The Bone Season

17 The Will

“Hurry up, Pip. Come on.”

My cousin Finn pulled harder on my arm. I was six years old and we were in the congested heart of Dublin, surrounded by shouting people. “Finn, I can’t keep up,” I said, but he ignored me. It was the first time ever that my cousin hadn’t listened to me.

We were supposed to be at the cinema that day: a crisp February morning in 2046, when the winter sun spilled white gold on the Liffey. I was staying with Aunt Sandra for the midterm break. She’d told Finn to look after me while she was at work, seeing as he had no classes. I’d wanted to see a film and have lunch in Temple Bar, but Finn said we had to do something else: see the Molly Malone statue. It was important, he said. Too important to miss. A very special day. “We’re going to make history, Pip,” he’d said, squeezing my small, mitten-bound hand.

I’d wrinkled my nose a bit when he told me. History was for school. I loved Finn—he was tall and funny and clever, and he bought me sweets when he had spare change—but I’d seen Molly hundreds of times. I knew all the words of her song by heart, too.

Everyone was singing it as we approached the statue. I looked up at all the red-faced people, half-scared and half-excited. Finn was shouting the song with them and I joined in, even though I didn’t understand why we were all singing. Maybe it was a street party.

I held Finn’s hand as he talked to his friends from Trinity College. They all wore green and waved big signs. I could read enough to work out most of the words, but there was one I didn’t know: SCION. It was all over the signs. They flashed past me, high in the air, Irish and English mixed together. DOWN WITH MAYFIELD! ÉIRE GO BRÁCH! DUBLIN SAYS NO! I tugged Finn’s sleeve.

“Finn, what’s happening?”

“Nothing, Paige, be quiet for a minute—SCION OUT! SCION DOWN! SCION OUT OF DUBLIN TOWN!”

We were near the statue now, jostled by the crowd. I’d always liked Molly. I thought she had a kind face. But she looked different today. Someone had pulled a bag over her head and a rope around her neck. Tears jerked into my eyes.

“Finn, I don’t like it.”

“SCION OUT! SCION DOWN! SCION OUT OF DUBLIN TOWN!”

“I want to go home.”

Finn’s girlfriend frowned down at me. Kay. I’d always liked her. She had beautiful hair, a dark auburn that shone like copper and curled like springs, and her arms were pale and freckled. Finn had given her a claddagh ring, which she wore with the heart pointing toward her body. She was dressed all in black, and her cheeks were painted green and white and orange.

“Finn, this could get violent,” she said. “Shouldn’t you take her home?” When he didn’t reply, she hit him. “Finn!”

“What?”

“Take Paige back to the house! Cleary has pipe bombs in his car, for Christ’s sake—”

“No way. I’m not missing this for the world. If these bastards get in, we’ll never get them out.”

“She’s six years old. She shouldn’t see this.” Kay grabbed my hand. “I’ll take her home if you won’t. Your ma would be ashamed of you.”

“No. I want her to see it.”

He knelt down in front of me and pulled off his cap. His hair was tousled. Finn looked like my father, but his face was warm and open, and his eyes were blue as the summer sky. He put his hands on my shoulders.

“Paige Eva,” he said, in a very serious voice, “do you know what’s happening?”

I shook my head.

“Bad people are coming from over the sea. They’re going to lock us up in our city and never let us leave, and turn this place into a prison city like theirs. We won’t be allowed to sing our songs anymore, or visit people outside Ireland. And people like you, Pip—they don’t like you.”

I looked into Finn’s eyes, and I understood what he meant. Finn had always known that I could see things. I knew where all the ghosts of Dublin lived. Did that make me bad? “But why does Molly have a bag over her head, Finn?” I said.

“Because the bad people do that when they don’t like other people. They put bags over their heads and ropes around their necks.”

“Why?”

“To kill them. Even little girls, like you.”

Now I was shaking. My eyes hurt. A bubble filled my throat, but I didn’t cry. I was brave. I was brave, like Finn.

