The Bone Season

26 Change

The intensity of the memory knocked me out for a very long time. I had relived every detail of that night, down to the faintest tremor. I woke up to total darkness, with no idea what time or day it was. “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie” strained softly from the gramophone.

There were so many memories I could have shown him. I had lived through the Molly Riots, through my father’s bereavement, through years of cruelty at the hands of Scion schoolgirls—yet I’d shown him the night I was turned down by a boy I loved. It seemed so little and so insignificant, but it was my one normal, human memory. The one time I had given myself to a stranger. The one and only time my heart had ever been broken.

I didn’t believe in hearts. I believed in dreamscapes and spirits. Those were what mattered. Those made money. But my heart had hurt that day. For the first time in my life I’d been forced to acknowledge my heart, and acknowledge its fragility. It could be bruised. It could humiliate me.

I was older now. Maybe I’d changed. Maybe I’d grown up, grown stronger. I wasn’t that girl on the brink of maturity, desperate to connect, to find someone to lean on. She was long gone. Now I was a weapon, a puppet to the machinations of others. I couldn’t work out which was worse.

A tongue of fire still tantalized the embers in the hearth. It cast light on the figure by the window.

“Welcome back.”

I didn’t reply. Warden glanced over his shoulder.

“Go on,” I said. “You must have something to say.”

“No, Paige.”

A moment passed in silence.

“You think it was stupid. You’re right.” I looked at my hands. “I just—I wanted—”

“To be seen.” He looked into the fire. “I believe I understand why that memory affects you so deeply. It is at the heart of your greatest fear: that there is nothing to you beyond your gift. Beyond the dreamwalker. That is the part of you you see as truly valuable—your livelihood. You lost your other parts in Ireland. Now you rely on Jaxon Hall, who treats you as his commodity. To him, you are nothing more than quick flesh grafted to a ghost; a priceless gift in human wrapping. But Nick Nygård showed you more than that.”

I was looking at him now.

“That night opened your eyes. When you realized Nick loved another, you faced your greatest fear: that you would never be acknowledged as a human—as the sum of all your parts. Only as a curiosity. You had no choice but to show yourself otherwise. To find the first person who would have you, someone who knew nothing of the dreamwalker. That was all you had left.”

“Don’t even think about pitying me,” I said.

“I do not pity you. But I do know what it feels like. To be wanted only for what you are.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“But your solitude did not keep you safe. Did it?”

I looked away. I hated that he knew. I hated that I’d let him work me out. Warden came to sit beside me on the bed.

“The mind of an amaurotic is like water. Bland, gray, transparent. Enough to sustain life, but no more. But a clairvoyant mind is more like oil, richer in every way. And like oil and water, they can never truly mix.”

“You’re saying that because he was amaurotic—”

“Yes.”

At least there wasn’t anything wrong with my body. I had never been brave enough to see a doctor about that night. Scion doctors were cold and unforgiving on such matters.

Something occurred to me. “If voyant minds are like oil”—I weighed my words—“what are your minds like?”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure he was going to reply. Finally, in a thick, velvet undertone, he said one word.

“Fire.”

That single word sent a tremor through my skin. I thought of what oil and fire did together: exploded.

No. I couldn’t think about him like that. He wasn’t human. Whether or not he understood me was irrelevant. He was still my keeper. He was still a Rephaite. He was everything he’d been at the beginning.

Warden turned to face me. “Paige,” he said, “there was another memory. Before you passed out.”

“What memory?”

“Blood. A great deal of it.”

I shook my head, too tired to think about it. “Probably when my clairvoyance came out. The poltergeist had a lot of blood in her memories.”

“No. I have seen that memory. There was far more blood in this one. All around you, choking you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And I didn’t. I really didn’t.

Warden regarded me for a while.

“Sleep a little longer,” he finally said. “When you wake up tomorrow, put your mind to better things.”

“Like what?”

“Like escaping from this city. When the time comes, you must be ready.”

“So you’re going to help me.” When he didn’t answer, I lost my patience. “I’ve shown you everything of mine—my life, my memories. I still have no idea what your motives are. What do you want?”

