“I’m sorry.” Eliza looked close to collapsing. “I’m sorry, both of you. I just . . . had to sleep.”
“Then you should have called us so we could get out of there. But no, you left us standing there waiting for you. And let us get beaten up for you. And then you come waltzing in here at half past nine, expecting us to let you go to sleep?”
“Wait.” I turned to Eliza. “Where were you until half nine?”
“I fell asleep outside,” she murmured.
That wasn’t like her at all. “Where? I checked all our locals.”
“Goodwin’s Court. I was disoriented.”
“You’re a liar.” Nadine pointed at her brother. “You know what? I don’t care where you were or what you were doing. But on top of the damn painting being taken, Zeke has a cracked rib. How are we going to get that fixed?”
Now the spotlight was on me. As I was Jaxon’s mollisher, his authority rested in me when he was away. It was my job to dole out punishment if the situation called for it.
“Eliza,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “you slept during your first break. That was for two hours. I know you need more than that after a long trance, but you should have gone back and packed up the stall if you were that tired, so Zeke and Nadine could get you back to the den. Better to deal with an angry Jax than lose potential clients.”
There were some twenty-three-year-olds who wouldn’t take a lick of criticism from someone four years their junior, but she’d always respected my position. “I’m sorry, Paige.”
There was such defeat and exhaustion in her expression, I couldn’t bring myself to lecture her for any longer. “It’s done, then. We’re moving on.” When Nadine’s jaw dropped, I folded my arms. “Look, she fell asleep. What do you want me to do—put her on the waterboard?”
“I want you to do something. You’re supposed to be the mollisher. We got the shit beaten out of us and she just gets away with it?”
“Hector reefed you because he’s a pitiful excuse for an Underlord and he deserves to be killed by the same people he claims to lead. Eliza shouldn’t have been at the market in the first place. And don’t you think her painting being stolen is enough? You know how much time she spent on it.”
“Yeah, must be exhausting to go into a trance while poor Philippe does all the work.”
“Just as hard to play the violin and get money thrown at you for doing what a rottie could do.” Eliza squared up to her, her aura blazing. “What exactly do you contribute to this section, Nadine? What would happen if Jaxon threw you out tomorrow?”
“At least I do my own work, puppet princess.”
“I make Jax the most money out of any of us!”
“Pieter makes Jax money. Rachel makes Jax money. Philippe makes Jax—”
Eliza’s cheeks were red with anger. “You’re only here because of Zeke! Jax didn’t even want to hire you!”
“Enough,” I snapped. Eliza was heaving out sobs, one hand clenched in her hair, and Nadine had been shocked into silence.
“Yes. That is enough.”
The deep voice silenced us. Jaxon had appeared in the doorway, his face bloodless. Even the whites of his eyes seemed paler.
“Explain,” he said, “what is happening.”
I stepped in front of Eliza. “I’ve sorted it.”
“Sorted what, precisely?”
“Eliza slacked off, all our goods have been stolen, and Zeke’s got a cracked rib,” Nadine exploded. “How exactly have you ‘sorted it,’ Mahoney?”
“You should have applied for the NVD, Nadine,” I said coldly. “You might like that line of work. We’ll get Nick to check on Zeke, but I’m not going to punish anyone for being tired.”
“I will make that decision, Paige. Thank you.” Jaxon held up a hand. “Eliza, explain yourself.”
“Jax,” Eliza started, “I’m so sorry. I just—”
“You ‘just’ what?” His voice was sleek as a ribbon.
“I was—I was tired. I fell asleep.”
“And you didn’t manage to find your way back to the Garden. Am I correct?”
Her head tipped down, but she whispered, “Yes.”
“She passed out on the street, Jax,” I said. “She shouldn’t have been selling at all.”
For a long time, Jaxon said nothing. Then he stepped toward her, wearing an odd smile.
“Jax,” I warned, but he didn’t even glance at me.
