The Song Rising (The Bone Season Book 3)

Prelude

2 November 2059

The lights scalded my borrowed eyes. I was still inside a different body, standing on the same floor, but everything had changed.

There was a smile on his lips. That old gleam in his eye, like I had brought him good news from the auction house. He wore a black waistcoat embroidered with interlinked gold anchors, and a scarlet cravat was tied at his throat. One silk-clad hand grasped an ebony cane.

‘I see you have mastered possession at a distance,’ he said. ‘You are full of surprises.’

The cane’s handle was porcelain, shaped like the head of a white horse.

‘I believe,’ Nashira said, her voice soft, ‘that you are already acquainted with my new Grand Overseer.’

I let out my first breath since laying eyes on him.

He had tried to stop me. The scheming worm had silenced me for weeks, keeping me from telling the world about the Rephs. Yet here he was, looking as easy with them as he was with his own shadow.

‘Oh, dear. Have you swallowed that pilfered tongue?’ Jaxon Hall let out a deep laugh. ‘Yes, Paige, I am here, with the Rephaim. In the Archon, wearing the anchor! Are you aghast? Are you oh-so scandalised? Is this all a terrible shock to your fragile sensibilities?’

‘Why?’ I finally managed to speak. ‘Why the hell are you here, Jaxon?’

‘As if I had a choice. With you as Underqueen, my beloved syndicate is doomed to destruction. Consequently, I have decided to return to my roots.’

‘Your roots?’

His smile widened.

‘Allow me to shed light upon your situation,’ he said. ‘To Terebellum Sheratan, you are a convenient pawn in an age-old game. Arcturus Mesarthim is nothing but her lure. Her bait. He took you under his wing in Oxford on her orders, to entice you into their net. And you, darling – you fell for it. Everyone but you can see it.’

A chill warned me that something was wrong. Elsewhere in the citadel, someone had touched my body.

‘This is a fight you cannot win. The syndicate was never meant as a weapon of war, and you were never meant to rule,’ Jaxon continued. ‘If we must pull off your wings to stop you casting yourself into the fire, so be it.’ He offered a hand. ‘Come to us, Paige.’

The three bodies flashed through my mind. Lotte Gordon, Ella Giddings and Charles Lanvin, swinging from the gallows on the screen behind me.

‘You have chosen the wrong side. Join this one,’ Jaxon said. ‘I can’t tell you how it hurts me to see you serving the Ranthen. Unlike the Rag and Bone Man, I have always believed you could be saved from their indoctrination. From Arcturus Mesarthim’s . . . seduction. I thought you had more sense than to blindly obey the man who was once your master.’

‘You’re asking me to do that now,’ I said.

Jaxon smiled.

Another shiver in the æther. Little by little, I was losing control of my host.

‘This is your last chance, Underqueen,’ Jaxon said, his tone hardening. ‘Step back from the brink, before you lose any more of your allies. Before the anchor crushes you all into the dust.’

He had shocked me. We both knew it.

If he thought he could scare me, he would have to try a lot harder.

‘I’d rather burn,’ I said.

My brain was molten, slithering out through my nose and down my front. I had to get out, get air into my lungs . . .

A hand took hold of my arm, but I shook it off. I clawed off the oxygen mask, got the door open, and spilled out of the car in a jumble of limbs. The stitches in my side peeled apart, wetting my shirt.

Jaxon Hall was many things, but I couldn’t believe he had gone to Scion. He had made his career out of living in their shadow, not their arms.

My wounds from the scrimmage flared, deep and throbbing. I pitched into the night, down the wet steps to the Thames, cursing my own stupidity. I crumpled to my knees by the water, heaving.

I will find other allies. His words from the scrimmage rang in my ears. You have not seen the last of me.

I should have killed him in the Rose Ring. The blade had been against his throat, and I had been too weak to cut. My thoughts raced.

Looks like you’ll have to make some new friends, I had said to Nashira, full of myself.

Oh, I but I have an old one. One who returned to me in the early hours of this morning, after twenty long years of estrangement . . .

‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Not you.’

I have decided to return to my roots.

