“They’ll be interfering a lot more if we don’t fight them, Jax,” I said. “We can’t let them carry on with the Bone Seasons.”
“Darling, your lamp-eyed friends can be dealt with later. Let them play with their puppets.”
It was all I could do not to raise my voice. “We have to warn the syndicate. They’re installing Senshield in two months. If we don’t pull together—”
“Paige, Paige. Your enthusiasm is to be commended, but let me remind you that we are not freedom fighters. We are the Seven Seals. Our duty is to I-4 and to London. As members of the syndicate, we must protect our assigned section. That is our sole purpose.”
“Everything we know will be meaningless if the Rephs come here. We’re living in their lie.”
“A lie that sustains the syndicate. That gave birth to it. You cannot, and will not, change its character.”
“You did. Your pamphlet did.”
“That was quite a different matter.” He placed a hand over mine. It was a soft hand; mine was callused, hard from climbing and handling weapons. “There is a reason I forbade you all to take long-term partners. I require your complete commitment to I-4. And while you think of the Rephaim, you are not thinking of I-4. In these restless days, I simply can’t afford to have a mollisher whose mind is not entirely focused on her tasks. Do you understand that?”
I didn’t understand at all. I wanted to grab him by the lounging robe and shake him.
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
“You will, my mollisher. Time heals all things.”
“I’m not going to stop, Jaxon.”
“If you want to keep your place in the syndicate, you will.” He stood. “There is one thing that you gained during your time away from Seven Dials. You realized your potential for leadership.”
I kept my face still. “Leadership?”
“Don’t play the fool. You organized an entire rebellion in that rotting cage they put you in.”
“Not alone.”
“Ah, modesty. It’s a vice. True, you might have struggled without your friends. But on that meadow, you were a queen. You even made a speech! And words, my walker—well, words are everything. Words give wings even to those who have been stamped upon, broken beyond all hope of repair.”
I wished I had words now.
“Do you know how old I am, Paige?”
The question took me by surprise. “Thirty-five?”
“Forty-eight,” he said. I couldn’t help but stare. “As a member of the fifth order of clairvoyance, my life expectancy is rather low. And when I join joyfully with the æther, you will come into possession of I-4. You will be a young, capable, and intelligent mime-queen, part of the highest order, with many loyal clairvoyants at your beck and call. You will have the citadel at your feet.”
I tried to imagine it: the Pale Dreamer, mime-queen of I-4. Owning this building. Knowing that every voyant in the section would follow me. Having a voice far louder than a mollisher’s.
Jaxon held out his hand. “A truce,” he said. “Forgive my poor judgment, and I will give you everything.”
I was a fugitive now. A wanted fugitive. Without the gang, and with the fear of the White Binder’s retribution, I’d be fair game for every busker and beggar who’d ever thought about selling information to Scion. Everyone else would pretend I wasn’t there. Jaxon was my only link to the syndicate, and the syndicate was the only organized force of voyants that could possibly stand against Scion. I had no intention of being silent, but for now, I’d have to play along. I took his hand, and he shook it.
“You’ve made the right decision.”
“I hope so,” I said.
His grip grew tight. “Two years. Until then, you remain my mollisher.”
My heart squeezed, but I forced myself to nod. His stiff little smile returned.
“Now, we ought to discuss this wretched fugitive situation with the others.” He placed a gentle hand on my back and guided me out to the landing. “There are certain precautions we must take if we’re to continue living as spiders in Weaver’s web. Danica!” He rapped on the ceiling with the end of his cane. “Danica, drop those mechanisms and send for my darlings. We are having a huddle, and we are having one forthwith.”
Without waiting for a reply, Jaxon led me into his office. His boudoir, as he called it. Chenille curtains fell past the windows, blocking out all natural light. A chaise longue idled on splayed legs. Behind it was the tall cabinet where the absinthiana was usually locked, and a bookshelf full of Grub Street titles, not including Didion’s. The room smelled of tobacco smoke and rose oil. An antique lampshade threw tiny fragments of color across the floor, as if we were walking across shattered jewels: amethyst and sapphire, emerald and tiger’s eye, orange garnet, fire opal and ruby. Jaxon sat in his bergère and lit a cigar.