“Finn,” Kay said, “I see them!”

“SCION OUT! SCION DOWN!”

My heart was too fast. Finn wiped my tears and put his cap on my head.

“SCION OUT OF DUBLIN TOWN!”

“They’re coming, Paige, and we have to stop them.” He grasped my shoulders. “Are you going to help me stop them?”

I nodded.

“Finn, oh God, Finn, they’ve got tanks!”

And then my world exploded. The bad people had raised their guns and aimed their darts of fire into the crowd.

I woke with the sound of guns in my ears.

My skin was slick and cold, but inside I was scalding. The memory had burned through my whole body. I could still see Finn, his face tight with hatred—Finn, who used to call me Pip.

I kicked off the sleeping bag. I could still hear the gunshots, thirteen years later. I could still see Kay, her eyes open, gripped wide in the shock of death. The blood on her shirt. One shot to the heart. That was what made Finn run toward the soldiers, leaving me behind, crouched under Molly’s wheelbarrow. I screamed and screamed for him, but he never came back.

I never saw him again.

I didn’t remember much after that. I know someone got me home. I know I sobbed for Finn until my throat hurt. And I know my father never let Aunt Sandra see me again, not until the memorial service. After that I didn’t cry. Tears couldn’t bring people back. I wiped the sweat from my face with my shirt. I must still be in the grounds of Magdalen. I turned on my side, so cold I couldn’t feel my feet, and curled into a ball.

The fire must have gone out. It was raining, but I wasn’t wet. I reached up. My fingers brushed some kind of canvas sheeting, a temporary shelter from the elements. I pulled up the hood of my jacket and inched out from under it.

“Warden?”

There was no sign of him. Or the deer. Or the fire.

I’d been shivering from cold, but now my shivers worsened. Where had he gone? Surely he couldn’t still be in Sheol I. We hadn’t even left Sheol I. Magdalen and its grounds were part of the residence system. We’d only strayed about a mile from the cold spot, if that.

The wind was rising. I huddled under my shelter. There was no reason for him to have left me alone, no reason whatsoever. Maybe I just hadn’t been asleep for very long. I pulled on my socks and boots and double-checked the sleeping bag. To my surprise, I found a few supplies: a pair of gloves, a hypodermic needle of adrenaline, and a slim silver torch tucked into the lining, along with a manila envelope. My name was written on the front. I recognized his handwriting and tore it open.

Welcome to No Man’s Land. Your test is simple, return to Sheol I in as little time as possible. You have no food, no water, and no map. Use your gift. Trust your instincts.

And do me this honor: survive the night. I’m sure you would rather not be rescued.

Good luck.

I held the note for a moment, then I tore it into strips.

I’d show him. I’d show him right now. He was trying to scare me, and I wouldn’t have it. “Survive the night”? What was that supposed to mean? He must think I was pretty feeble if I couldn’t cope with a bit of wind and rain. If I could deal with the sordid streets of SciLo, I could deal with a dark forest. As for food supplies, why would I need them? It wasn’t like he’d dumped me in the middle of nowhere. Was it?

When I looked outside the tent, I found a case marked with the symbol of ScionIde, the military arm of the government: two lines at a right angle, like gallows, with three shorter lines scored across the vertical mark. Inside the case was another note.

Be careful with the darts. If they break, the acid inside will send you into cardiac arrest. Use the flare in an emergency. It will summon a squad of red-jackets.

Do not go south.

I shone my torch at the contents of the case: a pistol with a long barrel, a flare gun, an old Zippo lighter, a hunting knife, and three pressurized silver darts. The symbols for toxicity and corrosivity were printed across the side, along with the words HYDROFLUORIC ACID (HF).

A tranquilizer gun and a handful of acid darts. Why couldn’t he have just given me my pistol? Well, I had to start somewhere, unless I wanted to stay in this clearing all night. I rolled up the sleeping bag, compacting it into a small sack, but left the shelter where it was. I could use it as a marker to make sure I wasn’t running in circles.