Jaxon had been standing so calmly with the Sargas. And there were other things – things I had brushed off, or hadn’t seen, that now came surging to the front of my mind. He was so much wealthier than other mime-lords, even though he claimed to come from nothing. Even though there was so little coin in pamphleteering.

How had he leapt from pauper to prince?

There was more. He had spearheaded my rescue from Oxford with no exit plan, no apparent knowledge of what lurked there. That was foolish. Jaxon was no fool. It wasn’t in his nature to go blindly into anything.

But if he had left that prison once before . . . if he had known there was a way . . .

We weren’t sure how to establish what was happening in Oxford. Another memory rushed back. Jaxon was the one who found the missing piece, a rumour of a tunnel under Whitehall.

There was no such rumour.

Of course there wasn’t.

Twenty long years. Those were the only words I needed to realise who Jaxon Hall had once been. I had no absolute proof, but I knew in my bones that my instinct was right.

Jaxon wasn’t just a traitor.

He was the traitor.

The man who had betrayed the Ranthen twenty years ago, buying his freedom from Oxford. The man who was responsible for the scars on their backs; who had left his fellow prisoners to die.

And I had been his mollisher.

His right hand.

A shout in the near distance stopped time, or started it again. The crunch of footsteps broke through the roar in my ears. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Warden sink into a crouch beside me.

‘Paige,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

I had to tell him.

I couldn’t carry this knowledge alone.

‘I know who betrayed you twenty years ago,’ I said. ‘I know who gave you the scars.’

Nick ran to the railings above us. ‘Vigiles,’ he shouted. ‘Warden, bring her up!’

Warden stayed exactly where he was. I was afraid he would lack the ability to read my expression – that I might have to say the name myself – but as each agonising moment ticked past, I watched it dawn on him, just as it had on me. A fire rose in his eyes.

‘Jaxon.’

PART ONE

GOD IN A MACHINE

UNDERQUEEN

War has been called a game, with good reason. Both have combatants. Both have sides. Both carry the risk of losing.

There is just one difference.

Every game is a gamble. Certainty is the last thing you want when you begin. If victory is guaranteed, there is no game at all.

In war, however, we crave certainty. No fool ever went to war without the cast-iron belief that they would win – or that the likelihood of losing was so small as to make the bloody price of every move worthwhile. You don’t go to war for the thrill, but the gain.

The question is whether any gain, any outcome, can justify the way you play.

SCION CITADEL OF LONDON

27 November 2059

In the heart of its financial district, the Scion Citadel of London was burning. On Cheapside, Didion Waite – poet of the underworld, bitter rival of Jaxon Hall – was howling over the remains of Bow Bells.

Once a fixture of the capital, the derelict church was now a mass of charred and smoking rubble.

In his powdered wig and tailcoat, Didion was conspicuous (even by underworld standards), but everyone was too engrossed to notice one madman – all but those of us who had answered his call. We stood at the mouth of a lane, masked and shrouded, taking in what was left of Bow Bells. A message had been sprayed in red across the street.

ALL HAIL THE WHITE BINDER

TRUE UNDERLORD OF LONDON

A distinctive orange flower had been painted beneath it. Nasturtium. In the language of flowers, it meant conquest, or power.

‘Let’s get him out of there,’ said Ognena Maria, one of my commanders. ‘Before Scion does.’

I didn’t volunteer to help. Didion had demanded that I come in person, but I couldn’t risk speaking to him when he was this upset. I knew from experience that he would have no qualms about exposing me to the whole street.

‘I’ll go.’ Eliza checked that her hood was fastened. ‘We’ll take him to Grub Street.’

‘Be careful,’ I said.

She hurried towards Didion, who was now pounding the cobbles with his fists, screaming. Maria followed with her mollisher, Witcher Cully.

I stayed behind with Nick. We had taken to wearing the winter hoods that had come into fashion in recent weeks, which covered most of the face, but by now I was so recognisable that even that might not protect me.

After the scrimmage – when I had fought my own mime-lord for the right to rule the voyants of London – Nick had quit his job with Scion, only staying long enough to steal a few cases of medical supplies and take as much cash from his bank account as he could. Within days, his face had appeared on the screens alongside mine. Now he nodded to the wreck of the church.

