The Bones of Ruin

by Sarah Raughley

  “Iris. To be honest, there will be times when circumstances will jolt those memories from you, like shaking apples from a tree. And it may be difficult. It’s not ideal, but just know this—I’m on your side. And everything I do is so that you can remember who you truly are.” He gazed at her with sparkling eyes. “That’s why you can trust me.”

  Was it? Or was that why she should run from here and never look back? In this moment, as she sat with her fingers gripped gently by his, it was as if there were two Irises inside her. One relished the thought of regaining her memories. The other feared what would come of it.

  “And who are you?” Iris asked, pulling her hand away from him.

  Adam stood up. “A young man with far too much wealth he didn’t earn himself.” With a smile, he started toward the door. “I’ll tell you more once you’ve rested. For now, don’t worry yourself and try to get some sleep.”

  But as the door closed behind him, Iris had other plans.

  A VISITOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

  IRIS DIDN’T YET TRUST HIM. Why would she? She didn’t know him. Not like he knew her. But Adam had already planned for that.

  There were some charmers in this world readily adept at gaining sympathies and bending hearts to their will. And to make use of them, all one needed to do was to bend theirs.

  It was two hours past midnight when a knock came at the front door. Sitting on his living room couch, Adam gestured with a flick of his head for one of the servants to get it. Instead of his father’s favorite coin, it was a chess piece he had pinched between his long fingers. The board on the table in front of him was filled and alive with strategy, though nobody sat on the other side to challenge him.

  When Gerolt Van der Ven waltzed through the threshold with his saber at his side, tied to his military garb, Adam knew he wouldn’t be much of a match. There was no use in asking him to play. He placed the rook back in its spot.

  “I assume you’ve come to collect your fee,” Adam said, unmoved as Van der Ven’s massive body sank like a stone into the red velvet chair that just barely held his weight. He was so rough with things—he’d ruin the upholstery.

  Setting his silver cane down against the chair, Van der Ven let out a deep grumble in response, which Adam assumed was a yes. The old general looked about the room—at the framed portraits of his family, different from the ones in his Yorkshire country manor. At the cast-iron lanterns and lampshades. The dark rich tone of the room hid the soot from the fireplace.

  Adam gestured to one of his servants, who left the room and very soon reemerged with a long instrument wrapped carefully in a white linen towel. Van der Ven grabbed it and unwrapped it greedily.

  “As promised: the Carnwennan,” Adam said. “Said to shroud its user in shadow.”

  “I don’t care for legends.” Van der Ven held the dagger in the light. “I care for steel.”

  And monetary worth—and this blade was worth many millions.

  “Your father hid it well.” Van der Ven’s eyes hungrily took in the ruby ornament in the blade’s hilt. “I wonder what other treasures he found during his many travels.”

  “Certainly none more useful than those artifacts unearthed by the Committee.”

  Van der Ven’s greedy expression told Adam he didn’t share the same opinion.

  “You do know,” Adam continued, sitting back into his couch, “that when the world ends, there’ll be no use for such things.”

  “Foolishness!” Van der Ven’s chortling laughter filled the living room. “When entering a new frontier, there is always use for tools of murder. Especially ones as beautiful as this.”

  Adam was all too sure that if Van der Ven won the tournament, with the Ark in his control, he would make sure to take his collection of ornamental swords, spears, and daggers with him. More than the monetary worth, more than even their capacity for violence, it was how the weapons made him feel. That pathetic need to confirm his superiority would be his undoing.

  “I’m surprised that you’d trade this for information on such worthless freaks.”

  Adam slipped a yellow-tinged police photo from beneath his chessboard. The three young children receiving their mugshot in the photo had attended the ’74 fair in South Kensington as pickpockets and so were brought in as criminals. Only one of them had had his tenth birthday by the time of this shot—the one on the left. He was the tallest, his light hair the longest, just past his shoulders. On the right was a kind-looking boy presumably of the Northern Eskimos. His gentle eyes seemed shaken as he huddled close to the boy in the center, holding his hand. And Adam could tell why. Even facing interrogation by police, the curly-haired boy was smiling from ear to wicked ear, almost as if to taunt the officer taking his photo. Charismatic. Incorrigible. Dangerously so. Adam had heard as much from his intelligence.

