The Bones of Ruin

by Sarah Raughley

  At Jinn’s scowl, Max waved his hand. “You’re getting us all wrong. We’re not so bad. Just trying to survive.”

  “I heard you loud and clear.” Jinn shot him a withering look. “Tell me, how many other kids did you beat up and steal from while you were ‘just trying to survive’?”

  “You’re taking this rather personally, aren’t you?” Max stood up straight, all signs of peacemaking gone from his expression. “There something you want to share with the group?”

  Jinn pressed his lips together, his eyes darting to Iris, but then darting away just as quickly. It made Iris curious herself, but there were more pressing matters. Iris sighed, trying to think of a way to break the tension.

  It was Cherice who managed it, wrapping a strong arm around Max’s neck, forcefully bringing him back down to her height once more. “Well, let’s just let bygones be bygones, shall we? Who are these lovely people? Not thinking of replacing us, were you?”

  Iris wondered if Cherice realized by the red turn of Max’s face just how tightly she was squeezing his neck. Or if she cared.

  Max’s friends. While holding Max hostage, Cherice explained their abilities, though Iris wasn’t sure if she’d caught it all. Apparently, using her will alone, Cherice could move her cards, even sharpening the sturdy paper to a point where they became as deadly as knives. Her powers strangely didn’t work on anything else. Hawkins—well, Iris had seen with her own eyes what Hawkins could do, while Jacob could make anyone speak and understand—or not understand—any language he pleased. There were likely limits to their powers, as with Max. But it still made them a fearsome group.

  “Wait,” said Max suddenly, freeing himself from Cherice’s steal grip. “Hawkins, Jacob—did you come across Bately recently?”

  The two young men stared at each other quickly. Then, curiously, at Iris. As Jacob rubbed the back of his head, Hawkins cleared his throat. “Yeah, a few days ago. He put the whammy on us. You know his usual game.”

  That silver tongue. The one that had compelled Iris into submission.

  “But it’s nothing to worry about,” Jacob said quickly. “We’ve gotten out of plenty of scrapes, you know that. Truthfully, I was surprised to see him. I heard he skipped town.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hawkins said in barely a whisper. “One day, we’ll finally get that bastard and make him pay.” His expression was suddenly menacing. Cherice’s too. Even Max’s features grew dark as a worried Jacob looked on. There was something Max wasn’t telling her.

  “At any rate, let me introduce myself properly.” Iris tossed her stick aside. “My name is Iris. Iris…” She paused, remembering the photo from the British Museum. “Iris Marlow… I suppose.”

  “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, lovely girl?” Hawkins inspected her in a way that was all too familiar to Iris.

  “So am I,” Jacob said quietly. “And Max. Or did you forget?”

  As Cherice nodded in agreement, Hawkins shrugged. “Didn’t mean anything by it. You know I’m the type to be interested in everyone’s stories.”

  “Even though you’d have to pull out his tooth to get him to share his own,” Cherice added with a smirk.

  “Jacob’s from Labrador, far across the pond,” Max explained to a confused Iris.

  “Oh, an Eskimo?” Iris asked, recalling the act Coolie had tried to produce while they were performing somewhere in Germany: “The Wild Eskimos,” he wanted to call it. Except in Germany he couldn’t find anyone to fulfill the role.

  “Inuk,” Jacob corrected quietly with a kind smile.

  “O-oh, I’m sorry.” Iris felt a sheepish flush in her cheeks.

  “He was born far up north, so it would have been cold as all hell,” Max said. “Totally opposite from my old home—at least, from what I can remember of it.”

  “I was brought to Europe with my parents as a baby, so I have very little recollection of it,” Jacob said.

  Iris noticed the tinge of loss in his eyes. Maybe that was why she hesitated before asking: “How… Why did you come here?”

  An uncomfortable silence pervaded the group. Max waved away the question with a little laugh. “Like Hawkins said, we all have our stories. In any case, let’s get out of here before the police gather up some courage. Besides, Iris, you and I have some underwear to buy before we head on over to Club Uriel,” he added, wincing from Iris’s blow to the head while Cherice’s wide eyes narrowed, her face red.

