Zeke caught my eye and pulled a face. “Yes, Jaxon.”
“Good. Gather round, then.”
We all leaned closer. Jaxon looked at each of us in turn, his whole aspect aflame with energy.
“As you know, I have been devoted to I-4 for close to twenty years. Together, we have kept it prosperous in the face of Scion’s tyranny. You six are my magnum opus. And despite your occasional—well, regular—blunders, I have nothing but the greatest admiration for your skills and dedication.” His voice dropped a note. “But we can do no more with I-4 and her people. We are the best of all the dominant gangs in the citadel: the best at trading, the best at combat, the best at excellence. For this reason, I have decided to apply for the position of Underlord.”
I closed my eyes. No surprise there.
“I knew it.” Eliza’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, Jax, this is really off the cot, but just imagine it. We—we could really be—”
“The governing gang of the Scion Citadel of London.” Jaxon took one of her hands, chuckling. “Yes, my faithful medium. Yes, we could.” She looked as if she might weep with joy.
“We’d be calling the shots.” A smirking Nadine traced the edge of her glass. “We could tell Didion to blow up the Juditheon.”
“Or give all its spirits to us.” At her side, Eliza was basking in Jaxon’s good mood. “We could do anything.”
“Just the seven of us. The lords of London. It will be exquisite.” Jaxon lit a cigar. “Don’t you think, Paige?”
Behind that smile was danger. I mustered what I hoped was a convincing grin. The sort of smile a mollisher should give her mime-lord on the receipt of such good news. “Absolutely,” I said.
“You have faith that I can win, I trust.”
“Of course.”
Jaxon had the most money, ego, and ambition out of all the mime-lords in London. Given how ruthless he could be, and how skilled he was in both binding and spirit combat, he had a high chance of winning. A very high chance. Nick looked as apprehensive as I felt.
“Good.” Jaxon picked up his coffee. “I shall be leaving some homework in your room. Reading material, so you can learn the noble customs of the scrimmage.”
Brilliant. While Scion and the Rephaim plotted their next move, I’d be doing my homework. Like a good little mollisher.
“Paige,” Jaxon said, almost as an afterthought, “fetch another rack of toast sandwiches, will you, darling?”
It had been years since I’d been the tea girl. Maybe I hadn’t shown enough enthusiasm. The gang watched me as I walked over to the bar and waited for Chat to emerge from the kitchen, drumming my fingers on the bar. In the corner, I could just hear two other voyants talking.
“. . . argument with I-4.” A man’s voice. “I heard there was some quarrel with the French girl at the market.”
“She’s not French,” a woman muttered. “That’s the Silent Bell, his whisperer. She’s a free-worlder, they say. So is the brother.”
I tapped the service bell, my nerves looping themselves into tight knots. Chat came out of the kitchen in his apron, his cheeks red from the heat of the ovens. “Yes, love?”
“Some more toast sandwiches, please.”
“Coming up.”
While I waited, I strained to hear the conversation again. “. . . saw her with Cutmouth, you know. She was wearing a mask, but it was her, I’m sure of it. The Pale Dreamer.”
“She’s back in London?”
“Aye, and she was there when Hector died,” a gruff voice said. “I know the glym jack that went with her to the Acre. Grover. A good man, he is, and honest. He said she was covered in blood.”
“She’s the girl on the screens. Did you hear?”
“Mm. Shady business, that. Maybe Hector sold her out, and that’s why she killed him.”
Chat came out with the rack of buttered sandwiches, and I went back to my seat. “They’re talking about us,” I said to Jaxon, who grew still. “The people behind the screen.”
“Are they, now?” He tapped his cigar into a glass ashtray. “And what are they saying?”
“That we killed Hector. Or I did.”
“Perhaps,” Jaxon sneered, raising his voice so half the bar looked up at us, “they should mind their tongues. I understand the mime-lord of I-4 does not tolerate slander. Least of all from his own people.”
