“It hurts me more than it hurts you,” Jagger said. “I’ll ask again. Do you want to save Justice from the Den of Depravity?”
How long, how often, had Jagger done this to Justice? Every time Jagger was hurt, his mines suffered the same fate. Every cut. Every bruise. Every broken bone.
“Is this hurting him?” I gasped. Was Justice feeling this too?
“No. Only you.”
I clamped my hand over my arm. “Then yes.”
Jagger cut off the tip of his pointer finger. I smothered a scream, and a thick wave of nausea rolled through me.
“And now?”
“Yes.”
It went on. And on. There were no windows in Jagger’s stone office. There was no clock. There was no way to mark the passage of time except through the amount of blood staining my clothing and pooling on the floor and the torrent of pain curdling in me.
“Do you want to save?—”
“Yes,” I said, dropping to the stone floor, unable to stand any longer. My lips were numb, my eyelids heavy.
Jagger crouched over me. His will nearly swallowed me. The force of it caught me in its jaw, squeezing, clamping down. I was about to break.
He knew it. He could scent it. Unlike humans, leggerocks had no pain receptors. Their blood moved slowly, like cold molasses. They could withstand dozens of cuts, breaks, and wounds and be as unmoved as a cliff face in a windstorm. Even more, they regenerated. Jagger healed quickly, and if he died, he came back. Unlike me. I didn’t heal quickly. If I died this time around, I wouldn’t come back.
There was a wet rattle in my throat—a bloody cough.
“Mari. Mari . . . why are you hurting me? Why are you hurting yourself?”
His will pressed down on me. It hurt. It strangled. The roots of him broke apart my resistance.
“I can command you to say what I want. But I wanted to know your choice. It was a poor choice. I think you see that now. Don’t you?”
Jagger’s voice was faraway, almost soft. I’d never heard it soft before. I think maybe I was hallucinating.
My eyelashes felt as if weights were tied to them. My eyelids sank low, and the room darkened. The stone floor was cold against my cheek. My body hurt. Everything hurt. I’d receded, almost completely beyond pain.
“You fought. Not as long as my Knife, but your body is weaker than his. I think our game is done. Will you do my will without my asking? Will you leave Justice in the Den? I think that’s what you want.”
Blood trickled down my cheek, a slow tear. I was drifting on the edge of unconsciousness. Jagger’s will pressed through me, dragging me under. I felt suddenly that his roots had reached my locked room. They were prying at the lock, seeking cracks to pull apart. The roots were sending shoots into the wall, and like ivy, they’d yank out the mortar and collapse the entire structure. I was too weak to bat them away. I was too weak to shore up my heart.
If he tore open my room now, he’d devour it all. It would be gone. I would be gone.
I blinked up at him, clearing the darkness from my vision.
Did he know?
Could he feel it?
He smiled at me. It was a triumphant smile.
My mouth was numb as I struggled to push the words past my lips. “Your will . . .” My voice was a ravaged wasteland. “Your will is mine.”
It wasn’t enough. He laughed, his eyes cold. “That’s not what I asked. Do you want to save Justice from the Den?”
Lie.
Don’t lie.
