The Bone Season

21 A Burnt Ship

I will never forget Warden’s face when he saw me in the red tunic. It was the first time I ever saw fear in his eyes.

It only lasted a split second. But I did see it, just for a moment, a trace of insecurity, softer than a candle flame. He watched me as I headed for my room.

“Paige.”

I stopped.

“How was your inaugural feast?”

“Enlightening.” I traced the red anchor on the gilet. “You were right. She did ask me some questions about you.”

There was a brief, tense silence. Every muscle in his face was rigid. “And you answered them.” His voice was cold now, colder than I’d ever heard it before. “What did you tell her? I must know.”

He wouldn’t beg. Warden was proud. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips pressed together in a hard line. I wondered what was racing through his mind. Who to warn, where to run. What to do next.

How long could I make him suffer?

“She did say something that caught my attention.” I sat down on the daybed. “That the blood-consort is forbidden from engaging with the Emim.”

“He is. Strictly forbidden.” His fingers drummed the arm of the chair. “You told her about the wounds.”

“I didn’t tell her anything.”

His expression changed. After a moment, he poured his amaranth from the decanter into a glass. “Then I owe you my life,” he said.

“You drink a lot of amaranth,” I said. “Is it for the scars?”

His gaze flicked up. “Scars.”

“Yes, the scars.”

“I drink amaranth for my own reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Health reasons. I told you. Old wounds.” He put the glass back on the table. “You chose not to tell Nashira that I have been disobedient. I am intrigued as to why.”

“Betraying people isn’t really my style.” I didn’t miss his evasion. Scars and old wounds were the same thing.

“I see.” Warden looked into the empty hearth. “So you withheld information from Nashira, but you have been given a red tunic.”

“You recommended it.”

“I did, but I did not know if she would agree. I suspect she has ulterior motives.”

“I have an external assignment tomorrow.”

“The citadel,” he conjectured. “That is surprising.”

“Why?”

“After all the effort she expended to procure you from the citadel, it seems strange that she should send you back.”

“She wants me to lure out one of the London gangs, the Seven Seals. She thinks they have a dreamwalker, that I can recognize one of my own.” I waited, but he didn’t react. Did he suspect me? “We leave tomorrow night with three red-jackets and one other Rephaite.”

“Who?”

“Your cousin.”

“Ah, yes.” He pressed his fingertips together. “Situla Mesarthim is Nashira’s most trusted mercenary. You and I must be cautious around her.”

“So you’re going to treat me like your slave again.”

“A necessary, but temporary situation. Situla is no friend of mine. She will have been assigned to keep an eye on me.”

“Why?”

“Past transgressions.” He caught my look. “It is better that you know nothing about it. All you should know is that I do not kill unless it is absolutely necessary.”

Past transgressions. Old wounds. That could only mean one thing, and we both knew it—but it still didn’t guarantee he could be trusted now. Even if he was a scarred one.

“I need to get some sleep,” I said. “We meet at her residence tomorrow at dusk.”

Warden nodded, not looking at me. I picked up my boots and went to my room, leaving him to drink his remedy.

For most of the day, while I should have been asleep, I thought of every possible scenario that could occur when we reached London. The plan, according to the post-dinner briefing, was to wait until Carter reached the base of Nelson’s Column, where she would meet with a representative from the Seals. We would surround them, then strike with everything we had. She seemed to think we’d just walk in there, shoot Carter, grab some prisoners, and waltz back to Sheol I in time for the day-bell.

I knew better. I knew Jax. He protected his investments. He would never send a lone representative to meet Antoinette—the whole gang would be there. Vigiles staked out the streets during the night, and they knew how to use basic spirit combat. We would also have the public to contend with, and with voyants on the street, we could end up with a very big fight on our hands. A fight in which I would be dressed for one side, but rooting for the other.

I turned over, restless. This was my chance to escape, or at least to get word out. Somehow I had to reach Nick, if he didn’t kill me first. Or blind me with his visions. It was my one and only window of opportunity.

I gave up on sleep in the end. I went to the bathroom, splashed my face, and pulled my hair into a psyche knot. It had grown a few inches, down to my shoulders. Rain pounded at the windows. I dressed in the same uniform, the red traitor’s tunic, and went down to the chamber. The grandfather clock told me it was close to seven. I took a seat by the fire. When the hour struck, Warden appeared at the door, his hair and clothes drenched with rain.

“It is time.”

I nodded. He let me through the door, locked it, and walked with me down the stone steps.

