The Mime Order (41 page)

A rich, soulful voice began to sing in an unfamiliar language. Without another word, we circled each other. I kept my body angled toward him, remembering the same dance on the meadow training ground. Back then I’d been shivering in that flimsy tunic, hardly
understanding
my gift, terrified and angry and alone. The fear reaction still ticked away inside me, an instinct burned in with the brand on my shoulder.

“What’s the song?”

“This one is called ‘Ciuleandra.’” He swung at me, and I ducked. “No ducking in a dance, Paige. Spin.” When he tried it again, I turned to the left, avoiding his second blow. “Good. I hope there are other records to be found in this citadel, or I may lose control of my sanity more swiftly than I anticipated.”

I spun again, this time to the right. “I can get more from the Garden, if you like.”

“That would be kind of you.” He mimicked my movements, or perhaps I mimicked his. “I want you to stay on your feet as you attack me. When you leave your body, it falls—but I think you could control that. I think you can leave a little of your consciousness in your dreamscape. Enough for you to remain standing while you inhabit another body.” The look on my face must have shouted disbelief. “I told you that you had potential, Paige. It was not flattery.”

“There’s no way for me to stay standing. All my life functions stop.”

“In your present state, yes. But we can amend that.” He stepped back, breaking the routine. “Let us try a little combat. Anticipate my movements.”

“How?”

“Focus. Use your skill.”

I thought of an old trick Jaxon had taught me when I’d first started to dislocate my spirit. I imagined six tall vials, one for each sense, each filled with a little wine. I pictured pouring it from five of the vials into the one marked ÆTHER. When the vial was full to the brim, I opened my eyes.

The world around me was a grey haze, but it trembled with
spiritual
activity. There was a field of disturbance around Warden where his aura shone.

His body moved. No, wait—his
aura
moved to the right, and
now
his body . . . I barely got out of the way before his mock punch struck the air next to my ear. I snapped back to meatspace, but he didn’t wait to try again. This time, when his aura went left, I dived in the opposite direction.

“Very good,” he said. “That is why sighted individuals, including Rephaim, are often better at physical combat. They see an aura shift before their opponent’s muscles. You may not be able to see it, but you can sense it.” The singing started again, faster. “When you see an opportunity, attack me with your spirit. Leave your body, as if you mean to possess me.”

The moment he moved, I jumped.

At least, I tried to jump. Spirit and flesh strained at the seams. I exerted all my strength, struggling through each zone in my dream-scape, and hurled myself into the æther.

I didn’t get far. My silver cord turned rigid, like metallic wire, and flung me back into my body.

“Up,” Warden said.

I got back to my feet, already spent. “Why isn’t it working?”

“Your emotions are not strong enough. You are no longer truly afraid of me, and consequently, your survival instinct is no longer forcing you from your body at the sight of me.”

“Should I still be afraid of you?”

“Perhaps,” he confessed, “but I would rather that you made the gift yours. You belong to yourself, not to the fear.”

“Fine.” Step, turn, step. “I assume you were born knowing everything about your gift.”

“Never assume.” He took my hand and spun me himself, so my hair whispered against his shirt, then gave me a gentle push away from him. “Now, feel the æther. Jump.”

This
time my spirit flew out. I leaped across the divide, ricocheted off his dreamscape like a bullet and woke to the unpleasant sensation of my skull hitting the floorboards.

“Not quite fast enough,” Warden said. He stood with his hands behind his back, unmoved.

“So that’s Rephaite humor.” I got back to my feet, my head ringing. “
Schadenfreude
.”

“Not at all.”

“Have you ever paused to reflect on how irritating you can be?”

“Once or twice,” he said, eyes aflame.

I tried again, ripping myself free of my body. This time I stayed on my feet for an instant before I fell, hitting the carpet on my knees.

“Don’t use anger, Paige. Imagine your spirit as a boomerang. A light throw and a quick return.” He pulled me to my feet by one hand. “Remember what I taught you. Try to touch my dreamscape and return to your body before you hit the ground. And while you do it, dance.”

