Bone Season 01: The Bone Season: A Novel (9 page)

“What if I don’t take it?”

There was a long silence.

“It was an order,” he said. “Not a request.”

My heart palpitated. I rolled it between my fingers. It was olive in color, tinged with gray. I swallowed it. It tasted bitter.

He took the glass.

“One more thing.” Arcturus grasped the back of my head in his free hand, turning it to face him. A cold tremor rolled down my spine. “You will address me only by my ceremonial title: Warden. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

I forced myself to say it. He looked right into my eyes, burning his message into my skull, before he loosened his hand. “We will begin your training upon my return.” He made for the door. “Sleep well.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed a low, bitter laugh.

He half-turned his head. I watched his eyes empty. Without another word, he left. The key turned in the lock.

5

The Indifferent

A red sun glinted through the window. The light roused me from a deep sleep. There was a bad taste in my mouth. For a moment I thought I was back in my bedroom in I-5, away from Jax, away from work.

Then I remembered. Bone Seasons. Rephaim. A gunshot and a body.

I was definitely not in I-5.

The cushions lay on the floor, cast off in the night. I sat up to assess my surroundings, rubbing my stiff neck. The small of my back ached, and my head pounded. One of my “hangovers,’’ as Nick called them. Arcturus—Warden—was nowhere to be seen.

The gramophone was still sorrowing away. I recognized Saint-Saënss’s
“Danse Macabre” immediately, and with alarm: Jax listened to it when he was particularly cantankerous, usually over a glass of vintage wine. It had always given me the creeps. I switched it off, pushed the drapes from the window, and looked down at the east-facing courtyard. There was a Rephaite guard positioned by a pair of giant oak doors.

A fresh uniform had been laid out on the bed. I found a note on the pillow, written in a bold black cursive.

Wait for the bell.

I thought back to the oration. Nobody had mentioned a bell. I scrunched the note into my hand and tossed it into the hearth, where other scraps were waiting to be burned.

I spent a few minutes scouring the room, checking every corner. There were no bars on these windows, but they couldn’t be opened. The walls hid no secret seams or sliding panels. There were two more doors, one of which was hidden behind thick red drapes—and locked. The other led to a large bathroom. Finding no light switch, I took one of the oil lamps inside. The bath was the same black marble as the library floor, surrounded by diaphanous curtains. A gilded mirror took up most of one wall. I approached this first, curious to see if the mutilation of my life showed on my face.

It didn’t. Save for the cut lip, I looked just the same as I had before they caught me. I sat in the darkness, thinking.

The Rephaim had struck their deal in 1859, exactly two centuries ago. That was Lord Palmerston’s time in office, if I remembered my classes correctly. It was long before the end of the monarchy in 1901, when a new Republic of England took power and declared war on unnaturalness. The republic had taken the country through nearly three decades of indoctrination and propaganda before it was named Scion in 1929. That was when the First Inquisitor was chosen, and London became the first Scion citadel. All this suggested to me that, somehow, the Rephaim’s arrival had
triggered
Scion. All that bullshit about unnaturalness, just to sate these creatures that had come from nowhere.

I took a deep breath. There must be more to this, there must be. Somehow I would understand. My first priority was to get out of here. Until I could do that, I would search this place for answers. I couldn’t just walk away, not now I knew where voyants were being sent. I couldn’t forget all I’d heard and seen.

First I would find Seb. His amaurosis made him ignorant and scared, but he was only a kid. He didn’t deserve this. Once I’d located him, I’d find Julian and the other detainees from Bone Season XX. I wanted to know more about the Emim, and until my keeper got back, they were my only source of information.

A bell rang in the tower outside, echoed by another, louder chime in the distance.
Wait for the bell
. There must be a curfew.

I placed the lamp on the edge of the bath. As I splashed my face with cold water, I considered my options. It was best to play along with the Rephaim for now. If I survived long enough I would try and contact Jax. Jax would come for me. He never left a voyant behind. Not a voyant he employed, anyway. I’d seen him leave buskers to die more than once.

It was getting darker in the chamber. I pulled open the middle drawer of the writing table. Inside were three blister packs of pills. I didn’t want to take them, but I had a feeling he might count them to make sure I did. Unless I just threw them away.

I popped out one from each packet. Red, white, and green. None of them were labeled.

The city was full of nonhumans, full of things I didn’t yet understand. These pills might be there to protect me from something: toxins, radiation—the contamination Scion had warned us about. Maybe it wasn’t a lie. Maybe I should take them. I would have to in the end, when he came back.

But he wasn’t here now. He couldn’t see me. I washed all three pills down the sink. He could take his medicine and choke.

When I tried the door, I found it unlocked. I descended the stone steps, back into the cloisters. This residence was enormous. At the door to the street, a bony girl with a pink nose and dirty blond hair had replaced the boy in the red. She looked up from a counter when I approached.

“Hello,” she said. “You must be new.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’ve started your journey in a great place. Welcome to Magdalen, the best residence in Sheol I. I’m XIX-49-33, the night porter. How can I help you?”

“You can let me go outside.”

“Do you have permission?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t care, either.

“Okay. I’ll check for you.” Her smile was getting tense. “Can I take your number?”

“XX-59-40.”

The girl consulted her ledger. When she found the right page, she looked up at me with wide eyes. “You’re the one the Warden took in.”

Well,
took in
was one way of putting it.

