The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

  He made blood and destruction sound practical, reasonable. It unnerved me in a way few people ever had.

  “Weaver made a mistake when he announced that you had been killed in Edinburgh. If your survival were to be exposed, it would end him, and someone else could take his place. Someone who knows the truth of the Suzerain, who sees her for exactly what she is. I am that someone. I mean to forge a new and purified Scion, unsullied by any unnaturalness.” He raised one of his temperate smiles. “You were interested in Sheol II. I may have been forced to host it, but make no mistake—I will use it not to glorify the Rephaim, but to bring them to their knees.”

  And there it was, in a nutshell. The secret Ducos needed, that Domino could use to sow discord between England and France.

  Georges Benoît Ménard was plotting a coup. He wanted to seize control of England, the head of the anchor, so that he could get rid of Nashira Sargas and rule the empire himself.

  And he wanted to use me to do it. To oust Frank Weaver by turning public opinion against him, or to blackmail him into quietly stepping down.

  “Right,” I finally said. “Very impressive. You are mighty and righteous indeed.” Frère looked at me as if I were a fly that refused to be swatted. “Cade here said you had a proposal I might find interesting. Do enlighten me.”

  At length, Ménard took a sip of his coffee.

  “Fitzours will have told you that I offered him an extended stay of execution in exchange for his services,” he said. “You have connections to well-placed Rephaim who despise the Suzerain. You front a terrorist organization dedicated to her downfall. Cooperate with us. Help us carry out our goal of destroying the Rephaite scourge, and I will not hand you back to them. I will provide you with immunity from execution.”

  “And then what?” I said. “You let me open a bookshop in a pretty Provençal village, live out the rest of my life in peace?”

  “I can make you someone else.” His gaze drilled into mine. “So long as you are out of my sight.”

  He sounded like Jaxon, offering me an illusion of freedom at the cost of my integrity. This tie-wearing murderer wanted me to loan him the Mime Order—my army of rebels, thieves, and misfits, which I had nearly given my life to protect—as if it were open to the highest bidder.

  “You will have realized that I don’t seek the destruction of all Rephaim,” I said. “Only the Suzerain and those who follow her. I will not convince my Rephaite connections to work with anyone who means them harm. As for the Mime Order . . . you can’t seriously think I would ever compel my soldiers to serve the Butcher of Strasbourg’s cause.”

  “Our cause is the same until we defeat this common enemy.”

  “What if we do?”

  “Well.” He gave his coffee another stir. “We will cross that bridge, as they say, when we come to it.”

  “And we know what will be on the other side. You’ll want to erase all evidence that you ever colluded with unnaturals. The guillotines will work around the clock,” I said. “Between you and the Suzerain, I don’t know who I’d rather have. The Rephaim, at least, need some voyants alive to feed on. They’re also our principal line of defense against the Emim.”

  For some reason, that made Ménard smile.

  “Yes. The monsters from across the veil.” He sipped his coffee. “On that count, at least, you need not trouble yourself.”

  The way he said it made my nape prickle. I had no idea what he was driving at.

  “I will give you time to consider my proposal,” Ménard said. “Work in my service. Lend me your allies, Rephaite and human. Commit to a new Scion. Or die in whatever way Luce desires.”

  From the look in her eyes, Frère would have me torn apart.

  “I’ll consider it,” I said.

  “Very good.” Ménard glanced toward Cade. “Fitzours, take our visitor back to her room. You may stay with her for half an hour. Perhaps you can join your voice to our cause.”

  Cade dipped his head. “Yes, Grand Inquisitor.”

  When he stood, I half expected him to bow. I pushed myself from my chair and followed him toward the door.

  “One more thing,” Ménard said, calm. I stopped. “Frank Weaver did not seize his chance to be rid of you. I hear that was because the Suzerain wanted something from you first. Be aware, anormale, that I am not so generous. I will give her nothing she desires.”

  A slow-moving cold licked up my back and across my shoulders. The disquiet of a hunted thing.

