The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

  Arcturus had wanted to tell me about the Rephaim becoming Emim. Whatever oath had stopped him, it must have been strong.

  Trust has no room for façades. A blurred memory, soaked in dark wine. I would look on your true face, little dreamer. And know that you had looked on mine.

  His wish had come true. At last, I knew the secret he had kept for nearly a year.

  My head listed to the side. I could allow myself a short rest, after everything. When I breathed in, a barb scored the right side of my chest. I had barely dozed off when an explosion slapped me awake.

  At first, the total darkness was disorienting. When my thigh smarted, I remembered where I was. I must have slept for the whole afternoon and deep into the evening.

  Another explosion. Fireworks. Bleary-eyed, I groped my way to the window, one hand on my aching rib cage. There was a commotion in the front courtyard. Shouts and cheers. Another firework wheeled over the mansion and fractured into splinters of red and white light. From the sound of it, they were going off all over the citadel.

  In the courtyard, Vigiles pulled off their helmets and embraced one another. The night staff poured down the front steps to dance in the snow. I had never witnessed so much joy in Scion, not even at Novembertide or New Year. It was something like madness.

  This could only mean one thing. Lisbon had fallen. I turned my back on the window, sick with grief for Portugal.

  I remembered the Fall of Ireland so clearly. The day our leader, Eóghan Ó Cairealláin, had finally issued our formal and unconditional surrender. Throughout the Molly Riots, he had spurred us to resist the invaders, to protect our independence from what he had called a cult of hatred. Some had condemned him for his obstinacy, blamed him for the bloodshed, while others had declared him a hero.

  Ó Cairealláin had met his end on the gallows that December. His replacement was the first and present Grand Inquisitor of Ireland, who had anglicized her name to April Whelan.

  We were in London by then, of course. The night of the surrender, my father and I had gone into hiding. He had collected me from school early—before the official announcement—and got us chips for supper. Once we were home, he had explained that we needed to stay inside for a while. Ireland was now part of Scion. Things would get worse before they got better.

  I hadn’t been afraid for myself. Even though the other children tormented me at school, nothing could be worse than the bloodbath I had narrowly survived in Dublin. All I had been able to think about was my beloved grandparents, who would soon be dead, like my cousin.

  At dusk, my father had spoken to the security guard and locked up the apartment. The two of us had huddled up together on the couch, one of my old toys squashed between us, and pretended to watch a film. That was the last time I could remember him holding me. Even though dread had squeezed my insides, I had felt warm and safe. He had drawn me so close I had felt him shivering. His parents were in Ireland. His sister, grief-stricken over her son. He had lost everyone but me.

  The fireworks had gone on and on, each detonation reaching my bones. My father had not sent me to bed. Our apartment had been high up, the windows shut fast, but we had still heard their joy. In the end, I had fallen asleep against his chest, my cheeks salted with tears.

  Fifty-seven settlers, most of them homeless, had been killed or beaten that night. A few Scots had died, too, the Sasanaigh hearing something other in their voices. Years later, the exultant screams rang in my memory. The same fevered crows of triumph that cracked the frozen air tonight.

  My father had kept me home from school for a month, saying I had whooping cough. During that time, he had been gentle with me. Checked how I was feeling and brought treats home. The other children had pounced when I returned—they had tripped me in the corridors, spat on my hair, emptied offal into my bag and laughed when I got the blood on my hands—but it would have been worse in those early days of victory. And for the first time in years, I had walked those corridors armored with the certainty that I was loved.

  My father had soon enclosed himself in ice once more. I wished he were still here so I could ask him why. Why he had never comforted me again, or explained anything, or tried to soothe me when I raged. Why he had never once acted like a father to me after that time—except on the night of my arrest. I wished he was here so I could hide from the world with him just one more time.

  Portugal had fallen in little more than a month. For the first time, it occurred to me that ScionIDE might have swelled its ranks with Irish conscripts.

