by Zan Safra
I nod. Volpato waves a hand. “We’re not alone. There were others at the conservatory who could do the same.”
Others.
He raises his eyebrows. “Do you compose?”
“N-no.”
Volpato sighs. “Pity.”
He raises the bottle again. I lower my voice and hiss, “Put that down.”
Volpato sets the bottle down, eyes glazing. “The opera is magnificent,” I whisper. “Know that.”
Volpato straightens in his chair. He turns to me, but I’m already faded and gone.
The word burns in my brain. Others.
I thought I was alone. I thought the colors belonged only to me, that they were part of my being an Unnatural, just another freakish trait…
But there are others like me. Naturals.
They create music.
I run through the backstage, up a staircase and into the fly gallery. Stagehands scurry across the boards below, sweeping up crumbles of chalk. The new chandelier hangs just below me. The sound of the audience seeps through the heavy curtain like wisps of colored smoke.
A violin plays a solemn note, a ribbon of mahogany. Instruments spark to life, singing as the rest of the orchestra swells. They tune, weaving themselves into a tapestry. I close my eyes, watching the colors dance. I wish—
The hair prickles on the back of my neck.
The dusty air grows heavy, viscous as oil. The uncanny feeling, the menacing sense of wrongness soaks the colors in my head, deadening them to a sea of rotten blood.
A shadow shifts. I dodge. A black rope darts past me and strikes the beam beside my head. A white barb lodges in the wood, attached to a cord of shriveled muscle. The cord and barb pull free, whipping upwards into the mouth of the creature clinging to the rafters.
I yank back my sleeve, freeing my weapon. The desiccated creature drops onto the crosswalk and unfolds with a snapping creak. The remains of a red military uniform drape over its spindly form, riddled with the marks of blades and bullets. Its eyes are blank and white, glowing in its ruined face.
The fiend was hidden. The upiri were skeletal, transformed but still fluidly in motion. This vampire is a walking corpse.
The flesh of its cheeks cracks like dry mud as it opens its mouth. Its voice is ashen as grave dust. “The opera ghost, I presume.”
The chattering of the cast increases. The rest of the chorus enters, moving to their places. The corrupted hues of their voices gnaw at my mind.
The vampire bows. Every movement is stiff, that of a puppeteered cadaver. “I come on the lady’s behalf.”
I engage my weapon, catching the weight in my hand, but there’s nothing I can do. There are too many ropes about me, no room to spin it without entangling the cord.
“What do you want with me?”
The white barb flickers inside its mouth. “I am to escort you to the lady’s palace.”
The lady. “The fiend.”
“Do not speak of her with such disrespect.” The vampire bares obsidian teeth. “You will return with me.”
I grab one of the crosswalk’s ropes and feint a jump over the side. The creature moves to stop me and I leap up into the maze of ropes. I swing myself upwards, slipping through the ceiling and into the dusty garret.
I haven’t the chance to do more. In an explosion of wood the vampire bursts through the floor. I change my weight to a blade and hurl it into the creature’s throat.
The vampire shows nothing, no pain, not even surprise. Its hand wraps around the blade. With a sharp jerk it pulls it from its throat and tosses it aside, leaving only a bloodless hole.
The tongue lances at me. I twist sideways. The barb slices through my coat, missing my chest by a hair. The tongue retracts, darting back into the vampire’s mouth. I reel in my weapon, spinning it over my head.
Clawed hands crawl over the edge of the pit. Another vampire drags itself into the garret and creaks upright. Bullet holes the size of my fist pierce its chest. More emerge, one after another until five of the creatures surround me, mauled like bodies strewn over a battlefield. The last vampire’s head is half shot-away, revealing a black, pulsing brain.
“There is no need for this foolishness. You should be honored that the lady deigns to take an interest in one such as you,” the first creature hisses. “One so infamous.”
Freezing sweat soaks my collar. “You know nothing of me.”
“I know of the White Citadel.”
