The Bone Season

  “Who is he?”

  “The other blood-sovereign. There are always two, a male and a female.”

  “But Arcturus is—”

  “Betrothed to Nashira, yes. But he’s not of ‘the blood,’” she said, with a note of disgust. “Only the Sargas family can take the crown. The blood-sovereigns can’t be a mated pair—that would be incestuous. Arcturus is from a different family.”

  “So he’s the prince consort.”

  “Blood-consort. Same thing. More skilly?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” I watched her drop the bowl into a tub of greasy water. “How did you fail your tests?”

  “I stayed human.” She offered a small smile. “Rephs aren’t human. No matter how much they look like us, they’re not like us. They’ve got nothing here.” Her finger tapped her chest. “If they want us to work with them, they have to get rid of our souls.”

  “How?”

  Before she could answer, the curtain was torn back. A lean male Rephaite stood in the doorway.

  “You,” he snarled at Liss. Her hands flew to her head. “Get up. Get dressed. Lazy filth. And with a guest? Are you a queen?”

  Liss stood. All her strength was gone, leaving her small and fragile. Her left hand shook. “I’m sorry, Suhail,” she said. “40 is new here. I wanted to explain the rules of Sheol I.”

  “40 should already know the rules of Sheol I.”

  “Forgive me.”

  He raised his gloved hand as if to strike her. “Get onto the silks.”

  “I didn’t think I was performing tonight.” She backed into the corner of the shack. “Have you talked to the Overseer?”

  I took a good look at her interrogator. He was tall and golden, like the other Rephaim, but he didn’t have that blank stare the others favored. Every crease of his face was loaded with hatred.

  “I do not need to speak with the Overseer, little pull-string puppet. 15 remains indisposed. The red-jackets expect their favorite fool to replace him.” His lips drew back over his teeth. “Unless you wish to join him in the Detainment Facility, you will perform in ten minutes.”

  Liss flinched. Her shoulders pulled toward her chest, and she looked away. “I understand,” she said.

  “There’s a good slave.”

  He ripped the curtain down on his way out. I helped Liss gather it up. She was shaking, physically shaking.

  “Who was that?”

  “Suhail Chertan. The Overseer’s always a bit tense under all that greasepaint—he answers to Suhail if we do something wrong.” She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “15 is the one that got sleep dep. Jordan. He’s the other contortionist.”

  I took the curtain from her hands. Her sleeve was dark with blood. “You cut yourself?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No, it’s not.” Blood was never nothing.

  “It’s okay.” She wiped her face, leaving red smears below her eyes. “He just took a bit of my glow.”

  “He what?”

  “He fed on me.”

  I was sure I’d misheard her. “He fed on you,” I repeated.

  Liss smiled. “Did they forget to mention that Rephs feed on aura? That always slips their mind.”

  Her face was streaked with blood. My stomach clenched. “That’s impossible. Aura doesn’t sustain life,” I said. “It sustains voyance. Not—”

  “It sustains their life.”

  “But that would mean they weren’t just clairvoyant. They would have to be the æther incarnate.”

  “Maybe they are.” Liss pulled a threadbare blanket around her shoulders. “That’s what we harlies are here for. We’re just aura machines. Reph fodder. But you jackets—you don’t get fed on. That’s your privilege.” She looked at the stove. “Unless you fail your tests.”

  I was silent for a while. The idea that the Rephaim fed on aura just didn’t compute. It was a link to the æther, unique to each voyant. I couldn’t imagine how they could use it for survival.

  But the news was like a light on Sheol I. That was why they took voyants into their fold. That was why the performers weren’t bumped off if they couldn’t fight the Emim. They didn’t just want them to dance—why should they? Those were asinine distractions, to stop them getting bored with all their power. We weren’t only their slaves; we were their food source. That was why we were paying for human error, not the amaurotics.

  And to think I’d been in London a few days before this, living my life in Seven Dials, not knowing that this colony existed.

  “Someone has to stop them,” I said. “This is insane.”

  “They’ve been here for two hundred years. Don’t you think someone would have stopped them by now?”