“While Nashira has us both under her thumb, it is best that you know as little as possible. That way, if she interrogates you again, you can safely say that you have no knowledge of the matter.”

“What ‘matter’?”

“You are very persistent.”

“Why do you think I’m still alive?”

“Because you are inured to danger.” He clasped his hands on his knees. “I cannot tell you about my motives, but I will tell you a little about the red flower, if you wish.”

The offer took me by surprise. “Go on.”

“Do you know the story of Adonis?”

“They don’t teach the classics in Scion schools.”

“Of course. Forgive me.”

“Wait.” I thought of Jax’s stolen books. Jax loved mythology. He called it deliciously illicit. “Was he a god?”

“The beloved of Aphrodite. He was a youthful, beautiful, mortal hunter. Aphrodite was so taken with his beauty, she preferred his company even to that of the other gods. Legend tells that her paramour, the war god Ares, grew so jealous of the pair that he turned himself into a boar and slaughtered Adonis. He died in Aphrodite’s arms, and his blood stained the earth.

“As she cradled the body of her beloved, Aphrodite sprinkled nectar over his blood. And from the blood of Adonis sprang the anemone: a short-lived, perennial flower, stained as red as the blood itself—and the spirit of Adonis was sent, like all spirits, to languish in the underworld. Zeus heard Aphrodite crying for her love, and out of pity for the goddess, he agreed to let Adonis spend half the year in life, and half in death.” Warden looked at me. “Consider it, Paige. There may not be any such thing as monsters, but there are still some pockets of truth in the shrouds of your mythology.”

“Don’t tell me you’re gods. I don’t think I could stand the thought of Nashira being holy.”

“We are many things, but ‘holy’ is not one of them.” He paused. “I have said too much. You need rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Even so, you need to sleep. I have something to show you tomorrow night.”

I leaned back against the pillows. I did feel tired.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” I said. “It just means I’m trying.”

“Then I can ask no more of you.” He patted the sheets. “Sleep well, little dreamer.”

I couldn’t hold out any longer. I turned over and closed my eyes, still thinking of red flowers and gods.

I woke to the sound of a knock. The sky outside was rosy, bloodshot. Warden stood by the fire, his hand on the mantelpiece. His gaze slashed toward the door.

“Paige,” he said, “hide. Quickly.”

I got out of the bed and went straight to the door behind the drapes. I left it slightly ajar, pulling the red velvet over the gap, and listened. I could still see the fireplace.

The chamber door unlocked and opened. Nashira stepped into the light of the fire. She must have a key to his tower. Warden knelt, but did not complete the ritual. She ran her fingers over the bed.

“Where is she?”

“Sleeping,” Warden said.

“In her own room?”

“Yes.”

“Liar. She sleeps here. The sheets smell of her.” Her bare fingers grasped his chin. “Do you really want to go down that road?”

“I do not understand your meaning. I think of nothing and no one but you.”

“Perhaps.” Her fingers tightened. “The chains still hang. Do not think for a moment that I will hesitate to send you back to the House. Do not think for a moment that there will be a repeat of Bone Season XVIII. If there is, I will not spare a single life. Not even yours. Not this time. Do you understand me?” When he didn’t reply, she struck him across the face, hard. I flinched. “Answer me.”

“I have had twenty years to reflect on my folly. You were right. Humans cannot be trusted.”

There was a brief silence. “I am pleased to hear it.” Her voice was softer. “All will be well. We will have this tower all to ourselves soon. You can make good on your vow to me.”

She was insane. How could she go from hitting him to making that kind of overture?

“Am I to understand,” Warden said, “that 40’s time has run out?”

I stayed absolutely still, listening.

“She is ready. I know she took possession of 12 in the citadel. Your cousin told me.” She ran her finger under his chin. “You have nurtured her gift well.”

“For you, my sovereign.” He looked up at her. “Will you claim her in the shadows? Or will you show all of Scion your great power?”

