Alice stared at her, waiting to see where she was leading.
‘Without House Ilmarinen, every vote went in favour of Mielikki and Ahti. Long-time allies, they always voted together. But Whitmore lobbied for Ilmarinen’s rights to be restored, knowing it would mean the end of his House’s hold on the votes. That it would bolster House Pellervoinen and give the deciding vote back to the chancellor. And yet he did it anyway, because he felt it was the right thing to do. So . . . yes. I think he’s proved himself honourable in the past. I don’t find him very warm, but I trust him to do the right thing.’
Alice nodded thoughtfully. Leda had trusted him once, when he’d loved her and kept her secret for over twenty years.
She stepped off the pavement and hastened towards the House. With a quick glance up at the boughs draped over the archway, she entered the building and pressed ahead. The glimmering ceiling lights lit her way.
A figure stepped out into the corridor, his shadow falling across her path. Cecil Pryor.
‘Hello, Alice,’ he said, offering her a reassuring smile. ‘Are you ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ she said.
This time, he didn’t walk her to his office. With a solemn nod, he gestured for her to follow and turned on his heel. She squared her shoulders and strode after him.
‘This is for you,’ said Cecil, startling her from her thoughts.
She reached out for the yellow dandelion he was offering. A shot of warmth blossomed in her stomach. Alice waited for his instructions, which were as predicted. In her hands, the dandelion aged into a fluffy white seed head, the green bud gripping the ends of the bristles tightly.
‘Deliver the intact dandelion to the door, and there your test will end,’ said Cecil. ‘If you have succeeded, Governor Whitmore will be waiting by the door to award you with the final portion of binding draught.’
Alice gave him a searching look. ‘Has Shobhna taken her test?’
He looked surprised. ‘She passed this morning.’
‘That’s good,’ she said, nodding. ‘I’m glad.’
Cecil raised his hand, and for a moment she thought he wanted her to pass the flower back. He smiled and took her hand, shaking it with an encouraging squeeze.
‘Take care, Alice,’ he said, his eyes bright behind his glasses.
He swung open a door in the corridor, and she stepped through.
Her boots crunched onto loose topsoil and brushwood. Not the grove that housed the miniature Summer Tree but another forest – shadowy, the air fresh with the earthy scents of nature. Maple trees stretched above her head. Cedar, beech, horse chestnut, oak, even a rowan tree bursting with red berries – trees of every variety and shape crowded around her. Their dense canopies hid the sky, their trunks – crooked, slender, thick, smooth, ridged – carrying the weight of their leafy crowns with ease. She turned towards the door, but it, and Cecil, had gone.
Clutching the dandelion, she carefully moved off. Her eyes swept back and forth, hunting for danger: a sudden rock face, a watery marsh – anything. Alice ducked under a gnarled hornbeam, its leaves fountaining from the centre like a weeping willow. There was no path and no tracks to follow, but the way was obvious; the trees seemed to herd her onwards, ushering with their outstretched arms and whispering leaves.
Alice’s every sense was primed. She peered into the dappled shadows cast across the forest floor, gripping the flower tightly, taking care not to walk too fast and dislodge a seed from the head. She glanced up, in case the threat might approach from overhead, but other than the creak and sway of branches, there was no sign of movement at all. And eventually, as she plunged onwards through the grass, it became clear – there was no threat. There were no obstacles in her path. No falling trees, or boulders, or watery graves. There was just Alice and the quiet sounds of the forest as it breathed into the night.
When she emerged into a small clearing, she saw the door. The branch of a gnarled oak tree curved to the ground, and tucked between the branch and the trunk was a door made of a blackened wood, crooked and fitted to the shape of the tree’s embrace. She stepped carefully around it, but it led nowhere. Beside it was a carved stump, and resting in the centre was a wooden chalice filled to the brim with the binding draught. The last portion.
She stepped back from it and peered around. Was it a trick? She would lift the cup and an assailant might rain down from the trees?
‘Hello?’ Her voice was muffled by the wall of shrubbery around her. ‘Governor Whitmore?’