  I turned away, my head pounding.

  “I’m sorry.” Liss glanced at me. “I don’t want to scare you, but I’ve been here ten years. I’ve seen people fight, people who wanted to go back to their old lives, and they’ve all wound up dead. In the end you’ll just stop trying.”

  “Are you a seer?” I knew she wasn’t, but I wondered if she’d lie.

  “Broadsider.” It was an old word for a cartomancer, street slang of a decade past. “The very first time I read the cards, they knew.”

  “What did you see?”

  For a minute I thought she hadn’t heard me. Then she crossed the shack and knelt beside a small wooden box. She took out a deck of tarot cards, tied with a red ribbon, and handed one to me. The Fool.

  “I always knew I was destined to be at the bottom of the pile,” she said. “I was right.”

  “Can you read mine?”

  “Another time. You have to go.” Liss took a cake of rosin from the chest. “Come and see me again soon, sister. I can’t protect you, but I’ve been here a decade. I might be able to stop you getting yourself killed.” She gave me a tired smile. “Welcome to Sheol I.”

  Liss gave me directions to Amaurotic House, where Seb had been taken by the Gray Keeper—the Reph that kept the small number of amaurotic workers in check. His name was Graffias Sheratan. She gave me some bread and meat to slip to Seb. “Don’t let Graffias see you,” she said.

  I’d learned a lot in the space of forty minutes. The most troubling revelation was that I was on Nashira’s radar, and I wasn’t too keen on being her spirit slave for time everlasting. Not going straight to the heart of the æther, the place where all things die, was something I’d always feared. I hated the thought of being a restless spirit, a clip of spare ammo, for voyants to abuse and trade. Still, that had never stopped me summoning spools of spirits to protect myself, or bidding on Jax’s behalf for a very angry Anne Naylor, who’d been a young girl when she was murdered.

  And Liss’s warning unnerved me. In the end you’ll just stop trying.

  She was wrong.

  Amaurotic House was outside the main network of residences. I had to go through several abandoned streets to reach it. I’d seen maps of the city in an old copy of the Roaring Boy—yet another bit of memorabilia Jax had swindled from Didion Waite—and I knew at least roughly where most of its landmarks were. I headed north up the main road. A few red-jackets were stationed outside buildings, but they only gave me passing glances. There must be some kind of barrier to stop us escaping, that and the mines in No Man’s Land. How many voyants had died trying to cross it?

  I found the building within a few minutes. It was discreet and austere, with a small iron lunette over the gates. Whatever words had been there had been replaced with AMAUROTIC HOUSE. There was a phrase in Latin underneath: DOMUS STULTORUM. I didn’t want to know what that meant. I peered between the bars—and locked gazes with a Rephaite guard. He had dark, curling hair that spilled over his shoulders, and his lower lip was full and petulant. This must be Graffias.

  “I hope you have good reason to be near Amaurotic House,” he said, his deep voice thick with scorn.

  All reason faded from my mind. The proximity of this creature made me cold to the bone.

  “No,” I said, “but I have these.?
??

  I held out my numa—rings, thimbles, needles. Graffias gave me a look of such hatred, such disgust, that I flinched. I almost preferred their callous stares. “I do not take bribes. Nor do I require worthless human trinkets to access the æther.”

  I slipped the worthless human trinkets back into my pocket. Stupid idea. Of course they didn’t use the damn things. It was a beggar’s currency.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Get back to your residence, white-jacket, or I will summon your keeper to discipline you.”

  He drew a spool of spirits. I turned and walked away from the gate, out of his line of sight, not looking back. Just as I was about to hightail it to Magdalen, a quiet voice came from somewhere above my head.

  “Paige, wait!”

  A hand reached through the bars of a second-floor window. My shoulders sagged in relief. Seb.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.” He sounded choked. “Please, Paige—please get me out of here. I have to get out of here. I’m—I’m sorry I called you unnatural, I’m sorry—”

  I glanced over my shoulder. No one was looking my way. I climbed up the side of the building, reached into my tunic, and slipped Seb the food package. “I’ll let you off the hook.” I squeezed his icy hand through the bars. “I’ll try my best to get you out, but you have to give me time.”

