“No.”
“You’ve got to eat something, Liss.” Julian gripped her cold wrist, but she didn’t respond.
When the beans were hot, Julian tipped her head back. I spoon-fed her, but she could hardly swallow. Beans ran down her chin. Cyril grabbed the tin and scraped out what remained with his bare hands. I sat back on my heels and watched as Liss sank into her sheets.
“This can’t go on.”
‘‘But we can’t do anything.” Julian clenched a fist. “Even if we found a deck, there’s no guarantee it’ll work. It’d be like giving her a new limb. She could reject it.”
“We have to try.” I looked toward Cyril. “Are there no other cartomancers here?”
“Dead.”
“Even if he’s wrong, we can’t take someone else’s deck,” Julian said, very quietly. “That’s worse than murder.”
“Then we steal from the Rephs,” I said. Crime was my forte. “I’m going to break into the House. They must have supplies in there.”
“You’ll die,” Cyril said, with no hint of distress.
“I survived a Buzzer. I’ll be fine.”
Julian looked up. “You saw one?”
“They live in the woods. Warden left me with one of them.”
“Does that mean you passed your tests?” Suspicion crossed his face. “You’re a red-jacket?”
“I don’t know. I thought I was, but”—I tugged my tunic—“this doesn’t look red.”
“That’s comforting.” He paused. “What was it like? The Buzzer.”
“Fast. Aggressive. I didn’t see much of it.” I looked at his new clothes. “Didn’t you see one?”
His smile was thin. “Aludra chucked me out just for missing the curfew. Plain old harlie, I’m afraid.”
Cyril was shivering. “Their bite is death,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t go out there again.”
“I might not have a choice,” I said. Cyril put his head in his arms. “Jules, pass a sheet.”
He did. I tucked it around Liss. She didn’t stop shivering. I rubbed her icy arms, trying to warm them up. Her fingers had blistered.
“Paige,” Julian said, “do you mean it? About breaking into the House?”
“Warden said they have supplies in there. Secret stores, things we shouldn’t see. Maybe Silvadene.”
“Has it occurred to you that it might be guarded? Or that the Warden might be lying?”
“I’ll risk it.”
He sighed. “I doubt I can stop you. And if you get in?”
“I’m going to steal as much as I can—anything I can use to defend myself—then I’m going to leave. Whoever wants to join me is welcome. Otherwise I’ll go alone. Whatever happens, I’m not going to rot here for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t do it,” Cyril said. “You’ll die. Like the ones who died before. The Buzzers ate them, too. And they’ll eat you.”
“Please, Cyril, enough.” Julian didn’t look away from me. “You go to the House, Paige. I’ll try and rally some troops.”
“Troops?”
“Come on.” The flame played in his eyes. “You’re not seriously going to leave without a fight, are you?”
I raised my eyebrows. “A fight?”
“You’re not going to go and pretend this didn’t happen. Scion has been doing this for two centuries, Paige. It’s not going to end. What’s to stop them dragging you straight back here when you reach SciLo?”
He had a point. “What do you suggest?”
“A prison break. Everyone gets out. We leave them with no voyants to feed on.”
“There are over two hundred humans here. We can’t just walk out. Besides, there are land mines in the woods.” I pulled my knees up to my chin. “You know what happened during Bone Season XVIII. I won’t have all those deaths on my conscience.”
“They won’t be on your conscience. People want to leave, Paige—they’re just not brave enough, not yet. If we can cause a big enough distraction, we can get them through the woods.” He placed a hand over my arm. “You’re from the syndicate. From Ireland. Don’t you think it’s about time we showed the Rephs they’re not in charge? That they can’t just keep on taking from us?” When I didn’t answer, he squeezed my arm. “Let’s show them. That even after two hundred years, they still have something to fear.”
I wasn’t seeing his face anymore. I was seeing Finn on that day in Dublin, telling me to fight.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said.
“I know I am.” His features lifted in a tired smile. “How many do you think we need?”
