Ninth House

by Leigh Bardugo

  “It looks like a music video,” Alex said.

  “With an infinite budget. It’s a glamour.”

  “Why did he call you the gentleman of Lethe?”

  “Because people who can’t be bothered with manners pretend to be amused by them. Onward, Stern.”

  They continued down the next flight of stairs. “Are we going all the way down?”

  “No. The lowest levels are where the rites are performed and maintained. At any given time they have five to ten magics working internationally. Charisma spells and glamours need constant maintenance. But they won’t be performing any rites tonight, just culling power from the party and the city to store in the vault.”

  “Do you smell that?” asked Alex. “It smells like—”

  Forest. The next landing brought them to a verdant wood. The previous year it had been a high desert mesa. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of a copse of trees and the horizon seemed to stretch on for miles. Partyers dressed in white lolled on picnic blankets that had been laid out over the lush grass, and hummingbirds bobbed and hovered in the warm air. From this level on, only alumni and the current members who attended them were permitted.

  “Is that a real horse?” Alex whispered.

  “As real as it has to be.” This was magic, wasteful, joyous magic, and Darlington couldn’t deny that some part of him wanted to linger here. But that was exactly why they had to press on. “Next floor.”

  The stairs curved again, but this time the walls seemed to bend with them. The building somehow took on a different shape, the ceiling high as a cathedral, painted the bright blue and gold of a Giotto sky; the floor was covered in poppies. It was a church but it was not a church. The music here was otherworldly, something that might have been bells and drums or the heartbeat of a great beast lulling them with every deep thud. On the pews and in the aisles, bodies lay entwined, surrounded by crushed red petals.

  “Now this is more like what I expected,” said Alex.

  “An orgy in a flower-filled cathedral?”

  “Excess.”

  “That’s what this night is all about.”

  The next level was a mountaintop arbor, which didn’t even bother trying to look real. It was all hazy peach clouds, wisteria hanging in thick clusters from pale pink columns, women in sheer gowns lazing on sun-warmed stone, their hair caught in an impossible breeze, a golden hour that would never end. They’d walked into a Maxfield Parrish painting.

  Finally, they arrived in a quiet room, a long banquet table set against one wall and lit by fireflies. The murmur of conversation was low and civilized. A vast circular mirror nearly two stories high took up the north-facing wall. Its surface seemed to swirl. It was like looking into a huge cauldron being stirred by an invisible hand, but it was wiser to understand the mirror as a vault, a repository of magic fed by desire and delusion. This level of Manuscript, the fifth level, marked the central point between the culling rooms above and the ritual rooms below. It was far larger than the others, stretching under the street and beneath the surrounding houses. Darlington knew the ventilation system was fine, but he struggled not to think about being crushed.

  Many of the partygoers here were masked, most likely celebrities and prominent alums. Some wore fanciful gowns, others jeans and T-shirts.

  “Do you see the purple tongues?” Darlington asked, bobbing his chin toward a boy covered in glitter pouring wine and a girl in cat ears and little else carrying a tray. “They’ve taken Merity, the drug of service. It’s taken by acolytes to give up their will.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “To serve me,” said a soft voice.

  Darlington bowed to the figure dressed in celadon silk robes and a golden headdress that also served as a half-mask.

  “How may we address you this night?” Darlington inquired.

  The wearer of the mask represented Lan Caihe, one of the eight immortals of Chinese myth, who could move amongst genders at will. At each gathering of Manuscript, a different Caihe was chosen.

  “Tonight I am she.” Her eyes were entirely white behind her mask. She would see all things this night and be deceived by no glamour.

  “We thank you for the invitation,” said Darlington.

  “We always welcome the officers of Lethe, though we regret you never accept our hospitality. A glass of wine perhaps?” She raised a smooth hand, the nails curled like claws but smooth and polished as glass, and one of the acolytes stepped forward with a pitcher.

  Darlington gave Alex a warning shake of his head. “Thank you,” he said apologetically. He knew some members of Manuscript took personal offense that Lethe members never sampled the society’s pleasures. “But we’re bound by protocol.”