She paused, ears pricked. But there was nothing. Maybe he hadn’t set her any traps because he’d simply wanted to rush her through the final test without being seen to show bias. House reputation rested on the fairness of their membership bids. But there had been no one here to see Alice walk through the forest untested – and no one to see as she laid the dandelion on the stump and lifted the chalice.
She tilted the wooden cup and examined the wheat-coloured liquid, ribbons of gold skating over its surface. She hesitated for just a moment. Holly’s terrified face chased through her memory – imbibing the draught was as much a test as anything. But she had Gardiner blood. Mielikki blood. And the Summer Tree was already a part of her. She looked around once more, checking for signs of Whitmore or Cecil – someone from the House who ought to have been present. But the only other life in the forest belonged to the trees and the grasses.
She didn’t want to waste this chance. The draught was here – all she had to do was drink it. This was her opportunity to save the Rookery. Bind herself to the Summer Tree and use her Mielikki legacy to control it. Go on, she urged herself, just do it.
Alice took a sharp breath, raised the chalice to her lips and drank deeply. The liquid warmed her throat and chest as it slid into her body. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. And then she began to tremble all over as sparks of electricity crackled through her arms, drove into her legs and surged through her veins. Her blood was effervescent, every particle vibrating, firing her senses. Her nerve endings tingled and buzzed, and a feeling of completeness and utter bliss swept through her – like the lights flicking on one by one in a dark house, the draught lit her up inside until she felt she was glowing with euphoria.
Alice stared at her hands, flexing her fingers. They throbbed with energy and she laughed in delight. Dropping to her knees, she placed her palms in the grass and pushed. Flowers burst to life all around her, buttercups growing in the gaps between her fingers, a ring of daisies, gypsophila and chrysanthemums blooming outwards across the forest floor.
She got to her feet and staggered at the sudden deep rhythmic beat marching against her ribs. When had her heartbeat grown so loud? It filled her ears, a sonorous echo in her chest. She leaned over, hands on her knees and eyes closed, trying to focus as it ricocheted through her mind like the clanging of a church bell. It’s not my heartbeat, she realized. She knew it – she felt it. The rhythm of her pumping lifeblood was aligning itself with another. It’s the Summer Tree’s heartbeat, in sync with mine.
Alice took a breath as she straightened, finding a measure of control over this strange new connection. She peered into the gaps between the trees, and where before she’d only seen shadows, now she saw the ripple of every blade of grass and the grains of crusted bark on every tree; she saw it all. She was nature itself, and it was free and exhilarating and—
Her smile froze. There was something odd about the fall of light and shadow in the shrubs opposite the black door. A shadow where there ought not to be. Forehead lined in confusion, Alice picked her way closer. There was something partially hidden by loose brushwood. She flicked her fingers and the camouflaging branches and twigs rolled away.
Gabriel Whitmore lay dead in the grass.
One arm was outstretched and his tie was strewn over the ground. His mouth was slack, his face pale, and his dark blue eyes stared up at Alice, unseeing. Her stomach lurched in horror. How?
A shiver of cold dread ran down her spine and she backed away. Whoever had
done this – were they still in here with her? Her mind raced, trying to piece together who else might have had access to this testing place, but she found herself unable to turn away from the sight of Whitmore’s glassy eyes.
Behind her, there was a shuffling noise in the undergrowth and she froze. Were there animals in here? She spun around, straining to listen to the sounds of the forest, but there were so few. The gentle swaying of leaves, the occasional groan of wood, maybe, but nothing more significant.
And yet. There it was again. A crack.
She waited, eyes searching, her legs ready to spring away. Nothing. She straightened up and rolled her shoulders to ease some of the tension in her back. Taking a quiet, steadying breath, she turned to the black door, wrapped in the arms of the tree branch. Time to go.
Crack.
Alice spun around.
Reuben Risdon was standing beneath an elm tree, one hand resting against the trunk. She stared at him in shocked silence. He made no move to approach; he studied her face from a distance.