The name throws me into another place, not of dust but sand, choking, sucking dry all it touched…
The wind, howling over the domed roofs, roaring past the battlements, spilling through the battened windows, pouring dust into my lungs…
My grip on the cord falters. The garret ripples around me like a painted sheet. Other walls bleed through them, walls of white stone, of—
They caught me, cornering me as blood seeped through my clothing, as beads of my own blood rolled down my arm, trickling from my fingertips…
The vampires’ mouths gape, but I’ve turned to stone, unable to breathe or stir as they prepare to strike—
Life surges into my muscles. I catch my blade as the nearest creature’s tongue bursts from its mouth. I grab the tongue, stopping the barb inches from my face. The rope of parched muscle writhes in my fist. I wrench the tongue, jerking the creature forward, onto the point of my blade. It stabs into a heart.
The vampire convulses like an insect shaking off a husk. I shove it away. It topples to the floor, a rigid statue, and begins to rot.
The heart. Strike the heart!
The others circle me, ignoring the corpse putrefying on the floor. “Why do you fight?” the leader rasps. “You cannot survive alone. Not even your Unnatural comrades are enough to control you.”
My throat constricts. The cord slips in my hand.
Another barbed tongue darts out. I dodge and through my blade into the vampire’s chest. It falls and I retreat, blade spinning over my head.
The others move to flank me. “Do your comrades know your true nature?” the leader hisses. “Or do you claim to be Unnatural as well?”
I blink sweat from my eye. No. I can’t let it distract me, no matter what it says…
“You cannot escape your fate. You were made to be ruled.” It smiles, a crescent-shaped nightmare of fangs. “Merikh.”
That name. That name, his name…
No.
He’s dead!
I throw the blade into the leader’s heart. It punches through its ribs like an arrow. The creature falls, crumbling to a mass of rot.
The remaining two recoil. In a burst of speed one of them bounds, arcing over my head to land at the door of a stairwell. It runs down it. The second does the same, disappearing after it.
I charge after them. They won’t get away, I’ll never let them escape—
My foot strikes flesh. I trip, catching myself on the wall. Moretti and Zambrano lie on the steps, eyes staring at nothing, their throats ripped away.
Nausea grips me. I jump over the corpses and run down the stairs, onto another crosswalk. Mircalla’s overture swallows me. Dead colors poison my brain, unbalancing me. I throw out my arms to catch hold of the ropes and see the vampire.
It stands on the crosswalk, a broken lantern in its hand. Oil pools inside the brass base, a wick still burning in its center. Its light plays over the creature’s face, hollowing it further, turning it to a bare, fanged skull.
It stretches out its arm, holding the lantern over the crosswalk’s edge. Fifty feet below stand the girls of the ballet corps. Their costumes shimmer. Bright.
Incendiary.
The vampire’s voice is a streak of decay. “Surrender.”
My eyes dart about. I’m not trapped. Two crosswalks hang on either side. Either of them would lead to an escape.
The stage beckons. I could fade and fall, drop to the boards, run where they’d never dare follow. I could jump in a heartbeat.
The rest of the cast take their places. Antoinette hisses orders. Pietro the baritone paces. Uliva the soprano poses, practicing her gestures.
None of them wear the treated costumes. Their colors burn like fire.
The vampire tilts the lantern. The wick submerges. The oil ignites, turning the lantern to a bowl of fire.
Went up in flames like a torch, poor lass…nearly set the entire cast ablaze…
Painted flats flutter below me, sheets of canvas and oils. Crosswalks and a web of ropes span the fly gallery. Velvet curtains conceal the stage, plaster moldings decorate the vast ceiling, miles of gas-lines fuel the lights.
“Surrender.”
They know me. They mean to bring me to the fiend. I know what the vampire will do to me.
The scar on my wrist sears like a brand. She’ll enslave me, enslave me, and I swore I’d never go back, that I’d—
“Surrender.”
