The Pale Dreamer

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Was she voyant?’

  ‘Yes. But … her gift never really got a chance to develop.’

  ‘They killed my cousin, too. He wasn’t like us, as far as I remember, but he was hanged for treason.’

  He lifted his gaze to mine. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Even now, I found it hard to talk about Finn. My throat tightened.

  ‘If you went out into that street and asked every voyant you saw,’ Nick said, ‘I think most of them will have lost someone to Scion.’

  We fell silent for a while. My tea was cold.

  This was too raw a topic. Mentioning Finn led me to tell Nick more about my life in Ireland, where I had been raised by my grandparents before my father was enlisted by Scion’s medical division. I told him about how afraid I had been when we landed in England; how I had cried myself to sleep each night; how lonely I had felt. We had come from a war-torn country, straight into the country responsible for the violence.

  Nick listened to everything, his expression grave. I felt as though I could talk to him for ever.

  I told him about the first time I had given someone at school a nosebleed – without ever raising my hand. I was ten and had no idea I had caused it; I assumed it was coincidence that the girl who had been teasing me suddenly had blood running down to her chin. But as it began to happen more frequently, whenever I felt particularly trapped and powerless, I came to the realisation that I was the source.

  ‘Surely people were suspicious,’ Nick said, snapping a lace cookie.

  ‘No one accused me. My father’s Irish, but he’s also a Scion employee. He gave money to the school. The Schoolmistress put it down to “dryness in the classrooms”,’ I said darkly, ‘which was plausible, given all the hot air that came out of her mouth.’

  Nick burst out laughing. My whole body warmed up, as if the sun was on it. It was harder not to fall in love with him when he laughed.

  Not that I was falling in love with him.

  The conversation became a torrent that neither of us staunched. He told me about the day he had found out he was voyant. At the age of twelve, he had received a vision of his best friend, Lasse Ekström, dying in the family car. Unable to warn Lasse without betraying his gift to Scion, Nick had been forced to stay silent. The Ekström family had been killed a week later, when their car had hit ice and ploughed into a tree.

  ‘I think about that every day,’ Nick said heavily. ‘I’ve never predicted anyone’s death since … I didn’t see Karolina’s. I sometimes wonder if I just … wasn’t listening.’

  Before I knew what I was doing, I had laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘You still might not have been able to stop it.’

  He raised a weary smile. ‘Probably not. Lina loved me, but she also loved ignoring my advice.’ With a sigh, he opened his wallet. ‘Well, I think it’s time to find ourselves a poltergeist. We’ll start by paying a visit to Anne Naylor. Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Exit, Pursued by a Poltergeist

  We had talked for a long time, but still not long enough. There was so much I wanted to ask him, to tell him. Everything I said, I thought he understood. I wasn’t sure how it was possible for this almost-stranger to unlock parts of my past I had kept hidden for years, but Nick was the sort of person who you wanted to confide in – and I had missed being able to talk to someone. I hadn’t had that since I had been separated from my grandmother.

  I had never spoken with anyone outside of my family about Finn. I had never told anyone else in this country about my life in Ireland.

  Some people you meet in life, and they just click with you. It doesn’t matter how much you have in common; you just work, somehow. That was Nick to me.

  Side by side, we walked into Farringdon station, which was quiet. There were people on the platform, but the flow of commuters had dwindled to a trickle. We sat on a bench, and Nick picked up an abandoned copy of the Daily Descendant – the only newspaper approved by Scion. Best not read, unless you wanted your brain decocted.

  I had learned a lot at the teahouse. It was only now I realised how little we had known about each other.

  ‘Try to sense Anne,’ he said to me.

  This must be a test of my ability. I concentrated on my sixth sense, the way Jaxon had taught me.

  ‘She’s close,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  Slowly, I sat back in my seat and tried to look casual – but something had been bothering me all day, and after our conversation, I found I had the confidence to voice it.

  ‘Why here?’ I said. Nick glanced at me. ‘Why did Anne come to Farringdon?’

  ‘Nobody knows that. Poltergeists usually return to places that are significant to them, but in Anne’s case she might have deliberately chosen somewhere unrelated, so that Metyard would never think to look there. So … it could be random.’

