First Justice.
Then Griff.
Me too?
“Mari. I’m hungry. I told you. If you’re not going to listen to me, I’ll have to punish you.”
I turned, sweeping my gaze over Last. “Excuse me?”
She smirked. “Didn’t the leggerock tell you? It’s the Clarks’ day to control you. You’re ours until nightfall.” She held her hands in front of her, clasping them joyfully. “Oh, Mari, we’re going to have so much fun.”
37
Of course, fun means different things to different people.
For instance, if Finn told me we were going to have fun, I could expect a picnic in Central Park, where we’d gorge on sandwiches, cuddle in the sun-warmed grass, and then scramble to the tops of giant boulders and kiss as if we’d just conquered Mount Everest.
If Luvic told me we were going to have fun, I could expect a night of terrible karaoke where he’d pretend he couldn’t sing, or a cruise on the Hudson where he’d conjure a creature that looked like the Loch Ness Monster and freak out all the tourists.
Meanwhile, if Justice told me we were going to have fun, I’d know we’d be placing a bet on who would win the next hand-to-hand sparring match, and the winner would have to buy the other a pint of ice cream.
But what exactly did fun mean to a Clark?
If I had to guess, I would’ve expected death, dismemberment, and torture. Barring that, I’d imagine a day closed up in a dusty catacomb, cataloging historical documents written about death, dismemberment, and torture.
Last surprised me though. She was almost jubilant as we left Hell Gate and headed south. She stopped for bagels, cutting the twenty-person line (and using illusion so the person at the front apologized profusely for unwittingly cutting in front of her). She ordered three cinnamon raisin bagels, a tub of strawberry cream cheese, and an orange juice, then she paid with conjured money. She dunked her bagels in the orange juice like a little girl dunking cookies in milk and offered me half a soppy bagel. Starving, I accepted.
But other than the bagel stop and throwing raisins to pigeons, Last didn’t take any detours.
Instead, when she saw a black Rolls Royce SUV driving south, she twisted her hand and tugged me inside when the driver pulled over.
There was already a middle-aged man in the back, very self-important and rude to the driver. Neither of them noticed us. Last had made us invisible. Still, she spilled her juice on the leather and dropped crumbs on the floor. When the man complained about the driver’s inability to keep the car clean, Last twisted her hand and dropped a black widow spider onto his nose. He shrieked and slapped his own face. Last laughed hysterically. I tugged free the knot of illusion and unwound the spider.
The driver slammed on the brakes. He’d unwittingly taken us south to the burned and ruined husk of the Clark mansion.
Last was ready to conjure another spider—or perhaps something worse. She had that hungry look in her eyes that said she wanted to watch someone suffer. So I thrust open the door, grabbed her hand, and pulled her from the car.
“We’re here,” I said.
She paused, halting her death-trap conjuring midway, and said, “Oh. So we are.”
She smiled just like she did after dipping her bagel into orange juice. It was a syrupy, soppy, satisfied smile.
She stared at the illusion surrounding the mansion, keeping the façade of an unblemished home. Beneath it was the scorched black skeleton of her home.
Were they still living here?
“Do you think,” she said in a thoughtful voice, “the Smith has any idea what’s coming for him?”
I frowned at the quiet surrounding the destruction. “I don’t know.”
She turned to me. “Would you like to be my maid of honor?”
“What?”
“At my wedding.” She snapped a finger in front of my nose. “Keep up, Mari. Luvic and I are getting married next week. I want you to be my maid of honor.”
“Next week?”