  On the other side of the photo, Maximo Morales was written in cursive ink.

  Adam had made the proposition two weeks ago, and it had taken the retired general only days to find him a list of potential champions in exchange for the dagger. Adam had special criteria for choosing this one.

  “Worth is in the eye of the beholder,” Adam said, and tapped Maximo’s picture. “He’s a cheerful one. Considering his abilities, I’m surprised you never considered him for yourself.”

  Van der Ven leaned back into his chair. “I’ll tell you a story, boy.” The old boar rested the dagger upon his lap. “Just before the war, a young man joined the infantry. The middle child of a friend of mine. His talent left much to be desired, but he was a jovial boy—well loved by peers and superiors. And because his father and I were close, he wanted nothing more than to be just as close with me.” He picked up the dagger. “I had him killed.”

  Adam attempted to show no reaction, but his fingers pinched the photo a little harder than before.

  “Being well loved is sentimental nonsense. It’s far more important to be feared.” Van der Ven smiled. “And the champions fighting under my banner, make no mistake, will be feared.”

  Being easily loved could also be a weapon. Maximo would prove to be an ace in his pocket. But before he could be certain his plan would succeed, he needed to make sure of one thing.

  “Gerolt,” Adam called just as the man rose to leave. “Have you ever heard of a man named Johan Adrian Jacobsen?”

  “The headhunter from Norway. Yes… Carl Hagenbeck’s man.” Van der Ven wrapped up his dagger in its towel. “Last I heard, he’s gone east of the Nile.”

  “I see.” Adam had to stay aware of his location to keep that piece in play. “Thank you.”

  As Van der Ven left, Adam stared at the picture of the three children again. The two flanking Maximo had looked far more confident as adults when they stood in his doorway much earlier today, moments before Adam was to pick up Madame Bellerose to see Iris’s show.

  “We told you where Max is last week,” the taller of the two had said, his blond hair spiraling down from underneath his newsboy cap. Hawkins, he was called. A young man who’d worn a deceptively innocent smile when they’d first met—a smile with a hint of loftiness perhaps better suited to men far wealthier. But just then he’d looked rather annoyed. He leaned against the doorframe. “We got you the yellow ticket and even the secret password you’ll need to get into the venue. We told you all about Max, what he’s like. What else do you want from us, a hair sample?”

  “I want you to tail us tomorrow night,” Adam confessed, fussing with his left white glove. “Myself and the lovely woman who’ll be accompanying me to the venue.”

  “Tail?”

  “To make sure nobody follows us as we go.” Adam smirked. “I’ve had a problem with being followed recently. You could say I’m a little paranoid.”

  “You’re a little paranoid,” said Jacob, no less handsome than Hawkins, as he ran a hand through his dark hair. His brown eyes intrigued Adam—so sincere. Peaceful like a rolling river. “What you want with Max is…,” he started, before biting his lip. “It’s…”
<
br />   “It’s the same as what your Patron wants with you,” Adam said.

  “No.” Though his voice was soft, Jacob was resolute as he spoke, his gaze steadfast. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  Adam was taken aback. But he replied calmly. “What makes you think that?”

  “People like you always want more.”

  Adam placed a finger underneath his lip, tamping down his amusement at the young man’s perceptiveness. Well, from what Adam had already learned about this Jacob, it wasn’t a surprise he’d be skeptical, even suspicious of him—and protective of his friend. But—

  “All I want is to win. I’ll remind you that what awaits your friend if he succeeds is the same prize awaiting you should your team succeed. Isn’t that what you all want? Besides…” A sudden thought came to Adam. “I’m sure having a childhood friend on another team would only be of help to you. Especially such a courageous friend who would never betray you, as you assured me yourself. There are certain things you’d be able to accomplish together that the other teams might not.”