“I never thanked you,” he said as we went through the cloisters. “For your silence.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The streets were silent. Melting hailstones crunched beneath my boots. When we reached the residence, two Rephs escorted us to the library where Nashira was waiting. She and Warden reenacted their ritual greeting: his hand on her stomach, her lips to his forehead. This time I noticed things. The rigidity of his movements, how he never met her eyes, how she ran her fingers through his hair, not looking at him. It put me in the mind of a dog and its mistress.

“I am pleased you could both join us tonight,” she said. Like we had a choice. “40, this is Situla Mesarthim.”

Situla was almost as tall as Warden. You could see the family resemblance: same ash-brown hair, same honey skin, same strong features and deep-set eyes. She nodded to Warden, who was still kneeling.

“Cousin.” Warden inclined his head. Situla turned her eyes on me. Blue. “XX-59-40, you will treat me as your second keeper this evening. I hope that is understood.”

I nodded. Warden stood and looked down at his fiancée. “Where are the other humans?”

“Getting ready, of course.” She turned her back on him. “You ought to do the same, my faithful one.”

His aura clouded over, like a storm was brewing in his dreamscape. He turned and walked toward a heavy set of crimson drapes. An amaurotic girl hurried after him, carrying a bundle of clothes.

“You will be paired with 1,” Nashira said to me. “The two of you will go with Arcturus. Situla will take 30 and 12.”

David emerged from behind the drapes, wearing trousers, boots, and a lightweight vest of body armor. The sight of him made me start. He looked exactly like the Overseer on the night he shot me.

“Evening, 40,” he said.

I kept my mouth shut. David smiled and shook his head, as if I were an amusing child. An amaurotic approached me. “Your clothes.”

“Thank you.”

Without looking at David, I took my bundle to the drapes. Behind them was a tent, a dressing room of sorts. I shucked my uniform and donned the new one: first a long-sleeved red shirt, then the armor—marked with the red anchor, like the gilet—and a black jacket with a red band on one sleeve. Next came glovelettes and trousers, both made of a flexible black fabric, and my sturdy leather boots. I could run, climb, fight in this attire. There was a syringe of Adrenaline in the jacket—and a flux gun. For hunting voyants.

Once I was kitted out, I returned to where the other three humans had gathered. Carl gave me a smile.

“Hello, 40.”

“Carl,” I said.

“How are you finding your new tunic?”

“It fits, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I mean, how are you finding being a red-jacket?”

All three of them were staring at me now. “Great,” I said, after a pause.

Carl nodded. “It is great. Maybe they were right to give you so many privileges.”

“Or maybe they were wrong,” 30 said, pulling her thick hair from her collar. She was taller than me, wide in the hips and shoulders. “We’ll find out on the streets.”

I took another look at 30. From her aura, I guessed she was probably a soothsayer—but a less common one, maybe a type of cleromancer. Not particularly rare. She must have clawed her way up the ranks.

“Yes,” I said. “We will.”

She sniffed.

Warden’s return had a stunning effect on 30’s demeanor. She bobbed a delicate little curtsy, murmuring “blood-consort.” At her side, Carl swept into a bow. I just stood there with my arms crossed. Warden glanced at his fan club, but didn’t acknowledge either of their tributes. Instead he looked across the room—at me. 30 looked chagrined. Poor old 30.

New clothes had transformed my keeper. In place of the old-fashioned Rephaite regalia, he wore the clothes of a wealthy Scion denizen, the sort no clever thief would try to fine-wire.

“You will be taken to I Cohort in two collection vehicles,” Nashira said. “Traffic will be cleared for you. You are expected to return here before the day-bell rings.”

We four humans nodded. Warden shrugged on his coat and turned toward the door. “XX-40, XX-1,” he called.

Carl looked like Novembertide had come early. He ran after Warden, shoving his flux gun into his jacket as he went. I was about to follow him when Nashira caught my arm in her gloved hand. I held very still, resisting the urge to pull away.

“I know who you are,” she said, close to my face. “I know where you come from. If you do not bring back a dreamwalker, I will assume that I am correct, and that you are the Pale Dreamer. That realization will have consequences for us all.” With a look that made me cold, she turned her back on me and walked toward the door. “Have a safe journey, XX-59-40.”

Two blacked-out vehicles were waiting on the bridge. They blindfolded all four of us before they locked us in. I sat in the darkness with Carl, listening to the engine. They must have a nagging fear that we’d learn the route out of the colony.