  “None of our suggestions for the freshman tap were accepted,” said Lan Caihe, her white eyes on Alex. “Very disappointing.”

  Darlington bristled. But Alex said, “At least you won’t expect much from me.”

  “Careful now,” said Caihe. “I like to be disarmed. You may raise my expectations yet. Who glamoured your arms?”

  “Darlington.”

  “Are you ashamed of the tattoos?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Darlington glanced at Alex, surprised. Was she under persuasion? But when he saw Lan Caihe’s pleased smile, he realized Alex was just playing the game. Caihe liked surprises and candor was surprising.

  Caihe reached out and ran a fingernail up the smooth skin of Alex’s bare arm.

  “We could erase them entirely,” said Caihe. “Forever.”

  “For a small price?” asked Alex.

  “For a fair price.”

  “My lady,” said Darlington in warning.

  Caihe shrugged. “This is a night of culling, when the stores are replenished and the casks are made full. No bargain will be made. Descend, boy, if you wish to know what’s next. Descend and see what awaits you, if you dare.”

  “I just want to know if Jodie Foster is here,” Alex murmured as Lan Caihe returned to the banquet table. She was one of Manuscript’s most famous alums.

  “For all you know that was Jodie Foster,” said Darlington, but his head felt heavy. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. Everything around him seemed to shimmer.

  Lan Caihe turned to him from her place at the head of the banquet table. “Descend.” Darlington shouldn’t have been able to hear the word at this distance, but it seemed to echo through his head. He felt the floor drop away and he was falling. He stood in a vast cavern carved into the earth, the rock slick with moisture, the air rich with the smell of turned soil. A hum filled his ears and Darlington realized it was coming from the mirror, the vault that still somehow hung on the cave wall. He was in the same room but he was not. He looked into the mirror’s swirling surface and the mists within it parted, the hum rising, vibrating through his bones.

  He shouldn’t look. He knew that. You should never look into the face of the uncanny, but had he ever been able to turn away? No, he’d courted it, begged for it. He had to know. He wanted to know everything. He saw the banquet table reflected in the mirror, the food upon it going to rot, the people around it still shoveling spoiled fruit and meat into their mouths along with the swirling flies. They were old, some barely strong enough to lift a cup of wine or a withering peach to their cracked lips. All but Lan Caihe, who stood illumined by fire, the golden headdress a flame, her gown glowing ember red, the features of her face changing with each breath, high priestess, hermit, hierophant. For a moment, Darlington thought he glimpsed his grandfather there.

  He could feel his body quaking, felt dampness on his lips, touched his hand to his face and realized his nose had started to bleed.

  “Darlington?” Alex’s voice, and in the mirror he saw her. But she looked the same. She was still Queen Mab. No … This time she really was Queen Mab. Night ebbed and flowed around her in a cape of glittering stars; above the oil-black sheaf of her hair, a constellation glowed—a wheel, a crown. Her eyes were black, her mouth the da
rk red of overripe cherries. He could feel power churning around her, through her.

  “What are you?” he whispered. But he didn’t care. He went to his knees. This was what he’d been waiting for.

  “Ah,” said Lan Caihe, approaching. “An acolyte at heart.”

  In the mirror, he saw himself, a knight with bowed head, offering his service, a sword in his hand, a sword in his back. He felt no pain, only the ache in his heart. Choose me. There were tears on his cheeks, even as he felt the shame of it. She was no one, a girl who had lucked into a gift, who had done nothing to earn it. She was his queen.

  “Darlington,” she said. But that was not his true name any more than Alex was hers.

  If only she would choose him. If only she would let him …

  She touched her fingers to his face, lifted his chin. Her lips brushed his ear. He didn’t understand it. He only wanted her to do it again. Stars poured through him, a cold and billowing wave of night. He saw everything. He saw their bodies entwined. She was above him and beneath him all at once, her body splayed and white as a lotus flower. She bit his ear—hard.

