The wind crept forward, nudging the solemn one’s unconscious form. His heart thundered behind his ribs. His limbs twitched restlessly. His mouth turned down at the edges.
The wind sniffed his scarred skin. Blood. Sweat. The sharp, pitiless edge of a blade. A cold, metallic, dark-roomed scent. If there was light there, the wind couldn’t sense it.
The pixie-like woman sighed. “It would’ve been easier if you’d walked out.”
The wind helped the pixie-like woman to drag the unconscious, solemn man through the city streets and across the gravel field. She yanked his legs, and he skidded on his back. By the time they’d reached the forest edge, the man’s back was raw like ground beef. He’d left a smeared trail of blood behind him. The black clouds hovered close, but not too close. They were frightened of the woman.
At a tall tree, the wind helped the pixie-like woman shove the solemn one up limb after limb. Then, with the black, ropelike clouds roaring and churning, the pixie-like woman grabbed the solemn one in a tight hug and tumbled through a rippling, bright white light.
At the last moment, the wind grabbed onto her sleeve and tumbled out of the Den of Depravity.
A long sleep later, the solemn one woke up chained to a bed in a dark room in the basement of the asylum. When he opened his eyes, he arched his back, digging his heels into the narrow cot. He gripped the sheets, clenched his teeth, and held back a roar of pain.
Sweat dripped down his face, and his gaze frantically searched the dark.
Finally, he found the pixie-like woman. His chest heaved as the full weight of the leggerock’s will returned, slamming over him. The wind felt the weight of it twist his bones and scald his blood. It felt the roar of it enter his lungs and sear his heart. It shackled him and held him absolutely in its grip. There was nothing there to fight it anymore. The sliver of good that had held it at bay was gone.
The solemn one collapsed against the bed, all his strength devoured.
“No,” he whispered, his pain-ravaged voice unrecognizable. “No! You don’t know what you’ve done.”
The pixie-like woman smiled. “I know exactly what I’ve done. I’ll tell the leggerock you’re back. Although I imagine he already knows. And Justice?”
The solemn man stared at the pixie-like woman, his breath tight in his lungs.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Being here won’t hurt a bit. In fact, I think you’ll like it.”
74
The asylum was a madhouse. I sprinted down the basement hall, shoving past newly born slipshots, shifty-eyed pickpockets, and a congregation of shills and growlings. The hallways were congested with Jagger’s creatures. All of them were awake long past dawn, which was unheard of unless Jagger demanded it. Which he had.
Gleeful chatter jumped from the ceilings and swung down the hallways. They were building weapons, stealing weapons, anticipating chaos. They didn’t care who won or who lost, as long as they could join in the fray.
My high heels clicked like gunshots as I ran.
The former denizens of Hell Gate wanted to kill the conjurers, and Jagger had promised them they would. Better yet, the Knife was back.
The creatures in the asylum shouted, whispered, chortled, and cackled the news. It rebounded off the walls and reverberated through the halls, until the words were as powerful as a riot.
The Knife was back.
As soon as I stepped past the asylum’s ghostly façade, the walls shouted the news.
I clutched the torn tulle of my bridesmaid dress and sprinted into the cold, dark depths of the madhouse.
He was back.
He was back.
He was back.
The dark tore at my bloodstained dress. The cool underground air burned my lungs. The fear, the worry, the guilt, and the grief grappled in my chest and pressed against my beating heart.
He was back.
How long had he been inside the den?
Was he okay?