“Either will suffice. At last I will have the ability to dreamwalk. At last I will have the power to invade, to possess. All thanks to you, my beloved Arcturus.” She placed a small vial on the mantelpiece, and her voice grew cold again. “This will be your last dose of amaranth until the Bicentenary. I believe you need time to reflect on your scars. To remember why you should look to the future. Not to the past.”

“I will suffer whatever you ask of me.”

“You will not have to suffer for long. Soon we will have our bliss.” She turned toward the door. “Take care of her, Arcturus.”

The door closed.

Warden stood. For a moment I wasn’t sure what he would do. Then he threw out a fist and smashed the glass urn on the mantelpiece. I went to my bed and listened to the silence.

He wasn’t my enemy. Not the enemy I’d thought he was.

She’d said she would send him back to the House. Proof that he was involved in Bone Season XVIII. Proof of his betrayal. That was what Thuban had meant when he’d threatened Terebell. They’d tried to help us and been punished for it. They’d chosen the wrong side. The losing side.

I tossed and turned for hours. I couldn’t stop thinking about their conversation. How she hit him. How she brought him to his knees. And how soon, very soon, she intended to get rid of me. I kicked the sheets off and lay in the dark with my eyes open. The realization had taken a long time, but now I understood. Warden was on my side.

I thought of the scars on Terebell’s back, the ones Thuban Sargas had mentioned with that hint of cruelty. He and his family had scarred her. She and Warden were the scarred ones. Something terrible had happened in the House after that day, Novembertide of 2039. I didn’t know Terebell, but she had saved my life; I owed her. And I owed Warden for taking care of me.

If there was one thing I couldn’t bear, it was being beholden to someone. But when he spoke to me next, I would listen. I would hear him out. I sat up. No, not when he spoke to me next—now. I had to talk to him. Trusting him was my only chance. I would not die here. I had to know, once and for all, what Arcturus Mesarthim wanted. I had to know if he would help me.

I got out of bed and went into the chamber. Empty. Outside, the rain thundered from black clouds. The grandfather clock chimed four in the morning. I picked up the note on the writing table.

I have gone to the chapel. I will be back before dawn.

To hell with sleep. I’d had enough of games, of crossing wires with him. I pulled on my boots and left the tower.

The wind howled outside. There was a guard in the cloisters. I waited until she passed before I ran. The thunder and the darkness gave me cover, letting me slip past unnoticed. But above the rain, there swelled a new sound: music. I followed it into another passage, where a vast door stood ajar. Beyond it was a small chapel, set apart from the rest of the building by an elaborate stone screen. Candlelight flickered in the darkness. There was someone up there, playing the organ. The sound rang in my ears, through my chest.

A small door stood open in the screen. I went through it, up the steps. At the top was the organ. Warden sat at the bench with his back to me. The music resonated through the ranks of pipes, up to the ceiling: a sound that rose through the chapel, above it. A sound that surged with terrible regret. Nobody could play this without some degree of feeling.

The music stopped. He turned his head. When he didn’t say anything, I sat on the bench beside him. We sat in the dark, with only the light from his eyes and the candle.

“You should be sleeping.”

“I’ve slept enough.” I touched my fingers to the keys. “I didn’t know Rephaim could play.”

“We have mastered the art of mimicry over the years.”

“That wasn’t mimicry. That was you.”

There was a long silence.

“You have come to ask about your freedom,” he said. “That is what you want.”

“Yes.”

“Of course it is. You may not believe it, but it is what I desire most in the world. This place has afflicted me with a terrible wanderlust. I long for your fire, for the sights that you have seen. Yet here I am, two hundred years after I arrived. Still a prisoner, though I masquerade as a king.”

I could empathize with his wanderlust, if nothing else.

“I was betrayed once. On the eve of Novembertide, when the uprising of Bone Season XVIII was to begin, one human chose to betray us all. In exchange for freedom, the traitor sacrificed everyone in this city.” He looked at me. “You see why Nashira is not threatened by the prospect of a second rebellion. She believes you are all too self-seeking to come together.”

