Beau kept his eyes fixed on Anouk while Prince Aleksi performed the spell. The other members of the Haute stood at a distance, watching silently. Halfway through the spell, she noticed something strange about Beau’s gaze. His head was turned in her direction but his eyes were fixed a little too far to her left. She took a step toward him and he didn’t track her movement.
She felt a sharp tug in her stomach. “Beau?”
He swallowed hard. His hands felt for the armrests as though he needed to reassure himself they were still there. “It’s okay,” he said, though it didn’t seem like it was okay at all.
Prince Aleksi continued his whisper and a gleam appeared at the corners of Beau’s eyes, marbled with iridescent colors like a shimmering puddle of oil. Without breaking the whisper, Aleksi waved over Luc, who came with a pitcher—pilfered from Home Goods—and held it up to each of Beau’s eyes, catching the rainbow-streaked tears, until Prince Aleksi stopped his spell.
“That should be sufficient. Combine it with the other ingredients. Three sips apiece. The first for an open heart. The second for an open mind. The third for open eyes. Everyone, drink deep.”
Luc poured the elixir into three wine goblets that they’d also found in the Home Goods department. The members of the Haute passed one among themselves. The Goblins took another. Anouk went to stand next to Cricket by the window.
“About your spell,” Anouk said haltingly. She thought back to what Rennar had said about Cricket’s wording referring to stealing people, not objects. She lowered her voice. “I thought you just wanted to be a better thief, but there’s more to it, isn’t there?”
Cricket slid her a guarded look. “Nope.”
“Then why’d you steal those artifacts from Castle Ides?”
Hesitancy flickered in Cricket’s otherwise normally cool eyes. She pressed her lips together and then took Anouk’s hand and pulled her into a private corner behind a rack of shoes. “Do you remember at Montélimar when Mada Zola showed us those portraits of the ancient selkas? The original beasties?”
Anouk tilted her head, curious. “Of course.”
“Well, I know this sounds complètement fou, but when Countess Quine turned me into a cat at the château, I had something like a vision. It happened again when Petra turned us into animals to pass through the Chunnel.”
Visions? Anouk’s eyebrows shot up.
Cricket mistook the reason for her surprise and quickly rolled her eyes. “I know you’re probably thinking that I drank too much of Viggo’s absinthe. But it’s true. It was more than a dream.”
“No, I believe you.” Anouk’s mind filled with hazy pieces of her own strange vision of the Coven and the eyeless owl. She could almost kick herself. Why hadn’t she guessed that the other beasties might have had visions too?
“I dreamed of the selkas,” Cricket whispered. “That they hadn’t all been killed off. I had a vision of the ocean and cliffs and women who could shift into seals. It felt so real, Anouk. And then in Castle Ides, I found maps of coastlines with pictures of mermaids—it was the selkas. That’s what I was stealing.”
“And in the British Museum?”
“In the Greek Wing, I found a hammered-tin bowl with pictures of women turning to seals. Don’t you see? They’re all clues that point to the existence of more of us. If I can figure out the maps and artifacts, I might be able to find the others.” Her eyes danced. “We might not be alone, Anouk. There might be more beasties that escaped the Royals’ purge. Ones that can shift on their own. Haven’t you ever wondered what our place in the world is? What it could be?”
Anouk’s lips parted. So that had been Cricket’s secret. Not revenge on their creators. (Though, to be honest, the Royals deserved it.) Anouk could see the desire sparkling in Cricket’s eyes. To not be the only ones. To know that there were more of them out there, unbound by the rules and requirements of the Haute. It was a lonely existence, being a beastie. Why shouldn’t they try to find others?
“I was going to tell you,” Cricket added, “and the others once I was sure. But there are still a lot of unanswered questions. Besides, we have more pressing matters.” She turned to the window with a tight look on her face. “All those Pretties down there. I feel sorry for them. They don’t know their fates are in the hands of a couple of misfits and dreamers.”
“And Viggo.”
Cricket snorted. “Oh God.”
