Chapter 44
Luvic was weak. It was obvious in the simple overhand knots and bowline of his illusion.
They were loosely tied and barely staying together.
They looked a bit like Griff’s bunny-ear shoelace knots after he first learned to tie his shoes.
They always came undone on their own. Usually, when they came untied, Griff would trip on them and fall.
I hoped Luvic wasn’t about to fall. He’d conjured an illusion for me: a pair of clean jeans, a shirt, and shoes.
He wasn’t able to do anything to cover the sewer stench—it clung to me like a freshly sprayed cloud of noxious perfume.
At the crosswalk on Broadway and Broome, well-dressed people on their way to work wrinkled their noses and then inched away. One woman, a tourist, kept glancing at Luvic while the crosswalk sign counted down.
He ignored her. He was used to people giving him second, third, and sometimes fourth glances.
He was even used to people pretending to take pictures of themselves or the scenery while actually taking pictures of him—or, more likely, his sister or brother.
He probably expected her to pull out her phone and take a picture of the hot-dog stand, the pots of flowers, or even the trash bags lining the curb in front of the mailbox, while conveniently catching him in the photo.
Instead, she cleared her throat and asked loudly, so she could be heard over the early-morning traffic, “Excuse me, are you Luvic Bard?”
A dozen people turned to stare at him. He flicked his hand, altering his nose and his eyebrows imperceptibly and changing the color of his eyes from brown to burnished gold, before glancing in surprise at the woman. “Me?”
An older woman with a plastic rain bonnet narrowed her eyes. “Can’t be. Luvic Bard’s not this good-looking.”
Luvic grinned. “Thank you.”
The first woman stared at Luvic a moment longer and then blushed. “Sorry. You looked like him for a second. But not anymore. The lighting, I guess.”
“Anyway,” the older woman in the rain bonnet added, puffing out her chest, “he’s wrecked over his siblings’ deaths.
I saw it on TV last night. He’s in a downward spiral.
Drugs. Alcohol. Women. His friends are worried.
No one has seen him sober since the funeral.
He’s unstable. What do you expect though? Probably be dead in a few years.”
The light changed, and everyone hurried across the street, forgetting the Luvic Bard lookalike.
Luvic didn’t move. He stared after the older woman, his mouth open, one finger in the air.
“I . . . she . . .” He closed his mouth and gave me a perplexed look. “Downward spiral?”
I shrugged. “She’s right. The real Luvic would’ve been a wreck if his brother and sister were killed.”
He glanced at me quickly, made a noise, then grabbed my arm and dragged me across the street.
“You’re not strong enough,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Luvic dropped my arm, and we ducked under a scaffolding and hurried up Broadway north toward Houston.
“If you were heir, I wouldn’t be able to do this”—I waved my hand in front of his face, and the illusion he’d put on at the crosswalk unraveled—“so easily. It’s like a toddler made your illusion.”
He glanced at his reflection in a dress-shop window and frowned at his face. “I’m worn out from rescuing you.”
“I’m only saying, if I have suspicions, then someone else will too. Does the Bard know?”
Luvic veered down Spring Street, escaping the hustle of Broadway. He stopped under the shadow of scaffolding and backed me against the crisscrossed metal poles, caging me in. A low rattle escaped, and his eyes flashed orange.
A street sweeper rumbled past, shoving dust and dirt over us like a miniature sandstorm. I looked up at Luvic. He was at least eight inches taller than me, and standing this close, I had to tilt my head to stare into his eyes.
“Does the leggerock know you aren’t completely his?” His voice was a low growl.
I swallowed, my mouth going dry. “Luvic.”
He shook his head. “They’re dead, Mari. Just like Finn is dead. All right? None of them can help us. It’s just you and me. So you’re going to help me, and I’m going to help you. And we’re both going to try to stay . . .”
Alive.
I thought he was going to stay alive, but instead, he ended with, “Ourselves.”
Luvic’s mouth kicked up into his half-smile, and he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You smell like a dead rat rotting in a pile of trash.”
I shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge.
“I’ll make breakfast while you take a shower. The Bard’ll be back soon.”
He stepped away, but I stayed pressed against the metal bars.
When he turned to see why I wasn’t following, I asked, “Can I trust you?”
His mouth formed the loose, carefree smile that hid everything Luvic was. “Right now, I’d place a bet I’m the only one you can trust. Remember my friend? She trusted the wrong people. She got herself killed. Don’t do that. Okay?”
