Only then did it sink in.
A new Underlord. We were getting a new Underlord.
“This could be our chance,” I said. “If someone else takes Hector’s place, we could change things, Jax.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps we could.” In the ensuing silence, Jaxon leaned over to his cabinet and procured a slim crutch. “The wound may weaken you, and your muscles will be stiff for a few hours.” He pressed the crutch into my hands. “You won’t be running for a while, my injured lamb.”
A mollisher knew when she was dismissed. I left with my head high. As I opened the door to my room, I stopped dead.
Jaxon Hall was laughing his head off.
PART II
The Rephaite Revelation
For the Merits of Unnaturalness are many, and ought to be known throughout our Underworld, from the Devil’s Acre and the Chapel to the brave Stronghold of I Cohort.
—An Obscure Writer, On the Merits of Unnaturalness
Interlude
Ode to London Under the Anchor
The Cheapside steeple was pale against the sky, and all across the citadel the homeless were scattering dirt on their pit fires. Night Vigiles were returning to their barracks after twelve long hours of hunting and harrowing. Those that hadn’t filled their arrest quotas would be beaten black and blue by their commandants. Still they seemed no closer to finding Paige Mahoney.
At the Lychgate, three corpses swayed in the breeze. An urchin stole the laces from their shoes, watched by crows with bloody beaks.
On the banks of the Thames, the mudlarks crept from their sewers and dug their fingers into the dirt. Prayed for a glint of metal in the silt.
A handful of buskers checked their watches and set off for the Underground, hoping for change from heavy-eyed commuters. They were trading cash for coffee, plucking the Daily Descendant from a vendor and looking at the faces on the cover without seeing them. Deep in the financial district, with their own silk nooses pinned to their shirts, they would count out the coins that would pay for the cycle.
And the homeless were still homeless, and the corpses still danced. Puppets on a hangman’s string.
10
Ding Dong Bell
In the darkness before dawn, the voyants of I Cohort waited for the sign. Bow Bells would ring for one reason, and one only. To acknowledge the death of the Underlord.
A single chime rang out. Traditionally, one brave voyant would steal into the church at dawn and ring the bells for as long as possible before the Vigiles arrived. One of the Abbess’s people had been chosen to do the deed.
Eleven chimes later, sirens keened from the Guild of Vigilance. Other voyants had climbed up buildings and trees to watch the courier’s climb, but they soon began to leave.
Three of us had camped out on the roof of the old tower on Wood Street, part of yet another former church. Once we’d climbed it, the night had been spent waiting for the dawn, watching the stars, laughing at old memories of Jaxon.
It was rare for me to spend such a long time with Zeke, and I found that I was glad he’d come with us. Sometimes it was easy to forget that we were all friends, despite the bizarre circumstances. It hadn’t been so easy to forget that today I would face the Unnatural Assembly.
The courier’s silhouette darted away across the rooftops of Cheapside. Nick, who’d been watching Bow Bells in silence, sat down and poured three flutes of sparkling rose mecks. “Here’s to Haymarket Hector, friends,” he said in a grave tone, raising one towards the church. “The worst Underlord the citadel has ever seen. May his reign be swiftly forgotten by history.”
With a long yawn, Zeke sat down and helped himself to a flute. I stayed where I was.
Two days after the killings, a letter had appeared in our dead drop, along with a sprig of hyacinth. The mistress of ceremonies had called for anyone with knowledge of the murder to come forward and give evidence. After four days, another notice had been sent out, giving Cutmouth three further days to present herself to the Unnatural Assembly and clear her name before she could claim the crown. Finally, a third letter had appeared to announce the date of the scrimmage.
Haymarket Hector had been buried by I-2 footpads beneath the ruins of St. Dunstan-in-the-East. Overgrown and beautiful, with a canopy of leaves, it was where all syndicate leaders were interred.
The first sunrise of October bathed us in a golden haze, burning away the mist and dew. The Vigiles, finding nothing at the church, retreated back to their headquarters.