Throughout the shoe department, the last of the Royals and Goblins finished drinking from the goblets of elixir. Rennar came over to the window with the final goblet and extended it to Cricket, who took her three sips with a grimace, and then to Anouk, who drained the dregs.
Rennar motioned to the various factions. “Aleksi, Violante, December, and I divided the city by neighborhood. The Lunar Court is going to take Covent Garden and Soho. The Barren Court is taking Islington. The Court of the Woods will cover Camden and Hampstead. The Crimson and the Minaret Courts are taking Wandsworth and Lambeth. I’ll handle Westminster on my own. December’s leading the Goblins to take the East End. Petra’s insisted on taking both Chelsea and Kensington, since you’ll be otherwise occupied, Anouk.”
“And I’m going to procure the Heart of Alexandrite,” Cricket said, cracking her knuckles. She threw Anouk a quick look and cleared her throat. “It’ll make the perfect vessel. Very rare. Extremely protected. The Noirceur will be safe there. I’ll get it and be back here before Viggo says another stupid thing.”
Anouk gave her a knowing nod.
The three of them turned to the window and looked out over the clock and the rising smoke. Snow steadily drifted down. Anouk pressed her fingertips against the frosted glass. She wondered how Duke Karolinge was faring out in the cold, whispering a spell powerful enough to span an entire city. If his spell failed, even for a moment, they’d be thrust into chaos once more.
Anouk went to the armchair and rested a hand on Beau’s shoulder. He’d taken one of the Goblin’s handkerchiefs and tied it around his eyes as a blindfold.
“It’s time for me to go, Beau.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “This is our world, Anouk,” he said. “Fight for it.”
Chapter 41
The entire company of the Haute left Pickwick and Rue’s. London remained as still as some terrible painting. Except for the rivers of smoke moving through the streets, not a single blade of grass or lock of hair wavered. The Snow Children’s frost encased the world, and as she gathered with the others in the park as they prepared to split up into the different neighborhoods, Anouk got the topsy-turvy impression that the entire city was nothing more than displays at the British Museum—or perhaps a haunted house. Two teenage Pretties cowered behind a phone booth. A dog paused mid-snarl at a man with blood soaked into his shirt. The glass of a bookstore’s broken windows hung suspended in time. And the magic handlers were like the museum’s midnight custodians, there to sweep up the mess and put things back in order before dawn.
One by one, the teams broke off from the group and departed, all heading in opposite directions—the Goblins to the east, Petra to the south, the Royal factions to the north and west—until only Anouk, Hunter Black, and Viggo remained in the square, standing by a fountain frozen in time.
“Hunter Black, you’re up.” Anouk’s stomach did flip-flops as she scanned the full height of Big Ben. Smoke steadily poured out of its windows and plummeted to the streets. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? It’s a long way to the top.”
“I’ve scaled the Eiffel Tower blindfolded,” he said. “This is nothing.”
She’d never get used to hearing such staggering arrogance from such a sullen boy. She decided that he’d make an excellent Royal. “Well, try not to breathe in too much smoke.” She gave him a sly grin and recited the same words he’d said to her: “All things considered, your survival would be preferable to your death.”
He turned to her with a surprisingly touched look. “Thank you, Anouk.” He gave her an oddly formal nod and t
hen crossed the park. She’d seen him scale walls before; there was the time Viggo had stayed out past curfew and Hunter Black had had to throw him over his shoulder, climb the townhouse exterior, and come in through Anouk’s turret window. He’d moved like a shadow, even carrying Viggo’s bulk. Now he was twice as stealthy. Without his coat—Luc had returned to the museum to check on Duke Karolinge and he had it with him—Hunter Black looked shockingly lithe. Anouk and Viggo watched him ascend the limestone blocks at the tower’s base as easily as if he were walking up a set of stairs.
Anouk watched until he was almost at the top, then turned and shaded her eyes to peer into the dome window on the fifth floor of Pickwick and Rue’s. She could just make out the shape of Beau, sightlessly looking out over them. “Viggo, you’ll keep an eye on Beau, won’t you?”
“After a houseful of Goblins, he’ll be a piece of cake.”
