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Our conversation
was interrupted by a knock at the door. Had Mirabel returned? That
wouldn’t be like her. Perhaps it was Markham, returning earlier
than expected? But why would he knock at his own door?

Mariah rose and
went to the door, opening it to reveal the silhouette of a thin, tall
man whom I assumed was Zenas Markham. I put my work to the side and
walked into the entryway, preparing to introduce myself, but as I
caught a glimpse of the visitor’s face I stopped dead in my
tracks.

“May I help
you, sir?” Mariah asked.

“I’m
sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I’m looking for
Mr. Julian Radcliffe. You haven’t seen him, by any chance?”

“Of course.
He’s in the drawing room. Please, come in,” she offered,
stepping aside.

His pale face was
exactly as I remembered it; the same slight hollowness in the cheeks,
the eyes that seemed lit from behind. My lips slowly parted with
shock.

“Julian,”
he said. “I’m glad to see you are well.”

Mariah shut the
door. The sound of the latch clicking against the strikeplate brought
me back to my senses.

“Lucien?”
I asked, my voice cracking. “I thought you were dead!”

“I’ve
heard that’s what Mother decided to tell you all when I failed
to return to her enclave in Europe.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I
hope I’m not imposing...”

“No—no—not
at all,” I stammered, shaking my head. “I’m being
impolite. Mariah, this is my brother, Lucien Verlinden. Lucien, this
is Mariah, Zenas Markham’s ward.” I gestured between the
two.

Mariah curtseyed.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Verlinden.”

“Likewise,”
he said, bowing his head. “Miss Mariah, I hate to be impolite,
but would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Radcliffe in
private?”

“Of course,”
she said, backing away. “Please call for me if you need
anything.”

She excused
herself, leaving us alone in the entryway. I caught myself staring at
him. I shook my head and tried my best to conceal my amazement.

“What on
earth happened?” I asked. “Where have you been all this
time?”

“I stowed
away on a Dutch ship to Nagasaki,” he said, fidgeting with the
cuffs of his jacket. “I’ve been cooperating with the
Warden installation there for quite some time. They’ve become
increasingly anxious about Mother’s presence here in North
America, so they sent me stateside by way of San Francisco.”

“I—I
can scarcely believe it,” I said, laughing. “I’m
sorry. Please, let me show you to the drawing room.”

“Thank you.”

I led him into the
room with the portraits. “Please excuse the, uh, the peculiar
décor. It seems my host is particularly invested in his young
ward.”

“I see,”
Lucien said, sitting down on the edge of the same chair Mariah had
just vacated.

I remained
standing, too full of manic energy to sit. “You should have let
me know you had returned to America,” I blurted out.

“I
apologize. I could not. We’re concerned about our written
correspondence being intercepted. It seems that Mnemosyne’s
influence has compromised the Watchers of the Americas at several
levels. I’m sad to admit that our Mirabel has played quite a
significant part in that subversion. I’ve been trailing her for
a little over two years now—that’s how I found you.”

“I... I see.
I had no idea.”

Lucien nodded. “I
can’t pretend to understand what Mirabel has done. I can’t
see why she’d be willing to assist Mnemosyne, all the while
thinking I died at her hands. I suppose I have no right to feel
betrayed—I’ve been in hiding for so long—but
nevertheless...”

I swallowed hard,
looking at my feet.

“Julian,”
he continued, his voice thin, “you and she—did you
ever...” His mouth puckered, as if he’d tasted something
vile.

“No. Most
certainly not.”

“I’m
sorry to have asked. I’m glad to hear one of you retains some
shred of loyalty.”

“Of course.”

He nodded.

“What do you
plan to do now?” I asked. “What is there to be done, if
Mnemosyne is so deeply entwined in the Wardens’ affairs?”

“That’s
exactly why I’m so glad I’ve been able to find you,”
he said. “I recently discovered the whereabouts of her American
enclave—in rural Georgia, not far from the port city of
Savannah.”

“That’s
very interesting,” I said, trying not to sound rude, “but
what does it have to do with me?”

“I want us
to go there together and confront her,” he said, rising from
his chair. “You might be the only one in the family who can
stand against her. You’re the only one who can resist her
commands.”

“Your
confidence is admirable, but I—I think it would be foolish to
underestimate her,” I said. “Won’t she literally
see us coming from miles away?”

“She will
see me, and me alone. She can’t track you. None of us can.”

I stared out the
window, pressing my knuckles against my lips.

He walked across
the room to stand at my side. “What do you say?”

“I don’t
know,” I mumbled. “Even if she allows me inside the
enclave, what will I do once I’m there? Even with my wards in
place...”

He folded his arms
across his chest and waited for me to continue.

“What could
I possibly do to her?” I brought the heels of my hands to my
temples.

“I
understand your reluctance,” he said. “Perhaps it would
encourage you to know that this isn’t the first coup I’ve
attempted?”

“It isn’t?”

“It’s
the third. The first was in the Middle Ages. It was a disaster, and
I’m lucky to have come away from it without attracting her
suspicion.” He smiled slightly. “The second was not too
long before your initiation. That time, I very nearly succeeded.”

“What? Why
didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I couldn’t
risk her finding out,” he said, his gaze distant. “But
this time—this time could be different. It is possible for us
to defeat her, I swear to you.”

I inhaled sharply,
lightheaded, drunk on the idea.

