The Bone Season

4 A Lecture upon the Shadow

“Welcome to Sheol I.”

The speaker was about six and a half feet tall. Her features were perfectly symmetrical: a long, straight nose, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes fixed in her face. The candlelight ran through her hair and across her burnished skin. She wore black, like the others, but her sleeves and sides were slashed with gold.

“I am Nashira Sargas.” Her voice was cool and low-pitched. “I am the blood-sovereign of the Race of Rephaim.”

“Is this a joke?” someone whispered.

“Shh,” hissed another.

“First of all, I must apologize for the harrowing start to your time here, especially if you were housed first in the Tower. The vast majority of clairvoyants are under the impression that they are going to be executed when they are summoned to our fold. We use Fluxion 14 to ensure their transmission to Sheol I is safe and straightforward. After being sedated, you were placed on a train and taken to a detainment facility, where you were monitored. Your clothing and belongings have been confiscated.”

As I listened, I examined the woman, looking into the æther. Her aura was unlike anything I’d ever sensed before. I wished I could see it. It was as if she’d taken several different types of aura and forged them all into one strange field of energy.

There was something else, too. A cold edge. Most auras gave off a soft, warm signal, like I’d walked past a space heater, but this one gave me deep chills.

“I understand that you are surprised to see this city. You may know it as Oxford. Its existence was disavowed by your government two centuries ago, before any of you were born. It was supposedly quarantined after an outbreak of fire. This was a lie. It was closed off so we, the Rephaim, could make it our home.

“We arrived two centuries ago, in 1859. Your world had reached what we call the ‘ethereal threshold.’” She assessed our faces. “The majority of you are clairvoyant. You understand that sentient spirits exist all around us, too cowardly or stubborn to meet their final death in the heart of the æther. You can commune with them, and in return they will guide and protect you. But that connection has a price. When the corporeal world becomes overpopulated with drifting spirits, they cause deep rifts in the æther. When these rifts become too wide, the ethereal threshold breaks.

“When Earth broke its threshold, it became exposed to a higher dimension called Netherworld, where we reside. Now we have come here.” Nashira leveled her gaze on my line of prisoners. “You humans have made many mistakes. You packed your fertile earth with corpses, burdened it with drifting spirits. Now it belongs to the Rephaim.”

I looked at Julian and saw my exact fear mirrored in his eyes. This woman had to be insane.

Silence filled the room. Nashira Sargas had our attention.

“My people, the Rephaim, are all clairvoyant. There are no amaurotics among us. Since the rip between our worlds occurred, we have been forced to share the Netherworld with a parasitic race called the Emim. They are mindless, bestial creatures with a taste for human flesh. If not for us, they would have come here from beyond the threshold. They would have come for you.”

Mad. She was mad.

“You were all detained by humans in our employ. They are called red-jackets.” Nashira indicated a line of men and women, all clad in scarlet, at the back of the library. “Since our arrival, we have taken many clairvoyant humans under our wing. In exchange for protection, we train you to destroy the Emim—to protect the ‘natural’ population—as part of a penal battalion. This city acts as a beacon to the creatures, drawing them away from the rest of the corporeal world. When they breach its walls, red-jackets are summoned to destroy them. Such breaches are announced by a siren. There is a high risk of mutilation.”

There is also, I thought, a high risk that this is all in my head.

“We offer you this fate as an alternative to what Scion would offer: death by hanging, or asphyxiation. Or, as some of you have already experienced, a long, dark sentence in the Tower.”

In the row behind me, one girl began to whimper. She was shushed by the people on either side of her.

“Of course, we do not have to work together.” Nashira paced along the front row. “When we came to this world, we found it vulnerable. Only a fraction of you are clairvoyant, and still less have marginally useful abilities. We might have let the Emim turn on you. We would have been justified in doing so, given what you have done to this world.”

Seb was crushing my hand. I was aware of a faint ringing in my ears.

This was ridiculous. A bad joke. Or brain plague. Yes, it must be brain plague. Scion was trying to make us think we’d gone insane. Maybe we had.