There was something surrounding the camp. A ring of tiny white crystals. I knelt and dipped my fingers in them, then flicked out the tip of my tongue to taste them.

Salt.

The camp had been made in a circle of salt.

I held very still. There were rumors among voyants that salt could repel spirits—they called it halomancy—but it wasn’t true. It certainly didn’t stop poltergeists. Was he just trying to scare me, leaving it all over the place?

With my hood pulled up and my jacket zipped to the chin, I packed my limited supplies. I put the darts and pistol in the sack, padding them with the sleeping bag, and tucked the flare gun into my waistband. The knife went into my boot, the syringe into my jacket. I pulled on the gloves.

I couldn’t wait to get back and face him, the scurf. I could picture him now, watching the clock, counting the minutes until I got back. Sitting by his nice warm fire.

I’d show him. I would not be overlooked. I was the Pale Dreamer, and he was going to see why. He was going to see why Jax had chosen me: because against all odds, I had survived.

I closed my eyes, trying to pick up on ethereal activity, but there was nothing. No dreamscapes. I was alone. When I opened my eyes, the sky caught my attention. It was luck I’d woken when I did: the stars were about to be swallowed up by clouds, and with the sun gone, I had no other means of navigation. With no sign of Sirius, I searched for Orion’s Belt. I knew from Nick’s passionate speeches on astronomy that wherever the Belt was, north was roughly in the other direction. I also knew where it was in relation to Sheol I. I located the three stars and turned slowly to face my path. What lay in front of me was a dense stretch of woodland, as dark as it was thick and overgrown.

My heart pounded. I’d never been scared of the dark, but it would force me to rely on my sixth sense to detect any unrest. Which was probably the point. To test me.

I looked over my shoulder. The woodland was just as dark on the other side of the clearing. That path would lead me south, away from the colony.

Do not go south.

I knew his game. He was relying on me to obey, like a good human. Why should I go north, when north would lead me back to slavery—back to Warden, who had put me here in the first place? I didn’t need to prove myself to him. I turned to face the Belt. I was going south. I was leaving this hellhole.

Wind rushed through the leaves, chilling my wet skin. It was now or never. By the time I’d finished thinking about what might or might not be lurking in there, I wouldn’t have the courage to move. I clenched my jaw and headed into the woods.

It was black. Blind. The rain had softened the earth, leaving it spongy and damp. My feet made no sound as I trekked through the oak trees, walking quickly, sometimes breaking into a jog, using my hands to feel my way past branches. In the thin beam of my torch, I could make out a hazy mist that wreathed the tree trunks and hung in a thin blanket over the ground, obscuring my boots. There was no natural light. I prayed my torch wouldn’t expire. It was scored with the Scion symbol, probably a borrowed piece of NVD equipment. It was a small relief: Scion-made items didn’t often stop working.

It occurred to me that I must be outside the normal boundaries of Sheol I. This place was called No Man’s Land for a reason: it belonged to no one. Maybe Scion owned it; maybe not. I had no idea where this route would lead me, but I did know that Oxford was north of London. I was heading in the right direction. My jacket and trousers were dark enough to hide me from watchful eyes, and my sixth sense was as finely tuned as ever. I could make it past any Reph guards. I could scale a fence just as easily as I could slip under it. And if anyone attacked me, I could use my gift. I’d sense them in advance.

But then I remembered what Liss had said about this place when I’d first arrived: “Deserted countryside. We call it No Man’s Land.” That might have encouraged me if not for what she’d said afterward, when I’d asked if anyone had ever tried to escape via the southern route. “Yes,” was all she’d said. Just yes. Barefaced confirmation that there was danger on this path. Other voyants had come this way and died. Maybe they’d been tested like this, too. Was the test simply to resist the temptation to escape? I broke a sweat at the thought. Land mines, booby traps—they had them in here. I imagined cameras in the trees, watching my every move, waiting for me to step on a mine. The thought made me slow down.

