The Mime Order (30 page)

The fact that syndicate members knew about the Rephaim was disturbing. One of the survivors of the first Bone Season rebellion could well have returned to London and concealed himself deep in the catacombs of Camden, where nobody could get to him. I got the sense that I was only scratching the surface of these machinations.

Against my better judgment, I touched the backs of my fingers to Warden’s cheek. His face still bore that unusual pattern of bruising, but it was warmer now. He stirred, and his eyelids flickered. My heart pulsed in my fingertips. I remembered when he was wounded the first time, when I’d treated him instead of killing him. Something about this Rephaite had made me want to save him, in that city between life and death. Something that had overridden my natural instinct to destroy him from the inside out.

I hadn’t thought of what would happen when he was back in my life, or how he would fit into it. Arcturus Mesarthim belonged to the halls of Magdalen, to red curtains and firelight talks and music from a century ago. To think of him walking the streets of London was almost impossible.

Whatever these people were planning, they didn’t have him any longer. I took out a pen and scribbled a note.

Back later. Don’t open the door.

Oh, and do me this honor: survive the night. I’m sure you’d rather not be rescued twice.

—Paige

14

Arcturus

When he woke the next afternoon, he did not find himself chained to a pipe in an underground cell. He did not find himself in the custody of the Rag Dolls, starved and beaten at their pleasure. Instead he found himself on a box-spring mattress that wasn’t quite long enough for him, with his neck supported by a wilted pillow and a vase of plastic geraniums on the nightstand.

“Well,” I said, “this feels familiar.”

He looked up at the ceiling: the branching fractures in the plaster, the damp that stained the corners.

“This place does not,” he said.

His voice was exactly as I remembered it, dark and slow, rising up from the depths of his chest. A voice that was felt as well as heard.

“You’re in I-4, in a doss-house.” I struck a match. “Not exactly Magdalen, but it’s warmer than the streets.”

“Indeed. Certainly warmer than the desolate tunnels of Camden.”

As I lit the tall candle on the table, Warden pushed himself on to
his
elbows and flexed his shoulders. All the bruises had faded in the hours he’d been asleep. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Four in the afternoon. You’ve been dead to the world.”

“I did wake for long enough to read your note. Touché,” he said. “May I ask where you went?”

“Seven Dials.”

“I see.” Pause. “You have returned to Jaxon’s service, then.”

“I had no choice.”

We looked at each other for a long time. So much had happened in the weeks since the escape. We’d never met on neutral ground before.

Over time I’d grown used to his appearance, but now I forced myself to look at him as if for the first time. Irises like flame behind stained glass, pupils of a black that caught no light. The lines of him, hard yet soft: the bow of lips, the cut and curve of jaw. Brown, uncombed hair that brushed the top of his spine and fell over his forehead, oddly human. He hadn’t changed at all, except for a slight loss of radiance.

“I take it there’s danger,” I said.

“Indeed. I planned to be the first to warn you, but it seems the Grand Inquisitor has made the peril clear.” His gaze darted over my face. “London suits you.”

“Regular meals do wonders.” I cleared my throat. “Drink? Wine’s in short supply, but there’s delicious tap water.”

“Water would be welcome. My captors were not as liberal with their supplies as I would have liked.”

“I had your clothes laundered. They’re in the bathroom.”

“Thank you.”

I focused on pouring water into glasses as he rose. Considering how prudish the Rephaim had been in the colony, with their gloves and high collars, he seemed quite blasé about nakedness. When he returned, in the plain, black clothes of an amaurotic trader, he sat
down
on the couch opposite me, keeping the table between us. A re-enactment of Magdalen, minus our colony uniforms. His shirt hung open, exposing the hollow of his throat.

“I confess myself impressed that you found the catacombs,” he said. “I did not think it likely that I would be discovered.”

“The golden cord helped.” I nodded to the candle. “Terebell wants to know where you are. You can do a séance here.”

