“Then take me to him.” She said it without thinking. Damn the danger; she could be the heroine in this tale, going underhill to rescue her true love.
Even if it’s been seven long years? Even if you need a photograph to remind yourself of his face?
Even then. If her love wasn’t strong enough to win him free, then she would find something else. The faeries would regret the day they took Owen from her.
The sisters exchanged another one of their glances, as if they were carrying on a conversation no one else could hear. Then Rosamund shrugged, and Gertrude smiled up at Eliza. “Very well. We’ll take you to your friend.”
The Goblin Market, Onyx Hall: August 6, 1884
The usual noise of the Goblin Market had taken on a harder edge of late. Voices were grimmer, laughter more shrill; and everyone kept their weapons close to hand.
Hardface’s latest lover, a Greek maenad named Hippagre, told stories about Roman despots who, knowing that soldiers were coming to kill them, spent their final night hosting a grand party, squandering all their wealth and riches at one go. With tremors repeatedly shaking the Hall, the Market felt a good deal like that—though Dead Rick doubted many fae would take poison at the end. It explained the wild celebrations he witnessed: drinking, rutting, the torment of mortals.
But not the violence. That, he feared, was the fault of his ally—at least in part.
The versorium wasn’t the only thing to go missing during the chaos laid over the Market. A great many things of value had vanished, from bread to weapons to enchanted mirrors. Every major power in the Market had been robbed: Nadrett, Aspell, Hardface, even Lacca, who lost most of what little she had scraped together in the last few months.
Dead Rick’s absence had not been marked, but the outrage meant Nadrett kept Dead Rick near constantly on four feet and running at his heels, whether he needed to be there or not. Currently the master was pacing while Old Gadling took a horsewhip to the back of the clurican who had been the guardian of the bread lockbox. It was the third time he’d had the Irish faerie beaten, and Dead Rick was serving absolutely no purpose there, but Nadrett insisted on it anyway.
Slipping away to report to his ally had almost cost him another memory. After he came back, he’d been saved only by a fight outside the room; Lacca’s few remaining allies tried to steal the string of new mortals Nadrett was going to force into tithing bread. Then there had been another earthquake—not as bad as the one that broke the Market, but more than a tremor—and by the time that was done, Nadrett had been distracted from his punishment. The voice insisted Dead Rick go with him to investigate the Aldersgate door, but how he could do that without getting killed on his return, the skriker didn’t know.
Nadrett gestured to Gadling, who lowered the bloody whip and rubbed his right arm as if it were tired. The clurican sagged in his chains, weeping. While the thrumpin unlocked him, Dead Rick learned why Nadrett insisted he be there. “Run ’im out,” the master said, turning away in disgust. “Into the sewers. Let ’im bloody well drown in shit.”
With Nadrett’s temper so uncertain, he didn’t dare hesitate. Dead Rick snarled and advanced on the fallen Irish faerie. The clurican was so exhausted, he didn’t move at first; Dead Rick had to bite his arm before he’d start running.
Then it was out the door, through the desperate merriment and half-veiled hostility of the Market, all the while wondering if any of it mattered one fucking bit anymore. Dead Rick ran heavily, his heart far less into the chase than usual, and he didn’t pay the blindest bit of attention to anything around him until a net dropped onto his head.
It was made of bronze chains, and their weight bore him instantly to the floor. Dead Rick’s snarls changed from menace to fear. Stupid whelp—stupid and blind, and now you’re going to die— He twisted, trying to see who had trapped him, but someone was there, bundling the net around him and then flipping him upside down to be carried out of the room. Dead Rick saw legs, hands, the back of someone’s head—Blood and Bone. Mortals. But who are they working for?
The answer waited not far away. The men carrying him dropped him to the floor again, chains and all, and Dead Rick looked up to see the rich green of Valentin Aspell’s old-fashioned coat.
