The Mime Order (43 page)

And the creature smiled, as beautiful as she was strange.

“My dear Henry,” she said, “you must assure the lords that I do not come to harm your people, you who are blind to the spirit world. I come only to liberate the clairvoyants of London.”

Goose bumps broke out all over me. That hadn’t been in the original. The word had been
incarcerate
, not
liberate
, and I was sure Nashira hadn’t been described as
beautiful
. Had she? I didn’t have the two originals now—they were with Alfred and Terebell—but why would any of us have written
beautiful
?

I read further. If it was just one mistake, it would be fine. But no, there were more and more of them, accumulating like a growth of mold on the heart of the story.

Then the lady’s shadow fell across the street, and with trembling hands the seer beheld her, and at once, her beauty soothed his wounded spirit.

“Come with me, poor lost soul,” said she, “and I shall take you to the place beyond despair.”

And the seer stood, and he was overjoyed.

This time a hard jolt went through my chest. No. This was wrong. Nothing had been written about Nashira’s beauty, or its soothing of anyone’s wounded spirit. And no, not
overjoyed
. . . the right word was
terrified
, I remembered it clearly from the manuscript
. . .
I picked up my burner and dialed the number Alfred had given me, my heart pounding in my throat, my mouth dry. It rang and rang.

“Come on,” I hissed.

Finally,
after two more attempts, there was a crackle on the other end. “Yes, what is it?”

“I need to speak to Alfred. Tell him it’s the Pale Dreamer.”

“One moment.”

My fingers tapped on the nightstand. Finally, a familiar voice called down the line: “Hello, dear heart! How fares
The Rephaite Revelation
?”

“It’s been edited extensively.” I fought to keep control of my voice. “Who did this?”

“The writers, of course. Did they not tell you?”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. “The writers,” I repeated. “Did you hear their voices, Alfred?”

“Well, I certainly heard somebody’s voice. A very nice young man named Felix Coombs. He said that on reflection, he thought that there needed to be a good faction in the pamphlet as well as an evil one. As the Rephaim are the less repulsive of the two, they were chosen as the ‘good guys,’ to use a colloquial phrase.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, just before it went to press.” Pause. “Is something wrong, dear heart? Was there a typographical error?”

I sat back on the bed, my heart pounding in slow, sick throbs.

“No,” I said. “Never mind.”

I hung up. With heat in my eyes, I read the pamphlet again, staring at the printed letters.

Terebell’s money had been used to glorify the Sargas.

The Rephaim didn’t feed on humans. There was no sign of the poppy anemone. They were shown fighting the wicked Emim, protecting feeble clairvoyants. It was the beautiful myth, the one Scion’s leaders had believed for two hundred years: a dark tale of the wise, omnipotent Rephaim, the gods on Earth, defending humans from the rotten giants. A black wave rose and swelled over my head.

Felix hadn’t made that call of his own accord. Someone must
have
got wind of the pamphlet, someone who wanted to protect the Rephaim. To give them a good reputation.

The Rag and Bone Man. It had to be. He knew about the Rephaim. If he had the fugitives . . . if he gave them to Nashira . . .

A thin film of sweat coated my body. I wiped my upper lip with my sleeve, but I couldn’t stop the trembling. It wasn’t Alfred’s fault. He’d done his best—and besides, he wouldn’t have any idea why I was upset. It was only a story, after all. Only someone else’s story.

It didn’t matter now. It was out there. What mattered was that the fugitives had been found. I made a grab for my coat and hat, threw them on and pushed the window open.

“Paige?” The door creaked open, and Eliza walked in. “Paige, I need to—”

She stopped dead when she saw me crouched on the windowsill, my hand gripping the frame. “I have to go out,” I said, already swinging my legs over the edge. “Eliza, would you keep an ear out for the phone booth? Tell Nick I’ve gone to see the other fugitives.”

Slowly, she closed the door behind her. “Where?”

“Camden Market.”

“Oh, really?” She hitched a smile on to her face. “I wouldn’t mind coming, actually. Jax needs some more white aster.”

That gave me pause. “Why?”

“Just between you and me, I think he’s been slipping it into his absinthe. I can’t work out what’s wrong with him lately. He’s going to smoke and drink himself to death.”