There was a brief silence before a trio of soothsayers rose from behind the screen, took their coats from the nearest stand, and left. They kept their faces turned away from our table. Jaxon sat back in his seat, but his gaze followed them as they hurried away into Neal’s Yard.
The others went back to their meals. “One of them knew.” I glanced at Jaxon. “He knew Grover.”
“Perhaps they ought to read the old laws of the syndicate. The First Code states that without sufficient proof, the word of an amaurotic is rotten.” He raised his cigar back to his lips. “It’s hearsay, O my lovely. Don’t fret. You have me to vouch for your good nature. And once I am Underlord, these allegations will disappear.”
And with them, any chance of changing the syndicate. That was the bargain he offered: protection in exchange for my compliance. Jaxon Hall had me in a bind, and worse, he knew it.
I tuned out the rest of the conversation. As I sipped my coffee, I sensed two auras nearby. Gooseflesh rose along my abdomen.
Two silhouettes were just outside the window.
The cup fell from my fingers. Two pairs of eyes looked back at me, firefly lights in the gloom of the passage.
No.
Not now. Not them.
“Paige?”
Eliza was staring at me. I looked down at the spilled coffee and broken glass, numb. “Apologies, Chat,” Jaxon called. “Excitement gives her butterfingers. We would be more than happy to pay double your usual tip.” He waved a few notes. “A tremor, I presume, Paige.”
“Yes,” I managed. “Yes. Sorry.”
When I looked back at the window, there was no sign of anyone. Nick gave me a curious look.
It had to be a mistake. A nightmare. My broken dreamscape, blurring memory and reality.
If not, I’d just seen two Rephaim in I-4.
****
Jaxon was planning to order another five courses, but I made an excuse and slipped out of the restaurant. It was only a few seconds’ run to the den. Every shadow grew taller; every streetlight flashed like Rephaite eyes. As soon as I was inside, I tore up the stairs and grabbed the backpack from under my bed. I ripped it open with one hand, almost breaking the zip, and crammed a blouse and trousers inside it. Sharp, angry breaths escaped me, verging on sobs.
It hadn’t been Warden. Who else would have come for me? Who else could know where I lived? Nashira must have worked out where the sundials led . . . I’d have to go back to the doss-house. Make a plan. Get away. I yanked my coat from the back of the door and pulled it on. When Nick came in, he caught my hands.
“Paige, stop, stop.” I struggled, but he held me. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?”
“Rephs.”
His face stiffened. “Where?”
“Outside Chat’s. The alley.” I stuffed a spare jacket into my backpack. “I have to go, or they’ll target you as well. I have to go to the doss-house and—”
“No. Wait,” he urged. “You’re safer here, with us. And Jaxon isn’t just going to let you leave, not now he’s going for Underlord.”
“I don’t care what Jaxon does!”
“Yes, you do.” He spun me to face him. “Just put the bag down, sötnos. Please. Are you absolutely sure they were Rephs?”
“I felt their auras. If I stay here, they’ll take me to Nashira.”
“They could be Warden’s allies,” he said, though he looked doubtful.
“What was it you said, Nick? ‘The Rephaim are enemies until categorically proven otherwise.’ ” I sifted through my nightstand, pulling out socks and shirts, scarves and glovelettes. “Will you give me a ride, or am I walking?”
/> “This is the eve of Jaxon’s personal revolution. He won’t forgive you if you leave, Paige—not this time.”
“They’ll nip his revolution in the bud if they find us.”
Three loud raps came on the door, startling us both, before it almost flew off the hinges. Jaxon seemed to fill the door frame. His cane banged down on the floorboards.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Jaxon, there were Rephs outside the bar. Two of them.” I stood. “I have to go. We all have to go, now.”
“We are not going anywhere.” He used the cane to push the door closed. “Explain. Quietly.”
“Where are the others?”
“Still at Chateline’s, where they will be staying for the next few hours, blissfully unaware of this conversation.”
“Jaxon, listen to her. Please,” Nick said firmly. “She knows what she saw.”
