paused, halting her death-trap conjuring midway, and said, “Oh. So we are.”
She smiled just like she did after dipping her bagel into orange juice. It was a syrupy, soppy, satisfied smile.
She stared at the illusion surrounding the mansion, keeping the facade of an unblemished home. Beneath it was the scorched black skeleton of her home.
Were they still living here?
“Do you think,” she said in a thoughtful voice, “the Smith has any idea what’s coming for him?”
I frowned at the quiet surrounding the destruction. “I don’t know.”
She turned to me. “Would you like to be my maid of honor?”
“What?”
“At my wedding.” She snapped a finger in front of my nose. “Keep up, Mari. Luvic and I are getting married next week. I want you to be my maid of honor.”
“Next week?”
Did Luvic know he was getting married to Last next week?
She sighed. “I know. Selfishly, you’re worried about a dress. But what does it matter? No one will be looking at you. They’ll be looking at my disgusting, showy Bard husband-to-be. And me. Of course.”
I shook my head. I had no words. None.
“You don’t think he’s good enough for me.”
“No . . .”
She shrugged. The flesh beneath her thin shoulders was concave, and her dress hung loosely on her frame. She pushed up her sleeves, rolling the fabric and displaying her veined forearms. “Neither do I. Will you be there? Yes or no.”
Jagger had told me to do whatever the Clarks asked, as long as it didn’t harm Hell Gate or me. All the same, I would’ve said yes no matter what. Not for Last, but for Luvic.
During the games, he’d shown me an illusion where we were at a wedding. I was in a dress, with a crown of flowers. He was in a morning suit. In the illusion, he’d smiled at me with so much joy and given me a kiss. I know it was meant to be my wedding to Finn. He wanted to be there.
His wedding to Last would be nothing like my wedding to Finn, but I’d be there. I’d be there for him.
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
Last smiled.
Then she opened the door, and we entered the ruined estate.
* * *
To me, the Clark mansion had always felt like the closing lid of a coffin.
Every time I walked in, I felt as if I were paralyzed, without air, and buried alive.
Before, the eerie quiet, the musty parchment scent, and the feeling of being watched by a malevolent, unseen presence had been enough to bring out goose bumps and make me look over my shoulder every few seconds. But now, it was a thousand times worse.
The fire I’d lit had destroyed everything.
The interior of the house was like a skeleton forest, with charred bones sticking up out of the ground.
There was an ash layer a foot deep. It clung to my pants and sifted like heavy snow as I trudged through the wreckage.
The air was almost unbreathable. I pulled my T-shirt over my nose and inhaled through the fabric, hoping to block out the noxious fumes.
It smelled like a garbage dump had been smoldering for weeks, letting off burned rubber, charred battery acid, and melted plastic.
My eyes burned as we made our way down the stone stairs into the catacombs.
Unlike the house, the catacombs had survived with only a few broken bones. Some of the passageways had caved in. Many of the rooms were inaccessible. But other areas were unharmed.
“Why haven’t you fixed your home?” I asked Last, my throat painful and raw from breathing the fumes. “The outside is illusion, but you’ve left the inside a wreck.”
Last shrugged. “The Clark said he won’t repair our home until the Smith is dead and Primus is wearing the crown.”
I frowned, but Last didn’t seem concerned.
She held a ball of green light, casting a sickly glow on the hard-packed dirt floors and the stone shelves lined with the remains of her Clark ancestors.
There was still a hint of bitter smoke and ruin, but mostly, the dry air was musty, earth-soaked, and underground-cool.
Cobwebs fluttered in our wake as we strode past, and a few skeletons shifted on their shelves until Last snapped, “Be still!”
My throat hurt; my eyes burned. That didn’t matter so much. What mattered was that with every step deeper into the catacombs, my heart beat faster and my pulse begged me to turn around.
The passage narrowed, the dirt sloped downward, and my chest grew tighter.
Even with Jagger’s blood and his hate swirling through me, I was still terrified.
I knew there wasn’t much stopping Last from burying me twenty feet below the dirt or locking me on one of the shelves to rot with the skeletons.
I had to remind myself I wasn’t helpless. I could fight back.
Last knocked on a wooden door, and then, without waiting for a response, she swung it open.
“I’ve brought her,” she said, and then she added as if it were an afterthought, “Heir Clark.”
I stepped into the room behind Last.
Primus sat behind a large stone desk, a stack of old parchment in front of him. The room was small—barely big enough to hold his desk and a wall of ancient scrolls, bits of pottery covered in cuneiform, leather-bound books, and a stone tablet etched in a language I’d never seen.
He was a large man. That fact was easy to forget when he was sitting in a dark room, hunched behind a desk, riffling through history.
It didn’t help that, outside of the games, he wore drab, unobtrusive clothes that were best suited to a professor or a librarian.
He was pale—the color of a bloodless larva that had spent its life underground and was waiting to hatch so it could devour the world.
His black hair was shaved close to his skull, but unlike his father, he didn’t scrape himself free of all body hair.
Instead, he was covered in a thick mat of wiry bristle.
He was large-boned, formed for cruelty, and in one look, you knew he’d use his power to harm.
Not because he could or because he wanted to, but because that was who he was.
When Primus looked up from his parchment, his eyes gleamed in the green light. He ignored Last and instead studied me, stroking his finger along his pen.
I stood still, my chin high, not letting on that my heart was pounding wildly in my throat, begging me to escape this underground nightmare.
Primus’s scrutiny pinned me to the wall like a butterfly to a corkboard. My fingers twitched, and Primus smiled.
He set his pen on the desk, the click forceful. “Sister. Leave us.”
Last quickly looked at me and immediately hid a flicker of worry. “But—”
“Now.”
She dropped her head, her pale cheeks staining red. “Yes, Heir Clark.”
I didn’t look at her, even when she sent me a meaningful glance.
Was she reminding me that if Primus showed too much interest, she’d pull off my cricket legs and break my forewings?
Or was she genuinely concerned? The door slammed after her, and a rush of air blew a cloud of dust free from the scrolls.
They rattled in the breeze and then stilled.