He gripped my shoulders, turned me to face him, and pressed his forehead against mine. His messy hair tickled. He stared into my eyes.
“What?” I mouthed.
Griff took my hand and traced a pattern on my palm. I shook my head. He frowned and traced it again. I didn’t understand. He traced it again, and, frustrated, he tapped it three times.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “That’s not true.”
Griff only stared at me, his mouth an uncompromising line. He tapped the center of my palm again, right where he’d drawn the pictogram for evil.
I tore my hand away and shook my head.
Griff grabbed my hand again and tapped it three times, his gaze mulish.
“You think Justice is evil?”
Griff nodded. There was a warning in his gaze.
Griff was the last of us to still be a nine. He’d witnessed both Justice and I become mines, and he’d wept both times. Our transitions had terrified him. After, he’d always worn a frightened, mournful expression. It reminded me of the look of a puppy whose once kind owners had locked it in a cage, starved it, and beat it instead of giving it treats and hugs. The puppy couldn’t help but wonder where its loving owners had gone, and deep down, it believed they’d be back.
No matter how frightened Griff had been at our becoming mines, he’d never looked like this.
Resolutely resigned. Grief-stricken but insistent.
Maybe he’d looked for the good in Justice and hadn’t been able to find it.
But no?—
“No. He isn’t.” He can’t be. “You’re wrong.”
Griff tapped his nose, reminding me he was the Jersey Devil’s son and he could smell people’s sins. Before, he’d said Justice smelled like blood on the edge of a knife. I wondered what he smelled like now.
He wouldn’t be able to tell me. He expected me to trust him—or, at the very least, to trust his warning.
“You’d probably say I’m evil too.”
Griff crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me.
I shook my head, turned, and went to knock on Jagger’s door. If Justice was inside, I wanted to see him.
I rapped my knuckle and heard Jagger’s muffled growl.
“Enter!”
I closed my eyes, gathered my equilibrium, and pushed open the door.
It wasn’t Justice cloistered in the cold stone room with Jagger—it was Ragnor Bard.
He probably thought I wouldn’t recognize him. He was covered in illusion. Prusik knots, blood knots, overhands, and bowlines. There were even back splices and chain splices.
His conjuring was almost as good as Luvic’s, but I’d known for a long time no one was as good as Luvic at becoming someone else. Luvic had honed his skill through necessity and daily practice, whereas Ragnor had never needed to hide his identity until now.
He was cloaked as a short, flaccid man with jaundiced skin and a spritz of hair ringing his bald head. He smelled like body odor and dirty socks.
I closed the door quietly as Ragnor’s mouth tightened. He was probably remembering yanking me out from under his bed. Or maybe he was remembering the wedding. That was more likely, since I was still wearing my bridesmaid dress.
“Mari,” Jagger welcomed, his rockslide voice edged with laughter. “How was the wedding?”
I kept my gaze on Ragnor. His hand twitched like he was tempted to conjure a knife and fling it at me.