“My apologies,” the faerie said, sounding not at all contrite. “As you told me before—so very insistently—it is necessary to give Nadrett some explanation for why you ended up in my presence. He will soon be receiving a message that his skriker has become my prisoner, along with various others of his minions; and while he and I negotiate what should happen next, the one who paid me to kidnap you has a job for you to perform.” Long fingers laid a piece of bread on the stone near Dead Rick’s face; then he heard a pocket-watch click open. “His instructions are that you are to meet him on the north side of St. Paul’s Cathedral in half an hour.”
Dead Rick’s jaws had slipped through a hole in the net, which bound him almost as effectively as a muzzle. Aspell said, “My men are going to unbind you now. I do ask that you not attempt to attack me, as I only did this to get you away from your master without suspicion.”
So this was how his ally intended to arrange the investigation of the laboratory. As soon as Dead Rick was halfway free, he shifted to man form and said, “Nadrett ain’t going to bargain. ’E’ll tell you to kill us all.”
“I think not,” Aspell said dryly. “Once again, you have no faith in my abilities. Perhaps I will take that dispute up with you on some future day. In the meanwhile, you have an engagement to keep.”
One that would, at last, answer the question he’d been chasing since spring. And then I’ll make sure that faceless bastard makes good on ’is end of the promise.
Scooping up the bread, Dead Rick flung a glamour over himself and ran for the Billingsgate door.
City of London: August 6, 1884
Dusk was falling over the world above, turning the light murky and gray. Some of the gas lamps had been lit, but not yet all; in the shadows north of St. Paul’s, Dead Rick needed no charms to hide.
He slowed as he reached the spot, ears and nose sharp for any movement. There were mortals about, of course, but that was it; no fae, no one under any glamour.
Because you’re early, fool. Unlike Aspell, he didn’t have a pocket-watch, but it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he’d left. Dead Rick settled behind a pillar on the curving stairs of the northern portico, where the shadows were deepest, and crossed his arms over his chest to wait.
Before the half hour was up, he saw someone approaching.
It looked like a mortal man, indistinguishable from any of the hundreds of clerks employed by the shops and financial establishments around them. As soon as the fellow drew near, though, Dead Rick sensed the presence of a glamour. The face was of course none he recognized, but—
He found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. “If you attempt to see my face, I will shoot you on the spot.”
The voice was the one that had spoken to him from the air. His ally had come in person.
Dead Rick licked his lips. Curiosity clawed at him; after so many months, he finally had a chance to see who he’d been working with—which he would need, if his ally backed out on the promise to retrieve his memories. But it wasn’t worth risking right now. Later. When ’e’s not paying attention.
“Sure,” he said easily, not wanting his ally to think about demanding another oath. “If I needs to get your attention, though, what should I call you? Fred? Joe?”
The other faerie uncocked the pistol, looking unamused. “‘My lord’ will do. Come along.”
’E really must be a gentleman. Rolling his eyes, Dead Rick followed him up St. Martins le Grand to Aldersgate Street.
His lordship had to be shown which building to look for. He shook his head slightly when Dead Rick pointed it out, as if surprised by what it had become.
“Is anybody else down there?” Dead Rick asked, looking down as if he could see through the pavement to the faerie pala
ce below.
“I doubt it.” Milord paced around the building’s corner, one hand on his chin in thought.
He doubted it? Dead Rick wished he’d stolen someone else’s gun on the way out of the Market. “What if you’re wrong?”
“Then we will take care of them.” His ally paused and smiled at him, condescendingly. “It is likely to be only Chrennois. Nadrett knows how many can keep a secret.”
Two—if one of ’em is dead. But Nadrett needed the French sprite’s knowledge, so two alive it was. Dead Rick drew his knife and tested its edge. Good enough.
Milord stretched one hand out, just shy of touching the stone. “Take hold of my sleeve,” he said absently, considering the structure in front of him. Dead Rick obeyed. “The alder tree used to envelop those who passed through; this, I think, should—”
The stone flexed outward, and swallowed them whole.