I did see. To have planned so much for human freedom, only to have us bite the hand that fought for us—no wonder he hadn’t trusted me. No wonder he’d been so cold.

“But you, Paige—you threaten her. She knows you are one of the Seven Seals, that you are the Pale Dreamer. You have the power to bring the spirit of the syndicate into this city. She fears that spirit.”

“There’s nothing to fear from it. It’s full of petty criminals and backstabbers.”

“That is dependent on its leaders. It has the potential to become something much greater.”

“The syndicate exists because of Scion. Scion exists because of the Rephaim,” I said. “You made your own enemy.”

“I recognize the irony. So does Nashira.” He turned to face me. “Bone Season XVIII rebelled because the prisoners were accustomed to being organized. There was strength and solidarity among them. We must resurrect that strength. And this time, we must not fail.” He looked at the window. “I must not fail.”

I didn’t speak. I thought about reaching for his hand, inches from mine on the keys.

In the end, I didn’t take the risk.

“I want to leave,” I said. “That’s all I want. To go back to the citadel with as many people as possible.”

“Then our aims are different. If we are to help one another, we must reconcile that difference.”

“What do you want?”

“To strike against the Sargas. To show them what it means to be afraid.”

I thought of Julian. I thought of Finn. And I thought of Liss, slipping away into amaurosis. “How do you propose to do that?”

“I have one idea.” His gaze flicked down to mine. “I would like to show you something, if you are willing.”

I meant to reply, but I didn’t. His chartreuse eyes grew warmer as he looked at me. I was close enough to feel his heat. “I desire to trust you,” he said.

“You can.”

“Then you will come with me.”

“Where?”

“To see Michael.” He stood. “There is a disused building to the north of the Great Quad. The guards must not see us.”

Now he had my attention. I nodded.

I followed him from the chapel. He looked through the arches, searching for the guards. None appeared.

He motioned with his hand. A nearby ghost wheeled toward him and raced down the passage, extinguishing the torches. As the darkness closed in, he took my hand. I had to half-run to keep up with his strides. He led me through an archway and out onto a gravel path.

The disused building was as daunting as the others. By the dim flush of dawn I could see a series of arches, rectangular barred windows, and a tympanum with a ring carved into it. Warden led me through the arches, took a key from his sleeve, and opened a rotten door. “What is this place?” I said.

“A safe house.”

He went inside. I followed, pulling the door closed behind me. Warden bolted it.

It was pitch-black in the safe house. His eyes cast a soft light over the walls. “These were wine cellars once,” he said as we walked. “I spent years clearing them. As the highest-ranking Rephaite at this residence, I was able to forbid entry to whichever buildings I chose. This safe house is accessible by only a small group of individuals. Michael included.”

“Who else?”

“You know who else.”

The scarred ones. I shivered. This was their safe house, their meeting place. He opened a gate in the wall. Beyond it was an opening, not much more than a crawl space. “Go through.”

“What’s in there?”

“Someone who can help you.”

“I thought you were going to help me.”

“The humans in this city would never trust a Rephaite to organize them. They would think it was a trick, as you have always believed. It must be you.”

“You led us before.”

Warden looked away.

“Go,” he said. “Michael is waiting.”

His brow was dark. I wondered how many years of work had come crashing down around him.

“It can be different this time,” I said.

He didn’t reply. His eyes were dim, and his skin had a soft sheen. The lack of amaranth was already taking its toll.

Not having much of a choice, I crawled into a cool, dark tunnel. Warden closed the gate behind us. “Keep going.”

I did. When I reached the end, a slim hand grasped mine. I looked up to see Michael, his face lit by a candle. Warden emerged from the tunnel.

“Show her, Michael. It is your work.”

Michael nodded again, beckoning me. I followed him into the darkness. He flicked a switch, and a light came on, revealing a large underground room. I looked at the light for a moment, trying to work out why it seemed so strange. Then it hit me.

“Electricity.” I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “There’s no power here. How did you—?” Michael was smiling.

“Officially, the power can be restored in only one of the residences: Balliol. That is where the red-jackets coordinate with the Westminster Archon during the Bone Seasons,” Warden said. “That building has modern electrical wiring. Fortunately, so has Magdalen.”