‘What are you . . .?’ she began, trailing away when he pushed himself off from the elm.
Her spine straightened and her hands bunched into wary fists at her side. Risdon moved past her, his shabby blue greatcoat sweeping out behind him. Alice watched as he bent to his haunches and examined Gabriel’s body, eyes narrowed in concentration. Still crouching, he shifted round, the brushwood crunching beneath his feet, and peered up at Alice.
‘He was a good man,’ he said, gesturing at the body. His fingers reached out for Whitmore’s skewed tie and placed it neatly in its proper position. He smoothed the silk down with a sigh.
‘Isn’t that . . . tampering with the scene of a crime?’ said Alice, a harsh rasp to her voice.
‘Yes,’ he said, turning towards her, his expression curious, ‘but I have always believed in dignity for the dead. Do you begrudge him that?’
Alice said nothing. What was Risdon doing here? What did he want, and where had he come from?
‘What do you think happened to him?’ she asked, trying desperately to bring herself up to speed.
‘Oh, I think he met his death here in the forest,’ said Risdon, his grey eyes shining.
She frowned at the obviousness of this statement as he laid his palm on Gabriel’s forehead . . . and within seconds, the body disintegrated to ash and dust. Alice’s throat tightened, and she moved an inch backwards to the door.
‘Ashes to ashes,’ said Risdon, rising and brushing his hands on his coat. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’
‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered over the buzzing noise in her skull.
His slanted eyebrows lifted just a fraction. ‘I came to congratulate you.’ He glanced at the chalice lying sideways on the stump. ‘You passed. Allow me a moment’s pride.’
Pride? Why should he be proud?
Alice stared at him, afraid to blink in case he moved any closer. ‘Tell me . . . what happened to Gabriel Whitmore,’ she said, her voice faint.
He tilted his head, observing her. ‘I told you, Alice. He met his Death in the forest.’
A great shuddering breath rushed from her lungs as he stood there, drinking in the sight of her. Her throat was too tight. Her brain functions had dimmed. She was only aware of the pulse of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears.
‘Are you . . . his Death?’ she whispered.
He nodded, the look in his eyes solemn. A long silence fell between them, and when he spoke again, something in the atmosphere had changed.
‘Hello, Alice,’ he murmured gently. ‘We were never introduced properly when we first met – but I know who you are now.’
She shook her head and took another step backwards. Her hand, behind her, hunted desperately for the door. It was locked.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘Reuben Risdon,’ she hissed.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And no.’
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true.
Her brown eyes searched his face. The face of the monster who had killed her best friend, who had warned her about Crowley’s lies, who had once asked her to work alongside him, who had offered to protect her – who had made her a figure of death.
‘Tuoni,’ she breathed. ‘You’re Tuoni?’
‘It’s been a long time since anyone has called me by that name,’ he said, his eyes raking her face with interest.
‘How can you be . . .?’ Alice whispered, the tension in her head growing so tight her skull felt cramped. She swallowed and shook her head. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I wanted you to know me,’ he said, regarding her with curiosity. ‘Before the end.’
‘Before you free your soul and destroy the Rookery?’ she managed.
How? How can he be Tuoni? This man who she despised. She wanted to run, to get away from him, but her legs were leaden with disgust and horror. Her chest was too tight, a heavy weight pressing against her ribs, squeezing her senseless.
‘No.’ A small, regretful sigh escaped Risdon – Tuoni – as he turned his attention to a crooked elm tree. ‘Before you free my soul and destroy the Rookery.’
She stared at him as he peered at the tree’s trunk. Panic clawed its way up her throat and she fought to tamp it down.
‘I’m Mielikki’s heir,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to destroy the city. I’m going to save it.’
He turned back to her, a faint smile on his face. ‘You’re my heir. You’re Death. You take life,’ he said simply. ‘It’s just what you are. People worry over whether their souls are good or bad, how stained they are with sin. But your soul . . . is Death. Good or bad doesn’t matter. Death takes everyone. And like Death, your soul can cut through nightjar cords; your mother knew that before you were born.