“Dear, sweet Eliza, my Martyred Muse.” He took her chin in one hand, hard enough to make her flinch. “On this particular matter, I’m afraid I must agree with Nadine.” His grip on her chin tightened. “I have no idea what sort of knot you have looped yourself into when it comes to your sleeping pattern, but I will not have any indolence in this den. And martyr you may be, at least by name, but I will not have you weeping like one. If you are finding it particularly difficult to control yourself, leave. You may have to leave either way. If we are unable to sell your art on the black market, my lovely, then you are about as useful to me as a mirror to a summoner.”
From the look on her face, he couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d stabbed her in the heart. The silence was terrible. In all my years of knowing Jaxon, I had never once heard him threaten anyone with expulsion.
“Jax.” Her lips trembled.
“No.” The end of his cane whipped toward the door. “Go to the garret. Reflect on your fragile position in this group. And hope, Eliza, that we can resolve this dilemma. If you decide you would like to keep your job, inform me before sunrise, and I will consider it.”
“Of course I want my job.” She looked half-dead with fear. “Jaxon, please, please . . . don’t do this—”
“Try not to snivel, Eliza. You are a medium of I-4, not some importunate beggar.”
To her credit, Eliza didn’t cry. Jaxon watched her go upstairs with not so much as a drop of discernible emotion.
I shook my head. “That was cruel, Jax.”
He might have been a well-dressed piece of wood for all the response I got.
“Nadine,” he said, “you are excused.”
Nadine didn’t argue. She didn’t quite looked ashamed of herself, but she didn’t look triumphant, either. The door slammed behind her.
“Zeke.”
“Yes?”
“Your box. Go to it.”
“Was that true, Jaxon? That you only gave my sister a job because of me?”
“Do you see many buskers living in my home, Ezekiel? What use do you suppose I had for a violinist with a panic disorder?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, his teeth clenched. “You’re giving me a headache. Get out of my sight, you wretched boy.”
For a while, Zeke just stood there. He opened his mouth, but I shook my head at him. Jaxon was in no mood for debate. Defeated, Zeke took off his broken glasses, picked up a book from the writing table and shut himself away. There was nothing we could do for his cracked rib.
“Come upstairs with me, Paige.” Still grasping his cane, Jaxon went to the staircase. “I have something to tell you.”
I followed him back to the second floor, hot around the eyes. In the space of five minutes the whole gang had fallen apart. He directed me to an armchair in his office, but I stayed on my feet.
“Why did you do that?”
“Do what, my lovely?”
“You know they depend on you. On us.” There was something about his inquisitive look that made me want to box his ears. “Eliza was exhausted. You know Philippe had her for fifty-six hours, don’t you?”
“Oh, she’s fine. I’ve heard of mediums going for up to two weeks without sleep. It causes no lasting damage.” He waved a hand. “I shan’t fire her, in any case. We can always relocate the stall to Old Spitalfields if we butter up Ognena Maria. But Eliza has had the morbs of late, sobbing to herself in the garret. It’s very trying.”
“Maybe you should ask her why she’s been down. There might be something wrong.”
“Matters of the heart are quite bey
ond me. Hearts are frivolous things, good for nothing but pickling.” He steepled his fingers. “The stolen painting may prove problematic if Hector finds himself an art specialist, who will see at once that the paint is fresh. I want it returned to I-4, or failing that, thrown into the Thames.”
“What makes you think he’ll hand it over?”
“I’m not asking him to hand it over without incentive, darling. A carrot must be offered to the ass.” He reached into the desk drawer. “I want you to take said carrot to the Devil’s Acre on my behalf.”
I looked closer.
In a leather-bound case was a solitary knife, about eight inches long, cradled in a bed of crimson velvet. When I reached a finger toward it, Jaxon grabbed my wrist. “Careful. This kind of numen is treacherous. If your fingers so much as kiss it, it will send a nasty shock wave into your dreamscape. And, quite possibly, affect your sanity.”
“Whose is it?”
