The Mime Order

  I pushed open the doors. And I saw the drawing room, and I saw what was inside it.

  Hector and his gang were here, all right.

  They were all over the floor.

  9

  The Bloody King

  Hector lay on his back in the middle of the drawing room, legs splayed wide, with his left arm resting across his abdomen. Dark blood was spilling from his neck, and no wonder: his head was nowhere to be seen. I could only identify him from his eternally dirty clothes and the golden pocket watch.

  A row of red candles had been lit along the mantelpiece. Their dim light made the lake of blood look like crude oil.

  Eight bodies lay on the floor. The Underhand was at his master’s side, as always. Head still attached, glaze-eyed and open-mouthed. The others were in pairs, like couples in bed. All lying in the same direction, with their heads facing the windows of the west-facing wall.

  The insides of my ears tingled. I looked back through the doors and reached for the æther, but there was no one else in the building.

  And there was Eliza’s beautiful painting, propped against the wall. Arterial spray dripped down the canvas.

  The sour stench of urine reached my nostrils. And the blood. So much blood.

  Run. The word drifted through my thoughts. But no, the painting. I had to get the painting. And I had to take note of what was here; they’d clear it all away when word got out that Hector was dead.

  First, the corpses. From the spray, they must have been killed here, not moved. I’d seen bodies before, some in the late stages of decay, but these identical positions were grotesquely theatrical. Streaks of blood led up to each body. They must have been dragged around the room like dummies before being posed. I pictured faceless hands propping up legs, lifting arms and tilting heads to the desired angle. Each face was resting on the left cheek. Each right arm lay on the floor, parallel to the torso. All the furniture—armchairs, a séance table, and a coat rack—had been pushed against the walls to make room for them all.

  I crouched down by the nearest body, my breath shaking. Bile crept into my throat. This corpse had been Magtooth. It seemed impossible that he’d been taunting me a few days ago, his lips sneering and his eyes alight with malice. His cheeks had been hacked with a knife, most of his nose was missing, and small, V-shaped cuts split his eyelids.

  The killer would have known that Hector was never by himself. There must have been more than one person here to take down the whole gang. I checked the corpses again. Hector, the Underhand, Slabnose, Slipfinger, Bloatface, Magtooth, Roundhead. At the bottom right corner of the arrangement, next to Magtooth, was the Undertaker, his mouth still set in a line. Death had hardly changed his expression. That explained why all the spirits had fled. Once a binder’s heart stopped beating, his boundlings were free to go.

  There was one person missing. Cutmouth. Either she’d escaped, or she’d never been here.

  As well as arranging the bodies, the killer had left a calling card. Each body had the right palm turned toward the ceiling, and in each was a red silk handkerchief. A few of the gangs had calling cards—the Threadbare Company left a handful of needles, the Crowbars a black feather—but I’d never seen this one.

  Cautiously, I rested the backs of my fingers against Magtooth’s bloody cheek. Still warm. His watch was stuck at quarter past three. The clock on the mantelpiece told me it was now almost half past the same hour.

  A chill bolted down my spine. I had to leave. Get the painting and run.

  The spirits of the Underbodies would need the threnody, the essential words of release from the physical world. If I denied them that basic mercy, they would almost certainly develop into poltergeists, but I didn’t know most of their names. I stood over the decapitated body and touched three fingers to my forehead as a sign of respect.

  “Hector Grinslathe, be gone into the æther. All is settled. All debts are paid. You need not dwell among the living now.”

  There was no response from the æther. I turned to Magtooth, unsettled.

  “Ronald Cranwell, be gone into the æther. All is settled. All debts are paid. You need not dwell among the living now.”

  Nothing. I focused, straining my perception until my temples ached. I’d thought they might be hiding, but they didn’t emerge.

  New spirits almost always lingered close to their empty bodies. I stepped back, into a pool of blood.

  The æther, which had been still, began to vibrate. Like water touched by a tuning fork. I ran between the two rows of corpses, heading for the painting, but the quake soon caught up with me. The candles blew out, the ceiling cracked, and a poltergeist exploded through it.

