Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

3. To Owe a Debt to Death.

—?—

The first thing to know about Mance is, he’s the fucking worst .

Raya steps over a crack in the floor with disgust, footsteps echoing all around the cramped, musky underground hall from her spike heels. “Tell me ‘Mance’ isn’t his real name.”

Most of the … practitioners of preternatural arts, we’ll call them … never use their birth names .

“Why don’t we call him what he is? Necromancer, isn’t it?”

He despises labels unless they suit him in conversation . Also, that term is outdated, as well as deeply controversial to other practitioners of more … respectable arts, we’ll say … who believe the term is —

“Why are we going through all this trouble at all? Cannot our ever-so-talented Lord of Vegasyn simply create an illusion of this dead mortal Brock to convince the humans he’s alive?”

Alas, even Markadian’s gift has its limits . An illusion of a person that is both convincing and sustainable is not possible . One tiny error, and the whole illusion falls apart . Also, Markadian is lazy .

“You could have just led with the lazy bit.”

When Tristan and Raya turn the corner, the hall opens to a corridor with large tanks, pipes, and electrical conduits along the walls. The two continue onward as quickly as they can manage.

“Are we nearly there, Tristan? I didn’t realize we would be skittering like sewer rats through this revolting maze of tunnels no one has touched in years. My heels are becoming sticky .”

Commuting through the underbelly of Las Vegas is a necessary evil . Tristan then proceeds with his warnings. When we meet him, you must resist your urge to talk back to him, even though you will deeply desire to . He is quite temperamental and easily annoyed .

“I need a beer.”

We will be back before sunrise, my queen, and will go up to my tower together to empty all the cans you wish until dawn .

“I regret each and every one of your errands.”

And I thank you for joining me nonetheless . By the way, do keep your hands visible at all times . He is not very trusting, either .

“Does he have a single redeemable quality?”

Yes. He is immeasurably lecherous with terrible taste in fashion .

“You are insufferable, Tristan.”

Also, I heard he killed his parents in cold blood, then resurrected them to do his bidding, all at the ripe age of sixteen . Of course, these are mere rumors, and I don’t know how much weight they hold …

“Everyone knows true resurrection doesn’t exist,” groans Raya with a loathsome sigh. “Like time travel and anti-aging cream, it’s fiction. Are you sure this Mance is not a fraud?”

One cannot be too sure of anything in these trying times .

“And remind me why we cannot tell Lord Markadian about this? Shouldn’t he know what we’re doing?”

Before Tristan can answer, his foot taps into something.

A wineglass. It tips over, spills red.

Tristan stops, flings his arm to the side at once, holding back Raya. She frowns at him. “What’re you—?”

I suspect I just … activated something .

The spilled wine creeps slowly down the hall like one long finger, then two, then one again, a thin red stream. Tristan and Raya remain absolutely still, watching. The stream of wine ends at the base of a white unlit candle neither of them noticed was there, sitting in the hall with no seeming purpose in the world.

The candle lights up at once.

Tristan and Raya lift their eyes.

Behind the candle now stands a man Tristan can’t be sure was there a second ago. Long legs, imprisoned in unforgivably tight black leather pants that outline his dick, balls included, with just a low-hanging, lopsided, metal-studded belt hanging loose—what function it serves, Tristan can only guess. Leather jacket with ribbing along the shoulders, tight-fitting, opened to reveal the sweaty, tawny skin of his chest, a tuft of hair at the top, and a thick happy trail drawing a line partway down his abs toward his crotch. Atop his head sits a frayed cowboy hat with a hole in the brim, strands of greasy black hair poking out from under, wavy tangles spilling down the back of his neck. Cowboy boots to finish his look, soles caked in mud.

“Don’t go shittin’ yourself,” says the man in his deep drawl, words echoey and strange in the dank, long tunnel. “It’s just a simple trust spell. One of the few innocent tricks I’m capable of, unless you care to see my version of a New Years’ sparkler.”

Mance , returns Tristan rather lightly for a greeting, his arm still outstretched, holding back Raya. You need such tricks? I had believed us to be friends .

“Don’t got none of those, never did me no good. And you got nothin’ to worry ‘bout unless you’re untrustworthy.” Mance tilts his head. “Are you?”

