Cathedral of Bones

by A. J. Steiger

  “What exactly did you see in your father’s laboratory?” Alice asked.

  He covered his face with his hands.

  “Simon.”

  He wondered if she’d be better off not seeing the photograph. Maybe the truth would just frighten and confuse her . . . but that wasn’t his decision to make. He owed her this much. Slowly, he removed the photograph from his pocket and handed it to her. Her breath fluttered . . . then she fell silent.

  “There were others, too,” he said at last. “Other bodies, I mean.” Bodies. The word felt so cold, like clay on his tongue.

  Alice clutched the photograph, her expression unreadable, blank. “So. This is me.”

  “It would seem so.”

  The photograph slipped from her fingers and fell to the white, glittering sand of the temple floor. She didn’t move to pick it up.

  Rain fell in a shimmering curtain through the hole in the roof, dripping from the branches and leaves of the Gaokerena.

  “There was a tree like this in the mountains, too,” Alice said.

  “You remember?”

  “I do now. Maybe I was hiding it from myself.” She hugged her knees. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “I saw something in the mountains. A sort of . . . pod. It seemed to be growing out of the tree. I didn’t know what it was. That’s where you came from? Where you . . . ?”

  “Hatched. Yes.” A tiny, bitter smile touched her lips. “I was a human girl. Then I died. Then I was reborn from a pod growing out of a tree . . . except now I’m this. And I still can’t remember a damn thing about who I was. What sense does that make? Am I even alive?”

  He thought about Alice’s love of coffee. Her wry, subtle sense of humor. The way she’d thrown her arms around him and squeezed him tight. “If you aren’t alive, then I don’t know what being alive is.”

  She uttered a tiny laugh, though it sounded more like a sob.

  For a few minutes, neither one of them spoke.

  “They’re getting closer,” Alice said. “I can smell them. They must know we’re here.”

  The weary hopelessness in her voice was more terrifying than anything. “We just have to think. If we give up, it’s all over. Remember that situation in the mountain cabin? We got out of that alive. We can do it again.”

  “You bluffed your way through that. Somehow, I don’t think that will work this time.”

  “Then we’ll fight them.”

  “If we do, we’ll both die.”

  She was right. Try as he might, he couldn’t see another outcome. “Then what?”

  She uncurled herself, straightening her shoulders. “I’m going to turn myself in.”

  Panic leaped in his chest. “Alice. No.”

  “I have to.”

  “There’s got to be a better way. If we can just find a place to hide until morning, maybe the patrols will give up, and then we’ll have a chance to escape—”

  “And then what would I do? Go back to hiding in the wilderness like an animal? We barely had a plan to begin with, Simon.” She smiled wanly. “You’ve done enough. I won’t have you dying for my sake. I have to face this.”

  Simon opened his mouth to protest . . . then closed it. There was no way he would stand back and allow them to take Alice, but arguing about it was a waste of energy. Instead, he closed his eyes, pressed his hands to the stones beneath him, and began to draw in meta. There was a great deal of it, here—the tree burned with it, glowed with it. Its sprawling network of roots feathered the ground beneath the Temple and spread outward under the street. Simon pulled meta from deep within the tree’s heart, filling up his internal stores. He felt the energy pooling inside him like warm wine. His fingertips prickled.

  When they came, he would be ready.

  “Simon . . .” Alice’s voice shook.

  His eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his feet. Alice rose beside him, her tentacles massing beneath her and pushing her upward in one smooth movement.

  A row of four cloaked and hooded Animists stood just inside the doorway, blocking their exit. He hadn’t heard their approach; they were on foot, having abandoned their mounts so they could move in quietly, like oiled shadows. A woman stepped forward from the group and faced Simon. With one hand, she reached up and pulled down her hood and shook out her dark hair. Her face was grim, with the faintest trace of sadness.

  “Neeta,” he said. He wasn’t surprised to see her. On some level, maybe, he’d been expecting it.