  The breacher’s impact threw me against the floorboards. I realized my mistake at once: the pendant was in my pocket, not around my neck. Then the agony came, and so did a gut-wrenching scream. Spasms rocked my insides. Hallucinations seared past my eyes: a woman’s cry, a torn and bloody dress, a spike concealed by artificial flowers. I gasped for air, clawing the floor until my nails ripped, but the thing was writhing like a snake inside me, digging its claws into my dreamscape, and every breath I took seemed to freeze inside my lungs.

  Somehow, my fingers got to my pocket, gripped the pendant, and slammed it against my heart. The spirit thrashed in my dreamscape. I thrashed, too, my neck straining—but I kept it pressed to my skin, like salt to a wound, burning out the infection, until the poltergeist was expelled from my mind. It sent out a burst of tremors before it took off through the window. Glass burst from the frame. I lay on the floorboards, covered in the Underbodies’ blood.

  After what felt like hours, I drew in a breath. My right arm, which I’d thrown out to protect myself, was already beginning to stiffen. I dragged myself onto my hands and knees. Shards of glass fell from my hair. I opened my eyes slowly, blinking tiny crystals from my lashes.

  With gritted teeth, I took hold of the painting and concealed it inside my coat before snatching up my bag. That poltergeist must have been waiting to spring on the first person that happened upon its old master’s corpse, purely for its own entertainment.

  Leaving the bodies, I made my way back through the bolthole. When I emerged, Grover took my good hand and pulled me up.

  “Done?”

  “He’s dead,” I said. “Hector, he’s—”

  I could hardly speak. Grover dropped my hand and looked at his own. It was wet with blood.

  “You killed him,” he said, stunned.

  “No. He was dead.”

  “You’ve got blood all over you.” He stepped away. “I’ll have nothing to do with this. Binder can keep his coin.” He took his lantern from the wall and broke into a run.

  “Wait,” I shouted after him. “It’s not what it looks like!”

  But Grover was gone. Dread sank into my veins.

  He would tell someone. Probably the Abbess. I thought about sending my spirit after him, knocking him dead so he’d take what he’d seen to the æther—but I couldn’t just kill innocent bystanders. And it wouldn’t change the fact that I was covered in blood, all alone, and miles from Seven Dials.

  There was no way I could walk back to I-4 like this, and I doubted any rickshaws would take me. Calling Jaxon wasn’t an option; I didn’t have my burner. But there was a lake about five minutes from here, in Birdcage Park. It would be dangerous to go there—it was close to Frank Weaver’s estate in Victoria—but unless I found a water fountain, I didn’t have much choice.

  I ran, cradling my arm to my chest. The slum was swallowed up behind me. I dumped the painting in a waste container on the corner of Caxton Street. It was too heavy to carry any farther.

  Birdcage Park was one of the few remaining green spaces in SciLo. Fifty-seven acres of grass, trees, and winding flower beds. Now, in late September, fallen leaves scattered the paths. When I reached the lake, I waded in up to my waist and washed the blood from my face and hair. I couldn’t feel a thing above the elbow, while my forearm was in so much pain I wanted to hack off
everything below the shoulder. A silent scream wrenched at my throat; I had to press a fist to my mouth to hold it in. Hot tears filled my eyes.

  There was a pay phone near the edge of the lake. I dragged myself inside, took a coin from my pocket. My fingers stumbled on the code for the I-4 booth.

  No answer. There was no courier standing by.

  Somewhere in the fog, instinct returned. I lurched back to my feet. My ears were sizzling. Was there a fire? It didn’t matter. I had to hide, to carry the pain somewhere where I wouldn’t be seen. The trees by the lake cast deep enough shadows. I stumbled into the undergrowth and curled up in a bank of fallen leaves.

  Time slowed. And slowed. And slowed. All I could register was my shallow breathing, the sound of fire, and the pain that pounded through my arm. I couldn’t move the joints in my fingers. A Vigile was bound to do a patrol of the lake before dawn, but I couldn’t get up. Nothing worked. Pitiless laughter filled my ears, and I blacked out.

  ****

  Pain welled behind my eyes. I opened them a little. The smells of rose oil and tobacco told me where I was.

