Chapter 3
Have you ever wondered why Jagger is evil?
Roumelade would tell you not to wonder at the nature of things. It’s enough to know something is—you don’t need to know why it is.
But humans, since the beginning, have always wanted to know why.
What, where, when, how—all of them are subservient to why. You see it in kids. One of the first words babies learn after “mama,” “papa,” “milk,” and “blanket,” is, “Why?”
As soon as we have relationships, food, and security taken care of, we turn philosophical. Even as two-year-olds.
We really can’t help ourselves. It gets us into all sorts of trouble.
And finally, when all the answers have been worn out, the only response to “Why?” is . . . “Because.”
Jagger is evil . . . because.
That was the only answer I had until I became a mine.
Jagger sat behind his rockslab desk, hunched over a bottle of Furtig. There were two shot glasses. He filled both, and the scent of chrysanthemum and rubbing alcohol stung my eyes.
Furtig is a liquor distilled from actual spirits. It takes a year to distill enough spirits to form a teardrop’s worth of Furtig. It’s incredibly rare, very expensive, and Jagger only drinks it when he’s celebrating.
Justice tried Furtig once. He passed out after his first sip and woke up with a white streak in his hair. He refused to tell me and Griff what happened after he drank it.
Growing up in Hell Gate, you quickly realize there are some things you’ll never talk about—usually, the very best things and the very worst things. Those are the secrets we keep.
I didn’t want to drink the Furtig, but Jagger pushed the second glass across his desk. Some of the liquid sloshed over the lip and spilled. A puddle of clear spirit pooled around the glass on top of the polished stone desk like an oil spill on water.
“Take it.”
I picked up the shot glass. It was wet, sticky, and cool. Jagger didn’t wait for me to drink. He shot the Furtig between his gray lips, exhaling loudly and refilling his glass.
You have questions.
I hear you shouting them.
It’s been two weeks, Mari! Why haven’t you found Finn? Don’t you care? Don’t you love him anymore? What about Jacob? Philoneas and Uliea? Is Luvic okay, and why did he kill the siblings he supposedly loved? What about Justice? Why haven’t you spoken to him? Why are you still in Hell Gate? Why?
Right.
The question is “Why?”
It’s always “Why?”
The answer is: I haven’t found Finn because Jagger ordered me not to leave Hell Gate. Do I care? Do I love him? Isn’t that what’s locked deep inside? The same goes for Jacob, my parents. Luvic. Justice. It’s locked deep. Hidden from Jagger and his desire to devour all things good.
As soon as I woke up in the conjurer’s cage and Jagger crouched over me, I realized a number of important things.
First, Jagger didn’t know I’d regained my memories of Finn. He believed I’d killed Finn on his orders and only remembered him as the solange addict I’d helped win the games.
Second, Jagger didn’t know I was Jacob’s twin and Philoneas and Uliea’s daughter. I assumed he knew by the taste of my blood that I was a Ward, but he didn’t know how much of a Ward.
Third, Jagger didn’t know I’d learned he sent Luvic to kill me after retrieving the key. He didn’t know Luvic was my friend and it was me who’d let him out of the cage all those years ago.
Finally, Jagger didn’t know I had a torrential river of power flowing through me, and also that I’d locked away my good so he couldn’t consume it. He didn’t know what I was hiding.
I couldn’t let on to Jagger, to Justice, to Rou—not to Griff, not to anyone—that I still cared, still loved. Because if I did, I knew Jagger would seek that love out and swallow it whole as quickly as he downed a shot of Furtig.
My love, my good, was like blood in the water. It would draw Jagger out. I had to keep it hidden.
What would I do if I saw Finn? Luvic?
The thought terrified me. To keep my love safe, I had to be a perfect mine. To be their friend, I had to be their enemy.
“Furtig,” Jagger said, eyeing the shot glass in my hand, “isn’t for everyone.”
“No,” I agreed.
He poured himself another glass. How many spirits was that? A thousand? Ten thousand?
When he drank it, his skin turned pearly gray.
Usually, he was beige-gray, with deep, craggy wrinkles, but Furtig gave him an odd, otherworldly glow.
The sags on his skin loosened, his wrinkles lifted, and the deep creases around his mouth lessened.
He looked fuller, as if the Furtig filled him like air filled a balloon.
Leggerocks never looked exactly human. They were six and a half to seven feet tall. Gray-skinned, with flat gray eyes, deeply grooved skin, too-long arms, and bulging joints. They were bald, sharp-toothed, and always wore an obsidian ceremonial dagger around their throats.
A leggerock’s blood held power, and the dagger spilled their blood. Jagger always claimed leggerocks had been given blood magic to balance the conjurers’ illusions.
He swallowed his fourth glass and then wiped his large hand across his gray lips. I still hadn’t sipped mine. Instead, I rolled the glass between my fingers like Finn used to roll his thimbles of solange.
That’s what I did now. Since I couldn’t have Finn, I gave myself little reminders of him.
“You seem to have adjusted well,” Jagger said. His gaze ran over me, but he wasn’t looking at my physical appearance—he was poking inside of me. “Tell me, have you adjusted, Mari?”
