Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  “You breathed fire.”

  The laughter died in Morrigan’s throat. She faltered, eager to leave but seemingly rooted to the spot.

  Malau tilted his head to the side, a curious little frown creasing the spot between his eyes. “You breathed fire.” His voice was suddenly commanding and clear. There were no slurred consonants, no fumbled words. “Like a dragon. Did you enjoy it?”

  Morrigan blinked. She looked sideways at Hawthorne and then at Jupiter, who both appeared equally shocked. The séance circle had turned in their direction now and were all peering at Morrigan with great interest.

  Morrigan felt her face grow hot. She couldn’t, of course, admit to such a thing. “No. No, I never did that.”

  “Yes,” said Malau flatly. “You did.”

  How did he know? Perhaps the man wasn’t such a charlatan after all.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morrigan insisted, in a voice as steely as she could make it.

  Jupiter stood up suddenly, his movements elegant and precise. He tilted his head and took a step closer, staring at her face. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said.

  Morrigan stared at him. “Jupiter, what are you—”

  “Inferno,” said the bride-to-be. She rose also, and walked toward Morrigan with catlike grace. “The Wretched Art of Inferno.”

  Morrigan swallowed, repeating the words in her mind. The Wretched Art of Inferno.

  “What… what is this?” She looked from the bride, to Jupiter, to Malau and back again. “Jupiter, what’s happening?”

  The rest of the people on the rooftop rose as one body and started to gather around her in a knot—even Hawthorne. They stood in a tight, unbroken ring, shoulder to shoulder, their movements too smooth, too exact, to be natural.

  As one, they opened their mouths and spoke.

  “The Wretched Art of Inferno,” they said, their voices pitched in perfect, eerie unison. Every word clipped, every consonant crisp. “An unlikely first manifestation in a young Wundersmith, though not unheard of. Inferno is a formidable tool in the hands of an accomplished smith”—they leaned back ever so slightly, surveying her coolly over their noses—“but of course, you are far from accomplished.”

  Morrigan was reminded sharply of last Hallowmas, when the Witches of Coven Thirteen had pulled this same trick, speaking together with spooky precision. It had been part of her and Hawthorne’s trials for the Wundrous Society, and the witches had been acting on the orders of the Elders.

  Was this just another Wundrous Society thing? Another test? Surely not tonight, she thought… surely not with half the Society out looking for their missing people, and a lockdown in place on the rest. This wasn’t the night for tricks.

  “Who are you?” she asked again. “What do you want?”

  As one, they tilted their heads gently to the side. The corner of every mouth twisted into a familiar grin. The sight of it made Morrigan’s breath catch in her throat. Cold, sickening fear pooled in the pit of her stomach.

  “You,” she whispered.

  The air had grown still. Without the slightest hint of breeze, without the smallest bit of help, every candle on the rooftop was suddenly extinguished. Swirls of smoke rose from the dead wicks. Silvery moonlight reflected in the wide eyes surrounding Morrigan, all fixed squarely on her own.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” Her voice trembled.

  Hawthorne stepped forward, away from the pack, and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I told you once before.” He spoke with a coolness and conviction that was not his own. “You must learn to deceive more skillfully, Miss Crow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE WRETCHED ART OF INFERNO

  Morrigan’s insides curled as Ezra Squall’s words came from her best friend’s mouth.

  “Stop,” she whispered. “Leave him alone.”

  The corners of Hawthorne’s mouth pulled back into a sinister grin that didn’t fit his face. “Shan’t.”

  He lifted his right hand and slapped himself, hard. Morrigan yelped, and as he raised his left hand to repeat the action she lunged forward, snatching it away.

  “STOP! Please, stop it—what are you DOING?”

  Hawthorne’s hands dropped and he grew still, his face emotionless. He stepped calmly backward, his head drooping to his chest. It was as if somebody had flicked a switch and turned him off.

  The rest of the séance guests followed, their movements seamlessly synchronized. The group parted down the middle, giving Morrigan a clear line of sight to the far edge of the rooftop.