  Neeta’s cool gaze flicked to Alice. “You will come with us,” she said.

  Alice rose to her feet. Simon stepped in front of her.

  Neeta’s hand rested on the hilt of her weapon—a bladed staff, its blades currently sheathed and hidden within the staff itself. During their years together, he had never actually seen her use it. She’d told him that it was only for emergencies. “Stand aside, Simon.”

  “What are you planning to do with her?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “It’s very much my concern.”

  There was a rustle of movement as the three other Animists reached for their own weapons. Neeta held up a hand, and they froze. She regarded Simon coolly. “Don’t do anything rash. We’re not here for you. Just the Abomination.”

  Simon’s fingers twitched, curling into fists.

  His best chance would be to create some sort of diversion. He didn’t have the power to defeat Neeta and several other top-tier Animists, but he could distract them, at least long enough to let Alice escape.

  Of course, then he would be arrested. But he didn’t care. It was his fault she was in this mess to begin with.

  His breathing quickened as he reached for the warm pulse of meta in the center of his being. He felt full, brimming with power; his fingertips glowed with it.

  “You should know,” Neeta said, looking at Simon, “I spoke to your father tonight, and he told us about the Abomination. In exchange for the information he gave us, he made me promise that you would not suffer any consequences for your part in this. If you do something stupid, however, I can’t guarantee that immunity.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. His father had willingly handed Alice over to the Foundation.

  A sickening mixture of heat and cold swept through Simon. A red haze crept across his vision. The blood roared in his head. His palms grew hot as meta collected in his skin, crackling.

  Alice gripped his wrist suddenly, and Simon gave a start. He met her gaze, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. She turned to Neeta. “I’ll cooperate.”

  “Alice! Don’t do this!”

  Her fingers tightened on his wrist. “I told you. I won’t let you throw away your life for me. Do you understand?” Her voice was a harsh whisper. “I won’t.”

  He looked into her eyes. They were calm, steady—but beneath the calm was a terrible deadness. “Please.”

  “This is my choice.” She released his wrist and stepped forward. “My life is already over.”

  “Restrain her,” Neeta said.

  A muscular Animist stepped forward and withdrew a pair of iron manacles from his robes. He slapped the manacles around Alice’s wrists. Alice stood, head raised, back rigid. Two Animists gripped her arms and led her toward the door. Neeta followed. “Alice!” Simon cried out.

  He couldn’t just stand here and watch them take away his only friend—the girl he had promised to protect.

  He ran after them, into the rainy night. A beetle-black coach waited in the street, drawn by a team of stocky horses. The patrol members shoved Alice into the back then climbed into the front seat.

  Simon raised both hands, chest heaving. Meta swirled in his chest, sparked through his veins. His palms sizzled lightning-yellow. “Let her go.”

  Neeta sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Simon . . .”

  “I said let. Her. Go.”

  Alice’s eyes widened. Her mouth shaped a word—he thought it was no. Then the coach door s
lammed shut, sealing her inside.

  All sound had fallen away. Simon was alone in the center of a still bubble, pressure building inside him, around him, spinning through the depths of his body and mind. He was an inferno, a beacon. He could feel himself blazing, drawing in power from the ground, the sea, from the very air. The blood sang in his veins.

  Neeta took a step back. A flicker of surprise broke through her mask, and he saw something in her eyes he’d never seen there before: fear. His heartbeat raced. He was more powerful than she’d thought.

  Neeta went into a defensive crouch and, with a smooth shhhk, drew her carved wooden staff. She pressed a lever on the side, and two double-edged blades sprang from the ends. “This is your last warning,” she said. “Stand back.”

  Simon took a step forward.

  “So be it,” Neeta muttered. Then, in a shout: “Get the Abomination out of here. I’ll take care of him myself.”