“I would like some time to speak with you first. Once the Ranthen know that you have freed me, it will be difficult for us to be alone together without arousing suspicion.”

“ ‘Suspicion,’” I repeated.

“Do not think that the masquerade ends here, Paige. We have merely exchanged one style of dance for another. It is not only the Sargas that fear any prolonged contact between Rephaim and humans.”

“They know about the golden cord.”

“They know that you started the revolt. Terebell and Errai know about the golden cord. And they know of a Sargas rumor of something more between us.” His gaze held mine. “That is all they know.”

My heartbeat stumbled.

“I see,” I said.

I handed him a glass. Even here, far from the penal colony, this simple exchange felt taboo. “Thank you,” Warden said. With a nod, I sat back on the couch and pulled my knee to my chest.

“Are the Sargas looking for you?”

“Oh, I imagine Situla Mesarthim is tracking me as we speak. I am a flesh-traitor. A renegade,” he said, indifferent as ever. “All Rephaim have been told of my disloyalty.”

“What does being a flesh-traitor entail?”

“It is to be denied access to the Netherworld for all eternity. To be non-Rephaite. A blood-traitor betrays the ruling family, but the flesh-traitor betrays all Rephaim. To earn these punishments, I
committed
one of the very highest flesh-crimes. I consorted with a human.”

With me. “You knew that was the consequence.”

“I did.”

It was quite a statement, but he delivered it as though he were commenting on the weather.

“Nashira is pressuring the Grand Inquisitor to pour all his resources into finding the fugitives. She already has two survivors of the escape in the interrogation rooms.”

“How do you know?”

“Alsafiis one of ours. He is still with Nashira, feeding us information. I do not know the names of the prisoners, but I will endeavor to find out.” A shadow crossed his face. “Is Michael safe?”

Michael had been loyal to him long before I had. “We were separated at the Tower,” I said. “The Guard Extraordinary killed most of the people who took the train.”

His knuckles strained against his gloves. “How many are left?”

“Twelve escaped. Five left that I’ve seen, including me.”

“Five.” A hollow chuckle rolled from his throat. “I had better abandon the business of sedition.”

“It was never your aim to save voyants. It was mine.” I studied him for a long time. I’d forgotten how he looked at me. As if he could see straight into the heart of my dreamscape. “I have so much to ask you.”

“We have time,” he said.

“I can only spend a few more hours here. Jax will be back from his meeting by midnight. He’ll ask questions if I’m gone again.”

“Then I will ask one first,” Warden cut in. “Why escape Nashira only to give yourself back to Jaxon?”

That got my back up. “I haven’t given myself to anyone. I’m staying in his good graces.”

“I heard you tell him on the meadow that you had had enough of
slavery.
This is a man who threatened to kill you if you did not return to his employ. Tell me, why should he not beg for
your
good graces?”

“Because I’m not the mime-lord of I-4. Because I’m the Pale Dreamer, Jaxon Hall’s mollisher. Because without Jaxon Hall I am absolutely nothing. And I need status like you need glow.” I was biting out each word. “I can’t leave Jaxon. That’s just the way it is.”

“I did not think you had such respect for the status quo.”

“Warden, my face is all over this citadel. I needed protection.”

“If you have gone to him only out of necessity,” he said, “I take it you are thinking of some way to gain your independence.”

“I could rob the Bank of Scion England and become the richest woman in London, but I have no good weapons and no soldiers to help me. Revolution isn’t quite as easy as treason.” When he said nothing, I sat back. “I do have one idea. The Underlord was murdered. If I can win the scrimmage to replace him, I’ll be Underqueen.”

“The Underlord chose a portentous time to die.” He raised his glass to his lips. “I take it you do not know the identity of the murderer.”

“Not exactly. The man who captured you might have something to do with it. Did you overhear anything in the catacombs?”

“Nothing of use, but we know Nashira has a vested interest in disbanding the syndicate. How was the Underlord killed?”

