I kept sluicing away at the wound, pressing a little too hard. I saw no reason to be gentle with him.
“I was born in Ireland,” I said, “in a town called Clonmel. My mother was English. She ran away from Scion.”
He nodded, barely. I continued: “I lived with my father and grandparents in the Golden Vale, in the southern dairy-farming district. It was beautiful there. Not like Scion citadels.” I wrung out the linen, soaked it again. “But then Abel Mayfield got greedy. He wanted Dublin. That was when the Molly Riots started. Mayfield’s Massacre.”
“Mayfield,” Warden said, looking at the window. “Yes, I remember him. An unpleasant character.”
“You met him?”
“I have met every Scion leader since 1859.”
“But that would make you at least two hundred years old.”
“Yes.”
I tried not to falter in my work.
“We thought we were safe,” I said, “but in the end, the violence spread south. We had to leave.”
“What happened to your mother?” Warden kept his eyes on mine. “Was she left behind?”
“She died. Placental abruption.” I sat back. “Where’s the next bite?”
He pulled open his shirt. The wound ripped down his chest. I couldn’t tell if it was teeth or claws or something else that had made it. His muscles locked when I dabbed water on the torn skin. “Continue,” he said.
So I wasn’t such a boring human. “We moved to London when I was eight,” I said.
“Out of choice?”
“No. My father was conscripted by SciSORS that year.” I took his silence to mean that he didn’t know the shorthand. “Scion: Special Organization for Research and Science.”
“I know it. Why was he conscripted?”
“He was a forensic pathologist. Used to do lots of work for the Gardaí. Scion told him to find a scientific explanation for why people become clairvoyant. And why spirits linger after death.” I sounded bitter, even to my own ears. “He thinks it’s an illness. He thinks it can be cured.”
“Then he cannot sense your clairvoyance.”
“He’s amaurotic. How could he?”
He didn’t comment. “Did you have your gift from birth?”
“Not fully. I could sense auras and spirits from when I was very small. Then I was touched by a poltergeist.” I sat back to wipe my brow. “How long do you have left?”
“I am uncertain of that. Salt staves off the inevitable, but not for long.” He was quite blasé about this. “When did you develop the ability to dislocate your spirit?”
The talking was keeping me calm. I decided to be truthful, if only because he probably knew everything about me. Nashira had known I was from Ireland; they must have all sorts of records. He might be testing me, seeing if I’d lie to him.
“After the poltergeist touched me, I started having the same dream—at least, I thought it was a dream.” I emptied some water over his shoulder. “I dreamed of a field of flowers. The further I ran through the field, the darker it became. Every night I would go a little further, until one day I was at the very edge and I jumped, and then I was falling.” I set to work on the wound. “I was falling into the æther, falling out of my body. I woke up in the ambulance. My father said I’d sleepwalked into the living room, then just stopped breathing. They said I must have fallen into a coma.”
“But you survived.”
“Yes. And I wasn’t brain damaged. Brain hypoxia is a risk of my . . . condition,” I said. I didn’t like telling him about myself, but I supposed it was better that he knew. If he forced me into the æther for too long without life support, my brain would end up damaged beyond repair. “I was lucky.”
Warden watched as I cleaned his shoulder wound. “That would suggest to me that you do not enter the æther very often, for safety,” he said, “but you seem familiar with it.”
“Instinct.” I looked away from his eyes. “Your fever won’t break without medicine.”
In a sense I wasn’t lying. My gift was instinctive, but I wasn’t about to tell him that I’d been nurtured and trained by a mime-lord who’d kept me wired on life support.
“The poltergeist,” he said. “Did it leave scars?”
I took off one glove and held out my left hand. He looked down at the marks. I let him. It was unusual for a developing voyant to be so violently exposed to the æther.
“I guess there was already a break in me, something that let the æther in,” I said. “The ’geist just . . . flayed me open.”
“Is that how you see it?” he said. “The æther invading you?”
“How do you see it?”
“I make no comment on my own opinion. But many clairvoyants see themselves as invading the æther, not the other way around. They see it as disturbing the dead.” He didn’t wait for a response. “I have seen this happen before. Children are vulnerable to sudden changes in their clairvoyance. If they are exposed to the æther before their aura has properly developed, it can become unstable.”
I pulled my hand back. “I’m not unstable.”
“Your gift is.”
I couldn’t argue. I’d already killed with my spirit. If that wasn’t unstable, I didn’t know what was.
“There is a type of necrosis in my wounds,” Warden stated, “but it only affects Rephaim. The human body is able to fight it.” I waited for the point. “Rephaite necrosis can be destroyed by human blood. Provided their bloodstream is not compromised, a human can survive a bite.” He indicated my wrist. “Around a pint of your blood would save my life.”
My throat tightened. “You want to drink my blood.”
“Yes.”
“What are you, a vampire?”
“I would never have thought a Scion denizen would have read about vampires.”