  “If you choose not to see things my way, you become a liability. Nothing more or less. I will have no incentive whatsoever to keep you alive. Pollute my spouse, or my children, or any of my staff, and I will send you to the highest cell of the Grande Bastille. They have a machine there, la mâchoire. I will ensure it tastes some pieces of you before you lose your head.”

  Silence followed. I was dismissed. Cade took me by the elbow, giving me the jolt I needed to walk on.

  When he returned to France, Cade must have told his employers that Nashira Sargas wanted my gift, and had kept me alive for months so I could die in the right way, at the right time. Ménard had no need for that kind of restraint. He would only spare me if I proved myself useful, and there was no end to the ways he might hurt me if I refused his bargain.

  I had once entertained the fantasy that destroying Nashira would be all it took to topple Scion. Now I realized that her creation had become a monster all of its own. Hatred of clairvoyants had washed across nine countries in two centuries, with countless more set to fall. Nashira might have forged the anchor, but humans had latched onto it willingly.

  I learned that humans have a mechanism inside them, she had told me, the last time we came face-to-face. A mechanism called hatred, which can be activated with the lightest pull of a string.

  An empire founded on human hatred. That was what she had called Scion. If Ménard got his wish—if that were possible—she would learn the hard way that human hatred was too strong to be constrained.

  Cade walked me back to the attic. When we reached my room, the Vigiles locked us in together.

  “So,” I said, “that’s why you still work for him. You think he can take Nashira down.”

  “Yes.” Cade faced me, purpose in every crease of his face. “Imagine it. A new Grand Inquisitor of England and France who hates the Rephs. Think of the colossal money and power he would be able to turn against them.”

  “He’s lost his mind. So have you,” I said. “The money and power comes from the Rephaim. They are Scion.”

  “No. It’s the other way around, Paige. It’s our money. Our power. Rephaim can’t hold bank accounts, can they?” he said, with feeling. “Legally, they don’t exist. They have to operate through us. What if we revoked our support? If the Rephaim aren’t lording it in our buildings, wearing clothes we made for them, feeding on our auras—what are they, really?”

  Something in his words rang true. Without high walls to hide behind, without the comforts Scion afforded them, the Rephaim were scavengers. Powerful scavengers, yes. Difficult to take down —but scavengers, nonetheless. Scavengers could be picked off. Starved out.

  “Ménard is not the only one who feels this way,” Cade went on. “He’s already found a firm ally in Birgitta Tjäder. She’s as much of a fanatic as him, and she has Inquisitor Lindberg of Sweden under her thumb.”

  Tjäder had been at the Bicentenary, too. I remembered how unsettled and tense she had looked.

  “We can turn their own anti-unnatural message against them, Paige,” Cade said in a low, urgent tone. “Don’t you see?”

  “You heard him, Cade. He wants us all dead. A human-run Scion would still be Scion.”

  “Humans are easier to overthrow. This is only the first step.”

  Without answering, I paced to the window.

  I thought of a world in which Nashira was no longer revered. It was tempting. Yet it would go against every principle I had to work with a Grand Inquisitor.

  The Mime Order needed to expand
its horizons, but I had other irons in the fire. If I got out of here alive, I might be able to strike an alliance with Ducos. I might also have the Parisian syndicate, if I could crush the corruption and find the people who supported my cause.

  “Sorry,” I said at last. “I will not ask my soldiers to work with Ménard. I will not put him in touch with my allies—Rephaite or human—and I will not be staying here to discuss the matter any further. It’s a pipe dream.” In the dim reflection, I saw his brow furrow. “What?”

  “I hoped you would give it some more thought,” Cade admitted. “I thought you, of all people, would see the gray.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You worked with the scarred ones.”

  “Don’t insult my judgment, Cade. The scarred ones aren’t perfect, I grant you, but they’ve worked for decades to help us. Ménard has worked for decades to kill us.” I nodded to the door. “Go on. You’re wasting your breath here. And I’m sure the love of your life is waiting.”