This is exactly how Tristan remembers Mance, perpetually moody, tightly buzzed beard framing his permanently smirking lopsided lips, forehead creased, eyebrows twisted up, a constant air of suspicion and arrogance.

About as trustworthy as a jock cup in the direct path of a wayward curveball , answers Tristan. I am ever so happy you agreed to meet me .

“Better get on it, then. We got until the candle’s burned to the wine before the spell runs out and my ass is gone.”

It’s a tall candle , notes Tristan.

“And magic fire burns awful quick-like.” He slants his head downward, eyes gleaming with malice. “But I suspect you know all about that, now don’t you, Tristan?”

Raya glances at Tristan, questions in her eyes.

Tristan dismisses the taunt with a lift of his chin. My request is simple . I have a deceased human who was not meant to die …

“Anyone who’s dead was meant to die.”

Be that as it may, his being dead is … inconvenient , Tristan elaborates. We need him to be … well … not dead .

Raya crosses her arms impatiently.

It’s that simple movement that steals Mance’s attention. He glances her way, takes in the sight of her the way a wolf stares down his prey in all ways but licking his lips. He removes his hat, revealing his greasy bangs, gives her the slightest of nods. “Didn’t see you there, sweetheart. My apologies.”

Raya’s eyes go to the man’s fingertips—which are entirely grey, as if all trace of blood and life has been sucked from them up to the knuckle. Sickly, off-putting spots of greenish black run across the backs of his hands with no discernable pattern.

“What happened there?” asks Raya, nose wrinkled up.

He doesn’t look at them. He just continues staring at her, unblinking, as he slowly returns his hat to his head. “Call it an itty-bitty consequence of my particular line of work, sweet—”

“I’m no one’s sweetheart ,” Raya cuts him off.

This is Raya , explains Tristan quickly. She accompanied me for moral support . And entertainment, I think .

Mance grunts to himself. “She don’t look much entertained to me.” He sets his eyes back onto Tristan. “Is she part of the deal? That why you brought her? To offer her to me?”

Regrettably, no , Tristan answers. She is my —

“Sister? Family?” He looks her over again. “I don’t get how you folk do this whole family thing … blood sisters and fang brothers and whatever other crazy rules you got goin’ on.” He lets out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Fuckin’ adorable.”

We have chosen family , explains Tristan, bonded by exchanges of blood with those we trust indefinitely, not by assignment of birth, which in itself is sadly a choice no mortal baby is afforded .

“If it were up to me, I’d keep all my dang blood to myself. I like it in my veins where it belongs.”

Is this family advice from someone who killed his own parents?

“You killed yours, too,” Mance fires back, “but why bother flirtin’ with each other? Our candle’s still burnin’. Time’s a’ tickin’.” He narrows his eyes. “So many other gods whose doors you could have knocked on tonight, from the Four Winds to the Sisters to Mother Nature herself. What in the hell kinda pickle did you get yourself in to wish me to call upon Death?”

A bad one , admits Tristan. So can you help me? Or shall I go with my original plan and consult a priest?

Mance smirks, amused by the joke, then pulls out a box of cigarettes, flips it open, draws one out with his mouth. “Sure can do,” he says, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he lights it. “First things first. Who’s the unlucky fella?”

His name is Brock Hastings . He is currently in a secure location . I can bring his body to a discreet mortal clinic under our control for you to perform the, um … ‘ritual’ … ? Is it called a ritual?

“Oh, I see how it is. Don’t trust me at your fancy house?”

No one is allowed in the House of Vegasyn, as you know, who are not expressly invited . Also, I regret to say I’m doing this … in secret .

That last bit of information appears the tastiest to Mance, as the corners of his lips curl up. “So your big bad Lord don’t even know you’re meetin’ with me. Things are gettin’ a hell of a lot more interesting by the second.”

I hope we can practice discretion here, as we have in the past .

“Discretion.” Mance appears to understand more than he lets on. “I think I’m startin’ to sniff out what’s really goin’ on here. You’re ass-deep in shit ‘cause someone’s gone and broken the Protected Blood thing, and you want me to save the day.”

Tristan bristles. We are hoping to save everyone’s day .

“Boy, oh, boy … if the witches hear ‘bout this …”

Hence our need for discretion .