I tensed. Shoot. Only a high-up syndicate member would have access to literature that included vampires, or any other supernatural creature. In my case it was a penny dreadful, The Vamps of Vauxhall, written by an anonymous medium from Grub Street. He spun all sorts of stories to make up for the lack of interesting literature available from Scion, using folk tales from the world beyond. His tales had such titles as Tea with a Tasser and The Fay Fiasco. The same writer had knocked out a few decent potboilers about voyants, like The Mysteries of Jacob’s Island. Now I wished I’d never read them.
Warden seemed to take my silence as a symptom of disquiet. “I am not a vampire, nor anything else you might have read about,” he said. “I do not feed on flesh or blood. It gives me no pleasure to ask for it. But I am dying, and it so happens that your blood—on this occasion, given the nature of my wounds—can restore me.”
“You don’t look or sound like you’re dying.”
“Trust me. I am.”
I didn’t want to know how they’d found out that human blood could combat this infection. I didn’t even know if it was true.
“Why should I trust you?” I said.
“Because I saved you the humiliation of having to perform in the Overseer’s troupe of fools. If you require one reason.”
“What if I need two?”
“I will owe you a favor.”
“Any favor?”
“Anything but your freedom.”
The word died on my lips. He’d anticipated my request. I should have known freedom was too much to ask—but a favor from him might be invaluable.
I picked up a shard of glass from the floor, part of a vial, and I sliced across my wrist. When I offered it, he narrowed his eyes.
“Take it,” I said. “Before I change my mind.”
Warden looked at me for a long time, assessing my face. Then he took my wrist and pulled it against his mouth.
His tongue skimmed over the open wound. There was a slight pressure as his lips closed over it, as he squeezed my arm to force out blood. His throat throbbed as he drank. He settled into a steady cadence. There was no sudden bloodlust, no frenzy. He was treating this as a medical procedure: clinical, detache
d, nothing more or less.
When he let go of my wrist, I sat back on the bed. Too fast. Warden guided me to the pillows. “Slowly.”
He walked to the bathroom, strong again already. When he returned, he was carrying a glass of cold water. He slid an arm under my back and lifted me into a sitting position, holding me in the crook of his elbow. I drank. It had been sweetened.
“Does Nashira know about this?” I said.
His expression darkened.
“She may question you about my absences. And my injuries,” he said.
“So she doesn’t know.”
No reply. He propped me up on some heavy velvet cushions, making sure my head was supported. The nausea was passing, but my wrist still dripped blood. Seeing it, Warden reached for the nightstand and procured a roll of gauze. My gauze. I recognized the band I’d secured it with. He must have taken it from my backpack. It made me cold to think of it in his hands. It reminded me of the missing pamphlet. Did he have it? Had he read it?
He took my wrist. His massive, gloved hands were gentle, covering the cut in sterile white. His way of thanking me, I supposed. Once the blood had stopped seeping through the gauze, he fixed the dressing with a pin and laid my arm across my chest. I kept my eyes on his face.
“It seems we are at a stalemate,” he said. “You have a talent for finding me in delicate situations. I would expect you to take pleasure in my times of weakness, yet you give me your blood. You clean my wounds. What is your motive?”
“I might need a favor. And I don’t like to watch things die. I’m not like you.”
“You judge too easily.”
“You watched while she killed him.” I should have been afraid to say these words, but I didn’t give a damn. “You watched. You must have known what she was going to do.”
Warden was unresponsive. I turned away from him.
“Perhaps I am a whited sepulchre,” he started.
“A what?”
“A hypocrite. I rather like the turn of phrase,” he said. “Perhaps you think me evil, but I do keep my word. Do you keep yours?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Tonight’s events must never leave this room. I wish to know if you will keep them secret.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it would not help you to tell it.”
“It would get rid of you.”
I thought his eyes changed.
“Yes. It would get rid of me,” he said, “but your life would not improve. If you were not thrown onto the streets, you might be given another keeper, and not all of them are as liberal as I am. By rights I should have beaten you to death for some of the things you have said to me over the past few days. But I understand your value. Others will not.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but the words fizzled out. I could hardly claim that he’d abused me. He’d never so much as raised a finger to me.
“So you want me to keep your secret.” I rubbed my wrist. “And in exchange?”
“I will try to keep you safe. There are an infinite number of ways you could die here, and you do not help yourself avoid them.”
“I have to die eventually. I know what Nashira wants with me. You can’t protect me.”
“Perhaps not, in the end, but I presume you would like to survive your tests.”
“What’s the point?”
“You can prove to her how strong you are. You are no yellow-jacket. You can learn to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“Yes, you do. It is in your nature to fight.”
The clock in the corner chimed.
Having a Reph ally was wrong. At the same time, it would significantly increase my chances of survival. He could help me get supplies, help me survive. Maybe for long enough to escape this place.
“Fine,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone. But you still owe me a favor.” I held up my wrist. “For the blood.”
Just as I said it, the door burst open. A Reph woman swept into the room: Pleione Sualocin. She looked first at the state of the room, then at me, and finally at Warden. Without a word, she tossed him a Vacutainer. Warden caught it in one hand. I looked at it.
Blood. Human blood. It was labeled with a small gray triangle. And a number: axiv. Amaurotic 14.
Seb.
I looked at Warden. He inclined his head, like we’d shared a little secret. A visceral revulsion overwhelmed me. I stood up, still weak from blood loss, and lurched up the stairs to my prison.
