The Bones of Ruin

by Sarah Raughley

  “The boy murdered his father. We’re dealing with a new Temple now, don’t forget.”

  When Riccardo Benini smacked Adam on the shoulder, he began to question the seating arrangements. Unfortunately, they were set, which meant he was forced to sit next to this golden-haired fool in his silk nightwear that looked to be made out of all the flags of Europe.

  “For what it’s worth, I like you a lot better, boy,” Benini continued, calling him “boy” even though he was less than a decade older—the second youngest member. “John annoyed me. So many moral quandaries.” He rolled his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, you did a good thing by getting rid of him.”

  Adam forced a smile. “From what I understand, I’ve been summoned here to talk about our upcoming event. Perhaps we should get to that.”

  “I agree.” Madame Bellerose sat back in her iron-plated chair. “The tournoi begins soon. By the end of the hour, I expect us to have put a finality to the finer details.”

  “Ah, the tournoi,” Benini repeated whimsically, imitating her accent while twirling a long lock of his golden hair around his finger.

  The Tournament of Freaks.

  “We finish this quickly. Is everyone in agreement?” asked Bellerose.

  She looked around the table, as did Adam. Opposite him was Albert Cortez, whose graying head barely peaked over his candle. He straightened his goatee. His family helped found the Bank of Spain more than a hundred years ago. With his short stature and whining voice, he’d always reminded Adam of the rabbit from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. But Adam knew not to underestimate him—any of them. Perhaps Boris Bosch least of all.

  Bosch. The scar on the left side of his face was said to have come from his pastime of hunting tigers in Siberia, the ivory teeth of one decorating his neck, tied by a thin string. A German arms dealer, owner of Bosch Guns and Ammunitions. Unlike those around the table who’d inherited their wealth, he’d earned his by trading in murder and war. Bosch was a busy man. He already had plans to conduct his usual business during the tournament, which meant Adam didn’t expect to see him much. But Bosch was still dangerous in his own way. His loyalties were only to his own fortunes. Adam did well to remember.

  “Then we’ll start with rule number one.” Benini lifted his finger. “No cheating. Oh, and rule number two: no killing each other.”

  “But of course.” Bellerose shrugged.

  “Such is the purpose of the tournament itself, is it not?” agreed Cortez.

  Benini’s blue banner, upon which was drawn the chameleon. Van der Ven’s violet boar. Bellerose’s golden swan. Cortez’s green stag. Cordiero’s orange bear. Bosch’s black wolf. And the Temple ram, red as blood. The banners of the Enlightenment Committee hung only when they met together like this. They belonged to the seats, not the people, and so became the symbols of those who inherited them. Some years ago, the other banners had been retired once the members they represented met their bloody end. Fourteen reduced to half. From then on, they settled on having a roster of seven only. Perhaps fourteen had been too big a number for a dangerous group that wielded so much power. It was then that the Committee also realized that a massacre was not the proper way to deal with disagreements.

  But a tournament? A little extravagant for Adam’s tastes. Murder was far easier.

  Van der Ven let out a low, rumbling breath in agreement. “And we remember the prize of the winner.”

  “Control over the Ark.” It was Adam who spoke this time, his head resting on his left hand, his elbow propped up on the arm of his chair. His eyes were closed, but he could feel the others’ ravenous gazes upon him. When he opened them again, Van der Ven’s thick lips spread slowly into a smile. “Though without all the components we need, the Ark is nothing more than a rather impressive, rather useless piece of machinery.”

  “That’s entirely your fault, my boy.” Cortez, again with that whining, high-pitched, sneering voice of his. Adam returned his fussy accusation with a bored, sidelong look. “When you killed your father, you should have made sure to retrieve the key from him first.”

  True. And his father had fled, probably upon realizing that Adam had very much meant to pry that key from his cold, dead hands. But that was one of two important pieces of intelligence the Committee couldn’t ever know.

  It took a lot for Adam to fake his old man’s death to the Committee. John Temple needed to stay dead while his son hunted him. The key was not for anyone but Adam to have. The Committee was just a means to an end.