“But we had mercy. We took pity. We negotiated with your rulers, starting on this small island. They gave us this city, which we named Sheol I, and sent us a certain number of clairvoyants each decade. Our primary source was, and remains, the capital city of London. It was this city that worked for seven decades to develop the Scion security system. Scion has greatly increased the chance of clairvoyants being recognized, relocated, and rehabilitated into a new society, away from so-called amaurotics. In exchange for that service, we have vowed not to destroy your world. Instead, we plan to take control of it.”

I wasn’t certain that I understood what she was saying, but one thing was clear: if she was telling the truth, Scion was no more than a puppet government. Subordinate. And it had sold us out.

It didn’t really come as a surprise.

The girl in the row behind couldn’t stand it any longer. With a choked scream, she made a break for the door.

She didn’t stand a chance against the bullet.

Screams erupted everywhere. So did the blood. Seb’s nails dug into my hand. In the chaos, one of the Rephaim stepped forward.

“SILENCE.”

The noise stopped at once.

Blood flowered under the girl’s hair. Her eyes were open. Her expression lingered: distraught, terrified.

The killer was human, wearing red. He holstered his revolver and put his hands behind his back. Two of his companions, both girls, took the body by the arms and dragged it outside. “Always one yellow-jacket,” one said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The marble floor was stained. Nashira looked at us with no hint of emotion.

“If any more of you would like to run, now is the time to do so. Be assured, we can make room in the grave.”

Nobody moved.

In the silence that followed, I risked a glance at the plinths. I did a double take. One of the Rephaim was looking at me.

He must have been examining me for some time. His gaze cleaved straight to mine, as if he’d been waiting for me to look, watching for a flicker of dissent. His skin was a dark honey gold, setting off two heavy-lidded yellow eyes. He was the tallest of the five males, with coarse brown hair, clothed in embroided black. Wrapped around him was a strange, soft aura, overshadowed by the others in the room. He was the single most beautiful and terrible thing I’d ever laid eyes on.

A spasm tore through my insides. I snapped my gaze back to the floor. Would they shoot me just for looking?

Nashira was still speaking, pacing up and down the rows. “Clairvoyants have developed great strength over the years. You are used to survival. The mere fact that you are standing here, having evaded capture for so long, is a testimony to your collective ability to adapt. Your gifts have proven invaluable in keeping the Emim at bay. This is why, over ten years, we collect as many of you as possible, keeping you in the Tower to await your transition from Scion. We call these decadal harvests Bone Seasons. This is Bone Season XX.

“You will be given identification numbers in due course. Those of you who are clairvoyant will now be assigned a Rephaite keeper.” She indicated her companions. “Your keeper is your master in all things. He or she will test your abilities and assess your value. If any of you show cowardice, you will be given the yellow tunic: that of a coward. Those of you who are amaurotic—that is, the few of you who have no idea what I am talking about,” she added, “will be put to work in our residences. To serve us.”

Seb didn’t appear to be breathing.

“If you do not pass your first test, or if you earn the yellow tunic twice, you will be placed under the care of the Overseer, who will mold you into a performer. Performers are there for our entertainment, and the entertainment of those in our employ.”

I wondered at the choice: circus freak or conscription. My lips shook, and my free hand balled into a fist. I had imagined many reasons for voyants being taken, but nothing like this.

Human trafficking. No, voyant trafficking. Scion had sent us into slavery.

A few people were weeping now; others stood in rapt horror. Nashira didn’t seem to notice. She hadn’t even blinked when the girl died. She hadn’t blinked at all.

“Rephaim do not forgive. Those of you who adapt to this system will be rewarded. Those who do not will be punished. None of us want that to happen, but should you show us disrespect, you will suffer. This is your life now.”

Seb fainted. Julian and I propped him up between us, but he was still a dead weight.

The nine Rephaim stepped down from their plinths. I kept my head down.

“These Rephaim have offered their services as keepers,” Nashira informed us. “They will decide which of you they wish to take.”

Seven of the nine began to walk around the room, between the rows. The last one—the one I’d looked at—stayed with Nashira. I didn’t dare look at Julian, but I said in a whisper, “It can’t be true.”

“Look at them.” He barely moved his lips. Our proximity on either side of Seb was all that allowed me to hear him. “They’re not human. They’re from somewhere else.”