I couldn’t lie to Jagger. It wasn’t possible as a mine. I couldn’t lie to him or about him. Justice sometimes mentioned it, but I’d never thought much about it.
It reminded me of the inquisitor’s chair. There wasn’t the option to lie, only the option to choose between multiple truths.
“As well as I expected,” I said, my voice low and melodic.
Jagger smiled as if he knew what I was doing. He probably did. I’d learned, though, he couldn’t read my mind, and he couldn’t read the secrets of my heart. His blood was a mindless thing that could only devour or demand.
“I’m not convinced,” he said, dragging a long finger down the line of his knife. “Not convinced at all.”
He studied me, his head tilted, the scent of chrysanthemum and alcohol nearly suffocating. I held still under his inspection even though my muscles were tense and my mind was begging, Run, run, run.
“You don’t like being a mine, do you? Yes or no.”
Ah.
So he did know what I was doing.
“No,” I said.
Jagger smiled. His lips pulled back, and his sharp teeth glistened. “I like it when you’re honest with me. Would you like me to be honest with you?”
I curled my fingers around the Furtig. “Yes.”
Better to know than not.
He nodded as if I’d made the right choice.
“It’s a close thing as to whether or not I’ll kill you tonight.”
I gripped the shot glass tighter. A bit of the Furtig spilled onto my knuckles.
“I’m not convinced you’re really mine. Are you mine, Mari?”
“Yes.”
He ignored my answer. “You see, I expect a little struggle. All my past nines struggled when they became mine. They fought me. They tried to keep their independence. Even Justice. He still fights me. But you . . .” He narrowed his eyes.
“You surrendered. It was too easy. I don’t like things to be too easy.
They taste like a lie. All the nines, even the worst of them, fought to retain their .
. . pleasant memories. Their good. But you didn’t fight at all. Why?”
I saw my mistake. I’d hidden too much of myself.
I should’ve left more for Jagger to devour.
I should’ve left a knot of love for him to ravage.
I should’ve fought for it and then cried as he ripped it free.
It was wrong to metaphorically open the gates and let him stroll uncontested into the castle.
He suspected a lie, and he wasn’t wrong.
I answered quickly, with the best truth I had. “Because I want to live.”
That was something Jagger understood. Everything on the earth, even worms, even mindless viruses, fought to survive.
What he didn’t understand, though, was that I didn’t want to live for myself; I wanted to live to help protect the people I loved.
He stared at me, considering my expressionless face. The windowless room was quiet. The noise of my heart sloshed around in my ears.
“You won’t for much longer,” he said, certainty in his rockslide voice. “If you survive, there will come a time when you’ll wish I’d killed you. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
He tapped a long gray fingernail against the glass bottle of Furtig. It made a hollow, lifeless noise.
“Because I’ve made you my creature,” he said.
“You will come to hate living in a world where a creature like you is allowed to exist. You’ve been kicked out of paradise, and now, all you have is Hell Gate.
When you’ve been cut off from good, you’ll come to love evil.
When you can’t have light, you’ll desire darkness.
Hate will be your lover. Evil your North Star.
Then one day, years from now, you’ll see a bit of light shining somewhere in the dark and you’ll hate it, because it will show you what you’ve become.
My creature. You’ll realize I stopped giving commands years ago, and all the hateful things you’ve done were done by your own will.
You’ll be a testimony to the corruption of good.
It started when you were a child. It progressed when you killed a man.
And it will finish when . . . well, we don’t know.
But it will finish. Someday, you’ll bear witness to what you’ve become.
And then you’ll wish I’d killed you. You’ll wish you’d died tonight.
That is your future. That’s what happens in a world where creatures like you and me are allowed to exist. And when you can’t destroy yourself, Mari, you’ll decide to destroy the world. ”
My lips were bloodless, and I didn’t dare move or even breathe too deeply. Was this what he’d seen over the centuries? Was this the future laid out before all mines?
“Hear my will, Mari. You will do as I command. For tonight—and if you survive, for every night after, until you die—you will never purposely harm yourself. You will never put your life in danger except in service to me. You will never risk your life for another except me. You will guard me, shield me, and protect me against all harm. You are my first line of defense against conjurers, illusion, and creatures with ill intent. If I die, you die. If I hurt, you hurt. You are my shield. You are my will. You are mine. Yes?”
My throat was tight, as if a hand were clamped around it. “Yes.”
Jagger considered me with his flat gaze. Was he questioning his power? But why? It didn’t make sense. I wanted to protect him like I wanted to protect my own hand. I was a mine—that was how it worked.
“Say it. I want to hear it.”
“Your will is mine.”
He smiled. It was the smile he gave when he tore off someone’s arm. “Let’s toast.” He poured a new glass of Furtig and held it in the air. “To Mari and all the wicked things she’ll do. To the wicked creature she’ll become . . . all because she wants to live. Drink it.”
Jagger watched as I swallowed the Furtig.
The spirits screamed as they ripped their way down my throat. The glass shattered in my hand. The world exploded.