Bone Season 01: The Bone Season: A Novel (38 page)

“Thank you, Paige.” He drew himself up. “Come through to my office, Zeke. We’ll talk.”

Zeke went up the next flight of stairs, still staring at Pieter, who was drifting opposite his newest painting. Before I could speak, Jaxon took me by the arm.

“His dreamscape,” he said softly. “What does it feel like?”

“Dark,” I said, “and—”

“Excellent. Say no more.”

He almost ran up the stairs, his cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth. I was left with three suitcases and a dead artist for company, and as much as I liked Pieter, he wasn’t a man of many words.

I checked the clock. Half eleven. Eliza would be back in a few minutes. I made some fresh coffee and went to sit in the living room, where a John William Waterhouse canvas took pride of place: a dark-haired woman in a flowing red dress, gazing into a crystal ball. Jax had paid a lot of money to a trader for three blacklisted Waterhouse paintings. There was a painting of Edward VII, too, decked in his regalia. I opened the window and settled down to read the new pamphlet Jaxon was working on,
On the Machinations of the Itinerant Dead
. So far it had told me about four kinds of spirit: guardian angel, ghost, muse, and psychopomp. I had yet to read about poltergeists.

Eliza wandered in at twelve, away with the spirits as usual. She handed me a carton of noodles from Lisle Street. “Hey. Don’t suppose you persuaded Pieter to paint
Violin and Glass Ball
again?”

Eliza Renton was Jax’s trance medium, four years my senior. Her area of expertise was mime-art. Born within striking distance of Bow Bells, she’d worked in an underground theater in the Cut until she was nineteen, when she responded to Jaxon’s pamphlet and got hired. She’d been his main source of income ever since. She had clear olive skin and apple-green eyes, and she kept her golden hair in sugar curls. She was never short of admirers—even spirits loved her—but Jax had a “no commitment” policy, and she stuck to it.

“Not yet. I think he’s got artist’s block.” I put the pamphlet to one side. “Met the newcomers?”

“Just met Nadine. Barely got a ‘hello.’ ” Eliza flopped down next to me. “Are we
sure
she’s a hisser?”

I cracked open the steaming noodles. “I didn’t see any instruments, but maybe. Have you seen Zeke?”

“I peeked into the office. His aura’s a kind of dark orange.”

“So he’s a fury.”

“He doesn’t
look
like a fury. Doesn’t seem like he’d say boo to a ghost.” She balanced her prawn crackers on her knee. “Well, if Pieter’s being pig-headed I officially have a window in my schedule. You want to try and drift again?”

“Not until Jax gets the life support.”

“Sure. I think the ventilator is supposed to arrive on Tuesday. We’ll take it easy until then.” She handed me a sketchbook and a pencil. “I meant to ask—could you draw your dreamscape?”

I took them. “Draw it?”

“Yeah. Not the flowers or anything—just the basic shape from a bird’s-eye view. We’re trying to work out the layout of the human dreamscape, but it’s tough when none of us can leave our sunlit zones. We think there are at least three zones, but we need you to split up the picture so we can see if our theories work on it. Can you do that?”

A sense of purpose filled me to the brim. I was proving to be really useful within the group. “Of course,” I said.

Eliza switched on the TV. I set to work on my sketch, drawing a circumpunct surrounded by three rings.

The background music for ScionEye floated from the TV set. Scarlett Burnish was reading the midday news. Eliza pointed at the screen, chewing her crackers. “Do you think she’s actually older than Weaver, but she’s had so much surgery she physically can’t develop wrinkles?”

“She smiles too much for that.” I continued to sketch. Now I had something that looked more like a bull’s-eye, with five sections. “So we’ve established that this”—I tapped the center of the circle—“is the sunlit zone.”

“Right. The sunlit zone is where spirits have to remain for a healthy mind. The silver cord is like a safety net. It stops most voyants from leaving that zone.”

“But not me.”

“Exactly. That’s your personal quirk. Say the majority of us have an inch of string between our body and our spirit,” she said, measuring with her fingers. “You have a mile. You can walk to the outer ring of your dreamscape, which means you can sense the æther for much farther than we can. You can also sense dreamscapes. We only sense spirits and aura, and not from very far away. I can’t sense Jaxon and the others now.”

I could. “But I have a limit.”

“That’s why we have to be careful. We don’t know your limits yet. You might be able to leave your body, or you might not. We’ll have to see.”

I nodded. Jaxon had talked me through his dreamwalker theory several times, but Eliza was a much better teacher. “What would happen if you tried to leave your sunlit zone? Theoretically.”

“Well, we think that the second zone is where amaurotic ‘nightmares’ take place. The cord sometimes lets you get that far if you’re stressed or nervous. Beyond that, you start feeling a massive pull back to the center. If you walked beyond the twilight zone, you’d start to go insane.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I really am a freak, aren’t I?”

“No, no, Paige. Don’t you dare think like that. None of us are freaks. You’re a miracle. A jumper.” She took the sketchbook from my hands. “I’ll have Jax check this out once he’s finished. He’ll love it. Are you staying with your dad tonight? Weren’t you going to stay with him on Fridays?”

“I’ve got to work. Didion thinks he’s found William Terriss.”

“Oh, fuck. Say no more.” She turned to face me. “Hey, you know what they say about the syndicate. Once you get in, you never get out. Sure you’re still happy with that?”

“Never been happier.”

Eliza gave me a smile. It was a strange smile, almost wistful. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be upstairs. Need to pacify Pieter.” With a jangle of bracelets, she sidled from the room. I started to shade the rings on my sketch, making each one darker than the last.

I was still working a few hours later, when Jax came down from the second floor. It was getting close to sunset. I’d have to head out and meet Didion soon; but I wanted to transfer my sketch to the computer. Jax looked almost feverish.