He wanted me to forget. The Rephaim were dangerous and they were out there, lying in wait, and I seemed to be the only one who gave a damn about it.
Danica came trudging into the room, looking sour. The other three followed half a minute later, all looking different degrees of exhausted. When Eliza saw me, she grinned. “Knew you’d come back.”
“Can’t keep away,” I said.
“The spirits led her to us, my medium. Just as I said they would.” Jaxon waved them all in, trailing smoke. “Sit, my lovelies. We have important matters to discuss.”
I still couldn’t believe he was forty-eight. There was scarcely a line on his face, and his black hair showed no hint of gray.
“First of all, payment. Nadine, for you.” With a flourish, he handed her an envelope. “You did well in Covent Garden this week. There’s also a small cut from the last spirit we sold.”
“Thanks.”
“For you, Ezekiel. You’ve done your tasks superbly, as usual.” Zeke caught his packet with a grin. “As for you, Danica, I’m withholding your pay until you show me some progress.”
“Fine,” she said, looking bored.
“And, finally, Eliza. My dearest.” He held out the thickest envelope, and she took it. “We received an excellent sum of money for your last painting. Here, as always, is your fair cut.”
“Thank you, Jax.” She tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. “I’ll put it to good use.”
I tried not to look at the envelope in Zeke’s hands, full of precious notes. If I’d gone back to Jaxon sooner, I could have had a week’s salary under my belt.
“Now, to business. As there is a wanted fugitive living under my roof, I thought we ought to run through emergency protocol for I-4, and for leaving the den during red days.” Jaxon tapped away his cigar ash. “First and foremost, you are to continue avoiding the London Underground. If you need to travel to another section, I will personally arrange for an I-4 buck cab to take you there.”
“Can we walk?” Eliza sat up straighter, looking startled. “Short distances, at least?”
“If you must. “Always, always use your aliases within the syndicate, and any other name outside it. Avoid streets with cameras—you know where they are, but look out for wireless additions. Cover as much of your lovely faces as you can when leaving the den, and leave the den only when absolutely necessary.”
“So we don’t have to go to Didion’s bullshit auctions anymore?” Nadine said, looking pleased.
“Auctions are perfectly safe, as is the black market.” Jaxon patted the back of her hand. “I abhor the very air he has the nerve to keep inhaling, darling, but his particular brand of bullshit is lucrative. Besides, now our wonderful Paige is back, she will be taking over the bidding. Along with her other duties as mollisher.”
Nadine’s jaw flexed. “Right,” she said. “Good.”
I raised an eyebrow. With a quick, measuring glance between us, Jaxon settled back in his chair.
“Now, to business. For the next two weeks, the hunt will be at its most intense. After that, we will be able to lower our defenses a little.”
“Jaxon,” I interrupted, “the Reph
aim know about us and where we live. They know about you. Shouldn’t we have an escape plan?”
There was a ring of china as Eliza knocked her cup against the table. “They know where we live?”
Jaxon raised his eyes to the ceiling. It was clear that he didn’t want the Rephaim mentioned within earshot of the others, but I didn’t care. I might have agreed to work for him again, but he couldn’t just brush them under the carpet. “They had voyants doing séances,” I continued, “and they were getting flashes of the sundial pillar. It’s only a matter of time before they find out where it is.”
“Oh, come now. There are plenty of pillars in the citadel, not to mention a vast number of sundials.” Jaxon stood. “Let them hunt. This citadel will crumble into dust before we permanently abandon our den. I will not desert this territory based on strangers’ séances.”
“They wanted you as well as Antoinette. And they won’t wait long to try again.”
“I have higher concerns than the vagaries of monsters.” He snatched up his cane. “But to soothe your young minds, I shall show you something.”
He led us down the staircase to the ground floor of the den. There wasn’t much to see in the hallway; just a dusty, wall-sized mirror, Zeke’s bike, and a locked back door, which led out to the courtyard. Jaxon indicated the narrow space under the stairs.