“You mean this ‘Netherworld’?” I shut my mouth when a Reph passed, then continued: “The only other dimension is the æther. That’s it.”

“The æther exists alongside meatspace—around us, not outside of us. This is something more.”

A frantic laugh bubbled up inside me. “Scion’s gone mad.”

Julian didn’t answer. Across the room, a Rephaite took Carl by the elbow. “XX-59-1,” she said, “I lay claim to you.” Carl swallowed as he was led to a plinth, but he kept up his brave face. Once he was deposited, the Rephaim returned to their circling, like flimps sizing up a wealthy target.

I wondered how they were choosing us. Was it bad for Carl to have been chosen so soon?

Minutes ticked by. The rows dwindled. The whisperer, now XX-59-2, joined Carl. The oracle went with Pleione, seemingly uninterested by the procedure. A cruel-faced male dragged the palmist to his plinth. She started to cry, gasping “please” over and over, to no avail. Soon Julian was taken. XX-59-26. He shot me a look, nodded, and went with his new keeper to the plinths.

Twelve more names were changed to numbers. They got to 38. Finally there were eight of us left: the six amaurotics, a julker, and me.

Someone had to choose me. Several of the Rephaim had examined me, paying close attention to my body and my eyes, but none had claimed me. What would happen if I wasn’t chosen?

The julker, a small boy with cornrows, was led away by Pleione. 39. Now I was the only voyant left.

The Rephaim looked to Nashira. She looked at those of us who remained. My spine pulled tight as rope.

Then the one that had watched me stepped forward. He didn’t speak, but he drew closer to Nashira, and his head tilted toward me. Her eyes flicked to my face. She raised a hand and crooked a long finger. Like Pleione, she wore black gloves. All of them did.

Seb was still unconscious. I tried to let him slide to the floor, but he clung. Noticing my predicament, one of the amaurotic men took him from my arms.

Every eye was on me as I walked across the marble floor and stopped in front of the pair. Nashira seemed much taller up close, and the male stood a clear foot above me.

“Your name?”

“Paige Mahoney.”

“Where are you from?”

“I Cohort.”

“Not originally.”

They must have seen my records. “Ireland,” I said. A tremor passed through the room.

“Scion Belfast?”

“No, the free part of Ireland.” Somebody gasped.

“I see. A free spirit, then.” Her eyes seemed bioluminescent. “We are intrigued by your aura. Tell me: what are you?”

“A cipher,” I said.

I turned cold under her stare.

“I have good news for you, Paige Mahoney.” Nashira placed her hand on her companion’s arm. “You have attracted the attention of the blood-consort: Arcturus, Warden of the Mesarthim. He has decided to be your keeper.”

The Rephaim looked at each other. They didn’t speak, but their auras seemed to ripple.

“It is rare that he takes interest in a human,” Nashira said, her voice as quiet as if she were entrusting me with some closely guarded secret. “You are very, very fortunate.”

I didn’t feel fortunate. I was sickened.

The blood-consort leaned down to my level. A long way down. I didn’t look away.

“XX-59-40.” His voice was deep and soft. “I lay claim to you.”

So this man was to be my master. I looked right into his eyes, even though I shouldn’t. I wanted to know the face of my enemy.

The last of the voyants had been taken from the floor. Nashira raised her voice to the six amaurotics. “You six will wait here. An escort will be sent to lead you to the barracks. The rest of you will go with your keepers to the residences. Good luck to you all, and remember: the choices you make here are yours alone. I only hope you make the right ones.”

With that, she turned and walked away. Two red-jackets followed her. I was left to stand with my new keeper, numb.

Arcturus moved toward the door. He made a motion with his hand, beckoning me to follow. When I didn’t come at once, he stopped and waited.

Everyone was looking at me. My head spun. I saw red, then white. I walked out after him.

The first stain of dawn had touched the spires. The voyants came out after their keepers, three or four to each group. I was the only one with an individual keeper.

Arcturus came to stand beside me. Too close. My back stiffened.

“You should know that we sleep by day here.”

I said nothing.

“You should also know that it is not my custom to take tenants.” What a nice word for prisoners. “If you pass your tests, you will live with me on a permanent basis. If you do not, I will be forced to evict you. And the streets here are not kind.”