  “They’ll kill me.” He unwrapped the package with shaking fingers. “I’ll be dead before you get me out.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They made me scrub the floors until my hands bled, and then I had to sort through broken glass, looking for clean pieces for their ornaments.” I noticed his hands, cut all over. Deep, dirty cuts. “Tomorrow I’m supposed to start work in the residences.”

  “What sort of work?”

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t want to know. Do they think I’m an—I’m one of you?” His voice was hoarse. “Why do they want me?”

  “I don’t know.” His right eye was swollen and bloodshot. “What happened there?”

  “One of them hit me. I didn’t do anything, Paige, really. He said I was human scum. He said—”

  He hung his head, and his lip shook. This was only his first day, and already they’d used him as a punching bag. How would he survive a week, or a month? Or a decade, like Liss?

  “Eat that.” I clasped his hands around the food package. “Try and come to Magdalen tomorrow.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  “Yes. My keeper probably won’t be there. You can take a bath, maybe get some food. Okay?”

  Seb nodded. He seemed delirious; no doubt he was concussed. He needed a hospital, a proper doctor. But there was no doctor here. Nobody cared about Seb.

  There was nothing more I could do for him tonight. I gave his arm a gentle squeeze before I dropped from the window, landed on my feet, and headed back toward the inner city.

  6

  Community

  I was back at the residence by dawn. The red-clad day porter gave me a spare key to the Warden’s chamber. “Leave it on his desk,” he said. “Don’t even think about keeping it.”

  I didn’t reply. I went up the dark staircase, avoiding the two guards. It chilled me how their eyes shone in the passages, natural searchlights in the dark. This was supposed to be a safe residence. I couldn’t imagine what the others must be like.

  The bells chimed from the tower, calling the humans back to their prisons. Once I was in the chamber, I locked the door and left the key on the desk. No sign of the Warden. I found a box of matches in a drawer and used them to light a few candles. There were three identical pairs of black leather gloves in the same drawer, and a broad silver ring, set with a real jewel.

  A curio cabinet stood against the wall, made of dark rosewood. When I opened the glass-fronted doors, my sixth sense twinged. A collection of instruments sat inside. Some I recognized from the black market. Some were numa. Most were just bric-a-brac: a planchette, some chalk, a spirit slate—useless bits of séance equipment, the sort of thing amaurotics hysterically associated with clairvoyance. Others, like the crystal ball, could be used by seers to scry. I wasn’t a soothsayer; none of the objects were useful to me. Like Graffias, I didn’t need objects to touch the æther.

  What I needed was life support. Until I could find some oxygen apparatus, I’d have to be careful how often I detached my spirit. That was how I widened my perception of the æther: I could push my spirit from its natural place, to the farthest edges of my dreamscape. Problem was that if I did it for too long, my breathing reflex stopped dead.

  Something caught my eye. A small case, rectangular, with a stylized heartwood flower engraved in the lid. Eight petals. I flipped the clasp and opened it. Inside were four crimp vials, each containing a viscous liquid, such a dark red it was almost black. I closed it. I didn’t want to know.

  A dull pain stabbed at my eye. I couldn’t see any nightclothes. Why I’d expected them, I had no idea. He didn’t care what I wore or how well I slept. His only concern was that I drew breath.

  I kicked off my boots and lay on the daybed. The room was cold as stone without a fire, but I didn’t dare touch the sheets on his bed. I set my cheek against the velvet bolster.

  The flux attack had left me weak and tired. As I drifted on the verge of sleep, my spirit wandered in and out of the æther. I brushed past dreamscapes, catching waves of memory. Blood and pain were common denominators. There were other Rephs in this residence, but their minds were as impenetrable as ever. The humans were more open, their defenses thinned by fear. Their dreamscapes gave off a harsh, tainted light—signal of distress. Eventually I slept.

