“Why do you have my box?”
When I asked, Harry’s face turned greenish gray—the color of fear in a slipshot—and then his eyes flashed. His expression was transparent, and I read exactly what he was thinking. Kill her now and keep the box, or give her the box and kill her later.
But then Harry noted something in my face, and his expression shifted again.
Cagey. Self-preservation. Fear.
I knew without looking in the mirror across the room that I looked like Jagger right before he tore someone’s leg off and ate it while they screamed.
If Harry gave Jagger that box, he would ask me what the contents meant. I’d tell him. He’d learn all the secrets I was trying to hide. I should’ve burned the contents years ago.
“Give it to me.” My voice echoed against the stone, and Harry flinched.
“That’s what I was going to do, wasn’t it? You should be thanking me, not looking like you’re going to do murder before breakfast. I didn’t steal it. I saved it.” He glanced at me to see how I was taking his revelation. “Saved it for you.”
I held out my hand.
He tilted his head, and, maybe realizing that since I hadn’t killed him yet, I probably wasn’t going to, he asked, “What’ll you give me for it?”
“Nothing. It’s mine.”
He shook his head mournfully. “But Mari, if I hadn’t been in your room when the fireball came, it would’ve burned up. Seeing as you’re the greatest lockpick Hell Gate has ever had, you’ll understand the value of just compensation for stolen—I mean, rescued goods.”
I tapped my foot against the stone floor. My blood burned. It always burned. There was a deep, hungry urge that pushed me to take the box and then dismember Harry limb by limb while all the slipshots watched, so none of them would try to steal from me again. It was what Jagger would do, and the craving was hot and sticky.
I stared at Harry, and his face went green again.
“Or I could give it to you. As a gift. Did I mention how much I like your new form? We all think so. Your last ones were too soft. Too humanish. This one, you look like a real creature of Hell Gate. You do Hell Gate proud.” He flinched. “Here it is.”
He tossed the box to me, and I caught it. The wood was hot, like it’d absorbed the Smiths’ flames. Harry scrambled toward the door.
“Wait—”
He stopped at the threshold and glanced back.
“Why were you in my bedroom?” I smiled so my question wouldn’t sound threatening, but I think it had the opposite effect. “Harry?”
He gripped the rusted door, and a few flecks fell to the floor. “I’m a slipshot.”
“Who told you to search my room? Steal from me?”
“No one. I’m a slipshot.” His face took on an irritated expression as if I’d insulted him. “I do what I want. I steal what I want. What’s in the box?”
I smiled. Nice try. “Do you always travel under beds? Is the monster under the bed a slipshot?”
Harry scoffed. “That weak prankster? Ha. He’s so pathetic he can only frighten children. Don’t insult me. Besides, he owes me fifty dollars and a grapefruit.”
I frowned.
Harry shrugged. “Long story.”
“Right. Can anyone travel under beds?” I’d always thought only the monster could.
“Don’t know. Slipshots can. Don’t know if you can. Try it.”
I narrowed my eyes on him, warning him not to try anything funny while my back was turned. I crouched down next to the frame and pressed my hand to the stone floor. Nothing happened. The void was gone.
“How do I open it?”
