‘I had every assurance that—’
‘Assurances mean nothing, you bottle-headed imbecile.’ Jaxon’s knuckles whitened. ‘Was it you who tried to bind Metyard?’
‘No. I, ah, referred the task to someone else.’
‘That, Didion,’ Jaxon purred, ‘is because you are a coward. A disgusting, quivering coward.’
‘I am most certainly not—’
‘A craven. A yellow-belly. A lily-livered curl of besmirchèd slime, unfit for human civilisation.’
‘My heart knows no cowardice,’ Didion shrilled. ‘Damn you. I simply decided to—’
‘—palm the work off on an amateur, yes. You disgrace every binder who ever drew breath.’ Jaxon kept smiling. ‘Now. There are two potential outcomes to this fiasco, Didion. By rights, I should report you to the Underlord for your gross mishandling of a poltergeist. If Hector is informed, your establishment will be shut down. Finished. A mere echo of a memory. And you will most likely have your throat cut.’
Probably true. From what I’d heard about the Underlord, he loved a good old-fashioned throat-cutting.
Didion’s voice was shrinking: ‘And the second potential outcome?’
‘You allow my employees to intervene – and in the process, save your neck.’ Jaxon swung lazily on his chair, one leg crossed over the other. ‘If we bind Sarah Metyard, we claim her. In addition, I have the right to bind Anne Naylor, if the desire seizes me.’
‘Are you blackmailing me, sir?’
‘Didion, it appears you have finally cultivated a smidgen of intelligence. My heartiest congratulations.’
A strangled noise. ‘All right,’ Didion choked out, sounding as if he could hardly breathe for rage. ‘All right. So long as you say nothing to the Underlord about this . . . situation, I assent to your demands. Send your lackeys to the Juditheon. Promptly, if you please.’
‘Excellent. Goodbye, Didion.’
Jaxon settled the phone in its cradle, sat back in his chair, and joined his fingertips.
‘So,’ Nick said, breaking a long silence, ‘we’re going to try and bind Metyard.’
‘Precisely. Didion has proven that he is unworthy of such a prize. We will take Metyard for ourselves.’
‘Didion has no right to promise us Anne Naylor. She’s on Ognena Maria’s turf.’
I had heard of Ognena Maria, mime-queen of one of the neighbouring sections of the citadel – the one I had lived in for years with my father. ‘If you’re good to Maria, she’ll remember it,’ Eliza had told me once. ‘If you’re not so good to her, she’ll make you remember it.’
‘So long as Didion keeps his mouth shut,’ Jaxon said, ‘Maria never needs to know.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Two of you will go to the Juditheon and obtain as much information as you can about where and when Sarah Metyard was last seen. Relevant details about her life will help you track her – that can be found in the files here. One of you will stay behind to go through those.’
I didn’t have to ask to know that I would be the one doing research on Metyard while the others pursued her. I hid my face behind my hair, trying not to let my frustration show. It was true that I’d only been with the gang for three months, and yes, I was only sixteen, but being trapped inside was suffocating. I’d signed up to be a criminal, not a clerk.
‘We might be back late.’ Eliza stood. ‘Nick, we can take the Underground to—’
‘Stop,’ Jaxon said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t want you to go, darling. I want Paige to go.’
His words set off a small jolt in my gut. Eliza’s lips parted, and she frowned slightly.
‘Don’t give me that look. You’ll have your turn again. And it’s about time Miss Mahoney had a chance to prove her worth.’ Jaxon studied me. ‘Would you like that, Paige?’
‘Yes,’ I said at once. ‘Please. If Eliza doesn’t mind.’
‘No.’ She recovered. ‘No, not at all. It’ll be a nice break, actually. And I hate poltergeists.’
‘With good reason.’ Heaving a sigh, Nick reached for his trusty cable-knit sweater and pulled it over his head. ‘Jaxon, Paige is still so new to this, and Metyard is as hostile as they come. Maybe you should—’
‘I want to go,’ I cut in.
‘Excellent. Then you shall,’ Jaxon said, and went on smoothly before Nick could contest the decision. ‘Be quick. Once word spreads that Metyard is on the move, others will come for her. Try not to attract any untoward attention from Scion.’