No, no. I had to carry on. I could get out of here. They were relying on me to think like that, to think on the safe side. I almost turned north, but determination drove me on. Against my will, I pictured Warden, David, and the Overseer by the fire, clinking their glasses as they watched me run into a mine. “Well, gentlemen, here’s to the dreamwalker,” the Overseer would say. “The biggest idiot we ever brought to Sheol I.” And what would they put on my gravestone? Would they carve in PAIGE MAHONEY, or would it just be XX-59-40? Assuming there was enough of me left to scrape into a grave, of course.

I stopped and leaned against a tree. This was insane. Why was I imagining these things? Warden couldn’t stand the Overseer. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured another group: Jaxon, Nick, and Eliza. They were in the citadel, waiting for me, searching for me. If I could just get out of these woods, I could work my way back to them.

After a moment, I opened my eyes. And stared at what was crumpled on the ground.

Bones. Human bones. A skeleton in a ragged white tunic, legs missing from the knee. I backed away, almost falling over my own feet. Something crunched underfoot. A skull.

There was a bag next to the carcass. Its hand still gripped the strap. With a crunch of dry bone, I prized it free. Flies crawled on the remaining flesh; giant, black-haired flies, swollen with dead flesh. They flew up when I snatched the bag from its dead owner. My torch gleamed on the contents, a hunk of rotten bread and a dry bottle.

My skin turned cold and damp. I turned the torch to my right. A few feet away, a crater yawned among the leaves, half-flooded by the rain. Shards of bone and mine casing scattered the ground.

There really was a minefield.

I pressed my back against the trunk of an oak. I couldn’t navigate a minefield in the dark. I edged away from the tree, stepping over the skeleton. You’re fine, Paige. Legs shaking, I turned north and picked my way back along the path. I hadn’t gone far from the clearing. I could make it. After moving several feet from the bones, I tripped over a root and hit the ground. I tensed rigid, my heart lurching, but no explosion followed.

Resting my weight on my elbows, I dug into my jacket, took out the Zippo, and flicked it open with my thumb. A clean flame rose. A route to the æther. I wasn’t an augur—fire was no friend to me—but I could use it to perform a miniature séance. “I need a guide,” I whispered. “If anyone is out there, come to the flame.”

For a long time, there was nothing. The flame flinched and guttered. Then my sixth sense jolted to life, and a young spirit emerged from the trees. I pulled myself to my feet. “I need to reach my camp.” I held the lighter out to it. “Will you guide me?”

I couldn’t hear it speak, but it started to move back the way I’d come. I sensed it was the spirit of the dead white-jacket and I broke into a run. It had no reason to mislead me.

The circle of salt soon came into sight. The rain blew out the lighter, but the spirit stayed close to me. I took a few minutes to compose myself. It was bitter to concede, but I had no choice but to go north. I checked my belongings were still there, then set off into the trees again, the torch in one hand and the Zippo in the other, the spirit close behind me.

After about half an hour of walking, the spirit trailing around my shoulders like a rope, I stopped to check that Orion’s Belt was behind me. I adjusted my course a little before I delved into the darkness again. My ears and nose were smarting, and my sixth sense sent tremors through my skin. I could barely feel my toes. I stopped and gripped my knees, taking deep breaths to steady my nerves. As soon as I inhaled, I smelled something. I recognized that smell: death.

My torch beam was unsteady. The stench of putrid flesh was getting stronger. I walked for another minute before I found the source. Another body.

It must once have been a fox. Tufts of auburn fur, matted with dry blood, eye sockets brimful of maggots. I buried my nose and mouth in my sleeve. The smell was atrocious.

Whatever had done this was out here in the woods with me.

Move, Paige. Move. The torch sputtered. I’d just started to leave when a twig snapped.

