Chapter 19
For my entire life, I’d been warned about what would happen if the conjurers learned I was a lockpick. Torture. Dismemberment. Disembowelment. Followed by years of wandering the iron cage of my own torture-warped mind. Then, finally . . . death. A true and final death.
That was the fate of true lockpicks.
In our world, there were “lockpicks” who trained for decades, like martial artists, to see and unravel illusion. Their skill, even at the height of mastery, was a raindrop compared to an ocean when held against a lockpick who was born.
It had always been the prerogative of conjurers to kill true lockpicks as soon as they manifested their power. When they were still young and weak.
In the late 1400s, the Clarks wrote an entire treatise on how to remove the scourge of seers from the earth.
The Renaissance had arrived, and there was a spate of truth seers and those with clear vision.
By “spate,” I mean ten or twelve, with a few children thrown in.
Although I can’t be certain, I think most of them were trained and not born.
The treatise had chapters on how to identify truth seers.
Their distinguishing marks and characteristics.
How and where to find them. And then the best, most effective means for torture and death.
Lockpicks were “vile, unnatural beasts,” with “no virtue, reason, or soul,” who threatened the very fabric of existence. Thus extermination.
The book was full of sermonizing, righteousness, and dire warnings, and also very creative ways to deliver a thousand agonizing deaths. The Clarks were known for scholarly detail, and the illustrations were graphic.
I’d thumbed through the original manuscript’s pages when I lockpicked the Clark’s office a few years back. It would be a lie to say it hadn’t given me a few nightmares.
The first night, I’d been too scared to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the drawing of the lockpick with his back muscles carved open and spread out like butterfly wings. It was terrifying.
Finn had stayed awake with me, his hand stroking my hair, telling me a story about his mom taking him on the Staten Island Ferry for his fourth birthday.
How she’d bought him a hot dog at the concession stand, and he’d slathered it in ketchup and mustard.
And then, as they passed the Statue of Liberty, they’d seen a finback whale breach the water.
And so he’d begged to go again and again, until they’d ridden the ferry fourteen times in a row.
Seven times there and back again, with hot dogs, donuts, nachos, pretzels, and juice.
And his mom hugging him at the railing as the wind whipped over them and the waves rolled past.
“Fourteen times,” he’d laughed. “Fourteen!”
“She really loved you,” I’d said, leaning into his warmth and resting my head against his chest.
He’d nodded, pressing his lips to my cheek, drawing a constellation with his mouth. He’d promised, “I won’t let them hurt you.”
I’d believed him, even though I knew it couldn’t be true.
Now, the Clarks and the Bards were about to learn I was a lockpick, and Finn wasn’t there. Not to keep or to break his promise.
* * *
Hell Gate’s great hall was ablaze with candlelight. Somehow, Rou had worked a miracle. Last night, Justice and I had nearly killed each other in this room, and then there’d been hours of wild debauchery. Drinking, feasting, fighting. The evidence of that was gone.
Now, it was a great stone room glittering with the warm glow of brass chandeliers and dozens of Victorian candelabras.
The mirrors reflected the flickering candles and painted the room in winking lights, like the inside of a gem-stuffed jewelry box.
There were thick burgundy and cream colored rugs scattered over the stone floor.
One long table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs.
It was festooned with a centerpiece of poison ivy and thorned red roses. Beautiful, as long as you didn’t touch.
The table was set with gold-rimmed china, polished silver, and sparkling glassware. The scents of Roumelade’s feast permeated the room. Cinnamon and clove ham, raisins and caramelized sugar, terror and bliss.
The hall was beautiful. You’d never know the carpets were covering bloodstained stone and this was the room where Jagger had most loved tearing off limbs.
When the Clarks and the Bards arrived, Roumelade showed them to the great hall. They stood in a group opposite the entry.
Herman Clark, Primus, and Last.
Dagrid Bard and Luvic.
It was the first time I’d seen any of them, except for Luvic, since the games. My stomach turned over, rolling uncomfortably, but I kept my stride steady and my back straight as we entered the room.
It was easy to discard the conjurers’ impact while in the Bard mansion.
Their power was everywhere, and so the force of it was easier to ignore.
