A wild roar went up. Then, just as quickly, the hall quieted, as if the hunger for blood was so great that it had consumed all sound.
Then came Jagger’s slow, pleased chuckle.
Justice didn’t cry—he never cried—but as he watched Jagger’s rocklike hate spread through my veins, a slow tear leaked from his right eye.
No.
Under the black handle of the knife, I tapped a butterfly wing soft beat against Justice’s neck. Tap tap. Tap tap.
“I find I like revenge,” I said.
Tap tap. Tap tap.
“I love the taste of it.”
Tap tap. Tap tap.
The nearly banked light in Justice’s eyes flared to life. The flicker was a brighter flame. He held motionless, only the hard thrust of his heart under my knee betraying his hope.
Do you remember? When Griff was little, he loved secret codes. He made up languages and passwords and all sorts of cyphers. One day, one of his codes got him into trouble, and Jagger raged, demanding Griff never use a code again. This small, rhythmic tap was the only remainder. It was a code that meant, It’s me. I’m here.
I was telling Justice in the only way I could that I was still me, and I was still there.
“I want you . . .” I said, leaning close, drawing on the bloodlust in my veins and soaking the hall with the feel of it, “to die.”
Quick as a viper, I slammed the hilt of the dagger into Justice’s skull. His eyes rolled back in his head, and the tension in his body leaked out like sand from a broken hourglass. He lay prone and vulnerable beneath me.
This was the hard part.
This was the part that decided whether I lived or died.
Scalding heat burned through me, and the will to kill rooted itself inside. The creatures pressed closer, staring greedily at the blood soaking through Justice’s clothing. A bruise spread over his forehead, already swelling and discoloring. A spot of blood ran from the small cut at the center.
Griff shook his head—no, no, no—but Roumelade tugged him back. Everyone else pressed closer.
I flipped the knife and gripped the warm, sticky hilt. Everything good was tucked away again, and everything that made me a mine came to the forefront. I was soaked in blood.
My clothes for the celebration were pure white. White cotton pants. White cotton shirt. All white. I’d been the one spot of white amid a sea of gray and black. Now, the white was stained with blood. Mine and Justice’s. Innocence broken.
“I’ll kill him if it’s your will,” I said, my voice as hard and as sharp as the knife. I meant it. I had to mean it.
The knife was heavy in my hand as I stared into Jagger’s gray-black gaze.
He was measuring, poking and prodding, burning through my insides and seeking out any lingering compassion or kindness.
He wouldn’t find any. I’d hidden it. I’d locked it away. I was a Ward.
Will you? he seemed to ask.
Yes, I answered silently.
Jagger’s rocklike form filled the hall. He towered above all the other creatures. He was taller. He was wider. But more than that, he was the cruel king they all clung to. They were the vultures that circled the predator; the hyenas that followed the beast. He was a murderer, and slinking in his shadow gave them their taste of bone and blood.
But I wasn’t in his shadow. I was his shadow, and he was mine. I burned with the hate of it.
Jagger stalked forward, and creatures fell out of his way. They scrambled over each other and trampled those who were too slow so they wouldn’t be killed for accidentally touching him.
One of the shills stumbled. He knocked against Jagger and cringed in fear. Without breaking his stride or taking his gaze from me, Jagger reached over and crushed the shill’s windpipe. The man dropped to the floor with a gurgling, dying wheeze.