“She may think so, Dr. Nygård, but we all know what recurrent exposure to flux can do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Jax?” I stared him out, livid. I could just about sympathize with Eliza thinking I’d lost my mind, but Jaxon had been there. “You think I’m having flux flashes? Were you having one, too, when you saw the colony for yourself?”
“This isn’t a matter of disbelief, O my lovely. This is a matter of decorum. Of dedication. Despite your repeated contact with experimental psychoactive drugs, I do believe your story. As you say, I can hardly deny what I saw with my own eyes,” he said, pacing to the window. “I do not, however, see any reason for the people of I-4 to act upon it, nor for the Unnatural Assembly to hear of it. I have already said this to you in as many words. Must I really repeat myself?”
In exchange for his protection, he was asking me to close my eyes to everything I’d learned. “I can’t understand you,” I said hotly. “They are here, in I-4. How can you just ignore it?”
“You don’t need to understand my actions, Paige. You need to do as you are told, as we agreed.”
“If I’d done as I was told in the colony, I’d still be there now.”
There was a long silence. Jaxon turned his head.
“Explain this to me. I find myself puzzled.” He stepped toward me, raising a finger. “You’ve always known that Scion’s doctrine is rooted in injustice. You’ve always known that their inquisition into unnaturalness is reprehensible. But only now do you think we should intervene. Were you too afraid to strike when their corruption was only human, my Paige?”
“I’ve seen what started it. I’ve seen what indoctrinated them,” I said. “And I think we can stop it.”
“You think fighting the Rephaim will bring a halt to the inquisition? Don’t labor under the illusion that Frank Weaver and his government will become devoted friends of yours if you destroy their masters.”
“Surely we have to try, Jax? Who’s going to rule I-4 when they come for us?”
“Be careful, Paige.” Jaxon’s face was losing color again. “You are treading a very fine line.”
“Am I? Or am I crossing yours?”
That did it. Jaxon shoved me into the cabinet with one arm, pinning me against the shelves. He was much stronger than he looked. A tall jar of sleeping pills smashed against the floorboards. “Jaxon!” Nick barked, but this was between mime-lord and moll-isher. His right hand gripped my arm, where the poltergeist’s mark was burned into my skin.
“Listen to me now, O my lovely. I will not have my mollisher raving in the streets like some Bedleem unfortunate. Especially not now that I am considering taking control of this citadel.” There was a triangle of lines between his eyebrows. “Do you think the good people of London would support me, Paige, if I were seen to be believing some madman’s tale of giants and walking corpses? Why do you think I stopped you from telling the Abbess? Do you think they would take our word for it, darling, or would they laugh and call us fools?”
“Is that it, Jax? All these years later and you’re still worried about people laughing at you?”
He smiled an empty smile.
“I consider myself a generous man, but this is your last chance. You can stay with me and reap the benefits of I-4’s protection, or you can take your chances out there, where no one will listen. Where they will string you up for Hector’s murder. The only reason you are not dead already, O my lovely, is because of my good word. My declaration of your innocence. Put one toe out of line, and I will have you dragged before the Unnatural Assembly so you can show them that scar.”
“You wouldn’t, I said.”
“You have no idea what I would do to keep London from war.” With a last flex of his fingers, he let go of my arm. “I will have someone paint over the sundials to keep them from being recognized. But know this, Paige: you can be the Underlord’s mol lisher, or you can be carrion for crows. If you choose the latter, I will let it be known that you are fair game. Just as I did before you returned to the Seals. After all, if you are not the Pale Dreamer . . . who are you?”
He left. I kicked my basket of trinkets from the market, knocking it over, and sat with my head in my good hand. Nick crouched opposite me and grasped my upper arm.
“Paige?”
“It could strengthen the syndicate.” I took a deep breath. “If we could just convince them . . .”
“Maybe, if you found proof of the Rephs, but the truth would end the syndicate as we know it. You want to turn it into a force for good. Jaxon isn’t interested in ‘good.’ He wants to sit on his throne and gather spirits and be king of the citadel until he dies. That is all he cares about. But an Underlord’s mollisher has power, too. You could change things, Paige.”