Had I imagined that? No, of course I hadn’t. My hearing worked fine. I could hear the blood beating at my ears. I pressed my back against a tree, trying not to breathe too loudly.

A guard. A red-jacket on night patrol. But then I heard heavy footsteps, too heavy for a human. I turned off the torch, slid it into my pocket. There was no point having it in my hands: turning it on would give away my position.

The silence pressed against my ears. I couldn’t see a thing, but I could hear another footstep, closer. Then the sounds of teeth working away at a carcass. Something had found the fox.

Or come back for it.

I cupped a hand around the lighter. My heart was doing strange things. I wasn’t sure if it had sped up to a single hum, or if it just wasn’t beating anymore. Behind me, the spirit shivered.

The minutes ticked away. I waited. I had to move at some point, but I knew, I knew there was something in the vicinity.

Three guttural clicks.

Every muscle in my body tensed. I breathed through my nose, keeping my lips clamped together. I didn’t know what that sound was, but there was no way a human had made it. I’d heard the Rephs make some strange noises, but never such an ugly, visceral sound.

A sudden wind blew the lighter out. My spirit guide fled.

For a minute, cold fear stilled my fingers. Then I remembered the pistol, tucked into my pack. It would be a fool’s game to shoot my stalker, but I could distract it. Give myself some time to move. I thought about climbing a tree, then dismissed the idea. Trees were not my forte. I’d be better off finding a new place to hide. Still, finding higher ground seemed like a sensible idea. If I got to a safe place, I could shine my light on this creature and see what it was. I tucked the lighter away and dug into my pack.

Once the pistol was in my hand, I set about extracting a dart. Every move I made seemed noisy: every exhalation, every rustle of my jacket. Finally I could feel the cold, smooth cylinder of a dart against my fingers. I knew how to load an ordinary gun, but it took me a few minutes to equip the unfamiliar weapon in the dark, with clammy hands, trying my utmost not to make a sound. Once it was ready, I lifted my arms, aimed, fired.

When the dart hit home, it sizzled like hot fat in a pan. The creature ran toward the source of the sound. It carried a sound of its own. A buzzing. Flies.

This wasn’t an animal.

Nausea surged through me. I’d heard so much about the Emim, but I’d never really pictured facing one of their number. Even after what I’d heard at the oration, even after the red-jacket had lost his hand, I’d almost started to believe they didn’t exist. Until now.

It was all I could do to keep myself standing. My hands shook and my lips trembled. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Could it hear my pulse? Could it smell my fear? Was it slavering over my flesh yet, or did I have to get closer before it could detect me?

I loaded another dart into the gun. The Buzzer sniffed at the place I’d shot. I closed my eyes and reached for the æther.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. All the local spirits had fled, like they were afraid, but why would spirits fear any creature of the physical world? It wasn’t as if they could die again. Whatever the case, there was nothing to spool.

I became aware that I couldn’t hear the Buzzer anymore. My hands were sweat-slick. I could hardly grip the gun. I could be dead at any moment. Dead meat.

The whole thing must have been a setup. Nashira had never wanted me to earn my colors. She just wanted me to die.

Not today, I thought. Not today, Nashira.

I ran out from behind the tree. My boots pounded, my heart thrashed at my chest. Where was it? Had it seen me yet?

Something struck me between the shoulder blades. I was weightless for a moment, suspended in darkness. Then I hit the ground. My wrist bent back and snapped. I bit back a scream half a second too late.

The gun was gone. There was no chance of finding it now. I could hear the thing—it was near me, it was on me. With my uninjured hand, I reached into my boot and found the hunting knife.

I forgot about my spirit. I stabbed into soft mush. Wet ran down my wrist. Buzz. Another stab, two stabs. Buzz. Buzz. Things kept hitting my face: small, round things. I blinked them from my eyes, coughed them from my mouth. Fingers clawed at my neck, and hot breath stank against my cheek. Stab, stab. Buzz. Teeth clashed near my ear. I stabbed up, back into the flesh, and pulled down. The blade tore through muscle and gristle.