Mance snorts. “You kiddin’? You think I’m gonna go tell someone ‘bout this? I don’t give a fuck what the witches think. I ain’t associated with a single damned one of ‘em. Not anymore. They don’t want nothin’ to do with a cursed motherfucker like me.” He grabs his nuts to adjust them, then drags his eyes quite deliberately onto Raya. Hand still groping himself, his eyes do a dance down her chest, lips curling deeper with the sorts of thoughts that are not so difficult to fathom. “And you brought this babe along with you for a reason. To sweeten my attention, I’m guessin’, since she ain’t part of your offer.”

Raya covers her chest with her hands, disgust in her eyes.

Tristan continues. My offer is money . Do you take Venmo?

“I’m gonna need a few other things first,” he says after a puff from his cigarette. His lustful eyes remain on Raya, relishing the sight of her. “You’re gonna have to get ‘em for the ritual .”

The mocking way in which Mance says the word, Tristan gathers it isn’t what he usually calls it. Condescension is to be expected, and Tristan is more than willing to swallow as much of it as is necessary, provided the man does his job. Name what you need, and I’ll procure the items . Or do you call them ingredients?

“I’ll need a gallon of goat blood.”

Tristan grimaces, nods. Very well, and?

“A mirror that’s seen the deceased before and after he died. Preferably the same, but can be separate mirrors, but then they gotta be shattered and put back together in each other’s frames. Also, bark from an oak tree that’s been struck by lightning no more than seven days ago, the younger the tree, the better. The tree can’t have been pissed on by a dog. Nullifies the power.”

The ingredients are getting more complicated , notes Tristan.

“And you ain’t writin’ a lick of this shit down. Hey, you. Sweetheart.” Mance gives Raya a wink. “How ‘bout you jot this down in a cute lil’ notebook? Bet you got one wedged in those sweet, plump tits of yours.”

Raya scowls, outraged, and prepares to spit curses at him.

Instead, she grabs her own breasts, squeezes them, rocks her eyes back, and moans with overdramatic ecstasy. Mance just stands there and watches her, lust gleaming in his eyes.

The next moment, Raya comes to, as if emerging from an erotic dream, out of breath, then drops her hands with a gasp, stepping back. “How the h-hell—??” she cries out.

“I’m a fuckin’ necromancer. I control the dead.” He puffs carelessly on his cigarette, blows smoke with his laugh. “Who’d you think you were comin’ down here to see? The pope?”

Tristan steps in front of her, though he’s not sure if it’s to protect her or to hold her back. Do you have more ingredients for me to procure? My memory is flawless, I shall retain all .

Mance takes the cigarette between his greyish fingertips, still eying a considerably shaken Raya, smirking. “Sure thing. I will need the wings of a greater noctule bat. Need hair the same color as your dead fella, too, gathered off the floor of a morgue, a good amount of it. How old was he when he died? I’ll need that many books that are exactly as old as he was, each of ‘em. Doesn’t matter what book as long as they all have the letter ‘B’ somewhere in the title. Y’know, for his name, I’ll be sayin’ it a lot, we’ll all get sick of it, yadda-yadda. I’ll also need black salt, a decent chunk of obsidian, and … hmm, what else? … I’ll also need the heart of a newborn baby, still beating.”

Raya lets out a sickened noise through her teeth.

Mance … Tristan sighs. I am beginning to suspect we are being trolled for your amusement, and you, in fact, need none of these items .

“Alright, skip the newborn baby’s heart. Just wanted to see how …” He licks his lips, takes a drag from his cigarette, then blows it suggestively in Raya’s direction. “… far you’d go.”

She recoils, this time with more discomfort than disgust.

Time is of the essence, Tristan reminds him patiently, for the deceased rots worse by the day, despite us keeping him in a freezer …

“Let him rot,” says Mance. “It’ll be the last time that poor soul knows any peace. Do you even know what you’re askin’ me to do?” He turns his harsh eyes back onto Tristan, shining in the fire from the candle below, over halfway melted. “Once we begin this, you will owe a debt to Death. It is the worst entity in existence to owe anything to.”

Raya turns to Tristan, fear in her eyes—a look Tristan has never seen in his friend before. It’s perhaps in this moment that Tristan first experiences a pinch of doubt. Should he have come to meet Mance at all? Was all of this a terrible mistake?

