Jagger tilted his head, staring at the Clark. Jagger hated to share. Hated it. In fact, he didn’t share. If someone tried to use or take what was his, he killed them.
“One day,” he said.
I hid my surprise. Justice looked at Jagger quickly, then he flushed at his mistake and looked away.
Primus smiled, eying Justice’s reddened cheeks.
“If they get one,” the Bard said, “we get one.”
Jagger waved his hand. “Done. She will be yours for one day of every seven for as long as the alliance lasts, to use as you will, as long as no harm comes to her, and she is not killed.”
My shoulders sagged, and a slow breath leaked from my lungs.
“Then we are agreed,” the Clark said.
“Agreed.” The Bard nodded.
Jagger clapped his hands once. “Then we’ll drink to celebrate our?—”
Jagger cut off at a bloodcurdling scream. It ripped down the hallway and then was silenced.
Harry, the slipshot, sprinted into the dining room and stopped before Jagger. “The Ward,” he said, breathing hard. “He’s here.”
20
Jacob’s progress through Hell Gate was measured in screams. Agonized wails raced down the hall and then cut off, one then another, and another, punctuating the silence like macabre exclamation points.
When I was young, I’d spent countless nights staring sleeplessly at the shadows roaming the ceiling. I’d had repeating nightmares about the Wards finding me and descending on Hell Gate. They’d killed my parents, and they’d finally come for me.
The screams in my nightmares sounded just like this.
The creatures at the edges of the room shifted and stirred. They moved like the inky shadows on my ceiling all those years ago.
Another scream died. It was enough to make the blood in your veins shrivel and your heart cower. The sound yanked out a primal instinct that shouted, Run! Run! Run! There’s a monster in the dark!
I locked my muscles and turned to face the entry.
“Which Ward?” the Bard demanded. He lifted his hand, and knots floated above his fingers as he held an illusion at the ready.
Luvic still bloody, inched to the right, placing himself between me and the doorway. A rattling noise—almost too quiet to hear—rumbled in his chest.
Unlike the Bards, the Clarks seemed to enjoy the sound of screaming.
“The new principal? Who is that? Connor?” the Clark asked, his gaze lustful and greedy.
I’d forgotten. None of them knew Jacob was still alive. They believed Darin had killed him. Connor was a second cousin and next in line after Jacob and . . . me.
I felt Jacob before I saw him.
It was the same tearing, shredding, ripping feel I’d felt in the games when I thought Jacob was trying to crush my heart. It beat violently, shuddering and protesting.
The rope that coiled between us spasmed and twisted. It was illusion but not. A connection formed before either of us was born.
I dragged in a pained breath.
A violent wind gusted through the dining room, extinguishing all the candles. It blew against me and snapped the silk of my dress so it flew around me like great, violent storm clouds.
The dining room was devoured in darkness. The only illumination was from the old chandeliers humming and flickering as the wind swung them wildly from the ceiling. They creaked and groaned like rusty swings on an abandoned playground.
