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.