He smiled, an
uncharacteristically devious quirk at the corners of his lips. “I
will share the memory of that second attempt with you, if you’ll
allow it,” he said. “Of course, you’ll need to
lower your wards...”

My head started
shaking of its own accord.

“Don’t
you trust me?”

“That’s
not it,” I protested, “it’s just...” I
couldn't finish.

“Whatever
the reason, I promise you, it will make no difference to me.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure I’ve
witnessed secrets far more wretched than whatever it is you hide from
the world.”

The sincerity in
his eyes was agonizing.

“Very well,”
I said, my voice shaking.

I set my jaw and
performed the gestures that would render my mind bare. He smiled once
more as the wards dropped, once again with that same delicate hint of
self-satisfaction.

“Turn
towards me,” he said.

An electric
current ran up my spine as I complied.

“What are
you going to do?” I asked, my lips barely able to form the
words.

“Don’t
be nervous—the ritual is brief.”

He placed a hand
on my other shoulder and closed his eyes. His dark eyelashes wavered
ever so slightly as his fingertips traveled up the sides of my neck
to the helixes of my ears.

“Lucien?”
My own voice sounded distant.

He traced a path
across my brow, then drew his fingers downwards, coaxing my eyelids
shut. His fingertips passed over my nostrils to rest on my bottom
lip, where he paused.

It felt as if my
heart started beating once more in that instant—in that final
moment before the drawing room was drowned out in frenetic,
kaleidoscopic sensation. It overtook my ears first—a grandiose
cacophony, pulsing and swelling, seventeen orchestras warming up
their instruments inside the belly of a whale. The darkness behind my
eyelids peeled away to reveal a florid vista lit to blinding
brightness by a terrible golden sun. The scent of heliotrope filled
my nostrils. The taste of blood hit my tongue, filled my mouth. My
skin burned with stimulation from the inside out. From miles away, I
could hear myself start to laugh hysterically, but I was equally
seized with the urge to cry out in pain.

I lost all sense
of time, place, and space. The lurid landscape darkened, the sun
turned black, and beneath my feet a yawning abyss opened, infinite in
its depth and breadth. It spoke treacherous oaths through a thousand
tongueless mouths, condemning me, threatening to consume me. It
reached out to embrace me in its tendrils of obliteration, lacerating
my flesh, disintegrating my consciousness. Engulfed in blackness, I
beheld a sightless vision of the womb of the leviathan, and the
thousand mouths of the abyss spoke their names to me in turn.

I had no way to
determine how long I spent trapped in that hideous isolation. It felt
like weeks, even months. My terror eventually subsided, like a burn
so deep it went numb, giving way to despair and the limitless agony
of Lucien’s betrayal.

///

The black waters
parted without warning at dusk.

I awoke to found
myself lying on a bed of cool soil, staring up at the moon through a
perfectly circular clearing of trees. I scrambled to my feet. There
were the twin pools. There was the stone staircase leading down into
the catacombs. Was I back in Mnemosyne’s enclave in
Scandinavia? No—the air was too warm. Was this her American
enclave? It seemed to be an exact replica of the one I remembered
from before I escaped to the New World.

My mother was a
creature of precise tradition. If this was, in fact, her compound,
four of her officers would be posted at the gate, and I could expect
anywhere from seven to seventeen more of my siblings and cousins to
be lurking in the halls below—or even hiding above ground,
concealed in the shadows. Mnemosyne herself could be among them.

Just then, as if
my thoughts had summoned her, she emerged from the subterranean
labyrinth. She was barefoot, clothed only in a thin, dripping white
shift that rendered her skeletal form functionally bare. Bathed in
the moonlight, she seemed not at all unlike the other terrible albino
creatures that dwell in caves beneath the earth. Her skin looked
clammy and wan, her angular features cold-blooded and serpentine. She
regarded me calmly as I stood there, trembling despite the temperate
weather. Her face betrayed not a single thought or emotion.

“You have
reconstructed your wards,” she said. “Interesting.”

Upon hearing her
dispassionate voice, all of the vitriol I’d ever felt with her
welled to the surface of my mind, clouding my vision with rage. Every
muscle in my body tensed. The joints in my fingers flexed and swelled
as my hands curled into fists.

“Julian,
please,” she said. “I’ve only brought you here to
talk.”

“I have
nothing to say to you,” I said.

“That
matters little, so long as you will listen,” she said, blinking
thrice.

“Whatever do
you mean?” She tilted her head to the side. Her lips parted.
“Ah. You’re upset about Lucien.” She frowned
sympathetically; I wanted to slap the expression from her face. “I’m
terribly sorry for all that. I couldn’t think of another way to
seek an audience with you.”

“So you
solicited his betrayal! Just to bring me here!”

“No, of
course not. I killed Lucien decades ago. No. The man you met in
Chicago was a distant cousin, an illusionist like yourself—“

“That was
Zenas Markham?” A high-pitched choking sound tore itself from
my chest.

She nodded calmly.

I shook my head
and began laughing irrationally.

“Julian?”

“You’ve
made a terrible mistake bringing me here.” The cadence of my
voice was erratic, the tone unfamiliar to my own ears. “I swear
to God you will pay for what you’ve put me through.”
Behind every syllable I could hear the whisper of the mouths of the
abyss gnawing at my eardrums; I could taste their acrid breath
flowing from my lungs.