A team of Vigiles had been dispatched to escort us through the borders, but the procedure for letting people out of Sheol I was complicated. The city was a penal colony, and it was just as much hassle as if prisoners were out on parole. We had tracking chips shot under our skin at one of Scion’s outer city substations, just in case we tried to make a run for it, and our fingerprints and auras were examined. They took a tube of my blood, leaving a smudge of bruise at the crease of my elbow. Finally we crossed the last border, and we were back in Scion London. Back in the real world.

“You may remove your blindfolds,” Warden said.

I couldn’t get rid of mine fast enough.

Oh, my citadel. I traced the glass, the blue lights glowing into my eyes. The car was rolling through White City in II-3, past the mammoth shopping complex. I never thought I’d miss the dirty gunmetal streets, but I did. I missed bidding on spirits and playing tarocchi and climbing up buildings with Nick to watch the sun sink. I wanted to get out of the car and throw myself into London’s poisoned heart.

Carl had been jittery for the journey, bouncing his knee and fiddling with his flux gun, but he’d dropped off to sleep on the motorway. He’d told me that 30 used to be called Amelia, and that her keeper was one Elnath Sarin. As I’d guessed, she was a cleromancer, with a particular gift for dice. It took me a while to remember the exact word: astragalomancer. I was getting rusty. Jax had once examined me daily on the seven orders of clairvoyance.

I looked again at Carl. His hair needed a wash. From the circles etched under his eyes, I knew he was as tired as I was—but there were no bruises. More betrayals must have earned his safety. As if he sensed me looking, he opened his eyes.

“Don’t try and escape.”

He whispered it. When I didn’t answer, he shifted up to me.

“They won’t let you go. He won’t.” He glanced at Warden through the glass screen. “Sheol I is safe for us. Why would you want to leave?”

“Because we don’t belong there.”

“It’s the one place we do belong. We can be clairvoyant there. We don’t have to hide.”

“You’re not an idiot, Carl. You know it’s a prison.”

“And the citadel isn’t?”

“No. It isn’t.”

Carl looked back at his gun. I looked back at the window.

Part of me knew what he meant. Of course the citadel was a prison—Scion kept us locked in there like animals—but we didn’t stand by in the citadel and watch other people get beaten up, or let people die on the streets.

I pressed my head against the glass. That wasn’t true. Hector did. Jaxon did. Every mime-lord and mime-queen in the citadel did. They were no better than the Rephaim. They only rewarded those who were useful. The rest were thrown out to rot.

But the gang were like my family. I didn’t have to bow to anyone in the citadel. I was mollisher of I-4. I had a name.

Soon we were in Marylebone. As Warden looked out at the unfamiliar territory of the citadel. I wondered if he’d been to London before. He must have, if he’d met previous Inquisitors. It chilled me that Rephs had been on the streets at the same time I was. They’d been in the Archon. Even in I-4.

The driver was a silent, robust man in wire-framed spectacles and a suit, with a red silk pocket square and tie. He wore a Dictaphone on his left ear, which beeped every so often. It was morbidly fascinating to see how organized it was. Scion had all its bases covered: nobody could find out about Sheol I. It was a city under lock and key.

Warden motioned for the driver to stop on a street corner. The man nodded and ducked out of the car. When he returned, he was carrying a large paper bag. Warden passed it to me through the hatch. “Wake him.” He nodded to Carl, who was asleep again.

Inside the bag were two hot cartons from Brekkabox, the citadel’s favorite fast-food joint. I prodded Carl. “Rise and shine.”

Carl came round with a jolt. I opened my box and found a breakfast wrap, a serviette and a pot of porridge. I caught Warden’s eye in the rearview mirror, and he gave me the barest nod of acknowledgment. I looked away.

The car passed into Section 4. My section. My scalp prickled with sweat. My father lived only twenty minutes from here, and we were getting close to Seven Dials—too close. I half-expected to receive something from Nick, but there was total silence in the æther. Several hundred dreamscapes pressed against mine, distracting me from meatspace. When I focused on the nearest few, I sensed nothing unusual, no fresh waves of emotion. These people had no inkling of the Rephaim or the penal colony. They didn’t care where unnaturals went, just as long as they were out of sight.

Our car stopped in the Strand, where a Vigile was waiting for us. The ones they put on duty all looked pretty much the same: tall, broad-shouldered, typically mediums. I avoided the man’s eyes as I stepped from the car, leaving the empty breakfast cartons under the seat.

Warden, being huge and formidable, was not in the least bit nervous. “Good evening, Vigile.”

