They weren’t actively conjuring; they were merely holding whatever illusion they’d wrapped around themselves in place. But whatever minor illusion each of them held was enough to make the room pulse with a forceful throb. It crawled over my skin and pounded against my chest.
Behind me, Griff yanked in a sharp breath. He was terrified. Thankfully for him, his only tell was the paleness of his face and the slight widening of his eyes. Jagger would skin him alive and roast the strips while he watched if Griff embarrassed him tonight. It wouldn’t matter that he usually let Griff off easy—he wouldn’t in this.
The conjurers didn’t notice us right away. Jagger led us into the hall, me, Justice, and Griff behind him, and twenty of his favorite creatures silently following us. Jagger was smart. He’d chosen all sorts of creatures: lures, slipshots, a shill, a few spirits—enough variety that the conjurers would have a hard time killing everyone in the room. For example, a bolt of lightning could kill a slipshot, but it couldn’t kill a water spirit. An abyss could swallow a lure, but it wouldn’t hurt a tree spirit. Besides, Jagger was confident none of them would be able to conjure with me beside him.
“You’re certain they won’t kill me?” I’d asked after he’d delivered all his commands.
Jagger had shrugged. “They might. I’ve decided it’s worth the risk.”
At his words, Justice had clenched his hand into a tight fist. Jagger’s eyes had flicked to his white knuckles, and then he’d smiled.
My heart thudded hollowly as we fanned out, spreading through the stone hall. The candlelight flashed over the conjurers, illuminating them.
The Bard was the same. He wore a suit of midnight-purple, almost black, and a mourning arm band. He looked younger than he did a few weeks ago, less wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead. Butterfly knots floated around his head. His fingers were bedecked with gold rings, and he waved his hands showily as he spoke.
Luvic stood with the casual, slouched grace I knew meant his mind was working furiously, running through a hundred scenarios, and he absolutely didn’t want anyone to know it. He wore a black tuxedo that molded to his form and made him look like the next great Hollywood star. The candlelight loved him, stroking his skin and burnishing it to a deep bronze glow.
He wore a humor-filled, amused smile, and when Last narrowed her eyes on him, that smile grew.
She hissed. I’d not ever seen a person hiss like a cat before. But Last hissed at Luvic, and when his shoulders shook with laughter, she curled her lip in a feral snarl. She hated him. I mean, she’d hated him before, but now she really hated him.
She didn’t look well. She’d always been thin to the point of gaunt, anemic-pale and hollow-cheeked, but now, her skin was tinging toward yellow, and her eyes had puffy red and purple bags under them. Had she been crying? No—Last didn’t cry. She made people cry. She purposely turned away from Luvic, toward Primus. They were both in black: Primus in a suit, and Last in a long lace funeral dress.
Primus was the same. Although maybe not. There was something different about him, as if his cruelty had warped and twisted into a new, hungrier monster. There was a disconcerting coldness in his eyes. He used to remind me of a boy who gleefully tore the wings off butterflies. He still reminded me of someone who tore the wings off butterflies, but the glee wasn’t there anymore. Now, I think he’d do it dispassionately, without feeling, only because he could.
The last of the conjurers was Herman Clark. He’d worn his snakeskin boots with his suit. Like Jagger, he was bald, not a bit of hair on his body. Unlike Jagger, the Clark had purposely removed all his hair, even his eyelashes. It reminded me of the molting of a snake, and it always gave me the shivers.
Last was the first to notice us. She puffed out her cheeks in surprise and let the air out in a sharp “puh.” At her reaction, the rest of the conjurers shifted their attention to us.
It was like having the undivided focus of a pack of predators.
We filed into the room. Jagger basked in the conjurers’ undivided attention. It was interesting to see their reactions to him. He was a giant compared to most men, nearly seven feet tall and wider than most doorways. Gray-skinned, slate-gray eyes with no whites, sharp teeth, arms longer than a human’s with bulging joints, and long fingers with thick claws. He was humanlike enough that he could pass for one if he wore sunglasses, a thick coat, and a hood and went out at night. But it was tricky, because while he could cover his physical appearance, he couldn’t prevent people from noticing the feeling he gave off.
When you got close enough to him, the hair on the back of your neck stood on end, and you felt in your bones there was something evil about him. Something very wrong. It was a repellent feeling that made many people hurry to the opposite side of the street and look over their shoulder as they quickened their pace.
I guess Winnie was right. I must’ve grown used to the sulfuric smoke of hell, because I’d stopped looking over my shoulder years ago.
Both the Bard and the Clark watched Jagger with annoyed disdain, as if they couldn’t quite believe they were in the same room. It was the look of a pair of lions watching a lice-infested vulture circle around their kill.
Primus surveyed him with arrogant detachment, his lip curling. Last gripped the fabric of her dress, and by the flattening of her mouth, I knew she was thinking about killing either Primus, Luvic, or Jagger.
Luvic, out of all of them, was the only one who looked at me. It was a quick glance, although I felt it with an electric jolt. The metallic scrape of his gaze hurt like a bee’s sting. A quick prick—there, then gone.
It made me wonder what he’d done to me. His lips turned up in a smile that lasted a millisecond, then he turned away and focused on Jagger.
Was Luvic’s jaw tenser than usual; his shoulders tighter? He would hate coming back here. He would hate thinking of the cage in the basement.
“Welcome,” Jagger said, his voice booming off the stone walls. “Welcome to Hell Gate.”
Jagger’s creatures fanned around the dining room, lining the walls. Not a single conjurer looked at them. I imagine in their minds, there was no point in noticing something that couldn’t possibly be a threat. It was why they hadn’t looked at me, Justice, or Griff.
Jagger positioned himself in front of the conjurers. I stood to his right, Justice and Griff on his left.
“I’m pleased you agreed to visit my humble home?—”
“Leggerock,” the Bard interrupted. “The only reason you are alive and your hellhole is still standing is because we are curious. You insulted us by insinuating a conjurer might align with a leggerock. A human does not align with a creature.”
Jagger’s expression remained as flat and smooth as granite. “And yet . . . here you are.”