“What?” Mance barks out, voice hardening. “Y’all thought a fuckin’ resurrection would be easy? A resurrection isn’t just a cute ritual to magically invite a soul back into a corpse. It is an act of theft . When you wake the dead, you risk the ire of Death, the fuckin’ father of nightmares itself. Death is owed penance for the arrogant act of rearranging its delicate design in your damned favor. Each of us is here ‘cause we’re supposed to be. And the unlucky one you’re tryin’ to steal back from Death, this Brock fella, make no mistake, he’s meant to be dead, and what we’re doin’ here defies every damned natural law there is.” His jaw tightens. “So you better be sure you want to do this at all.”

Silence fills the dank tunnel after the last echo of his words are swallowed into the brick. Between them, the candle burns even lower yet, casting its dying light across the red, sticky path of wine still traced along the floor like a river of blood.

Raya brings her lips to Tristan’s ear. “I do not like this, I do not like him , I do not trust him, we need to leave .”

Tristan wonders if Raya is right. This is risky, even if they get Mance’s full cooperation and all goes perfectly to plan. Markadian could still learn what Tristan did and punish him greatly for such a direct and insulting violation. But with each passing second that Brock remains deceased, their entire society is threatened by what his powerful family could bring down upon them all.

Does the risk pay off, for the cataclysm it may prevent?

Even if it defies Markadian in the deepest way?

The candle burns low, flame spitting at them, going askew.

Tristan smiles across the ten or so feet that separates them from Mance and the ebbing candle. You say a debt will be owed to Death, but is it we who pay it, or you?

“Let me worry about Death,” states Mance. “You just tell me whether you’re serious ‘bout this or not.”

We’re serious , answers Tristan—ignoring the look of shock Raya throws him.

“Good. And as for what you owe, money’s toilet paper to me, got plenty enough of it to get by, I’m bored of it. What I want in return for my services is … far more valuable to me than any amount of green.”

Tristan had feared that. So what do you want, then?

A look of great and terrible joy spreads across Mance’s face as he sticks the cigarette between his lips. The joy turns his eyes frighteningly dark as he reaches behind his back.

Then presents an item: a cute white box.

Fitting right upon his scarred, discolored palm. Bound by a shiny green ribbon, crisscrossed over the top, punctuated with a matching bow. Suspiciously plain.

“My price is simple,” says Mance. “Deliver my gift.”

To whom?

“Lord Markadian.”

Tristan’s eyes close as the name echoes down the hall. He should have known better than to trust that a sly individual like Mance would make this easy—and not agree to this meeting without a dark ulterior motive. You know I cannot do that .

“What’s the big deal? Call this a belated birthday present. Just put it on his desk, easy-peasy. Tell him it’s from a cousin, or an estranged aunt, or his third grade science teacher … I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what you say. Just give it to him.”

Tristan takes a step forward, eyes opening. Mance …

“Ain’t it such a little price for my services? Just handin’ the man a stupid box? I could’ve asked for your happiest memory.” Mance crouches down, eyes still on Tristan, as he holds a hand over the candle and lets the flame lick at his palm like a puppy. “Or a blowjob. Or an actual newborn’s heart. Though … I bet the blowjob would be the worst by far,” he admits as he gazes up at Tristan and Raya, voice turning melodic with sympathy. “I love to make my pleasures last, like sweet little torments … a tiny crank of the stretch rack, mmm , the pain and the pleasure that creaks down the body, one notch at a time … You’d be on your knees for hours and hours, how I love to make it last.” Mance rises, cups his crotch. “And I’m more than a mouthful, too. Can you imagine it? What sweet-ass torture that would be for your kind, havin’ my throbbin’ blood-filled dick down your throat … without bein’ allowed the pleasure of a single bite. What? Am I gettin’ you hard, Tristan? Makin’ you wet, Raya? I bet y’all’s fangs are poppin’ out right about now, dreamin’ of it.”

Tristan sighs and gives his own face a careless gesture. We don’t have fangs, I’m afraid, as we are not Ferals .