“Start with people who have good reason to hate the Rephaim. The harlies. The yellow-jackets. The amaurotics. Ella and Felix and Ivy. Then work on the white-jackets.”
“What should I tell them?”
“Nothing yet. Just ask some questions. Work out if they’d ever try and escape.”
Julian looked at Cyril.
“No.” Cyril shook his head. Behind his ruined glasses, his eyes were bright and feverish with fear. “I’m not. No way, brother. They’ll kill us. They’re immortal.”
“They’re not immortal.” I watched the Sterno burn to a low flame. “They can be hurt. Warden told me.”
“He could be lying,” Julian stressed. “This is Nashira’s fiancé we’re talking about. The blood-consort. Her right-hand man. Why do you trust a word he says?”
“Because I think he’s rebelled against her before. I think he’s one of the scarred ones.”
“The what?”
“A group of Rephs that started the rebellion of Bone Season XVIII. They were tortured. Scarred.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From a bone-grubber. XX-12.”
“You trust a bone-grubber?”
“No, but he showed me the shrine they made for the victims.”
“And you think the Warden is one of these ‘scarred ones,’” he said. I nodded. “You’ve seen the scars, I take it?”
“No. I think he hides them.”
“You think, Paige. That’s not enough.”
Before I could reply, someone swept into the shack. I froze.
The Overseer.
“Well, well, well.” His painted eyebrows jumped up. “It appears we have an imposter in our midst. Who has been on the silks, if XIX-1 has been in here this entire time?”
I stood. So did Julian. “She’s in spirit shock,” I said. I looked the Overseer dead in the eye. “She can’t perform in this condition.”
The Overseer knelt beside Liss, felt her forehead. She twisted away from his touch. “Oh dear, oh dear.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “This is terrible. Terrible tidings. I can’t lose 1. My special 1.”
Liss began to shriek. The sounds jolted out of her in heavy, trembling spasms. “Get away,” she gasped out. “Get away!” Julian grabbed the Overseer’s shoulder and gave him a hard shove.
“Don’t touch her.”
I stood beside him. Cyril rocked on his heels. At first the Overseer looked staggered, even aghast; then he started to laugh. He rose to his feet, clapping his hands in delight. One gloved hand reached into his jacket. “Is this a glimmer of rebellion, children? Have I let two hungry wolves into my flock?”
With a flick of his wrist, he brought out his bullwhip. A tool designed for handling livestock.
“I will not allow you to corrupt 1. Or any of my brood.” He cracked the whip toward me. “You may not be a performer yet, 40, but you will be. Get back to your keeper.”
“No.”
“Neither of us are going.” A fresh surge of determination crossed Julian’s face. “We’re not leaving Liss.”
The Overseer lashed out. Julian staggered. Blood wept from a fresh wound on his cheek. “You’re one of mine now, boy, and you’d better remember it.” I planted my feet a shoulder’s width apart. The grin flashed in my direction. “There’s really no need for this, 40. I will look after 1.”
“You can’t make me leave. I’m in the keeping of Arc
turus.” I stood my ground. “I’d pay to see you explain to him why you hit me.”
“I don’t intend to hit you, walker. I intend to herd you.”
The whip came hissing toward me again. Julian threw a punch at him, sending the blow awry. This was the bone-grubbers all over again. This time we would win.
A wildness rose inside me. I ran at the Overseer. My fist hit his jaw, and his head snapped around. Julian kicked his legs out from under him. His hand loosened around the whip. I tried to grab it, but he held on. His teeth bared at me: half-grin, half-snarl. Julian locked an arm around his neck. I wrested the whip from his hand, raised my hand to strike—only to have the whip snatched away from me. A boot crashed into my stomach, knocking me into the wall.
Suhail. I should have known. Wherever the Overseer went, his superior was never too far behind. Just like on the streets: the muscle and the boss. “Thought I might find you here, runt.” He grabbed me by the hair. “Causing trouble again, are we?”
