Bone Season 01: The Bone Season: A Novel (45 page)

Kraz was famished. He was going to snuff out my glow.

My right arm was pinned, but my left was free. In the grip of adrenaline, I did what my father had always taught me to do: stabbed Kraz in the eye with my finger. As soon as he let go of my hair, I pulled out the vial in my pocket. Red flower.

Kraz clamped his hand across my throat, his teeth bared. If I tried to attack his mind, my body would be damaged beyond repair. I had no choice. I smashed the vial against his face.

The smell was atrocious. Rot. Sweet, burning rot. Kraz let out an inhuman scream. The pollen had gone straight into his eyes. They were blackened and dripping, and his face was turning an ugly, mottled gray. “No,” he said. “No, you—
not
—”

His next words were in Gloss. My vision lurched. Was this an allergic reaction? Bile jerked into my throat. I groped in my backpack, took out the revolver, and raised it to his head. Kraz fell to his knees.

Kill him.

My palms were slick. Even after what I’d had done to the Underguard on the train, the very crime that had landed me here, I had no idea if I could do this. If I could take another life. But then Kraz pulled his hands away from his face, and I knew he was beyond saving. I didn’t even flinch.

I pulled the trigger.

24

The Dream

I ran over the roofs, past the old church, and down the long road toward Magdalen. As I reached the residence an arm swung out from a window and snached me inside.

Warden. He’d waited for me. Without a word, he pulled me through a door. Back toward the east courtyard. Into the empty passages. Through the cloisters, up the steps. I didn’t dare speak. As soon as we were in the tower, I slid to the floor by the fireplace. My fingers left black pollen on the rug. It looked like soot.

Without stopping, Warden locked the door, turned off the gramophone, and drew the drapes on both sides of the chamber. He watched through a gap at the east window for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the street. I let the backpack drop to the floor. The straps had cut into my shoulders.

“I killed him.”

He glanced at me. “Who?”

“Kraz. I shot him.” I was shaking all over. “I’ve killed a Sargas—she’s going to kill me.
You’re
going to kill me—”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“A Sargas is no loss to me.” He looked back at the window. “You are quite sure he is dead.”

“Of course he’s dead. I shot him in the face.”

“Bullets cannot kill us. You must have used the pollen.”

“Yes.” I tried to slow my breathing. “Yes, I did.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. I sat there in the evidence, my lungs fit to burst. “If a Sargas has been killed by a human,” he finally said, “the last thing Nashira will want is for word of it to get out into the city. Our immortality must not be questioned.”

“You’re really not immortal?”

“We are not indestructible.” He crouched in front of me, looked me in the eye. “Did anyone see you?”

“No. Wait, yes—Terebell.”

“Terebell will keep your secret. If she was the only one, we have nothing to fear.”

“Thuban was there, too. There was an explosion.” I looked up at him. “Do you know anything about that?”

“I sensed you were in danger. I had someone standing by in the House. They caused a distraction. All Nashira will hear is that a candle was left too close to a gas leak.”

The news did little to comfort me. That was three lives I’d taken now, not counting the ones I’d failed to save.

“You are bleeding.”

I glanced into the bathroom mirror, visible through the open door. A long, shallow cut crossed my cheek. Just deep enough to bring blood welling to the surface. “Yes,” I said.

“He hurt you.”

“It was just some glass.” I touched the smarting cut. “Will you find out what happened?”

He nodded, still looking at my cheek. There was something in his eyes that struck me: a darkness, a tension. He was thinking of something else. He wouldn’t meet my gaze; the wound transfixed him.

“This will scar if it is not treated.” His gloved fingers held my jaw. “I will bring something to clean it.”

“And you’ll find out about Kraz.”

“Yes.”

Our gazes met for the briefest instant. My brow creased, and my lips formed a question.

In the end I didn’t ask it.

“I will return as soon as I can.” He stood. “I recommend you clean yourself. There are clothes in there.”

He indicated the armoire. I glanced down at my uniform. The gilet was covered in pollen: damning evidence of my transgressions. “Right,” I said.

“And keep that wound clean.”

He was gone before I could respond.

I got to my feet and approached the mirror. The laceration was a livid shock against my skin. Did it bother him to see me like this, even after what Jax had done? Did he see my face and think of his own scars—the ones on his back, the ones he kept hidden?

A cloying smell sifted from my hair. The pollen. I locked the bathroom door, kicked off my clothes, and ran a steaming bath. My legs shook. I’d skinned my knee while climbing. I sank into the hot water and washed my hair. Old bruises throbbed under my skin, while new ones formed on top of them. I took a few minutes to soak the warmth into my rigid muscles, then picked up a fresh cake of soap and scrubbed away the sweat and blood and pollen. My sallow, battered frame looked no better for the attention. Only once the water had drained did I start to feel calm.

Should I talk to him about the train? He might try and stop me. He’d brought me back when he could have let me go. On the other hand, I needed to know whether or not the train was guarded, and whereabouts on the meadow I would find the entrance. I didn’t remember anything from the training session—no hatch, no door. It must be hidden.

When I returned to the chamber I found the clean yellow uniform in the armoire. The pollen had been swept off the carpet. I sank onto the daybed. I’d dispatched Kraz Sargas, blood-heir of the Rephaim, with a single shot between the eyes. Until that moment I’d thought they were too strong to kill. It must have been the pollen—the bullet had just finished him off. By the time I’d left the tower, the corpse had been rotting before my eyes. A few grains of pollen had putrefied him.