  When another victorious bellow raked my spine, I switched my attention to the æther. There were no dreamscapes nearby. Or anywhere on the floor below. Eager to join the celebrations, the Vigiles had forsaken their post outside my door.

  A chance to get into the Salon Doré. In an instant, I was at the door to my cell, rattling the handle. Still locked. I waited for another firework, ready to fling my weight against the door.

  Footsteps. I backed off, heart pounding. A moment later, the lock clicked, and then Cade was in the room, wearing a nightshirt and shorts. Shadows circled his eyes.

  “They’ve taken Lisbon,” he said. “I thought—” He stared at my face. “Shit, Paige, what happened to you?”

  “Not important. How the hell did you get in?”

  He held up a ring of keys I had seen before. “Luce’s old set. I know where Mylène hides it.”

  “Good.” I was already brushing past him. “I need to get into the Salon Doré while they’re all distracted. I need to crack his safe.”

  “You won’t.” Cade caught my bad wrist. I took a sharp breath, then regretted it. “Paige, just listen. You need a registered fingerprint to access the study, and even then, there’s a manual lock to get past.” He seemed exasperated. “Maybe if you told me what you were looking for—”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Nothing personal. I don’t trust anyone.” My voice was on the verge of cracking. “I’ll find a way.”

  “If they catch you, you’ll never leave this room again. Consider a deal. Earn his trust, like I did. Wait for him to drop his guard.” Cade grasped my elbow. “Don’t risk it. Think of the bigger picture.”

  The next firework made us both glow red as embers. Red as our shared order. Something about his aura had distracted me, and I couldn’t put my finger on what. He let go.

  “I can’t stay, Cade.” I motioned to my swollen cheek, my lip. “Frère will kill me for what I did to her.”

  A muscle in his jaw rolled out. “Yes.” He turned away. “I can’t help you tonight, Paige. Get some rest. Tomorrow, if you still want to escape, we’ll work it out.”

  “Wait,” I said. He stopped. “President Gonçalves. Do you know if she issued a surrender?”

  “Not yet. Guess she’s holed up in a bunker somewhere.”

  I could almost see her now. Caught like prey in some underground room. Ears pricked for heavy boots at the door. One hand on a gun, either to shoot the invaders or herself. Either that, or it was a pen she held, and she was poised to sign her name to the surrender.

  Even if she signed, her life might still be forfeit. Only if they were in a forgiving mood would they allow her to stay on as Grand Inquisitor.

  “I’m sorry,” Cade murmured. “I know I can’t ever understand, Paige, but I’m sorry.”

  With a gentle squeeze of my shoulder, he left me to the silence in the attic, and the bitter sound of the festivities outside. I sank back onto the daybed and stared at the ceiling.

  Deep in the night, my eyes snapped open, and I breathed in, pain knifing into my chest.

  I knew exactly how I was going to find Sheol II.

  12

  Moth in the Wall

  The celebrations went on all night. Fireworks. Parades. Never-ending anthems and cheering on Rue du Faubourg. Half the citadel seemed to have gathered at the gates of the Hôtel Garuche to rejoice. The voices outside soared to fever pitch, shearing my nerves thin.

>   At some point, I must have drifted off. When I woke, golden light shone through the window and tinseled the dust in the air. There was a blanket tucked around my shoulders and two small pills on the table, along with a cup of tea. Cade had also left me his radio.

  It was silent outside. The citadel had reveled itself to exhaustion.

  At ten, it came back to life. Red hot-air balloons took flight over the citadel. An hour later, the aerobatic division of the Inquisitorial Air Force performed a display. Their smoke trails crisscrossed the blue sky. Wrapped in the blanket, I washed the painkillers down and tuned the radio to the news. I listened as the presenter announced a national holiday. Except for those in vital services, all denizens could leave work to celebrate. Frank Weaver called upon Daniela Gonçalves, who was still in hiding, to issue her unconditional surrender.