‘We’ll give Didion your regards.’ Nick slung his coat over his shoulder. ‘Ready, Paige?’
I was already on my feet.
‘When you have her,’ Jaxon said, ‘I will bind her once and for all.’ He extinguished his cigarillo. ‘Go.’
As soon as we were out of his office, I dashed into my room and rummaged through the wardrobe. At last, at last I could be useful. Jaxon would be asking Nick how I conducted myself on this assignment, and I meant for him to give a good report. If I did well, I might never have to be on desk duty again – the streets of London would be my new workplace.
I wasn’t exactly fashionable on the best of days, but now I rootled through my clothes with a critical eye, trying to work out what would achieve the perfect balance between low-key, elegant and intimidating. Eventually I went for a ruffled white blouse, a double-breasted burgundy jacket with a hood, and black trousers. A little on the safe side, but I was a newcomer. Best to be understated. I laced my boots and faced the mirror. A serious, grey-eyed young woman looked back.
I considered my reflection, judging my anonymity. My main fear was that, through some infuriating twist of fate, my father would see me and ask questions. Even from a distance, my hair – white-blonde and curly – would give me away. I covered it with the hood and draped a scarf around my neck, ready to lift it over my face if necessary.
A knock came at the door. Nick was outside, clad in his heavy coat and a scarf that covered his nose and mouth.
‘Looking fierce,’ he said, eyes shining.
I smoothed the front of my jacket, embarrassed. ‘Am I weird to be concerned about this?’
‘Not at all. Your image is as integral to your reputation as your actions.’ I followed close behind him as he went down the stairs. ‘Stay by the phone, Eliza,’ he called. ‘No coffee runs.’
Her voice floated back from the office: ‘You’re a cruel man, Nicklas Nygård.’
Jaxon had emerged from his office to see us off. He waited for us in the hallway.
‘Paige,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘Let us hope that you will dazzle us with your talents this evening.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I expect you will.’ A smile hung on his lips, but didn’t reach his eyes – they were steely as ever. ‘Enjoy your first assignment, but remember: in this citadel, you are an extension of me. You speak with my voice. With that in mind, I expect you always to act in my best interests, and in the best interests of the Seven Seals.’
‘I will,’ I said, feeling as if I was taking an oath.
‘Jaxon, this is Paige’s first time on syndicate business,’ Nick said. ‘What name should she use?’
My palms were clammy.
All of them had aliases. Jaxon was the White Binder, Nick was the Red Vision, and Eliza was the Martyred Muse. I wasn’t sure where Jaxon mined the names from; only that I wanted one more than anything. To be a real part of the gang.
Finally, Jaxon spoke. ‘Keep out of sight of cameras. You wouldn’t want Scion to spy you, darling.’
‘Surely all they’d see is me spending time with Nick,’ I said. ‘My father knows him.’
My voice quaked a little, betraying my disappointment. He hadn’t given me a name.
‘I shouldn’t worry about them seeing that. I would, however, prefer them not to catch sight of you on a surveillance camera if you have to do battle with the poltergeist,’ Jaxon said. ‘That would raise a few eyebrows in Westminst
er. And lead to you being wanted for immediate questioning, no doubt.’
Good point. The security cameras wouldn’t see us using our clairvoyance – they were blind to spiritual activity of any kind, for now – but they would note any suspicious behaviour, and that alone could be enough to condemn us.
‘And . . . her name?’ Nick prompted softly.
Jaxon considered me. I waited, turning cold under his scrutiny.
‘The Pale Dreamer,’ he said, with the lingering relish of a man who was tasting a fine wine. ‘Yes . . . the Pale Dreamer. A name for all of London to remember.’
Follow the Money
I couldn’t stop smiling as we left the den. It was perishing outside, but receiving my alias had sparked a fire inside me.
Jaxon Hall had bestowed his approval of me as his representative. My lips kept forming the words, testing their shape. The Pale Dreamer. It sounded dangerous and graceful, like a vengeful spirit. The Pale Dreamer. Yes, I could get used to that name. If I meant to keep it, though, I would have to prove myself worthy – and if I meant to prove myself worthy, we had to snare Sarah Metyard.
