Chapter 42 #2
The battle-hardened brother stepped forward, and behind him, the Smiths pulled free their weapons.
The trickster’s smile widened to a grin.
“Bard.”
“Smith.”
“Nice song.”
“Thanks. I composed it myself. Took me all morning. Maybe I’ll become a musician. Bask in the world’s adoration.”
One of the Smiths snorted, and the trickster shrugged.
“What can I say? It’s an addiction. Us Bards love to be loved.”
The wind stilled, curling around the trickster’s ankles. He looked relaxed, but under the loose-limbed facade, he held himself like a jackaltooth about to spring.
The last time the trickster and the brother had met, the families had tried to kill the brother. It had been the Clark, his children, the Bard, and the trickster against the brother. Now, the odds were flipped.
The trickster’s gaze flickered to the flames and then back to the brother. A trail of sweat leaked down his brow.
“Are you all alone?” the brother asked.
The wind growled. The battle-hardened brother had asked the same question right before flinging the boy off the cliff.
“Should we kill you right now?”
The trickster lifted an eyebrow. His cheeks were turning red from the heat. The wind felt the quick, urgent thud of his heartbeat. “Now, why would you do that?”
The brother twisted his hand and conjured a fire sword just like his father’s. “Because you’re aligned with the Clarks. Or am I mistaken?”
“Oh. Aligned. That’s a funny word. Uh-ligned. A-ligned. Hmm. Am I?”
“Are you?”
The trickster smiled. “Didn’t I fight alongside you at the closing ceremony?”
“You were bought.”
“Was I?”
“Can you be bought again?”
The trickster’s eyes widened innocently, then his cheeks dimpled. “Probably. I like being bought. What are you offering?”
The Smith standing behind the brother snorted again and then leaned forward to whisper to the brother. “He killed his siblings. He has no loyalty.”
The brother nodded.
“A fortune,” he said to the trickster, “and the promise that when everyone else dies, you won’t.”
The trickster snorted.
The brother frowned. “A city of your own, a fortune, and the promise that when everyone else dies, you won’t.”
“I want New York.”
“Chicago.”
“New York.”
“Toledo.”
The trickster laughed. “New York.”
“Los Angeles.”
The trickster grinned. “Done.”
“If you turn on us, you’ll die worse than everyone else.”
“I know.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then the brother smiled. “Your word is less than nothing.”
The trickster looked at his watch. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and the acrid air clung to his skin. “Are we done?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Meeting my fiancée.”
The brother narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“The lovely Last Clark.” He waved his hand in a pure Bard manner. “This is where you offer congratulations. I’m sure she’ll love living in sunny LA. Thanks for that.”
The brother frowned. Then, as quick as lightning, he kicked the trickster in the gut. The trickster let out a whoosh of air and then bent over, clutching his stomach.
The brother clasped his shoulder and growled. “Congratulations.”
The Smiths strode past.
When they were gone, the trickster slowly straightened. He pulled off the cloak of carefree amiability. His eyes flickered jackaltooth-orange, and a rattle tore from his throat.
He lifted his hands into the conjurer’s pose and rained a river of water over Hell Gate. It drenched the flames, throwing steam and smoke toward the sky.
His eyes watered from the smoke’s sting, and he coughed as the flames were smothered under his deluge. At first, he poured a waterfall, but as he weakened, the waterfall became a rain shower, and then a trickle. Finally, his illusion guttered out.
He was a thirdborn, not an heir, and while he could pull down a river, he couldn’t do it indefinitely.
He stumbled and swayed, and the wind pushed him upright. He shook his head and then coughed again. The wind huffed, blowing fresh air toward him. The ash that had floated in a violent blizzard had congealed on the ground. It formed a soupy mortar that caked the charred stones together.
The wreckage was still hot. A hissing steam rose from the remains. If a human tried to walk through it, their skin would blister and peel.
The trickster bit his bottom lip. Shook his head. Argued with himself. He held out his hand, stared at his pointer finger, then clenched his hand into a fist.
The wind nudged him. There were beings alive in Hell Gate. The wind could hear their heartbeats. They were buried under the stone.
But it was too hot for the trickster to find them. He had no illusion left. When he twisted his hand, not even a drop of water formed.
“She’s probably not even in there.”
The wind blew a cooling breath over the trickster’s cheek.
“Or she is. And . . .” He shook his head. “Right. Okay.” He took a deep, steadying breath and then blew it out.
Then he closed his eyes, shuddered violently, and his human form was ripped away.
The wind screamed as the trickster exploded and became a giant, snarling jackaltooth.