The Bone Season

15 Fall of a Wall

The day porter stared as Suhail passed, dragging me by the wrist. My throat was raw, my cheeks streaked with blood. He pulled me up the stairs and banged on Warden’s door.

“Arcturus!”

A muffled ringing came to my attention. Liss had said Warden would kill me for missing the dawn. What would he make of resisting arrest?

The door opened. Warden was there, a massive silhouette against the dim chamber. His eyes were two pinpricks of light. I was rooted to the spot. Having my aura sapped had brought on a kind of fit. I couldn’t feel the æther. Nothing. If he tried to kill me now, I couldn’t do a thing to stop him.

“We found her.” Suhail pulled me forward. “Hiding in the Rookery. The seditious runt tried to start a fire.”

Warden looked at each of us in turn. The evidence was clear as glass: Suhail’s eyes, my blood-streaked cheeks.

“You fed on her,” he said.

“It is my right to feed on humans.”

“Not on this one. You took far too much. The blood-sovereign will not be pleased with your lack of restraint.”

I couldn’t see Suhail’s face, but I imagined him sneering.

In the silence that followed, I coughed: a dry, hacking cough. I was shivering all over. Warden’s gaze moved to the rip in my tunic.

“Who did this?”

I was silent. Warden leaned down to my level. “Who did this?” His voice sent a cold chill through my chest. “A red-jacket?”

I nodded, just the barest movement of my head. Warden looked up at Suhail. “You allow the red-jackets to violate other humans at will, on your watch?”

“I care not for their methods.”

“We do not want them breeding, Suhail. We have neither the time nor the means to deal with a pregnancy.”

“The pills sterilize them. Besides, their fornication is for the Overseer to manage.”

“You will do as I command.”

“No doubt.” Suhail looked down at me with those chilling red eyes. “But back to business. Ask your master for forgiveness, 40.”

“No,” I said.

He cuffed me. I lurched to the side, caught the wall. A prisoner’s cinema staggered past my eyes. “Ask your master for forgiveness, XX-59-40.”

“You’ll have to hit me a lot harder than that.”

He raised his hand to oblige. Before he could strike, Warden blocked his arm. “I will deal with her in private,” he said. “It is not for you to punish her. Wake the Overseer and deal with the commotion. I will not have the sun-hours disturbed by this turn of events.”

They stared at each other. Suhail let out a soft snarl, turned, and was gone. Warden looked after him. After a moment, he took me by the shoulder and steered me into the chamber.

His home was the same as it always was: drapes drawn, fire in the hearth. Gramophone chirping out “Mr. Sandman.” The bed looked so warm. I wanted to lie down, but I wouldn’t show weakness in front of him. I had to stay on my feet. Warden locked the door and sat in his armchair. I waited, still unsteady from the blow.

“Come here.”

I had no choice. Warden looked up at me; only a short distance—even sitting, he was almost my height. His eyes were dim and clear, like chartreuse liqueur.

“Do you have a death wish, Paige?”

I didn’t answer.

“I do not care what you think of me, but there are certain rules you must obey in this city. One of them is the curfew.”

I still didn’t speak. He wouldn’t have the satisfaction of scaring me.

“The red-jacket,” he said. “What did he look like?”

“Dark-blond hair. In his twenties.” My voice was rough. “There was a boy that looked a bit like him—16. And a girl, Kathryn.”

A cold spasm racked my stomach as I spoke. Snitching to a Reph felt criminal. Then I pictured Liss’s face, her grief, and my resolve strengthened.

“I know them.” Warden looked into the fire. “The two men are brothers, both mediums. XIX-49-16 and 17. They have been here since they were considerably younger than you.” He clasped his hands. “I will ensure that they are never allowed to harm you again.”

I ought to have thanked him, but I didn’t.

“Sit down,” he said. “Your aura will renew itself.”

I sank into the opposite armchair. My ribs were beginning to ache, and my legs hurt. Warden watched me.