I spat at him. He hit me so hard I saw stars. “I don’t care who your keeper is, little mongrel. The concubine doesn’t frighten me. The only reason I’m not slitting your throat is because the blood-sovereign has called for you.”
“Bet she’d love to hear you call him ‘concubine,’ Suhail,” I forced out. “Shall I tell her?”
“Tell her what you like. The word of a human means less than the incoherent salivation of a dog.”
He hauled me over his shoulder. I struggled and screamed, but I didn’t want to risk using my spirit. The Overseer cut the side of his hand into Julian’s head, knocking him to the ground. The last thing I saw was Julian and Liss, both at the mercy of a man I could no longer fight.
19
The Blossom
The Residence of the Suzerain seemed much colder and darker than it had at the oration. I was alone with Suhail, and I would probably be just as alone with Nashira. I had no keeper, no protection. Little spasms started to run up and down my legs.
Suhail did not take me to the oration room, nor to the chapel. Instead I was dragged through the corridors and pushed into a high-ceilinged room with round-headed windows. It was lit by an iron chandelier, decked with candles, and a massive fireplace. Its light played across the ceiling, casting shadows on the ribbed plaster vaulting.
At the center of the room was a long dining table. And at the head of the table, seated in an upholstered red chair, was Nashira Sargas. She wore a black dress with a high collar: sculptural, geometric in design.
“Good evening, 40.”
I didn’t speak. She motioned with her hand.
“Suhail, you may leave us.”
“Yes, blood-sovereign.” Suhail shoved me toward her. “Until next time,” he breathed in my ear, “mongrel.”
He stalked back through the doorway. I was left in the gloomy room, facing the woman that wanted to kill me.
“Sit,” she said.
I thought about taking the chair at the farthest end of the table—a good twelve feet away—but she indicated the one nearest to hers, on her left side, the side farthest from the fireplace. I walked around and lowered myself into the chair, my head pounding with every movement. Suhail hadn’t held back one bit on that last punch.
Nashira didn’t take her eyes off me. Green, like absinthe. I wondered whom she’d fed on tonight.
“You are bleeding.”
A serviette lay by the cutlery, clasped by a heavy gold ring. I dabbed my swollen lip with it, spotting the ivory linen with blood. I folded it, hiding the stain, and placed it on my lap.
“I suppose you must be frightened,” Nashira said.
“No.”
I should be. I was. This woman controlled everything. It was her name that was whispered in the shadows, her command that ended lives. Her fallen angels drifted nearby, never too far from her aura.
The silence grew. I didn’t know whether or not to look at her. In the corner of my eye, something caught the firelight—a bell jar. It stood in the very center of the table. Beneath the glass was a wilted flower, the petals brown and shriveled, propped up by a delicate wire stand. Whatever kind of flower it had been in life, it was unrecognizable in death. I couldn’t think why she would have a dead flower in the middle of her dinner table—but then, this was Nashira. She kept a lot of dead things hanging around.
She noticed my interest.
“Some things are better off dead,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the flower. And I wasn’t sure, but I thought my sixth sense trembled.
“Yes,” I said.
Nashira looked up. There were lines of plaster faces above the windows, at least fifty of them on each of the longest walls. I studied the nearest one a little closer, drawn to it. It was a relaxed, feminine face with a soft smile. The woman looked as peaceful as if she was asleep.
A heavy sickening swelled in my gut. It was L’Inconnue de la Seine, the famous French death mask. Jax had a replica in the den. He said the woman was beautiful, that she’d been a bohemian obsession in the late nineteenth century. Eliza had made him cover it with a sheet, much to his distaste. She said it gave her the creeps.
I looked slowly around the room. All of the faces—the people—they were death masks. I only just stopped myself gagging. Nashira didn’t just collect voyant spirits; she collected their faces, too.
Seb. What if Seb was up there? I forced myself to look down but my stomach roiled.
“You seem unwell,” Nashira said.
“I’m fine.”