* * *
Eager as Eliza was to see Owen, the departure from White Lion Street was delayed when she staggered and nearly fell going down the house’s front steps. Somehow the Goodemeades drew out of her the admission that she hadn’t eaten since her workhouse supper the night before, and then the next thing she knew she was bundled into the Angel coaching inn for a good solid meal. Eliza was on her second meat pie before she realized she’d admitted to being in the workhouse—and that no one had so much blinked at the admission.
As if they already knew. The Goodemeades, and Mrs. Chase; the new Louisa Kittering, and this unknown Cyma: How much information had they shared among them?
It didn’t matter, so long as she got Owen back. Eliza ate as fast as she could, and then Mrs. Chase hired a carriage to take them into the City. Along the way, the sisters extracted a promise from Eliza: that she would offer no harm to anyone who didn’t offer it first. “And that’s harm of all kinds,” Gertrude added. “Fists and feet, any iron or weapons you might have on you—”
“Am I at least allowed to talk?” Eliza asked, meaning it as a jest.
“So long as you don’t speak of religious matters,” the woman answered her seriously.
Of course: holy things had power against faeries. So long as she had her voice, she wasn’t unarmed.
It gave her courage, but only a little. She was going among faeries. And the Goodemeades had made it clear that the experience would be even more strange than she could imagine.
But they’ve done it, and so has Mrs. Chase; gone in, and come out again to tell the tale. You can do the same. You will.
The carriage took them to a narrower road south of Cannon Street. In the light of the gas lamps, Eliza spotted the plaque on the wall: Cloak Lane. Mrs. Chase paid the driver and waited until he was gone, though it didn’t mean they were alone on the street. Giving no heed to the people around them, the old woman took Eliza by the hands. “Trust me,” she said earnestly, for all the world as if the trust of an Irish workhouse convict was a valuable thing to have. “We—myself and the sisters both—will make certain you are safe.”
Eliza pulled her hands free. “Just take me to him.”
“Watch closely, then,” Rosamund said, turning to face the buildings at their side. “If you don’t, you’ll never see it.”
Before Eliza could ask her what she meant by that, the buildings began to shift.
They moved without moving: surely the brick walls stayed exactly where they were, but somehow there was a space between them. It was unmistakable—yet people walked on past, stepping off the pavement into the street to avoid the four women, without ever glancing at the impossibility happening just a few feet away. The gap widened until it was large enough to admit them, and then it stopped; and Rosamund glanced over her shoulder. “Come along, then. It won’t stay open for long.”
Eliza’s heart was beating far too fast, but it was excitement as much as fear. Clenching her hands into fists, she followed Rosamund through the faerie door.
Aldersgate, Onyx Hall: August 6, 1884
“Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?”
Rootlike stone tendrils were still crawling off Dead Rick’s body when Chrennois spoke. The sprite stood at a table, surrounded by crystal bottles and shallow tubs, and he blinked as if utterly astonished to see visitors.
The other creature in the room didn’t bother with questions. It dove at Dead Rick and his ally with all three heads.
Milord dropped to the floor, slipping out of the entrance’s grasp just as two sets of the serpent’s fangs gashed through the air where he had been. Stone broke in the creature’s mouth. Dead Rick, still trapped, beat desperately at the third head with his free arm, knocking it aside. Then he was clear, and threw himself out of the entrance alcove as the heads came in for another strike.
Blood and Bone—“only Chrennois,” like ’ell. Dead Rick slashed wildly with his knife, and winced when his ally’s gun fired, deafening in the small room. So that’s where the fucking naga went.
It was small comfort to know who’d bought the three-headed snake from the Market. That didn’t tell him how to stop the thing from killing him. Which it was energetically trying to do; its orders from Nadrett clearly said to kill anyone who entered without permission. A second gunshot, and a third. Everything was chaos and noise and scaly coils of snake. Dead Rick’s back slammed into the shelves along one wall, setting the crystal bottles to rocking; he heard Chrennois crying out in alarm. Grabbing the nearest bottle with his free hand, the skriker hurled it, and was rewarded with a hiss from the naga—from all three mouths, and from its skin. Acid. He threw more bottles.