  ‘Right. It could be random,’ I said. ‘And if it has no connection to her, surely Metyard wouldn’t think to come here.’

  He turned a page, but I could tell I had his full attention. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking Metyard might not come here at all. She’s been dead for hundreds of years – why would she know Anne was here?’

  Nick’s brow knitted. ‘I see. We all assumed this would be the obvious place, but … maybe not. Say you’re right, and given that we have no other leads – what do you propose?’

  I mulled it over.

  ‘We could drive Anne from her haunt. Set her off, the way Didion’s binder set Metyard off,’ I said. ‘That might get Metyard’s attention – the prospect of a chase.’

  ‘That would be a big risk. Creating another rogue poltergeist to catch the first one.’

  ‘From what Ognena Maria said, Anne isn’t dangerous – but Metyard is. We need to catch her, today.’

  An approving glance slid in my direction. ‘You’re a quick thinker, Paige.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It could be worth a try. I’ll need to call Maria and okay it with her, though.’

  He discarded the newspaper and headed back to the stairs, taking them three at a time. I followed.

  We stepped back into the autumn chill and lingered near the entrance to the station as Nick dialled. Twilight had fallen over London; ice-blue streetlamps were pulsing to life. He was lifting the phone to his ear when someone stopped in front of us.

  ‘Hello, Red Vision.’

  I tensed.

  The owner of the unctuous voice had dark, chin-length hair that hung like strings from beneath a bowler hat. Two small eyes – round and black, like a shark’s – sat in a gaunt face. Even his mouth had a whiff of shark about it. A gold pocket watch was in his hand.

  A tall woman, who looked to be a couple of years my senior, held his arm with both hands. Her face – sallow and delicate – was framed by hair of deepest rose-red, which came down to her waist. The pair were shadowed by six other voyants, none of whom looked like the sort of people you would want to run into at this time of the evening. Or at any time, really.

  ‘Hector,’ Nick said coolly.

  The silence went on for eternity, until the woman let out a close-mouthed snicker.

  The sound jarred my heart. This must be the Underlord, Haymarket Hector, and his gang, the Underbodies.

  ‘I didn’t realise we were on first-name terms,’ Hector said. ‘Are we on first-name terms, Red Vision?’

  Nick looked at the ground.

  ‘Show me. Show me how you will address your leader properly in future.’

  ‘I ask for your pardon, Underlord,’ Nick said.

  His jaw was tense, but he kept his gaze on the pavement. It nettled me to see him cowed like this.

  ‘You are pardoned, for the time being.’ Hector’s teeth were lucent and uneven, like chips of blackened seashell. ‘I don’t think you’ve met my mollisher, Chelsea.’

  Nick nodded stiffly to the redhead. She didn’t return the gesture – just looked at him with that little smile.

  ‘And you ha
ve company.’ Hector moved away from her and paced around me, coming so close I could smell his sweat and the rot on his breath. I just about quelled a shudder. ‘My dear friend Binder has been keeping secrets from me. He never informed me of a newcomer.’

  ‘He didn’t think you’d be interested,’ Nick said.

  ‘Oh, Binder’s business always interests me. As do his belongings.’

  My instinct was to physically recoil from this man, to fold into myself, but gone were the days of shrinking away.

  ‘I’m the Pale Dreamer,’ I said, and looked him dead in the eyes. ‘Underlord.’

  A name for all of London to remember.

  ‘The Pale Dreamer,’ Hector echoed. ‘Elegant moniker. Curious aura. I can see why the White Binder decided to … harvest you.’ Speaking of auras, his was so close to mine that it was making me nauseous. ‘We were just on our way to pay a visit to Anne Naylor. What business brings you to this part of the citadel, I wonder?’ When neither of us replied, he said, ‘I see we’re playing coy, so let us stop beating around the bush. I know you’re here to snare Sarah Metyard, just as we are.’

  ‘We’re not here for Metyard,’ Nick said too quickly. ‘Maria just wanted us to—’

  ‘Shut it,’ Chelsea sneered. ‘You think we’re stupid? You think we didn’t know that Metyard would appeal to Binder – that he would send his lapdogs after her?’

