We broke formation to forge our own paths through the ossuary. At one point, my heel crunched right through the dome of a skull. A weak poltergeist lunged at me like a guard dog, outrage and anguish spilling through the æther. I froze, my scarred hand clenched to my chest.
The poltergeist stopped as if I had slapped it, then cringed away. I swallowed as Arcturus moved past me.
“They will not threaten a Rephaite,” he said. “Stay within reach of my aura.”
When he took another step, the spirits only trembled. I released a long-held breath and followed him.
Some bones were sharp enough to cut through skin. Now I understood the need for the gaiters. When the tunnel forced us into a crawl, I was grateful for them, and for the thick gloves. My palms crunched into knuckles and teeth and crumbs of spine. My knees ground into other knees. I started to mutter under my breath, greeting every skull, trying to write each bone a story. This jaw had once chewed fresh oysters and whelks by the Seine. Those fingers had once held a hammer, a paintbrush, a quill. I soon lost count. Even though I was icy cold, I told myself this was another hallucination, a remnant of my fever. I was not wrist-deep in a human rib cage, not crossing an endless hallway of the dead.
There must have been murders down here. It was the safest place in the world to dispose of a body.
Heavy breathing sounded behind me. I turned to see Malperdy rummaging in his jacket, his torso racked by huge retches.
In London, Nadine had carried headphones and an audio player to muffle the voices of the dead. Unlike Nadine, Malperdy wasn’t a whisperer—he must be either a sniffer or a gustant—but from the panic-stricken look on his face, he had mislaid whatever he used to get a handle on his gift. Seeing him cup his hands over his nose and mouth, Ankou grasped him by the shoulder and pushed a switchblade into his hand. Malperdy fumbled it open and pressed the tip into his arm, hard enough to draw blood.
I had always found it harder to dreamwalk when I was hurt. The knife was creating a needlepoint of pain, pulling his attention away from the æther. Ankou clapped him on the back.
“Malperdy,” I whispered, projecting my voice as much as I could. “Come closer to Warden.”
His eyes were streaming. Seeing me beckon, Ankou all but hauled him up, and the two of them waded toward us, bones rattling around their legs. With every footstep, Malperdy heaved.
Arcturus had stopped to wait for them. As soon as they were almost as close to him as I was, Ankou sighed in relief and rubbed his eyes.
Ahead, Ivy was inching along the wall, blowing out slow breaths. Léandre climbed gracefully from the bones and through another crack in the wall. I followed them into a new chamber, where the ground simply fell away. Léandre turned to face me, his skin tinged blue by our headlamps.
“Apollyon,” he said. “The entrance to Le Passage des Voleurs.”
Ivy stood at its edge. I planted a boot on the ground and looked down, into a bottomless pit.
Apollyon. Roughly circular, the shaft was a plunge into darkness—a toothless maw that waited to gulp me deeper into Paris. As if inhaled by it, I leaned closer. Beyond the reach of our headlamps lay a vast and solid black. In that void, I could almost hear the whispers of my torturer. Water dripping. My own screams.
“So,” I said, when I could speak, “how do we get to the bottom of the earth?”
“With this.”
Renelde tapped her boot on the ground. For the first time, I noticed the rope that snaked past us and disappeared into the chasm.
“From here,” she said, “the only way is down.”
****
After a ten-minute rest and several long gulps from a hip flask, Malperdy looked a little less peaky. As the most experienced climber, it fell to him to instruct us first-timers.
He warned us of the many ways we could die if we failed to remember his instructions. He was soft, if stern, in his explanations, careful when he buckled me into my harness. When he was sure we understood what to do, he wove the rope through a rusty mechanism that allowed him to control the speed of his descent. It was linked to his harness with a screw-lock carabiner.
“Ne tombe pas,” Léandre told him. “Je ne veux pas que tu salisses mes bottes au fond.”
Malperdy snorted and planted his heels on a crag. He let himself down a short way, feeding the greasy rope, then stopped to allow the descender to cool, hanging over the black chasm. He dropped in fits and starts, lower and lower, until the darkness of Apollyon quenched his lamp.