“Dance
and
fall?”

“Of course. Remember Liss,” he said. “Her act depended on dancing as she fell.”

The name stung, but he was right. I thought of how Liss would climb up the multicolored silks, then untangle herself as she fell toward the stage.

“Your body is your anchor to the earth. The more your mind is forced to concentrate on it, the more difficult it will be to lift yourself free of it. Hence the trouble you encounter when you try to dreamwalk when you have been injured.” He lifted my chin. “Raise yourself.”

My jaw rested on his knuckle. His thumb brushed my cheek, and just for a moment—it might have been a moment—the backs of his fingers curled against my pulse. Fast. Warm.

He
stepped back. I shook away the fog in my head for long enough to call on my sixth sense. I imagined moving through the æther, freeing myself from the confines of these bones.

The world dulled again. My weight tilted on to the balls of my feet. The muscles in my abdomen pulled tight. My spine straightened and my ribcage lifted. I circled him again. I was hanging on to the earth by my fingertips.

“Now,” Warden said, “the song is inviting you to go faster. One, two, three!”

I spun and threw my spirit.

My journey to his dreamscape was quick and fluid. It was as if I’d been trying to throw a diving bell; now I’d flicked a pennyweight at him. I caught a glimpse of the inside of his dreamscape. Where there had once been an expanse of ash, a glimmer of bright color shone at the very center. The sight called to me: the engine of his body, tempting me to take control, to puppeteer him. But then I threw myself back out again, back into my own dreamscape, sheathing my spirit in flesh . . .

My palms hit cement. The shock jarred my arms, right to the shoulders. And my legs were trembling, but I was on my feet.

I didn’t fall.

The song came to a sudden end and my knees gave way. But instead of being in pain, I was laughing, punch-drunk. Warden helped me up, cupping his hands under my elbows.

“That is the music I wanted to hear,” he said. “When was the last time you laughed?”

“Have you
ever
laughed, Warden?”

“There is very little to laugh about when one is the blood-consort of Nashira Sargas.”

Another song started. I hardly heard it. We stood too close to one another, my elbows still cradled by his palms, holding me against him.

“Rephaim are most vulnerable,” he said, “at the points at which
our
bodies are most closely aligned with the physical world. Stab a Rephaite in the heel or knee or hand, and you are more likely to cause them pain than you are by striking at the head or heart.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.

The light in his eyes was soft now, like a candle flame. I reached up and laid my palm against his cheek.

And one of his hands glided up my bare arm, over my shoulder and neck, and gently held the back of my head.

It should have been so easy to re-enact the Guildhall. There was no Nashira behind the red curtain, no Jaxon in the other room. In those moments, nothing in the world could have persuaded me to dreamwalk. Or to run. All my senses centered on the way he felt against me, and the empty space between his lips and mine; on the way our auras ran into one another, like colors on a loom. I spread my fingers over his heart, taking him in. His hand in my hair, the heat of his breath.

“You call a past lover an ‘old flame.’” His apple-gold eyes were more chilling than beautiful, his face carved out of nothing earthly. “For Rephaim, it takes a long time for a flame to catch. But once it burns, it cannot go out.”

It didn’t take long to understand what he meant.

“But I will,” I said. “I’ll stop. I’ll go out.”

There was a long silence.

“Yes,” Warden said, very softly. “You will go out.”

He let go of me. With the contact broken, the night came rushing into me. “Don’t talk in riddles.” My chest was locked up tight, like a strongbox. “I know what you’re saying. And I don’t know why it happened, in the Guildhall. What I was thinking. I was afraid and you were kind to me. If you were human—”

“But I am not.” His gaze burned into mine. “Your respect for the status quo continues to surprise me.”

I watched his face, trying to work it out.

“
Know that I am a Rephaite, and can only ever understand your world from an outsider’s perspective. Know that the road walked at my side is not an easy one,” he said, quiet as ever, “and that if we are discovered, you will not only lose the support you need from the Ranthen, but quite possibly your life as well. I want you to acknowledge this, Paige.”