When the door opened, I started. Warden was back. His face held all the shadows in the room.

He came to sit beside me. He took a swab, dipped it in a jar of amber liquid, and dabbed the blood from my cheek. I looked at him in silence, waiting for his judgment. “Kraz is dead,” he said, betraying no emotion. My cheek gave a hot twinge. “He was heir apparent to the blood-sovereignty. You would be publicly tortured if they found out. They know about the missing supplies, but you were not seen. The day porter has been whitewashed.”

“Does anyone suspect me?”

“Privately, perhaps, but they have no proof. Fortunately you did not use your spirit to kill him, or your identity would be obvious.”

My shivering intensified. Classic me, killing someone that important without even knowing who he was. I’d end up as a death mask if Nashira got wind of this. I looked up at him.

“What did the pollen do to Kraz? His eyes—his
face
—”

“We are not what we seem, Paige.” He held my gaze. “How long was there between the application of the pollen and the shooting?”

The shooting
. Not
the murder
. He’d said
the shooting
, as if I’d been a bystander. “Maybe ten seconds.”

“What did you see in those ten seconds?”

I tried to think. The room had been thick with vapors, and I’d hit my head. “It was like—like his face was—rotting. And his eyes were white. Like they’d lost all their color. Dead eyes.”

“There you have it.”

I couldn’t think what he meant.
Dead eyes
.

The fire crackled, warming the room. Too warm. Warden lifted my chin, exposing my cut to the light. “Nashira will see this,” I said. “She’ll know.”

“That can be remedied.”

“How?”

No reply. Every time I asked
how
, or
why
, he would seem to get bored of the conversation. He went to his desk and took out a metal cylinder, small enough to fit into a pocket. The word
SCIONAID
was printed in red across the side. He unwrapped three adhesive Steri-Strips. I stayed still as he applied the—

“Does it hurt?”        

“No.”

He took his hand from my face. I touched the strips. “I saw a map in the House,” I said. “I know there’s a train on Port Meadow. I need to know where the entrance to the tunnel is.”

“And why would you need to know that?”

“Because I want to leave. Before Nashira kills me.”

“I see.” Warden returned to his armchair. “And you assume I will let you go.”

“Yes, I do assume.” I held up his snuff box. “Or you can safely
assume
that this will find its way to Nashira.”

The symbol caught the light. His fingers drummed on the chair. He didn’t try to bargain; he just looked at me, his eyes burning softly. “You cannot take the train,” he said.

“Watch me.”

“You misunderstand me. The train can only be activated by the Westminster Archon. It is programmed to come and go on particular dates, at particular times. Those times cannot be changed.”

“It must bring food.”

“The train is used only for human transportation. The food is delivered by couriers.”

“So it won’t come again until”—I closed my eyes—“the next Bone Season.” In 2069. My dream of an easy escape unraveled. I’d have to cross the minefield after all.

“I urge you not to attempt a crossing on foot,” he said, as if he’d read my thoughts. “The Emim use the woods as a hunting ground. Even with your gift, you will not last long. Not against a pack of them.”

“I can’t wait.” I gripped the arm of the chair until my knuckles blanched. “I
have
to leave. You know she’s going to kill me.”

“Of course she is. Now your gift has matured, she hungers for it. It will not be long before she strikes.”

I tensed. “Matured?”

“You possessed 12 in the citadel. I saw you. She has been waiting for you to reach your full potential.”

“Did you tell her?”

“She will find out, but not from me. What is said in this room will not go beyond it.”

“Why?”

“An overture to mutual trust.”

“You went through my memories. Why should I trust you?”

“Did I not show you my dreamscape?”

“Yes,” I said. “Your cold, empty dreamscape. You’re nothing but a hollow shell, aren’t you?”

Abruptly, he got to his feet, went to the bookshelf, and took out an enormous old tome. My muscles drew into taut bars. Before I could say another word, he removed a thin booklet from inside and tossed it onto the table. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
On the Merits of Unnaturalness
. My copy, plastered in evidence of the syndicate. He’d had it all along.

“My dreamscape may be starved of its old life, but I do not see people in ranks, as the author of that pamphlet does. There is no oneiromancer in there. No Rephaim. I do not see things in that light.” He looked straight at me. “I have lived with you for several months now. I know your history, even if I have learned it against your will. I did not intend to invade your privacy, but I wished to see what you were like. I wished to
know
you. I did not wish to treat you as a mere human—lower, unworthy.”

That was unexpected. “Why not?” I said, not taking my eyes off him. “Why do you care?”

“That is my concern.”

I picked up
On the Merits
and pressed it to my chest, like a child might hold a toy. It felt as if I’d saved Jaxon’s life. Warden watched me.

“You truly care about your mime-lord,” he said. “You want to return to that life. To the syndicate.”

“There’s more to Jaxon than this pamphlet.”

“I imagine there is.”

He came to sit beside me on the daybed. There was silence for a few minutes. A human and a Rephaite, as different as night and day—trapped in our own bell jar, like the withered flower. He picked up the snuff box and removed a small vial of amaranth. “You feel alone.” He emptied it into a chalice. “I feel it. Your solitude.”

“I am alone.”

“You miss Nick.”

“He’s my best friend. Of course I miss him.”

“He was more than that. Your memories of him are extraordinarily detailed—full of color, full of life. You adored him.”

“I was young.” My tone was clipped. He seemed determined to keep prodding my most sensitive spot.

“You are still young.” He wasn’t letting this go. “I have not seen all your memories. Something is missing.”