  Darlington yelped and flinched back, sense flooding through him.

  “Darlington,” she snarled. “Get your shit together.”

  And then he saw himself. He’d hiked up her skirt. His hands were braced on her white thighs. He saw the masked faces around them, sensed their eagerness as they leaned forward, eyes glittering. Alex was looking down at him, gripping his shoulders, trying to shove him away. The cavern was gone. They were in the banquet room.

  He fell backward, letting her skirt drop, his erection throbbing valiantly in his jeans before humiliation washed over him. What the hell had they done to him? And how?

  “The mist,” he said, feeling like the worst kind of fool, his mind still spinning, his body buzzing with whatever he had inhaled. He’d walked straight through the blast of that fog machine and hadn’t thought twice about it.

  Lan Caihe grinned. “You can’t blame a god for trying.”

  Darlington used the wall to push to his feet, keeping clear of the mirror. He could still feel its hum vibrating through him. He wanted to rage at these people. Interfering with representatives of Lethe was strictly prohibited, a violation of every code of the societies, but he also just wanted to get clear of Manuscript before he humiliated himself further. Everywhere he looked he saw masked and painted faces.

  “Come on,” said Alex, taking his arm and leading him up the stairs, forcing him to walk ahead of her.

  He knew they should stay. See the night past the witching hour, make sure nothing got past the forbidden floors or interfered with the culling. He couldn’t. He needed to get free. Now.

  The stairs seemed to go on forever, turning and turning until Darlington had no idea how long they’d been climbing. He wanted to look back to make sure that Alex was still there, but he’d read enough stories to know you never looked back on your way out of hell.

  The upper floor of Manuscript felt like a wild blaze of color and light. He could smell the fruit fermenting in the punch, the yeasty tang of sweat. The air felt sticky and warm against his skin.

  Alex shook his arm and pulled him along by his elbow. All he could do was stumble after. They burst into the cold night air as if they’d slid through a membrane. Darlington inhaled deeply, feeling his head clear a little. He heard voices and realized Alex was talking to Mike Awolowo, the Manuscript delegation president. Kate Masters was beside him. She was covered in flowering vines. They were going to consume her—no. She was just dressed as Poison Ivy, for God’s sake.

  “Unacceptable,” Darlington said. His lips felt fuzzy.

  Alex kept one hand on his arm. “I’ll handle it. Stay here.”

  They’d made it down the street to the Hutch. Darlington leaned his head against the Mercedes. He should pay attention to what Alex was saying to Kate and Mike, but the metal felt cool and forgiving against his face.

  Moments later they were getting into his car and he was mumbling the address for Black Elm.

  Mike and Kate peered through the passenger window as the car drove off.

  “They’re afraid you’re going to report them,” Alex said.

  “Damn right I will. They’re going to eat a huge fine. A suspension.”

  “I told him I’d handle the write-up.”

  “You will not.”

  “You can’t be objective about this.”

  No, he couldn’t. In his head, he was kneeling again, face pressed to her thighs, desperate to get closer. The thought of it made him instantly hard again, and he was grateful for the dark.

  “What do you want me to say in the report?” Alex asked.

  “All of it,” Darlington muttered miserably.

  “It isn’t a big deal,” she said.

  It had been a big deal, though. He had felt … “desire” wasn’t even the right word for it. He could still feel her skin under his palms, the heat of her against his lips through the thin fabric of her panties. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was unforgivable.”

  “You got wasted and acted a fool at a party. Relax.”

  “If you don’t want to continue working with me—”

  “Shut up, Darlington,” Alex said. “I’m not doing this job without you.”

  She got him back to Black Elm and put him to bed. The house was ice-cold and he realized his teeth were chattering. Alex lay down beside him with the covers pulled tight between them, and his heart hurt for the wanting of someone.

  “Mike said the drug should be out of your system in about twelve hours.”