“Warden.” The Vigile touched three fingers to his forehead, one at the center and one above each eye, then raised his hand in a salute. It was an official sign of his clairvoyance, of his third eye. “Can I confirm you have Carl Dempsey-Brown and Paige Mahoney in your custody?”

“Confirmed.”

“Identification numbers?”

“XX-59-1 and 40, respectively.”

The Gilly made a note of it. I wondered what had made him turn his back on his own kind. A cruel mime-lord, perhaps.

“You two should remember that you are in custody. You are here to assist the Rephaim. You will be sent straight back to Sheol I when your assignment is complete. If either of you attempts to broadcast Sheol I’s location, you will be shot. If either of you attempts to make contact with the general public, or with any member of the syndicate, you will be shot. If either of you attempts to harm your keeper, or a Vigile, you will be shot. Do I make myself clear?”

Well, he’d made it pretty damn clear that whatever we did, we were going to be shot. “We understand,” I said.

But the Vigile wasn’t quite finished. He unpacked a silver tube and a pair of latex gloves from his supply belt. Not another needle. “You first.” He grabbed me by the wrist. “Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“Open. Your. Mouth.”

I wanted to look at Warden, but I knew from his silence that he had no objections to this procedure. Before I could comply, the Gilly prized my mouth open. I wanted to bite the bastard. He scraped the plastic nib over my lips, coating them in something cold and bitter.

“Shut it.”

With no other choice, I closed my mouth. When I tried to open it again, I couldn’t. My eyes widened. Shit!

“Just a spot of dermal adhesive.” The Gilly pulled Carl toward him. “Wears off after two or three hours. We’re not taking any chances, seeing as all you syndies know each other.”

“But I’m not—” Carl started.

“Shut up.”

And at last, Carl was forced to shut up.

“XIX-49-30 isn’t glued. Look at her for orders,” the Gilly said. “Otherwise, stick to your objectives.”

I pushed my tongue against my lips, but they wouldn’t budge. This Gilly must love having one over on ex-syndicate members.

Having sealed our mouths, the Gilly saluted Warden before he returned to the stern gray building he’d emerged from. There was a plaque outside: THE SCION CITADEL OF LONDON—NVD COMMAND POST—I COHORT SECTION 4, with a map of the area covered by that post. I could make out a marker for the shopping center in Covent Garden, the pot under which the black market bubbled. If only I could get there. Maybe I still could.

Carl swallowed. Even though we had been seeing these plaques for years, they were still daunting. I looked up at Warden. “Situla and her humans will approach the square from the western side,” he said. “Are you ready?”

I don’t know how he expected us to answer. Carl nodded. Warden reached into his jacket and procured two masks.

“Here,” he said, handing one to each of us. “These will disguise your identities.”

These were no ordinary masks. They had blank, uniform features, with small eyeholes and slots for air below the nose. When I fitted mine to my face, it bonded to my skin. It wouldn’t earn a second glance from busy Scion denizens, but it would also stop the gang from recognizing me, and with my lips sealed, I couldn’t call for help.

How clever it all was.

Warden looked at me for a moment before he put his own mask on. Eerie light burned in the eyeholes. For the first time, I was glad I was fighting on his side.

We walked toward Nelson’s Column. Like the Dials, the Monument, and most other columns, it turned red or green depending on the security situation. Currently it was green, as were the fountains. A team of Gillies was on patrol, stationed at regular intervals down the Strand, probably having been ordered to back us up if necessary. They shot us guarded looks as we passed, but none of them moved. They all carried M4 carbines. The NVD didn’t broadcast their true purpose in the city, but everyone knew they were more than police. You didn’t approach a night Gilly with a complaint, not like you might an SVD officer. You approached only in dire circumstances, and never if you were voyant. Even amaurotics didn’t like to go near them. After all, they were unnaturals.

Carl kept flexing his fingers in his pockets. How could I get out of this without killing any of my gang? There must be some way I could show them who I was. I had to warn them, or they’d join me in the penal colony. I couldn’t let Nashira get them.

Trafalgar Square was artificially lit, but it was dark enough for us to remain inconspicuous. Situla, Amelia, and David were approaching from the other side. The three of them disappeared behind one of the four bronze lion statues that guarded Nelson’s Column. Warden leaned down to my level.

“Carter will arrive soon,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We must bide our time until she makes contact with the Seal. Do not allow yourselves to be captured under any circumstances.” Carl nodded. “Once the area is clear, the NVD will escort us back to the vehicle. You will cease and desist if the Seals leave the boundaries of I Cohort.”

I was starting to sweat. Seven Dials was well within I Cohort. If the gang tried to make it back to base, they could find themselves being tailed there.