  Gonçalves must be in a private hell. Her surrender would end the bombardment (“Scion is merciful, President Gonçalves, take heart”). It would also end all formal resistance.

  In her fortified room, Gonçalves would be asking how she could justify her actions to whichever god or code she held dear. This choice would cement her place in history. It would decide whether she was remembered as a traitor or a martyr, a coward or a hero. The longer she postponed, the more of her people would die. Even though Scion had the capital, air strikes on other cities would not cease until the surrender.

  At noon, I heard Ménard live on the radio. He stressed the crucial role of French soldiers in taking Lisbon—they had formed the bulk of the invasion force—and commended the Grand Commander of France for his swift and decisive actions on the frontline. Lavish celebrations were planned in the event of an official surrender, including a masquerade at the Grande Salle de Paris, with guests chosen by lottery from all around France.

  It chilled me that the conflict had escalated this quickly, after such a short period of resistance. When they had set their sights on Ireland, they had been forced to wear it down over several years, in a long war of attrition.

  Europe stands on the verge of war. The continent is a tinderbox, hungry for a spark.

  The spark was inching closer to the tinder. Soon it might burn hot enough to set the world alight.

  By one, there was more breaking news. The Second Inquisitorial Division would now split. Half its forces would remain in Portugal to oversee the transition to Scion, while the rest would continue the campaign. The meaning was clear. Without so much as a pause for breath, Scion was going for Spain.

  I would make a final attempt to find information on Sheol II. I knew who might have the location, and suspected he would be willing to sell it. Afterward, whether or not I succeeded, I would leave by whatever means necessary and get my intelligence to Domino.

  Cade arrived at two with pastries and coffee. He pulled the door shut behind him, laid the tray on the table, then beckoned me close.

  “Unsurprisingly, Ménard has canceled our discussion. He has press conferences and meetings for the rest of the day, and he’s made a reservation for dinner in Le Marais.” Cade spoke under his breath. “Take the opportunity and go.”

  “How?”

  “The night staff arrive at eight. Possess a Vigile. Open your door.”

  “Then what?”

  “Turn right out of your room and keep going until you see a portrait of Jacquemine Lang,” he said. “Behind it, you’ll find the hidden opening the kids use to get into the attic. It leads to a sealed-off staircase, which will take you down to the Winter Garden.”

  I pictured the floor plan. The Winter Garden was on the ground floor, attached to the Salle des Fêtes.

  “The cook I bribe, Claudine, is the last to leave at night. She’ll let you into the grounds through the kitchen. Don’t get there later than eight thirty, or she’ll have clocked off for—”

  “Come with me.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Join the Mime Order. You don’t have to stay here, Cade,” I said. “Sooner or later, Ménard will decide that you’re more of a danger than an asset, or find out about the affair. He’ll kill you.” I held his gaze. “There are other ways to fight.”

  His brows knitted tighter.

  “I want to see the baby. If I can,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Just once, so I remember.”

  I couldn’t deny him that. “This is goodbye, then. For now.”

  His face softened. “Yes.”

  To my surprise, he wrapped me into a tight embrace. As our auras flashed together, I had the sudden sense of falling, like I had missed a step. It was a sensation that both comforted and disconcerted me.

  Whatever it was, it faded in the time it took for me to dip into his pocket and slide out his key to the cellar. I gave Cade a brief pat on the back, and after a long moment, he let go of me. The hairs on my arms stood on end.

  “Take care of yourself,” Cade said. “It was good to see you again, Paige.”

  “And you.”

  He offered a final smile before he knocked on the door and was summarily let out. I walked to the window and risked a look between the curtains. Arcturus was out there somewhere.

  Tonight. I tried to weave a picture in my mind of my position. I have a way out, but be ready to run.

  The softest tremor answered me. As I rolled the stolen key between my fingers, I savored the brief sensation of his presence. It would give me the strength to take this final risk.

