Jacob stared coldly at Jagger, noting how he’d stepped threateningly forward. “The Smiths? No. I side with the Wards. Always.”
My throat tightened. I curled my fingers into my palm.
“Then you take no sides,” the Clark said.
“But my own.”
Jagger laughed, and it startled the conjurers. They looked at him, and he gave them a sharp-toothed grinned.
“A selfish opportunist. That I understand.”
Primus cut his hand through Jagger’s amusement. “Opportunist? No. Principal Ward lost the games because he is a coward. He will lose his life for the same reason. Take note. If you never take a stand, then you live life on your knees.”
Jacob smiled at them all—a sweet, pink-cheeked look. Then he walked away, calling over his shoulder, “It’s been nice, but I have somewhere I need to be.”
We stood in silence as screams followed him out of Hell Gate.
21
The wind fluttered across the dried blood flaking off the trickster’s jaw. Blood was a funny thing. Not all beings bled, and not all beings had blood. But those that did . . .
You could learn secrets from blood.
That was what the rocklike one did. It sipped blood like it was Furtig, swirling the liquid around its shark-toothed mouth, tasting the sedimentary layers: iron, copper, chalk.
Blood could taste like steam venting in bright, iron-red bubbles from the volcanic hot springs of São Miguel. It could taste like the bitter-cold gurgle of icy streams cutting through the rose-hued copper of the Keweenaw Peninsula. It could even taste like the white chalk cliffs jutting from Britain’s protruding southern chin.
Ward. Bard. Smith. Clark. To the rocklike one, their blood was the minerals of the earth. He could excavate their ancestral history with one mouthful. But the wind? It tasted secrets in blood.
Sometimes, blood cried out for vengeance, especially when it cooled on frozen ground. Often, it burned, sizzling like fire with lusty, greedy need. Rarely, it poured out blessings and benedictions.
What secrets were in the trickster’s blood?
The wind flaked the red-brown bits from the divot beneath the trickster’s nose. His blood tasted like the howl of a jackaltooth. It was a frightening rattle that shook red blood cells into a frenzy. The wind sniffed. Sneezed. There was a subtle sulfur taint that reminded the wind of the narrow-slit vents that shot poisonous steam from earth’s hell-like magma chambers. And finally, there was the faint overlying smell of spring violet honey, peppery and sweet.
Hmm.
The wind cataloged the scents, tucking them away in memory sheaths to pull out and flip through later. Sometimes, knowledge couldn’t be used right away, but that didn’t mean it was worthless. It only meant it had to be saved for later.
The wind tickled the trickster’s nose, trying to make him sneeze. It was bored. The dinner had lasted for so long it was certain the moon had already passed from one corner of the sky to the other.
It had wanted to leave with the boy. After all, it had found the trickster for him, and after so much blowing and blustering, it wanted a night to itself. It imagined the little knoll in the park with the hollowed-out white pine, where it could rub along the soft fur of that family of deer mice. Perhaps they’d had pups and it could roll in their squeaks.
The boy had once had a velvet bear he’d rubbed between his baby fingers. He’d rubbed it so much the velvet had worn away until it was only soft satin down. The wind had thought the bear was soothing to a boy who couldn’t yet speak and was frightened to be alone. The old stuffed bear was gone, but a deer mouse felt almost the same.
But as the boy had stalked out of Hell Gate, and the wind had bounced happily from one gurgling scream to the next, he’d whispered, “No, Wind. Stay here. Stay close to Luvic.”
The wind had shoved and blustered. It did not want to stay in Hell Gate. It wanted a night full of pine scents and tiny, velvet-soft mice with quickly beating hearts.
“I know you’re tired,” the boy had murmured, steadying himself against the wind’s buffeting.
The wind had shrieked. It was not!
“Well, not tired. Of course you’re not tired. You’re tireless.”
Exactly.
“I only meant . . .” He’d rubbed his hand through his messy hair, leaving a strand to stick straight up. The wind had huffed and smoothed it down. “Well, don’t you want to know Luvic’s secret?”