“He’s never taken
a human tenant before,” she continued. “Not many of them do at Magdalen. Mostly it’s just Rephs with a few human assistants. You’re very lucky to be lodging with him, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said. “I have a few questions about this place, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where do I get food?”

“The Warden left a note about that.” She poured a handful of blunted needles, cheap tin rings, and thimbles into my palm. “Here. They’re numa. The harlies always need them. You can exchange them for food in the stalls outside—there’s a sort of squatter settlement, you know—but it’s not very good. I’d wait for your keeper to feed you.”

“Is he likely to do that?”

“Maybe.”

Well, now that was cleared up. “Where is the settlement?” I said.

“On the Broad. Take the first right out of Magdalen, then the first left. You’ll see it.” She turned to a new page in her ledger. “Remember, you mustn’t sit down in public areas without permission, or enter any of the residences. Don’t wear anything apart from your uniform, either. Oh, and you absolutely
must
be back here by dawn.”

“Why?”

“Well, the Rephs sleep by day. I assume you know that spirits are easier to see when the sun goes down.”

“And that makes training easier.”

“Exactly.”

I really didn’t like this girl. “Do you have a keeper?”

“Yes, I do. He’s away at the moment, you know.”

“Away where?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure it’s for something important.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a nice night! And remember,” she added, “don’t go beyond the bridge.”

Well, someone was brainwashed. I smiled and took my leave.

As I left the residence, my breath already clouding, I began to wonder what I’d got myself into.
The Warden
. His name was whispered like a prayer, like a promise. Why was this one different from the others? What did
blood-consort
mean? I promised myself I would look into it later. For now I would eat. Then I would find Seb. At least I had somewhere to sleep when I returned. He might not have been so lucky.

A thin fog had descended. There seemed to be no electricity in the city. To my left was a stone bridge, set on both sides with gas lamps. This must be the bridge I couldn’t cross. A line of red-clad guards blocked the route between the city and the outside world. When I didn’t move, all ten of them pointed their guns at me. Scion weapons. Military grade. With all ten sights trained on my back, I set off to find the little town.

The street ran alongside Magdalen’s grounds, separated from the residence by a high wall. I passed three heavy wooden doors, each guarded by a human in a red tunic. The wall was topped with iron spikes. I kept my head down and followed 33’s directions. The next street was just as deserted as the first, with no gas lamps to light my way. When I emerged from the darkness, my hands raw with cold, I found myself in something like a city center. Two large buildings towered on the left. The nearest had pillars and a decorated pediment, like the Grand Museum in I Cohort. I walked past it, onto the Broad. Tealights shone on every step and ledge. The sound of human life strained through the night.

Rickety stalls and food booths had been constructed down the center of the street, lit by dirty lanterns. They were skeletal and gloomy. On either side of them were rows of rudimentary huts, shacks, and tents made of corrugated metal and plywood and plastic—a shantytown in the center of a city.

And the siren. An old mechanical model with a single, gaping horn. Not like the hive-like electrical clusters on NVD outposts, designed for use in a national emergency. I hoped I never heard the sound that swelled up from its rotors. The last thing I needed was some flesh-eating killing machine on my tail.

The smell of roasting meat drew me toward the shantytown. My stomach was tight with hunger. I walked into a dark, close tunnel, following my nose. The shacks seemed to be linked by a series of plywood tunnels, patched up with bits of scrap metal and cloth. They had few windows; instead they were lit by candles and paraffin lamps. I was the only person in a white tunic. These people all wore filthy clothes. The colors did little for their sallow complexions, their lifeless bloodshot eyes. None of them looked healthy. These must be the performers: humans who had failed their tests and been condemned to amuse the Rephaim for the rest of their lives, and probably their afterlives. Most were soothsayers or augurs, the most common kinds of voyant. A few people glanced at me, but they soon moved on. It was like they didn’t want to look for too long.

The source of the smell was a large square room with a hole cut into the corrugated metal roof to let out smoke and steam. I sat down in a dark corner, trying not to draw attention to myself. The meat was being served in wafer-thin slices, still pink and tender in the middle. The performers passed around plates of meat and vegetables and scooped cream
from silver tureens. People were fighting over the food, stuffing it into their mouths, licking the hot juices from their fingers. Before I could ask, a voyant pressed a plate into my hands. He was scrawny, dressed in little more than rags. His thick glasses were scratched all over.

“Is Mayfield still in the Starch?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mayfield?”

“Yes, Abel Mayfield.” He sounded it out in syllables. “Is he still in the Archon? Is he still Grand Inquisitor?”

“Mayfield died years ago.”

“Who is it now?”

“Frank Weaver.”

“Oh, right. You haven’t got a copy of the
Descendant
, have you?”

“They confiscated everything.” I glanced around for somewhere to sit down. “Did you really think Mayfield was still the Inquisitor?” It was impossible not to know the Inquisitor’s identity. Scarlett Burnish excluded, Weaver was the heart and soul of Scion.

“All right, don’t get on your high horse. How was I supposed to know? We only get news once a decade.” He grabbed my arm, leading me to a corner. “Did they ever bring back the
Roaring Boy
?”

“No.” I tried to free my arm, but he clung.

“Is Sinatra still blacklisted?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. What about the Fleapit? Did they ever find it?”

“Cyril, she’s just arrived. I think she’d like something to eat.”

Someone had noticed my predicament. Cyril rounded on the speaker, a young woman, with her arms crossed and her chin tipped up. “You are an absolute stinking bloody curmudgeon, Rymore. Did you pick up ten of swords again today?”