  “And what of the British Crown?” Van der Ven demanded.

  Bosch’s yellow brows twitched with interest. Thus far he’d been resting his pointed chin on his clasped hands, his gray hunter’s cap catching the shadows that his candlelight cast across his angled face.

  “The narrow-minded fools.” Cortez laughed. “They have no idea what they have in their possession.”

  “Not yet.” Bellerose brushed a strand of burgundy hair from her face. “But it’s best we keep our eye on things until we can take full control of the situation.”

  The Enlightenment Committee and the British Crown. Adam liked to think of them as the two antagonists of a play they didn’t know they were in. Neither side knew the full truth. Adam had to move quickly within the bounds of the tournament to ensure it stayed that way.

  That meant finding his father before the truth could be revealed.

  Van der Ven folded his arms over his large chest. “At the very least, we need to ensure they and the public are none the wiser while the tournament is conducted.”

  “Some members of parliament are also members of Club Uriel,” said Cortez. Adam knew too well. Carl Anderson and Neville Bradford were as well while they were still among the living. “They’re doing what they can to ensure secrecy during the days of the tournament.”

  Benini laughed into his hand. “Good to see the club is as excited as we are for the tournament to come.” Of course, Club Uriel itself wouldn’t have much of a hand in the tournament outside of spectatorship. The combined astronomic wealth and influence of the men and woman sitting around this table was more than enough to provide the resources and bribes needed to pull off a secret event of this scale. Though the identities of the Committee members were known to Club Uriel’s patrons, they did not know the true purpose of the tournament itself. It was more than just a game. But that information was for the Enlightenment Committee alone.

  “So then.” Bellerose looked to the men on her right and left. “I’m right to assume that this will be a fight to the death?” She paused. “That is, as far as our champions will go?”

  “In the previous meeting, we decided that the players of the tournament could do as they wished within a certain set of boundaries,” said Cordiero. “Eventually, however, only one team will be left standing.”

  “That is, whoever’s still alive within that team by the end of the tournament,” Benini corrected, letting melting candle wax drip over his index finger. “And the one of us sponsoring that team will thus win the tournament.” He grinned.

  The Tournament of Freaks. Seven teams sponsored by the seven members of the Committee. A bloody battle that most would not survive. But the Enlightenment Committee was fine with the sacrifice of other lives.

  “Then has everyone completed their roster?” Van der Ven liked to take control of things. It was the general in him. Most nodded. Some, like Cortez, sat silently. Benini, on the other hand, squirmed in his seat.

  “Riccardo…,” Cordiero began, almost like a scolding father.

  “Come now, it’s not as easy as one would think, finding dependable freaks.” Benini put up his hands as if guarding himself against an oncoming animal. “And what about Adam?”

  “As I just joined the Committee at the beginning of this month, I haven’t had as much time as you have in finding combatants,” Adam defended himself coolly. “But I’m working diligently on completing my team.”

  In truth, Adam had a few names in mind from the research he�
�d conducted during the past few weeks. But to him, the tournament was nothing more than a bit of theater to pass the time. The Committee didn’t know how helpful they were being to him, keeping themselves busy with this nonsense while he searched for his father.

  The moment he found John Temple, the purpose of this tournament would cease to exist.

  Van der Ven grumbled. “You have three days to submit a list of your roster to the Committee—their names and abilities, to ensure there’s no foul play. I’ll be traveling to Berlin for the Congo Conference in precisely one month,” he said. “I would like for this business to be done before then.”

  “Well, I won’t be submitting tonight, I’m afraid. I have an engagement.”

  Madame Bellerose perked up. “An engagement with whom?”

  “No one. It’s just a bit of evening entertainment.”

  “You mean Astley’s Amphitheatre?”

  Adam tensed. Though he struggled to relax his body, he was sure Bellerose did not miss the way his gaze suddenly darted in her direction. Her grin only stretched wider.