  I didn’t dare say anything. If we were lapdogs, these people were bloodhounds.

  Nick had been edging closer to my side. At first I thought the movement was protective – a subtle display of unity – but behind our backs, out of sight of the Underbodies, he passed something to me. I registered a handle against my palm, the rasp of a blade on the pad of my thumb. He had taught me how to use one, but I had never had practical experience.

  My heart shouldn’t be beating this hard. I had drawn blood for years, but there was something about the cold weight of the knife that I knew would make it harder. When I had used my gift to do it at school, it had been easier to divorce the notion of causing pain from my intention – to balance the scales of justice – but a blade gave that desire a shape.

  ‘Ognena Maria must have struck a deal with you, or you would have been turfed out of this section,’ Hector mused. ‘You know I should have been informed of a rogue poltergeist.’

  ‘Look, I’ll level with you,’ Nick said. ‘We are here for Metyard. We meant to present her to you once—’

  ‘You are not a good liar, Red Vision.’ Hector clicked his tongue. ‘No, not at all.’

  I could tell from Nick’s eyes that this run-in with Hector was unexpected. He hadn’t reckoned on the Underlord knowing that Metyard was awake, let alone on him having had our idea to stake out Farringdon. And I was willing to bet that we couldn’t come to an arrangement with him in the same way we had with Didion and Maria.

  ‘Leave,’ Hector said, his voice almost friendly. ‘Both of you. All spirits are mine by right.’

  ‘I haven’t been in the syndicate long,’ I said, ‘but I know that’s not true.’

  Another silence, this one fraught. All the amusement drained out of Hector, turning his face into that of a predator with no understanding of pain, no concept of human empathy. The redhead looked hungrily at the Underlord, wrapping a lock of her hair around one finger.

  ‘Come with us,’ Hector said.

  Nick stiffened. ‘Why?’

  ‘I hope you’re not questioning your Underlord,’ Chelsea said, staring him out. ‘He’s given you an order.’

  The gang split into two. One half mustered behind us, while the other walked in front.

  ‘Move,’ one of them snapped, shoving me in the small of the back. I moved. My knees felt stiff. As they marched us around the corner, Nick leaned down, so his lips were close to my ear.

  ‘We can’t fight them in the open,’ he breathed. ‘I’ll get us out of this. Don’t worry.’

  Easier said than done.

  They were leading us into a narrow passage. FAULKNERS ALLEY was displayed in gold lettering about the wrought-iron gate, which Chelsea shouldered open.

  I could only think of one reason for them to take us out of sight. Stone-cold dead on my first assignment. Would Hector actually kill me for implying he was wrong? I could imagine the gravestone: Paige Eva Mahoney, died because she implied that a greasy-haired criminal was wrong. Nicklas Alvar Nygård, died because he had the misfortune to be with her.

  They herded us into the seamy alleyway, which stank of urine. Someone closed the gate. We were surrounded.

  Hector turned to me, still wearing that placid smile. There was something underneath it that made me even more uneasy than before – a sort of avarice. It was the look of a man who had seen something he wanted, and whose thirst for it would not be easily slaked.

  ‘Pale Dreamer, I feel that as Underlord, I should welcome you personally into the syndicate.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Underhand, Bloatface. Greet the young lady.’

  ‘No.’ Nick put himself in front of me. ‘Don’t. Don’t, Hector.’

  Two members of Hector’s group pared away from the rest. A powder-white, bald man who looked as if someone had squashed him together from modelling clay, and a taller one who was swollen with muscle. Each of his hands were larger than both of mine put together.

  ‘She’s sixteen,’ Nick said, quieter. ‘She’s new to the syndicate.’ When this failed to soften any faces, he tried a different tack. ‘Binder won’t be happy if she’s hurt.’

  My heartbeat had thickened. It drummed in my ears and the hollow of my throat. Stupid, stupid thing to do. Their looks were bloodthirsty – they meant business. And there was a fine line between using my voice and throwing myself headfirst into danger.