“Oh, some dead person. When numa are left without a voyant for a long time, they do not respond well to being handled. Only someone of the same order as the dead owner has a chance of touching it without injury.” He snapped the case shut and handed it to me. “I have no use for it, but Hector is a macharomancer. He should be thrilled with a blade for his collection. An expensive blade, I should add.”
It didn’t look too special to me, but far be it from me to question Hector’s taste. “Should I be going that close to the Archon?” I said. “At night?”
“Therein lies the quandary. If I send anyone less than my mollisher, it will wound Hector’s pride. If I send anyone to accompany you, he will accuse me of trying to dragoon him into handing over a valuable piece of mime-art.”
“I met Cutmouth on the way out of the market. She tried to take blood from me,” I said.
“That meddlesome fool must still want to know where you’ve been. He was demanding to know when he came to Seven Dials. The stench of him still lingers on the curtains.”
“They could take the blood from me if I go there.”
“Cutmouth,” he said, “is a vile augur. Her particular ‘art’ is clumsy and savage. Even if she could somehow read images of the penal colony from your blood, she wouldn’t be able to make a smidgen of sense of them.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Still, I can’t have my mollisher being bled. I will have a courier take you to the I-1 border. A glym jack will accompany you to the Devil’s Acre and ensure that you emerge in one piece. Make sure Hector knows he’s there. He’ll be waiting for you on the steps of the Thorney.”
There was no getting out of this. “I’ll get changed,” I said.
“That’s my girl.”
In my room, I took out steel-capped boots, cargo trousers, and leather half-gloves. I had to be ready for Hector this time. More likely than not, one of the Underbodies would give me a hefty thump for being in I-1, even if I was there for a reason.
I stole upstairs and took a stolen NVD stab vest from the back of the kitchen door. On the other side of the landing, the door to the painting room was closed.
“Eliza?”
There was no reply, but I could feel her dreamscape. I opened the door, and the smell of linseed floated out. Tubes of oil paint littered the floor, spilling colors on to the dust sheet. Eliza was sitting on her fold-down bed, her knees drawn up to her chin. The muses hung like clouds above her.
“He won’t fire me, will he?”
She sounded like a lost child. “Of course not,” I said gently.
“He looked so angry.” Her fingers framed her temples. “I deserve to go. I messed up.”
“You were shattered.” I stepped into the room. “I’m going to talk to Hector now. I’ll get the painting back.”
“He won’t give it to you.”
“He will if he wants to keep his spirit in his sunlit zone.”
She managed a sad smile. “Just don’t do anything stupid.” Tears seeped to her chin, and she wiped them with her sleeve. “I still have to talk to Jax.”
“He knows you want your job. Get some sleep.” I turned to leave, then stopped. “Eliza?”
“Mm?”
“If you need to talk, you know where I am.”
She nodded. I switched off the lamp and closed the door.
Once I was dressed and disguised, with the stab vest zipped over my blouse and covered by a black jacket, I slung the strap of my bag across my chest and tucked the numen inside it. Even in the box it gave me an unpleasant chill. The sooner it was with Hector, the better.
****
The Devil’s Acre, time-honored home of the Underlord, was almost within spitting distance of the Westminster Archon. The Underlord considered himself to be the other leader of the citadel, with every right to settle in I-1. It was the last place in the world a fugitive should be heading.
The buck cab drove along Embankment, where I disembarked. A spasm of fear almost welded me to the spot, but I made myself walk toward the Archon. I was well disguised, but I had to do this quickly.
When I reached the Archon, I stood beneath it, close to where the river heaved against the walls. That clock had the largest dials in the citadel. Its opal-glass face shone volcanic scarlet.
Nashira could be in there. I wanted more than anything to look, to know what they were doing, but there was no safe place to dream-walk here.
Close by was a vast, decaying abbey, where the kings and queens of old had been crowned. Locals called it the Thorney. As promised, a glym jack was waiting. He was all muscle, hooded, with a green lantern in one hand. Their purpose in the citadel was to escort amaurotics to their destinations at night, ensuring protection from unnaturals and their crimes, but Jaxon had one or two on his side.