  “Club Uriel?” Cherice stared at the three of them: Max, Jinn, and Iris. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Fanciful Freaks,” Iris and Cherice said in unison.

  It didn’t take long for Iris to catch up. Cherice’s strange abilities. Two groups of three. Two teams. The tournament.

  Max’s childhood friends were their competitors.

  A thick tension descended upon them. Iris, Max, and Jinn had fought the Sparrow twins and Bellerose’s guard just yesterday, surviving by the skin of their teeth, and the tournament hadn’t even started yet. What kind of bloody mess awaited them all?

  What kind of bloody mess would they have to inflict on each other?

  But Hawkins and Jacob didn’t look so surprised. They exchanged glances and nodded. It didn’t exactly inspire Iris with confidence.

  Quickly, Max slid through his friends, standing in the middle of the two teams. “Okay, it seems we’re in a bit of a predicament.”

  Understatement. Iris scooted closer to Jinn without realizing it. And of course Jinn noticed, as he noticed all her little movements. She felt his gentle grip around her elbow as he pulled her closer to him.

  “Not a predicament,” insisted Hawkins. “An opportunity. To be honest, we had a feeling you’d join the tournament.”

  “You did?” Cherice placed her hands on her hips, flustered. “Really?” Seemed they’d kept her in the dark.

  “A man named Adam Temple heard about your record in the Pit and asked about you. Told us he was looking to build his team.”

  Max shifted on his feet uncomfortably, and Iris couldn’t blame him. A man keeping tabs on you, researching you for however long just to see if you were fit for his supernatural team? Adam had taken Iris to the Pit to meet a potential teammate, and all the while her potential teammate was clueless about him and his intentions. Iris could relate.

  “The tournament isn’t ideal, but if we win it, we’d never have to look for money again,” said Jacob. “You wouldn’t have to fight in the Pit for chump change anymore.”

  “But now he’s exchanging the Pit for a tournament in which we’re all enemies,” said Iris quietly.

  “No, not enemies,” said Max, suddenly more serious than ever before. “Doesn’t matter why or how or when we all signed on to do this tournament. I trust all of you. Even that glum bloke.” He flicked his head toward Jinn, who rolled his eyes in response.

  Hawkins smiled. “Thought you’d say that. That’s exactly why I’d call this an opportunity. We don’t need to see each other as rivals. We’re friends. We have a positive connection. We can help each other.”

  “A partnership?” Cherice said, scurrying closer to them.

  “A pact.” Jinn finally moved himself off the building, his catlike eyes watching them carefully with a quiet note of distrust. “That whatever happens, we won’t harm or sabotage each other. That’s the least we can do.”

  “More than that. We can game the system and run off with the cash together.” Hawkins grinned. “Not like we haven’t done that before.”

  Max returned that grin with conspiratorial glee.

  A strategic alliance. It was only the smart thing to do.

  “I’ll start,” Iris offered. “By sharing some information about the Fanciful Freaks of London.”

  At the sound of that particular title, Hawkins looked rather stiff. Iris couldn’t help but notice Jacob’s gaze sliding toward him with a hint of worry.

  “You mean Chadwick’s penny blood series or the Committee’s oh-so-exclusive show?” Cherice said, wrig
gling her fingers mockingly.

  Pressing his lips together tightly, Hawkins flipped loose strands of blond hair over his shoulder. “If it’s the latter, save your breath. I heard it’s tacky and cheaply produced. An insult to my refined tastes.”

  “Refined.” Cherice rolled her eyes, her lips curling teasingly. “Always talking like a baron as if you aren’t deep in the dirt with the rest of us.”

  “Max told me you were all at the South Kensington International Exhibition ten years ago. June second,” said Iris. “That’s when an explosion happened. We think that explosion may have caused a lot of people at the fair to change. Us included…”

  Except that wasn’t right. Iris was a Fanciful Freak long before that day at the fair. Adam had made that clear. And the exhibit. The sight of her ancient bones hanging behind a glass case. She would never be able to forget it.

  “Your theory, Miss Iris?” Jacob asked.

