He grinned, sensing my decision. “Let’s play a game. It’s a mine game.”
I held my tongue, understanding by the look in his eyes it might be torn out if I didn’t. You didn’t need a tongue to be a mine.
“Justice and I often played this game. Did he ever share it with you? I know he was fond of it.”
I shook my head.
“Shame. It’s easy to play though. I ask a question, and all you have to do is answer. When I hear the answer I like, the game ends.”
A bitter, frightened taste filled my mouth. It tasted almost like Furtig. I hated it. I hated the fear, but I’d never claimed I wasn’t afraid; I’d only said I promised to always go on in spite of my fear.
Slowly, while watching my expression, Jagger ran his finger along the edge of his obsidian knife. Then he pulled the leather necklace over his head and gripped the knife in his clawed hand.
He smiled, then he carefully rolled up his left shirtsleeve. “You can make the game stop whenever you want. It’s simple.”
I stared at the point of his knife pressing against the gray skin of his forearm. He looked at me and asked, “Do you want to save Justice from the Den of Depravity?”
I stared at him. He knew the answer. Of course I did. At this moment, I wanted it more than anything.
But I also knew Jagger’s will. He wanted Justice to stay in the Den until all the good was devoured. Then, and only then, would he bring him out.
Jagger’s will swept through me, choking mine, prodding me to accept—demanding I accept. Leave Justice. Let him hurt. Let his light go out. If he died, oh well.
“Answer,” Jagger said.
I closed my eyes.
When I woke up a mine, Justice had begged me, “Don’t fight it. Don’t fight him.” I hadn’t. I’d done everything Jagger had asked. I’d hurt Griff. I’d hurt Finn. I’d hurt Luvic. If I did this, I’d hurt Justice.
I was following Justice’s advice. Keeping hidden. Keeping safe. But what had it done? I was losing myself bit by bit. I could feel the weathering of my soul, and soon, like Jagger said, it would be carved away, until the only thing left was him.
He wanted me to lie. To say something I didn’t believe and knew wasn’t good or true. Jagger was the king of lies, and he wanted me to be its mistress.
If I gave him the lie he wanted, there wouldn’t be any pain. There wouldn’t be the threat of violence. For now. I’d seen this before. Jagger would use violence, pain, or fear to force creatures to accept or repeat something they didn’t believe. A lie. And creatures, being scared, would repeat the lie. He would use violence to prop up the lie and lies to prop up the violence. One couldn’t exist without the other.
If Justice hadn’t been swallowed by the Den, if Finn hadn’t become twisted and wrong, if Luvic weren’t a jackaltooth, if I weren’t in danger of losing myself completely, perhaps I would’ve chosen differently. But at Jagger’s question, I saw that Justice, perhaps, had been wrong.
If I accepted Jagger’s will without fighting—if I accepted his lies and even repeated them—then even if I did hide my good away, it wouldn’t matter. I’d be so consumed by Jagger that I wouldn’t remember or care if there was good buried deep inside me.
There was no one coming to help. There was no one. Only me.
If I told Jagger, “No, I don’t want to go after Justice,” that would be a lie. I would lose another piece of myself in saying it.
You always said lies are like parasites. They require people to survive. If you refuse to repeat them, if you refuse to be a host for them, then they die.
“We can’t be against the truth, Mari,” you said. “We have to always choose the truth. How else can we trust ourselves? Each other?”
Maybe I should’ve been listening to your memory all along. Maybe I should’ve remembered that everything is illusion. Even pain. Even death. Especially lies.
Do you remember when I told you I would become the truth? Let me become it now. Let me stay it.
“Yes,” I said, my throat burning. “I want to save him.”
When I admitted this, Jagger’s smile widened. He looked like he did years ago, when he’d handed me that blue rubber ball for my fourth birthday. The harbinger of my first death.
“Ah. I thought you weren’t as willing as you seemed. I’m glad we decided to play this game. It makes me feel better to know my instincts were right. Don’t tell Roumelade, but it reminds me of fishing. It’s always more fun when the fish fights as you reel it in. Who would mount a placid, docile fish on their wall? No. It’s only a trophy if it resists. Although”—he stared at me as he dragged his knife across his arm—“don’t resist too long, or like Justice, you’ll find I’d rather cut the line.”
As he drew the obsidian over his skin, a scalding pain dragged over my left arm. My skin parted, two lips opening, as blood ran free. His will clamped me tighter, the thick roots digging into my blood.