  There, leaning casually against the balustrade in a tailored gray suit, was Ezra Squall. He smiled, and watched Morrigan for several moments. She stood perfectly still. Her primal instinct was to run away, but she couldn’t leave Hawthorne and Jupiter and the others.

  “What did you do to them?” she called, trying to ignore the tremor in her voice.

  “Just a little parlor trick.” Squall held his hands out—palms downward, twisted into claws—and made his fingers dance like a puppeteer twitching strings. “Shall I teach you?”

  Morrigan didn’t respond. Her heart was racing. If she narrowed her eyes, she could see the faint shimmery outline of the Gossamer around him. A subtle, almost invisible haze of golden light.

  So, then. He still wasn’t here in Nevermoor. Not physically. That was a relief, but it didn’t make any sense. Morrigan crossed the rooftop, stopping yards from where he stood, careful to keep some distance between them.

  “How did you do that?” she demanded. “You can’t do anything through the Gossamer, you told me that yourself.”

  Squall pressed his hands together, as if in prayer, and held them to his mouth. “Ah, but you see—this is the great cosmic marvel of the thing. I’m not doing it. You’re doing it.”

  Morrigan glanced back at the group, still and silent as sculptures. She shook her head; there was no way she’d done that. How could she? Why would she? Where would she even begin?

  Squall seemed to understand her skepticism. “Not directly, of course. But you have allowed Wunder to gather and gather and gather to you, unchecked and unused. That energy must go somewhere. Instead of building and depleting Wunder the way a Wundersmith ought to—by regular, practiced use of the Wretched Arts—the energy that has been swarming to you for many years now has built to… well, to this,” he said, gesturing to Morrigan with a bemused smile. “To this churning, scorching, insupportable mass. Wunder has grown tired of waiting. And while you’ve lacked the courage to use it, you are allowing it to use you.”

  His face split into a grin and he tilted his head backward, closing his eyes as if to savor the joy of his next words.

  “And even better… you are allowing me to use Wunder through you.”

  Morrigan’s mouth had gone dry. “No!” It felt like an accusation, and she immediately wanted to fling it away from her. Like mud. “No, I’m not. That’s impossible.”

  “Yes, I know it is,” said Squall, his eyes alight. His soft, delighted chuckle tumbled into the quiet night, sending a chill down Morrigan’s back. “Isn’t that exciting? Here you are, burning like a beacon, so bright and uncontrolled that all it takes is the tiniest little push through the so-called impenetrable Gossamer.” He closed his eyes and leaned slightly forward, pressing his outstretched hands into the air itself, and Morrigan could see the palest glimmer of golden light bleeding out from the space between his fingers. More than that, she could feel it. As Squall pushed against the Gossamer, a wave of pure energy, warm like the sun and gently humming, rippled through her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, smirking and holding out his hands, “you didn’t really believe you had the skill to make the little star-thrower and her friends turn their weapons on themselves, did you? Or to turn the wee Magnificub into a raging beast?” He laughed.

  “And when I… when I breathed fire,” Morrigan said, swallowing hard as the taste of smoke and ash stirred in her memory
, “that was you too? You did that?”

  A shadow of uncertainty crossed Squall’s face. “No,” he said. “That spark of fury was all yours. But it was Wunder that unleashed it.”

  He paused, considering for a moment. “Wunder is both intelligent and impulsive. Wunder wishes to be used and directed by the only people born with the ability to use and direct it, but if we’re not careful—if we allow it to express itself too freely—it will use us, instead of the other way around.”

  Morrigan shook her head. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

  “I am saying you breathed fire because Wunder wanted you to breathe fire.” Squall had an unsettling, fanatical look in his eye. A strange thrill ran down the back of Morrigan’s neck. She found his zeal for Wunder contagious, and that realization made her feel a bit sick.

  “I am saying that for one shining, triumphant moment you became a dragon,” Squall continued, “because Wunder grew tired of you being a mouse.”