Then it was gone. I was free. My hands were coated to the wrist in a syrupy, foul-smelling liquid. Bile surged into my throat, burning my mouth and nose.

The torch lay about ten feet away. I crawled toward it, my broken wrist cradled to my chest. I’d broken it before: it was throbbing like a bitch. I dragged myself along on one arm, holding the knife between my teeth, drenched in sour sweat. The smell of corpse wrenched at my stomach, sending painful spasms up my throat.

I grabbed the torch and swung it behind me. I could see dark shapes between the trees. More footsteps. More Buzzers. No.

My head was pounding. My vision blurred. I don’t want to die. Possessing the butterfly had weakened me much more than I’d anticipated. Run. I dug into my jacket, pulled out the syringe. My last resort. The flare gun was not a resort. I wouldn’t fire. I would not lose this game.

ScionAid Auto-Inject Adrenaline. Much stronger than the diluted cocktail of drugs Jax used to keep me awake. I punched the needle through my trousers, straight into my thigh.

Sharp pain. I cursed, but kept the needle in. A spring-loaded jolt of adrenaline shot into the muscle. Scion adrenaline was designed to wake up your whole body; not just to help it function, but to wipe out pain and make you stronger. Gillies were wired on the stuff constantly. My muscles became supple. My legs grew stronger. I launched myself off the ground and broke into a sprint. The adrenaline had no effect on my sixth sense, but it made it easier to concentrate on the æther.

The Buzzer had a dark, cavernous dreamscape, a black hole in the æther. I wouldn’t get far if I tried to break into it. I still tried, not quite leaving my body.

A black cloud engulfed me. My dreamscape darkened, and the edges of my vision clustered together. I needed to repel it. A quick-fire jump should drive it away. My spirit flew from my body, fracturing the edge of its dreamscape. The creature let out an awful scream. Its footsteps stopped. At the same time, a blinding pain shocked me back into my dreamscape. My palms hit the ground. I scrambled back up, heaving.

The woods gave way to open grassland. I could see the spires of the House. The city. The city.

The adrenaline surged through my veins, racing through my muscles, pushing me faster. My wrist dangled at my side as I ran like a penitent sinner toward my prison. Better a jailbird than a stiff.

The Buzzer screamed. Its cry echoed through every cell in my body. I vaulted over a chain-link fence and hit the ground running.

There was a watchtower at the top of the House. There would be a red-jacket with a gun. They could subdue the Buzzer, kill it. Sweat drenched my clothes. Not for now. I couldn’t feel the pain yet, but I knew I’d torn a muscle. I passed a rusted sign reading USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED. Good. I’d never needed deadly force more. I could see the watchtower now. I was about to scream for help, to pull out the flare gun, when I found myself immobilized.

A net. It was all over me: a thick wire net. I shrieked, “No, no, kill it” at the top of my lungs. I struggled like bait on a line. Why had they caught me? I wasn’t the enemy! Of course you are, said a voice in my head, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I had to get out of this net. The Buzzer was coming. It would rip me up, just like it ripped up the fox.

A tearing sound. A voice saying my name: “Paige, calm down, it’s all right, you’re safe now”—but I didn’t trust that voice. That was the voice I feared. I clawed my way out of the net and tried to run again. That was when someone grabbed me, threw me backward. “Paige, concentrate! Use your fear, use it!” I couldn’t focus. I was feral with fear. My heart was too fast, I couldn’t keep up. My vision blinked in and out. My mouth was dry. Was I still standing?

“Paige, to your right! Attack it!”

I looked to my right. I couldn’t see what it was, but it wasn’t human. My fear reached its absolute peak. I flew into the æther. Into nothing. And then into something.

The last thing I saw was my body crumpling to the ground. But not through my eyes. Through the eyes of a deer.