‘I need to see Marianne,’ she said out loud.
She would find August. The necromancer was the only one who might know how to find the Fellowship’s current headquarters. And she would do it now, before the evening’s blackout meant she had to operate in the dark.
‘Who says crime doesn’t pay?’ said August, his cheeks hollowed out as he smoked furiously on the corner of Warren Street and Grafton Mews in the Rookery’s Bloomsbury. ‘Always lands on her feet. Always somewhere nice for her to move on to.’
‘Which one is it?’ asked Alice.
He gestured at a tall, brown-brick Georgian townhouse. ‘Red door,’ he said. ‘I’m coming in with you.’
‘No, you’re not.’
He threw the cigarette on the pavement and stamped on it. ‘Like fuck I’m not.’
She laid her palm on his chest, pretending not to notice the necromancer’s slight tremble of nerves. Marianne had left him badly scarred – mentally and physically. The scars Tom had had on his forearm were nothing to the ones on August’s.
‘August, I don’t want you to. This is between me and Marianne.’
‘When Crowley realizes—’
‘I can take care of this one myself,’ Alice said firmly. ‘I’m ready for Marianne and whatever she wants to throw at me.’
He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off.
‘Listen, don’t even think about telling Crowley.’
‘But—’
‘If you tell Crowley I’m at the Fellowship, I’ll tell him you dumped me here and left.’
His mouth fell slack and he stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘Fuck,’ he breathed. ‘If that wasn’t so evil I’d be impressed.’
She smiled and patted his arm. ‘Don’t wait for me,’ she said as she crossed the road and jogged up the steps. There was a knocker on the door; she’d seen one like it before. It had oscillating spikes to cut the hands of Marianne’s visitors. Anyone requiring entry to the hemomancer’s house was expected to make a blood payment. Of course, the blood then gave her a measure of control over them, and Alice knew that game too well to play it today. Marianne’s control led people to step off third-floor balconies without a parachute.
Instead, juggling a biscuit-coloured folder in one hand, Alice reached into her pocket for a stone and hurled it through the nearest ground-floor window. The glass shattered and she heard the stone bounce across a hard floor, crunching through tinkling shards.
The door flew open and a tall woman with a face shrouded in fury bore down on her.
‘Hello, Marianne,’ Alice said calmly. ‘I think it’s time we talked.’
Incense curled through the sitting room, infusing the patterned rug and the mounds of cushions on the plump sofa with odours of sandalwood and jasmine. Alice’s eyes followed a bloom of smoke as it wafted up to the ceiling and thinned out against the plasterwork. There was no door. Thanks to Marianne’s Pellervoinen handiwork, it had disappeared the minute Alice had entered. Four plain brick walls and no escape route. But it was all part of the game, and so Alice suppressed the fleeting urge to stiffen before it had time to take hold, crossed her legs and gazed steadily at Marianne.
Marianne held court on her favoured Queen Anne chair against the back wall, her gaunt wrists curved around the armrests and her many bracelets and rings catching the light in bright slashes of colour. It had only been a year, but she looked much older than Alice remembered. She had always assumed Marianne was in her mid-forties, but now she’d be surprised if she was a day under fifty. Marianne was still brunette – her hair piled high and pinned to the back of her head – but the greying streak at her temples had now begun to take root all over; the heavy make-up powder was no longer too pale for her skin tone, and the thick mascara seemed only to emphasize the smallness of her shark-like eyes. She reminded Alice of an old beauty queen gone to seed.
They sat across from one another, sizing each other up like prizefighters before a bout. Marianne smiled. Always a bad sign.
‘Bridget?’ she called out, her voice deep and velvety. ‘A moment, please.’
She smiled again, and Alice sat back to better track Marianne’s nightjar. It was a muscular bird with glossy, unblinking eyes and wide feathers flattened against its broad head. It was perched on the back of Marianne’s chair, in a proud and domineering pose. If it made any sudden moves . . .