‘You think this was Jax?’

‘His loyalists,’ I said. ‘They’re clearly more committed than we thought.’

‘It’s a tiny group of troublemakers. Not worth your time,’ Nick said. ‘You know everyone hated the auction house. It’s probably a good thing it’s gone.’

His tone was reassuring, but this was the third assault on a syndicate landmark in as many days. The last time, they had raided Old Spitalfields, scaring the traders and looting stalls. Those responsible considered Jaxon to be the rightful Underlord, despite his conspicuous absence. Even after I had told them the facts, they refused to believe that the White Binder could be involved with Scion.

In the grand scheme of things, this was a minor nuisance – the majority of voyants did seem to support my rule – but these attacks were indisputable proof that I had not yet won all of my subjects’ hearts. I supposed it came with the territory. Haymarket Hector, my predecessor, had been widely despised. Those who had obeyed him had done so out of fear, or because he made it worth their while.

Eliza and Cully coaxed Didion away. A fire engine drowned out his sobs of denial, but anyone could see that the church was beyond saving – as was the Juditheon, the auction house beneath it. We retreated, leaving another part of our history to be swept away.

Nick was right, of course. The whole syndicate had resented Didion for poaching spirits from other sections and auctioning them to fill his own pockets. Still, it had been a good place to socialise. I had whiled away many an afternoon at the Juditheon. Once, I might even have mourned its loss – but since Jaxon had revealed his true nature, all of my memories of life as his mollisher were tainted. I wanted to scrape them into a pit, close the earth on top of them, and build again on the new ground.

‘Nearest safe house is Cloak Lane,’ Nick said.

‘Right.’

We slipped into another backstreet, away from the heat and light around the church. I kept us clear of other people, while Nick checked for security cameras. Since the scrimmage, we were no longer just unnaturals, but fugitives, with ever-growing bounties on our heads. Even if we hadn’t yet made a bold move against Scion, they knew our objective.

I had to wonder how much longer we could survive in London. It was dangerous for us to be out after dark, but when Didion had sent for me, I had wanted to come, if only to convince him that we were on the same side. After all, he loathed Jaxon, which now made him a potential ally.

The safe house was a cramped apartment, rented by a former Nightingale who was keen to help the Mime Order. About half of the gang had fled after the Abbess died, while the others had pledged their loyalty to me.

Unlike most of our hideouts, this one had central heating, a fridge, and a decent bed. The warmth was a relief after a long night on the streets. Over the last two weeks, snow had fallen every day, leaving London as thickly iced as a birthday cake. I had never experienced a winter so ruthless. My eyes streamed every time I stepped outside.

Nick dropped on to the bed. He, at least, got a few hours’ rest. A hint of moonlight shone on his pale face, drawing out the crease that pinched his brow even in sleep. I lay on the couch in the dark, but I was too restless to close my eyes for long. The image of the burning church – a promise of devastation – was scorched on to my mind. A reminder that, while Jaxon Hall was gone, he wasn’t yet forgotten.

In the morning, I took a bob cab to the Mill, an industrial ruin in Silvertown – one of several abandoned buildings we had recently occupied across the citadel. It was home to our largest cell of voyants.

Changing the structure of the syndicate, with the aim of turning it into an army capable of fighting Scion, had not been easy. I had ended all disputes over turf and shut down every den Jaxon knew about, though I had tried to keep gang members together wherever possible. Syndicate voyants were now organised into cells, each based in a location known only to its members and the local mime-lord or mime-queen, who received their orders through a high commander. Forcing my subjects to limit contact outside their cells hadn’t exactly thrilled them, but it was the only way to evade Jaxon, who had known the old syndicate inside and out. Now anyone who was captured would only be able to betray a certain number of people to the enemy.

When I arrived at the Mill, I climbed the stairs. Leon Wax – one of the few amaurotics who worked for the syndicate – was at the end of the hall in his wheelchair, handing out clothes to a pair of soothsayers. He was sixty, with skin of a deep, rich brown and grey hair.