  The burly Animist poked his head out the window. “We can summon reinforcements.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  The driver cracked a whip; the horses broke into a trot, and the coach rattled away. Simon started to run after it, but Neeta blocked him. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

  He’d have to go through her, then. So be it. For once, there was no fear; his uncertainty had vanished, leaving only a sense of calm purpose. He felt as though he could move a mountain with his bare hands.

  Neeta gripped her staff, knuckles white, and launched herself at him. Simon thrust his hands out, releasing his power. It rushed at her in a golden torrent, pouring and sparking from his palms. Neeta spun her staff. It glowed brilliant blue, forming a bubble of cool sapphire light around her that deflected the streams of meta.

  Neeta stood unharmed, her staff held out in one hand. She beckoned him with the other—try again.

  He raised one hand, and a golden sphere blossomed in his palm like a tiny sun. Its heat scorched his skin, but he barely felt the pain. He hurled the sphere. It shot toward her, growing as it did until it was larger than her head. She batted it away, like a softball.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Her voice rose. “Come, Simon. I taught you better than that!” But she was sweating. Her face gleamed with it.

  He just had to get through her, and then he could rescue Alice.

  Grains of dirt and grit rose from the street, glowing golden. They flowed and arched in the air, a luminous cloud, like hundreds of fireflies moving with a single mind. Simon had no idea how he was doing it; he had never done anything like it. The power flowed out of him and took the shape of his rage.

  This was his true potential, then. The last of the vinculum root had burned out of his system, and he’d emerged new and clean. A swirl of exhilaration filled his chest.

  He stretched out a hand, and the cloud of glowing dust took the shape of a roaring dragon’s head. He drew on the image of Alice in her demon form—the gaping jaws, the brilliant, fierce eyes. The dust-dragon rushed at Neeta.

  She flinched as several of the grains hit her, ripping thin cuts through her cheek and arm. The dragon’s head shot past her, stopped, looped around in midair, and raced back toward her.

  She raised her staff in both hands. Her eyes closed, her staff glowed blue, and the air seemed to thicken around her like an orb of some translucent, viscous liquid. The golden particles struck the edge of the orb and slowed. She had done something to the atmosphere—or to time itself—within the force field. The particles spread out over its surface, transforming the jellylike orb into a glistening golden bubble. Then the grains of sand shot out, lost their glow, and rained to the ground, harmless.

  More, he thought. He needed more power.

  Teeth gritted, Simon thrust his arms out again, but only a few weak spurts of light shot from his palms. “No.” His voice emerged rough and raw. “No!” Panting, he shook his arms, as if to jolt loose some bit of strength stuck inside him.

  That couldn’t be all there was. There had to be more inside him, more meta, more hidden reserves, more something.

  Neeta lunged at him, raised the staff high over her head, and brought it down. He tried to bring his arms up, to shield himself, but he wasn’t fast enough; the staff smacked into his temple. Stars burst behind his eyes.

  He went down, head spinning, and landed on his back with a bone-jarring thud.

  Neeta loomed over him. “I won’t arrest you, Simon. I made a promise to your father that you wouldn’t end up in prison. But you can’t attack a senior officer and expect to get away with it. You will be stripped of your registration. As of now, you are no longer an Animist. You will never again set foot in Foundation Headquarters. You are no longer permitted to channel meta. And if you try, you will suffer the consequences.” Her expression softened, sagging. “Maybe this is for the best.”

  She turned and strode away, leaving Simon lying on his back on the cold, wet cobblestones.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cold pinpricks of rain struck Simon’s face. He tried to stand, but dizziness rolled over him and flattened him against the street. The back of his head pulsed with a dull heat.

  Alice was gone. He’d brought her here, to Eidendel, despite her fears. He’d promised her she would be safe. She had put her trust in him, and he had failed that trust.

  His vision went hazy and gray. A familiar clack-clacking reached his ears, growing closer. Dozens of thin mechanical limbs lifted him off the street. He was too weak to resist, too weak to do anything as a procession of spiders carried him away.

  He faded out.