Over the years, I’ve classified seven orders of clairvoyance, Jaxon had told me on the day Nick introduced us. I believe you, my dear girl, are of the very highest order, making you one of the rarest clairvoyants in the modern world.
It all sounded very impressive. But what if I wasn’t?
What if he had been wrong about me?
The warmth guttered out. I wanted badly to impress Jaxon. I wanted to bring a glint into his eyes, the same glint I had seen on that first day – that sparkle of ambition. To know that I had kindled it again would be a victory, and I’d be damned if I didn’t do it today. Murder most foul, a spirit on the warpath, and the prospect of a windfall at the end – yes, this was the perfect opportunity to step triumphantly on to the stage of London; to become the Pale Dreamer.
We walked to the nearest Underground station and swiped our travel cards.
‘Excited?’ Nick asked. He laughed when he saw my face. ‘Okay, you’re excited.’
‘Eliza won’t mind me doing this, will she?’
‘No. She went through the same thing as you when she first arrived – Jaxon always gave her the paperwork. It’s a test of character.’ He hurried down the steps. ‘Come on. Didion likes punctuality.’
I lowered my voice. ‘Seems a strange concern for a criminal.’
‘Etiquette is his obsession. Don’t tell Jaxon,’ he said, ‘but I can’t blame him.’ His gaze darted about, clocking the Underguards around the station. ‘The syndicate has been getting more and more corrupt since Haymarket Hector became Underlord. We could use a little etiquette.’
We fell silent when we passed one of the Underguards, who gave us a perfunctory look.
‘I don’t want to sound as if I’m ordering you around,’ Nick murmured as we walked, ‘but this is your first time in the field, so it’s important that you do everything as I say. First thing to remember: call me Vision, not Nick. And I’ll call you Dreamer. No one in the syndicate can know about my day job.’
‘You think they’d report you?’
‘Possibly,’ he said, with a nonchalance that had to be feigned. He hitched up a smile. ‘I’ll guide you today – you won’t have to deal with anything alone. In theory, this is a simple assignment. We find the spirit, let Jaxon know where it is, and he comes to bind it.’
‘Couldn’t he just … come with us now?’
‘He’s a mime-lord. He doesn’t do search work.’ Nick stopped when we reached the right platform. ‘I haven’t seen a poltergeist in a long time. Only a handful since the day I met you, actually.’ His hands sank into his pockets. ‘Which feels like a very long time ago.’
Not to me. I remembered that day all too well.
I had only just come to England from Ireland, where I had grown up on my grandparents’ dairy farm in Tipperary. At the tender age of nine, I had some notion that I was different – but my gift was still buried deep within me, yet to be unlocked.
That year, my father had taken me to a tiny village called Arthyen, near the southern coast, where one of his old friends lived. At the time, I had been lonely and homesick, harbouring more than a little resentment towards him for separating me from my grandparents, who had stayed behind to weather the conflict in Ireland. I was wary of the village and its people, but it was better than going to school, where the other pupils spat at me.
There was a field of poppies at the edge of Arthyen. In that field, I had come face-to-face with my first poltergeist. It had sliced the skin of my left arm to ribbons, then thrown me away to bleed.
Nick had been staying near Arthyen at the time, and had gone for a walk that day which took him through the poppy field. He had found me and recognised my wounds as spirit-made, although he saw nothing in me to give him pause. Nothing that had made me think I was clairvoyant. He had treated me himself, and his kindness had left a lasting impression. Once I was stitched up, he returned me to my father and disappeared from my life as quickly as he had entered it, leaving me even more confused about the world than I had been before.
It would be another seven years before our next meeting. We were reunited at my school, by pure coincidence, only a few months ago. He had come to give a speech to the students about careers in Scion’s medical division. I had sought him out after, desperate to ask him what had really happened on that day in the poppy field.