Jaxon and I had received a formal summons to the Assembly, the first time such a summons had been sent in many years. Neither of us knew what it was about, but they’d most likely ask me about my involvement in Hector’s death. If they found me guilty, I would end up in the Thames.
The wind whipped my hair as I looked out at the citadel, as it worked its dark enchantment on my state of mind. To the south was the bleak needle spire of Old Paul’s, the highest building in all of Scion London and the seat of the Inquisitorial courts, where voyants were occasionally given televised sham trials before they were sentenced to death. The sight of it gave me a chill.
“There’s something beautiful about it, isn’t there?” Nick murmured. “The very first time I saw London, I wanted to be part of it. All those layers of history and death and grandeur. It makes you feel as if you could be anything, do anything.”
“That’s why I wanted to stay with Jax.” I watched the lights fade from the buildings as the sun rose. “To be part of it.”
There was another major building nearby. The Bank of Scion England stood on Threadneedle Street, the heart and soul of the financial district. A vast hologram of the anchor rotated above it. That was the bank that sustained this citadel, funded the capital punishment of voyants, and pumped money to Scion’s network of citadels and outposts. No doubt it was also responsible for ensuring that the Rephaim were kept in extraordinary opulence.
And this was what I was trying to fight. The empire and its riches against one woman and her pillowcase of pennies.
“Were there any voyant organizations in Mexico, Zeke?” I asked.
“Not many. I heard some of them call themselves healers or witches, but most people don’t know what they are.” He toyed with his shoelace. “There weren’t that many voyants at all in the city where I lived.”
A sharp pang of nostalgia. It had been a long time since I’d been a free-worlder. Since I’d lived in a world where clairvoyance wasn’t even acknowledged, let alone treason. “Sometimes I wonder which is worse,” Nick mused. “Not knowing at all, or being defined by it.”
“Not knowing,” I said, with certainty. “I’d rather know what I am.”
“I’m not so sure.” Zeke rested his chin on his knees. “If I hadn’t known—if word of Scion hadn’t reached us . . .”
He turned his head away. Nick glanced at me, shook his head. Something had happened to Zeke that had made him lose his original gift and become unreadable. Jaxon and Nadine both knew, but the rest of us were in the dark.
“Paige,” Zeke said, “there’s something you should know.”
“What?” I said. He was looking at Nick, whose jaw was clenched. “What’s the matter?”
“We’ve heard rumors,” Nick said. “We dropped into a bar in Soho the other night. There were voyants there taking bets on who might have killed Hector.”
The glym jack must have talked. “Who were the candidates?” I said, trying to sound calm.
Zeke clasped his elegant hands. “Cutmouth and the Highwayman were both mentioned.”
“But you were the favorite.” Nick didn’t look happy. “The clear favorite.”
A flicker of trepidation started inside me.
As the sun rose higher, we packed up our camp. To get down, we had to make a leap between the tower and the nearest building. When he landed, Nick fell straight into a roll: a quick, lithe turn of limbs, from the balls of his feet to his shoulder and straight into a run. I was next. The jump was easy enough, but as soo
n as my boots hit the concrete, the muscles in my right arm went rigid. I landed hard on the top of my spine and ended up sprawled on my back, my hand clapped over the nape of my neck. Nick came straight back for me, his face white.
“Paige, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I said it through clenched teeth.
“Don’t move.” He touched the small of my back. “Can you feel your legs?”
“Yeah, they feel great.” I took his hands, and he eased me to my feet. “I’m just a bit rusty.”
Above us, Zeke was still grasping the parapet, white-knuckled. “Any chance of some help?” he shouted.
Nick stood with his arms folded, a laugh in his eyes. “You’re not scared of a little ninety-foot drop, are you?”
A muttered curse was the only answer he got.
Zeke blew out a long breath, took a few steps back and broke into a run. When he jumped, he sailed over the tower’s parapet, down toward the lower rooftop. Not quite far enough. His arms hooked over the edge of the building, but his legs swung down toward the street, kicking at nothing. Panic widened his eyes. I started toward him, my heart in my throat.
