As soon as I woke up in the conjurer’s cage and Jagger crouched over me, I realized a number of important things.
First, Jagger didn’t know I’d regained my memories of Finn. He believed I’d killed Finn on his orders and only remembered him as the solange addict I’d helped win the games.
Second, Jagger didn’t know I was Jacob’s twin and Philoneas and Uliea’s daughter. I assumed he knew by the taste of my blood that I was a Ward, but he didn’t know how much of a Ward.
Third, Jagger didn’t know I’d learned he sent Luvic to kill me after retrieving the key. He didn’t know Luvic was my friend and it was me who’d let him out of the cage all those years ago.
Finally, Jagger didn’t know I had a torrential river of power flowing through me, and also that I’d locked away my good so he couldn’t consume it. He didn’t know what I was hiding.
I couldn’t let on to Jagger, to Justice, to Rou—not to Griff, not to anyone—that I still cared, still loved. Because if I did, I knew Jagger would seek that love out and swallow it whole as quickly as he downed a shot of Furtig.
My love, my good, was like blood in the water. It would draw Jagger out. I had to keep it hidden.
What would I do if I saw Finn? Luvic?
The thought terrified me. To keep my love safe, I had to be a perfect mine. To be their friend, I had to be their enemy.
“Furtig,” Jagger said, eyeing the shot glass in my hand, “isn’t for everyone.”
“No,” I agreed.
He poured himself another glass. How many spirits was that? A thousand? Ten thousand?
When he drank it, his skin turned pearly gray. Usually, he was beige-gray, with deep, craggy wrinkles, but Furtig gave him an odd, otherworldly glow. The sags on his skin loosened, his wrinkles lifted, and the deep creases around his mouth lessened. He looked fuller, as if the Furtig filled him like air filled a balloon.
Leggerocks never looked exactly human. They were six and a half to seven feet tall. Gray-skinned, with flat gray eyes, deeply grooved skin, too-long arms, and bulging joints. They were bald, sharp-toothed, and always wore an obsidian ceremonial dagger around their throats.
A leggerock’s blood held power, and the dagger spilled their blood. Jagger always claimed leggerocks had been given blood magic to balance the conjurers’ illusions.
He swallowed his fourth glass and then wiped his large hand across his gray lips. I still hadn’t sipped mine. Instead, I rolled the glass between my fingers like Finn used to roll his thimbles of solange.
That’s what I did now. Since I couldn’t have Finn, I gave myself little reminders of him.
“You seem to have adjusted well,” Jagger said. His gaze ran over me, but he wasn’t looking at my physical appearance—he was poking inside of me. “Tell me, have you adjusted, Mari?”
I couldn’t lie to Jagger. It wasn’t possible as a mine. I couldn’t lie to him or about him. Justice sometimes mentioned it, but I’d never thought much about it.
It reminded me of the inquisitor’s chair. There wasn’t the option to lie, only the option to choose between multiple truths.
“As well as I expected,” I said, my voice low and melodic.
Jagger smiled as if he knew what I was doing. He probably did. I’d learned, though, he couldn’t read my mind, and he couldn’t read the secrets of my heart. His blood was a mindless thing that could only devour or demand.
“I’m not convinced,” he said, dragging a long finger down the line of his knife. “Not convinced at all.”
He studied me, his head tilted, the scent of chrysanthemum and alcohol nearly suffocating. I held still under his inspection even though my muscles were tense and my mind was begging, Run, run, run.
“You don’t like being a mine, do you? Yes or no.”
Ah.
So he did know what I was doing.
“No,” I said.
Jagger smiled. His lips pulled back, and his sharp teeth glistened. “I like it when you’re honest with me. Would you like me to be honest with you?”
I curled my fingers around the Furtig. “Yes.”