  ‘I’m quite sure Binder will find it in his heart to forgive me,’ Hector said. ‘We’re such good friends, he and I. All I want is for the Pale Dreamer to understand where she belongs. It’s a lesson all of you have learned, one way or another. Blood now, or blood later, it’s all the same.’

  Something gleamed in Nick’s hand, and then he was pointing a knife at them. Its blade caught the blue glow from a streetlamp.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, boy,’ Hector said very softly.

  ‘Nick, no,’ I hissed.

  Sweat beaded along my nape. I couldn’t let him get beaten or killed for me.

  ‘I ask your forgiveness,’ I said to Hector, swallowing my pride. ‘I’m sorry. I’m … not used to the ways of the syndicate.’

  ‘Which is why we are here, Pale Dreamer. To remedy your ignorance,’ Hector said, almost gently. ‘To teach you the rules.’

  He nodded to the larger of the two men. A fist sailed, hitting Nick straight in the jaw.

  His head snapped to the side. Before I could so much as say his name, a giant hand clapped over my throat and another seized the front of my jacket, lifting me bodily off my feet. Suddenly I was face-to-face with Hector’s muscular henchman, who seemed intent on cold-blooded murder. Choking, I kicked at his knees and scratched at the arm that held me up, to no avail. I had been manhandled before, but not like this.

  My vision swam as he squeezed my throat. I was sure I was about to black out, that I was dead – then he slammed me into the wall and let me crumple to the ground.

  ‘Before we can fight with spirits,’ Hector said, while I heaved and coughed, ‘we must learn to fight with our bodies. We must learn to stomach pain. A few bruises, a damaged bone or two … I doubt it will hurt you in the long run.’ He paced towards his mollisher and wound an arm around her. ‘Bloatface, the Pale Dreamer likes to backtalk. Break her jaw.’

  My eyes were watering, my throat on fire. I tried to look defiant, but I couldn’t breathe for fear.

  I didn’t want to die today. I had been lonely and afraid for years – now I wasn’t. I had been told by strangers that I should die – I hadn’t.

  I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction now.

  The bald man bore down on me. Breathing in rasps, I struggle
d away from him and held up my knife, which seemed comically small in the shadow of this behemoth. Nick had been too soft on me in training. I tried to remember where to stab, where to avoid.

  I am the Pale Dreamer. I am the Pale Dreamer.

  ‘Hector.’ Nick was already back on his feet, his lips like wet ruby. ‘Don’t touch her. She didn’t—’

  ‘We all spill blood on London’s streets,’ the Underlord said. ‘Fail to do so, and we have no right to walk them.’

  Being thrown against the wall had winded me, and I knew I would be bruised, but I stood, my jaw set in resolve. The bald man closed in on me. This time, I was ready. I watched his fists, ducked his first punch that slammed towards me, and twisted away from the second.

  ‘Look, Hector. This one’s got some fight in her,’ Chelsea said.

  Bloatface turned slowly to face me again. I thrust my knife towards his face.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I breathed.

  ‘Oblige her, Bloatface,’ Hector drawled.

  Bloatface charged. I was conscious of Nick grappling with the Underhand – I was on my own. I lurched out of the way, just in time to avoid being head-butted straight in the ribcage, and slashed at Bloatface with the knife. When his elbow smashed into my cheekbone, all Nick’s training flew out of my head, as if the blow had knocked it loose. I hacked again and again and again – until finally, finally, the blade ripped through a hard-wearing jacket. Bloatface jerked his head around and bared a line of little white teeth. Doll teeth, too small for his mouth. He seized my wrist, wrenching me against him, thumping my breath away. I smelled the alcohol on his breath before his skull cracked into mine.

  Bells rang in my ears. Blood burst from my lip as blinding pain erupted between my eyes.

  Shock had numbed my sixth sense, but now it crashed and broke over the others like a wave. Suddenly I could feel the same pressure I had felt so often at school: the heartbeat in my temples, the quiver at the corners of my vision. I coaxed it out from hiding, playing myself in a mental tug of war, until it ignited and surged outward, into the alley. Being closest, Bloatface caught the brunt of it. Blood slithered from his nostrils, and his eyes watered.