  “Theory?” Iris lowered her head sheepishly. “Well…”

  “We’re working on it,” Max offered, giving Iris a little wink. Cherice scowled. “But as far as I’m concerned, we should try thinking of it together. Part of the alliance.”

  “I’ve never much cared.” Hawkins shrugged. “Things are what they are. No reason to dig any further.”

  Iris gave a quiet little huff. How nice to have such a blasé attitude about the truth. Meanwhile, it kept Iris up at night.

  “Why don’t we gather our things and head over to Club Uriel,” said Jacob. He seemed rather comfortable in the role of mediator.

  It was Hawkins he looked to for confirmation. The golden-haired boy just shrugged.

  Max nodded and turned to the others. “What do you say?”

  Although Iris wasn’t quite as confident as she’d let on, she couldn’t help feeling relieved that they may have already found a strategy to get through whatever bizarre horrors they were about to face during this tournament. She nodded.

  “Then, to Club Uriel.” With a princely bow and sweep of his hand, Hawkins gestured them forward. “Ladies first.”

  Cherice and Iris made the same impatient face before striding out of the narrow street. Theories. Iris narrowed her eyes as she thought. A gas leak couldn’t be responsible for what gave the Fanciful Freaks their powers. But if not that, then what?

  18

  THOUGH IT WAS LATE MORNING, dark clouds had already begun to loom. The teams took two separate cabs to 52 Pall Mall Street. Team Iris, as Iris had dubbed them teasingly, had their own carriage, but it was hardly big enough for the three of them. Max had happily offered his lap to her, much to her chagrin. Then, to escape her knuckles aimed at his gut, he sat on Jinn’s lap, much to his chagrin.

  Soon, they were all standing with their meager belongings in front of a red-brown brick building on Pall Mall Street. Iris read the black letters scrawled against a mahogany plaque screwed into the white front door: CLUB URIEL. ESTABLISHED BY PROFESSOR RODERICK HAYES, SEPTEMBER 3, 1812. MEMBERS ONLY. Their temporary home during the tournament.

  They glanced at each other. Iris placed her hands on the knob and, swallowing the lump in her throat, pushed open the door. The scruffy-looking teams baffled the doorman, who was even a little incensed when Iris showed him her invitation card, courtesy of Adam. But the rules were the rules. He begrudgingly let them inside, Cherice sticking out her tongue as she passed.

  The club had all the trimmings of wealth. The steep wooden stairs they climbed were swept clean and had smooth railings, located in a colorfully wallpapered, spacious lobby. The walls were pearl and ruby-rimmed at the bottom, perfectly matching the second floor’s red velvet carpeting. And from the bottom steps if Iris looked up, she could see a golden-framed portrait of a white man in a black suit and tie, his furry dark mustache warming his thin lips. Professor Hayes himself, maybe. A gentleman’s club, to be sure.

  “We’re really meant to live here?” Cherice said in awe.

  Likely. From outside, it was clear the building was six floors in total. A gentleman’s club and temporary hotel for the supernaturally gifted. Hawkins looked thoroughly satisfied.

  The sound of chattering grew louder as they ascended the stairs.

  By the time they’d rounded a corner, the chatter turned to screaming.

  Shocked, the six followed the sound into a room fit for the upper echelons. Golden-framed portraits of important men lined the white walls. Brass chandeliers hung on the high ceiling buttressed by white classical columns. Two rows of red leather couches bordered each wall. Ferns and other potted plants brightened the room with color.

  At the front of that room, a bearded man gripped a wealthy woman’s neck with one hand, his other inches away from the side of her face. He looked like a grenade ready to detonate.

  And his hand glowed red-hot.

  “I said, give me the key to the bloody safe!” he screamed in front of a roaring fireplace, his black hair limp on his creased forehead. He looked sick with his red face and dilapidated clothes. One of his brown eyes was clouded and pale, the other clear but unfocused.

  “I’m not gonna ask twice. Unless ye want to see Mrs. Cordiero’s brains melted all over this lovely carpet! Eh? Oi, are you listening to me?”