“Are you thirsty?”

“No,” I said.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“You must be hungry. The gruel the performers make does far more harm than good.”

“I’m not hungry.”

It wasn’t true. Skilly was little more than water, and my stomach yearned for something thick and warm. “A pity.” Warden motioned to the nightstand. “I had something prepared for you.”

I’d seen it the second I came in. I’d assumed the plate was for him, but then I remembered what he lived on. Of course the meal wasn’t for him.

When I didn’t move, Warden did. He set the plate across my lap, along with heavy silver cutlery. I looked down at the meal. The sight made my head spin and my throat ache. Soft-boiled eggs, split open to squeeze out a hot gold yolk. A glass dish of pearled barley, tossed with pine nuts and fat black beans that shone like drops of onyx. A skinned pear, soaked in brandy. A sprig of plump red grapes. Whole-grain bread with butter.

“Take it.”

I clenched my fists.

“You have to eat, Paige.”

I wanted so much to defy him, to throw the plate right back at him, but my head was light and my mouth was furred with thirst and all I wanted was to eat the damned food. I picked up the spoon and took a mouthful of the barley. The beans were warm, the nuts brittle and sweet. Relief flooded my body, and the pain in my abdomen began to subside.

Warden returned to his seat. He watched in silence as I picked my way through the meal. I felt the weight of his gaze, piercing and alight. When I was finished, I put the plate on the floor. The afterburn of brandy lingered on my tongue.

“Thank you,” I said.

I didn’t want to say it, but I had to say something. His fingers tapped the arm of his chair.

“I wish to continue your training tomorrow night,” he said. “Do you have any objections?”

“I have no choice.”

“What if you did?”

“I don’t,” I said, “so it doesn’t matter.”

“I am speaking hypothetically. But if you had a choice, if you could control your own fate—would you continue your training with me, or take your next test cold?”

My lips were forming a harsh answer when I bit down on my tongue, stopping it. “I don’t know,” I said.

Warden stoked the fire. “It must be a dilemma. Your morals say ‘no,’ but your survival instinct says ‘yes.’”

“I already know how to fight. I’m stronger than I look.”

“Yes, you are. Your flight from the Overseer was a testimony to your strength. And of course, your gift is a great asset—even Rephaim will not expect a second spirit to invade their dreamscape. You have the element of surprise on your side.” The fire danced in his eyes. “But first you must overcome your limits. There is a reason you find it so difficult to leave your body. Your every move is controlled. Your muscles are constantly locked, ready to run, as if you sense danger in the very air you breathe. It is painful to watch, worse than watching a deer being hunted. A deer, at least, can flee to its herd.” He leaned forward. “Where is your herd, Paige Mahoney?”

I had no idea how to answer. I understood what he meant—but my herd, my pack, was Jax and the rest of the gang. And I couldn’t breathe a word of their existence. “I don’t need one,” I said. “Lone wolf.”

He wasn’t fooled. “Who trained you to climb buildings? Who taught you to fire a gun? Who helped you see farther into the æther, to move your spirit from its natural place?”

“I taught myself.”

“Liar.”

He reached under his chair. My chest tightened. My emergency backpack. One of the straps hung by a thread.

“You could have died the night you ran from the Overseer. The only reason you did not is because when you lost consciousness, this bag caught on a clothesline, breaking your fall. When I heard of this, I took a personal interest in you.”

He unzipped the pack. My jaw hardened. Those were my possessions in there, not his.

“Quinine,” Warden listed, sifting through the contents. “Adrenaline, cut with Dexedrine and caffeine. Basic medical supplies. Sleep aids. Even a firearm.” He held up my pistol. “You were remarkably well resourced on that night, Paige. None of the others were.”

A shiver ran behind my ribs. No sign of the pamphlet. Either he’d hidden it somewhere, or it had fallen into other hands.

