Was it time?
“Jagger’s asking for you.”
There was something in his voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand and my blood beat in a slow, viscous thud. I studied him, but he refused to look at me.
Rou winked, her wrinkles scrunching with her smile. Be a monster, she seemed to say.
“All right. I’m ready.”
I followed Justice through Hell Gate, wondering the whole while, could I be a monster without being monstrous?
3
Have you ever wondered why Jagger is evil?
Roumelade would tell you not to wonder at the nature of things. It’s enough to know something is—you don’t need to know why it is.
But humans, since the beginning, have always wanted to know why.
What, where, when, how—all of them are subservient to why. You see it in kids. One of the first words babies learn after “mama,” “papa,” “milk,” and “blanket,” is, “Why?”
As soon as we have relationships, food, and security taken care of, we turn philosophical. Even as two-year-olds.
We really can’t help ourselves. It gets us into all sorts of trouble.
And finally, when all the answers have been worn out, the only response to “Why?” is . . . “Because.”
Jagger is evil . . . because.
That was the only answer I had until I became a mine.
Jagger sat behind his rockslab desk, hunched over a bottle of Furtig. There were two shot glasses. He filled both, and the scent of chrysanthemum and rubbing alcohol stung my eyes.
Furtig is a liquor distilled from actual spirits. It takes a year to distill enough spirits to form a teardrop’s worth of Furtig. It’s incredibly rare, very expensive, and Jagger only drinks it when he’s celebrating.
Justice tried Furtig once. He passed out after his first sip and woke up with a white streak in his hair. He refused to tell me and Griff what happened after he drank it.
Growing up in Hell Gate, you quickly realize there are some things you’ll never talk about—usually, the very best things and the very worst things. Those are the secrets we keep.
I didn’t want to drink the Furtig, but Jagger pushed the second glass across his desk. Some of the liquid sloshed over the lip and spilled. A puddle of clear spirit pooled around the glass on top of the polished stone desk like an oil spill on water.
“Take it.”
I picked up the shot glass. It was wet, sticky, and cool. Jagger didn’t wait for me to drink. He shot the Furtig between his gray lips, exhaling loudly and refilling his glass.
You have questions.
I hear you shouting them.
It’s been two weeks, Mari! Why haven’t you found Finn? Don’t you care? Don’t you love him anymore? What about Jacob? Philoneas and Uliea? Is Luvic okay, and why did he kill the siblings he supposedly loved? What about Justice? Why haven’t you spoken to him? Why are you still in Hell Gate? Why?
Right.
The question is “Why?”
It’s always “Why?”
The answer is: I haven’t found Finn because Jagger ordered me not to leave Hell Gate. Do I care? Do I love him? Isn’t that what’s locked deep inside? The same goes for Jacob, my parents. Luvic. Justice. It’s locked deep. Hidden from Jagger and his desire to devour all things good.
