“Truly.”
Renfield paused, his eyes roving over the mural on the far wall. I stood in silence with him, awaiting his verdict. One of the subjects in the painting was a woman with dark hair cradling a blond, pewter-eyed child, and he pointed at it. “Is that a likeness of you?” he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
“No. That’s the real Vespertine.”
Renfield blinked. “Pardon me?”
Shrugging, I offered, “I was adopted when I was three. Lady Mink needed a replacement for the child she’d carelessly let drown in a garden pond.” Renfield’s shocked reaction bolstered me, and I added, “There. Does that suit?”
“Indeed.” Renfield held off for a second, before uttering a sort of half laugh and leaning his face closer to mine in such a slow, solicitous way that I felt no urge to retreat. “You’re really Vespertine Mink the Second, then.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say I am.”
“Ha.” Renfield took a step back, before bowing low. “Allow me to reciprocate, then. I am Renfield Ichabod Merriweather the Third. I’m the third son of a third son, the product of an undistinguished, middle-class family from the far North. And, as I stated many months ago, I am grateful to be dead for the fact that I never would have met you otherwise.”
I couldn’t help it—I blushed. “You shouldn’t say such things. They could be misinterpreted.”
Renfield didn’t appear the least bit embarrassed; rather, he was now grinning from ear to ear. “I told you, carpe diem.”
“While I appreciate the sentiment, I’m going to forget you ever said it,” I informed him, doing my best to come off as prim.
“So be it.” Renfield slicked his hair back, revealing a widow’s peak. “At any rate, I think we’re on an even footing now.”
I had to give him that. He threw the lock. “Can we play a game before you go?”
Renfield bowed, and put on his hat. “Not just now. But the night is young, Miss Mink. I suppose I await your pleasure.”
“Will you be on ACL in a few hours, then?”
“Wild horses and head shots notwithstanding, yes.”
I held the door open for him as he stepped out into the night. The rain had abated and all was clear; still, he dodged the streetlights and made his way furtively to the sidewalk across the street. After a few seconds he had hailed a cab and was gone.
Letting the door hang open, I slipped into my angora again and retrieved my keys. I had to go home, but I had something to look forward to, at least.
For the first time in many months, maybe years, I had something to look forward to.
Only a few days later everything had fallen apart.
Lopez took me to the police Sunday morning. Told them everything, though I remained silent. And before the aristocracy protection mechanism could wind up, before my father could even be called, the story leaked onto the news. The written information got onto the Aethernet—uploaded by someone called “zboy69.” Someone went to the Silver Bridle and got his hands on the letters waiting there, uncovering the names of a few more zombie targets. The police got a warrant and found my mask in the tire compartment in the trunk of my carriage.
The fallout was almost magnificent to watch. The ensuing scandal was the social equivalent of an explosive device taking out a well-loved monument—so horrible that it couldn’t help but scar the landscape of the New Victorian psyche, so enthralling that one couldn’t help but watch as the whole thing burned.
Except from where I was sitting. Certain, every second of every hour, that a bird-masked assassin was going to crawl in through my bedroom window. Certain that somehow Green Jacket would find a way to get me. Or the Ratcatcher. In self-imposed exile in my suite, my ignorance mutated into paranoia. My mother wished to fret over my wounds, to tend them; I shut her out. Coco wished to know her next assignment; I chased her away, half convinced she was the one who’d given me up. My father didn’t even speak to me.
Nora was right. I went down alone. And it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Even as the media spun wild theories, even as bird-beleaguered zombies were suddenly taken seriously, their stories sought after and their interviews broadcast multiple times, no other members of the Murder were exposed. I knew that in mansions the nation over high-class parents were probably burning bird masks, taking their sons to task. They’d have a chance to hide—thanks to me. Hopefully that detail would help me later.
God, I’d been an idiot.
It still hurt when my own father confirmed it, though.
When he finally called me to the library, I went with a heavy heart. The room was hologram-free for once, the gold foiling on the furniture the brighter for it, the ostentatious carpet louder. My father told me to close the door and sit in one of his high-backed chairs. He was more of a human black hole than usual, no emotion on his face, his movements reserved. He walked like a robot from the door to his desk. He didn’t sit.
“I’m sorry—” I began.
“Don’t speak.” The voice that came out of him was not my father’s. I fell silent.
From his desk, he picked up a digidiary. He began to read. “ ‘Zombies are the Punks of our generation. Like your forefathers, you must rise to exile them. In our case, to the beyond. We shall don the masks of plague doctors, and together cure the world. We shall be a flock of carrion crows, feasting on the dead.’ ”
My stomach went numb. “Please, don’t read it.” They were the letters I’d reconstructed.
“ ‘If you want in,’ ” he continued, his voice growing expansive, dramatic, “ ‘place a note addressed to #1712 behind the loose stone in the central fireplace at the Silver Bridle pub in La Rosa. The people there are trustworthy.’ ” His sarcasm nearly rent the air. “ ‘Assign yourself a number. We shall never know one another. Anonymity will free us. The masks we will come to wear will represent absolute freedom. With one on, you will be one and one hundred at the same time.’ ”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, looking at my lap.