“Your id states that you work as an ossista, a waitron in an oxygen bar. From what the Overseer tells me of Scion citadels, payment for that class of job is low. That leads me to believe that you did not purchase these supplies yourself.” He paused. “So who did?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Did you steal them from your father?”

“I’m not telling you anything more. My life before this place is not yours.”

Warden seemed to consider this before leveling his gaze on me.

“You are right,” he said, “but your life is mine now.”

My nails dug into the chair.

“If you are open to the general concept of survival, we will begin training again tomorrow. But there will be a second aspect to your instruction.” He nodded to my seat. “Every night, you will spend at least one hour in that chair, and you will talk to me.”

The words leaped to my tongue: “I’d sooner die.”

“Oh, you are quite welcome to die. I understand that if you smoke too much purple aster, you will be locked into your dreamscape and your body will shrivel from lack of water.” He nodded to the door. “Go now, if you choose. Die. Never look upon me again. I see no reason to prolong your suffering.”

“Won’t the blood-sovereign be angry?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you care?”

“Nashira is my betrothed, not my keeper. She has no influence over how I treat my human charges.”

“And how do you plan to treat me?”

“As my student. Not my slave.”

I turned my head away, my jaw set. I didn’t want to be his student. I didn’t want to become like him, to turn on my kind, to play on his field.

I was starting to feel the æther again. A faint pricking at my senses. “If you treat me as your student,” I said, “then I want to treat you as my mentor, not my master.”

“A fair bargain. But mentors should be shown respect. I expect that from you. And I expect you to stay with me, in polite company, for one hour every night.”

“Why?”

“You have the potential to walk between the æther and the corporeal world at your pleasure,” he said. “But if you do not learn to be still, even in the presence of your enemies, you will find it difficult. And in this city, you will not live very long.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“No. I think it a terrible waste of such a singular life. You have great potential, but you do require a mentor.”

His words twisted around my stomach. I had a mentor. I had Jaxon Hall.

“I’d like to sleep on it,” I said.

“Of course.” He stood, and I realized again how tall he was. I didn’t even reach his shoulder. “Bear in mind that you do have choices. But I advise you, as a mentor, to think of whoever gave you this.” With a swing of his wrist, he tossed me the heavy backpack. “Would they want you to die for nothing, or would they want to see you fight?”

Hailstones crashed on the roof of the tower. I rubbed my hands over the paraffin lamp, my lips and fingers numb with cold.

I had to consider Warden’s offer. I didn’t want to work with him, but I had to learn to survive in this place—at least long enough for me to work out how to get back to London. Back to Nick, back to Jax. Back to ducking Gillies, back to mime-crime. Back to swindling spirits from Didion Waite, taunting Hector and his boys. That was what I wanted. Learning about my gift might just help me get out of this place.

Jaxon had always said that there was more to being a dreamwalker than a heightened sixth sense. I had the potential to walk anywhere, even in other dreamscapes. I’d proven it by killing those two Underguards. Warden might be able to show me even more—but I didn’t want him as a teacher. He and I were natural enemies; there was no point in pretending otherwise. And yet he had observed so much about me, the way I held myself, my tension, my vigilance. Jax was forever telling me to loosen up, to let myself float. But that didn’t mean I could trust the man that kept me locked in this cold, dark room.

In the dim light of the lamp, I emptied the backpack. Most of my belongings were still there: the syringes, the equipment, even my gun. No ammo, of course, the syringes were all empty. My phone had been confiscated. Only one other thing was missing: On the Merits of Unnaturalness.

A cold tingle went through all my muscles. If he’d given it to Nashira, she would have summoned me for questioning by now. The Rephaim must have come across the pamphlet before, but they’d never seen my copy.

I lay back on the mattress, minding my bruises, and pulled the sheets up to my neck. Broken springs dug into my shoulders. I’d taken three hits to the head in as many minutes, and I was tired. I looked through the bars to the outside world, wishing the answer could shine through them—but of course, nothing came. Only the inevitable dusk.