13
His Picture
I first met Nick Nygård when I was nine years old. When I saw him next, I was sixteen.
It was the summer term of 2056 and at the III-5 School for Girls of Quality, we Year Elevens had entered the most important period of our lives. We could stay at school for another two years, during which we would be doing University prep, or leave and find a job. In an effort to convert the undecided, the Schoolmistress had organized a series of lectures from inspirational speakers: SVD agents, media raconteurs—even an Archon politician, the Minister of Migration. That day was geared toward medical science. All two hundred of us were herded into the lecture hall, dressed in our black suits, red ribbons, and white blouses. Miss Briskin, the chemistry mistress, stepped up to the lectern.
“Good morning, girls,” she said. “Good to see you all so bright and early. Many of you have expressed an interest in scientific research as a career path”—I hadn’t—“so this should be one of our most thought-provoking lectures.” A smattering of applause. “Our speaker has already had a terribly exciting career.” I wasn’t convinced. “He transferred from the University of Scion Stockholm in 2046, completed his studies in London, and now works for SciSORS, the largest research facility in the central cohort. We’re truly honored to have him here today.” There was a shiver of excitement from the front. “Please put your hands together and welcome our speaker—Dr. Nicklas Nygård.”
My head snapped up. It was him.
Nick.
He hadn’t changed a bit. He was exactly as I remembered him: tall, soft-featured, handsome. Still young, though his eyes bore the burden of a hectic adult life. He wore a black suit and a red tie, like all Scion officials. His hair was smoothed back with pomade, a style popular in Stockholm. When he smiled, the prefects sat up straighter.
“Good morning, ladies.”
“Good morning, Dr. Nygård.”
“Thank you for having me here today.” He stuffed his papers with the same hands that had stitched my injured arm when I was nine. He looked right at me, and he smiled. Behind my ribs, my heart flickered. “I hope this talk is enlightening, but I won’t take offense if you fall asleep.”
Laughter. Most officials weren’t so jocular. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Seven years of wondering where he might be, and he’d walked into my school. A picture from my memory. He talked about his research into the causes of unnaturalness, and about his experiences as a student in two different Scion citadels. He made jokes and encouraged audience participation, asking questions as often as he answered them. He even had the Schoolmistress smiling. When the bell rang, I was first out of the lecture hall, heading for the corridor at the back of the lecture theater.
I had to find him. For seven years I’d tried to understand what had happened in the poppy field. There had been no dog. He was the only one who could tell me what had left the cold scars on my hand. The only one who could give me answers.
I headed down the corridor, buffeting past chattering Year Eights. There he was, outside the staff room, shaking the hand of the Schoolmistress. When he saw me, his eyes brightened.
“Hello,” he said.
“Dr. Nygård—” I could hardly get the words out. “Your speech was—very inspiring.”
“Thank you.” He smiled again, and his eyes pierced mine. He knew. He remembered. “What’s your name?”
Yes, he knew. My palms tingled.
“This is Paige Mahoney,” the Schoolmistress said, putting emphasi
s on my surname. My very Irish surname. She looked me up and down, taking in my loose bow and unbuttoned blazer. “You ought to get to class, Paige. Miss Anville has been very disappointed with your attendance of late.”
Warmth rose to my cheeks.
“I’m sure Miss Anville can spare Paige for a few minutes.” Nick gave her a winning smile. “I’d love to spend some time with her.”
“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Nygård, but Paige has been with the nurse a great deal recently. She needs to attend all her classes.” She turned to him, lowering her voice. “Irish girl. These brogues often make up their own minds as to how much work is necessary.”
My vision tunneled. A pressure pushed at the inside of my skull, as if it were about to explode. A trail of blood crept from the Schoolmistress’s nose.
“You’re bleeding, Miss,” I said.
“What?” When she looked down, blood dripped onto her shirt. “Oh, for—now look what I’ve done.” She covered her nose. “Don’t just stand there gawking, Paige. Get me a handkerchief.”
My head gave a throb. A gray web pulled across my eyes, tightening my vision. Nick stared at me as he handed her a packet of tissues. “Perhaps you should sit down, Schoolmistress.” He placed a hand on her back. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
As soon as the Schoolmistress was gone, Nick turned to face me.
“Do people often have nosebleeds around you?”
His voice was quiet. After a moment, I nodded.
“Have they noticed?”
“I’ve never been called unnatural yet.” I sought his gaze. “Do you know why it happens?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I might,” he said.
“Tell me. Please.”
“Dr. Nygård?” Miss Briskin put her head around the staff room door. “The governors would like to speak to you.”
“On my way.” As soon as she was gone, Nick said against my ear, “I’ll come back in a few days. Do not sign up for the University, Paige. Not yet. Trust me.”
He squeezed my hand. Then, just as quickly as he’d come, he was gone. I was left to cradle my books to my pounding heart, my cheeks hot and my hands clammy. A day hadn’t gone by when I hadn’t thought of Nick, and now he had returned. I gathered my composure and walked to my class, still struggling to see or think. He’d remembered my name. He knew I was that little girl he’d saved.
The Bone Season Page 17
