I was still looking at Justice when Jagger shouted these words, caught by the distant, dim flickering of hope in his gray eyes—the light that was so small it was almost indistinguishable from darkness. I’m not sure Justice even realized it was still there.
Was that what my expression looked like? Was the hope only a small, flickering flame? Or were my eyes completely dark?
“Mari! Your gift!” Jagger roared.
It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. It was the chaotic roar and the excited howling of the creatures that did it.
Or perhaps it was Justice’s expression.
He wasn’t looking at me like I was his love.
He was looking at me like I was his executioner.
Jagger thrust a knife into my hand and growled, “Give us a show, Mari. Make it good. Blood is my favorite appetizer.”
I stared at the knife. Justice stared at me. Jagger growled, “Fight.”
I lunged.
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.