Deep rumblings came from the east, followed by matched sounds from the west. The smoke wavered slightly as something within the city shifted. Anouk climbed to the top of the park’s fountain and stood on tiptoe. To the east, Covent Garden glowed with a faint blue light. To the west, Soho crackled with orange.
“It’s the different factions. Their spells are working. Look.” Anouk clapped a hand on Viggo’s shoulder and pointed to the base of Big Ben. Orange and blue sparks crackled amid the smoke. A grandfather clock suddenly appeared by the bushes at the base of the tower. With a colorful blue flash, a television set with a built-in clock appeared. The colored lights they were seeing in the distance were the teams performing the transference spells, sending the clocks here, to Big Ben. A small alarm clock with silver bells. A wristwatch. A giant clock that looked like it belonged to a church, and lots of identical round clocks that must have been from a school.
Viggo seemed riveted. “I’m impressed. I have to admit, I gave us only a fifty-fifty chance of even surviving the mummies.”
More clocks appeared, pouring in from different neighborhoods, all accompanied by matching colored flashes.
The smoke was up to their waists now. Viggo coughed. “How much can we breathe before we’re poisoned?”
Anouk turned to the Genevar motorcycle parked outside of Pickwick and Rue’s. “I don’t know, but it’s time for me to take care of it.”
They’d tied an audio player on the back of the motorcycle with Hermès scarves from Pickwick and Rue’s and wired it to the motorcycle’s working engine. She jabbed her finger on the Play button. The Clash erupted from the speakers. Around her, the smoke swirled in tight little eddies that moved toward the sound. She braced herself before cranking the volume to 10.
The rock music blasted out the back of the speakers. She could feel the vibrations spreading up her legs, and the smoke must have felt it too, because the wisps curved sharply toward the motorcycle. Big thick billows of it floated toward them, rising around Anouk and Viggo, moving up to their chests. She could barely even see the motorcycle.
Viggo pressed his sleeve to his face, though a scrap of fabric wouldn’t protect anyone. “Godspeed, Dust Mop.”
“Thanks, Corkscrew.”
“Corkscrew?”
“If we’re naming each other after the household items we use most . . .”
Viggo snorted. He saluted her before returning to the department store. Anouk took a seat on the motorcycle, already feeling wobbly. She flicked the ignition on and set the clutch as Beau had taught her, then twisted the accelerator. The motorcycle lurched forward so suddenly that she let out a shriek. Damn Beau and his noble sacrifices. But as it roared ahead, she got it under control and aimed it in the direction of the river. Pellets of snow stung her face. The blaring music pounded behind her. In the silent city, The Clash’s beats reverberated against the tall buildings, booming back at her even louder.
When she dared a glance behind her, the black smoke was following in billows. It moved the way she imagined a sandstorm would, rising and falling in ominous waves. She swallowed a lump in her throat. She could feel the smoke at her back, moving faster than her. She bit her lip and cranked the motorcycle to its full speed, but the low layer of smoke ahead obscured the streets, and she was sure that any second she was going to collide with a curb or a bicycle and then be consumed by the smoke entirely. Her heart thundered.
She spotted Westminster Bridge and veered toward it sharply. The smoke rushed with her, rising in another awful wave, but as soon as she hit the bridge, the smoke fell off on either side, plunging into the frozen riverbed below.
“Et voilà!” she cried out.
She tore across the bridge, throwing glances at the river below. The smoke was gathering on the water, and as soon as she hit the other bank, it surged up in a twenty-foot wave behind her.
“Merde!”
She’d bought herself some time, but not much. She roared past the Lambeth North station and onto the A201. Here she could go faster, trusting that the street was wide enough that she was less likely to hit any objects hidden by low-lying smoke. Down every side street, she glimpsed fresh waves of smoke hurtling toward her, drawn to the pounding beats of the Clash. It rushed at her in twenty- and thirty-foot swells, spilling out into the wider highway. She cranked the engine. Sharp pellets of snow bit at her. Ahead, she caught a glimpse of green lights crackling like lightning. She was nearing the Westminster neighborhood, so it had to be Rennar performing the transference spell. She thought of the other teams spread throughout the city. The more noxious smoke that followed on her heels, the more likely it was that the others would succeed.
