Had I been hit by debris?
Had Jacob left?
Had Luvic really carried me back to Hell Gate?
“The Wards’ asylum?”
“I know,” Rou said, her mouth twisting with distaste. “Jagger purchased it in 1898 through a maze of intermediaries. He always found it funny that he owned one of the four families’ mansions and they never knew it was him. It was something to hold over them. To have a laugh about.”
“But . . . the asylum was destroyed. It’s just a ghost now.”
Rou shrugged. “Well, the basement is still there. And an outbuilding. A kitchen too. As long as you don’t mind the figments, it’s all right.”
I shuddered, and Rou rubbed my arm. Her touch felt like walking through a cold fog.
“Come on now. Jagger’ll want to see you. Are you sure you can’t lift that?”
I stared at the stone. “I’m sure. You’ll have to ask Griff.”
“Oh, I can’t. Griff was upset about the jackaltooth. He wanted to go after you. Jagger had to . . . well, you know how it is. Griff needs to learn. Should’ve learned by now. He’s almost a mine . . .”
When Rou looked at me, I saw the worry she tried to cloak. It was obvious she didn’t think Griff would survive the transition. I wasn’t sure he would either. The human half of him was too good, and the devil half of him might not stand for bowing to a leggerock.
“It’s better a little pain now than a lot of pain later. He’ll see.”
I nodded.
When I’d told Justice we needed to protect Griff, he’d told me if we tried, Jagger would have us kill him just to make a point. He was right. Whatever was happening to Griff, it was because he’d showed he cared.
That was always the case when you stepped into Hell Gate. Now, I’d have to remember it when stepping into the asylum.
My ancestors’ home.
Rou toed at the ashes and then made a happy sound. “Dandelion wine. We’ll take that!”
I bent down and pulled out an ash-covered glass bottle. The green glass glinted in the moonlight. Rou’s paper label had burned off, but the cork was still intact, and the glass hadn’t melted or warped. I tilted the bottle. It was still full of wine.
“I wonder how it survived.”
Rou shrugged. “Hard to say.”
You might find it funny, or maybe you’ll find it appalling, but it was hard to walk away from Hell Gate.
It was my home, and although it wasn’t good, it also wasn’t all bad. And even though it’d burned down, the memories hadn’t burned with it.
It didn’t take us long to make our way to Wards Island.
It was quiet. The water was still. The wind was silent. Even the crickets were asleep in the tall grass. There were no car noises or boat horns or water lapping against the shore. The only noise was the crunch of my shoes over the crushed limestone path leading toward the asylum’s ghost.
Rou walked next to me, but she was more vapor than solid, and her footsteps didn’t make a noise.
The air was cooler here. Maybe it was all the trees and the grass with the loamy, river-wet soil. Or maybe it was the lack of concrete and buildings. The wind could move. It was why there were so many kites flown here during the summer. Picnics too. The island was more park than metropolis.
We stopped at the ghostly outline of the asylum’s façade. It was limestone. Four stories tall. There were towers and spired rooflines. Narrow, iron-barred windows that peered at us from the hazy dark. The front door gaped open like a screaming mouth.
I shivered.
Misery leaked from the mansion. It seeped into the soil, so nothing grew at its base, and even twenty feet out, the grass was scraggly, and the trees were twisted and stooped.