  “Do you think I don’t know what she is, Paige?” He spoke too softly for the Vigiles outside to hear, but with passion enough to draw my gaze. “Why do you think I let it go so far?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I thought if she fell in love with me, she might start seeing us as people. Might find it harder to watch us die.” His voice was flat, hollow. “I’ve made mistakes. I also want to do the right thing for voyants. I believe you do as well.”

  “Don’t underestimate what I’d do to defeat Scion.”

  “I always thought you’d do anything.”

  “Look, this is war. There are always going to be different factions,” I said. “I see your perspective. I just don’t agree with it. I’m sorry, but I can’t work with you on this.”

  Cade considered my face, lifting his hands to the back of his head. At last, he heaved a sigh.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” he confessed. “I could use some voyant company in here, and I think you could have furthered the cause—but I do understand. Having said that, I would appreciate it if you’d at least give it a day or two. Pretend you’re considering. It would help me keep my head.”

  “Fine,” I said, “but I’ll need a bit more freedom. There was a reason I came here, and it wasn’t to sit in an attic.”

  “I’ll try,” Cade said. “And you keep my secret.” He stood and offered a hand. “Deal?”

  I shook it. “Deal.”

  “Good.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thank you. For listening, at least.”

  “Cade,” I said. He stopped halfway to the door. “Thanks for the shirt.”

  “Keep it. Luce wanted you to freeze,” he said, with the facial equivalent of a shrug, “but I guess I can screw her in more ways than one.”

  One knock on the door, and he was gone. The silence of the attic wound like rope around me.

  I had the information Ducos needed. Now for the task I had set for myself. Whatever plans Ménard had for Sheol II, I needed to know where it was, or where it would be. I needed to take control.

  The foul drink had worn off, and the æther embraced me like an old friend. I went to the window and pressed my brow to the glass. Outside, the stars were scattershot on a black canvas.

  I’m alive. I willed him to hear me across the divide. In the Hôtel Garuche. Give me two days—then be ready to help me get out of here, Arcturus, or the next string I get caught in will be around my neck.

  10

  Revelation

  It was a long night. Snow fanned across the courtyard, a fine layer of frost silvered the windows, and the dripping tap in my cell picked at the edges of my sanity. Beneath the mantle, I muffled my vicious coughs on a cushion. It eased the pain a little if I lay on my right side.

  To distract myself, I sought Ménard in the æther. Logically, I knew he couldn’t feel me unless I touched his dreamscape, but even using my gift covertly now felt too much like playing with fire.

  Drip, drip.

  He was in his study with Frère. They stayed there for a long while, then retired together to the private apartments, leaving only a handful of dreamscapes on the move. The mansion had a skeleton staff at night, including the armed Vigiles who stood outside my door.

  Cade was in his room. I still wasn’t sure what to make of him, just as I had never been sure in the colony. His commitment to Ménard was a riddle. So was his liaison with Frère.

  Drip, drip.

  I wondered about Frère. Cade had a clear motive for the affair, if a naïve one, but all Frère seemed to have gained was a pregnancy that might spell her undoing. No matter how much he adored and relied on her, Ménard could not allow an unnatural progenitor to remain at his side. She would lose her opulent lifestyle, her children, and in the end, her life. All for a fling.

  Frère was devoted to Scion. Now I considered what else she might be. Bored of the many constraints of naturalness, even as she preached them. Hungry, after a lifetime of comfort, for a taste of real danger. Cade was good-looking, and he had a certain assurance about him that she must have found attractive. Attractive enough, apparently, to risk her head.

  Drip, drip.

  Every muscle in my body was spring-loaded. I stared at the wall, my head full of voices.

  Drip, drip.

  That fucking tap. I fantasized that I could tear it off the sink, smash it to bits, burn the whole mansion to the ground so that good-for-nothing tap could never drip again. I thought of shoving the mantle into the sink, knowing I would be too cold without it. Finally, I clamped the cushion over my ear. With the sound muffled, I started to slide into a doze.