  Morrigan breathed sharply through her nose. She didn’t like the idea that her free will could be taken from her by some invisible, unknowable force that she felt she would never fully understand.

  “You must never forget, Miss Crow—Wunder is a parasite,” Squall continued. His soft voice carried across the rooftop. “Wunder is your enemy. A villain that never sleeps, and never rests. Never forgets or gives up. It exists in a perpetually watchful state. It is waiting, always, for you to let your guard down. Because the Wundersmith is its only lifeline to the real world. We are the conduits through which Wunder can experience itself as real, as living.”

  He’d worked himself into a state and was pacing now—excited, agitated, and a little mad, Morrigan thought.

  “Imagine you’re a ghost!” he cried. His raised voice echoed, bouncing around in the dark. The words spilled out across the surrounding rooftops like pebbles skimming over water. “Wandering the world you once lived in, unable to speak to anyone, unable to touch anything. People look straight past you, walk right through you. How would that make you feel?”

  Morrigan felt a sting in her heart. She didn’t need to imagine any of this. She had already experienced it for herself last Christmas, when she’d traveled to her old home at Crow Manor on the Gossamer Line. A houseful of people, and nobody but her grandmother could see or hear her. Her own father really had walked right through her.

  “Lonely,” she said quietly. “Like… like nothing.”

  “Precisely. Like you’re watching the world from behind a pane of glass. And then—one day, out of nowhere—you are something. You are something, because somebody can hear you. Someone can see you. A friend, at last! A kindred spirit! Someone to communicate with. True love. That is the story of Wunder and the Wundersmith.”

  “You just said Wunder is the enemy,” said Morrigan, confused.

  “It amounts to the same thing,” he said, a hint of icy impatience cutting through his calm veneer. “Wunder is… obsessively, dangerously in love with the Wundersmith. That energy has to go somewhere. Do you realize, Miss Crow, how close you have come to self-combustion this year? Do you realize that the things I’ve done have saved your life?” He laughed. “Not to mention the other favors I’ve granted you.”

  “Favors?” Morrigan could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “Yes, favors,” he snapped. “Who taught the star-thrower and her bullying beau a lesson they won’t forget? Who got the useless, lying tortoise out of your way? You’re welcome, incidentally.”

  It felt as if something weighty and terrible had dropped onto Morrigan’s chest. “The Ghastly Market,” she said in a hushed voice. “That was you.”

  He inclined his head, taking a tiny little bow. “Ta-da.”

  “Alfie, and Professor Onstald… You took them. To be sold like unnimals.”

  His eyes rolled skyward. “Goodness, no. That sounds too much like hard work. All I did was pull a few strings.” He wiggled his fingers again. “You’d be shocked at how easy people can be to manipulate. Even inside the impenetrable walls of your precious Society, I was able to find a pair of willing hands. But then, I’ve always had a knack for finding the weakest link in the chain.”

  Morrigan frowned. “Somebody in the Society has been helping you? Who?” she demanded. But Squall stayed silent, miming the pull of a zipper across his lips.

  It was a sickening thought. Not even Baz Charlton would stoop so low. Surely.

  She shook her head. She refused to believe it.

  “Oh, don’t look so appalled,” Squall said, leaning back against the balustrade again, a frown creasing his brow. “And don’t act as if you aren’t pleased. I have done this for you, after all. I confess, I did think you’d be a little more grateful.”

  “Grateful for what?” Morrigan spat. “Hurting people doesn’t help me.”

  A corner of Squall’s mouth tugged upward. “The Society has been far too comfortable for far too long. I wanted them to feel their foundations quake a little. Admit it, Miss Crow—didn’t it feel good to see them tremble?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “When you breathed fire, wasn’t there some tiny, dark part of you that saw the fear in their eyes, and liked it?”

  Morrigan said nothing. She was remembering that day at Proudfoot Station. Remembering the monster that had swelled up inside her. The righteous fury that had coursed through her veins like electricity and transformed her—just for one moment—into the most powerful person in Wunsoc.

