This was Finn when he was a Smith—a full Smith, a conjurer, the one who wore the crown.
He was wrath. He was vengeance. He was . . . revenge.
He was a man without mercy. Without forgiveness.
I stepped outside of myself and yanked the knots that held the fire sword together. It unraveled in Finn’s hands. His forward momentum continued, and he spun toward me. I lifted the bottle of Furtig and smashed it against his head.
The clear glass shattered, and the spirits screamed as they showered over him.
He dropped to his knees and gripped his skull, blood and Furtig mixing. The spirits hissed and crackled, and the cut on his forehead foamed as if the Furtig were hydrogen peroxide set to a festering wound.
Luvic grabbed my arm. “Time to go.”
Last twisted her hand and dropped a dumpster’s worth of dirt on top of Finn. Then she opened the ground and let it swallow him.
We ran.
And this time, when Luvic pulled me away from a man I loved, I didn’t fight him.
32
The stone room at the center of Hell Gate was the cold, empty cavity where its heart should reside. There should be warmth, blood, a beating pulse that fed the inhabitants with life.
Instead, walking into the stone room was like cracking open a walnut shell expecting a nut, only to find a husk fly had laid its eggs and the larvae had hatched and devoured all the flesh. The shell was a hollow, desiccated cavern.
Hell Gate, like its master, had no heart.
I bowed my head, my chin nearly touching my chest, my throat constricted. Jagger’s fire raced through me, burning my blood so it was acid pumping through my veins. I clenched my hands and resisted wiping free the sweat dripping down my forehead.
“No Silencer. No Furtig. No Knife.” Jagger punched each word with a violent jab, so each syllable sent a sharp agony through me. My vision turned black, then red, as if the room were coated with a bloody film. It spun around me, dizzy and distorted. “Mari, I don’t like failure.”
I choked as the pressure on my throat constricted and then coughed as it released.
“What will you do to remedy your mistakes?”
I dragged in a breath. It burned as it filled my lungs. I burned.
Once, years ago, I had a fever of 106 degrees. I remember feeling like I was standing on the surface of the sun, begging for a single drop of water, but every time Rou poured liquid down my throat, it felt as if it evaporated. Nothing could cool the fire.
I was locked in that same river of fire now, and just like before, it was burning me from the inside out. Jagger wasn’t happy, and he wanted me to know it.
“I’ll get the Furtig tonight?—”
“Yes.”
“I’ll find the Silencer, steal it?—”
“Don’t bother.”
“I’ll go after Justice—” I dropped to my knees as a mountain of pain slammed over me and crushed my bones.
“What did you say?”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. Jagger knew it.
“It’s interesting. I thought you knew the rules. I thought you knew my will. But if so, why would you ask to help someone? Why would you desire to rescue someone careless enough to need rescuing?”
I struggled to stand. It was common knowledge that if you cowered when Jagger hurt you, he was more likely to kill you. He hated weakness.
