Chapter 5
Justice grabbed my wrist. The knife arced between us, a sharp tool meant to cleave us apart. He squeezed my wrist, exerting enough pressure to almost but not quite break bone. My fingers shook, and an electric nerve pain spread up my hand.
The blade was two inches from Justice’s jugular. It vibrated as if it were pulling all the energy from us. Me, shoving the knife closer. Justice, pushing the knife away.
We were locked in this position. A foot apart. Death dancing in the space between us.
Hell Gate’s creatures screamed wildly, shoving close, but not so close they’d get caught up in the fight. The inhuman roar assaulted my ears. From behind, a slipshot—Harry?—knocked against me. The force of his shove pushed me closer to Justice, and the knife dipped downward.
There were guttural shouts. Cries for blood, decapitation, and suggestions of how to tear off limbs or deal a brutal death. I tuned it out. It was the soundtrack of my childhood. I’d seen enough fights in the great hall to know exactly what was expected.
Jagger had given me a gift. I lived in dread of Jagger’s gifts. If you were unlucky enough to receive one, it always made your life infinitely worse.
In ancient Rome, there was an emperor who reminded me of Jagger.
His name was Elagabalus. He was famous for many things.
Child sacrifice, so he could rifle through their entrails and read the future.
Catapulting venomous snakes into crowds for fun.
And one more thing. He had a lottery. You know .
. . gifts. You could win a prize like a house or money, or you could win a box of dead dogs, killer wasps, or an execution note.
This gift was the equivalent of Elagabalus’s lottery.
We only needed Jagger to toss some of his venomous snakes into the fight, and then we’d be all set.
The thought made me smile as I glanced over Justice’s shoulder. Griff was at the edge of the crowd, eyes wide and face pale. When I smiled, he flinched.
“Don’t,” he said, but his words were buried under the violent roar surging around us.
I know what he was thinking. These fights only ever ended one way: with someone dead. We all knew it, and here I was, smiling. I imagined Griff thought I’d come back worse than Justice. Worse than Jagger.
I looked away from him. I had to concentrate on staying alive.
While Jagger had said this gift was for me, I was well aware of what was really happening.
This was my test. If I hesitated, if I stalled, if I balked at killing the boy I’d grown up with, then Jagger would kill me instead. It wasn’t a complicated test. Kill Justice, live. Hesitate, die.
Jagger had never cared that Justice tried to fight his orders. He’d never minded the struggle. He’d laughed every time Justice had tried to find a loophole. He enjoyed watching the pain he caused bending Justice to his will. I thought he liked knowing Justice fought being a mine.
Now I realized it was more than that. Jagger didn’t care whether or not Justice fought him, because Justice didn’t matter. He was a tool that could be used or discarded. His struggle didn’t matter at all.
But I knew with a deep certainty that if Jagger sensed me fighting his will, he’d kill me. One second I’d be alive, and the next I wouldn’t.
Do you remember the excruciating pain Jagger could cause? He could burn a mine from the inside out. If he wanted to, he could overwhelm me with pain and then casually stride over and slit my throat.
Jagger told me he didn’t like that I’d surrendered myself so easily. He didn’t trust it. So this was my test. He cared whether or not I fought his control. He cared very much. Jagger wasn’t afraid of Justice, but for some reason, he was afraid of me.
He sought complete domination.
I could feel his will inside me—kill . . . kill . . . kill. It buzzed like a swarm of fire ants eating at my skin and scalding my arm.
Looking into Justice’s gray eyes, I could see the same will inside of him. He’d been told to fight. He’d been told, I think, to fight to the death. If I didn’t kill him first, perhaps he was meant to kill me.
There was a message in his eyes, but I couldn’t read it. He looked at my hard smile, and the small hope that always flickered in his gaze started to gutter. He thought I was enjoying this. That I wanted to kill him.
Sure, part of me did. But not the true part. Not the part that was truly me.
Justice’s grip tightened, and the electric pain shot down my arm toward my elbow. In a few seconds, I’d drop the knife.
We’d been locked like this for less than five seconds, but already, the crowd was pressing against us, impatient with the standstill.
A line of sweat raced down my temple. Justice let out a shaky exhale. I remembered suddenly a night similar to this, when we’d sparred in the hemlock forest. We’d been this close then too. But that night we’d held each other, and then Justice had kissed me with gentle longing.