  “Weren’t you there earlier today?” Bellerose stared up the long white shaft of her candle. “Hours before the show, no less. Must have been someone you wanted to meet terribly.”

  She’d had him followed. Adam’s fingers twitched.

  “Word has been going around about an act more wondrous than the human imagination,” she said. “The circus proprietor—George Coolie, I believe? He’s been voraciously spreading the rumor to the upper classes of society to fill his seats. Though he’s been secretive about the details, many like myself are quite interested in witnessing the wonder he’s referring to.”

  He’d been so focused on finally reaching Iris that he’d underestimated Coolie’s discerning eye for freakery and greed for profit and recognition. England was a land with an appetite for the supernatural. But whispers of the supernatural had been growing louder since news circulated of the robber who exploded with some kind of electrical current and escaped with his jewels nonetheless. That there were many more like him in this city and beyond was something few knew. Club Uriel and the Enlightenment Committee were among those few.

  Well, it didn’t matter to Adam if this sick world learned of the supernatural. Given that the world was ending, it would learn of the supernatural soon enough.

  But Iris was different from the extraordinary beasts that stalked the streets. And she was far more precious. That morning, seeing her routine had delighted him. It was a dazzling feeling that brought him back to his early childhood days, before there was blood on his hands and bruises on his body. That sense of wonder. Joy. Whatever worry that’d gripped him when he watched her fall disappeared the moment he saw the crowd catch her. He’d left thinking she was safe. But what if he’d been too far away to realize that she’d actually died in that moment? It wasn’t her safety he was concerned about but her secrets. She’d hidden well in the ten years since they first met. And now, because of him, she was on the radar of the member he trusted the least with this sacred information.

  Blast it! Suddenly, with him unable to stop it, Adam’s gaze turned sharp and dangerous. Only for a second, but a second was all Bellerose needed. Her own expression softened at the sight of it. She sensed his bloodlust, just enough to give her the elation she craved.

  He should have realized that he’d be tailed. He would have if he hadn’t been so riveted by the thought of meeting Iris. Lesson learned.

  Right now, for reasons Adam could only hypothesize, Iris had no idea who she was and what she was capable of. She was like a newborn baby. Innocent. Not what he’d pictured these past ten years. He’d given her his card with the intention of providing her the time and space to gradually learn about herself in safety. But now the girl was known to Bellerose. Who was to say Madame wouldn’t swap out someone among her own champions to put Iris on her team? Or recommend her to those still looking to fill their roster? Why wouldn’t they want her? A fighter that couldn’t die would assure their victory. His eyes slid to Benini.

  At this delicate stage, he didn’t want Iris in danger. Even though she couldn’t die, dying was still painful. Adam knew this through witnessing the deaths of others.

  That his father was still alive was one fact neither the Crown nor the Committee could ever know. Iris’s true nature was another.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I joined you, would you, dear Adam?” Bellerose clasped her hands together in excitement. “It’s been some time since I’ve enjoyed the wonders of the circus.”

  Adam had no choice but to nod. But as they finished their discussions of the tournament, as they slit their index fingers in ritual and let their blood put out the flames of their candles, Adam’s mind was working. He’d originally planned to hide Iris while building his team without her, keeping her out of the Committee’s sight. But perhaps he could hide her within the tournament.

  “I’ll retire to my room and prepare for tonight,” Bellerose whispered into his ear on her way out of the room. “I expect you’ll have a carriage waiting for me the moment I’m ready, won’t you, my dear Adam?”

  “I will pick you up promptly in half an hour.”

  “Oh my, that isn’t nearly enough time!” Bellerose laughed, squeezing his shoulder before leaving the room with the others.

  Hide Iris within the tournament. This was fine. No, it was an even better plan. The chaos of blood and battle may be what would finally awaken her instincts.

  She’ll come to me, Adam thought. He knew this as surely as he knew the end was near.

  5

  CURTAINS IN ONE HOUR!”

  Iris hoped Granny Marlow would finish her hair in time. She squirmed on her uncomfortable stool in the dressing room, watching Granny’s fingers in the mirror plaiting her hair as if slipping through the strings of a harp.

