I knew now what Jagger meant when he’d said Justice had looked at me as if I were the sun in his dark, dingy world.
He blinked, and the look passed. He pulled open the door to reveal Jagger ensconced behind his desk.
Jagger scowled and hit his fist on the stone. “Get in here. I have an hour to stuff you so full of orders you’ll deliver the conjurers to me on a golden platter. Shut the door. First things first, Mari. Tonight, you’ll show the conjurers exactly what you are.”
19
For my entire life, I’d been warned about what would happen if the conjurers learned I was a lockpick. Torture. Dismemberment. Disembowelment. Followed by years of wandering the iron cage of my own torture-warped mind. Then, finally . . . death. A true and final death.
It wasn’t the death that terrified me; it was the promised unending agony before that final callous release. The last true lockpick had died in 1792. She was tortured for years before being locked in a hole in the Ward asylum on their little island. She spent fifteen years in the torturous maze of her mind, running from conjured illusions she could never escape—until death.
That was the fate of true lockpicks.
In our world, there were “lockpicks” who trained for decades, like martial artists, to see and unravel illusion. Their skill, even at the height of mastery, was a raindrop compared to an ocean when held against a lockpick who was born.
It had always been the prerogative of conjurers to kill true lockpicks as soon as they manifested their power. When they were still young and weak.
In the late 1400s, the Clarks wrote an entire treatise on how to remove the scourge of seers from the earth. The Renaissance had arrived, and there was a spate of truth seers and those with clear vision. By “spate,” I mean ten or twelve, with a few children thrown in. Although I can’t be certain, I think most of them were trained and not born.
The treatise had chapters on how to identify truth seers. Their distinguishing marks and characteristics. How and where to find them. And then the best, most effective means for torture and death. Lockpicks were “vile, unnatural beasts,” with “no virtue, reason, or soul,” who threatened the very fabric of existence. Thus extermination.
The book was full of sermonizing, righteousness, and dire warnings, and also very creative ways to deliver a thousand agonizing deaths. The Clarks were known for scholarly detail, and the illustrations were graphic.
I’d thumbed through the original manuscript’s pages when I lockpicked the Clark’s office a few years back. It would be a lie to say it hadn’t given me a few nightmares.
The first night, I’d been too scared to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the drawing of the lockpick with his back muscles carved open and spread out like butterfly wings. It was terrifying.
Finn had stayed awake with me, his hand stroking my hair, telling me a story about his mom taking him on the Staten Island Ferry for his fourth birthday. How she’d bought him a hot dog at the concession stand, and he’d slathered it in ketchup and mustard. And then, as they passed the Statue of Liberty, they’d seen a finback whale breach the water. And so he’d begged to go again and again, until they’d ridden the ferry fourteen times in a row. Seven times there and back again, with hot dogs, donuts, nachos, pretzels, and juice. And his mom hugging him at the railing as the wind whipped over them and the waves rolled past.
“Fourteen times,” he’d laughed. “Fourteen!”
“She really loved you,” I’d said, leaning into his warmth and resting my head against his chest.
He’d nodded, pressing his lips to my cheek, drawing a constellation with his mouth. He’d promised, “I won’t let them hurt you.”
I’d believed him, even though I knew it couldn’t be true.
Now, the Clarks and the Bards were about to learn I was a lockpick, and Finn wasn’t there. Not to keep or to break his promise.
Hell Gate’s great hall was ablaze with candlelight. Somehow, Rou had worked a miracle. Last night, Justice and I had nearly killed each other in this room, and then there’d been hours of wild debauchery. Drinking, feasting, fighting. The evidence of that was gone.
Now, it was a great stone room glittering with the warm glow of brass chandeliers and dozens of Victorian candelabras. The mirrors reflected the flickering candles and painted the room in winking lights, like the inside of a gem-stuffed jewelry box. There were thick burgundy and cream colored rugs scattered over the stone floor. One long table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs. It was festooned with a centerpiece of poison ivy and thorned red roses. Beautiful, as long as you didn’t touch.
The table was set with gold-rimmed china, polished silver, and sparkling glassware. The scents of Roumelade’s feast permeated the room. Cinnamon and clove ham, raisins and caramelized sugar, terror and bliss.
The hall was beautiful. You’d never know the carpets were covering bloodstained stone and this was the room where Jagger had most loved tearing off limbs.
When the Clarks and the Bards arrived, Roumelade showed them to the great hall. They stood in a group opposite the entry.
Herman Clark, Primus, and Last.
Dagrid Bard and Luvic.
It was the first time I’d seen any of them, except for Luvic, since the games. My stomach turned over, rolling uncomfortably, but I kept my stride steady and my back straight as we entered the room.
It was easy to discard the conjurers’ impact while in the Bard mansion. Their power was everywhere, and so the force of it was easier to ignore. But it was different with them in Hell Gate. This was my home. I knew the feel of it and the way of it. It was like a fog-shrouded, malevolent beast that slumbered with one eye open, content to let you tiptoe on its back as long as you didn’t disturb its sleep. The beings who lived here didn’t disturb things by being too flashy or showy or powerful. Jagger was the most powerful force here, and his rocklike aura was Hell Gate.
So when I first saw the conjurers, the feel of them hit me like a fist. It knocked the breath out of me.