The night-bell tolled when the sun went down. It seemed normal now, like an alarm clock. By the time I’d dressed, I’d come to a delicate decision. I would try to train with him again, if I could stomach it. There was an hour of talking to put up with, but I could handle that. I could fill that hour with lies.

Warden was waiting for me at the door. He looked me up and down.

“Have you come to a decision?”

I kept my distance. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll train with you. If we agree that you’re not my master.”

“You are wiser than I anticipated.” He handed me a black jacket with pink bands on the sleeves. “Wear this. You will need it for your next test.”

I shrugged it on and buckled it. The lining was thick and warm. Warden held out a hand. In his palm were the three pills. I didn’t take them. “What’s the green one for?”

“That is not your concern.”

“I want to know what it’s for. Nobody else gets it.”

“That is because you are different from them.” He didn’t retract his hand. “I know you have not been taking your pills. I have no qualms about force-feeding you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

His eyes searched my face. My skin prickled. “I do not want it to come to that,” he said.

I was going to lose this fight. Call it criminal instinct. This was Didion and Anne Naylor all over again—another day at the black market. There were some things on which Warden would relent; this was not one of them. I told myself I’d take tomorrow’s green pill to Duckett.

I washed down the pills with a glass of water. Warden took my chin in his gloved hand.

“There are reasons.”

I pulled my chin away. He looked at me for a moment, then opened the door. I followed him down the winding steps, into the cloisters. Grotesque stone figures watched over the courtyard. The temperature had fallen, coating them in a fine layer of frost. I crossed my arms to preserve some warmth. Warden led me out of the residence—but not onto the street. Instead he led me to the other side of Magdalen, through a wroughtiron gate and across a footbridge, which passed over a viridian river. The sharp glint of the moon shone on its surface. The hail had stopped, leaving the ground covered in ice.

As we walked down a dirt path, Warden rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. The wound from the first time was weeping. It was beginning to form a scar, but it still hadn’t fully healed.

“Are they poisonous?” I said. “Buzzers.”

“The Emim carry an infection called the half-urge, which causes madness and death if left untreated. They eat any kind of flesh, fresh or rotted.”

Even as I watched, the wound was starting to heal. “How are you doing that?” I asked, forgetting myself in my curiosity. “It’s healing.”

“I am using your aura.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“You must know by now that Rephaim feed on aura. It is easier for me to feed when my host is unaware of it.”

“You just fed on me?”

“Yes.” He studied my face. “You seem angry.”

“It’s not yours to take.” I moved away from him, disgusted. “You already took my freedom. You have no right to my aura.”

“I did not take enough to damage your gift. I feed on humans in small doses, allowing time for regeneration. Others are not so courteous. And mark my words”—he pulled down his sleeve—“you do not want me to contract half-urge in your presence.”

I looked at his face. He was still, accepting my scrutiny.

“Your eyes.” I looked right into them, mesmerized and repelled at once. “That’s why they change.”

He didn’t deny it. His eyes were no longer yellow, but a dark, softly glowing red. The color of my aura. “I meant no offense,” he said, “but it must be this way.”

“Why? Because you said so?”

Without responding, he walked on. I followed. It made me sick that he could feed on me.

After several minutes of walking, Warden stopped. A thin, blue-tinged mist hung around us. I turned up my collar. “You feel it,” Warden said. “The cold. Have you ever wondered why there is frost here, in early spring?”

“It’s England. It’s cold.”

“Not this cold. Feel it.” He took my hand and peeled off one of my gloves. My fingers burned in the bitter air. “There is a cold spot nearby.”

I took my glove back. “Cold spot?”

“Yes. They form when a spirit has dwelled in one place for a long time, creating an opening between the æther and the corporeal world. Have you never noticed how cold it becomes when spirits are near?”

“I suppose.” Spirits did chill, but I’d never given it much thought.