“I am pleased to hear it. I would hate for you to fall ill at this crucial stage of your time in Sheol I.” She traced her dinner knife with a gloved finger, still looking at me. “My red-jackets will join us in a few minutes, but I wished to speak to you first. A little ‘heart-to-heart.’”
It fascinated me that she thought she had a heart.
“The blood-consort has kept me informed of your development. He tells me he has tried his utmost to bring out your gift,” she said, “but you have failed to achieve full possession of a dreamscape—even an animal dreamscape. Is this true?”
She didn’t know. “It’s true,” I said.
“A pity. Yet you faced one of the Emim and survived—even wounded the creature. For that reason, Arcturus believes you should be made a red-jacket.”
I didn’t know what to say. For whatever reason, Warden hadn’t told her about the butterfly. Or the deer. That meant he didn’t want her to know about my abilities—but he did want me to be a red-jacket. What was he playing at this time?
“How quiet you are,” Nashira observed. Her eyes were glacial. “You were not quite so timid at the oration.”
“I was told I should only speak when required.”
“You are required now.”
I wanted to tell her where to stick her requirements. I’d been insolent with Warden; I shouldn’t think twice about doing the same to her—but her hand still lay on the knife, and her fixed gaze held no qualms. Finally, trying to sound suitably abased, I said: “I’m happy the blood-consort thinks me worthy of a red tunic. I’ve tried my best in my tests.”
“No doubt. But let us not be complacent.” She sat back in her chair. “I have some questions for you. Before your inaugural feast.”
“Inaugural?”
“Yes. Congratulations, 40. You are a red-jacket now. You must be introduced to your new associates, all of whom are loyal to me. Even above their own keepers.”
Blood pounded in my ears. Red-jacket. Bone-grubber. I’d reached the highest echelons of Sheol I, the inner circle of Nashira Sargas.
“I wish to speak to you about Arcturus.” Nashira looked into the fire. “You have been keeping quarters with him.”
“I have my own room. On the upper floor.”
“Does he ever ask you to come out of it?”
“Only for training.”
“Nothing else at all? Perhaps some light conversation?”
“He has no interest in t
alking to me,” I said. “What could I say that would be of any concern to the blood-consort?”
“An excellent point.”
I bit my tongue. She had no idea how much I interested him, how much he’d taught me under her nose.
“I imagine you have explored his quarters. Is there anything in the Founder’s Tower that troubles you? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“He has some plant extracts I don’t recognize.”
“Flowers.”
When I nodded, she took something from the table. A brooch, badly tarnished by the years, it was shaped just like the flower on his snuff box. “Have you ever seen this symbol in the Founder’s Tower?”
“No.”
“You seem very sure.”
“I am sure. I’ve never seen it.”
She looked straight at me, into my eyes. I tried to hold her gaze.
A door closed in the distance. A line of red-jackets walked into the room, escorted by a male Reph I didn’t recognize. “Welcome, my friends.” Nashira beckoned them. “Please, sit.”
The Reph pressed a fist to his chest and left the room. I scanned the human faces. Twenty bone-grubbers, each wellfed and clean as a whistle. They must come in groups. The veterans from Bone Season XIX were at the front. Kathryn was there, as were 16 and 17. At the back of the line was Carl, clad in a red tunic, his hair combed and parted. He stared at me with wide, reproachful eyes. He must never have seen a pink-jacket at the blood-sovereign’s table.
They all took their seats. Carl was forced to sit in the only available chair—the one opposite me. David sat down a few places away. There was a fresh cut on his head, sealed with a row of Steri-Strips. He looked up at the death masks with raised eyebrows.
“I am pleased you could all join me tonight. Thanks to your continued efforts, there have been no notable Emite attacks this week.” Nashira looked at each of them in turn. “Having said that, we must not forget the constant threat of the creatures. There is no cure for their brutality, and—thanks to the broken threshold—no way in which to imprison them in the Netherworld. You are all that stands between the hunters and their prey.”
They nodded. They all believed it. Well, maybe not David. He was looking at one mask with a slight smile.
The Bone Season Page 25
