The Bone Season

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 talking 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.

I caught Kathryn’s eye across the table. A massive bruise wept down one side of her face. 16 and 17 didn’t even glance at me. Good. If they looked at me I might not be able to stop myself chucking a dinner knife at them. Liss was still outside, dying, all because of them.

“22”—Nashira turned to look at the grubber on her right—“how is 11? I understand he is still at Oriel.”

The young man cleared his throat. “He’s a little better, blood-sovereign. No sign of infection.”

“His bravery has not gone unnoticed.”

“He’ll be honored to hear it, blood-sovereign.”

Yes, blood-sovereign. No, blood-sovereign. Rephs did love a good ego-stroke.

Nashira clapped her hands again. Four amaurotics came through a small door, each carrying a platter and the overpowering smell of herbs. Michael was among them, but he didn’t meet my eye. Working quickly, they laid a magnificent spread on the table, all around the bell jar. One poured chilled white wine into our glasses. A lump blocked my throat. The platters were laden with food. Beautifully cut chicken, tender and succulent, with crispy golden skin; stuffing with sage and onion; thick, sweet-smelling gravy; cranberry sauce; steamed vegetables and roast potatoes and plump sausages wrapped in bacon—a feast fit for the Inquisitor. When Nashira nodded, the bone-grubbers tucked straight in. They ate quickly, but without the feral urgency of starvation.

My gut ached. I wanted to eat. But then I thought of the harlies, living on grease and hard bread in their hovels. So much food in here, and so little out there. Nashira noticed my reservation.

“Eat.”

It was an order. I put a few slices of chicken and some vegetables on my plate. Carl gulped down his wine like it was water. “Watch it, 1,” said one of the girls. “You don’t want to be sick again.”

The rest of them laughed. Carl grinned. “Come on, that was just once. I was still a pink.”

“Yeah, come on, leave off 1. He deserves the wine.” 22 gave him a friendly punch on the arm. “He’s still a rookie. Besides, we all had a tough time with our first Buzzer.”

There were murmurs of assent. “I passed out,” the same girl admitted. A selfless display of solidarity. “The first time I saw one, I mean.”

Carl smiled. “But you’re great with spirits, 6.”

“Thanks.”

I watched their camaraderie in silence. It was nauseating, but they weren’t acting. Carl didn’t just like being a red-jacket; it was more than that—he belonged in this strange new world. I could empathize, in a way. It was how I’d felt when I first started working for Jaxon. Maybe Carl had never found a place in the syndicate.

Nashira watched them. She must take pleasure in this weekly charade. Stupid, indoctrinated humans, laughing about the trials she’d put them through—all under her thumb, eating her food. How powerful she must feel. How self-satisfied.

“You’re still a pink.” A high-pitched voice came to my attention. “Have you fought a Buzzer?”

I glanced up. They were all looking at me.

“Yesterday night,” I said.

“I haven’t seen you before.” 22 raised his dense eyebrows. “Whose battalion do you fight in?”

“I’m not part of a battalion.” I was enjoying this.

“You must be,” another boy said. “You’re a pink. Which other humans are in your residence? Who’s your keeper?”

“My keeper only has one human.” I gave 22 a quick smile. “You might have seen him around. He’s the blood-consort.”

The silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. I took a sip of wine. The unfamiliar alcohol felt sharp on my tongue.

“It is well that the blood-consort has chosen such a worthy human tenant as 40,” Nashira said, with a faint laugh. Her laugh was disconcerting, like hearing a bell that had struck the wrong note. “She was able to fight the Buzzer alone, without her keeper.”

More silence. I guessed none of them had ever been into the woods without a Reph escort, let alone tried to fight a Buzzer single-handed. 30 took the opportunity to voice exactly what I was thinking: “You mean he doesn’t fight the Emim, blood-sovereign?”

“The blood-consort is forbidden from engaging with the Emim. As my future mate, it would be inappropriate for him to do the work of red-jackets.”

“Of course, blood-sovereign.”

Nashira was looking at me. I could sense it. I carried on eating my potatoes.

Warden did fight the Emim. I’d cleaned his wounds myself. He’d gone against Nashira, and she had no idea, or if she did, it was just suspicion.

For several minutes, only the clink of cutlery disturbed the silence. I ate my vegetables and gravy, still thinking of Warden’s secret dealings with the Emim. He’d never had to risk his life, yet he’d chosen to go out and fight them. There must be a reason.

The red-jackets talked in low voices. They asked each other about their residences, marveling at the beauty of the old buildings. Sometimes they slighted the harlies (“Cowards, really, even the nice ones”). Kathryn toyed with her food, flinching if the Rookery was mentioned. 30 was still pink-faced, while Carl chewed with excessive force, alternating mouthfuls with his second glass of wine. Only when all the plates were clean did the amaurotics return to clear the table, leaving us with three dessert platters. Nashira waited for the red-jackets to serve themselves before she spoke again.

“Now you are fed and watered, my friends, let us have a little entertainment.”

Carl wiped the treacle from his mouth with his serviette. A troupe of harlies filed into the room. Among them was a whisperer. When Nashira nodded, he raised his violin to his shoulder and played a soft, lively tune. The others began to perform graceful acrobatics.

“To business, then,” Nashira said. She didn’t even look at the performance. “If any of you have ever conversed with the Overseer, you may know what he does to earn his keep. He is my procurer for the Bone Seasons. For the last few decades, I have been attempting to procure valuable clairvoyants from the crime syndicate of Scion London. No doubt many of you are aware of it; some of you may even have been part of it.”

30 and 18 both shifted in their seats. I didn’t recognize either of them from the syndicate, but my work had been limited to I-4 and occasionally, I-1 and I-5. There were thirty-three other sections they could have come from. Carl was open-mouthed.