Then they all crashed to the floor, as the naga’s tail swept around to seize Dead Rick. The creature pinned his arms, and reared its heads back to attack. Two more shots: the naga’s body jerked, and one of its heads sagged limply. Dead Rick took advantage of the pause to shift to dog form, gasping as the muscular coils pressed against his changing limbs, and then bit as hard as he could into the topmost coil, digging for the flesh underneath the scales.
The naga dropped him. Dead Rick landed with agility that would have done a cat proud. His knife lay on the floor nearby, but that would require changing again; instead he leapt for another head, seizing it just beneath the jaw, where it couldn’t bite him. Half of him expected to feel fangs in his back at any instant, from the other surviving head, but instead he was dragged along as the naga lunged for Milord and his gun. Blood burst into his mouth; if a snake had a throat, he’d just torn that one out. Dead Rick turned without pausing and leapt upon the remaining head, biting and clawing into the eyes, and then Milord fired his last shot, and the naga finally went still.
Dead Rick spat out a mouthful of foul-tasting blood and flesh and whirled again, intending to deal with Chrennois—but the sprite lay motionless on the floor, in a growing pool of his own blood.
Milord shook his head when Dead Rick’s gaze shifted to him. “An unfortunate accident. The naga moved as I fired.”
Maybe it was true; maybe it wasn’t. Probably is; I think ’e wanted to question Chrennois.
He didn’t feel much pity for the frog, and only a little more for the dead snake; the creature had been trying to kill him, after all. Changing back to man form, and then spitting more to clear his mouth, Dead Rick took stock of the room.
It looked as if it had been enlarged at one point; the entrance had dropped them in a narrow alcove, which widened to perhaps ten feet for half the room’s length, before opening up into something more like a proper chamber. Shelving blocked one archway at the far end, with rubble visible behind, but the other was open.
His ally asked, “Do you think you can recognize the plate in which they trapped the ghost?”
“Recognize it? No. Find it? Maybe.” He didn’t even know what a photographic plate looked like—but he had other things to look with than eyes. Dead Rick plucked a clean rag from the table by Chrennois’s body and wiped the blood off himself as best as he could, then licked an unstained corner for good measure. With the reek of naga thus reduced, he put his head warily thr
ough the open archway.
The naga was the only defender here; nothing else could fit. A rockfall closed off the end of the second chamber, and what little space remained was filled with crates. Dead Rick sniffed experimentally. Naga, hawthorn wood, chemicals, and straw.
Behind him, Milord said, “I’ve found his cameras. They’re all empty.”
Dead Rick joined him at the table. There were three cameras, two like the one he’d seen in the sewers, with pairs of lenses rather than single ones set into the front boards. Putting his nose right up against the wood, he sniffed along them both. As he’d hoped, the second still carried a faint stink of the sewers. Now, let’s ’ope Chrennois ain’t been crawling around there regular.
There were a lot of crates in the side room, but one was much smaller, laid atop the others near the door, and it held an elusive trace of sewer reek. “That one?” Milord asked, watching from the door. When Dead Rick nodded, he took it down and pried the lid free. The skriker couldn’t see what was inside, but a triumphant smile curved Milord’s lips. “Excellent. And more quickly found than I expected. We cannot stay long, of course—but let us take a brief look at the materials Chrennois has been using; they may be enlightening, and useful in dealing with this.” He clapped the lid back down and retreated to the larger room.
Dead Rick followed, suspicion coiling into a hard knot in his gut. It was smoothly done—all very natural, as if it were only haste that made the fellow take so quick a glance—but Dead Rick saw with more than just his eyes, and knew his ally had been very deliberate in not letting him see inside the box.
He obediently followed the other into the workroom, and glanced over the carefully labeled bottles as if the words he saw there meant anything to him. Vitreous humor (hawk). Lunar caustic. Vitriol of alder. Most of his attention was on the small box tucked under Milord’s arm. Just as soon as ’e’s busy …