When we stepped inside the distillery, it was arctic-cold, the fog of our breath crystallized, and there was the constant tea-whistle scream of spirits being distilled into liquor. It had a seedy, moonshine, bootlegger feel. The family who ran it had done so for generations. They knew me, because I picked up Jagger’s orders whenever he was running low or needed extra for crafting weapons. All the same, I’d never seen any of their faces. I didn’t know if they were human, creature, or spirit. They wore masks, never spoke, and moved across the distillery like rag men shuffling through the city.
Walking into the distillery coated me in a cold, cruel Furtig feel. Whenever I left, I wanted to step under a scalding-hot shower and scrub my skin until it was raw.
Last didn’t seem to notice the disturbing aura. In fact, I think she may have liked it. Luvic merely watched the masked beings with one eyebrow cocked and an amused smile. He’d stopped bleeding after the Merchant gave him an ointment to rub over his stab wounds. He claimed he was sick of Luvic bleeding on his merchandise, but I think he never liked to see someone physically suffer (mentally and emotionally was another story).
Compared to the Merchant, retrieving the Furtig was a walk in the park. In fifteen minutes, we were done, hurrying down the steps and into the late-afternoon bustle of Chinatown.
I gripped the bottle of Furtig and wondered if it would put Jagger in a good mood. Maybe a good enough mood to talk to the Merchant about sending someone in after Justice.
“Still thinking about the creature?” Last asked.
“What?”
She waved at my face as we waited at a crosswalk. “Your mouth is pinched. Your eyes are watery?—”
Luvic swung toward me and frowned.
“I’ll make you another memory crown. I’ll make you hate him. Then you’ll be glad you left him to die.”
“No.”
She shrugged. “I probably will anyway. I’ll just wait until you’re asleep.”
“Try it,” I said, and Last laughed, her voice meshing with the sound of police and fire sirens.
Luvic looked toward the noise and then back to me, his eyes narrowing. Then he slipped his arm over my shoulder, just like Justice used to, and pulled me close.
It was a risky move, since he didn’t know if I remembered our past or only the games. He didn’t know if I was his enemy or his friend. But he leaned down, his lips tilted up, and right when I thought he was going to offer a kind word, he whispered, “Tell anyone what happened in the Den, and we’ll have problems.”
I narrowed my eyes as we started across the intersection. Canal Street was the next block up, and fire trucks and police cars were racing past.
I leaned close and whispered back, “The part where you became a jackaltooth, or the part where you did what I said?”
He shook his head. “With friends like you . . .”
He waited for me to object. When I didn’t, he tugged me closer and said loud enough for Last to hear, “I’m craving dim sum. Let’s stop?—”
“Well,” Last interrupted, “I’m craving turning you into a cat, skinning you, and wearing your fur as a hat. We don’t all get what we want, Bard.”
The disturbing thing was, she wasn’t joking.
We followed her as she stalked down the sidewalk.
“We’ve gotten ourselves into a mess, haven’t we?” Luvic whispered, and I glanced up, startled. He smiled down at me, his lips quirked to the side. “I became a jackaltooth. I now know what a human arm tastes like. My fiancée wants to turn me into a hat.” He laughed. “You’ve become . . .” He shook his head.
He didn’t have to continue. I knew what I’d become.
We turned onto Canal Street. The afternoon sun bled over us, its rays straining through the buildings. I stared in surprise at the dozens of fire trucks and police cars. Sure, I’d heard them, and I’d seen them racing by, but I hadn’t realized there were enough to clog the street and fill it with noise and flashing lights.
The street was a mess. There were gawkers, emergency workers, people who belonged, people who didn’t, and people who were just trying to get past.
The temperature was still sweltering-hot, even in the late afternoon, and the collection of trucks and cars and the press of bodies only made it worse. The heat was suffocatingly thick and tinged with a strange smokiness that smelled like charred concrete and burned metal.
A few blocks down, police were placing barricades and pushing pedestrians back. Beyond them, firemen were funneling into a subway entrance. The boom of sirens crashed past, and blocks away, drivers stuck in standstill traffic honked angrily.
I shielded my eyes and peered at the subway entrance. “What do you think’s happening?”
Then Last gasped. “Is that . . . the Ward?”