The memory of it settled over me. Justice’s hand loosened at the look in my eyes.
I snapped my foot and slammed it into his kneecap. He jerked back, and I twisted out of his hold.
I spun away but was shoved back toward Justice by a dozen creatures. He came at me like a whirlwind.
Fighting Justice was always like fighting a force of nature. He moved with a wild, relentless grace that made me dizzy to watch. We’d been sparring for years, but we’d never fought like this.
He was bigger. Stronger. He had a better reach and a better technique. He could disarm me in seconds, no contest. In a one-on-one fight, Justice would always win.
He tore through the space. It was an open circle ringed by frothing, screaming creatures. He kicked. I jumped. He jabbed. I slashed. He leaned back, and my blade missed him by half an inch.
I slammed my fist into his nose, and blood bloomed in a crimson tide.
He shook his head, and the blood sprayed, hitting my face.
I wiped it from my eyes. The hungry crowd screamed for more.
He darted forward, driving a crushing fist into my ribs.
I flew back and slammed into bodies. I choked on air, my lungs screaming.
The creatures shoved me back into the fight.
It was brutal. I’m not going to lie and tell you any different.
The fight felt like an eternity, although it couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes.
The whole time, Jagger stood with his arms folded, an immovable rock in a writhing mass of bodies, smiling as his two mines killed each other.
Griff was pale and desperate, shaking his head, pleading, “Stop! Mari!” But after a while, I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t hear the crowd. I couldn’t hear anything but the sloshing of angry blood in my ears.
My breath dragged sharp claws through my lungs, and I coughed and spit out blood. Justice snapped a punch. My head kicked back, and sparks lit my vision.
Kill, my blood sang. Kill.
I gave myself over to the song. When Justice swung wide, leaving himself vulnerable, I darted forward and jabbed the knife into his left shoulder. I yanked it out. He sucked in a pained breath and spun away.
Griff, just beyond him, started to cry. He was probably crying because he was witnessing the death of his two best friends. Justice because I’d kill him, and me because after I’d killed Justice I wouldn’t be myself anymore.
Justice wiped at the trail of blood running over his face and flung the liquid to the floor. The gray stone was stained crimson.
The room smelled less like roasted meat and herbs and more like copper tang, sweat, and unshed tears.
Justice was tired. I was tired. Jagger’s knife was slippery with blood but still thirsty.
Justice was dressed in his usual black, but even so, it was wet and glossy with blood. I’d cut him on his forehead, his shoulder, his forearms, and his back.
Every time I’d cut him, every time the blade had taken a bit of his life, I’d remembered something about him that I loved.
The way his smile came out at unexpected times, like the sun shining from behind fast-moving clouds.
The way his auburn hair stuck straight up in the back and refused to lie flat after he woke up, even if I smoothed it down at the breakfast table.
The way he always put his arm over my shoulders and tucked me close when he knew I needed a friend.
How, as a little boy, he’d saved moths from bright lights, mice from traps, and me from myself.
Once, when I was seven and he was ten, I’d hidden in Jagger’s office thinking I might be able to kill Jagger if only I tried very, very hard.
Being seven, I hadn’t thought about the fact killing Jagger would also kill me, Justice, and Griff.
My plan had been to drop the poison Assassin’s Blade into his Furtig.
Simple. Justice had found me in the office frozen in place.
I’d been stuck like that for hours. I couldn’t poison Jagger, but I also couldn’t leave.
Justice understood what had happened right away.
None of us could harm Jagger. Not in any way.
I was frozen in place with the active desire to harm him and the inability to do so.
It was a fail-safe built into the peculiar symbiosis of a leggerock and a nine.
I was going to be found out. We could hear Jagger coming down the hall.
He would find the poison. He would know my intent.
He would kill me. Instead of leaving me to Jagger’s wrath, Justice had grabbed the tiny bottle of Assassin’s Blade and swallowed enough poison to kill fifty men.
He’d died, disappeared, and taken all the evidence of how and why with him.
When Jagger asked Justice why he’d died, he told Jagger he’d poisoned himself because he wanted to see what it felt like.
Justice had saved me from endless torture and a horrific death.