  ****

  Another small meal arrived. I drank every drop in the tureen of soup, ate every last crumb of bread. If I was going to get out of here without being shot, I would need enough strength to run, and to dreamwalk. After that, I lay still, the cellar key tucked into my blouse pocket, the shape of it concealed by my sweater.

  Cade had told me to make my escape around eight. Before that, I was going to visit Kornephoros Sheratan.

  When dusk mantled the citadel in shadow, I rose from the daybed and knocked on the door. A day Vigile unlocked and opened it, visor lowered, so I could only see his mouth. He was clad in full body armor, as if that would help against the only weapon I could presently use on him.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “Water.” I tried to look faint. “Please, Vigile.”

  His hand curled around the baton in his utility belt. “Fine,” he said. “Get back inside, anormale. Now.”

  I took a meek step back. He slammed the door in my face. Before long, I sensed one of the other Vigiles heading downstairs. Three to go. I slid into the æther.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw the world as if through stained glass. I had possessed the Vigile—the squadron leader—who stood outside my door. Out of sight, I removed the key from the lock and slipped it into a pocket on his utility belt.

  The other two Vigiles were smoking next to an open window. I checked my host for weapons. All I had at my disposal were a baton and a flux gun. The gun would be too slow—flux took a while to work on amaurotics.

  I had a transceiver. So did the pair by the window. Either of them would call for backup at the first sign of trouble. Ideally, I would sneak past and escape through the secret door without having to knock them all out. I needed to save my strength for life-or-death situations.

  “You two should take a break,” I said. After listening to my guards through the door all day, I could mimic the way this one spoke. “I’ll watch the unnatural.”

  “I wish we could accept.” One of them blew smoke out of the window. “But I’m not in the mood for another lecture from Kotzia.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.” I tried to sound bored. “Half an hour. You can owe me a favor.”

  The two Vigiles exchanged glances, then shrugged and left their posts. As soon as they were out of sight, I unlocked my cell, dropped my host behind the daybed, and snapped back into my own body. The Vigile stirred. I pulled off his helmet and hit him over the head with his baton. He let out a low groan as I stole his transceiver and flux gun.

  When the first guard returned with the water, I
was ready. The moment she realized her squadmates were gone and reached for her transceiver, I sprang from my body and knocked her senseless. By some miracle, the glass rolled across the floor instead of breaking.

  The base of my skull ached. I guessed I could use my gift once more without shattering my strength.

  I grasped the second Vigile under the arms and towed her into my cell, where I stripped her of her utility belt and jacket and slung them on. Only then did I shoot both the half-conscious Vigiles in the neck with the flux gun. The drug would keep them down until someone found them and brought the antidote. With the way clear, I locked them into my cell and turned right.

  For as long as the other two Vigiles stayed away, I had a head start. They would raise the alarm as soon as they returned.

  The last daylight strained across the attic floor. I half-ran past furniture draped with dust sheets, keeping low. Every creak of the floorboards made me tense. At the western end of the attic, I found the life-sized portrait of Jacquemine Lang, framed in gold, leaning against the wall.

  There was a small flashlight on my new belt. I illuminated the ornate panels behind the portrait and tested them for give. When I found the loose one, I pressed on it until it gave way, allowing me to move it aside. Cold air wafted from the pitch-black opening.

  A false interior wall. I hunkered down on my stomach and slid through.

  The ceiling snowed thick dust into my hair. I tried not to cough as I replaced the panel and shone the flashlight into the dark. Its beam revealed a set of cramped and winding stairs.

  I pulled off my shoes and slotted them into my belt. As soon as I had my bearings, I switched off the flashlight and tucked it away. Light could seep through any cracks and betray my position. There were still at least a hundred dreamscapes in and around the Hôtel Garuche.

  The darkness was crushing. Utterly blind, I edged down the staircase. The steps creaked underfoot. Any official working late could hear me through the thin wall that hid this forgotten part of the mansion. All the while, I was alert to the æther. It would do no good to run into Mylène and Jean-Michel.