Eliza had convinced Leon to pledge his loyalty to me. In exchange, I had obtained a vial of amaranth for his spouse. Bea had since moved to the relative safety of Kent, while Leon had stayed on to forge papers and money for the syndicate.

Just one way Eliza was proving invaluable as a mollisher. I still couldn’t quite believe I had my own mollishers, after being one for so long.

‘Underqueen,’ Leon said.

‘Leon.’ I nodded to the newcomers, who were staring at me. ‘Welcome to the Mime Order.’

Both of them looked awestruck. They must have heard plenty of gossip about me. The mollisher who had stabbed her mime-lord in the back. The dreamwalker with mysterious allies from the æther. I wondered how I matched up to their expectations. All they would be seeing now was a woman with dark circles under her eyes.

My hair was back to pale blonde, with a streak of black at the front. The only evidence that I had been in the scrimmage were my fading bruises and the conspicuous welt on my jaw where a cutlass had caught me. Proof that I could fight and win, written on my face.

One of the soothsayers – a pale redhead – actually curtseyed.

‘Thank you, Underqueen. We’re honoured to be part of the Mime Order.’

‘You don’t need to curtsey.’ I turned to Leon. ‘Let Terebell know if we run low on anything, won’t you?’

Leon raised his eyebrows. ‘Do I just . . . approach her?’

‘She won’t bite, Leon.’

‘If you say so.’ Pause. ‘Perhaps you could ask her for a few more pairs of boots?’

I breathed out through my nose. ‘All right.’

‘Thank you.’

Leaving the soothsayers in his capable hands, I made my way upstairs. My deepest injuries still throbbed, but I had just enough medicine to keep the pain under control.

I couldn’t blame Leon for being unsure of the Rephs. There was hardly a voyant in the syndicate who didn’t break a sweat around our benefactors. I usually spoke to Terebell on their behalf, but I wanted them all to be able to work together, with or without me as a mediator. I was also starting to feel like her secretary.

The surveillance room was eleven floors up. When I entered, I found Tom the Rhymer and the Glym Lord – two of my high commanders – eating breakfast and poring over a map of the citadel, which showed the positions of recently installed Senshield scanners. Numa were spread among the paperwork and data pads on the table: shew stones, keys, a knife, a crystal ball.

‘Good morning to you, Underqueen,’ Glym said.

‘We have a problem.’

Tom raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Now, that’s no way to greet anyone at this time of the morning. I’ve not even finished my coffee.’ He pulled out a chair for me. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Jaxon’s supporters burned down the Juditheon.’ ‘Maria told us. They’re small fry.’

‘Even so.’ I poured a coffee. ‘We need to replace Jaxon. I’ve left it for too long.’ I said it more to myself than to them. ‘How are you both getting on?’

‘New recruits are arriving daily,’ Glym said. ‘We need far more, of course, but I have no concerns at this stage. Many voyants seem to be taking to the idea of the Mime Order, now we’ve announced that all orders and skills are welcome. Of course, the more that join, the more will feel emboldened to follow them into our ranks.’

‘We rescued two mediums from a scanner yesterday. I had a vision,’ Tom said. ‘Glym sent the Linkboys to get them away.’ He glanced at his old friend. ‘They had an . . . interesting story. Said the scanner went off, but they couldna see it. They just heard the alarm.’

I frowned.

Not long after my surprise victory in the scrimmage, Scion had installed multiple Senshield scanners in the Underground. It was an unwelcome development, but they were big enough to avoid.

‘They must have seen it,’ I said. ‘Where was this?’

‘I havena heard all the details yet.’

‘Send your mollisher to investigate. I don’t like the sound of it.’

‘All right, Underqueen.’

I filched a ginger bun before I left, causing Tom to gather the rest protectively into their box.

Downstairs, in the training room, daylight spilled through the broken windows, dappling the concrete and the disused machines. There were rings for voyants to train in physical and spirit combat, as well as a knife range.

As promised, the Ranthen were helping our recruits to hone their abilities. Pleione Sualocin stood in a ring on the left side of the room, teaching spirit combat to a group of beginners. The voyants around her were visibly transfixed by their instructor.