“Ah, right … Ferals … you guys and your elitist shit, actin’ like you’re any different than the wild bloodsuckers just because you drink your blood out of wineglasses and wear suits. You’re just as animal as the others are. Only difference is, you’re in a constant state of self-denial, like a suppressed goody Mormon boy tryin’ not to fuck the brains outta his mission buddy. What a terrible fuckin’ way to live, lyin’ to yourself all day. Your whole society is barely keepin’ itself together and you don’t even see it, all of you fuckers just an inch away from mayhem, just one tiny shove away from latchin’ on to the first throat you see.”

Are you quite done, Mance?

“All of this to say …” His face tightens, losing all humor at once. “Just give Mark the goddamned box.”

Tristan wonders which is worse, to be in Death’s debt, or in Mance’s. Perhaps every soul is in Death’s debt to begin with, accruing since the day their mortal form is born.

If only Tristan had Kyle’s gift, to read whatever Mance is feeling right now, to have that useful information, to be able to sense his misgivings, his excitements, his fears … and to know which threats and statements to trust. He might even be able to get an understanding of what, exactly, is contained in the box.

What an odd time to be envying Kyle.

But if he’s going to take a leap of faith with Mance, he will need to secure himself something of an insurance policy.

And so: Very well , states Tristan. I shall do what you wish and give Lord Markadian the box .

Raya turns to him at once. “Tristan …”

However , he goes on, since I’m paying such a price and taking such a risk, I wonder if I might ask you for … one additional favor .

Mance lifts his eyebrows, appearing genuinely surprised. “I gotta commend the balls on this one. You really think you’re in a position to ask for more outta me? What? Stealin’ someone from Death’s Divine Domain ain’t enough? Talk about wantin’ your resurrection cake and eatin’ it, too.”

My second request is hopefully much simpler . Tristan smiles as he tilts his head. I would like a protection spell … a spell for a very important person whom I care about very much .

“Now that’s unexpected as fuck,” blurts Mance, pulling the cigarette off his lips, smoky snakes rising from his fingers where it hangs. “You want a protection spell from a guy like me? Shit. That’s so outta left field, I’m almost compelled to agree to it for goddamned free. Look at me, I’m fuckin’ touched over here.”

Can you do it, asks Tristan lightly, or not?

Mance considers his request, dragging fingers over his lips in thought. “You serious ‘bout givin’ that box to Markadian?”

Apocalyptically .

Mance smirks. “Alrighty.” He reaches into a pocket, pulls something out, then flings it across the way. Tristan catches it with ease—a black-beaded bracelet. “Here you go.”

Tristan weighs it in his hand. Do I just … wear it?

“See them beads it’s got? All them little black beads the size of corn kernels?”

This looks like something you fish out of a dollar store bin in a shopping mall in 1992 .

“Eat one.”

Tristan gives Mance an uncertain glimpse. Eat …?

“Go ahead, eat a bead. Don’t we trust each other?”

Raya tugs Tristan’s sleeve, her eyes beseeching him not to oblige Mance, begging him in every way except with words.

Her pleas go ignored. Of course we do , sings Tristan lightly, slips the dark bracelet right on, and bites off a single black bead. It crunches with ease like a pillow mint at a hotel, then quickly turns bitter. It is a struggle to swallow. I … am not sure I enjoyed that very much . Two out of five stars .

“Every hour from now until that bracelet is fuckin’ gone, eat another,” instructs Mance.

Tristan blinks. There are … a lot of beads .

“Each time you eat one, think on the person you wish to … protect . Their face. Name. Eyes. It ain’t a good idea to interrupt the process, so do count them beads and commit to bein’ wide-ass awake for that many hours. Once you’ve eaten them all—and this part is important—stab your hand with a knife.”

Tristan, busy counting the beads, looks up. Sorry, what?

“Stab … your hand … with a knife ,” repeats Mance, making the motion. “You’ll bleed black outta your palm. Collect all that dark-as-fuck fluid into a container. A glass vial is best, but any will do, even a used milk carton, a syringe, a condom, doesn’t fuckin’ matter. For as long as you keep it unspilled, so will your sworn individual be protected.”

I wonder, why must your talents be so dark and vile? Tristan asks with genuine interest. Couldn’t you just tell me poetic Latin words to recite, or make me drink a fizzy potion?

“You’re the one who asked a necromancer for a protection spell. If you wanted lavender candles and Kumbaya, you should meddle with cuter witches.”

Tristan considers the bracelet again. And this will work … even on someone who is … not quite mortal?