  Iris made a move, but Jinn held her back, shaking his head. The situation was dangerous. The man sounded not just malicious but desperate. Sweat glued his hair to his pink forehead while his glowing hand fidgeted. A volatile situation, to be sure.

  But the members of Club Uriel were not impressed. Most continued their discussions, sipping from their wineglasses, or else watched the hostage situation with amused curiosity. Even the hostage herself, a big-boned woman with curly black hair, looked annoyed, as if she were more concerned with being touched by a sickly, filthy man than being harmed by him.

  “Cordiero?” one member said. “But he’s your Patron, is he not?”

  “It’s always interesting to see a dog bite the hand of his master, isn’t it?” another said, followed by smatterings of laughter.

  The man was incensed, and Iris couldn’t blame him. Even with his power, the members of Club Uriel couldn’t be bothered to take him seriously.

  “I’m no one’s dog, not anymore. I told you, I’m finished with you lot!” The pupil of his bad eye quivered oddly as he looked around. “Open the safe and give me my money, or—”

  Bang.

  Iris smelled gunpowder but didn’t see the gun. The man drooped to the floor with a hole in his head.

  After the stunned silence had passed, conversations resumed. Servants, dressed in red vests and trousers, continued weaving through the chairs offering drinks. As two of them carried the man’s dead body away, Mrs. Cordiero straightened out her dress with a huff and stalked back to her seat.

  The only smoke Iris could trace came from outside the room. Just around the corner, Iris could see the swish of black robes, the back of a man’s shaved head, and a white collar around his brown neck. But by the time Iris ran to the entrance, he’d already disappeared.

  “Iris,” Adam called from one of the leather seats close to the fireplace. “Oh, and another team. Welcome.”

  The club members glanced at the six of them, muttering and chuckling as they drank.

  “Look,” said Hawkins, disgusted at the display—or maybe the indignity of being stared at. “Just tell us where to put our things.”

  “Third floor,” answered Adam. “Mr. Alva will show you to your room.”

  An aged servant bowed and gestured for Hawkins to follow him. After one last anxious look toward Iris, Max, and Jinn, Cherice followed Hawkins and Jacob out the door.

  “Iris, come sit,” Adam said. “Of course, Jinn and Max are welcome too.”

  They did. Adam flipped his silver coin across his knuckles as he watched them approach. A snap of his fingers brought a servant rushing to give them three small glasses of liquor. Brandy. Max took his in one shot.

  “Blokes getting a hole in the head,” Max said, setting his glass down on the wooden table. �
�Part of the fun, is it?”

  “Oh, that. Yes, that was unfortunate.” Adam leaned back into his chair. “He was a champion like yourselves,” he said. “I didn’t expect him to take a hostage. Now Cordiero will have to replace him quickly or stick with the two he already has.”

  “Oh, poor Cordiero,” Max spat.

  “Sometimes getting one’s hands dirty is a sad but unavoidable necessity.” Adam stared at him. “Wouldn’t you say, Maximo?”

  Max had no response.

  “Champions.” Iris’s bottom lip curled as she remembered the helpless desperation of that man, only to be met with apathy. But then, even the Colosseum warriors of ancient Rome were owned by their masters. So this was Club Uriel.

  “None of these people were surprised in the least to see what that man could do,” said Jinn, folding his arms over his dull brown shirt. “I thought you said there were only seven members of your Committee.”

  “There are.”

  Jinn grimaced at Adam’s affable smile.

  “I told you before: Club Uriel has many members who share theories about evolution, rebirth, and the end of mankind over drinks,” Adam explained. “They have the privilege of being spectators of this tournament. But they’re not Committee members.”

  Iris recognized at least two from the auction. Every now and then they shot her greedy glances but didn’t dare interrupt while she was in Adam’s presence.

  Adam pinched his coin between two fingers and dropped it into his pocket. “I’ll eventually tell you more of what you need to know. But first, Iris, would you accompany me somewhere? Meanwhile,” he added after seeing Max and Jinn react quickly, “Mr. Mortius will show you to your room on the third floor.”

  “Third floor?” Max raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry, the other champions are scattered on different floors. But even if they weren’t, I assure you: you’ll be taken care of in Club Uriel.”