The machine’s shadow fell over the old musty glass solarium at the southwest corner of the mansion. The claws opened. The wind screamed as the man’s body tumbled through the sky and smashed through the domed glass. It rained in shards, driving into the solarium in a violent glass rainstorm. The wind slammed to the ground, a bullet, a knife, a weapon, alongside the man.
It lay moaning on the checkered tile floor, crumpled against the man’s body. The last of his blood leaked in a slow wave across the cold floor.
The Clarks would find the man. The wind stirred the glass shards and sifted through the tinkling, blood-soaked song. The Clarks would find the man.
However, the wind would find the boy.
11
It was noon by the time Griff opened his eyes. He blinked at us blearily, as if he’d taken an afternoon catnap in the sun and the day had gotten away from him. Unlike me, Griff always looked the same from one life to the next. It probably had to do with the fact half of him was already rooted in the underworld. What could passing through the edges of death do to the son of the Jersey Devil?
Not much.
We were all crowded into his tiny bedroom. Me, Justice, and even Rou. She’d never admit it, but I was fairly certain Griff was her favorite. She always took him to collect dandelions with her for dandelion wine, made him lift the heavy iron pots in her kitchen, and had him water her rooftop plants. She’d realized early on that Griff was happiest when he felt useful. She was kind that way.
Rou would tell me not to gift her attributes she didn’t have. She’d say she made him feel useful for purely selfish reasons. I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not as if Rou wouldn’t cry in our soup and kill each and every one of us if Jagger asked her to. I know that. We all do.
“You’re finally awake,” Rou said, patting Griff’s cheek in a motherly sort of way. “What was it this time? Falling down an escalator? Tripping off the platform into the path of a speeding train? Stumbling over a live wire to be electrocuted in a puddle?”
Griff shrugged, his cheeks burning red. Unfortunately, these were all ways Griff had died in the past. Griff was extremely accident prone. When we were kids, we called it “accidentitis.”
Justice shook his head. His arms were folded, and he was leaning against Griff’s bedroom wall. Unlike my barren, white-walled room, Griff had covered all four of his walls in posters. His room was an explosion of neon and pastel, a crazy quilt of illustrated art. It was years’ worth of museum posters, anime posters, movie posters, and concert posters, all pasted one on top of another. You never knew quite where to look.
Justice leaned against a faded Ragnor Bard concert poster. Years ago, I’d asked Griff why he’d hung that particular poster. Why did he want a conjurer in his room? He’d told me it was exposure therapy. Then he’d drawn a pair of horns and a mustache on Ragnor.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said. He avoided looking at us by studying the pitcher of iced tea and the tray of thumbprint cookies on his nightstand.
The cookies were half-gone. I’d given in two hours into our vigil and eaten four. Justice had fallen asleep sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, and when he woke up, he’d had six. Rou nibbled on two. That left crumbs and the last dozen for Griff.
None of us had talked while Griff came back into himself. But now he was awake, we wanted answers.
“Griff,” I said, and he flinched as if I’d hit him.
My mouth tightened.
I leaned forward on the wooden chair I’d scooted close to Griff’s bed. “What happened?”
When he finally looked up, his brown eyes were bleeding into black. The tendons on his hands were bulging as he shoved himself upright. The white sheet that covered him slipped down his chest and pooled over his legs.
Usually, he’d blush, because under the sheet, he was as naked as the day he was born. But today, the red on his cheeks was from something else. Anger? Betrayal? Hurt?
Rou clicked her tongue. “So you were murdered. Have a cookie.”
Justice pushed off the wall, suddenly alert. I glanced back at him and raised my eyebrows. He’d told me not to protect Griff, yet there he was, a shark scenting blood, ready to attack.
Griff grabbed two cookies and shoved them into his mouth, chewing forcefully. He always woke up starving.
“I have a roast in the oven and fresh-baked bread,” Rou added, smiling at her forethought.
“What happened?” Justice asked.
Griff swallowed the cookies and grabbed two more. He ate them more slowly, taking his time, but we all knew he’d answer. Whenever Justice spoke in that hard, flinty voice, you felt compelled to answer. It wasn’t that he was using illusion—you just wanted to answer because you knew he’d fix whatever was wrong.
Finally, Griff swung his legs over the side of the bed and wiped his hands on the sheet covering him. He looked down at his hands. On the underside of his wrist, another black line was gone. He was on his eighth life now.
I didn’t want to think about Griff becoming a mine. He was a year older than me, but somehow, he’d always managed to seem younger. It was his innocence. The way he looked at the world. His earnestness and puppylike expression.
When he finally looked up, though, he wasn’t our soft and sweet Griff. He looked like his father. Black-stained eyes. Harsh, angled cheekbones. Bulging muscles and sharpened teeth.