Nick got there first. With a strength born of two decades of training, he grasped him under the arms and lifted him away from a long fall. Zeke clamped a hand over his chest, laughing between gasps for air.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” he said.
“You’re fine.” Nick grasped his shoulder. Their foreheads were close together, almost brushing. “Paige and I have been doing this for years. Give it time.”
“I don’t think I’ll be doing this again in a hurry.” He grinned at me. “No offense, but I think you’re both insane.”
“We prefer ‘intrepid,’ ” Nick said solemnly.
“No,” I said. We looked up at the three Barbican towers, where my face was still on the screens, close enough for my father to see over his breakfast. “I think ‘insane’ works.”
And it was. It was insane that we’d once spent every day clambering up buildings and hanging by our fingertips from ledges, inches from death. Knowing how to run and climb had almost saved me from the red-jackets, that fateful day in March. If that flux dart hadn’t caught me, I might have escaped without ever setting foot in the penal colony.
We set off for I-4 as quickly as possible. The Vigiles would be on high alert after that breach. Zeke was nervous about jumping again, but Nick was just as patient with him as he’d been with me at the beginning. When we reached the den, I headed up to my room to get ready, dread coursing its way through my body. As I opened the door, Nick caught my arm.
“Jax will protect you. Good luck,” he said, and left me alone.
Tiny prickles ran down the backs of my thighs. Taking slow breaths, I tidied my hair into ringlets with a curling iron, then buttoned myself into a long-sleeved silk blouse and high-waisted trousers. When I was done, I pushed up one sleeve to look at the poltergeist’s mark. I took in a deep breath at the sight of it. The gnarled black “M” was about five inches wide and wept a clear fluid that reeked of metal.
A knock came at the door, and in walked Jaxon Hall with his favorite rosewood cane. He wore a black coat and a wide-brimmed hat over his best waistcoat and trousers.
“Are you ready, darling?”
I stood. “I think so.”
“Dr. Nygård said you took a tumble on the rooftops.” Leather-clad fingers stroked my cheek. “Devious, vicious creatures, poltergeists. They whittle at the will to live. Fortunately, we can now bind him.”
My heart jumped. “You found his name?”
“Eliza did. Naturally there are conflicting reports of the London Monster’s identity, but this fellow was imprisoned for the crimes. A vendor of artificial flowers named Rhynwick Williams.” Jaxon sat down on my bed and patted the duvet beside him. I lowered myself on to it. “Hold out your arm, darling.”
I did. With his eyes fixed hungrily on the scar, Jaxon removed a small knife from the end of his cane. A boline, with a rounded bone handle and a silver blade, used by binders and haematomancers for bloodletting. He pushed up his left sleeve, revealing the underside of his forearm. It was marked with faint white lines, each spelling out a full name.
“Now,” he said, “let me explain. The Monster was unable to occupy your dreamscape, but it has forged its own passageway into it. This tiny crack in your armor allows the Monster to cause you pain whenever it so desires. You are very lucky, darling, that the creature’s touch failed to destroy your mind . . . perhaps something to do with your childhood encounter with a poltergeist.”
It was the pendant that had shielded me, but let him think what he wanted. “So how do we close the passageway?”
“With skill. Once the creature is bound, it will pose no further threat.”
The tip of Jaxon’s blade touched the Monster’s mark, wetting the blade with that strange fluid. Then he turned it on to his own skin, drawing a thread of blood from his inner arm.
“Allow me to educate you in the noble art of binding.” The letter “R” bled from his arm. “Observe the bloodletting. The source of my gift. You see, while the spirit’s name is written in my flesh, I have the power to control it. It belongs to me. It is my subject. If I intend to keep a spirit temporarily, I have only to carve the name in a shallow hand. Only until the wound heals is the spirit in my possession.” Blood dripped down his pale fingers. “But if I wish to keep a spirit, I must scar myself with its name.”
