Finn caught up to me, falling into step beside me. He had a long stride and was one of those rare men who were large and muscular but still moved with surprising grace.
I started down the tunnel. This station had been closed up decades ago, but I knew there was an actual station and an exit not far ahead. We’d reach it in ten minutes, perhaps fifteen. We only needed to avoid growlings, slipshots, any of Jagger’s people, human criminals, predators, or conjurers on the hunt. After that, I’d say thanks for the fun train ride annnnnd goodbye.
“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to kill me again,” Finn said, hopping down onto the tracks. He held out his hand to help me down. I ignored it, jumped, then brushed past him.
“Give it a few minutes.”
He laughed, and I tugged at a few more of the knots surrounding him. I hadn’t pulled anything free—I was only loosening them so that with one hard yank, the entire thing would collapse.
“Is that Jagger’s will? That you kill me?”
“No.”
Not this time. And not yet.
I reached down, picked up a pebble, and then threw it down the tracks. A rat squeaked and dashed under the tracks. The tunnel was eerily dark. But what was even eerier was that most of the lighting came from Finn. He glowed a light gold, just like he had when he was soaked in solange.
“I promised to come for you, Mari?—”
“Yeah. I heard. You want to slaughter everyone I love and slit my throat while I watch the world burn. I got the message.”
Five steps later, I realized Finn had stopped walking.
I turned and stared at him. “What?”
“Who said that?”
I narrowed my eyes. He was the brightest thing in the tunnel. The diffuse light spilled around him until it was gobbled up by the darkness. At five steps away, I was outside the circle of his light. “You did. When you killed Griff.”
He tilted his head and frowned, the gesture so Finn-like it hurt to watch. His forehead was wrinkled when he said, “I didn’t kill Griff.”
I stared at him, trying to dig through the illusion covering him. “And you didn’t attack me in Chinatown?”
There was genuine surprise in his eyes. “What? No.”
I sighed. “So it wasn’t you?”
I was sure he heard the disbelief in my voice.
He stepped forward. “Mari. Why would I kill Griff? Why would I attack you? Why?—?”
“Don’t touch me.”
He moved back, frowned, then his expression cleared. “It’s illusion. Someone is pretending to be me. Didn’t we always tell each other?—?”
“Don’t trust anyone?”
He smiled, and we started walking along the tracks again.
His theory was nice, except for the fact the Finn in Chinatown hadn’t been covered in illusion, and this Finn was swamped in it.
I loosened more of the knots surrounding him, preparing to end this the moment he showed his true self.
Perhaps this was an illusion sent by the real Finn to lull me into complacency then kill me. Or maybe it was another conjurer wrapped in illusion, sent to assassinate me. I didn’t know—I only knew I wasn’t safe.
Far ahead, there was the underground grumble and shake of a train passing through a distant tunnel. The concrete below my feet vibrated, and the steady drip, drip of seeping water from the ceiling dripped faster. A wash of cold air blew over us.
After the rumbling had faded, Finn looked over at me. “It’s hard to trust, I know. I’m a conjurer”—his mouth twisted in a smile that always meant he found something ironic—“and wear the crown. You’re a mine and a lockpick.”