The rest of us waited a long time. Ankou sat on a slab of limestone and drank from the hip flask. Sweat pebbled his scalp. He reached into his massive backpack and took out a handheld device, which he switched on and studied. It looked Scion-made.
Ivy was bright-eyed with anticipation, fearlessly pacing the edge of the pit, as if daring it to swallow her. I afforded it a wide berth.
Arcturus gave the golden cord a questioning tug. I glanced at him and nodded, arms folded to contain my shivering.
Léandre eyed his watch. When it beeped, he nodded to Renelde. She went down next, followed by Ankou, who mopped his face with cloth before he started the descent. Ivy was fourth. She reeled down in great leaps, a breathy laugh escaping her. Léandre pursed his lips.
“You next, marcherêve,” he said, once his watch told him that Ivy had reached the bottom.
I attached myself to the rope the way Malperdy had showed me, my fingers numb on the carabiner. Once it was locked, Léandre came to double-check it. He gave a small grunt of satisfaction.
A tremor crossed the backs of my thighs as I swung my legs over the chasm. I had spidered my way up and down cranes, hung one-handed from bridges, scaled the spires of London. Never had there been such darkness waiting for me if I fell. I turned around, eased myself into the pit, and tested the rope. It took my weight.
My breath shallowed. I looked up once more. Arcturus gave me the smallest nod. I walked a short way down the wall, then pushed off and hung in midair, suspended over the abyss. The rope whirred as I began the descent.
The two small lights from above soon faded, and only mine remained. I fixed my gaze on the mechanism attached to my harness. Descending and braking required so much concentration that I could almost ignore the crushing blackness on all sides but the one I was facing. The walls were rugged and damp, more like a natural cave than anything shaped by human ambition.
I shouldn’t be afraid. Here, at least, I had a harness. In London, I had been one wrong step from death. Nick, always so cautious, had a blind spot when it came to climbing—he was willing to take risks, to be foolish. He used his bare hands and nothing else.
Perspiration trickled down my nape. I could smell the water on the walls. The journey was endless, the harness so tight my legs turned numb. My muscles ached. Fear urged me to go faster, to drop farther, just to get it over with. I let some more rope through the descender and sank deeper into the pit.
At last, I heard the murmur of voices, glimpsed the light below. I kicked for a foothold, dislodging a few tiny rocks. Finally, I angled my way through a very cramped section—Malperdy had called it la gorge de l’abîme—and then I was on solid ground, breathless and light-headed, knees trembling. Malperdy was there at once to detach me from the rope. I unbuckled the harness and coughed.
I was standing in a cavern, where a mining lantern cast a warm light. Ivy was sharing a steaming canteen with Renelde and Ankou, her oilskin bundled in her lap.
“Le Passage des Voleurs,” Malperdy said to me. He was holding the end of the rope, his eyes on the opening above. “You can take the gaiters off now, if you want.” I crouched to remove them. “I would say the worst is over, but that depends on your perspective.”
“I assume that was the worst of it for you.”
“Yes.” He shot me a glance. “I am a sniffer, if you were curious.”
“Must have stunk to hell up there.”
“You have no idea.” The rope swayed. “Spirits smell of hot metal to me. Most of t
he time I don’t mind it, but too much of it makes me sick. Reminds me of blood.”
“Interesting.” I removed the gaiters. “Sniffers can smell auras, too, can’t they?”
“Some of us.” He flashed me a smile. “Admit it. You want to know what you smell like.”
“Only if it’s not going to make me paranoid.” I left the gaiters on the pile. “And if you don’t have to come and sniff me.”
His smile broadened to a grin, showing sharpened canines.
“You smell different from any other voyant I’ve met. So does your bodyguard,” he said. “All anormaux smell a little like petrol—you know?” I nodded. Some older vehicles still used it. “But he smells of spirits, too.”
Even I had caught the scent of metal on Arcturus, when I had slept beside him. Just a faint trace.
“Usually, there are other aromas laced through it. Most people in one order share a similar scent. You smell like an oracle. Bitter almond and honey. But there’s something else.” Malperdy considered, eyes narrowed. “Smoke. You smell of smoke.”