Nobody looked at the performers. They had their art honed to perfection, and not one person cared.

“Sheol I seeks quality, not merely quantity.” Nashira ignored the lowered gazes of half her audience. “For the last few decades I have noticed a steady drop in diversity among the clairvoyants we capture. All of your skills are respected and valued by the Rephaim, but there are many talents we still require to enrich this colony. We must all learn from each other. It would not do to simply take in card-readers and palmists.

“XX-59-40 is the kind of clairvoyant we now seek. She is our very first dreamwalker. We also require sibyls and berserkers, binders and summoners, and one or two more oracles—any breeds of clairvoyant that might bring fresh insight to our ranks.”

Kathryn looked at me with her bruised eyes. Now she knew for certain that I wasn’t a fury.

“I think we could all learn a lot from 40,” David said, raising his glass. “I’m willing.”

“An excellent attitude, 12. And we do intend to learn a great deal from 40,” Nashira said, turning her gaze on me. “Which is why I will be sending her on an external assignment tomorrow.”

The veterans exchanged glances. Carl turned red as the strawberry charlotte. “I will also be sending XX-59-1. And you, 12,” Nashira continued. Now Carl looked elated. David smiled into his glass. “You will go with one of your seniors from Bone Season XIX, who will keep an eye on your performance. 30, I presume I can count on you to do this.”

30 nodded. “I’d be honored, blood-sovereign.”

“Good.”

Carl was on the edge of his seat. “What will the assignment involve, blood-sovereign?”

“We have a delicate situation to resolve. As 1 and 12 are aware, I have been asking most of the white-jackets to scry for the whereabouts of a group called the Seven Seals. They are part of the clairvoyant crime syndicate.”

I didn’t dare look up.

“The Seven Seals are known to be in possession of several rare clairvoyant types, including an oracle and a binder. In fact, the so-called White Binder is the key player of the group. From recent scrying attempts, we have deduced that they will be meeting in London the day after tomorrow. The place is called Trafalgar Square, within I Cohort, and the meeting will be at one o’clock in the morning.”

The detail they’d accumulated was incredible. But with that many voyants being used to scry at once, focusing all their energies on one section of the æther, I shouldn’t have been surprised. It would produce a similar effect to a séance.

“Do any of you know anything about the Seven Seals?” When no one replied, Nashira looked at me. “40. You must have been involved in the syndicate. If you were not, you would not have remained hidden in London for as long as you did.” Her eyes played no games. “Tell me what you know.”

I cleared my throat.

“The gangs are very secretive,” I said. “There’s gossip, but—”

“Gossip,” she repeated.

“Rumors,” I clarified. “Hearsay.”

“Elaborate.”

“We all know their false names.”

“And what might those be?”

“The White Binder, the Red Vision, the Black Diamond, the Pale Dreamer, the Martyred Muse, the Chained Fury, and the Silent Bell.”

“I knew most of those names. Not the Pale Dreamer.” Great. “That suggests to me that there is another dreamwalker. Isn’t that a coincidence?” Her fingers tapped the table. “Do you know where they are based?”

I couldn’t deny it. She’d seen my id card.

“Yes,” I said. “In I-4. I work there.”

“Is it not unusual for two dreamwalkers to live so close to one another? Surely they would have employed you, too.”

“They didn’t know. I kept my head down,” I said. “The Dreamer is the mollisher of I-4, the Binder’s protégée. She would have had me killed if she thought she had a rival. The dominant gangs don’t like competition.”

She was toying with me, I was sure of it. Nashira wasn’t stupid. She must have put it all together: the pamphlet, the Pale Dreamer, the Seven Seals working in I-4. She knew exactly who I was.

“If the Pale Dreamer is a dreamwalker, then the White Binder may well be hiding some of the most coveted clairvoyants in the citadel,” she said. “It is rare that we have an opportunity to add such precious jewels to our crown. Your competence on this mission is vital, 40. If anyone is going to recognize the dreamwalker from the Seven Seals, it is another dreamwalker.”

“Yes, blood-sovereign,” I said, my throat tight, “but—why are the Seven Seals meeting at that time?”

“As I said, 40, this is a delicate situation. It seems that a handful of clairvoyants in Ireland are attempting to make contact with the London syndicate. An Irish fugitive named Antoinette Carter is their leader. The Seven Seals will be meeting her.”

So Jax had pulled it out of the bag. I wondered how Antoinette had wormed her way into the citadel. It was nigh-on impossible to cross the Irish Sea. Voyants had tried to leave the country before, mostly heading for America, but few made it. You couldn’t cross the ocean in a dinghy. Even if anyone had succeeded, Scion would never have let us hear of it.

“It is imperative that an analogous crime syndicate does not form in Dublin. Consequently, this meeting must be stopped. Your aim is to capture Antoinette Carter. I believe she, too, may be a rare type of clairvoyant, and I intend to find out exactly what power she hides. The second aim is to apprehend the Seven Seals. The White Binder is a critical target.”

Jaxon. My mime-lord.

“You will be supervised by the blood-consort and his cousin. I expect results. I will hold you all responsible if Carter is allowed to return to Ireland.” Nashira looked at each of us: 30, David, Carl, and I. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, blood-sovereign,” 30 and Carl said. David swilled his wine around the glass.

I said nothing.

“Your life here is about to change, 40. You will be able to use your gift, and to use it well, on this assignment. I expect you to show gratitude for the long hours Arcturus has poured into your training.” Nashira looked away from the fire, into my eyes. “You have great potential. If you do not attempt to reach that potential, I shall see to it that you never walk the sheltered halls of Magdalen again. You can rot outside with the rest of the fools.”

There was no emotion in her gaze, but there was hunger. Nashira Sargas was losing her patience.