  Hawkins and Jacob exchanged glances.

  “Are you offering us an alliance?” Hawkins asked, the right side of his lips curling at the very suggestion.

  Adam returned that Cheshire grin. “I’m telling you I’d be more than supportive should you find creative ways to overcome the confines of a deadly game created by a Committee who, I assure you, will stay none the wiser of this conversation. You could overcome the tournament. Together.”

  The tournament meant nothing to Adam. If those friends wanted to run off with the money together, he wouldn’t mind helping them for their troubles. It wouldn’t matter in the end, anyway.

  The two thought it over. “I guess…” Jacob nodded. “I guess we can take the job.”

  “Assuming the price is right,” Hawkins said, flipping back his hair with a pride and flair that reminded Adam of a primo uomo.

  When Adam pulled out a pouch filled with pounds, the twinkle in the golden-haired man’s eyes told him the price was indeed right. “You won’t see us,” he said. “Once you reach the venue, we’ll disappear. Literally.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone of your unique talents, Mr. Hawkins.”

  Though they were not his champions, they had looked more than capable to do as he instructed. Now, as Adam stared at their faded childhood photo, he was confident Maximo would be too. Alone in his living room, Adam picked up a black knight from the chessboard. “That’s right, Maximo. You will be a useful fool, won’t you?” His eyes shifted to the queen, safe on her treasured square.

  An hour passed before Adam heard a knocking on the living room window. He stood.

  “Welcome, good doctor.” The curtains billowed with the wind after he pushed open the arched windowpane. “Come in.”

  Adam could tell even from behind the man’s harlequin mask that hearing that title made him grin from ear to ear. But Dr. Heidegger had accepted his persona long before he was transformed on that day, along with the rest of London’s gifted.

  The Harlequin Slasher. Even in those bloody days before the explosion at the fair, he never took his mask off except to adopt his civilian persona. And now he couldn’t, so he stayed out of sight after being scouted by the Committee, working in the shadows.

  “My lord.” Fool bowed ninety degrees, his head tilted at the same angle. “Your guest. She’s left her room.”

  Adam sat back in his chair. “She has, has she?”

  “She’s searching the house.”

  “Plucky.” Adam thought back to the being he’d met at the South Kensington fair, the one he’d learned about after years of poring over his father’s research, and before he realized it, a chuckle escaped his lips. The texts didn’t do her justice. Or perhaps the trauma had changed her. Nevertheless, the girl currently in his home wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

  Just who are you, Iris?

  “Shall I continue to watch her? You’re going to the venue tomorrow night, are you not?”

  Adam smirked. Fool’s special gift made him useful to the Enlightenment Committee. And though he was a freak himself, he was not to participate as a champion in the tournament; his part in all this was too special, too integral to ensuring the tournament ran smoothly. What the Committee didn’t realize in their hubris was that behind every mask there was a man with a past. And in every past was the seed of vulnerability that eventually became one’s weakness. Once Adam discovered Fool’s weakness, the man’s true loyalty became his alone.

  “Yes, we are,” said Adam. “But I’ve hired others to watch our backs. I want you to go to Cortez. He’s been looking for a way to test the strength of his most recent choices.”

  “Ah, those Sparrow girls.” Adam was sure Fool appreciated Cortez’s cruel methods as a former serial murderer himself.

  “Go to Cortez and tell him I have a proposition for him.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Fool bowed and disappeared with the wind.

  Loyalty was not easily won. Adam had mostly succeeded in bending the wills of men to his own. But Iris was different. It would take a little more work to win her to his side. A little longer for her to learn the purpose of her existence—and the purpose of his own. As for the latter, he certainly hoped that one day she would understand.

  Since their purposes were one and the same

  8

  IRIS HAD ALREADY BEEN SEARCHING Adam’s study for half an hour before she heard a distant, heart-stopping knock on the front door.

  Just relax, she told herself. She was technically a guest. If anyone caught her, all she had to do was say she got lost.