“Could be worse,” I said. “I was afraid you were going to say I smelled like week-old laundry.” My headlamp picked out beads of water on the ceiling. “How far down are we?”
“Several hundred feet.”
“Something tells me they didn’t mine this far just for limestone.”
“Maybe for gold. Or it could have been a siege tunnel.” Without letting go of the rope, Malperdy blotted his face on his sleeve. “Or they were looking for another realm. We want that, I think. We crawl into the deepest caves, touch the bottom of the sea, try to reach the stars.” He gestured upward. “We are forever looking for other worlds. Stranger ones.”
“And that’s what you found down here. A stranger world.”
“Exactly.”
We exchanged a smile.
Ivy had been right. This part of the carrières did feel a little warmer. I took off my oilskin and tied the arms around my waist, willing my pulse to slow. My skin had a dull sheen.
“What’s he like?” I leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Le Vieux Orphelin.”
“He is both leader and brother to us. Renelde was first to join him,” Malperdy said. “They were both born in the Scion Citadel of Lyon, in a district under the control of a brutal anormal named Louvel, who took a special interest in Renelde.”
Renelde smiled at whatever Ivy was saying. Her hands were restless, interpreting both ways.
“When she was sixteen, she met Le Vieux Orphelin,” Malperdy continued, quieter. “He was only seventeen himself, but he sheltered her in his bookshop and promised to help her escape. In the end, she found her own way out . . . but it was around that time that Ménard was posted to Lyon. Somehow they drew his eye.” He glanced at Renelde. “They fled to Paris, where Léandre and La Tarasque joined them. Then the rest of us. Ankou is the most recent arrival.”
“I’m going to take a guess,” I said. “You call yourselves les perdues because you were all lost before.”
“In various ways. Ankou is a fugitive,” Malperdy said. “There has been a bounty on his head for a few months.”
“I’ve never seen him on the screens.” I looked toward Ankou. “Why is he on the run?”
“I don’t know. Le Vieux Orphelin does, but he has told the rest of us not to ask. We respect that.”
“And you?”
“My uncle threw me out when I was twelve. It was kinder than sending me to the Vigiles.” He flexed his calloused fingers around the rope. “I tried to steal from Renelde. I thought she would kill me. Instead, she took me to Le Vieux Orphelin.” He looked at me. “I think that you and he are alike. Together, you could change the world for anormaux. Make it a safe place for us.”
His faith was both touching and nerve-racking.
“I hope so,” I said.
The rope trembled. I used the lull in our journey to dig out my box of medicine and swallow another capsule with as much water as I could manage. At last, a pair of boots came into view, then a head of white hair.
“Bon travail,” Léandre said, and we all stood to attention. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Wait,” I said. “Where’s Warden?”
Cocking an eyebrow, Malperdy nodded to a point over my shoulder. I startled when I saw Arcturus, bold as a mobster’s shirt, standing right behind me.
“How the hell did you get there?”
His eyes were a comfort in the dark. “Being a Rephaite has certain advantages.”
“You’re going to have to give me your full list of skills at some point.”
“Allow me to preserve a little of my enigma.”
I smiled at him. When I turned back to the others, Ivy was watching us from the corner.
“Welcome to Le Passage des Voleurs,” Léandre said. “From here, the world only gets darker.” He nodded to the lantern. “There are points where the air is thin. Stay close to each other, keep your mouths shut, and pray these tunnels hold.”
****
For a long time, we moved on a steady course downward, into ever-smaller passageways. While there were fewer spirits, the darkness was unyielding. According to Renelde, we were somewhere deep under the Forêt de Meudon, one of the two ancient forests to the west of Paris.
“How did you haul the old treasures through these passages?” I asked Léandre in an undertone. He stiffened as if I had shouted. “The chandeliers—”
“We dismantled what we could,” he said. “It took several trips to retrieve larger items.”
His patience with me seemed to wear thinner every time I spoke. “It was a pity to break the harp, but we found someone to put it back together,” Renelde said softly. I thought of my grandfather, who had loved to restore instruments. “The trade has made us a good coin on the black market. We will have money for the cause, Underqueen.”
