“Pleasant. Who’s our new friend?”
Jagger’s laugh tumbled free. “He’s leaving.”
Ragnor shifted in his chair, giving Jagger a surprised glance.
At Jagger’s sharp-toothed grin, Ragnor shoved his chair back. Then he braced his palms on Jagger’s desk and leaned forward threateningly.
“If you send your pet after me again, I’ll put a leash on her and keep her. Do you understand me, leggerock?”
I closed my eyes, wincing at the sound of Ragnor’s voice. He was using illusion, wrapping his words in barbs and nettles. Each syllable stabbed my eardrums and scraped down my ear canal.
My eardrums convulsed, and I swayed, my balance thrown off. Then my ears popped, and Ragnor shoved past.
I winced at the slammed door, pressing my hands to my ears.
Jagger watched me with a small smile. “Pet?”
Apparently, leggerock hearing wasn’t as sensitive as a human’s.
“Ragnor?” I asked.
“Pet?” he repeated.
If there was one thing about Jagger that remained consistent, it was that he didn’t like to share. Ragnor saying he’d keep me was probably the worst thing he could’ve said to Jagger. I doubt he meant it. Bards tended to throw threats around like confetti at a parade. For instance, Celia had a fondness for threatening to lop off body parts to use as props in a play.
“I had a run-in with him. He got upset.”
Jagger smirked and stroked his obsidian knife. “I may be sentimental, but I like the other one better. It’s a shame this one wasn’t actually dead. I thought Luvic knew better. I thought I’d taught him better than to leave betrayers alive.”
I lifted my eyebrows.
Jagger smiled.
Not for the first time, I wondered if he knew I’d helped Luvic escape all those years ago. Luvic had killed me after I freed him. Did Jagger know that was really how I’d died?
Maybe the stones had told him.
Maybe . . .
“I didn’t know we were friends with Ragnor.”
Jagger pulled a bottle of Furtig out from under his desk. He eased the cork from the bottle. It freed with a sharp pop. The Furtig hissed and moaned, and Jagger tilted it toward me, offering a sip.
Furtig was strange. There were times—like now—when it made noises. It never sounded like the hiss and fizz of champagne, nor the glug of a swiftly poured alcohol. Its moans were manifold. Sometimes, I heard the wail of an express train, its brakes screeching against metal. Other times, I heard floorboards groaning beneath a heavy weight. Sometimes, there was the wail of an old woman. Sometimes, the Furtig exhaled noisily, gurgling on its own liquid breath. Once, I’d heard a shriek and then the boom of a cannon at the pop of the cork. None of the sounds were liquid sloshing or alcohol glugging. All of the sounds were the moan and hiss of spirits.
No. I didn’t want Furtig.
I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
“I’m not asking.”
I stared at the bottle. My breath grew tight in my lungs. A whining, frightened noise grew louder in my ears. Was that me, or was it the Furtig?
“To answer your question . . . we’ve been friends with Ragnor Bard for a very long time. In fact, we’ve been friends ever since he gave us his brother to play with.”
I clutched the cold glass bottle, a numb, horrified feeling tripping over my skin.
I’d always wondered how Jagger had caught Luvic. Yes, Luvic had been just a boy, but he was still a thirdborn conjurer. Even as a kid, he was one of the most powerful conjurers alive. It had always confused me. How had Jagger lured Luvic into the conjurer’s cage? Why hadn’t his family looked for him? Why hadn’t anyone ever wondered at his absence?