“You mean someone like you?” Mance smirks. “Yeah, it’ll work on who-the-hell-ever you’re so damned thirsty to protect.” He snorts. “Guess that concludes our little date here. You and your gal didn’t even put out. Pity. I’ll be seein’ you at that clinic you mentioned, evening of the full moon, no sooner.”

Wait … full moon? But that isn’t for several more days yet .

“Need a full moon, the most vital part. Don’t let the worms or flies get to that body just yet, if you can help it. Ought to give you time to collect what I need.”

And you do, in fact, need all of those specific items for the —?

“Yep. Every last one of ‘em. Includin’ the books and un-pissed-on bark. Except for that baby heart, that was just a test.”

Tristan is suspecting that most, if not all, of his instructions tonight have been tests. Until the full moon, then .

“And don’t forget my price.”

Mance chucks his cigarette at Raya and Tristan, causing them to flinch. It lands upon the trail of wine, at once igniting it into a bold red fire that vanishes as quickly as it appears, taking with it the sight of Mance, if he was even there at all. Where once the candle was, now sits the little box with its green ribbon and bow.

It doesn’t seem so cute anymore, despite its appearance.

Without hesitation, Tristan marches right up to the box, tucks it carelessly under an arm, then heads off.

“Wait, wait, wait,” comes Raya, following hurriedly behind Tristan, heels clacking on the floor. “You aren’t … You aren’t seriously giving that box to Lord Markadian, are you?”

Of course not , sings Tristan blithely. There is no telling what this freaky little thing contains .

“Do you think it’s a bomb?” she asks. “That’s my guess. A bomb, or a bunch of locusts … no, more likely a bomb.”

Considering its source is an exiled necromancer, for all we know, this may be the very real and literal Pandora’s Box … or a devious magic prison that will unleash the Four Horsemen themselves to come galloping over Lord Marky’s face . Or it just contains stale macaroons, and he knows we are too paranoid to trust it, and this is all a joke, so the real gift is simply driving us all crazy .

“I hated that man.” Raya keeps wringing her own hands as they move. “Despicable, repulsive, wretched man. Ugh, how he looked at me. The way he made me … t-touch myself …”

I’m truly sorry for the way he treated you . I did, for what it’s worth, regret inviting you along .

“Intolerable, horrible, disgusting person. How do you even keep a relationship with someone as obscene as him?”

Purely business .

“I can’t believe you trusted him, eating beads off a bracelet, off that bracelet.” She turns her nose up at it. “I can feel its ugly aura oozing off of it like bad breath.”

Are you sure it’s not Mance’s cheap cologne?

She turns to him. “Why does he want to harm Markadian?”

Because Mance and Markadian have a decades-old blood feud, of course , answers Tristan with a flippant sigh, though I am afraid I do not know the exact nature of it, nor do I want to, honestly . I suspect it would make for a very boring story .

Raya huffs. “Great. Now I’m guilty of consorting with an exiled asshole who’s also a sworn enemy of my boss. Tristan, I do hate you nearly as much right now as I hate that man.” Her eyes narrow upon the box under Tristan’s arm. “If you don’t deliver it, won’t he know? Wouldn’t that be bad?”

Wouldn’t it be bad if I did deliver it?

“It seems ill-advised to cross a horrible person like that.”

There are many ill-advised things I have done over the years . I don’t see a reason why this thing should be any worse than the others .

“And who is this person you want to protect, anyway? Who are you eating beads off a bracelet for? Oh.” Her voice softens. “Is it Kyle? I saw him. Briefly. He is … cute. If not a bit plain.”

Tristan sighs. Don’t mind who I am eating these beads for . It is quite important that no one knows who I wish to protect, even you .

“Do you still love him? Kyle?”

Tristan hugs the box tighter under his arm. It is a mistake to think about Kyle at a time like this, yet it is impossible not to. Tristan has spent so much time and effort detaching his heart from that boy after their twenty-six years together. Much of his safety in the House of Vegasyn rides on convincing Lord Markadian of that very fact, that the boy from Texas is no longer the one who owns his heart. Ever since Kyle’s stint in Nowhere that made hiding him impossible without some kind of intervention, old feelings have been rushing forth ruthlessly, robbing Tristan of the peace he was so close to finding again.