Big Ben was two minutes from striking. Warden sent Carl to sit on the steps of the column—as a soothsayer, he was the least conspicuous. Once he was settled, Warden led me past the fountain to one of the statue plinths. There were seven of them, one for each of the people who had facilitated the establishment and continuation of Scion: Palmerston, Salisbury, Asquith, MacDonald, Zettler, Mayfield, Weaver. The seventh plinth always bore the likeness of the ruling Inquisitor, along with his or her motto.

Warden stopped behind a statue. He studied my masked face. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not know you would be silenced.”

I gave no sign that I’d heard him. I had to concentrate on breathing through my nose.

“Do not look yet. Carter is waiting at the base of the column, as planned.”

I didn’t want to do this. I wanted Antoinette to get out of here. I wanted to burst into her dreamscape, to make her run away.

And then I sensed them.

It was them, no doubt about it. They were approaching from all different directions. Jax must have mobilized the entire gang, all six of the remaining Seals. Would he recognize my aura straightaway, or would he presume there was just another dreamwalker—a tiny chance—in the vicinity?

“I sense a medium,” Warden said. “And a whisperer.”

Eliza and Nadine. I looked out at the base of Nelson’s Column. And yes, there was Antoinette.

She wore a frock coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. Strands of graying red hair fell past her ears. What little of her face I could see bore crevices that had been airbrushed out of the TV show. Between her fingers was a silver cigarette holder, fitted to a roll of what looked like purple aster. She had some gall. No one smoked ethereal drugs in public.

The idea of doing battle with Toni Carter was enough to make me sick with nerves. On her show, she would often have a violent seizure prior to making a prediction, a perk that had blown the ratings through the roof. I could only imagine how she might fight. Nick denounced the idea that she was an oracle; oracles never lost control like that.

Nadine came first. She wore a pinstriped blazer, loosely buttoned. No doubt it hid a set of irons. The others all appeared, one by one, though, they gave no hint that they knew one another. Only their auras linked them. When I caught sight of Nick, I thought I would burst: into tears, into laughter, into song. He was heavily disguised. Had to be, given his glittering Scion career. His hair was covered by a dark wig and a hat, and he wore tinted glasses. A few feet away, Jax was tapping his cane. At my side, Warden remained silent. His eyes darkened when one of his targets edged closer to Antoinette. Eliza had been chosen to go forward. Close behind her was Dani, her mouth was set in a grim line. She was disguised, too.

Had it been me, I would have made initial contact with Antoinette with one of my “nudges’’ to check the coast was clear, but Eliza had no such power. The æther screwed with her, not the other way around. She lifted four fingers of her right hand, three of her left, and ran them through her hair, as if she was checking for knots. Antoinette understood. She stepped toward Eliza and extended a hand. Eliza took it.

Situla struck first. Faster than I could register, she was on top of Antoinette, strangling her. Warden made toward Zeke, just as Carl sent a nearby spirit hurtling toward Eliza. It must have been Nelson, the most powerful spirit in the square: Eliza crumpled against one of the lions, clutching her chest, and cried out in a strangled voice: “I cannot command winds and weather, nor can I command myself in death!” Amelia flew out next, only to be tackled by an enraged Nick, who had seen Eliza’s pain before anything else. David took Jax; or tried to take Jax—Dani swung her fist at him, knocking a spurt of blood from his mouth. In less than ten seconds, I was the only one who had not yet come out to fight.

That suited me. It did not suit Jaxon.

He saw me at once, another masked enemy. He drew up a spool of six and hurled it in my direction. I had to move, and fast—the spirits of Trafalgar could pose a serious threat. I sent a flux dart at him, but aimed well above his head. Jax still ducked, sending the spool scattering all over the place. Give it up, I thought. Don’t make me attack you.

But Jaxon never gave up. He was livid. We’d spoiled his plans. He lunged at me, wielding his cane. I tried to land a kick to his stomach, to push him back, but I didn’t do it hard enough. He grabbed my ankle, and with a flex of his arms, he flipped me over. Pain. Move, move.

Not fast enough. Jax drove his steel-capped boot into my side, kicking me onto my back. His knee crashed down on my chest. His fist flew—a blur—then something solid struck the unprotected part of my face. Knuckleduster. And again, in the ribs. Something cracked, and it hurt. And again. I swung up my arm to block a fourth punch. His eyes were gleaming, hot with bloodlust. Jax was going to kill me.

I had no choice. With my body pinned, I used my spirit.

He wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t concentrating on my aura. The thump against his dreamscape made him fall. His cane clattered to the ground. I clawed myself to my feet. My face was pounding, my ribs seared, and my right eye wasn’t working as it should be. I grasped my knees, dragging air through my nose. I’d never known Jax could be so brutal.

A screech caught my attention. Near one of the fountains, Nadine had abandoned spirit combat and pinned Amelia to the ground. I pulled out the syringe in my jacket, opened it with bloody fingers, and I pushed the needle into my wrist. After a few seconds, the pain dulled to an ache. My vision wouldn’t settle, but it wasn’t incapacitating. I could still see well out of my left eye.

The red sight of a gun hovered on my chest. They must have snipers in the buildings.

There had to be some way out of this.

With renewed strength, I ran toward the fountains, where Amelia was kicking helplessly. As much as I wanted Nadine to win, I couldn’t just watch another human die. I tackled her, taking her down by the waist, straight into the fountain. The water turned red as the security lights changed. Nadine surfaced a half-second after I did. Her teeth were gritted, and the muscles in her neck were straining. I backed away.

“Take that mask off, bitch,” she shouted at me.

I pointed my flux gun at her.

Nadine began to circle me. She opened her coat and took out a knife. She’d always preferred steel to spirits.

I felt my heartbeat everywhere, right down to my fingertips. Nadine rarely missed with a knife, and my body armor would only provide so much protection, if she hit me above the chest, I was dead. David chose that moment to appear. Just as Nadine was about to throw her blade, he hit her dead between the shoulders with a flux dart. Her eyes watered. She tottered, swayed, and folded over the edge of the fountain. David dragged her out of the water and took her head between his hands. We’d been told not to kill, but in the heat of the moment, he seemed to have forgotten. How important could a hisser be?

I didn’t pause to think: I threw out my spirit. Zeke would never forgive me if I let his sister die. Time for a quick-fire jump.

I went too far. For the second I was in David’s head, I pulled his hands away from Nadine. Another second and I was back in my body, running toward him. I threw my full weight against his side and we both smashed to the ground.

My vision turned black. I’d just possessed David. Only for a heartbeat, but I’d moved his arm.

I had finally possessed a human.

David put his hands to his head. I hadn’t been gentle. I struggled to my feet, blinking away a flurry of white stars. Both Antoinette and Situla had vanished.

Leaving Nadine next to David, I ran from the fountain, my clothes drenched. I climbed up onto a lion and surveyed the scene. Both groups had fanned out across the square. Zeke was no fighter, and he’d wisely abandoned ship—bloody sailor spirits—when he’d seen Warden coming at him. Having pulled on his balaclava, he was exchanging blows with Amelia. Elsewhere, Warden turned his attention to Nick, who had stunned Carl with a spool. I thought my heart would stop as I watched them. My keeper and my best friend. I dropped back to ground level, gripped by fear. I had to help Nick.Warden could kill him . . .

Then Eliza was there, and she was incensed. Spirits flew at me from every direction. They always sided with mediums. Three French sailors burst into my dreamscape. I stumbled, blinded by their memories: the towering waves, the blast of muskets, fires raging on the deck of the Achille—screaming, chaos—then Eliza gave me a shove, and I fell. I thrust up all my mental defenses, trying to push out the invaders.

For a moment I was incapacitated. Eliza tried to pin me with her knees. “Stay in there, guys!”

My dreamscape was flooding. Cannonballs ripped through it. Burning wood fell past my eyes. Eliza’s hands came up to unmask me.

No, no! She couldn’t see me. The NVD would shoot her. With a huge effort, I forced out the spirits and kicked her backward, catching her jaw with my boot. She let out a cry of pain. Guilt flinched in my stomach. I spun around just in time to meet Jax’s cane with my flux gun.

“Well, well. A walker in uniform,” he said softly. “Where did they find you? Where were you hiding?” He leaned close to me, staring into the eyeholes of the mask. “You can’t possibly be my Paige.” The cane forced my arm back. My muscles strained. “So who are you?”

Before I could do anything, Jax was thrown back by a massive spool, bigger than any a human could make. Warden. I got up, reaching for the gun, but Jax swung blindly with his cane. Instinct jerked my head to the left. Too slow. My ear scalded: a sharp, clean heat. Blade. I got a grip on the gun, but a second blow from Jax knocked it out of my hand. The cane blade flashed across my arm, cutting through my jacket and deep into the flesh. A muted scream ripped through my throat. Pain exploded down my arm.

“Come, walker, use your spirit!” Jaxon pointed the blade at me, laughing. “Use the pain. Leave your wounds behind.”