Michael led me to the corner, where velvet drape covered a wide, rectangular object. When he whipped the drape away, I stared. His pride and joy was a computer. Horribly outdated, probably from around 2030—but a computer. A link to the world outside.

“He stole it from Balliol,” Warden said. The shadow of a smile touched his lips. “He was able to restore electricity in this building and establish a connection with Scion’s satellite constellation.”

“Sounds like you’re a bit of a whiz kid, Michael.” I sat in front of the computer. Michael allowed himself a shy smile. “What do you use it for?”

“We do not often risk restoring the electricity, but we did use it to monitor the progress of Bone Season XX.”

“Can I see?”

Michael leaned over my shoulder. He accessed a file marked MAHONEY, PAIGE EVA, 07-MAR-59. Video footage from a helicopter. The camera zoomed in on my face. I sprinted across the rooftops and took a running leap off the edge of the building. The gap looked impossible—I found myself holding my breath—but the girl on the screen made it. There was a shout from the pilot: “Flux her!” I fell fifty feet, and the line caught between my body and the backpack. My unconscious form hung like a stiff. The NVD cameraman laughed, breathless. “Weaver’s whiskers,” he said. “That has got to be the luckiest little bitch I’ve ever seen.”

And that was it.

“Charming,” I said.

Michael patted me on the shoulder.

“We were disappointed when you did not evade them,” Warden said, “though relieved that you survived.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Did you invite your friends over to watch the show?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

He stood and paced the basement. “What do you want me to do?” I said.

“I am giving you the option to call for help.” When I looked at him, he said, “Call the Seven Seals.”

“No. Nashira will get them,” I said. “She wants Jaxon. I’m not bringing him anywhere near this place.”

Michael’s face fell. “At least let them know where you are,” Warden said. “In case it all goes awry.”

“In case what goes awry?”

“Your prison break.”

“My prison break.”

“Yes.” Warden turned to face me. “You asked me about the train. On the night of the Bicentenary, it will bring a large group of Scion emissaries from the citadel. It will also take them back to London.”

His words sank in. “We can go home,” I said. The thought was hard to process. “When?”

“The eve of the first of September.” Warden sat on one of the kegs. “If you will not contact the Seven Seals, you can use this room to make your plans. They have to be better than mine, Paige. You must remember the lessons of the syndicate.” He looked straight into my eyes. “I made an error last time. We planned to move against the Sargas in the day, when most of the city would be dormant. Thanks to the traitor, they were ready for us—but even if we had not been betrayed, they would have sensed our movements from the æther. We must strike when there is already a great deal of activity, when the Sargas are distracted. When their ability to retaliate will be limited by their need to uphold their facade of control. What better time than the Bicentenary?”

I found myself nodding. “We could scare a few Scion officials while we’re at it.”

“Precisely.” He held my eye contact. “This is your safe house now. The computer contains detailed maps of Sheol I for you to plan your route out of the city center. If you can reach the meadow in time, you can take the train to London.”

“What time will it leave?”

“I do not yet know. I cannot ask too many questions, but Michael has been eavesdropping. We will find out.”

I looked up at him. “You said our aims differed. You want something else.”

“Scion believes we are too powerful to destroy. That we have no weaknesses. I want you to prove them wrong.”

“How?”

“I have long since suspected that Nashira will try to kill you at the Bicentenary. To claim your gift. There is one, simple way to humiliate her.” He placed his fingers under my chin, lifting it. “Stop her.”

I searched his face. His eyes were dim, soft. “If I do,” I said, “I want to claim my favor.”

“I am listening.”

“Liss. I can’t reach her. I have the cards, but she might not accept them. I need—” A spasm closed my throat. I had to force the next words out: “I need your help.”

“Your friend has been in spirit shock for a long time. She will need amaranth to recover.”

“I know.”

“You are aware that Nashira has stopped my supply.”

I didn’t look away. “You have the last dose.”

Warden sat beside me. I knew what I was asking. He depended on amaranth.