“Spirits are not supposed to dwell between the worlds. They draw on heat energy to sustain themselves. Sheol I is surrounded by cold spots—ethereal activity here is much higher than it is in the citadel. That is why the Emim are attracted toward us, rather than the amaurotic population in London.” Warden indicated the stretch of hard earth in front of us. “How do you think you might find the epicenter of a cold spot?”

“Most voyants could see the spirit,” I said. “They have the third eye.”

“But you do not.”

“No.”

“There are ways for the unsighted to do it. Have you heard of rhabdomancy?”

“I hear it’s useless,” I said. Jax had told me so, many times. “Rhabdomancers say they can find their way back from anywhere. They say they can make numa fall when they get lost, and that spirits will point them in the right direction. Doesn’t work.”

“That may be true, but it is not ‘useless.’ No type of clairvoyance is useless.”

Warmth rose in my cheeks. I didn’t really believe rhabdomancers were useless, but Jax had always told me that they were. You couldn’t work for Jaxon Hall and not share his opinions on such things.

“Why is it useful, then?” I asked. Warden looked at me. “You’re supposed to be teaching me. Teach me.”

“Very well. If you wish to learn.” Warden started to walk. “Most rhabdomancers think that when their numa fall, they are pointing toward home, toward buried treasure—toward whatever they seek to find. In the end it makes them mad. Because what their numa point toward is not gold, but the epicenter of the nearest cold spot. Sometimes they walk for miles, and they do not find what they seek. But they do find something: a secret door. What they do not know is how to open it.”

He stopped. I was shivering. The air was thin and cold. I breathed deeper, harder. “It is hard for the living to bear a cold spot,” he said. “Here.”

He handed me a silver canteen with a screw cap. I looked down at it.

“It is only water, Paige.”

I drank. I was too thirsty to refuse. He took the canteen back and tucked it away. The water cleared my head.

The ground we stood beside was frozen solid, as if it were deep winter. I clenched my chattering teeth together. The spirit responsible for the cold spot was drifting nearby. When it didn’t approach us, Warden crouched at the edge of the ice, took out a knife and held it against his arm. I stepped forward. “What are you doing?”

“Opening the door.”

He cut into his wrist. Three drops of ectoplasm fell onto the ice. The cold spot cracked down the middle and the air turned white. Shapes gathered around me. Voices. Dreamer, dreamer. I put my hands over my ears, but it didn’t block them. Dreamer, do not go beyond. Turn back. Then I looked up, and the darkness surrounded me again.

“Paige?”

“What happened?” My head was light and sore.

“I opened the cold spot.”

“With your blood.”

“Yes.”

His wrist had stopped dripping already. Red lingered in his eyes. My aura was still working on his wounds. “So you can ‘open’ a cold spot?” I said.

“You can’t. I can.”

“Because cold spots lead to the æther.” I paused. “Can you use them to reach the Netherworld?”

“Yes. That is how we got here. Imagine there are two veils standing between the æther and your world—the world of life. Between those veils is the Netherworld, a medial state between life and death. When rhabdomancers find a cold spot, they find the means to move between the veils. To enter my home, the realm of the Rephaim.”

“Can humans go there?”

“Try.”

I looked up at him. When he nodded to the cold spot, I took a step onto the ice. Nothing happened.

“No corporeal matter can survive beyond the veil,” Warden said. “Your body cannot pass beyond the gate.”

“What about rhabdomancers?”

“They are still flesh.”

“Why open it now, then?”

The sun had disappeared. “Because the time is right,” he said, “for you to face the Netherworld. You will not go in. But you will see.”

Sweat began to bead across my forehead. I stepped off the ice. I was starting to sense spirits everywhere.

“Night is the time of spirits.” Warden looked up at the moon. “The veils are at their thinnest now. Think of cold spots as rips in the fabric.”

I watched the cold spot. Something about it rattled my spirit.

“Paige, you will have two tasks tonight,” he said, turning to face me. “Both will test the limits of your sanity. Will you believe me if I tell you they will help you?”

“Not likely,” I said, “but let’s get on with it.”