“Do you see those floorboards?” He gave them a smart rap with his cane. “Beneath those floorboards is the bolthole of Seven Dials.”
Eliza frowned. “We have a bolthole? An escape route?”
“We do.”
“We’ve all lived here for years, and you never thought to show us?” Nadine said.
“Of course not, my lovely. Where was the need? You and Zeke are presumed dead as doornails, and nobody particularly cared about the rest of us. Until now,” he added, looking at me. “Besides, it wasn’t always there. I had it built after an unexpected raid on I-4. Eliza and Paige will remember it.” That was when we’d had to flee to Nick’s apartment. “This is primarily a hiding place. If the NVD were to come here looking for Paige, she could simply tuck herself into the bolthole for a few hours. If the situation were to escalate, she could push a panel at the back, which would lead to a tunnel that runs from here to Soho Square.”
He removed the blade from his cane and used it to pull up one of the floorboards. The space beneath the panel was about six feet deep and nine feet wide.
“That looks like somewhere you’d be buried alive.” Eliza looked dubious.
“Note that keyword, my medium. Alive. The antonym of dead.” Jaxon pushed the board back down. “Bear it in mind. For now, remember my rules, and we will all be perfectly safe.” He snapped his fingers. “Get back to work, now. Paige, you come with me.”
I followed him. Nadine gave me an angry look as I passed, but she was gone before I could ask why.
“Don’t frighten the others, darling.” Jaxon closed the office door behind me. “They don’t need to hear about the Rephaim.”
“Apart from Eliza, they were all in Sheol I,” I said, trying to sound calm. “They saw it for themselves.”
“I don’t want them preoccupied. With a red zone in place, this is a perilous time for us all.” He swept paperwork from his desk. “Now, back to business. We’ve been losing a great deal of money in I-4. Nadine has done a halfway decent job as a temporary mollisher, but she isn’t you, and you were terribly good at making coins appear in my coffers. With you at the Juditheon, I can send Nadine back to Covent Garden with her violin.”
I sat. “She might not like that.”
“Well, she did it before, didn’t she? Did I not employ her for the specific purpose of busking?”
“Yes, Jaxon,” I said, as patiently as I could, “but she might not appreciate having her income cut. Were you paying her my wages?”
“You didn’t need them, did you?” he said, looking for all the world like I’d asked him if grass was green. “She’s a whisperer, Paige. Music is her equivalent of a numen.” He whipped a scroll of paper from a drawer, sealed with what looked like a miniature bow tie. “Here it is. An invitation to the next Juditheon auction.” He tossed it to me. “I’m sure Didion will be delighted to see you.”
I tucked it into my back pocket. “I thought you wanted us all to stay inside?”
“As I just said, Paige, we are losing income. Unless you wish to stay in here and watch our money roll away like water off a crystal ball, you will have to work.”
“You’re not losing your touch, are you?”
“Silly girl. Never blame your mime-lord for the failures of his dogsbodies. There are a number of reasons for the loss,” he said, sitting on the edge of his writing table. “Several of our most lucrative buskers have been detained—not being cautious enough, clearly, wretched fools—no offense to you, of course, dolly. Two key establishments have failed to pay their rent. On top of that, the whole section has been slacking off since you were taken. I need that surveillance camera of a spirit, darling.” He unlocked a cabinet and sifted through a line of bottles. “Oh, and one more thing: we can’t have you walking around looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you, my lovely. That hair of yours is far too easy to spot.” He held out a glass bottle and a small container. “There. You have the tools,” he said. “Make yourself invisible.”
7
Under the Rose
“Do I hear one hundred?”
A single white candle burned in an alcove, the only light in the underground crypt. Wax dripped as the flame swayed in a draft, watched by a stone cherub with stumps where its wings had been. My boots were propped up on a velvet footrest, my arm slung over the back of the upholstered chair. A few moments passed before a paddle was raised.
“One hundred to IV-3.” Didion Waite cupped a hand around his ear. “Do I hear two hundred?”
Silence.
