Bone Season 01: The Bone Season: A Novel (35 page)

Liss began to shriek. The sounds jolted out of her in heavy, trembling spasms. “Get away,” she gasped out. “Get away!” Julian grabbed the Overseer’s shoulder and gave him a hard shove.

“Don’t touch her.”

I stood beside him. Cyril rocked on his heels. At first the Overseer looked staggered, even aghast; then he started to laugh. He rose to his feet, clapping his hands in delight. One gloved hand reached into his jacket. “Is this a glimmer of rebellion, children? Have I let two hungry wolves into my flock?”

With a flick of his wrist, he brought out his bullwhip. A tool designed for handling livestock.

“I will not allow you to corrupt 1. Or any of my brood.” He cracked the whip toward me. “You may not be a performer yet, 40, but you will be. Get back to your keeper.”

“No.”

“Neither of us are going.” A fresh surge of determination crossed Julian’s face. “We’re not leaving Liss.”

The Overseer lashed out. Julian staggered. Blood wept from a fresh wound on his cheek. “You’re one of mine now, boy, and you’d better remember it.” I planted my feet a shoulder’s width apart. The grin flashed in my direction. “There’s really no need for this, 40. I will look after 1.”

“You can’t make me leave. I’m in the keeping of Arcturus.” I stood my ground. “I’d pay to see you explain to him why you hit me.”

“I don’t intend to hit you, walker. I intend to
herd
you.”

The whip came hissing toward me again. Julian threw a punch at him, sending the blow awry. This was the bone-grubbers all over again. This time we would win.

A wildness rose inside me. I ran at the Overseer. My fist hit his jaw, and his head snapped around. Julian kicked his legs out from under him. His hand loosened around the whip. I tried to grab it, but he held on. His teeth bared at me: half-grin, half-snarl. Julian locked an arm around his neck. I wrested the whip from his hand, raised my hand to strike—only to have the whip snatched away from me. A boot crashed into my stomach, knocking me into the wall.

Suhail. I should have known. Wherever the Overseer went, his superior was never too far behind. Just like on the streets: the muscle and the boss. “Thought I might find you here, runt.” He grabbed me by the hair. “Causing trouble again, are we?”

I spat at him. He hit me so hard I saw stars. “I don’t care
who
your keeper is, little mongrel. The concubine doesn’t frighten me. The only reason I’m not slitting your throat is because the blood-sovereign has called for you.”

“Bet she’d love to hear you call him ‘concubine,’ Suhail,” I forced out. “Shall I tell her?”

“Tell her what you like. The word of a human means less than the incoherent salivation of a dog.”

He hauled me over his shoulder. I struggled and screamed, but I didn’t want to risk using my spirit. The Overseer cut the side of his hand into Julian’s head, knocking him to the ground. The last thing I saw was Julian and Liss, both at the mercy of a man I could no longer fight.

19

The Blossom

The Residence of the Suzerain seemed much colder and darker than it had at the oration. I was alone with Suhail, and I would probably be just as alone with Nashira. I had no keeper, no protection. Little spasms started to run up and down my legs.

Suhail did not take me to the oration room, nor to the chapel. Instead I was dragged through the corridors and pushed into a high-ceilinged room with round-headed windows. It was lit by an iron chandelier, decked with candles, and a massive fireplace. Its light played across the ceiling, casting shadows on the ribbed plaster vaulting.

At the center of the room was a long dining table. And at the head of the table, seated in an upholstered red chair, was Nashira Sargas. She wore a black dress with a high collar: sculptural, geometric in design.

“Good evening, 40.”

I didn’t speak. She motioned with her hand.

“Suhail, you may leave us.”

“Yes, blood-sovereign.” Suhail shoved me toward her. “Until next time,” he breathed in my ear, “mongrel.”

He stalked back through the doorway. I was left in the gloomy room, facing the woman that wanted to kill me.

“Sit,” she said.