But it was different with them in Hell Gate.
This was my home. I knew the feel of it and the way of it.
It was like a fog-shrouded, malevolent beast that slumbered with one eye open, content to let you tiptoe on its back as long as you didn’t disturb its sleep.
The beings who lived here didn’t disturb things by being too flashy or showy or powerful.
Jagger was the most powerful force here, and his rocklike aura was Hell Gate.
So when I first saw the conjurers, the feel of them hit me like a fist. It knocked the breath out of me.
They weren’t actively conjuring; they were merely holding whatever illusion they’d wrapped around themselves in place. But whatever minor illusion each of them held was enough to make the room pulse with a forceful throb. It crawled over my skin and pounded against my chest.
Behind me, Griff yanked in a sharp breath.
He was terrified. Thankfully for him, his only tell was the paleness of his face and the slight widening of his eyes.
Jagger would skin him alive and roast the strips while he watched if Griff embarrassed him tonight.
It wouldn’t matter that he usually let Griff off easy—he wouldn’t in this.
The conjurers didn’t notice us right away.
Jagger led us into the hall, me, Justice, and Griff behind him, and twenty of his favorite creatures silently following us.
Jagger was smart. He’d chosen all sorts of creatures: lures, slipshots, a shill, a few spirits—enough variety that the conjurers would have a hard time killing everyone in the room.
For example, a bolt of lightning could kill a slipshot, but it couldn’t kill a water spirit.
An abyss could swallow a lure, but it wouldn’t hurt a tree spirit.
Besides, Jagger was confident none of them would be able to conjure with me beside him.
“You’re certain they won’t kill me?” I’d asked after he’d delivered all his commands.
Jagger had shrugged. “They might. I’ve decided it’s worth the risk.”
At his words, Justice had clenched his hand into a tight fist. Jagger’s eyes had flicked to his white knuckles, and then he’d smiled.
My heart thudded hollowly as we fanned out, spreading through the stone hall. The candlelight flashed over the conjurers, illuminating them.
The Bard was the same. He wore a suit of midnight-purple, almost black, and a mourning arm band.
He looked younger than he did a few weeks ago, less wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead.
Butterfly knots floated around his head.
His fingers were bedecked with gold rings, and he waved his hands showily as he spoke.
Luvic stood with the casual, slouched grace I knew meant his mind was working furiously, running through a hundred scenarios, and he absolutely didn’t want anyone to know it.
He wore a black tuxedo that molded to his form and made him look like the next great Hollywood star.
The candlelight loved him, stroking his skin and burnishing it to a deep bronze glow.
He wore a humor-filled, amused smile, and when Last narrowed her eyes on him, that smile grew.
She hissed. I’d not ever seen a person hiss like a cat before. But Last hissed at Luvic, and when his shoulders shook with laughter, she curled her lip in a feral snarl. She hated him. I mean, she’d hated him before, but now she really hated him.
She didn’t look well. She’d always been thin to the point of gaunt, anemic-pale and hollow-cheeked, but now, her skin was tinging toward yellow, and her eyes had puffy red and purple bags under them.
Had she been crying? No—Last didn’t cry.
She made people cry. She purposely turned away from Luvic, toward Primus.
They were both in black: Primus in a suit, and Last in a long lace funeral dress.
Primus was the same. Although maybe not.
There was something different about him, as if his cruelty had warped and twisted into a new, hungrier monster.
There was a disconcerting coldness in his eyes.
He used to remind me of a boy who gleefully tore the wings off butterflies.
He still reminded me of someone who tore the wings off butterflies, but the glee wasn’t there anymore.
Now, I think he’d do it dispassionately, without feeling, only because he could.
The last of the conjurers was Herman Clark.
He’d worn his snakeskin boots with his suit.
Like Jagger, he was bald, not a bit of hair on his body.
Unlike Jagger, the Clark had purposely removed all his hair, even his eyelashes.
It reminded me of the molting of a snake, and it always gave me the shivers.
Last was the first to notice us. She puffed out her cheeks in surprise and let the air out in a sharp “puh.” At her reaction, the rest of the conjurers shifted their attention to us.
It was like having the undivided focus of a pack of predators.