‘I begged her,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘I warned her you wouldn’t be able to help yourself. Infants have no self-control.’ He paused and turned away, shaking his head. ‘You are still that infant, Alice. I knew it the moment I saw your soul escape in Marble Arch. You lost control.’
He moved back to the elm and stroked one hand down the bark. Alice watched in mounting dread as flames sparked from his fingertips and he trailed fire across the rough wood. What was he doing?
‘House Ilmarinen?’ she whispered. The House of fire. Crowley’s house.
‘House Tuoni, I think,’ he said with a wan smile. He snapped a blackened branch from the tree and crumbled it between his fingers. ‘All four Houses have destructive gifts at their heart. Fire is death.’ He tilted his head to observe her from an angle. ‘If you had spent your time embracing who you are rather than resisting it, you might have discovered gifts untold.’
‘Death isn’t a gift,’ she snapped, her eyes flashing with sudden fury.
He pushed away from the tree. ‘Not so,’ he said, and there was an earnest tone in his voice. ‘It can be the kindest gift of all, in the right circumstances. Death can be merciful.’
‘And vengeful,’ she said, her words hitting the air between them like bullets. ‘And harrowing. And unfair. And—’
‘Yes.’ He nodded his agreement. ‘Those things too.’
‘You killed my best friend,’ she said, a knot of rage unfurling behind her ribs, filling her up and making her tremble.
‘You killed the only woman I’d ever loved,’ he responded, his voice like a whip-crack through the forest.
Alice flinched as though he’d slapped her. ‘I was a baby,’ she spat. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
He sighed. ‘Nor was your friend’s mine. It was simply necessary.’
Necessary. Because if he hadn’t found a way to send Alice’s soul back to her body, it would have gone on to destroy the Rookery. Jen had died for Alice’s sins.
‘I became a killer so that you wouldn’t have to,’ he said.
‘But I am anyway,’ she replied roughly. ‘You said it yourself. I killed Leda. This is what I am.’ She knelt and snatched up the dandelion on the log. Holding it out, she watched
as it crumpled and rotted to a fine powder. Staring at him, she reached out for the lowest branches of an oak tree, wrapping her hand around them. The bark curled and flaked away, and the branches rotted to dust. ‘Death,’ she said, wiping the decayed remains on her jeans.
Tension thickened the air between them and they fell silent – assessing each other, waiting to see who made the next move. Fire had raced up the length of the elm tree, jumping from leaf to leaf. Orange flickers danced in her eyes.
‘My job,’ she said, ‘at the Magellan Institute—’
‘I wanted you there,’ he said. ‘I left the advert on Sasha Hamilton’s desk. I knew she’d pass it on.’
Alice’s stomach clenched and her mouth ran dry. ‘When did Reid realize she was working for you?’ she asked hoarsely.
He smiled. ‘It took her longer than I’d expected. When I pushed for her to shift her focus, she grew suspicious.’
‘You wanted to know whether the three-part soul existed,’ said Alice.
‘No, of course not,’ he said with a wry look in his eye. ‘I’m Tuoni. I know the make-up of souls. Catherine was asked to begin researching how to split a soul without the subject knowing.’
She searched his face. The gentle flicker of orange flames from the burning elm cast eerie shadows across his jaw.
‘And why would you want to know that?’ she asked, her voice faint.
‘I think you know,’ he murmured.
She blinked rapidly, the hammering of her heart drowning out the crackle of fire consuming the branches above his head.
‘Spell it out for me,’ she said.
He glanced up at the flames racing up the length of the elm and back to Alice. ‘My nightjar is keeping my soul in the tree – and you are capable of severing nightjar cords.’ He gave her a thoughtful look, as though they were discussing something inane and small. ‘Souls are surprisingly fragile things,’ he said. ‘Trauma can weaken them. And every time yours was freed, it chipped away just a little more at the cord tying my nightjar to the Summer Tree.’
The Rookery Page 38