  Someone had propped me against the cushions on Jaxon’s couch, switched my bloody clothes for a nightshirt, and covered me to the chest with a chenille throw. I made to turn over, but every limb was stiff and I couldn’t stop shivering. Even my jaw was locked. When I tried to lift my head, my neck muscles contracted painfully.

  The night’s events came flooding back. Anxiety trembled in my stomach. Trying to use only my eyes, I looked down at my arm. The wound was covered with what looked like green slime.

  A creak on the landing announced Jaxon’s arrival. He had a cigar wedged between his back teeth on one side of his mouth. Behind him were the others, minus Danica and Nick. “Paige?” Eliza crouched beside me and placed a hand on my forehead. “Jax, she’s so cold.”

  “She will be.” Jaxon blew out a cloud of bluish smoke. “I must admit, I did expect some minor injuries to contend with—but not to find you unconscious in Birdcage Park, my walker.”

  “You found me?” My jaw ached with each word.

  “Well, I collected you. Dr. Nygård sent me an image of your location. It seems the æther finally sent him something useful.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At that dratted Scion job of his. Into a buck cab I leaped, only to find my own mollisher in a heap of leaves, covered in blood.” He knelt beside me, sweeping Eliza aside, and dipped a cloth in a bowl of water. “Let’s have a look at this injury.”

  He washed away the poultice. The sight of the wound made me sick to my stomach. It was a collection of slices in a rough “M” shape, surrounded by splaying, blackened veins, with a glistening inkwell where the two middle lines met. Jaxon studied it. His colo-bomata swelled, heightening his spirit sight.

  “This is the London Monster’s work.” He touched a finger to the mark. “A very distinctive phantom blade.”

  Sweat poured off my forehead, and the stiff tendons in my neck strained with the effort of not making a noise. His touch was like liquid nitrogen on the wound; I half-expected it to steam. Eliza risked a closer look. “There’s a blade in there?”

  “Ah, this is a much more sinister weapon. I trust you are all familiar with the concept of a phantom limb?” Nobody answered. “It’s the sensation of something existing where it does not. It often happens to amputees. They might feel an itch in a severed arm, or pain in a pulled tooth. A phantom blade is a purely spiritual phenomenon, but similar in theory—poltergeists can inflict their own phantom sensations, usually something they specialized in when they were alive. It’s a particularly nasty breed of apport, the sort of ethereal energy commanded by breachers, which allows them to affect the physical world. A strangler might leave phantom hands around a victim’s neck, for example. It is, in essence, a supernumerary phantom limb.”

  “Just so I understand,” Zeke said, touching a hand to my good shoulder, “she has an invisible knife in her arm. Right?”

  “Correct.” Jaxon tossed the cloth back into the bowl. “Did Hector set the creature on you?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  The word hung in the air. “What?” Nadine looked between us. “Haymarket Hector?”

  “Dead,” Jaxon repeated. “Hector Grinslathe. Hector of the Haymarket. Underlord of the Scion Citadel of London. That particular Hector?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Deceased.” His words were slow, as if each syllable was gold and he was weighing it. “Departed. Shuffled off this mortal coil. Silver cord forever severed. Lifeless. No longer. Is that correct, Paige?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you touch the blade? Did anyone touch the blade?” His nostrils flared. “What about his spirit?”

  “No. And not there.”

  “Pity. I would have loved to bind that miserable curl of slime.” A cruel chuckle escaped him. “How did he meet his end, then? Drink himself senseless and fall into the fireplace, did he?”

  “No,” I said. “He was beheaded.”

  Eliza raised a hand to her mouth. “Paige,” she said, her voice weak with dismay, “please don’t tell me you killed the Underlord.”

  “No.” I stared at her. “They were dead when I arrived. All of them.” “The whole gang is dead?”

  “Not Cutmouth. But the others.”

  “That would explain the generous amount of blood on your coat.” Jaxon traced his jaw with his thumb. “Did you use your spirit?”

  “Jax, are you listening to me? They were already dead.”