  It did take some doing, sneaking about the narrow hallways, their dark, floral wallpaper brightened by gas-lit wall sconces. She remained light on her bare feet, putting her tightrope training to good use. Inside the study, the thick curtains were closed, but a paraffin oil lamp hanging from the center of the room remained on. Ignoring the incessant ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel, she walked around the grand oak desk and began searching for documents. Then she tried the cabinets. Soon she’d have to check the bookshelves sprawling across the room. All she could gather from the cabinets was that Adam was incredibly well-read. He even seemed to like those silly, cheap broadsides sold on the streets about vampires and robbers and such. Nobody but little children took those seriously, and yet here were several issues of one titled The Fanciful Freaks of London tucked away in his cupboards, edges frayed and bookmarked.

  He’d even written on some pages. On one, he’d marked “Exploding Man” and circled it. With a shiver, Iris saw that the page held a drawing of a man with sparking fingertips and remembered the headline on Coolie’s copy of the Evening Standard.

  There’ve been a lot of rumors lately moving around the country, Coolie had said. Strange rumors.

  Putting it back in its drawer with a shaky hand, she searched the bookshelf. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but a book on one of the upper shelves by a tall ladder caught her eye. She wouldn’t have paid it any mind, except the surname on the spine was Adam’s own.

  “A Family’s Travels through West Africa,” Iris read, staring at the book cover while on the fourth rung of the ladder. “By John Temple.”

  Dedicated to his wife, Charlotte Temple, Baroness of Yorkshire, his small children, Eva, Adam, and Abraham, and his friends in the African Aid Society. The way in which he described some of the Africans he met during his travels certainly didn’t feel friendly, though he did seem impressed by the military prowess of the Kingdom of Dahomey.

  “Dahomey,” she whispered, and her chest contracted with a twinge. “John Temple even spoke to their king…”

  She wasn’t sure why it had caught her attention, but indeed it had. According to Temple, through an interpreter they spoke of many things…

  “My father was an explorer, you see.”

  The shock of Adam’s voice behind her made her slip on the ladder, sendi
ng her hurtling into his arms. That was a narrow catch—he had to move quickly to reach her. He wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on her in the first place if she hadn’t gotten so lost in the text. The book was still in her grip as she stared up at Adam’s alluring grin in her wispy nightgown, her legs dangling over his right arm while his left held her against his chest.

  “Like my late grandfather,” he continued, putting her down. “They often went on expeditions together, charting, excavating ruins, finding artifacts. Even the British Crown asked for his expertise on projects from time to time.”

  “Sounds like your typical plunderers,” she said, coolly dusting off her nightgown.

  Adam chuckled. “You’re not wrong. Many men with money and something to prove have traveled to Africa and written books about things I imagine the locals there had already known for many years.” He walked around his desk, his fingers trailing the wood. “What made my father different was that he never knew when to quit. He was obsessed with his curiosity. With knowing the secrets of the world, even if it meant abandoning his own family.”

  That made the book’s dedication more than a little awkward.

  Iris folded her arms over her chest. “Well, you’ve caught me, so I might as well ask: That penny blood series you seem to have been enjoying…”

  “Ah, Fanciful Freaks!” His eyes lit up like a child’s. “You saw it while you were snooping?”

  “I did. And I notice you seem particularly interested in the characters.”

  “They’re odd, aren’t they?” Adam sat on the edge of his desk, pulling out one issue of the serial. The title was written on the front page in thick lettering with a drawing of a young working-class lad lifting a carriage above his head one-handed while the lord and lady inside screamed in terror. “A boy who can stop time. A girl who can move things with her mind.”

  “Sounds like nonsense,” Iris whispered, shifting on her feet.

  “Does it?” Adam gave her a sidelong look, which made Iris keenly aware of the bullet hole that used to exist in her skull. “Written and illustrated by Chadwick Winterbottom. This first issue was published in 1877—around the time rumors of unexplainable occurrences in the city began to circulate, very secretly, among those who had access to the most secretive of networks.”