“Can I tempt you with one hundred and fifty, my mollishers and mobsters? Your mime-lords and mime-queens will be thrilled with this one, truly. Ask the sergeant for his secrets, and you might just bag yourself a Ripper lady. And if you bag yourself a Ripper lady, who knows? You might just bag yourself a Ripper.” Another paddle went up. “A believer! One hundred and fifty from VI-5. You’ve come a long way to claim this prize, sir. Anyone for two hundred, ladies and gentlemen? Ah, two hundred? No, three hundred! Thank you, III-2.”
Auction by candle was always tedious; the damn thing never seemed to burn down. I picked at a loose thread on my blouse. When Didion called for four hundred, I raised my paddle.
“Four hundred to—” Didion twirled his gavel. “I-4. Yes. Four hundred to the Pale Dreamer. Or perhaps we should call you Paige Eva Mahoney?”
A few people gave me curious glances. My back stiffened.
Had he just . . . ?
“Will we be auctioning you off next, madam,” he continued, plainly enjoying himself, “given your current status with Scion?”
Murmurs blew from ear to ear. My skin prickled.
Didion Waite had just unmasked me.
Although the Pale Dreamer was well known, her face and real name were not. Some syndicate members had abandoned their legal identities, giving themselves wholly to the underworld, but the other half still held on to respectable jobs in Scion, forcing them to hide behind masks and aliases. I’d always been one of those who led a double life. Given my father’s position, and my desire to stay in touch with him, Jaxon had always made me wear a red cravat over my lips and nose when I carried out my duties as his mollisher. I recovered quickly enough to call out, “Only if you’ll bid on me, Didion.”
Laughter rose from the front rows, making him bristle.
“Well, I shall have to pass on that option, being utterly committed to the memory of my Judith. You look like your mime-lord’s doppel-gänger, madam,” he said, his face florid. “Is the White Binder so in love with his own reflection that he’s painted it on to his mollisher?”
My hair had been dy
ed black and cut so it was level with my chin, baring the length of my neck. The contact lenses were hazel rather than Jaxon’s pale blue, but Didion wouldn’t have noticed that.
“Oh, no. I’m sure Binder knows that one of him is quite enough for you, Didion,” I said, cocking my head. “You’ve already lost one pamphlet war against him, after all.”
Nobody bothered to suppress their snickering. Spring-heel’d Jack let out such a hoot of mirth that the Pearl Queen started in her seat, and Didion turned from pink to puce. “Order,” he snapped, then muttered: “And I am working on a new pamphlet, madam, thank you very much—one that will wipe that rag On the Merits from the pages of history, you mark my words . . .”
Jimmy O’Goblin, who was sitting next to me, shook with laughter as he drank from his hip flask. A tap on my shoulder made me turn my head. A courier whispered in my ear, “You’re really the girl Scion’s after?”
I crossed my arms. “No idea what he’s talking about.”
“Do I hear five hundred?” Didion asked, with dignity.
I forced myself to pay attention, trying to ignore the looks and whispers. It was rare for a syndicate member to be publicly unmasked. Didion had seen my face once, about a year ago. He must have loved giving me away like that, but his spite had made me twice as vulnerable.
The spirit up for grabs was one Edward Badham, a police sergeant of the famous H Division. They’d been the law enforcers of the monarch days, specifically those assigned to the Whitechapel area. It was only after Queen Victoria had died and her son had been ousted as an unnatural that V Division, the blueprint for Scion’s clairvoyant police force, had been founded by Lord Salisbury. Any spirit with a connection to H Division could provide an excellent Ripper lead. I could see Spring-heel’d Jack, Jenny Greenteeth, and Ognena Maria at the front, throwing their paddles up at every opportunity. On the other side of the room was the Highwayman, the hard-faced mollisher of II-6. I’d never heard of him missing a Ripper-related auction.
As the candle burned, the price of Sergeant Badham’s essence climbed. Soon there were only six of us bidding. Jaxon was probably the richest mime-lord in the citadel, but in Juditheon auctions, the candle kept things fair. I watched for the tell-tale burst of light before it died. When it happened, I raised my paddle—and a split second later, so did someone else.
The Mime Order Page 10