Marianne glanced at Alice, as though to check she was watching, and then held up her hand, spread her fingers wide and clenched her jaw in concentration. What is she doing? Alice’s muscles tensed and her eyes flitted between Marianne and her nightjar. The wall juddered and a cloud of dust and plaster rained down. A sound like a puckered kiss reverberated through the room and the brick wall disintegrated. Alice’s instinct was to scramble to safety at the other end of the room, but she forced herself to sit still; she could afford to allow Marianne her little power moves. Proctor had once berated her lack of poker knowledge. Well, Alice had had some time to perfect her poker face in the year since, and now she sighed and affected a bored expression as the brickwork exploded into grains of red dust.
Marianne’s other hand joined the first and she turned them in a cupping motion. The chunks of fragmented bricks, the red dust and grit . . . were suspended in the air. Inert, floating above the floorboards, utterly still. A shadow appeared behind the wall of floating grit – and then stepped through it, a young woman emerging like a figure from a sandstorm. Marianne’s fingers twitched, she pushed her hands forward, and the red dust quivered. Dust stuck to dust, stuck to chunks, stuck to blocks . . . until the bricks reformed. With a rasping thunk, they slotted back into their original stacks – and the wall was once again whole and rebuilt.
‘You remember Bridget,’ said Marianne, her rapid breathing the only sign of her exertion.
Alice did remember her. Bridget Hogan, a small blonde with freckles and a nightjar about as lively as a stuffed toy. Alice had once used her identity to sneak into the Bow Street Runners’ HQ. She was completely under Marianne’s spell, and Alice had no idea why Marianne had called for her. Perhaps it had just been a display of power, or a taunt.
‘Hello, Bridget,’ said Alice with a nod.
The other woman sat by Marianne’s feet like a docile puppy and gave no indication she’d even heard Alice’s greeting.
‘A little security,’ explained Marianne. ‘You attacked me once . . .’
Alice had once grabbed Marianne’s cord – not a method she was keen to try again. Touching a person’s cord caused them unendurable pain; unfortunately, when their defence mechanisms kicked in, the pain rebounded along the cord.
‘. . . and I doubt you’d hesitate to attack me again,’ Marianne continued. ‘But I think you might hesitate to attack an innocent.’
She laid a hand on Bridget’s head and softly stroked her hair. Alice frowned. Of course she wouldn’t hurt Bridget. But why—
‘If you make a move on me, I’ll have her cut her own throat.’ Marianne smiled again and gestured to Bridget. The blonde pulled out a knife and laid it flat on her lap. Marianne patted her head indulgently. ‘You’re familiar with that, I think?’ she mused.
Alice’s poker face slipped and a flash of pained rage darkened her expression. How dare she mention Jen? Jen was off-limits.
‘What do you want?’ said Marianne, her tone sharp with impatience, and Alice knew the preliminaries were now over.
She stared at her for a long moment before answering. ‘Tell me about Tom Bannister.’
Marianne leaned back in her chair, an exaggerated pose of relaxation. ‘I can’t say the name’s familiar.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Alice replied coolly, ‘because last night he died trying to retrieve this.’
She pulled out the folder wedged under her arm: Reid’s research folder. Marianne became very still, her face a frozen mask, but her nightjar shifted uneasily.
‘And I assumed he wanted it for you, because he was a member of the Fellowship.’ Alice shrugged. ‘But per
haps not.’ She made as though to put it away, and Marianne’s nostrils flared, though she said nothing.
‘Tom was a friend of mine at the university,’ said Alice. ‘Except, not really in the end.’ She looked Marianne in the eye. ‘You sent an attacker to my door – and I think that’s an interesting conflict of interests, given who I am.’ A faint, goading smile curved her mouth – she preferred to see Marianne on the back foot, all spitting rage and poorly considered impulse. ‘Shouldn’t you be on your knees, worshipping me?’
Marianne sat more stiffly in the chair, her hands now clenching the armrests with such force her fingers were bone-white.
‘I devoted myself to Tuoni,’ said Marianne with a clear bite of anger, ‘not his unworthy leech of a daughter. You aren’t fit to walk in the Lord of Death’s shadow.’ The cords in her neck were rigid. Alice wondered if Marianne realized that Tuoni’s reign had ended. That someone else, who wasn’t her father, had taken his place. Alice cleared her throat. It might disadvantage her if Marianne knew.
‘There is no conflict of interest between us,’ Marianne said derisively. ‘You’ve done nothing in Tuoni’s name, whereas I’ve proven myself loyal every day for almost thirty years.’