He had remembered me. This time, he had also recognised exactly what I was – a clairvoyant. A dreamwalker. Instead of reporting me for suspected unnaturalness, however, he had asked me to meet him later – and when I had, he had offered me employment with Jaxon to help me control my gift, and to protect me from Scion, who would kill me if they worked out what I was. I had accepted. Once the school year was over, I had gone to live in Seven Dials. It was the best decision I had ever made.
Nick had saved me from ignorance. In doing so, he had saved my life.
All I had left of that encounter with the poltergeist was a trellis of scars on one hand. I traced them now, remembering the white-hot pain as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
‘So,’ I said, shaking away the memory, ‘what challenges await us today?’
‘The main threats are rival gangs and Vigiles. If we see them, we walk away slowly. We don’t draw any attention to ourselves.’
‘Okay.’
He worked for Scion. His life depended on not drawing attention to himself. A voyant in the employ of an anti-voyant government; they would have him beheaded if they discovered his unnaturalness. I had never understood why he risked the double life. It seemed like something only a mad or desperate man would do, but Nick didn’t strike me as either.
We stood on the platform, staying close to one another. It was busy at this time, when Londoners were on their way home from work – lost in their phones and data pads, unable to feel the spirits that wove and danced around them. Once I had been afraid of my clairvoyance, but today I treasured it. I could sense a world they never would. Their lives would always be half-empty.
In silent agreement, neither of us spoke on the train. Too many people. Too quiet. When we stepped off at the right station, we walked to the derelict church that locals called Bow Bells, which stood, pale and tragic, on Cheapside.
A short whip of a man with heavy jowls was waiting for us by a streetlamp outside it. His clothes looked like genuine eighteenth-century garments, complete with hose – he even wore a powdered wig, which was held back from his face with ribbon. His mouth was tightly pursed.
Beside him was an olive-skinned woman in a leather jacket, whose short auburn hair was a notch too bright to be natural. Her face was dominated by dark eyebrows, and she wore gold-framed shades. Nick stopped and drew in his breath when he saw her.
‘Who is that?’ I asked him.
‘Ognena Maria, mime-queen of this section. She must have found out that Didion made a deal with us.’
‘Is that
bad?’
‘Well, it’s not good. Her relationship with Didion Waite is … complicated. His auction house – the Juditheon – is in her section, but she gets nothing from it.’
‘But all voyant businesses have to give a cut to the local mime-lord or mime-queen.’
‘Exactly – the syndicate tax. But the Juditheon was granted immunity from it by the Underlord,’ he said. ‘It was unheard of, before Didion founded it, for anyone to auction spirits – they were just owned by whoever ruled the section they dwelled in, and they could be sold or traded privately at the black market. Didion worked out that organising a bidding could make a lot more money. He’s thought to steal spirits from other sections to auction, which is illegal, but Hector does nothing about it – so long as he gets his cut.’
I was beginning to see why Jaxon hated Didion so much. Probably because he was furious that he hadn’t come up with the idea of an auction house first.
‘That can’t have gone down well with Maria,’ I said.
‘She hates it, naturally. But Didion is still her subject – he’s not supposed to bargain away her property without permission, and Anne Naylor is her property.’ He sighed and kept walking. ‘Jaxon wanted to avoid this. Here’s hoping she’s not too angry.’
Didion was first to spot us. When Ognena Maria turned to see what he was glaring at, she smiled.
‘Well, if it isn’t the Red Vision.’ Her voice was husky, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. ‘Haven’t seen your face at the market in a few weeks, sunshine. We’ve missed you.’
‘Morning, Maria. It’s been too long.’ Nick shook her hand with real warmth. ‘Hello, Didion.’
‘Red Vision.’ Didion dealt me a withering look. ‘And who is this … person?’
Nick laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘This is the Pale Dreamer. Jaxon’s newest employee.’
I lifted my chin. Here, I was no longer Paige Mahoney. I was a mystery.
‘Ah, finally – Binder found a new addition to the Seven Seals,’ Ognena Maria said, chuckling. ‘Maybe one day, you’ll actually make it to seven.’ She tipped down her sunglasses, revealing dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. I held her gaze as she scrutinised me. ‘You know, I’m sure I recognise your aura. Do you ever visit Postman’s Park?’