Dad stopped reading. Instead he said, “Really. This seemed like a good idea. You idiotic pantywaist.” Before I could even try to come to terms with what he’d just said, he hurled the digidiary onto his desk. “I ought to disown you now, turn you out on the streets. I can’t believe that half of my genetic material is riding around in a carcass that is so pathetically stupid!”
It felt like the blood was draining from my head. He advanced on me. “Is this your idea of what being an aristocrat entails? Sneaking around at night, performing heinous acts that are sure to get you caught, arrested, tried? Do you know how hard I am having to work to keep you out of prison?”
“Forgive me,” I tried. “I thought you’d be proud if I could do what I needed to do and not get caught. Handle it on my own. And after December—”
“Do what you needed to do? Oh, enlighten me. What was this chore? This holy imperative? I’m dying to know.”
“Killing Griswold. The zombie who assaulted me. The zombie who took Miss Dearly away from me.”
“So it’s that little slut’s fault, at the end of the day.” He looked away. “I can’t believe this.”
“She’s not … she’s confused.” I dug my fingers into my pants leg. “Ever since the Siege, I’d been fantasizing about killing him. When that letter came, I took my chance. I knew I couldn’t do it on my own. I knew I’d be caught. I thought—”
“No. You didn’t think.” He stalked away again. “What kind of fools do you take your elders for? This stunt is a mockery of all we do. This is a pauper’s bitter mockery of how a mythical ‘evil peer’ acts, what our clubs are like! This is how the Punks imagine we behave!”
“I thought I could remain anonymous!”
My father was actually shaking with rage. “And then that zombie, Griswold, invades my building, takes you hostage, leads my forces on a wild goose chase over half the Territories—why? What was that about?”
“It was to help Miss Dearly. I told him to. He needed the men.??
?
“You sold out my private security force to a dead man? To rescue the daughter of that sick freak?” His eyes flashed. “I forbid you to see or talk about that girl ever again. I knew when you met her that it was a mistake to let you carry on!”
“But she—”
“She is Victor Dearly’s daughter! And everything Victor Dearly touches turns to dirt. He has the uncanny ability to corrupt even the most sublime, intelligent people—I’ve seen it in action. Before she went with him, Elizabeth Soto was—although nameless and penniless—a diamond amongst the dross of the earth. I would have made her a queen, and he turned her into a shell of her former self. It was a mercy when she died. And it seems that like her mother during her later days, Miss Dearly will choose to align herself, again and again, with rejects, fools, and scum!”
He was breathing hard. And he’d wanted her mother? I didn’t know what to say except, “I can lead you right to Griswold. He has to go down for what he did to me, to us …”
“Oh, I need no help finding him. And I’ll take care of him.”
This tickled a memory. “How did you know who he was?”
Dad ignored my question. “Tell me, did he do all of that to you?” he asked, indicating my wounds. I nodded. “Then at this point, I would like to meet him, yes. I would shake his hand and thank him for doing what I should have done long ago. I should have thrashed you every time you acted like an idiot in your youth. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a waste of skin today!”
In all my life I never would have said I had the ability to feel as much pain as I did at that moment. My body wanted to curl up, to protect my stomach, my vitals—as if his words were physical threats that could be blocked. Griswold, a monster that didn’t deserve to live or love, had taken the love of my life from me, humiliated me, attacked me—and my father’d rather have him for a son.
“I did it because I thought it was how you’d want me to do it,” I said. “Without your help. On my own.”
“I have worked so hard to keep this from collapsing on our heads, and you go and do something like this. Give the police an excuse to waltz right into my house.” He walked away again. He couldn’t be still. “I planned everything so carefully. I destroyed everything I made with my own hands. And now I have investigators beating down my door …”
“Keep what from collapsing on our heads?” Dad didn’t answer. His silence swallowed up the whole of my attention just the same as if he had been speaking—but then I felt the need to fill it. “My lord—I was beaten. I was kidnapped. This monster of a zombie nearly bit me, the one with the new strain of the disease … I never meant for any of this to happen!”
Rather than calm down or reevaluate his opinion, my father flew at me, his hands gripping the arms of my chair so I was imprisoned. “The biter was there?”
“He nearly got me!”
He pushed himself away and started to pace, turning over this new information, his eyes wild. “We need to stop this. We need to get him.”
“Get him?” Was my father going to make sure Patient One got a chance to feast on me? “Why?”
Dad managed to collect himself somewhat, his arms almost riveted to his sides. “Because he is my property. And I will have him back.”
“What?” The word seemed not large enough. It in no way encompassed the amount of wonder, confusion, and fear I felt at that statement.
“And the Lazarus is mine to profit off of. My discovery.” My father held up a hand, forbidding me to speak. He returned to his desk and sat down, breathing in and out slowly. “You’re going to get what you want, son.” His voice was returning to normal.
I didn’t dare ask. I didn’t want to know.
“You want to pretend to play with the men? Then I’ll let you play with the men. But you will do precisely what I say.” He looked at the floor. “You will have real equipment, not theater masks and winter scarves knit for you by your mommy.”
My heart twinged.