‘. . . spool strikes your opponent’s dreamscape, it will unleash a sequence of images called apparitions, disorienting them. However, a weak spool can be deflected or broken,’ she was saying. ‘To hold true, spools must be tightly bound.’ She cast a gloved hand in front of her, lacing several wisps together. ‘Most voyants can spool by instinct. Think of it as weaving with spirits.’

A few voyants nodded. I had learned to spool at sixteen, but many of our recruits were newcomers to the underworld, with no idea where to start.

‘There are plenty of spirits here. Try your hands at spooling,’ Pleione told the class. ‘I will continue your instruction in due course.’

Several of the voyants saluted me as they dispersed. Pleione watched them leave. So far, she was proving to be a decent instructor.

‘Underqueen,’ she said. ‘The sovereign-elect has asked me to inform you that she will carry out an inspection of all cells in I Cohort next week.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Anything else?’

The light in her eyes burned low. I had forbidden all the Ranthen from feeding on the voyants in my care, forcing them to lie in wait for those who lived outside the syndicate. It hadn’t done much to improve their temperaments.

‘Terebell is disappointed,’ Pleione said, ‘that you have not erased the influence of the arch-traitor from London.’

‘Trust me, I’m trying.’

‘I advise you to try harder, dreamwalker.’

She gave me a wide berth as she left. I was used to it by now. Mutual hatred of Jaxon was holding our alliance together, but barely.

All of the Ranthen knew now that he was the human who had betrayed the Novembertide Rebellion, when they had first revolted against the Sargas, the ruling family of Rephs. I wasn’t wholly sure that I had been spared from guilt by association. After all, I had worked for the arch-traitor, their sworn enemy, for three years – it was hard to believe that I had never noticed anything, never learned his dirty secret.

The intermediate class was in full swing nearby. An augur rolled a spool together and hurled it at the Rephaite instructor. One sweep of a gloved hand shattered the spool, putting the spirits to flight.

Arcturus Mesarthim is nothing but her lure.

Warden spared me a glance. I hung back, nursing my coffee.

Everyone but you can see it.

The augur sighed and retreated. Warden beckoned two more voyants from the line. First was Felix Coombs, one of the other Bone Season survivors. He stepped into the ring and filled a bowl with water for hydromancy. His opponent was Róisín Ní Chonaill Jacob, whose plaited hair was dark with sweat. Since I had released the vile augurs from Jacob’s Island, she had given herself, heart and soul, to the cause, training every day.

‘Felix,’ Warden said, making Felix start (he was still jumpy around Rephs), ‘you are slouching. I assure you, a Vigile will still see you.’

Felix squared up to Róisín, who was a head taller than him.

‘Róisín, strike true,’ Warden said, ‘but give Felix a chance to attempt the technique.’

‘A quick chance,’ Róisín agreed.

Clearing his throat, Felix spooled a few spirits. Warden paced around the ring.

‘Turn your backs,’ he said. They did. ‘Now, take three steps away from one another.’

He always made combat a duel, a dance. A train of observers wound all the way around the ring. As Felix and Róisín waited for their cue, the audience called encouragements.

‘Now,’ Warden said.

Felix turned and sliced his arm down. The spirits wheeled after it and dived into the water, making its surface tremble and the æther strain. I watched in amazement as the spirits rose again, carrying a chain of sparkling droplets with them. The other voyants stared, riveted.

Róisín put a sudden end to the grace period and sprang towards Felix.

She threw him against the ropes before her fingers bit into his shoulder. His body gave a violent jolt, causing the spirits to panic and flee. Water sprayed everywhere as he slid into a heap on the floor.

‘Yield, I yield,’ he yelled, to gales of laughter. ‘That hurt, Róisín!

What did you do?’

‘Róisín used her gift against you,’ Warden said. ‘Your bones responded to her touch.’

Felix recoiled. ‘My bones?’

‘Yes. They may be enveloped in flesh, but they will still answer to an osteomancer.’ He gave her a nod. ‘Well done, Róisín.’