  Darlington lay in his narrow bed, writing and rewriting angry emails in his head to the Manuscript alumni and the Lethe board, losing the thread, overwhelmed by images of Alex lit by stars, the thought of that black dress sliding from her shoulders, then returning to his rant and a demand for action. The words tangled together, caught on the spokes of a wheel, the points of a crown. But one thought returned again and again as he tossed and turned, fell in and out of dreams, morning light beginning its slow bleed through the high tower window: Alex Stern was not what she seemed.

  11

  Winter

  Alex woke abruptly. She was asleep and then she was conscious and terrified, batting at the hands she could still feel around her neck.

  Her throat felt raw and red. She was on the couch of the common room at the Hutch. Night had fallen and the lights burned low in their sconces, casting yellow half-moons against framed paintings of rolling meadows dotted with sheep and shepherds playing their pipes.

  “Here,” Dawes said, perching on the cushions, holding a glass full of what looked like eggnog with a little green food coloring in it up to Alex’s lips. A musty smell emanated from the rim. Alex recoiled and opened her mouth to ask what it was, but all that emerged was a faint rasp that made her throat feel like someone had touched a lit match to it.

  “I’ll tell you after you drink it,” said Dawes. “Trust me.”

  Alex shook her head. The last thing Dawes had given her to drink had set her insides on fire.

  “You’re alive, aren’t you?” Dawes asked.

  Yes, but right now she wished she were dead.

  Alex pinched her nose, took the glass, and gulped. The taste was stale and powdery, the liquid so thick it almost choked her going down, but as soon as it touched her throat, the burning eased, leaving only a faint ache.

  She handed the glass back and wiped a hand over her mouth, shuddering slightly at the aftertaste.

  “Goat’s milk and mustard seed thickened with spider eggs,” Dawes said.

  Alex pressed her knuckles to her lips and tried not to gag. “Trust you?”

  Her throat was sore, but she could at least talk and the raging fire inside her seemed to have banked.

  “I had to use brimstone to burn the beetles out of you. I’d say the cure was worse than the disease, but given that those things eat you from the inside out, I t
hink that would be lying. They were used to clean corpses in ancient times, to empty bodies so that they could be stuffed with fragrant herbs.”

  That crawling sensation returned, and Alex had to clench her fists to keep from scratching at her skin. “What did they do to me? Will there be lasting damage?”

  Dawes rubbed her thumb against the glass. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Alex pushed up from the pillows that Dawes had placed beneath her neck. She likes taking care of people, Alex realized. Was that why she and Dawes had never gotten along? Because Alex had refused her mothering? “How did you know what to do?”

  Dawes frowned. “It’s my job to know.”

  And Dawes was good at her job. Simple as that. She seemed calm enough, but if she gripped that glass any harder it was going to break in her hands. Her fingers were stained with rainbow splotches that Alex realized were the pale remnants of highlighter.

  “Did anything try to … get in?” Alex wasn’t even sure what that would look like.

  “I’m not sure. The chimes have been ringing off and on. Something’s been brushing up against the wards.”

  Alex rose and felt the room spin. She stumbled and made herself take Dawes’s solicitous hand.

  Alex wasn’t sure what she expected to see waiting outside. The gluma’s face looking back at her, light glinting off its glasses? Something worse? She touched her fingers to her throat and yanked the curtain back.

  The street to the left was dark and empty. She must have slept through the entire day. In the alley she saw the Bridegroom, pacing back and forth in the yellow light of the streetlamp.

  “What is it?” asked Dawes nervously. “What’s there?” She sounded almost breathless.

  “Just a Gray. The Bridegroom.” He looked up at the window. Alex drew the curtain closed.

  “You can really see him? I’ve only seen photos.”

  Alex nodded. “He’s very tousled. Very mournful. Very … Morrissey.”

  Dawes surprised her by singing, “And I wonder, does anybody feel the same way I do?”

  “And is evil,” sang Alex quietly, “just something you are or something you do?” She’d meant it as a joke, a way to solidify the bare threads of camaraderie forming between them, but in the eerie lamplit quiet, the words sounded menacing. “I think he saved my life. He attacked that thing.”