Alice stared at her. I’ve done nothing in his name? She sat taller in her chair. Good. She smiled coldly. ‘And who’s been loyal to you, Marianne?’ Alice asked. ‘Thirty years of loneliness would be enough to send anyone mad. And you are alone, aren’t you?’
Marianne’s eyes cast about, looking towards Bridget.
‘I don’t think she counts,’ Alice said. ‘I don’t think any of your followers count. Not when they’re tricked and forced to stay with you.’
‘They’re here because they want to be,’ she snapped. ‘Because it’s an honour to be devoted to something greater than yourself.’
Alice nodded thoughtfully. ‘But there were others who didn’t want that honour,’ she said, probing for a response that would take her in the direction of Tilda without arousing Marianne’s suspicions. ‘Catherine Rose. Your sister, Helena. Both older than you, weren’t they? Both ahead of you in the line to lead the Fellowship, and yet here you are instead.’
Marianne froze. Very slowly, she sat back in the chair, her mouth pressed into a firm line. ‘Catherine . . .?’
‘Rose,’ said Alice, looking for a reaction. ‘Catherine Rose. Her father was once the lea—’
‘I know who her father was,’ she said softly, and glanced away. ‘How do you know about Catherine?’
‘I’ve been doing my homework.’
Marianne turned back to look at Alice with a contemplative eye. ‘Strange.’
‘What is?’ asked Alice.
‘You, coming in here, talking about a name I haven’t heard spoken in over twenty years.’
Her gaze tracked over Alice’s face. It was clear her curiosity had been piqued.
‘You were friends,’ said Alice.
Marianne shook her head bitterly. ‘We outgrew each other.’
‘I saw a photograph,’ Alice ventured, stoking the fire a little further. ‘A group of you at a picnic. You were in it – only a child. With—’
‘At the old Jarvis house?’ said Marianne, eyes narrowing in confusion. ‘One of the annual charity fundraisers?’
Alice shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Marianne rose from the chair and Alice tensed – she was ready. If Marianne wanted to try—
‘Stay here,’ murmured Marianne. ‘Bridget? Entertain our guest.’
Alice inhaled sharply, staring at Bridget in horror. The blonde had calmly sliced the knife across her forearm. She held it still on her knee, rich rivers of blood pouring into the cotton folds of her skirt.
‘Please don’t stain the rug,’ said Marianne with a sigh. She touched Bridget’s shoulder lightly, and the blonde put the knife down on the floor and squeezed her arm to stem the blood. She gave no indication at all that she was in pain; she was like a sleepwalker. And yet, the already pale woman was growing paler as the blood spilled out.
Marianne rolled her shoulders to loosen them, her bones cricking. ‘Wait here,’ she said, striding to the wall.
The bricks pivoted outwards with a snap, opening a hole to the hallway beyond. They spun back into place as she disappeared, and Alice turned to examine the room. But she couldn’t concentrate. Not with Bridget silently bleeding out on the floor. Her breathing was laboured and she was so pale she was almost transparent, save for the tinge of blue cyanosis in her fingertips. Bridget’s head swayed as though she struggled with its weight. When her eyelids began to flicker, Alice dived for her. She whipped off her jumper and wrapped it around the blonde’s arm, one eye on her nightjar’s cord while she searched for the slow pulse. Fucking Marianne.
Almost as though conjured by thought, Marianne swept back through the wall, the brickwork clicking into place behind her.
‘Bridget,’ Marianne said sharply. ‘Stop that.’ She flicked a finger, and the blood pumping from Bridget’s arm instantly clotted, hardening into a tapering, ridged scab.
On her knees, Alice peered up at the repulsive woman, her lip curled with distaste.
‘A photograph like this one?’ Marianne asked, flourishing a small, glossy photo.
Taken by surprise, Alice reached for it just as Marianne thrust it at her . . . and Alice nicked her finger on the edge.
‘Paper cut?’ said Marianne, grabbing her wrist to examine it with false sympathy. ‘Poor thing. Sometimes the smallest cuts hurt the most. Shall I fix it for you?’
Alice yanked her hand back, her adrenaline racing and her fingers trembling as she checked the cut. Had the hemomancer done that on purpose? There was a tiny speck of blood. Was it enough?