  When he came back to himself, he was lying on a hard surface. He blinked a few times. A jolt of panic shot through him as his surroundings settled into place: he was on the stone table in his father’s laboratory. Dr. Hawking leaned over him, a frown of concentration on his face, his fingers resting against Simon’s temples. Golden light wreathed his hands, flickering in Simon’s peripheral vision.

  Simon scrambled off the table and lurched to his feet, panting.

  “Easy,” Dr. Hawking said. He stood, leaning on his cane. “Take it easy.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Healing you. You had a concussion. Sit down.”

  Simon gripped the edge of the table. Memories were trickling back, settling into place. “You . . .” A hot, black flame of anger licked the inside of his chest. “You betrayed Alice.”

  His father’s expression tightened. “They came to me asking questions. I did the only thing I could. There is no defying the Foundation—not for long. If I hadn’t bargained on your behalf, you would be in chains right now.”

  No—how dare—how could he—

  His mind stuttered, and his thoughts went blank in a flash of rage. He charged straight at Dr. Hawking, one hand clenched into a fist, and drew it back.

  His father didn’t even try to avoid the swing. His head snapped to one side as Simon’s knuckles cracked into his jaw. Dr. Hawking looked at him steadily. A trickle of blood ran from one corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away. “Do you feel any better now?”

  Simon glared at him, then turned and walked toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To save Alice.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He tried the knob. It didn’t budge. Jaws clenched, he shoved his palms against the door and pushed with muscles and meta alike. His hands glowed gold, throwing off sparks. Break! He visualized the door flying off its hinges. Still, nothing happened. He grabbed the knob and rattled it, pushing against the door with his shoulder.

  “Simon. Sit down. We need to talk.”

  Simon spun to face him. “I have nothing to talk to you about. Let me out!”

  “What do you think you can do on your own?” he snapped. “You don’t even know where they’ve taken her.”

  “I don’t care. I have to try.” His voice cracked. But he could feel the hope shriveling inside him, even as he spoke. He slumped against the door.

  “Sit
down,” Dr. Hawking said.

  Simon didn’t move. His chest felt empty and numb. “The thing I could never figure out about you,” he said quietly, “do you try to be cruel? Or do you just not care? The second is somehow worse. Because if you wanted to hurt me, it would at least mean that you felt something, even if it was anger. Maybe you want to punish me because you wished I had died in Olivia’s place. But I don’t think that’s it. My feelings aren’t part of the equation. They never were. I’m only an inconvenience.”

  “Is that truly what you believe?”

  “What am I supposed to think?”

  Dr. Hawking’s lips tightened. He averted his gaze. “I suppose we’re long past due for this conversation.” He sank into one of the overstuffed chairs and glanced at a pair of spiders standing nearby. “Some whiskey, if you please. And two glasses.”

  They skittered away, toward the cabinet at the far end of the lab.

  Dr. Hawking nodded to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

  Still, Simon remained standing. “You can explain yourself to me from there.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The spiders returned carrying a silver tray, which Dr. Hawking set on the low wooden table beside him. On the tray was a clear bottle filled with fiery amber liquid and two short glasses.

  “If you think I’m going to drink anything you put in front of me, after what you did—”

  “Who said anything about you? This isn’t a conversation I care to have sober.” Dr. Hawking filled both glasses and drained them quickly, one after the other. He slumped in his chair, face turned toward the ceiling. “You saw the photograph, I take it. I suppose you’ve figured things out by now. You’ve heard about the bodies stolen from the city morgue?”

  Simon’s mind flashed back to the conversation he’d overheard between Neeta and the mysterious official in her office, just before he’d left the city. He thought about the copy of the Underground he’d seen, the lurid rumors of stolen corpses. “So that was you, after all?” he whispered. “You took those bodies? For your experiments?”

  “Your opinion of me is awfully low. No. I had nothing to do with that.”

  “But . . . why would you have those pictures, if you weren’t responsible?”