Whatever it was he wanted to forget, he wouldn’t tell us. “We won’t be shopping. The whole district’s in lockdown,” I said, then paused. “Actually, I could use your help. If you’re free.”

“What are we doing?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.” I beckoned to her. “Bring a knife. And a gun.”

****

I got a local buck cabbie to drop us off at the quiet, residential northern end of Hawley Street, as near as she could get to the Stables Market. “The Rag Dolls won’t let us get any closer to the markets,” she said to me. “Couriers, unlicensed cabs, any underworld folk who operate from outside the district. Don’t know what’s got into them. You’ll have some trouble getting in, I’ll wager.” She held out a hand. “And that’ll be eight pounds forty, please.”

“The White Binder will reimburse you,” I said, already halfway out of the cab. “Put the bill in the I-4 dead drop.”

As she drove away, I climbed up some scaffolding. Eliza followed me, but she didn’t look happy.

“Paige,” she said, exasperated, “do you want to explain what the blistering hell we’re doing here?”

“I want to check up on the other fugitives. Something’s wrong.”

“And you know this how?”

I couldn’t answer without letting it slip that I was involved with the penny dreadful. “I just know.”

“Oh, come
on
.” She hopped to the next rooftop. “Even voyants don’t get to say that sort of shit, Paige.”

I took off at a run across the flat rooftops. When I reached the building at the end of the street, I crouched down at the edge of the roof and examined the scene below. Chalk Farm Road was already wide awake, its shops pulsing out lights and music, the pavement awash with amaurotics and voyants. If we could cross the street without being seen and get over the wall we’d be in the Stables Market, minutes from the boutique.

Auras flickered whenever a voyant passed. There was a Rag Doll slouched against the wall, blue-haired and armed with two pistols, but she was too far away to pick up on my aura. With Eliza shadowing me, I climbed down the other side of the building and made a
dash
across the street, elbowing an amaurotic out of the way as I went. A quick jump took me to the top of the wall. Eliza scrambled after me, but her legs were shorter. I grabbed her under the arms and hauled her over to the other side.

“Are you off the cot?” she whispered to me angrily. “You heard what the cabbie said!”

“I heard.” I was already walking. “And I want to know what the Rag Dolls have got to hide from the rest of us.”

“Who cares what the other sections do? Your shoulders aren’t big enough for the whole of London’s problems, Paige . . .”

“Maybe not,” I said, “but if Jaxon wants to be Underlord, his shoulders need to get a little wider.” I kept a hand on my knife. “By the way, has Jax had a good rummage through your room, or is it just mine?”

She glanced at me. “I did notice a few things had been moved. You think it’s Jaxon?”

“It has to be.”

The market was busy at this time of the afternoon, when Scion’s working day came to an end. Moribund sunlight glinted off racks of jewelry. I traversed the enclosed tunnels of the market, making my way between stalls and beneath chandeliers, keeping a constant lookout for Rag Dolls. Any of these people could be working for them. Every time I spotted a voyant, I ducked out of sight until they passed, pulling Eliza with me. By the time I reached the right place, I’d seen two large groups of Dolls and countless loitering voyants, no doubt in their employ.

Agatha’s Boutique was locked up, with a CLOSED FOR RENOVA- TION sign on the door. Every piece of jewellery had vanished from the window displays. The door was guarded by a cluster of armed Rag Dolls. One of them—a bearded medium with wiry, pale green hair—had a carton of food balanced on his knee. The others were all alert, watching the nearest traders setting up their stalls.

“
Eliza,” I said, and she leaned in closer, “you think you can distract them?”

“You
can’t
go in there,” she hissed. “Imagine if someone tried to sneak into one of our buildings. Jaxon would—”

“—beat them senseless, I know.” These guys wouldn’t just do that; they’d kill me. “Just get them away from the shop for five minutes. I’ll meet you back at the den in an hour or two.”

“You’d better pay me for this, Paige. You owe me two weeks’ wages. Two
years
’ wages.”

I just looked at her. With a few whispered curses, she crawled out from under the table. “Give me your hat,” she said, holding out a hand. I took it off and tossed it to her.