Marianne grinned. ‘You’re almost as pale as she is,’ she said, nodding at Bridget. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Alice. Daughter of my Lord. Blood of Tuoni. You can trust in me.’
The tone was mocking, and Alice’s skin crawled with agitation. But she clamped down on it, parcelled it away for later so that she could focus on the here and now – and on the photograph clenched in her other hand.
It was almost identical to the one she’d found in Reid’s drawers. Except that in this one they were even younger. Marianne, clearly the youngest, couldn’t have been more than eleven. The group of women and girls were stretched out on a huge checked picnic blanket, smiling up at the camera and shielding their eyes from the sun. Leda Westergard was laughing at something in the distance. Alice studied her closely, eyes roving across the image for clues, desperate to know what had so amused her.
‘There’s Catherine,’ said Marianne, interrupting her thoughts. ‘We were a unit, a pair. The others were older, but we had each other.’
‘You had Helena,’ Alice pointed out. Her sister.
Marianne tutted irritably. ‘I didn’t have Helena. Leda and Emmi had Helena.’
Alice had to bite her tongue. She couldn’t probe Marianne for information about Leda. It would be reckless and would give her far too much ammunition she could use against her.
‘After our mother died, Helena preferred her friends to her family,’ said Marianne, ‘because she didn’t care about what was important. About tradition and reputation.’ She paused, her gaze distant. ‘I cared. I should have been the firstborn. I should have had the birthright she didn’t want, but Mother gave all her secrets to Helena and not to me. Still. I had secrets of my own, anyway.’
Alice frowned, uncertain of her meaning. She moved to the chair far from Marianne and sat down.
Marianne’s face was sour with remembrance. ‘I was glad when Helena moved away to study. We barely saw her for years. But then . . . she twisted the knife by ruining us.’
‘And so you got revenge by burying the knife in her back?’ Alice shot back, a flicker of anger crossing her face. Marianne was utterly deluded. She really did believe she was the victim.
‘It was her own fault,’ snapped Marianne. ‘She took every opportunity that should have been mine. You have no
idea. And your little friend – that filth that shares my blood—’
‘Crowley?’ Alice asked sharply. Marianne’s nephew?
‘I think it’s clear that she didn’t pass my mother’s secrets to him, isn’t it?’ She tipped her head on one side, lips pouted, feigning sympathy. ‘Perhaps she knew he was unworthy of the duty she’d been given.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Alice. The thread of the conversation had unravelled in a direction Alice hadn’t anticipated and didn’t understand. What duty had Crowley’s mother had? Did he know more than he’d told her?
Marianne smiled viciously. ‘Never mind,’ she said, sweeping her verbal detour away with a hand.
Alice’s fingers twitched with the urge to lunge forward and grab Marianne’s nightjar, to peel all of its secrets away. And yet . . . she sensed something in the hemomancer’s soul-bird. It radiated ignorance and jealousy. Whatever secrets Crowley’s mother had had, the nightjar suggested Marianne didn’t know them.
‘You’ve heard the old adage that blood is thicker than water: family over friendships,’ said Marianne. ‘Well, the Northams learned the hard way that blood and water are both weak. Father was demoted because of Helena’s marriage choice – and it was Catherine’s father, Edgar Rose, who ordered the demotion. Couldn’t be helped, apparently. It hurt him just as much as it hurt us.’ She shook her head bitterly. ‘The humiliation ruined us. Edgar made sure we weren’t welcome at any more charity fundraisers afterwards,’ she said, nodding at the photograph. ‘Even though it was the Northams whose pockets were far deeper than the Roses’.’
She withdrew from Alice, standing with a manic gleam in her eye. ‘The Northams descended directly from Pellervoinen blood. What could the Roses claim? What right had the Roses to lead the Fellowship, when they were such minor players in House Pellervoinen?’ She clicked her fingers – and an entire wall disintegrated in a curtain of falling dust.
Alice stared at Marianne, stony-faced, her thoughts circling. Pellervoinen blood. Helena’s secret duty.
‘The Roses might have been able to dictate the goings-on in the Fellowship, but it was the Northams who could press home their advantage in the House. And now, the Northams are the ones who remain, who outlasted the rest.’
The Rookery Page 27