  “Convenient.” Nadine was lounging in the doorway. “What was that you were saying earlier, about Hector deserving to be killed by his own people?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t have actually—”

  “Whose blood was it, then?”

  “It’s theirs,” I bit out, “but the poltergeist—”

  “I do hope you are not the responsible party, Paige,” Jaxon said. “To murder the Underlord is a capital offense.”

  “I didn’t kill him.” My voice was quiet. “I would never kill anyone like that. Not even Hector.”

  Silence. Jaxon brushed an invisible mark from his shirt. “Of course.” He took a long drag from his cigar, his eyes oddly vacant. “This dilemma must be rectified. Did you destroy the painting?”

  “I dumped it in Caxton Street.”

  “Did anyone see you leave?”

  “No one but Grover. I checked the æther.”

  “Ah, yes. The glym jack. Zeke, Eliza: go to the Devil’s Acre and make sure there is no trace of Paige’s presence. Hide your faces. If you’re caught, say you were supposed to give Hector a message. Then take the painting from Caxton Street and destroy it. Nadine: I want you to spend the rest of tonight in Soho and monitor the gossip. No doubt that wretched glym jack is already chaunting from the rooftops that the Underlord is dead, but we can discredit any mention of Paige. Our witness is an amaurotic. We can find some way to sully his reliability. ”

  The three of them made for the door.

  “Wait.” Jaxon raised a hand. “I hope this is glaringly obvious to you all, but if any of you ever lets slip that we knew of Hector’s death before its official announcement, we will all be under suspicion. We will be dragged before the Unnatural Assembly. People will come forward from the market and tell them all about the painting debacle. You will find that loose tongues oft lead to loose necks.” He looked at all of us. “Do not boast of it. Do not joke of it, speak of it, whisper of it. Swear it on the æther, O my darlings.”

  It wasn’t a request. Each of us said “I swear” in turn. When he was satisfied, Jaxon stood.

  “Go, you three. Hurry back.”

  They others left, all giving me different looks. Zeke was worried; Eliza, concerned; and Nadine, mistrustful.

  When the door closed downstairs, Jaxon came to sit beside the chaise longue. He stroked a hand over my damp hair. “I understand,” he said, “if you felt you couldn’t tell the truth in fro
nt of them. But tell me, now. Did you kill him?”

  “No,” I said.

  “But you wanted to kill him.”

  “There’s a difference between wanting to kill someone and killing someone, Jax.”

  “So it would seem. You’re certain Cutmouth wasn’t there?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Fortunate for her. Not so fortunate for us, if she makes her claim to the crown.” His eyes were jewel-bright, and two spots of color glowed on his cheekbones. “I have a way to deal with this. Cutmouth’s absence is conspicuous. All it would need is a whispered rumor that she did the deed, and the sheer weight of suspicion will force her to flee for her own safety. And you, darling, will be out of the firing line.”

  I shifted onto my elbow. “Do you think she really could have done it?”

  “No. She was devoted to him, the poor fool.” He looked thoughtful. “Were they all beheaded?”

  “The Underbodies weren’t. They looked like they’d been ripped. And all of them were holding a red handkerchief.”

  “Intriguing.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “There’s a message in the murder, Paige. And I don’t think it’s simply a reference to Hector running around like a headless chicken for the last eight years.”

  “Mockery,” I ventured. “He was getting too big for his boots. Acting like a king.”

  “Quite. A very Bloody King.” He sat back and tapped his knee. “Hector needed to die, no question of that. We have been quivering in his shadow for almost a decade, watching him turn the syndicate to a vague association of lazy rogues and low criminals, but no more. Oh, I remember when Jed Bickford was Underlord, when I was still a gutterling. You would get more morals from a rock than from Jed Bickford, but he wasn’t idle.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They found him in the Thames with a knife in his back. His mollisher was dead by dawn the next day.”

  Nice. “Do you think Hector killed them?”

  “Unlikely, though he naturally favored blades. He wasn’t clever enough to kill the Underlord without anyone noticing. But he was clever enough to win the ensuing scrimmage. And now”—his smile widened—“well, if Cutmouth does flee, someone must be clever enough to win the next one.”