Though the creatures looked well-fed—were those blood troughs in the cage?—they were as hostile as ever. Like post-apocalyptic guard dogs. In a frenzy, they stretched their slimy arms past the bars enclosing them.
Each of those mindless beings had a brand on its chest, some kind of symbol, but I couldn’t make it out under all the pus and slime.
Behind that cage stood another just like it. Inside, four young guys curled naked on the floor, bodies covered with bites. They gasped through blistered lips, as if dying of thirst.
Dawning realization. The twins were making Bagmen. Those four were in transformation—and they knew it. One wept over a trough of blood.
Selena remained grade-A stoic. “Keep going. Eight minutes.”
The next stall housed a piece of equipment that looked like a giant juicer. Gore coated it.
Past another partition was something that resembled a sawhorse with a length of sharpened metal atop it. More blood and gore.
The next stall . . . a stand with bats, canes, whips, and pincers. Other things I couldn’t place.
Had these very instruments been used on Clotile?
On Jack?
The Hierophant had slaughtered people for food, and the Alchemist had murdered for his sick pursuit of knowledge. I couldn’t comprehend why the Lovers tortured. “Where the hell is Jack?”
“We’ll find him.”
Faced with more and more blood-curdling contraptions, I felt as disconnected as I’d ever been. A few Halloweens back, I’d gone to a haunted house filled with gruesome displays—for fun. None of the ghastly things had been real.
This was happening. Right? Even as it felt like I’d stepped into one of Matthew’s visions.
What was real? Unreal?
We came upon another victim, a man kneeling with his wrists bound together, tied above his head to a roof support. He was shirtless, his body gaunt, his shoulders bulging at weird angles. Dislocated?
I thought he was balling his hands into fists, then realized his fingers had been cut off.
Stoic Selena actually gave a shudder. That would be her worst fear, wouldn’t it? Never to draw another arrow.
His mouth was open. No teeth. A gash had been carved into his stomach. He had one of those brands below his collarbone, but his was older. The raised scar was about the size of a bookmark and depicted an odd symbol: a pair of overlapping triangles, bisected by two arrows, one pointing up, one down.
In front of him was another contraption that looked like a crank over an old-timey wishing well. A slimy rope of some kind had been wound around the crank.
“They’re pulling it out,” Selena murmured.
Pulling what out? She could see so much better than I could! Yet some part of me must have understood because nausea churned.
They remove things, discard them, transform people.
The man turned his head toward us. His eyes were solid black. No, not eyes. Sockets. The twins planned to do that to Jack.
“Six minutes, Evie. We’ll come back for that guy.” When we neared the far end of the tent, she whispered, “Behind the partition in the back. Listen.”
Moans? Of pain? Selena readied her pistol. I bared my claws. We sidled closer.
Closer. Past the partition, we saw—
The twins.
I dry heaved. They were . . . kissing. Twincest.
When the pair started groping, Selena bit out, “Jesus. Get a womb, freaks.”
Vincent and Violet took their time breaking apart, their gazes locked. Their pale blue eyes were just as Jack had once described: vacant, like a dead fish’s.
Why weren’t they threatened by us? Why weren’t they trying to mesmerize us?
Though fraternal twins, they were nearly identical, with their marblelike skin and sharpish features.
Their clothing was all black, neatly pressed. Violet wore a cropped jacket and a skirt as full as a ball gown. A trench coat molded over Vincent’s tall muscular form.
Expertly drawn eyeliner highlighted their lifeless eyes. Their nails were painted black, no chipping.
Vain? Oh, yeah. They weren’t physically attractive, but they were faultless.
They sported brass knuckles on their left hands, as well as a Goth-looking tattoo. In her right hand, Violet held what resembled a remote control.
The twins finally turned to us. They stared at me with such intensity. As if seeing a ghost . . .
“We were wondering when you would arrive, Empress,” Vincent said. His voice carried a trace of some European accent.
The Lovers’ tableau appeared over them, but the image differed from other Arcana’s. Theirs was upside down—reverse, perverse—and flickered like a bad copy. Because they shared it?
“Where is he?” Selena demanded from behind the gun barrel.
I gazed around, saw trunks, tables, and one bed—because the twins shared it. No Jack.
“You’re just in time,” Violet told us. “Our knave refused to turn the crank.” With a swish of her overblown skirts, she stepped aside, drawing back one last partition to reveal—
“Jack!” He knelt with his hands tied and hung above his head, like the other man. He was shirtless, his torso covered with bruises. He seemed to be in and out of consciousness, trying to raise his lolling head.
His arms were dislocated, the right side of his face bloodied. They’d been hitting him with the brass-knuckles on their left hands.
I choked on a breath. That symbol had been branded into Jack’s chest, over his heart.
The twins had met up—they’d started his torture. They’d burned the smooth skin that I’d sighed against and kissed.