“Jax?”

“Unreadable,” he breathed. “O, my lovely, lovely Paige. Our dear Mr. Sáenz is an
unreadable
.”

21

A Burnt Ship

I will never forget Warden’s face when he saw me in the red tunic. It was the first time I ever saw fear in his eyes.

It only lasted a split second. But I did see it, just for a moment, a trace of insecurity, softer than a candle flame. He watched me as I headed for my room.

“Paige.”

I stopped.

“How was your inaugural feast?”

“Enlightening.” I traced the red anchor on the gilet. “You were right. She did ask me some questions about you.”

There was a brief, tense silence. Every muscle in his face was rigid. “And you answered them.” His voice was cold now, colder than I’d ever heard it before. “What did you tell her? I must know.”

He wouldn’t beg. Warden was proud. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips pressed together in a hard line. I wondered what was racing through his mind. Who to warn, where to run. What to do next.

How long could I make him suffer?

“She did say something that caught my attention.” I sat down on the daybed. “That the blood-consort is forbidden from engaging with the Emim.”

“He is. Strictly forbidden.” His fingers drummed the arm of the chair. “You told her about the wounds.”

“I didn’t tell her anything.”

His expression changed. After a moment, he poured his amaranth from the decanter into a glass. “Then I owe you my life,” he said.

“You drink a lot of amaranth,” I said. “Is it for the scars?”

His gaze flicked up. “Scars.”

“Yes, the scars.”

“I drink amaranth for my own reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Health reasons. I told you. Old wounds.” He put the glass back on the table. “You chose not to tell Nashira that I have been disobedient. I am intrigued as to why.”

“Betraying people isn’t really my style.” I didn’t miss his evasion. Scars and old wounds were the same thing.

“I see.” Warden looked into the empty hearth. “So you withheld information from Nashira, but you have been given a red tunic.”

“You recommended it.”

“I did, but I did not know if she would agree. I suspect she has ulterior motives.”

“I have an external assignment tomorrow.”

“The citadel,” he conjectured. “That is surprising.”

“Why?”

“After all the effort she expended to procure you from the citadel, it seems strange that she should send you back.”

“She wants me to lure out one of the London gangs, the Seven Seals. She thinks they have a dreamwalker, that I can recognize one of my own.” I waited, but he didn’t react. Did he suspect me? “We leave tomorrow night with three red-jackets and one other Rephaite.”

“Who?”

“Your cousin.”

“Ah, yes.” He pressed his fingertips together. “Situla Mesarthim is Nashira’s most trusted mercenary. You and I must be cautious around her.”

“So you’re going to treat me like your slave again.”

“A necessary, but temporary situation. Situla is no friend of mine. She will have been assigned to keep an eye on me.”

“Why?”

“Past transgressions.” He caught my look. “It is better that you know nothing about it. All you should know is that I do not kill unless it is absolutely necessary.”

Past transgressions.
Old wounds. That could only mean one thing, and we both knew it—but it still didn’t guarantee he could be trusted now. Even if he
was
a scarred one.

“I need to get some sleep,” I said. “We meet at her residence tomorrow at dusk.”

Warden nodded, not looking at me. I picked up my boots and went to my room, leaving him to drink his remedy.

For most of the day, while I should have been asleep, I thought of every possible scenario that could occur when we reached London. The plan, according to the post-dinner briefing, was to wait until Carter reached the base of Nelson’s Column, where she would meet with a representative from the Seals. We would surround them, then strike with everything we had. She seemed to think we’d just walk in there, shoot Carter, grab some prisoners, and waltz back to Sheol I in time for the day-bell.

I knew better. I knew Jax. He protected his investments. He would never send a lone representative to meet Antoinette—the whole gang would be there. Vigiles staked out the streets during the night, and they knew how to use basic spirit combat. We would also have the public to contend with, and with voyants on the street, we could end up with a very big fight on our hands. A fight in which I would be dressed for one side, but rooting for the other.

I turned over, restless. This was my chance to escape, or at least to get word out. Somehow I had to reach Nick, if he didn’t kill me first. Or blind me with his visions. It was my one and only window of opportunity.

I gave up on sleep in the end. I went to the bathroom, splashed my face, and pulled my hair into a psyche knot. It had grown a few inches, down to my shoulders. Rain pounded at the windows. I dressed in the same uniform, the red traitor’s tunic, and went down to the chamber. The grandfather clock told me it was close to seven. I took a seat by the fire. When the hour struck, Warden appeared at the door, his hair and clothes drenched with rain.

“It is time.”

I nodded. He let me through the door, locked it, and walked with me down the stone steps.

“I never thanked you,” he said as we went through the cloisters. “For your silence.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The streets were silent. Melting hailstones crunched beneath my boots. When we reached the residence, two Rephs escorted us to the library where Nashira was waiting. She and Warden reenacted their ritual greeting: his hand on her stomach, her lips to his forehead. This time I noticed things. The rigidity of his movements, how he never met her eyes, how she ran her fingers through his hair, not looking at him. It put me in the mind of a dog and its mistress.

“I am pleased you could both join us tonight,” she said. Like we had a choice. “40, this is Situla Mesarthim.”

Situla was almost as tall as Warden. You could see the family resemblance: same ash-brown hair, same honey skin, same strong features and deep-set eyes. She nodded to Warden, who was still kneeling.

“Cousin.” Warden inclined his head. Situla turned her eyes on me. Blue. “XX-59-40, you will treat me as your second keeper this evening. I hope that is understood.”

I nodded. Warden stood and looked down at his fiancée. “Where are the other humans?”

“Getting ready, of course.” She turned her back on him. “You ought to do the same, my faithful
one.”