“I often wondered if Kyle isn’t the reason you grew so fond of Kaleb, the sweet violinist in the lower cells. They look alike, especially in the eyes. Doesn’t one remind you of the other?”

Tristan comes to an abrupt stop.

Raya does, too.

He faces her. My dear Raya, may I advise three things? Please never visit him or speak his name again . It’s for his safety . Two: let us, from now on, presume Kyle is entirely out of the picture, out of my life, and out of my heart . That part is for my safety . Tristan pauses. And also that requires presuming I have a heart . He nods, satisfied, then continues moving down the tunnel.

Raya follows behind, her footsteps slowed, contemplative. “That’s only two things.”

The third is, of course, we’ll still need to gather the items Mance requires, even if they’re all, in fact, unnecessary . It is part of his price, to humble us to his arrogance and prove we’re willing to do the work . See it like a test … an initiation into his terrible fraternity . Tristan moves the box to under his other arm and glances back at Raya. If I were to write down the list for you, could you be a doll and give it to George? I think it’s only fitting that he gather the items, since he’s the doll who got us in this mess . Also, he’s an expert in procuring … oddities . But he must not know what he’s gathering these things for . Make it fun for him . Scavenger hunt . A secret mission . He likes feeling important .

Raya sighs. “And why would George listen to me?”

He sees you as a daughter . Sort of . And he is enjoying his position at Markadian’s side and delights in spiting me . Also, I can’t risk George telling Markadian … who is still raw about me abandoning him . Try using your daughterly power, do the pouty lip thing … just get George to gather these items before the full moon .

“I just realized I hate magic.”

And it hates us . Tristan stops again suddenly at a large, four-way intersection in the tunnels. He spots a shadow, then turns to Raya. Actually, you should go ahead back to the House . I have … one last tiny thing to attend to … alone . You remember the way, yes?

“I need a fucking bath after enduring this unspeakable night with you.” She takes four more steps, stops. “Markadian wasn’t the only one you abandoned all that time ago, you know.”

Tristan gazes at her, taken aback. Raya, dear …

“I will wait for that list in your tower, though I’m not sure I share your confidence that George will cooperate. Also …” She shoots him a look over her shoulder. “I still think you’re in love with Kyle. Despite all you do and say, you’ll always be his. He is the only one on this entire planet for whom you would risk consuming dark magic to protect.”

Tristan stares back, silent, expressionless.

Then Raya is off, footsteps clacking in the distance until, like all other signs of life in these tunnels, she’s gone.

Only when the tunnels fall silent once again does Tristan speak. You can come out now .

From a shadow cast by an overhanging pipe, the odd shape of Wendy slides into existence. “Is it true? That your heart still belongs with the Kyle boy?”

Do you really care for the answer? Tristan returns.

Wendy gives it a second’s thought. “No,” she realizes, then draws closer. “Leave the box with Markadian, allow the choice to be his. To open … or not. It both satisfies your obligation to deliver the gift as well as render you blameless if it is harmful.”

Tristan turns to her. You shouldn’t have come, my darling .

In a flash, she is right in front of Tristan. “And you should be more wary around a witch.”

Most of us are, and with good reason . They know how to end us .

“And we know how to end them.”

Yet we do not .

“Due to the Protected Blood Truce. An eternal impasse.”

Not so eternal . This delicately fragile impasse of ours ends once the wrong witch learns we have killed Brock . Tristan hugs the box to his chest with a sigh, leans against the wall, gazes up at the pipes running along the ceiling. One of them drips on the floor nearby, creating a murky puddle. Thus, we must un-kill him . Sort of . Marky will forgive my blatant insubordination .

“He would sooner forgive you calling him Marky.”

Is that an attempt at humor? My, Wendy, how you surprise me .

“You should not trust the witch.”

I don’t .

“He is manipulating you to his will. He wishes to end you.”

Or is it me who is manipulating him? Everything is a game, my dear Wendy, and we are, all of us, players … even those of us who pretend to watch from the sidelines .

“I do not enjoy games.”

The game of manipulation is quite easy to master once you learn one thing: what a person truly wants .

“And what do you truly want?”

Tristan lifts the dark bracelet to his eyes, runs a finger over the beads, smiles. To be loved, of course .