His expression was so ruthlessly intent I almost didn’t recognize him. His fingers dug bruisingly into my arms.
“If I ask you to break an illusion, will you? Or are you so bound by Jagger’s will?—”
“I . . . I . . .” I pulled free of his tight grip. “I don’t know. What sort of illusion? If it doesn’t harm me, and if it isn’t against Jagger’s will, then . . .”
I stopped. I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure.
Who knew what the dark tangle and coil of Jagger’s hate would have me do?
Luvic pulled in a breath and dragged his hand through his hair. “If you turn on her, Mari. If you harm her, so help me, I’ll slaughter you. I will kill you.”
“Harm who?” I asked, frowning.
A small, quiet chirp sounded.
Luvic pressed his hand to his pocket. The noise sounded again—this time more insistent.
My eyes widened. “Is that the cricket?”
Luvic swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he nodded.
The cricket chirped and started a high-pitched song.
A cold chill swept over me, chasing away the scalding heat. I had a premonition of what Luvic was about to say. It was the memory of Last talking about her pet cricket—the way she’d said she’d given Cora a home, food, a place to sing. But most of all, it was the ruthlessly intent “I’ll do anything for her, even die” look on Luvic’s face that sealed it.
“The cricket’s Cora,” I said.
Luvic’s upper lip curled. “Will you try to hurt her?”
I didn’t deny it right away. How could I? Instead, I searched myself. There was the heat, the always present pain, the push of hate, Jagger’s will . . . but . . .
“No,” I said. “I won’t hurt her.”
There was nothing there telling me to harm Cora. At least, nothing more than the usual push to harm all living things.
Luvic nodded, and watching me carefully, he slowly lifted the cricket from his pocket.
It was smaller than I’d initially thought. Chestnut-brown and glossy, with long forewings and bright black eyes. It looked nothing like Cora. It looked like a cricket. It sang like a cricket. It . . .
“It’s not illusion,” I said, frowning.
I studied the insect. Cora. I leaned close and peered at it.
“Are you sure it’s her? There’s no illusion here. None. It might just be a cricket. Maybe you’re only hoping and seeing what you want?—”
I was cut off as a low jackaltooth rattle filled the chamber.
“I’m sure,” Luvic growled. When I lifted an eyebrow, he said more firmly, his jaw hard, “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “All right. I believe you. But it’s not illusion. Can’t you tell?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t feel any, but I hoped it was only a small knot.”
I made a negative sound. “No. Did you ask?”
“What?”
“Did you ask her what was done?”