I thought about taking the chair at the farthest end of the table—a good twelve feet away—but she indicated the one nearest to hers, on her left side, the side farthest from the fireplace. I walked around and lowered myself into the chair, my head pounding with every movement. Suhail hadn’t held back one bit on that last punch.

Nashira didn’t take her eyes off me. Green, like absinthe. I wondered whom she’d fed on tonight.

“You are bleeding.”

A serviette lay by the cutlery, clasped by a heavy gold ring. I dabbed my swollen lip with it, spotting the ivory linen with blood. I folded it, hiding the stain, and placed it on my lap.

“I suppose you must be frightened,” Nashira said.

“No.”

I should be. I was. This woman controlled everything. It was her name that was whispered in the shadows, her command that ended lives. Her fallen angels drifted nearby, never too far from her aura.

The silence grew. I didn’t know whether or not to look at her. In the corner of my eye, something caught the firelight—a bell jar. It stood in the very center of the table. Beneath the glass was a wilted flower, the petals brown and shriveled, propped up by a delicate wire stand. Whatever kind of flower it had been in life, it was unrecognizable in death. I couldn’t think why she would have a dead flower in the middle of her dinner table—but then, this
was
Nashira. She kept a lot of dead things hanging around.

She noticed my interest.

“Some things are better off dead,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the flower. And I wasn’t sure, but I thought my sixth sense trembled.

“Yes,” I said.

Nashira looked up. There were lines of plaster faces above the windows, at least fifty of them on each of the longest walls. I studied the nearest one a little closer, drawn to it. It was a relaxed, feminine face with a soft smile. The woman looked as peaceful as if she was asleep.

A heavy sickening swelled in my gut. It was
L’Inconnue de la Seine
, the famous French death mask. Jax had a replica in the den. He said the woman was beautiful, that she’d been a bohemian obsession in the late nineteenth century. Eliza had made him cover it with a sheet, much to his distaste. She said it gave her the creeps.

I looked slowly around the room. All of the faces—the people—they were
death masks
. I only just stopped myself gagging. Nashira didn’t just collect voyant spirits; she collected their faces, too.

Seb. What if Seb was up there? I forced myself to look down but my stomach roiled.

“You seem unwell,” Nashira said.

“I’m fine.”

“I am pleased to hear it. I would hate for you to fall ill at this crucial stage of your time in Sheol I.” She traced her dinner knife with a gloved finger, still looking at me. “My red-jackets will join us in a few minutes, but I wished to speak to you first. A little ‘heart-to-heart.
’
”

It fascinated me that she thought she had a heart.

“The blood-consort has kept me informed of your development. He tells me he has tried his utmost to bring out your gift,” she said, “but you have failed to achieve full possession of a dreamscape—even an animal dreamscape. Is this true?”

She didn’t know. “It’s true,” I said.

“A pity. Yet you faced one of the Emim and survived—even wounded the creature. For that reason, Arcturus believes you should be made a red-jacket.”

I didn’t know what to say. For whatever reason, Warden hadn’t told her about the butterfly. Or the deer. That meant he didn’t want her to know about my abilities—but he
did
want me to be a red-jacket. What was he playing at this time?

“How quiet you are,” Nashira observed. Her eyes were glacial. “You were not quite so timid at the oration.”

“I was told I should only speak when required.”

“You are required now.”

I wanted to tell her where to stick her requirements. I’d been insolent with Warden; I shouldn’t think twice about doing the same to her—but her hand still lay on the knife, and her fixed gaze held no qualms. Finally, trying to sound suitably abased, I said: “I’m happy the blood-consort thinks me worthy of a red tunic. I’ve tried my best in my tests.”

“No doubt. But let us not be complacent.” She sat back in her chair. “I have some questions for you. Before your inaugural feast.”

“Inaugural?”

“Yes. Congratulations, 40. You are a red-jacket now. You must be introduced to your new associates, all of whom are loyal to me. Even above their own keepers.”