Amelia threw another spool at Jax. I’d saved her; now she was saving me. Nick returned fire, and Amelia crouched behind a lion. Zeke lay still on the ground. Don’t be dead, I thought. Don’t let them have got you.

A flash of red hair. Antoinette was back. Her hat had flown off, and no wonder: she was in a kind of battle trance. Her eyes were wild, her nostrils flared wide, her spirit a raw blaze. It mocked the blue streetlights of the citadel, the ones designed to soothe the fevered mind. Fists, legs, and spirits flew in a volley at Situla, not letting her get a blade in edgeways. Situla hurled a ghost at her. Antoinette danced out of its reach.

And then, with no warning, she took off. Warden spotted her as she parted the screaming people.

“Stop her,” he shouted.

At me. I sprinted after Antoinette. This was my chance to escape.

A Vigile let me past when he saw my uniform, but tackled an amaurotic woman. A man grabbed my jacket—whisperer—but I was running too fast, and he let go. My mind was a streak of pure light. Antoinette was headed straight for the Westminster Archon. She was off the cot to head in that direction, but I didn’t care about her motives: she was giving me a priceless opportunity. There was a tube station opposite the Archon. It was always packed out with Underguards, but also with commuters. If I took off my mask and jacket, I could slip past the barriers and disappear into the crowd. The pillars outside would give me shelter from the NVD, and I’d only have to stay on a train for one stop to reach Green Park. I could get to Dials from there. If that didn’t work, I’d go for the Thames. I’d swim. I’d do whatever I had to do to escape.

I could do it. I could do it.

My legs pumped. The pain in my arm was ferocious, but I couldn’t stop. Antoinette’s trance seemed to have fueled her speed. No human being could run like that, not unless she was guided by spirits. I tried to keep their auras in range as I weaved my way through droves of people and cars.

A taxi braked in front of Antoinette. She and Situla split around it, straight into a horde of pedestrians. I took the straightest course: kept running, right up the front of the car and onto the roof, and slid down the other side. Antoinette was through in a flash. Seconds behind her, Situla cut through the human obstacles. They screamed. One of them died. I couldn’t stop. If I let up for a moment, Antoinette and Situla would be out of range. Finally, when I thought my lungs would burst, we reached the end of Whitehall.

This was the center of the citadel, according to the map: I Cohort, Section 1. Voyants avoided this area like the plague. I looked up at the Westminster Archon, my fingers dripping blood. The clock face burned red, the hands and digits black against the light. This was where Frank Weaver’s puppets danced. Had I been in a less life-threatening situation, I would have liked to leave some choice graffiti on the walls.

I ran toward the Starch. Situla was just ahead of me. When she reached the bridge, Antoinette turned to face her foe. Her skin seemed stretched across her bones, like a thin layer of paint, and her lips were pursed and white.

“You are surrounded, oracle.” Situla stepped toward her. “Surrender yourself.”

“Do not call me ‘oracle,’ creature.” Antoinette raised her hand. “Stay and find out what I am.”

The air iced over.

Situla was indifferent to the threat, she had nothing to fear from a mere human. She made toward Antoinette. Before she could try anything, she was lifted off her feet and thrown backward, almost off the bridge. I started. Spirit. A breacher. I reached for the æther, trying to identify it. It was something like a guardian angel, a very old and powerful one.

Archangel. An angel that remained with one family for generations, even after the person it saved had died. They were notoriously difficult to exorcise. The threnody wouldn’t banish it for long.

Situla regained her footing. “Hold still.” She took another step. “Let us find out what you are.”

She reached for a passing spirit—then another, and another, until she had a trembling spool. Antoinette kept her hand outstretched, but her face contorted when Situla began to feed on her. Her eyes turned a terrible vermilion, almost red. For a moment, I thought Antoinette would fall. A bead of blood slipped from her left eye. Then she cut her arm toward Situla, and the archangel shot toward her. The spool surged together to meet it. As the æther burst open, I ran.

Most Gillies were sighted. They’d be distracted by the collision between the spirits. They wouldn’t see me. They couldn’t. I had to get back to Dials. I sprinted toward Station I-1A.

Beneath my boots, the bridge shuddered with energy. I didn’t stop. I could see the sign above the station on the other side of the street. I shed my jacket and my body armor. It would make me faster, and once I got this damned mask off, I wouldn’t look like a red-jacket. Just a girl in a red shirt. I scanned the buildings, searching for footholds. If I couldn’t get into the station, I’d have to climb my way out of this. If I could just get onto the rooftops, I’d be safe.