“Jax would always stop me. A mollisher isn’t an Underlord—he’d just make me his special errand girl. Only an Underlord could change everything.”
“Or an Underqueen,” Nick said, with a brief laugh. “We haven’t had an Underqueen in a long time.”
Slowly, I raised my gaze to his. The smile slid from his lips.
“I couldn’t,” I murmured. “Could I?”
I watched him. He stood up and braced his hands on the windowsill, and looked down at the courtyard. “Mollishers are never eligible. Their loyalty can’t be questioned in a scrimmage.”
“Is it against the rules?”
“Probably. If a mollisher goes against their mime-lord, it marks them as a turncoat. It’s never happened, not in the whole history of the syndicate. Would you follow a backstabber?”
“I’d rather follow one than walk in front of one.”
“Don’t be smart. This is serious.”
“Fine. Yes, I’d work for a backstabber if she knew the truth about Scion. If she wanted to expose it, to stop the systematic murder of clairvoyants—”
“They don’t care about Scion’s corruption. They’re all like Jaxon. Even the ones who seem kind. I’m telling you, they’d bleed their own sections dry if it meant they had full pockets. You have no money to pay them all. And you’ve seen Jaxon, getting us to do the dirty work while he smokes and drinks absinthe. You really think people like him will command an army for you? Put their precious lives at risk for you?”
“I don’t know. But maybe I should find out.” I sighed. “Say I was to apply. Would you be my mollisher?”
His face twitched.
“I would,” he said, “because I care about you. But I don’t want you to do it, Paige. At best you’ll be a traitor Underqueen. At worst you’ll lose and wind up getting killed. If you wait two years, Jaxon will give you the section anyway. Is there any wisdom in waiting?”
“In two years it will be too late. We’re weeks away from Senshield, and the Rephaim might have taken their next colony. We need to strike now. Besides,” I said, “Jaxon won’t retire in two years. All he’s trying to do is keep me quiet. Pat my head with one hand while he chains me with the other.”
“Is it worth the risk of losing?”
“People died to get me out of Sheol,” I said quietly. “People like us are dying every day. If
I hide in the shadows while this continues, I’m spitting at their memories.”
“Then you’d better make sure you’re prepared for the consequences.” Nick stood. “I’ll calm him down. You’d better unpack.”
He closed the door gently behind him.
It might be the only choice. Painting the sundials wouldn’t hold back the Rephaim for long. To transform the London syndicate into an army that could stand against them, I would have to think bigger. Become not just a mollisher, not just a mime-queen, but the Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London. I had to have a voice too loud to silence.
After a minute, I started to gather up the things I’d scattered across the floor: nineteenth-century newspaper clippings, brooches, antique numa—and a third edition of On the Merits of Unnaturalness, confiscated from a busker who had been mocking it in Soho. By an Obscure Writer, it read.
Words give wings even to those who have been stamped upon, broken beyond all hope of repair.
There were ways to raise my voice. I took out my phone, slotted a new module into the back, and dialed the number Felix had given me.
11
Urban Legend
“A what?”
Nell looked almost impressed by my sudden display of insanity. Her hair had been cut so it fell just past her chin; what was left was ironed straight and dyed at least ten shades of orange. With cinder glasses and glossy black lipstick, she was unrecognizable.
Dawn hadn’t yet broken, but the five of us were already huddled on the rooftop terrace of one of Camden’s independent oxygen bars. Curving screens divided the tables. The buskers’ music from the market below was enough to ward off eavesdroppers.
“You heard me,” I said. “A penny dreadful.”
On my left, Felix shook his head. His chosen disguise was one of the filtering masks they wore in the north and parts of the East End, which left only his eyes uncovered. “You want to tell a story about the Rephaim?” His voice was muffled. “Like it’s not real?”
“Exactly. On the Merits of Unnaturalness made the syndicate what it is today,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It completely revolutionized the way we think about clairvoyance. Just by putting his thoughts on paper, one obscure writer changed everything. Why can’t we?”