“Pale Dreamer.” He inclined his head. “Binder says I’m to escort you to the Devil’s Acre and wait outside.”
“Fine by me.” We walked down the steps. “What’s your name?”
“Grover.”
“You’re not one of Binder’s.”
“I’m from I-2. Surprised the Binder let you out at all, if I may say so.” He walked beside me, close enough for him to look like a bodyguard. “Your face was on my newspaper this morning.”
“It’s up there, too.” I nodded to a transmission screen, where the fugitives’ faces were being shown again. “But I’ve got a job to do.”
“That makes two of us. Stay close and keep your head down. I’m charged with keeping you alive tonight.”
I wondered how much Jaxon was paying him. What price he placed on the life of a dreamwalker.
Before Scion, the high lords of Westminster had planned to eradicate the disease-ridden rookeries of London and replace them with modern, sanitary dwellings. Urban renewal had been put on a back-burner when unnaturalness arrived, of course. Most other problems had. Although some attempts at clearance had been made after the Ripper killings, particularly in Whitechapel, there were still four slums in the citadel, mostly populated by buskers and beggars. The Devil’s Acre was the smallest by far, confined to three streets that ran between a few decrepit lodgings.
The area around the Archon was heavily guarded. At one point a troop of Vigiles came far too close, but the glym jack pushed me into an alley before they could spot my aura. “Hurry,” he said, and we broke into a jog.
When we reached the perimeter of the Devil’s Acre, I approached the entrance. A sheet of corrugated metal served as a door on Old Pye Street, barred from the other side. I knocked, hard.
“Doorman!”
Nothing. I gave the door a kick.
“Doorman, it’s the Pale Dreamer. I have an urgent proposal for Hector. Open up, you lazy bastard.”
The doorman didn’t answer—not so much as a snore—but there was no way I was going back to I-4 without the painting. Eliza wouldn’t get a wink of sleep until it was found.
“Wait here,” I said to the glym jack. “I’ll find a way in.”
“As you will.”
These walls were no friend to a climber. Coils of razor w
ire would tear my hands to shreds, and the corrugated metal was streaked with oily anti-intruder paint. I made a few rounds of the acre, searching for gaps, but everything was sealed. Clearly Hector was a tad more intelligent than he was hygienic. I was almost ready to admit defeat when the sole of my boot hit something hollow. A manhole cover.
Crouching, I heaved the metal lid to one side. Instead of the small access chamber I’d expected, a tunnel curved under the wall, dimly lit by a portable lantern.
Hector’s bolthole. Strange that he hadn’t put a padlock on it.
The tunnel was padded with soiled cushions and foam so caked in dirt it looked like stone. I lowered myself in and replaced the bolthole’s lid. At the end of the passage I found a grate. Dim light sifted through it. I focused on my sixth sense, letting everything else drain away. There were no dreamscapes or spirits at all. Odd. Hector was always boasting about his enormous collection of spirits, from wisps to ghosts to poltergeists. Hector and the gang must have left again, unless they’d decided to wreak havoc in another section before returning home. Still, they should have a guard watching the bolthole, and there was no reason for all those spirits to have left.
This was my chance. I could sneak in, grab the painting and sneak out again. Job done. My heart raced. If I was caught trespassing in the Devil’s Acre, I was worse than dead.
I surfaced from the tunnel in a shack, where the air was close and smelled of petrichor. Keeping low, I cracked open a door. Beyond it was a tiny collection of low-lying houses, cobbled together with brick and metal. I’d expected more from the Underlord’s lair.
Each and every building was empty. When I came to the largest, which looked as if it might once have been a grand town-house two centuries ago, I knew it was where Hector lived. The walls were lined with blades of all kinds. Some of them were definitely imported, bought in secret from the black market; they were too fine to be street weapons.
Across the hallway, another set of double doors was ajar. A smell skimmed my nose, stale and unpleasant. I took the hunting knife from my bag and hid it behind my jacket. Warm light flickered across the carpet, but there was no sound.