Then I was aware of something else.

Pain.

I didn’t stop, but it was suddenly harder to run. It couldn’t be a bad injury. The archangel hadn’t come anywhere near me. Its concern was with Situla, the threat. I must have pulled a muscle.

Then a sticky warmth bloomed below my ribs. When I looked down, my red shirt was turning a different shade of red, and there was a small, round hole above my hip.

They’d shot me. Shot me like they’d shot the Irish students.

I had to keep running. I lurched onward, heading for the street, where traffic was still racing up from the Embankment. Come on, Paige, come on. Run. Nick could fix me up. I just had to reach Dials. I could see the station now. Another shot came, but they missed. I had to get out of range. I forced myself to keep moving, but the pain was growing and I couldn’t put weight on my right side. My staggering run had turned into a limp. There were pillars outside the station. If I could just get to them, I could stanch the blood and disappear.

I ran behind a bus, using it for cover, and caught the first pillar on the other side of the street. All the strength drained from my bones. I tried to keep moving, but a sharp pain erupted above my hip. My knees buckled.

How quickly death crept up on me. Like it had been waiting for years. The physical world softened to a haze. Lights flashed past. The sounds of the fight were still close, but they were in the æther, not on the street.

So much for the dreamwalker.

I didn’t have much time. They might shoot me again. I dragged myself behind one of the pillars, out of sight of the station entrance, where commuters were trying to work out where all the noise was coming from. I curled against the wall. Blood pumped from the little wound. I clamped my trembling hands over it. My lips strained against their binding.

I wouldn’t get to Dials. Even if I got on a train, I’d be arrested on the other side. They wouldn’t miss the blood on my hands.

At least I hadn’t died in Sheol I. That would have been more than I could bear. Here, at least, Nashira couldn’t reach me.

Then there was someone at my side, grabbing my arm. I smelled him first. Camphor.

Nick.

He didn’t recognize me. He couldn’t. He shoved my chin back, exposing my throat to his penknife. “You damn traitor.”

Nick. The wound burned. My sleeve was soaked with blood.

“Let’s see your face,” Nick said. He was quieter now, regretful. “Whatever you are, you’re a voyant. A jumper. Maybe you’ll remember that, when you see the last light.”

He peeled the mask from my face. When he saw me, something broke inside him. “Paige,” he choked out. “Paige, oh no—förlåt mig—” His hands pressed over my ribcage, trying to stop the blood. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I thought—Jaxon asked—” Of course. Jaxon had wanted the dreamwalker. Nick had shot me, not Scion. “What have they done to you?” His voice shook. It broke my heart to see him so devastated. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Paige, look at me. Look at me!”

I was finding it difficult to look at anything. My eyelids were so heavy. I raised my fingers to his shirt. He cupped my head against his chest. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Where did they take you?”

I shook my head. Nick stroked my sweaty hair. It was soothing. I wanted to stay. I didn’t want them to take me back to that place.

“Paige, don’t you dare close your eyes. Tell me where those bastards took you.”

I shook my head again. There was no way I could tell him, not without my voice.

“Come on, sötnos. You have to tell me where it is. So I can find you again, like I did before. Remember?”

I had to tell him. He had to know. I couldn’t die without telling him where it was. I had to save the others, the other voyants in the lost city. But now I could see a silhouette, an outline of a man. Not a man.

Rephaite.

My fingers were covered in blood. I reached for the wall and traced the first three letters. Nick looked at it.

“Oxford,” he said. “They took you to Oxford?”

I let my hand fall. The faceless man was moving through the darkness. Nick looked up.

“No.” His muscles tightened. “I’m taking you home,” he said, starting to lift me. “I won’t let them take you there again.”

He pulled a pistol from his jacket. I wrapped my arm around his neck. I wanted him to try and run, to save me from another poppy field—but he’d die if I let him. We would both die. The shadow would dog our footsteps to the Dials. I tugged at his shirt, shaking my head, but he didn’t understand. The shadow fell across our path. Nick gripped the gun tighter, his knuckles white, and he pulled the trigger. Once, twice. I screamed behind sealed lips. Nick, run! He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t know. The gun fell from his hand, and all the blood was drawn from his face. A giant, gloved hand gripped his throat. With the last of my strength, I tried to force it away.

“She comes with me.” It was Warden, and he looked demonic. “Run, oracle.”

My grip on life was slipping. I heard Nick’s heart against my ear, felt his fingers lock across my back. The light ebbed. Death had come.