  I woke to the sound of floorboards creaking. I opened my eyes to see the Warden come through the doorway. Aside from the two remaining candles, his eyes were the only light. He walked across the room toward my corner. I feigned sleep. I lay still. Finally, after what seemed like aeons, he left. This time his footsteps were less cautious, and I could tell from their pattern that he was sporting a heavy limp. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him.

  What could injure such a creature as a Rephaite?

  He was gone for a few minutes. In that time I could count every heartbeat. When the lock turned in the door, I dropped my head back into my arms. Warden stepped out, naked as sin. I closed my eyes.

  I kept up my act as he moved toward the four-poster, knocking a glass orb to the floor. Ripples flickered through the æther. He wrenched the drapes around the bed, concealing him from view. Only when his mind quieted did I open my eyes and sit up. No movement.

  Barefoot, I approached the bed and I slid my fingers between the drapes, opening them just enough to see him. He lay on his side, covered by the sheets, his skin glistening in the half-light. His coarse brown hair was snarled over his face. As I watched, a dim light spread through the bedding, close to where his right arm lay.

  I brushed his dreamscape. Something was different. I couldn’t get much from it, but it wasn’t quite as it should be. Every dreamscape had a kind of invisible light: an inner glow, imperceptible to amaurotic senses. Now his vital light was going out.

  He was still as the grave. When I looked down at the sheets, I found them spotted with a softly luminous, yellow-green liquid. It had a thin, metallic scent. My sixth sense felt as if it was being plucked, as if I was inhaling the æther. I rolled the heavy bedclothes down.

  A bite oozed on the inside of his arm. I swallowed. I could see the faint imprints of teeth, skin ripped in a vicious frenzy. The wound wept beads of light. Blood.

  It was his blood.

  He must have told the other Rephaim he was going somewhere. They would have known he was doing something dangerous. There was no way they could find the evidence to blame me if he died.

  Then I remembered what Liss had said to me in the shack. Rephs aren’t human. No matter how much they look like us, they’re not like us.

  Like they would care if there was no evidence. They could fabricate evidence. They c
ould say whatever they liked. If he died on this bed, they could easily claim I’d smothered him. It would give Nashira an excuse to kill me early.

  Maybe I should do it. This was my chance to get rid of him. I’d killed before. I could do it again.

  I had three options. I could sit here and watch him die, kill him, or try and stop it. I’d rather watch him die, but I sensed it might be better to save him. I was reasonably safe in Magdalen. The last thing I wanted to do at this stage was move.

  He hadn’t hurt me yet, but he would. To own me he would have to subjugate me, torture me, make me obey by any means necessary. If I killed him now, I might save myself. My hand reached for a pillow. I could do it, I could suffocate him. Yes, come on, kill him. I flexed my fingers, grasped the cotton. Kill him!

  I couldn’t. He’d wake up. He’d wake up and break my neck. Even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to escape. The guards outside would string me up for murder.

  I had to save him.

  Something told me not to touch the sheets. I didn’t trust that liquid. The glow said radioactive, and I couldn’t forget Scion’s warnings of contamination. I went to the drawer and pulled on a pair of his gloves. They were massive, made for Rephaite hands. My fingers lacked dexterity. I ripped up one of the cleaner sheets. Flimsy things, useless for warmth. Once I had a few long strips, I took them to the bathroom and soaked them in hot water. This might not work, but it might just buy him a few hours to wake up and seek treatment from the other Rephaim. If he was lucky.

  Back in the chamber, I steeled my nerves. Warden looked and felt like death. The cold seeped through the gloves. His skin had a gray tinge. I wrung out the sheet and set to work on the wound. At first I was cautious, but he didn’t stir. He wasn’t going to wake.

  Outside, through the windows, the play of sunlight began to change. I squeezed water on the wound, cleaned away the blood, coaxed grit from the mangled flesh. After what seemed like hours, I’d finally made a dent in the mess. I could see the rise and fall of his chest, the soft surge in his throat. I used another sheet to pad the wound, secured the makeshift wadding with the sash of my tunic, then pulled the bedding over his arm. It was up to him to survive now.