  Paige.

  I bolted upright, every fine hair on end. A whisper in my mind —my name, clear as a stricken bell.

  Arcturus?

  Silence answered on both planes, but he was closer than before. He was coming. Solaced by the thought, I clapped the cushion back over my ear and slept.

  ****

  A Vigile slammed a tray on the coffee table, jerking me awake. Before I could fully remember where I was, he was gone, and the door was locked.

  I remembered soon enough. Sore all over, I sat up, the mantle around my shoulders, and examined the meal. One heel of stale bread, scabbed with mold, and a small glass of milk. I nibbled around the mold, but left the drink. I knew spoiled milk when I smelled it.

  The Hôtel Garuche was beginning to wake. When dreamscapes started to trickle in, and Frère stirred in her room, I knew it must be almost six. Cade was already up and pacing.

  Fear warred with my resolve. I could defy Ménard. Steal another body. Search the Salon Doré. Grow a spine. How many times had I stared death in the face before, and how many times had I cheated it?

  If I failed to find Sheol II, I was condemning the voyants there to enslavement and death. I needed to be brave for them. Yet every time I started to dislocate, I saw myself trapped in another dark room.

  Cade had promised to get me out of this cell. I would wait and see if he came through.

  The sun ascended. I brushed my teeth. Another Vigile threw down my lunch, which consisted of an apple bruised with rot and a slab of white meat I decided not to touch. Thirst scraped my throat dry. I could have killed for a coffee.

  My hunger was so distracting, I failed to notice the subtle changes in the æther. Suddenly the door unlocked and creaked open, and a dark-haired child appeared.

  “Oh.” Mylène blinked as if I had startled her. “You’re a person.”

  There was no way Frère or Ménard would have allowed their daughter to visit me in my cell. When I probed the æther, I realized the Vigiles had left their posts.

  “Last I checked.” I offered a smile. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

  “I know. I sneak up sometimes, even though I’m not allowed.” Mylène spoke in fluting English. “I heard Maman say there was a bad thing in the attic, but there’s just you. Are you the aboma . . . abunash . . . aba . . . ” She blew out a frustrated breath. ‘I don’t re
member how to say it.”

  “Abomination,” I said, pronouncing it the French way. “Is that it?”

  She gasped. “Yes!”

  “Do you know what that word means?” I spoke gently. “It’s not a very nice thing to call someone.”

  Mylène scuffed her buckled shoe along the floor. “Maman says.” There was dust all over her red frock. “I like your hair,” she ventured. “It’s not like monster hair.”

  “How do you know about monsters?” I asked her. My grandfather had thrilled me with tales of headless riders and children transformed into swans when I was little, but they told far duller stories here.

  “It’s a secret,” Mylène informed me.

  “I should think so.” I sat back. “Go on, then. What kind of hair do monsters have?”

  “Green?”

  In spite of myself, I smiled again, and Mylène smiled back. Against the odds, an amaurotic child had found a way to dream of green-haired monsters in Scion. There was some hope in that.

  To my dismay, little Jean-Michel appeared behind her. He held a fleecy blanket that looked as if it had been gnawed at every corner.

  “I’m Jean-Michel,” he whispered. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

  “Jean-Mi,” Mylène hissed, “we’re not supposed to tell strangers our names.”

  Jean-Michel just chewed his blanket and gazed at me with huge calf eyes. I got off the daybed and crouched in front of them.

  “Hello, Jean-Michel,” I said. “I’m Paige. It’s very nice of you to let me stay in your house.”

  “Your voice is funny,” Jean-Michel said.

  “Well, my accent is different from yours. I come from a country called Ireland.”

  His eyes somehow grew even larger. “Isn’t that a bad place?”

  “Maman says it’s bad,” Mylène said, before I could get a word in. “I don’t think we’re supposed to talk to you. I just wanted to see what an abomination was. Onésime says we should always do exactly what Maman tells us.”

  “Is Onésime your big brother?” I asked.