That was little comfort as she hit a roundabout, wasting precious time circling when the smoke didn’t have to obey traffic signals. It burst into the roundabout, clouding everything in sight. The full force of the wave slammed into Anouk and she coughed violently. Her throat burned. All she could see was smoke. Her eyes stung. It was so thick that the street completely disappeared beneath her. Pain throbbed in her throat and eyes and she thought of King Kaspar crying black tears. She revved the engine as hard as she could and burst out of the dense smoke and back onto the A201.
She swerved sharply to avoid a city bus frozen in the middle of the road.
Her hands were shaking. She was pretty sure she’d screamed a time or two, but she couldn’t hear anything between the blasting Clash and the pounding blood in her head.
She just had to make it to Gravesend. Twenty miles from the city center, Gravesend was a port where the Thames joined the start of the ocean. There, outside of the city limits, it wouldn’t be snowing. The world wouldn’t be frozen. Everything would be untouched by witches and Royals alike. If she could get the radio onto a boat—something viciously loud, like a barge—the smoke would follow it toward the North Sea, where it would dissipate into the vast wide-open air, diluted enough to be harmless.
The Genevar tore through Southwark, past a golf course plunged in shadows, past a sprawling grocery store with its lights lit, even though the people in the parking lot were frozen. Flashes of red light appeared in buildings on either side of the street. The Crimson Court was in Southwark. That was their magic, flashing block by block, as they cleared out the clocks. She adjusted her rearview mirror and instantly regretted it.
The smoke was now a tidal wave behind her, towering fifty feet and rushing fast as it gained more volume. Sweat broke out on her brow. She leaned in to the curves on the highway. The motorcycle was already going as fast as it could. She narrowed her eyes against the stinging snow. With a curse, she twisted the mirrors around so she couldn’t see the dark wave behind her.
A tiny flicker of hope hit her as she neared the city limits. Snow was barely falling here. The Pretty World was beginning to move again, though sluggishly. Once she crossed onto the A2, the snow stopped completely, and shockingly, the world went from night to day in the blink of an eye. A bright sun hung in the sky. Cars were moving beside her at normal speeds. A station wagon carrying a large family. A couple kissing in the back seat of a taxi. Didn’t they see the ti
dal wave of smoke behind her? None of these Pretties knew about the plagues just across the city line in London, where it was eternal night. They didn’t know that their fates rested in the hands of a witch on a motorcycle.
She roared forward amid honking horns and swerving cars, and then there it was: Gravesend. The river. Ahead, a bridge spanned the port, and she searched the ships until she saw a barge about to depart. She skidded onto the bridge and slammed on the brakes in the very middle. The barge below was headed toward her. She pulled out a knife and freed the audio player and then hurled it over the bridge as the barge passed underneath; it caught in some of the machinery. The wave of smoke swerved to follow the music. She shrieked and covered her head as the smoke rolled toward her, but at the last moment it diverted sharply to the barge below, trailing the ever-more-distant sounds of The Clash.
She collapsed against the motorcycle, breathing hard. Cars honked and swerved around her.
“You’re welcome,” she cried out, though no one could hear her above the traffic, “for saving all your lives!”
She drew in a few deep breaths of wonderfully fresh air and leaned back against the motorcycle. Closed her eyes. Tried to calm her heart. And then groaned and stood up.
London awaited.
Chapter 42
She drove back to the city at less of a breakneck speed. As soon as she crossed the city limits, night descended again, as though someone had turned off the lights in a bright room. Likewise, the world came to a standstill. Frozen cars were coated in ice. Birds hung in mid-flight. Snow was falling, to her relief—Duke Karolinge must still have the energy to continue casting his spell, but she knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer. She crested a hill and saw flashes of colored light: purple in Belgravia, blue in Kensington. Her heart soared. The lights were at the outer edges of the neighborhoods. The teams were almost finished.
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