Chapter 28
I was expelled from the Den with the force of a piece of steak Heimliched out of a choking man’s throat.
I slammed into the floor and skidded across the hall, Luvic’s arms wrapped around me.
My head hit the ground, and Luvic’s weight knocked the breath from me.
We rolled and then skidded to a stop at the threshold of an open door.
Ahead of us were Last, Gerald, and Penrose the fox. Behind us was the hallway and the Den of Depravity. I knocked an elbow into Luvic’s ribs. His grip tightened, and he rolled us through the doorway and kicked it shut.
As soon as his grip loosened, I sprang to my feet and rushed the door.
If I could get back, I could save Justice.
I had seconds—minutes, maybe. My heart pounded violently, and all I could see was the expression on Justice’s face when he realized he wasn’t leaving the Den.
That he was going to be the marionette—the Den’s recompense for interrupting their festival.
What would they do to him? What would he suffer?
I charged the door, and Luvic knocked me aside.
“No,” he snarled.
“Move!” I jabbed at him and tried to dodge past.
Luvic was big though. Not as big as Finn or Darin, but a lot bigger than me. He blocked the door, his legs spread wide.
What did it matter? I’d go through him if I had to.
“I’m going back for him.”
“Not a chance,” Luvic snarled. “We barely made it out alive. You go back in, you die.”
I jabbed, punching Luvic in the jaw. He shook his head and knocked my next swing aside.
“Move!” I instilled my voice with all the command, all the power, I could. I waited for the bee-sting sensation, but nothing happened.
Luvic gave me a feral grin. “No. He’s already dead, and if he’s not, he’ll be as depraved as the rest of them in no time. He was practically already there.”
I kicked out, trying to knock Luvic from his feet. He twisted his hand, throwing ice-cold water on me.
“Settle down!”
I rushed him. All I had to do was knock him aside. He twisted his hand, conjuring, and I tore it out of existence. He grunted and conjured again, and every illusion he threw out to bar my path I ripped apart with mindless fury.
The demonstration Jagger had made us give at Hell Gate was nothing compared to the fury of this exchange. All I had to do was make it through the door. Back to Justice. I could . . . I could . . .
Luvic conjured a prison of water—a whirling mass that would hold me immobile. He swept it in front of him and threw it at me. I shredded the knots of illusion, and the water misted and vaporized.
Luvic’s chest heaved with exertion. His clothing was soaked with blood, and he was hunched from the pain of all the stab wounds he’d sustained in the Den. His face was pale and his eyes grim.
“If he dies because of this delay, I’ll kill you,” I promised.
Luvic smiled, his mouth still soaked with blood. “At least you’ll still be alive to kill me.”
My skin flashed between ice-cold and burning-hot.
I was queasy, dizzy, and raging. There was a wild, red-visioned howling scratching and clawing in my blood, urging me to kill, to hurt, to maim.
I wanted to tear Luvic apart. I wanted to dance in his pleas, and then I wanted to feast on his suffering. I wanted . . . I wanted . . .
“I hate you,” I said, tasting the acrid, smoky flavor curling free, burning my insides.
It was a new feeling, and it nearly overwhelmed me—the rage of it, twisting and monstrous, like the rippling muscles of Luvic’s jackaltooth form. It was surprising, the sharpness and the violence of the hate.
Luvic tilted his head, taking in my features. “He’s murdered, at my last count, 227 beings, conjurer and creature alike.”
Behind me, someone—probably Last—made a surprised, appreciative noise.
“They call him the Knife, but do you know what else they called him? The Devil’s Hand. You’ve done the world a favor by leaving him in the Den. He’s as depraved as they come.”
“Get out of my way,” I said, infusing my voice with all the power I could—the prison and warden and maze power I’d used in the Den. It had worked there. I didn’t know why or what or how, but it had worked.
“He’s dead or he’s depraved. Leave him.”
“Get out of my way.”
“No.”
I rushed Luvic, and he twisted his hand, but just as we were about to collide, the both of us froze. Me, my hands outstretched, one foot in the air, one foot on the ground; Luvic, his eyes narrowed, his thumb and fingers connected, his hand half-twisting.
I tried to move. I tried to budge, but it was as if I’d been encased in plasticine. My heart drummed loudly in my ears, and a slow itch spread through my body. It felt like the beginning of a sneeze—one you knew would never happen. My eyes watered, and a slow tear trickled down my cheek.