Róisín nodded back and offered Felix a hand up, earning a smattering of applause. I put my coffee down and joined in. Warden had transformed her osteomancy into an active gift, something she could use to defend herself. Even the brief feat Felix had managed was nothing like the hydromancy I had seen before.

‘Told you we should never have released them,’ a whisperer muttered.

‘Vile augurs don’t belong with civilised voyants.’

‘Enough,’ Warden said. ‘The Underqueen has forbidden that sort of talk.’

Several people started. Rephs, as it turned out, had keen hearing. Anyone else would have quailed at his tone, but the whisperer recovered quickly.

‘I don’t have to do what you say, Reph,’ he sneered. Felix swallowed and glanced at Warden. ‘I’ll take my orders from the Underqueen.’

‘Then listen to this, Trenary,’ I called. Heads turned in my direction. ‘We don’t hold with that attitude any longer. If you can’t let go of it, take it elsewhere.’

There was a long pause before Trenary stormed out of the hall. Róisín looked tense, but no one else spoke.

‘Warden, what can you teach me?’ Jos Biwott piped up, breaking the silence. ‘All I can do is sing.’

‘That is no small gift,’ Warden said. ‘All of you have the potential to use your clairvoyance against Scion, but my time is short today.’ Groans of disappointment rang through the hall. ‘I will return soon. Until then, keep practising.’

With clear reluctance, the voyants went their separate ways – some upstairs, more to the canteen, and the rest to the knife range, where Maria was hitting targets with practised ease. Warden reached for his coat.

It had been weeks since we had spoken more than a few stiff words to one another. Trying to shake off my apprehension, I crossed the hall to stand beside him.

‘Paige.’

His voice warmed me like a glass of hot mecks. The tension in my body unwound, and I felt steady for the first time in days.

‘Warden,’ I said. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Indeed.’

I tried to appear as if I was observing the knife range, but I was too aware of the eyes on us – of those who were regarding the Underqueen and their Rephaite instructor with open curiosity.

‘That was very impressive,’ I said frankly. ‘How did you teach Felix to use hydromancy that way?’

‘We call it fusion. An advanced form of spirit combat for certain soothsayers and augurs. You saw the Wicked Lady use it during the scrimmage.’ He watched as a medium allowed herself to be possessed. ‘With the exception of breachers, spirits cannot usually affect the corporeal world. But they can be persuaded to interact with certain numa.’

‘So the spirits lifted the water for Felix.’

‘Yes.’

This could give us a real advantage. Before the Ranthen had come along, soothsayers and augurs could only really use spooling against an opponent. It was part of why Jaxon thought them so weak.

‘That one has been speaking against the vile augurs. And, less openly, in favour of Jaxon as the rightful leader of the Mime Order.’ Warden nodded after Trenary. ‘Apparently he often quotes the more incendiary passages from On the Merits of Unnaturalness.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on him. We can’t have any discord in the ranks.’

‘Very well.’

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. I closed my eyes for a moment.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve business elsewhere. Excuse me.’

I had already taken a few steps towards the door when Warden spoke again.

‘Did I do something to insult you, Paige?’

I stopped. His voice was as soft as ever, but it cut right the way through me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve just been preoccupied.’

My tone was too defensive. We both knew full well that something was wrong.

‘Of course,’ Warden said. I avoided his gaze. ‘The company you keep is yours to decide. But if you ever desire counsel, or someone to listen, I am here.’

All at once, I was even more conscious of him. I was also conscious of the stiffness in my back. The chill of unease that I still couldn’t shake.

After the scrimmage, we had decided to keep seeing each other in secret. I had been looking forward to it. From his perspective, my cold shoulder must have come out of nowhere. I was only surprised it had taken him this long to question my sudden withdrawal.

It wasn’t anything he had done. Unlike the other Ranthen, he had accepted that I had spent three years working for Jaxon Hall without knowing who he was. He had treated me no differently, excusing and believing in my ignorance without question.

No, it wasn’t him. It was the warning Jaxon had given me, lodged in the back of my mind like a splinter. And I couldn’t admit that to Warden. I couldn’t admit that Jaxon Hall – a serial liar – had got to me.