La Filomena will burn. The cast will die. The crew. The orchestra. The audience of eight hundred.
A vise closes around my throat. They’re Naturals. Torturers, murderers, monsters…
I…I can’t…I won’t…I won’t be him again…
The vampire stretches its arm further. The cast stills, ready to begin.
I twist my wrist, reeling in the blade. My insides turn to ice as I raise my empty hands.
A spear drives into my back. The vampire behind me retracts its barbed tongue. Numbness spreads through me, traveling down my back, into my legs. The boards of the crosswalk meet my side, as the world wavers and darkens, and the curtain finally lifts.
Chapter Thirteen
Jette
I HURRY THROUGH THE crowd, shouldering past clutches of Naturals. All about me is a murky smear. My blasted skirt tangles my legs, threatening to trip me. I search the blur for a flash of violet and find nothing.
The crowd thickens, moving so slowly that I want to scream. I glimpse the mouth of an alley and shove my way towards it, ignoring grunts of annoyance. The alley is short, only a few yards from end to end, and leads to a less-crowded lane.
I stop in the middle. Now that I am out of the press I can think. I cannot find Belle, but that does not mean something has gone amiss. We were separated, that is all. Our chimerical illusions are holding and we look as Natural as we ever will. No one would have any reason to attack us.
I groan and lean my forehead against the brick. I know nothing about these things. If I had not left the crypt I might have asked Ayanda…
My face grows hot. I do not know if I want to meet her again. Not after that.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Use your head.
I order my thoughts. Belle likely went into one of the shops. I should find a corner along the maskmakers’ lane and wait for her to come out. That is simple enough.
Something whirrs at my waist. The chatelaine.
What?
I unpin it from my gown. The moment my fingers touch the metal I feel movement, like the spinning of gears.
I take out my lenses and study the brooch. It seems nothing but an intricate piece of gold, but now I notice that it is strangely light. Something mechanical works inside it.
I turn the chatelaine. The green stone is not an ordinary gem. Its surface is rounded, not faceted, like a drop of green amber. Something glitters inside.
I unfold my strongest lens. A spiral of tiny glyphs spins inside the stone, pulsing in time with the whirrs. I make out three of them. Trace. Find. Pursue.
This is a detection device.
The stone glitters at me, a glowing green eye. Everything within me shrieks for me to fling the device away, to whip out my staff and smash it, but my hand locks around it like a claw.
Someone is following me.
I turn the chatelaine and press my thumb against its back. A panel slides open to reveal a flat gearbox. A glyph burns in the center of each gear.
I shove back my bonnet, searching for a hairpin. I find one and stab it into the workings. The gears jam, buzzing in protest. I hardly know how these devices function, but this is all I can think to do.
I am so daft!
I never asked Belle who gave her the chatelaines. I was so bewildered by the gown and the rest of it that I did not even think to ask her anything…
The hairpin trembles as the gears strain against it. A singular glyph catches my notice. Pairing.
Of course. This device is alchemically paired with Belle’s. Whoever created them is tracking both of us.
I take out another hairpin and use its point to alter the glyphs, smearing the golden ink into different symbols. I pull out the other pin to release the gears. They spin on, new glyphs flashing. The alchemized stone changes hue, turning from emerald to acid green.
I lay the device flat on my palm like a compass. I changed its orientation. Now I can use it to trace Belle’s.
I turn in place, holding the chatelaine at arm’s length. When I face the lane the stone dims and the whirring slows. When I turn towards the other lane the whirring gains momentum. A larger glyph flickers inside the stone. Found.
I pull my bonnet forward and follow the chatelaine’s lead. A detection device of this size has a range of a half-mile at most. Belle cannot be far.
Only a few Naturals travel the lane and they soon melt away. When I come to a cross-street the device points me down the left-hand fork, leading me down an alley of weathered townhomes. Cracked gaslights jut from the walls, casting light in strange patterns. The noise of the crowd fades completely.