Blood pounded in my ears. Red-jacket. Bone-grubber. I’d reached the highest echelons of Sheol I, the inner circle of Nashira Sargas.

“I wish to speak to you about Arcturus.” Nashira looked into the fire. “You have been keeping quarters with him.”

“I have my own room. On the upper floor.”

“Does he ever ask you to come out of it?”

“Only for training.”

“Nothing else at all? Perhaps some light conversation?”

“He has no interest in talking to me,” I said. “What could I say that would be of any concern to the blood-consort?”

“An excellent point.”

I bit my tongue. She had no idea how much I interested him, how much he’d taught me under her nose.

“I imagine you have explored his quarters. Is there anything in the Founder’s Tower that troubles you? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“He has some plant extracts I don’t recognize.”

“Flowers.”

When I nodded, she took something from the table. A brooch, badly tarnished by the years, it was shaped just like the flower on his snuff box. “Have you ever seen this symbol in the Founder’s Tower?”

“No.”

“You seem very sure.”

“I am sure. I’ve never seen it.”

She looked straight at me, into my eyes. I tried to hold her gaze.

A door closed in the distance. A line of red-jackets walked into the room, escorted by a male Reph I didn’t recognize. “Welcome, my friends.” Nashira beckoned them. “Please, sit.”

The Reph pressed a fist to his chest and left the room. I scanned the human faces. Twenty bone-grubbers, each wellfed and clean as a whistle. They must come in groups. The veterans from Bone Season XIX were at the front. Kathryn was there, as were 16 and 17. At the back of the line was Carl, clad in a red tunic, his hair combed and parted. He stared at me with wide, reproachful eyes. He must never have seen a pink-jacket at the blood-sovereign’s table.

They all took their seats. Carl was forced to sit in the only available chair—the one opposite me. David sat down a few places away. There was a fresh cut on his head, sealed with a row of Steri-Strips. He looked up at the death masks with raised eyebrows.

“I am pleased you could all join me tonight. Thanks to your continued efforts, there have been no notable Emite attacks this week.” Nashira looked at each of them in turn. “Having said that, we must not forget the constant threat of the creatures. There is no cure for their brutality, and—thanks to the broken threshold—no way in which to imprison them in the Netherworld. You are all that stands between the hunters and their prey.”

They nodded. They all believed it. Well, maybe not David. He was looking at one mask with a slight smile.

I caught Kathryn’s eye across the table. A massive bruise wept down one side of her face. 16 and 17 didn’t even glance at me. Good. If they looked at me I might not be able to stop myself chucking a dinner knife at them. Liss was still outside, dying, all because of them.

“22”—Nashira turned to look at the grubber on her right—“how is 11? I understand he is still at Oriel.”

The young man cleared his throat. “He’s a little better, blood-sovereign. No sign of infection.”

“His bravery has not gone unnoticed.”

“He’ll be honored to hear it, blood-sovereign.”

Yes, blood-sovereign. No, blood-sovereign
. Rephs did love a good ego-stroke.

Nashira clapped her hands again. Four amaurotics came through a small door, each carrying a platter and the overpowering smell of herbs. Michael was among them, but he didn’t meet my eye. Working quickly, they laid a magnificent spread on the table, all around the bell jar. One poured chilled white wine into our glasses. A lump blocked my throat. The platters were laden with food. Beautifully cut chicken, tender and succulent, with crispy golden skin; stuffing with sage and onion; thick, sweet-smelling gravy; cranberry sauce; steamed vegetables and roast potatoes and plump sausages wrapped in bacon—a feast fit for the Inquisitor. When Nashira nodded, the bone-grubbers tucked straight in. They ate quickly, but without the feral urgency of starvation.

My gut ached. I wanted to eat. But then I thought of the harlies, living on grease and hard bread in their hovels. So much food in here, and so little out there. Nashira noticed my reservation.