Love didn’t come into this, and we both knew it. Arcturus Mesarthim was of the veil, not the world, and I was a daughter of the streets. If the Ranthen discovered anything between us, the fragile alliance we’d forged would be broken. But I could feel his warm, solid presence from here—the beating of his spirit, the tantalizing dark arc of his dreamscape, a flame wrapped up in smoke—and I realized that none of those things would change my mind. I still wanted him with me, just as I had before climbing aboard that train to my freedom.

“I didn’t choose an easy life. And if I’m being paid to follow orders,” I said, “then I’m just another kind of slave. Terebell should give me the money because she wants to destroy Scion and everything it stands for. Not to keep me under her control.”

Warden looked at me, into me. He reached into the record player case and took out his gloves. I stiffened.

“There are always reasons,” he said.

With the gloves on, he reached into the case and took out a flower. A poppy anemone with perfect scarlet petals, the flower that would scald him if he touched it. He held it out to me.

“For the scrimmage. I understand that they still use the Victorian language of flowers.”

Silently, I took it.

“Paige.” His voice was a gray shadow of itself. “It is not that I do not want you. Only that I might want you too much. And for too long.”

Something stirred inside me.

“You can never want too much. That’s how they silence us,” I said. “They told us we were lucky to be in the penal colony instead
of
the æther. Lucky to be murdered with NiteKind, not the noose. Lucky to be alive, even if we weren’t free. They told us to stop wanting more than what they gave us, because what they gave us was more than we deserved.” I picked up my jacket. “You’re not a prisoner any more, Arcturus.”

Warden looked at me in silence. I left him in that ruined hall with the music echoing above him.

****

By the time I got back to the den, the door was still locked. The others must have given up on waiting for me to finish my “job.” The gate to the courtyard was barred and chained, too. Jaxon really was making his point known.

I climbed up the building to the other side, where my window was ajar. I peeled the contacts from my aching eyes. A note lay on the nightstand, written in sleek black ink.

I trust you enjoyed your stroll. Tell me, darling, are you a dreamwalker or a flâneuse, sauntering about the town by night? Fortunately for you, I have been called to a gathering, but we will discuss your disobedience in the morning. I am losing my patience.

Nadine must have told him. I tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Jaxon could take his patience and shove it down the neck of a bottle. Fully clothed, I lay down on the bed and gazed into the darkness.

Warden was right. I was mortal. He wasn’t.

He was Rephaite. I wasn’t.

I imagined what Nick would say if I confessed to what I felt. I knew, I
knew
what he’d say. That the mental strain of captivity had forced me to develop an irrational degree of empathy toward Warden. That I was a fool for feeling like this.

I
imagined what Jaxon would say.
Hearts are frivolous things, good for nothing but pickling.
He’d say it made me weak. That commitment, however small, was a fatal flaw in a mollisher.

But Warden cared if I laughed. He cared if I lived or died. He had seen me as I was, not as the world saw me.

And that meant something.

It had to. Didn’t it?

Sudden resolve pushed through me, and my head was crystal-clear again. Barefoot, I stole into Jaxon’s darkened office, where “Danse Macabre” was playing, and took a thick roll of paper and a candle from one of the cabinets. In the gloom, I lowered myself into my mime-lord’s chair and bent my head to write my application for the scrimmage.

****

In the morning, just before sunrise, I went straight to the Garden and headed for the largest flower stall. There were already several voyants there, waiting for the stall to open so they could buy their posies for late applicants. Each kind had a label to describe its meanings in the language of flowers.

You could tell which ones were popular. Gladiolus, the warrior’s flower. Cedar for strength. Begonia—a warning of a fierce fight in the ring. I walked past all those. After deliberating, I took some Bells-of-Ireland for luck, and finally, a single purple bittersweet.

Truth
, the label said.

I threaded them all together in a single posy, tied with black ribbon: luck, truth and Rephaite’s bane, the flower that could bring down giants. Under the rising sun, I walked to the dead drop, where I laid the message down with my application.

Whatever happened next, I was not going to be the Pale Dreamer for much longer.