A wave of prickling rushes over my skin.
I yank off my gloves. My hands are pale. My illusion is dead.
And so is Belle’s.
I sprint down the lane, my skirts dragging at me like sails. The stone brightens with every step. The alley takes a sharp turn and ends at a stone wall. An ancient blue door stands wedged in the middle of it. A gargoyle’s face carved into the threshold leers down at me.
The chatelaine’s whirring strengthens. The stone points me to the door. I try the handle. Locked.
I set the device on the ground and run my hands over the door. Chips of blue paint flake away under my fingertips as I feel the wood and hinges, searching for anything I might use to—
A jolt darts into my palms. An iridescent ripple speeds across the door and winks out at the handle.
The door is alchemically locked. It requires a particular key. If I try to open it without one I will trigger an alarm.
“Who are you?”
I grab my staff and turn. A weedy young man stands at the corner. He wears a dark green alchemist’s jacket with the insignia of a twelfth-year student on his high collar. His watery eyes sweep over me, confused.
I throw open my mantle to free my bandolier. He is a student. I can contend with any student.
His eyes widen. A grin cracks his face, impossibly wide, every tooth bared and glinting.
“The lady will be so pleased,” he whispers.
His hand goes into his coat and comes out wearing a heavy black gauntlet. A glyph shines on its palm.
A califactor glove. An alchemical weapon.
I find a grenade. My fingers fumble with the buckles. He raises his hand. I let go of my bandolier and charge straight at him, swinging back my staff and—
The world explodes in light. A force hurls me back, freezing and burning and crackling like volta. I crash to the ground. Paving-stones slam into my cheek. All of my muscles are slack. My staff is in my fist but I cannot lift my arm.
Fragments of thoughts hook together. He…hurt…me…
Nothing happens.
There is nothing there, nothing but a void where she should be, as though a surgeon has gone into my brain and carved her out…
Scholomance…just like the Scholomance…
My fingers find a crack in the ground. I heave, trying to drag myself away, but I am not strong enough. I am useless and helpless and I cannot move—
Footsteps approach. The alchemist is coming. He will attack me again, blast me senseless and then I am dead.
Trickles of strength drain into my limbs, but not enough. I cannot get away.
Black boots stop in front of my face. The califactor glove hums, charging again. I channel every drop of life I have into my arm and smash my staff into his knee.
His leg buckles and he lands hard on his side. More strength returns. I push myself up and throw myself at him, tackling him as he tries to stand. He grabs my shoulders, about to shove me away, but I bring up my fist and swing it into his jaw. His head jerks back and slams against the paving-stones. His hands fall from my shoulders and he lies still.
I hope he is concussed.
Feeling returns to me as the effects of the blast diminish, but nothing stirs inside my skull. I am still alone.
My hands shake as I take his califactor glove by the fingertips and yank it off. The student’s flesh is discolored. The veins at his wrists have turned black.
The only physical manifestation is a blackening of the veins…
This man is a moroi.
I drop his wrist and open his jacket, searching it until I find a set of keys, and pull on the califactor glove. It contracts to fit me. A circle of metal rests against my palm, the trigger. It is barely warm. A blast of that strength must have sapped most of its power, but it is all I have.
One of the keys glimmers as I run to the door. I shove it into the lock and turn. The door opens and I run into the dark.
A musty smell engulfs me. I take my luminant from my belt and tap it twice. The gray-white light ignites inside the glass vial, revealing a bare room and a wooden staircase. A spider dangling from a strand of web balks at the light and skitters up into the shadows.
The floorboards overhead let out a croak. I hear the mumble of voices, too muffled to understand.
The chatelaine whirrs. The stone brightens. Belle must be here.
I raise my luminant above my head and climb the staircase, slowly shifting my weight to stifle any creaks. They end at a wide room, just as cobwebbed and dusty. The muttering comes from a door to my left. Lamplight leaks through the gaps between it and its frame, flickering as someone paces back and forth.