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly. ‘I know.’ Noticing the interest we were attracting, I turned away, schooling my face. ‘I’ll see you soon, Warden.’

I spent the rest of the day taking stock of our supplies. As I left the Mill at dusk, Nick and Eliza were on their way in, looking for me. They had taken an urgent report from Mary Bourne, who was convinced there were Vigiles watching a phone box in her section.

‘One of her voyants made a call and never came back,’ Nick told me as we trudged through the snow. ‘She wants someone to investigate.’

I pulled my gloves on. ‘Didn’t we have something like this last week, with the medium who vanished into a pharmacy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it a box they’ve used for a while?’

‘Yes, for syndicate business.’

‘Tell Mary to abandon it, then. Scion must have got wind of their calls.’

‘I’ll send a courier,’ Eliza said. ‘Back to the den?’

I nodded. We had been out for too long today, and we needed to assess our finances.

Cully gave us a lift. Given that she was one of the few syndies with a car, Maria had entrusted her with driving to the Unnatural Assembly between safe houses and meeting points.

She dropped us off on Limehouse Causeway. From there, we went on foot, keeping our heads down. Eliza stuck to my side like a bodyguard, already committed to her new role as mollisher supreme.

All around us, partygoers were out in force, high on Floxy (or fanaticism), jostling past dockworkers from the Isle of Dogs. Oxygen bars were always busy in the run-up to Novembertide. Eliza stopped at a cash machine and took out a pickpocketed bank card.

Stolen cards were useful, even if they only lasted as long as it took for their owners to realise they were missing. Terebell often refused my requests for money, something I was convinced she enjoyed. Nick glanced over his shoulder, checking for observant passers-by, as Eliza fed the card into the machine and tapped her foot.

An alarm shrilled.

Eliza flinched back with a sharp intake of breath. The ear-splitting wail drew the eyes of everyone in the vicinity. For a moment, we just stared at each other.

I knew that sound.

That was the sound a Senshield scanner made when it detected the presence of a voyant; a sound that portended arrest – but it was coming from inside the cash machine.

And that wasn’t possible. Senshield scanners were massive contraptions. You could see one from the other end of the street. If you stayed alert, you might never go near one. They weren’t hidden.

Were they?

I thought all of this in the split second it took me to react.

‘Run,’ I barked at the others.

As one, we fled from the machine. ‘Stop them,’ someone bellowed. ‘Unnaturals!’

A hand snatched at Nick. His fist swung up, punching the man away. I looked back to see night Vigiles in pursuit, flux guns at the ready, bellowing ‘halt’ and ‘get down’ at the tops of their voices – a roar that made people scatter in panic around them.

The telltale click-hiss of a flux gun made me drop into a roll and veer into the next street, hauling Eliza along with me. Shock had already ramped up my heartbeat; now terror carved my body, cutting my breaths short. I hadn’t felt fear like this in a long time, not since the day I was taken to Oxford. The three of us were the highest-ranking members of the Mime Order. We could not be detained.

We sprinted towards the dockworkers’ shantytown, where we could vanish into the close-knit labyrinth of shacks. Just as it came into sight, a vehicle screamed into our path. Like cornered animals, we turned to face the Vigiles. There were eight of them.

‘Shit,’ Eliza whispered.

Slowly, I raised my hands. The others did the same. As the Vigiles formed a circle around us, shock batons glowed to life and flux guns were levelled at our chests, no doubt loaded with the newest version of the drug.

I glanced at Nick. His aura was changing, reaching farther into the æther.

I couldn’t dreamwalk. After overusing my spirit in the scrimmage, then having to possess a Vigile to confront Nashira, I was still too fragile to be of much use in a fight.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t kick some turncoats to the kerb.

Nick’s gift exploded out of him. He blinded them with a torrent of visions; Eliza chased them with a string of spools. Complex weaves of spirits twisted around the Vigiles, trapping them in a gyre of apparitions. In the confusion that followed, I snatched a flux gun. The ballistic syringe sprang free, hitting the commandant between the shoulder blades.