I knew this about Jagger, but destroying the Wards’ home had made it very clear. Jagger loved to ruin good things. There were some beings in the world who loved to create, and there were some who loved to tear those things down.
What was more joyful? Building a tower of blocks, or smashing it and watching them tumble? Building a system, or burning it? Falling in love, or breaking a heart?
With each twisted flame consuming the conjurers’ homes, the joy of destruction had fizzed and popped in my veins. More, it sang. More.
It was a seductive joy. Wouldn’t it be lovely to destroy a home, a dream, a love? Wouldn’t it be fun? Thoughts of all the other things I could ruin whispered insidiously. Griff. His innocence made him weak. Justice. I could break him—snuff out that last desperate dream. Finn. Would it feel good to hurt him?
I’d stabbed him on the lighthouse. Had that felt good?
Yes.
No.
No.
I shook out of the seductive hold, ignoring the siren lure singing in my veins, and slipped into a pool of shadow. My breathing was heavy and pained. I was panting as if I’d run miles instead of climbing stairs and sneaking down hallways.
The decaying rose smell filled my nostrils and hit my tongue with its sweet, rotting flavor. A drop of sweat slid down my forehead as I listened for any noise. A footstep. A curtain shifting. A creak or a groan.
Nothing.
The house was a quiet tomb.
I turned a cold brass door handle and darted into a darkened room. I waited with my back pressed to the wall as my eyes adjusted to the lesser light. There was only a long, rectangular spear of streetlight shining through the window in a muted strip over the room. It was enough. It reflected off mirrors and metal objects, lighting the room in a ghoulish haze.
I tiptoed through the room, careful not to bump anything or jar any objects. I’d been here before. It was where Finn and I had been strapped to the inquisitor’s chair and questioned by Philoneas. The chair was in the center of the room, glowing silver in the light.
Stacks of newspapers and magazines cluttered the room. They stood taller than me, like termite mounds in the desert. There were couches. Paintings. Hats and metal urns. An opened jewelry box filled with glittering gems.
I turned, searching.
A woman was staring at me. Her face was contorted with rage, her arms high.
I tripped over a stack of magazines. Fell. Hit the ground. Who was it? Who? I rolled, grabbing my knife. I was about to throw it when I realized the woman hadn’t moved. Not an inch.
“Oh,” I whispered. “Hello.”
My mouth was dry, and my hands were shaking. I sheathed the knife. I’d forgotten the mannequins. The room had half a dozen of them spaced about, wearing luxurious gowns from years past. They were proportioned like a human, with pale alabaster skin and human-hair wigs. They looked surprisingly lifelike. This one had on a mint-green gown covered in sequins and feathers. A small feather hat was perched on her head.
“If I had to wear that hat for eternity, I’d be angry too,” I told her.
I stood and wiped my hands on my pants. Then I patted the jar of liquid in my coat pocket. Not broken, thank goodness, or I’d have been the one going up in flames.
I darted another glance at the mannequin. Eerie things. The back of my neck prickled. It felt like a mother spider hatching her nest of eggs on my skin. I looked around. No one here. Just me and the mannequins.
I pulled out the jar and set to sprinkling the anise and cinnamon scented liquid over the newspapers and magazines. I drizzled it on the couch. I poured the last of it on a wardrobe full of fur coats.
Then I fiddled with the lighter in my pocket, searching the room. This was the Bard’s storage room, where they kept some of their objects of power. There were objects of uselessness too, and just regular old objects. But for the most part, I was about to burn up . . . power.
There was a mirror—not like the “mirror, mirror on the wall” kind, but one (I think) that was a portal into fractured, figment places. There was a copper bowl—probably one that, once filled with food, never went empty, although it might make you endlessly hungry. There was a piggy bank that looked like it was from the 1950s. It might have a never-ending supply of coins, or it might swallow money and never let it out. There was an ivory comb with a design of sparrows and ivy. That comb was a Bard invention. The comb of discernment. I’d read about it. Supposedly, it separated truth from lie. I ran my hand over the ivory teeth and then slipped the comb into my pocket.
Then my gaze caught on a small, clear glass vial filled with a golden liquid. The cap was gold, and the liquid inside floated with tiny flakes of gold dust and deep blue lapis. I lifted the vial and turned it so the flakes swirled and fluttered in the honey liquid.
What was this?
I read the cap. In tiny, barely discernable type, it read: “Take in event of emergency.”
I smiled and dropped it into my pocket.