In front of me, Luvic stood immobile. Not even his chest rose or fell with his breathing. A drop of blood dripped off his cheek and splattered to the wooden floor.
Behind me, someone began a slow clap.
“That was fun,” a man said cheerfully.
His voice was radio-announcer deep. It was the kind of voice suited to crooning over the sound waves, introducing smooth jazz and soulful melodies.
If a voice could be a drink, then his was the rich, nuanced, complex flavor of an aged merlot.
It went down sweet, with berries and oak, and then filled you with an earthy, full-bodied buzz.
In person, the Merchant’s voice had quite an effect. It wasn’t at all the same as it had been over the intercom, but I already knew that.
He was like those people who were beautiful in person but average on camera. His voice was only stunning when heard in person, never over intercom or telephone.
“Two conjurers, a slipshot, and a mine walk into a bar . . .” the Merchant chuckled, deep and amused. “How does it end?”
If I could grit my teeth or clench my hands, I would.
I’d been so focused on fighting past Luvic to get back to the Den of Depravity I hadn’t noticed we’d landed in the Merchant’s shop. I couldn’t move my eyes to peer around the room, but I knew what I’d find.
The shop took up the entire twentieth floor of the building. It was part-museum, part-shop, part-hoarder’s den. But mostly, it was a magical minefield full of objects of power the Merchant had meticulously collected over the centuries.
I don’t know when he was born—I only know there are notations about him in conjurer documents from the sixteenth century, and perhaps he’s been written about in both ancient Rome and in hieroglyphs in the tombs of ancient Egypt.
He has a habit of cropping up when someone needs something desperately and will give up anything for it.
Priceless heirloom? Object of untold power?
Mysterious artifact? Yes, please. He’ll take that, thank you very much, and here’s your thingamajig you wanted in exchange.
I learned years ago you should only deal in dollars when trading with the Merchant, otherwise you’ll get fleeced.
It happens easily. You show up at his abode and are taken in by the maze of rooms, the towering shelves stuffed to the brim, the displays of art both exotic and mundane, the furniture loaded with artifacts you’ve only seen in history books (or have never seen).
There are rooms of gold, rooms of paintings, rooms full of jewels, poisons, and stuffed birds.
There are rooms of antique dresses, coats, and hats, and even a room filled entirely with paper airplanes.
But we weren’t here for his curiosities and his objects of power. We were here for his weapons.
That was the only thing Jagger ever came for. When his own creations weren’t strong enough, he turned to the Merchant.
The mechanical sound of metal gears shifting was joined by a hydraulic hiss. The Merchant sat in a high-backed mechanical chair. It was bronze, or maybe gold. Who knew? The Merchant liked flash. The spokes on the wheels spun so quickly it looked like the flickering of a flame.
The device wasn’t always a chair. Sometimes, it folded in on itself and then separated to become two stands that bolstered the Merchant’s legs.
Other times, it became a rolling sphere that hovered a foot above the ground, carrying him inside it like a gyrosphere.
I was sure I hadn’t seen all the iterations.
Usually, the Merchant sat in the chair, probably because it made him look like a king on his throne.
He maneuvered between Luvic and me, flashing us his trademark smile.
He looked about twenty—younger than me now—thin, with hollow cheekbones, wide-set brown eyes, and curly brown hair.
The first time I’d met him, I was five. I’d asked him if he’d give me a ride on his chariot.
He’d laughed, and then Jagger had sent pain so sharp through me that I’d dropped to the floor.
But then the Merchant had reached down and picked me up and let me and Penrose cuddle together with him on the mechanical seat.
He’d said, “Would you like to hear a joke?”
I’d said yes. I loved jokes.
“This one is very funny,” he’d said.
It wasn’t. It was about a son who loved his mother and whose father was a famed warrior.
Every time his father came home from war, he would drink and rage.
Whenever the father went to hit the son, the mother would stand in front of him and take his abuse.
One day, the son thought he was big enough to stop the warrior.
When his father went to hit his mother, the son struck his father.
Because the father was drunk, he fell over, hit his head on the kitchen table, and died.
“This isn’t funny,” I’d said.
The Merchant had nodded. “It gets funnier.”