“If Le Vieux Orphelin chooses to share it,” Léandre muttered. “It is his coin, after all.”
Silence closed in on us. I had no strength or coherence to waste. Once again, my hand strayed to the stimulant, but surely Léandre would let us rest soon. We must have been on the move for well over a day.
He led us on at a relentless pace. After a while, a stream of water appeared, dark as spilled oil. From an underground spring or lake in the forest, Renelde told me, which the perdues had yet to find.
Perhaps the Underqueen would care for a drink.
Buried alive. No one to find me. My legs shook, my stomach cramped, and I started weaving like a drunk. Everywhere, the darkness. Crushing darkness.
At last, I could stand it no longer. I braced my good hand against the wall and tried to fill my hollow chest, but the air down here was thick as wet clay, drying in my throat.
“Paige.” Arcturus stopped. “Malperdy, tell Léandre to wait.”
“He won’t like it.”
“No,” I said, but my voice was hoarse. “I’ll carry on. I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” Renelde said firmly. “Sit.”
She guided me to the ground. Seeing the state of me, Malperdy cursed and went after Léandre.
There are ways to inflict pain. I shook my head as if I could dislodge the voice. Teeth clenched, I tried to get up, but my boots were as heavy as solid iron. My brow hit my knees. No need to be frightened, Underqueen—
“What is going on here?” Léandre had returned, splintering the hallucination. “Now is not the time to rest,” he hissed, an undertow of genuine anger in his voice. I looked up at him wearily. “I told you what to expect down here, marcherêve. If you are too weak for the journey—”
“Back off, princeling,” Ivy snapped at him. The words echoed. “She was waterboarded.”
The fury rushed out of Léandre. He gave me an odd look.
“One break,” he said, deadly soft. “If any of you raise your voices down here again, I will leave you to die.”
Ivy stared him out, and he stalked away. Arcturus stepped into the space he had left, arms folded, back to play
ing the bodyguard. I took the hip flask Ankou offered and sniffed it.
“Where did you get alcohol?” I said. He watched my face intently as I spoke, glanced at Renelde, then held a hand up flat and passed it twice over his mouth, his lips tilted up at the corners.
“He’s being coy,” Renelde said, signing to him as she spoke. “Ankou likes his secrets.”
Ankou shrugged. I thought of asking him why he was on the run, but if he hadn’t told the other perdues, I doubted he would tell me. Renelde dabbed her forehead and looked after Léandre.
“Forgive him, Underqueen,” she said. “He and Le Vieux Orphelin are . . . âmes jumelles. When they are parted, a fire consumes him.” She tipped her head against the wall. “I want to save Le Vieux Orphelin, too. I have been with him since I was sixteen—but I also know we will be no use to him if we are exhausted when we arrive. Léandre is too in love to see reason.”
Léandre was at the other end of this section of the tunnel now, staring a hole into the wall.
“I understand,” I said.
“He is a little bitter, too,” she added under her breath. “Before he went missing, all Le Vieux Orphelin talked about for days was you. His relief that London had bowed to a revolutionary leader instead of another lazy and brutal chair-warmer. How he longed to join our syndicates. Léandre is afraid he will be cast aside. That Le Vieux Orphelin will want you as a compagne d’armes.”
“He’s never met me. I might be a colossal disappointment.”
“It’s the idea of you, ma chère.”
She went to speak to Léandre. Ivy stayed on one side of me, while Ankou sat down on the other.
“Sorry, Paige,” Ivy murmured. “I didn’t mean to tell Léandre about the waterboarding.”
“Probably good that he knows.”
With a nod, she leaned against the damp wall. I closed my eyes, shutting out my surroundings, and drank from the hip flask. The brandywine kindled a welcome heat in my chest.
My head was so heavy. If I didn’t get up now, I never would. I handed the flask back to Ankou, stood and started moving again, before Léandre could haul me up by the scruff of my neck. The others got up and came after me.
The Mask Falling Page 30