“You will have real, world-changing goals. You will actually work to protect your family, instead of casting them into disgrace and shame. In fact, your first goal will be to find these masked idiots and force them to stand beside you in the light.”
“What do we need protection from?” I dared to ask.
Lord Allister looked at me, his eyes sharp. “I think it’s time you visited the twelfth floor of Allister Genetics.” He reached over to hit a button on his desk. “And I think it’s time you met E.”
Upon being informed of Smoke’s transformation, Papa made him his new favorite project. With everything else going on, it was Monday before I could visit the ships to ask after him. I didn’t learn much upon going there.
“He hasn’t said a word since Saturday. We’re giving him a chance to recuperate before we start running more invasive tests,” my father explained. Smoke sat beside us at his desk, clothed and slowly eating a bowl of vegetable soup. “This reaction you’ve described … I’d like to see it for myself. But that might be dangerous.”
“So you don’t know anything yet? Is he alive or dead?”
“I’m not sure. His internals still look fresh, but I’ve not seen them in action.” Papa sighed. “We’ll run more metabolic tests.”
Tests aside, it was the potential Allister connection that made me uneasy. “What do you think all of this means?”
Stroking my hair, my father said, “That we need to turn our attention outward. Get to the bottom of this.” Withdrawing his hand, he added, “Lopez got in touch with me. Said you called him to talk your way into an invitation to Marblanco.”
“I did.” Fighting the fatigue this topic caused, I asked, “Can I go? I don’t want to go anywhere, but if I have to …”
“Yes. You should go with Miss Roe. If only to get her settled.” With that, he leaned forward to kiss my brow. “My little miracle.”
I made a face at that, even if I was relieved—especially at the suggestion that my stay at Marblanco might be brief. Before I could figure out a way to wheedle a timeline out of my father, Dr. Salvez burst in. “Lower the screen. Turn on NVIC.”
Reaching across Dad’s desk, I grabbed the remote and did both. “This just in.” Zombie reporter Marcus Maripose was reading directly from a digidiary. “Again, I apologize for the spottiness of these reports, but this is live. The Punks are abandoning the Border Zone. We have video footage of the Punks simply … walking away. No one has contacted the New Victorian government to negotiate terms of surrender, or even said … anything.” He looked extremely puzzled.
So did the rest of us.
“What?” Papa asked, his face going slack.
“They wouldn’t do that,” I said. “The Punk extremists hate us.” They’d fought their futile battles at the border for decades. It’d been their own homegrown terrorist plots that led my people to banish them to the South originally.
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” said Salvez. “But they must mean that the extremists are leaving. The army wouldn’t up and leave even if they wanted peace. They wouldn’t leave the border unprotected.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The army’s just there to keep an eye on things.” That was what Bram had told me. That only the extremists cared about attacking the New Victorians; that most Punks were more concerned with building their own civilization.
A second later NVIC started showing footage, and indeed, part of the Punk army was moving away from the border. Their walking tanks and huge war machines—heavy, mechanical, “old-fashioned” and yet terribly dangerous—formed massive columns of retreat. They appeared to be escorting the un-uniformed men marching with them—the mercs and extremists. Behind them the rest of the army watched them go. Apparently they were meant to stay behind.
Just like that, the fight was over?
I slid my hands over my face. It seemed like one thing after another was happening, the entire world collapsing like a row of dominoes. And I had no idea what sort of pattern was being formed yet.
“This is a
good thing,” Salvez said. There was no joy in his voice. “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” I kept my eyes on the screen. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
Chas came back that day. She’d led the AG minions on an epic chase up the Honduran coast before losing them near Belize. She had souvenirs for us, trinkets from seaside towns. Pastel pinwheels and taffy. When Samedi asked her about the Rolls, she shoved a piece of candy into his mouth and told him to treasure his ignorance.
That night, with Matilda’s help, I packed. As she shoved petticoats and shoes into my trunk, it occurred to me that I ought to take my identity papers along, just in case. I didn’t have my chip anymore. So I went to the study and started combing through my father’s desk, looking for my birth certificate, anything that seemed useful.
After twenty minutes of fruitless searching I stumbled upon a water-stained folder. I flicked through it out of curiosity—but what I found astounded me. Schematics, budgets, architectural plans. It wasn’t until I got to the written pages in the back that I realized my father had been designing a school, or perhaps some sort of institution or asylum. The building designs were High Victorian and beautiful, with gardens, sunny hallways, operating theaters, and …
… a graveyard. A lovely, sheltered graveyard, for the people who would inevitably die there.
Back in the jungle, he’d said he had something he wanted to keep a surprise. This must be it. It was right after he talked about my education—he must have been dreaming of starting some sort of co-mortal academy or college. Maybe he’d been considering the idea all during his stint with Company Z.
My father had looked to the future. Even if only for a few weeks, a few months. He’d wanted to do something great. And New London had trapped him, too.
Closing the folder, I put it on the desk and wiped my eyes.
“Are you all right?”
Dr. Chase was in the doorway. I nodded. “Yes.” I wasn’t sure if I ought to share my father’s secret, so I told her, “I just don’t want to leave. Bram. All of you. Especially when we have so much to do.”