“Beheaded in his own parlor. His gang had their throats cut and their faces disfigured, Ripper-style. It wasn’t just a hit,” I said, with certainty, “or the killer would have taken everything valuable. Hector had a solid gold pocket watch. That was still on the body.”

“A statement, then.” Warden drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a habit of his. “Decapitation is the favored execution style of the Sargas dynasty in the corporeal world. It signifies the removal of the dreamscape. It is quite possible that a Rephaite did it. Or a human in the thrall of the Sargas.”

“
One human couldn’t have taken down eight people,” I said.

“But a Rephaite could,” he said. I hadn’t considered it before. It would have been painfully easy for someone of Warden’s size and strength to murder eight drunk voyants. “You seem to know a great deal about the scene of the crime.”

“I found the bodies. Jaxon sent me to pacify Hector. He was about to expose a part of our trading network.”

Warden clasped his hands. “Have you thought, then, that Jaxon himself might have been involved?”

“He was at Seven Dials the whole time. I’m not saying he wasn’t indirectly involved, but I could say that about anyone.” I rubbed my temples. “I’m the prime suspect on the streets. And I need to clear my name if I’m ever going to win the voyants’ respect.”

“I see.”

The blaze in his eyes set me on edge. I had to wonder how much he trusted me, after everything. His arms were still in a sorry state, blackened and lustrous from the elbow down.

“What do you need?” I nodded to them. “Blood and salt?” He wasn’t having my blood again, but Nick could procure a pack from Scion.

“Salt should suffice. The half-urge remains on the surface.”

There was a small cupboard in the corner, filled with odds and ends for tenants to cook their own meals. I emptied what was left of a salt cellar into a glass and handed it to him.

“Thank you.” Warden hauled one heavy arm on to his lap.

“Do you have any more amaranth?”

“No. Unless the Ranthen have more, it will have to be harvested from the Netherworld. In any case,” he said, “amaranth is no remedy for the half-urge. It heals spiritual injuries.”

“Thank you for the vial. It came in handy.”

“I thought it might. You seem to attract injuries in the manner that a flower attracts bees.”

“
Comes with the crime.” Without thinking, I touched the scar on my cheek. “The ectoplasm showed me the cord.”

“Yes,” he said. His attention was focused on his arm now, measuring out saline. “Ectoplasm heightens your sixth sense. Mine in particular allowed you to see the link between us.”

“Yes,” I said. “The Mysterious Link Between Us.”

He glanced up at me. The necrosis in his arms was already melting away. It was almost disturbing how quickly they healed.

“The fugitives have written a kind of instruction manual about how to fight off Rephaim and Emim,” I said. “I’m going to try and sell it to Grub Street.”

“More Rephaite hunters will begin to appear in the citadel before long, and they will need to feed. I suppose it would be wise for your people to know.” He put down the glass. “Tell me, what manner of techniques for Rephaite-slaying are written in this manuscript?”

“Use pollen of the poppy anemone and go for the eyes.”

“It is illegal to possess seeds of the poppy anemone in any Scion citadel. The only supply I know of was grown in the greenhouses of Sheol I.” He dabbed salt on to his wrist. “It seems they are being il legally cultivated in London, too.”

“We’ll have to find out where. I brought this for you, by the way.” I placed a bottle of brandywine on the nightstand. “From Jaxon Hall’s cabinet of prohibited beverages.”

“You are too kind.” He paused. “I will return to the substation when I am stronger.”

“You’re not going anywhere near it,” I said.

“Where, then?”

I didn’t hesitate before I said, “Here.”

Warden looked at me, assessing my features. I sometimes wondered if Rephaim had to work hard to gauge the meaning of human expressions. They had so little expression themselves.

A
knock on the door brought me back to myself. Warden’s gaze flicked to the wall, then to me, before he stood and concealed himself behind the bathroom door. There was no guarantee that we hadn’t been followed here. I eased the door open.