I considered his warning. Then, pushing away from the scaffolding, I asked, “Do you trust me?”
“I trust you”—he smiled over at me and opened the door of an elegant sandstone building—“to betray me if you’re told to and to regret it while you do.
I trust you to remain my friend while stabbing me in the back.
I trust you to be a pain in my neck, a taste of hell on earth, and a bee sting in my side.
Yeah. I trust you. What are friends for? ”
He held the door wide, and I stepped from the muggy morning heat into the air-conditioned cold.
* * *
Blueberry pancakes topped with melting butter.
Strawberries drizzled with chocolate. Belgian waffles soaked in syrup.
Crisp bacon and golden sausages. Scrambled eggs topped with chives.
Chocolate croissants and apricot tarts. Fresh-squeezed orange juice with froth at the top.
A bowl of fresh berries dusted in powdered sugar.
In the twenty minutes it took me to shower, scrub the sewer off, and dress in the fresh jeans and T-shirt Luvic had conjured for me, he’d managed to make a breakfast feast.
I’d suspect it was conjured, but it didn’t have the mind-dizzying, giddy effect of Last’s chocolate or the empty-air, hollow-stomach feel of nutrient-less food.
The breakfast, laid out on fancy china and sliver platters, was as real as Rou’s chicken, saffron, and dumpling stew.
I sat at the Bard’s dining table trying not to tap my foot with impatience. I wanted to rush back to Hell Gate to reassure Griff I was okay, to find Rou, and—if possible—avoid Jagger, so I could help any survivors buried under stone and ash.
You might think Hell Gate wasn’t worth saving. In fact, most of the slipshots there had tried to kill or maim me at least once. But faulting a slipshot for violence would be like faulting a scorpion for stinging.
Plus, I wanted to know if the Smiths had left a message, or if the destruction was the message.
“You’ve had an interesting morning,” the Bard said, slowly pouring coffee from a French press into a gold-rimmed teacup. “Pass the sugar, please.” He gestured to a silver bowl full of white sugar lumps with tiny edible flowers capping them.
I handed the bowl to Luvic, and Luvic handed it to his father.
“Thank you. Two, I think.” He dropped two sugars into his coffee and then smiled as if he’d done something spectacular. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” I sipped my coffee—black—and watched him like you’d watch a venomous snake poised and ready to strike.
“No? Hmm. My heir doesn’t care for sugar either. Anymore. He used to, but now he prefers protein.”
The Bard—Dagrid—smiled at Luvic’s plate. It was filled with bacon, sausage, and eggs. There wasn’t a single sweet thing on it.
I didn’t like the way Luvic stilled when his dad mentioned what he was eating, and I especially didn’t like the satisfied, gloating curve of the Bard’s lips. It was like he and Luvic had just played a game of chess and the Bard had checkmated him in two moves.
Slowly, Luvic reached out, grabbed a chocolate croissant, and took a large bite. He chewed and swallowed.
The Bard laughed. “Good. Very good. We’re all actors in this family. Did you know? Try the pancakes. My son makes a wonderful pancake.”
I put a single golden pancake on my plate, and then, at the Bard’s raised eyebrows, I took another. He nodded approvingly.
“It’s been a hard few weeks.” The Bard was covered in illusion.
He looked like a Shakespearean actor playing the role of mournful king.
Who knows what his expression actually looked like?
I only saw what he wanted me to. A powerful man, still attractive and in his prime, who was emotionally wounded from a great loss.
But he would prevail, if only for the good of his people.
It was a good role for him. He played it well.
He cleared his throat, and his eyes misted with unshed tears.
“Losing all my children was a blow I never expected.”
“You still have Luvic.” I took a bite of the pancake. It was good.
I think the Bard frowned, but his face was covered in illusion, so I only saw a smooth, sad facade.
“He is a comfort,” the Bard agreed. “And soon . . . grandchildren. I would love a grandchild to soothe the ache of losing my own children. Within a year, I think. We’ll celebrate the happy event.”
Luvic’s knife scraped across his plate as he roughly cut his sausage. His head was down, and he didn’t look at his father or at me.
The Bard was waiting for my response. I think this was his idea of polite conversation. Or he was torturing Luvic, which was much more likely.
“Let’s turn to other matters.” The Bard set down his coffee and leaned back in his chair. He hadn’t touched the waffle on his plate. “There is someone in the city leaving me . . . surprises.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Six of our homes destroyed.”
Six? I’d only burned down the one.
The Bard’s lip curled. “This garbage heap is a rental.”