“Nice calligraphy,” I said.
The name was beautifully written, with painful-looking flourishes. “One can’t carve one’s skin with any old lettering, darling.” Jaxon continued slicing. “Names are important, you see—more important than you can possibly imagine.”
“What if someone never gets given a name?” I said. “Or if more than one person has the same name?”
“That is why you should never identify with one name. Anonymity is your best protection from a binder. Now, watch.”
He carved the last letter.
A shock wave went through my dreamscape, resonating through every bone in my body, as the London Monster came rushing back across the citadel. My head felt as though it was about to implode. I hunched over myself, gasping, as an unseen force pulled at the fabric of my mind, knitting the tiny opening together. As the spirit hurtled through the window, Jaxon flexed his fist, pushing blood down to his fingertips.
“Stop, Rhynwick Williams.”
The spirit stopped dead. Ice spread across the mirror on the wall.
“Come to me, now.” Jaxon held out a hand. “Leave the lady be. Your reign of terror is over.”
The tension rose from my dreamscape as the spirit obeyed. I slumped against the wall, breathing in sharp bursts, drenched in sweat. Bound, mute, and obedient, the London Monster gravitated toward Jaxon.
“There. Mine. Until I sell him to the Juditheon for an obscene amount of money, of course.” His eyes flicked down to the monster’s mark, which had turned a muted gray. “The scar, I’m afraid, will always remain.”
I pushed myself up on trembling arms. “Is there no way to get rid of it?”
“Not that I know of, darling. Perhaps if we had an exorcist to send the creature to the last light, but alas, we do not. Daphnomancers say that essence of the bay laurel can allay the pain. Probably augurs’ drivel, but I shall ask one of my couriers to pick up a bottle of its oil from the Garden.” With a smile, he handed me my long black coat. “Let me do the talking today. The Abbess won’t condemn you without evidence.”
“She was Hector’s friend.”
“Oh, she knows very well that Hector was an insufferable buffoon. She will have to acknowledge her glym jack’s report, but she won’t linger on the subject.” He held open the door for me. “You’re going to be fine, my lovely. Just don’t show them that scar.”
****
One of Jaxon’s trusted buck cabbies was waiting outside the den. The meeting would be held at a derelict bathhouse in Hackney
, and all members of the Unnatural Assembly were expected to attend. “Not that many of them will show up,” Jaxon said. “The central mime-lords and mime-queens will, but those from outlying sections are unlikely to bother. Lazy, impertinent rogues.”
While Jaxon soliloquized on how much he despised them all (and how very fortunate it was that Didion Waite hadn’t wheedled his way on to the Unnatural Assembly), I sat in silence and nodded from time to time. The Abbess had seemed kind enough at the Juditheon, but it had been clear from her interaction with Ognena Maria that she had a firm hand. What if she asked to see my arm? What if they saw the damning evidence that Hector’s poltergeist had felt threatened by me?
The cab pulled over in II-6, and a courier ran to meet us with an umbrella. Rain was thundering from dark, ash-colored clouds, sending water surging through the gutters. Jaxon took my arm and pulled me close to him. As we walked, a few voyants caught sight of our auras and touched their foreheads.
“Who else has arrived?” Jaxon asked the courier.
“There are fourteen Assembly members present, sir, but we expect more within the half-hour.”
“What a delight it will be to see all my old friends. My mollisher has only had dealings with a few of them.”
“They look forward to seeing you, sir.”
I doubted it. Most of the Unnatural Assembly were reclusive, preferring to stay holed up in their dens while their employees carried out their wishes. A few had loose friendships, but nothing strong. There was too much bitterness left over from the gang wars.
The public bathhouse of Hackney had been boarded up for well over a century. After glancing over his shoulder, the courier led us down a series of steps and knocked on a heavy black door. A pair of sighted eyes appeared through a slot.
“Password?”
“Nostradamus,” the courier whispered.
The door creaked open. Jaxon tightened his arm around me before we walked into the gloom.