  Then again, harps didn’t feel pain, lucky for them. Granny weaved the braids row by row, starting from the left side of her head and plaiting to the right. Each braid wound like a river across the back of her head until there was no more skin for it to cling to, then fell down her right shoulder, past her apple-shaped hips. That was how long Iris’s thick hair was.

  Granny crafted the cornrows quickly, understanding the time constraints. Elsewhere in the crowded dressing room, other women were finishing their makeup, pinning their hair, or practicing their tricks. Iris already had her silver leotard on, over which she wore a midnight-blue, pinstriped one-piece—like a bathing suit, but much shorter, as that lecher Coolie preferred. The sleeves barely reached to the middle of her forearm, lined with frilly white lace, the same fabric Granny used as a belt to cinch in her waist. The shortened Egyptian tunic she was to wear over it was for the beginning of her routine. She was to reveal the devilish little number underneath in the middle of the act.

  In the center of each braid, Granny fastened one of the little gold clips she’d been using for the past five years, and so they were somewhat rusted. Iris winced as Granny worked her painful magic, and Adam Temple’s card twitched in Iris’s hand. She looked into the round mirror fastened to the wall. The red blush, sapphire eyeshadow, and peach lips astounded her. Sad that such beauty had to come with a generous helping of agony.

  “Stop squirming and hollering, child,” Granny said once again. “Pain is part of life.”

  “And death.” Iris sniffed as a little tear stung her right eye. The old woman had little compassion when it came to perfecting her hairstyles. Blinking the tear away, Iris looked down at Mr. Temple’s card.

  When you’re ready to speak of secret things, Iris, come and find me.

  Despite her aching scalp, Adam remained at the forefront of her thoughts.

  An exhibit at South Kensington. South Kensington had once had annual fairs during the seventies. But a strange occurrence happened at one in 1874: a gas-line explosion in the main hall. She knew because she’d been there that day. She could remember standing among the fiery chaos in a daze before eventually leaving the fairgrounds and wa
ndering the streets. Hours after, she’d found Coolie and Granny.

  But why was she there in the first place? Could she trust Adam to tell her? Should she? No matter how desperately she considered it, she just couldn’t find the answer.

  “You know, darling, it’s a shame you’ve decided to leave,” said Granny, finishing up the latest braid. “After all this time. Who will read to me and talk with me every day as you do?”

  Iris’s bottom lip curled inward as she crumpled the card in her hand.

  “But it’s your decision. Don’t let anyone guilt you into thinking otherwise. If you’ve decided to move on, no one can hold you back any more than they can keep grass from growing. I just hope,” she added sadly, “that you’ll find a way to keep in touch with me.”

  “Oh, Granny. Of course.”

  She felt hollowed out from the inside. Would she have to leave, after all? Even if Coolie thought she was some kind of undead vampire, if she could convince others she was simply double—no, triple—jointed, or some other drivel, she could stay at the circus, couldn’t she?

  “When you are ready to leave, make sure you come to my tent.” Granny fashioned a gold clip to the braid she’d just finished and started the last one, rubbing a line of coconut oil Iris had purchased from the market down her exposed rows of scalp. “I have something for you.”

  “What is it, Granny?”

  “Well, you’ll see when you come to my tent, won’t you?” Granny’s teeth, slightly stained, caught the light of the lamps above them. “Consider it your going-away present.”

  When Granny finished, Iris admired her handiwork in the mirror. “You’re very good at this,” she said before falling silent. “I’ll miss you so very much.”

  Granny laughed. “I used to braid hair in my neighborhood as a child. I suppose I should have taught you how to do it yourself instead of doing it for you all these years. But then, I thought we’d have more time together.”

  Off in the corner, their new magician practiced her magic trick. A handkerchief in a hat turned to three beautiful butterflies that fluttered through the air. Bright green and gold and orange as the sunset. Iris stared at them, admiring of their beauty, envious of their freedom.