Silver Nitrate(107)

“Technically you’re still standing in the same room, although some fraction of you is now with me, in this liminal space between spaces,” Ewers said as he began walking around her.

“Is this where you live, then, when you’re not trying to toss me down the stairs?”

“Or saving you from being electrocuted to a crisp.”

“You did that for revenge.”

He raised his shoulders in a minuscule shrug. “For my amusement, too. You awoke me and here I am, growing stronger by the minute after decades in a slumber. You can’t blame me for having a little fun. Thank you, by the way, for playing with me. I enjoy the taste of your strength, even the nervous anxiety of your Tristán, although it doesn’t taste the same as you. Too…scrawny,” he declared. “Did you enjoy your first murder, by the way?”

“I didn’t murder anyone.”

“You did. I wouldn’t have managed on my own. Feel it, there?” he asked, casually brushing a hand across her shoulder and sliding a finger onto the hollow of her throat. “That’s death.”

She thought she could feel it, for one second, as the tip of his finger pressed against her skin. A sharp pull, the source of the dizziness that had made her almost trip at the building’s entrance and then the warm wave upon her fingers when the blood splashed against the bowl. In his letter Ewers had said he’d felt power in the wake of his father’s death; his magic had come into full bloom after that. Were Tristán and Montserrat stronger now? She’d felt faint in the car. Almost drunk. Drunk on Alma’s death, perhaps.

“Montserrat, let’s talk about us. I am willing to alleviate your financial woes and provide you with the other trinkets you desire, including Tristán. The love of your life, am I correct?”

“I can get a raise and go on dates on my own, asshole,” she said, unable to maintain a composed tone against the mockery of his voice.

His amused laughter reverberated around them. “You’re trying to use anger as your shield. If you won’t be afraid, then you’ll be furious and insolent. It’s a cheap trick.”

“It’s from your book,” she replied.

“I know. That is why I’m partial to it.”

There was glee in his eyes, smugness. You know me, you saw me, the eyes said.

“Let’s try another route. How about power, Montserrat? The power you’ve craved since you were a little girl, when they mocked you and shoved you and called you dirty names. The power you lack when those men sneer at you and ignore your contributions, your brilliance. The power to make the whole world see you.”

“You’re talking about what you want, not me,” she said, although her mind immediately jumped back to the old taunts, the nicknames she knew well. Peg-leg, where’s your pirate ship? the kids at school had asked, and her cheeks burned with mortification at this memory.

He noticed the blush, seemed amused. “I think we’re very much alike. You’d like to know all the secrets that hide between the pages of musty books, all the ways spells can be woven with runes, and the meaning of words you’ve never heard before. You want to know, you’ve always wanted to. I’ve seen into your heart as you’ve slept and discerned your dreams.”

She wondered if he could spy into people’s minds while they slept, or if his knowledge was gained from lurking in shadows and hearing her speak to Tristán. He wasn’t wrong, though, and if she denied it, he’d discern the lie.

“You’re not to be trusted,” she told him instead.

“And you have potential,” he replied.

She stared at him mutely, wondering exactly how much knowledge he’d wolfed down through the years, and the how of it, and many other things.

The potential for what? she wondered, and she didn’t like that she tilted her head at him, unable to contain her instinctive curiosity. She didn’t like that she had to strain to swallow her words, but to ask questions would be a mistake, a detour onto a dangerous path.

He gave her an indulgent look, as if it didn’t matter she wasn’t talking, as if he’d guessed what she was thinking: the tilt of the head gave it all away. And she was thinking how lovely it might be to learn how to etch a red rune on the back of a spider and crush your enemies as you crushed the insect’s body.

“You’re special,” he said, and Montserrat almost sighed in relief because the words were utterly wrong; they reminded her of the conversation she’d had with José.

“I see. Perhaps I’m an Aztec princess,” she replied tartly. Her hands twitched, but he’d said it himself: anger was a shield. She clung to it. “You tell people what they want to hear. You’re trying to sell me the same bullshit you sold José and Alma. How did they trick an all-powerful sorcerer such as yourself, who knows the secrets of the universe?”

He didn’t care for that. His smile, cold and perfect, wavered in irritation. He was tiring of her. Or maybe tiring, period. How long could he stay here in this netherworld? Not too long, she thought. He’d toss her from this place soon, although that wouldn’t be great, either. She’d be back in that room with Clarimonde and her cultists.

“Maybe that’s why I am being generous. I learn from my mistakes,” Ewers said.

“You want to bribe me a little better than you bribed them so I won’t turn against you.”