“I wonder, Paige.” His fingers drummed on his knee. “You do not wish to bring your friends here. But if I were to offer you your freedom, now—would you take it, if it meant leaving Liss?”

“Is that an offer?”

“Perhaps.”

I knew why he was asking me. He was testing me, seeing if I was selfish enough to leave someone so vulnerable behind.

“The risk to me is great,” he said. “If any of the humans inform the Sargas, I will be severely punished for helping a human. But if you are willing to stay a little longer—to take a risk for me, and for your kind—I will do the same for her. That is the bargain I offer you.”

I did think about it. For one appalling moment, I thought about abandoning Liss, about seizing my freedom. About returning to London and leaving this place behind me, never to look back. Then shame rose inside me, hot and swift. I closed my eyes.

“No,” I said. “I want you to help Liss.”

I could feel his gaze.

“Then I will help her,” he said.

A small group of harlies had gathered in the shack. Five of them huddled together in the cold, their heads bowed and their fingers clasped. Cyril and Julian were among them. The rain dripped through the cloth they’d stuffed into the gaps between the boards.

Liss had been in spirit shock for too long to recover. All they could do was hold a silent vigil at her bedside. If she lived, she would be an amaurotic husk of her former self. If she died, one of them would speak the threnody. Banish her beyond the reach of her captors. Either way, they would lose their most beloved performer—Liss Rymore, the girl who never fell.

When Warden arrived, with Michael and I at his side, they backed away. Whispers of fright passed between them. Cyril pushed himself into the corner, wild-eyed. The others just looked. Why was the blood-consort here, the right hand of Nashira? Why should he disturb the deathwatch?

Only Julian didn’t move.

“Paige?”

I put a finger over my lips.

Liss lay on her blankets, covered in filthy sheets. Bits of silk were twisted into her hair, tokens for good luck and hope. Julian gripped her hand, not taking his eyes off the intruder.

Warden knelt beside Liss. His jaw was clenched, but he didn’t mention his pain.

“Paige,” he said, “the amaranth.”

I passed him the vial. The last vial. His last dose.

“The cards,” Warden said. He was completely focused on his work now. I passed them to him. “And the blade.”

Michael handed me a knife with a black handle. I pulled it from its sheath and passed it to Warden. More whispers. Julian held Liss’s hand on his lap, his eyes fixed on me. “Trust me,” I said quietly.

He swallowed.

Warden uncorked the amaranth. He shook a few drops onto his gloved fingers, then dabbed the oil onto Liss’s lips and philtrum. Julian kept a firm grip on her hand, though her cold fingers gave no response. Warden touched a little amaranth to each of her temples, then corked the vial and handed it to me. He took the knife by the blade and held it out to Julian.

“Prick her fingers.”

“What?”

“I require her blood.”

Julian looked at me. I nodded. With steady hands, he grasped the handle. “Sorry, Liss,” he said.

He pressed the tip into each of her fingertips. Tiny beads of blood swelled where it touched. Warden nodded.

“Paige, Michael—spread the cards.”

Together, we did. We arranged the new deck into a semicircle. Warden took hold of Liss’s hand and wiped her fingers across them, smearing the images with blood.

Warden wiped the blade clean with a cloth. He removed his left glove and clenched his fist around it. There was a gasp. Rephs never removed their gloves. Did they even have hands? Yes, they did. His hand was large, the knuckles scarred. Another gasp came when he drew the sharp edge of the knife through his skin, opening his palm.

His blood seeped from the cut, blurring my perception. He held out his arm and let a few drops of ectoplasm spot each card. Just as Aphrodite sprinkled her nectar on the blood of Adonis. I could feel spirits gathering in the room: drawn to the cards, to Liss, to Warden. They formed a triangle, a rift in the æther. He was opening the door.

Warden pulled on his glove, picked up the cards, and sorted them back into a pile. He placed them on Liss’s bare décolletage, so they touched her skin, and folded her hands over them.

“And from the blood of Adonis,” he said, “came life.”

Liss opened her eyes.