I still said nothing. I knew that streets weren’t kind. They couldn’t be much worse than they were in London.

“You are not mute,” he said. “Speak.”

“I didn’t know I was allowed to speak without permission.”

“I will allow you that privilege.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

Arcturus examined me. His eyes held a dead heat.

“We are stationed at the Residence of Magdalen.” He turned his back from the dawn. “I take it you are strong enough to walk, girl?”

“I can walk,” I said.

“Good.”

So we walked. We walked out of the building and onto the street, where the sinister performance had come to an end. I spotted the contortionist near the stage, feeding her silks into a bag. She met my eyes, then looked away. She had the delicate aura of a cartomancer. And the bruises of a prisoner.

Magdalen was a magnificent building. It was from a different age, a different world. It had a chapel and bell towers and high glass windows that burned with the ferocious light of torches. A bell clanged out five chimes as we approached and went through a small door. A boy in a red tunic bowed when we passed a series of cloisters. I followed Arcturus into the gloom. He went up a winding stone staircase and stopped before a heavy door, which he unlocked with a small brass key. “In here,” he said to me. “This will be your new home. The Founder’s Tower.”

I looked into my prison.

Behind the door was a large rectangular room. The furnishings were nothing short of opulent. The walls were white, devoid of clutter. All that hung on them was a crest, topped with three flowers, with a black-and-white pattern beneath them. A slanted chessboard. Heavy red curtains fell on either side of the windows, which looked out over courtyards. Two armchairs faced a magnificent wood-burning fireplace, and a red daybed sat in the corner, piled with silk cushions. Beside it, a grandfather clock stood against the wall. A gramophone played “Gloomy Sunday” from a dark wood writing table, and there was an elegant nightstand beside the lavish four-poster bed. Beneath my feet was a richly patterned carpet.

Arcturus locked the door. I watched him tuck the key away. “I have little knowledge of humans. You may have to remind me of your needs.” He tapped his finger on the table. “In here are medicinal substances. You are to take one of each pill every night.”

I didn’t speak, but I skimmed his dreamscape. Ancient and strange, indurated by time. A magic lantern in the æther.

The stranger in I-4 had most definitely been one of them.

I sensed his eyes reading beyond my face, studying my aura, trying to work out what he’d saddled himself with. Or what buried treasure he’d uncovered. The thought brought on another surge of hatred.

“Look at me.”

It was an order. I raised my chin, met his gaze. I’d be damned if I let him see the fear he stirred in me.

“You do not have the spirit sight,” he observed. “That will be a disadvantage here. Unless you have some means of compensating, of course. Perhaps a stronger sixth sense.”

I didn’t answer. It had always been my dream to be at least half-sighted, but I remained spirit-blind. I couldn’t see the æther’s little lights; I could only ever sense them. Jaxon had never thought it a weakness.

“Do you have any questions?” His unpitying eyes searched every inch of my face.

“Where do I sleep?”

“I will have a room prepared for you. For now you will sleep here.” He indicated the daybed. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“I will be away tomorrow. You may acquaint yourself with the city in my absence. You will be back by dawn every day. You will return to this room at once if you hear the siren. If you steal or touch or otherwise meddle with anything, I will know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sir just slipped out.

“Take this.” He held out a capsule. “Take a second tomorrow night, along with the others.”

I didn’t take it. Arcturus poured a glass of water from a decanter, not looking at me. He handed me the glass and the capsule. I wet my lips.

“What if I don’t take it?”

There was a long silence.

“It was an order,” he said. “Not a request.”

My heart palpitated. I rolled it between my fingers. It was olive in color, tinged with gray. I swallowed it. It tasted bitter.

He took the glass.

“One more thing.” Arcturus grasped the back of my head in his free hand, turning it to face him. A cold tremor rolled down my spine. “You will address me only by my ceremonial title: Warden. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

I forced myself to say it. He looked right into my eyes, burning his message into my skull, before he loosened his hand. “We will begin your training upon my return.” He made for the door. “Sleep well.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed a low, bitter laugh.

He half-turned his head. I watched his eyes empty. Without another word, he left. The key turned in the lock.