If they had six guards posted to watch the shop, there must be something in there worth seeing. The fugitives might still be in the cellar, chained up like Warden had been in the catacombs.

I waited, watching the shop. Eliza had been a member of the Seven Seals for longer than I had, and a thief from her early childhood. She was a master of distraction and quick getaways, even if she hadn’t done much street work since Jaxon had employed her.

After a minute, I sensed her again, approaching from my right. She came out of a shop wearing a stolen pair of cinder glasses, her ringlets crammed into my hat, looking like someone who didn’t want to be seen. As soon as the Rag Dolls caught sight of her, they stiffened. One of them rose to her feet.

“Hey.”

Eliza sped up, keeping her head down, and made toward the nearest passage. A Rag Doll with violet hair made a grab for her gun. “You, stay here,” she said. “I don’t like the look of her.”

The others stood with her. The man looked up from his food for long enough to roll his eyes. “It’s not like there’s anything to steal in here.”

“
Well, if there is, and it goes missing, you’ll be the one explaining things to Chiffon. And she’s not in the best mood these days.”

Eliza broke into a run, and the Rag Dolls took off after her. As soon as they were gone, I walked straight past the remaining guard, who didn’t so much as glance at me, and made my way to the back of the shop. There had been a basement window, I recalled. After a minute of searching, I found it and kicked it in, sending glass pattering down on to the floorboards. It was a tight squeeze, but I just about got myself through the gap.

The bolthole was empty. To the outside eye, it was nothing but a cellar for an empty shop.

I stayed there for a while, crouched among the broken glass. It glistened in the dim light from outside. My first guess was that the fugitives had been taken to the Camden Catacombs, but that hiding place was compromised now. There had to be
something
here . . .

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, my finger traced a smear of dry blood across the floorboards. It disappeared under an empty bookcase, made of dark, smooth wood.

Agatha had said that her boutique was the
bolthole
of II-4. A bolthole wasn’t just a hiding spot, but a way out of the district. Ours led from Seven Dials to Soho Square. Hector’s had given him a means of escaping under the fence that surrounded his slum. If they’d been trying to move the fugitives without anyone noticing, it would make sense to do it underground.

The entrance to this cellar was concealed from Vigile inspections by a curio cabinet in the shop above, and I was willing to bet that the bookcase was secret door number two. I dug my fingers in behind it and pulled with all my might, sweat standing out on my brow as my arms burned. With a hollow
click
, it finally swung open on well-oiled hinges, hardly making a sound. Beyond it was a narrow stone passage, too low for me to stand up straight. Cold, musty air drifted out, unsettling my hair.

A
sensible part of me told me to wait until I had backup, but listening to that voice had never got me anywhere. I switched on my flashlight and walked inside, leaving the bookcase ajar behind me.

****

It was a long, long walk. The passageway started small and nondescript, with barely any space for me to extend my elbows beyond my ribcage, before it widened enough for me to breathe in the dank air without wheezing. I had to keep my head down and my shoulders hunched to keep from knocking myself out on the low ceiling, which looked to be made of cement.

Soon I found myself peering into the Camden Catacombs through an air vent. It was too dark to make out much, but I could see enough to know that I was looking into Warden’s cell.

I was starting to suspect that Ivy’s trust in her old kidsman had been misplaced. Agatha had been the gatekeeper of the Rag and Bone Man’s den—and something else, from the looks of it. The passageway continued in another direction. I took a deep breath and pressed on.

Another ten minutes passed before my flashlight gave a flicker and went out, leaving me in absolute darkness.
Shit
. I tapped my watch, and the Nixie tubes inside it glowed faintly blue. I was starting to wish I’d brought Eliza with me, if only for someone to talk to. I hoped on hope that she’d escaped the Rag Dolls, or she’d be the next person to vanish without a trace. If I didn’t disappear first, of course. My only comfort was that if I got lost down here, Warden would be able to sense where I was.

Using my hands to navigate, I kept going, bumping my head every few paces, until I emerged into a passage with the distinctive, rounded ceiling of the London Underground. I drew back at once, reaching for my revolver, but the tunnel was unoccupied. Another lost station, by the looks of it, like the one under the Tower.