  She could still see the frightened faces on the platform. Had she enjoyed that, she wondered? Had some small part of her liked the thought of striking fear in someone’s heart… instead of being the one who was always afraid?

  She looked away, refusing to answer Squall’s question.

  “Yes. I thought so.” His smile was a jackal’s smile, hungry and dangerous. “And I’m glad to have given you that glimpse of your true self. Although I must admit I’m surprised to find you here just talking to me,” he continued, gazing out across the moonlit Nevermoor skyline. “I rather thought you’d be off doing something heroic. Thought you considered yourself the ‘no friend left behind’ sort. Awfully glad to find I was wrong.”

  Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Professor Onstald’s not exactly a friend,” she said. “And anyway, the Stealth is out looking for him. They don’t need my help.”

  “I didn’t mean the thing with the shell.” The wind carried his soft, amused voice straight to Morrigan’s ears. “I was referring to the other abductees. The mesmerist and the oracle.”

  “Cadence and Lambeth,” she whispered.

  She felt something clench in her stomach.

  “You’ve taken Cadence and Lambeth,” she said, a little louder. “They’re my friends. How is that supposed to help me?”

  Squall gave a humorless laugh. “I’ve done no such thing. I’m afraid my little Society puppet—my pair of willing hands—may have got a bit greedy. There are powerful people—inside the Free State and out—who would pay almost any price to get their hands on some of the knacks going to waste in the Society. Those are two very useful gifts. And if the rumors are true,” he continued, rocking on his heels, “there’s a fourth item up for auction tonight. Highly covetable.” There was a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Perhaps I’ll put in a bid myself. I’ve always wanted an angel for the top of my Christmas tree.”

  “Cassiel,” she said quietly, but Squall didn’t seem to hear.

  Morrigan’s hands curled uselessly into fists. She knew she couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t do anything to him. He wasn’t even here.

  “You know where the market is,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “You know where my friends are. Tell me.”

  Squall tilted his head to the side. “Well, yes. That’s precisely why I’ve come. But nothing comes for free. We shall make an exchange.”

  “What do you want?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  He shrugged. “The same thing I’ve always wanted. To educate.”

>   “I’ve told you already. I am never going to join you. You’re a monster and a murderer.”

  “There are far greater monsters”—his eyes flashed—“and far greater dangers. Miss Crow, we have a shared enemy you could never imagine. If the Wundrous Society doesn’t take you off the leash, if you aren’t given the freedom to grow, to become the Wundersmith I need you to be… then terrible things are coming down the line. For both of us.”

  Morrigan stared at him, dumbstruck. Shared enemy? HE was her only enemy.

  “So now it’s time for your third lesson,” he went on. “The Wretched Art of Inferno.”

  She shook her head, exasperated. She felt a familiar, frantic fury building inside her. “My friends need help now. I don’t have time to learn tricks!”

  She needed to get off this rooftop. She needed to find Cadence and Lambeth, before something terrible happened.

  “No.” Squall spoke in a low, fierce voice, pushing away from the balustrade and taking two deliberate steps forward. Morrigan heard the séance circle stir, but she didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to take her eyes off him for a second. “I quite agree. You’re running out of time. The Wunder that’s gathering to you is growing desperate. It has reached a critical mass, and unless you can channel it, give it a purpose, it will burn you from the inside out.” He glared at Morrigan, his black eyes a reflection of her own. “But if the threat to your own life isn’t enough, I’m happy to provide some extra motivation.”

  He made a subtle gesture, and on his command the group gathered behind her walked forward as one—moving past Morrigan, past Squall himself, and stopping at the balustrade, shoulder to shoulder, peering out into the darkness.

  Morrigan was reminded of the first time she’d come to the Hotel Deucalion, on Morningtide, the first day of the New Age. That had been a joyous occasion, and had ended—to her amazement—with all the guests climbing up on the balustrade, umbrellas held aloft, and taking a leap of faith off the rooftop. Stepping boldly! Every one of them had floated down, down, down, thirteen stories to land on the ground, safe and unharmed.