“You will serve as my guide,” Henry shouted again, ignoring us. His outstretched hand was just about to touch the smoke, and I held on to a single breath, watching as the soot-black cloud neared . . .
“Arratu-akka! Mâzu, mâzu, MZU.”
It was a voice straight from hell, as fell and dark as the creature itself. I felt as if I were going to vomit and dropped to my knees, closing my eyes and lapsing into prayer. I rocked back and forth with the dog in my arms, hot tears dripping down my cheeks and into his fur. He curled into me, the only small spot of comfort as the nightmare voice bled into my lungs like poisoned air, thick with ash. The whole of the cave and the hovel above quaked, and I braced for the collapse.
“Fall then, demon. I name you all that is low, all that is man.”
A cold whisper chased through the room, and I opened my eyes, watching as the hand touching the Black Elbion began to resonate with glowing-red power. The power surged through Henry’s arm just as his fingers disappeared into the smoke of the demon’s body.
Focalor’s cry of anguish died, swallowed as he diminished like steam that had burst from a cauldron being sucked instantly back inside. When the haze cleared and the echo of their dark speech had faded, all that remained was a pale and tremulous man, curled onto his side like a newborn, an oversize loincloth draped over his waist. He shook with tears, and at once I turned away. I was suffocating. I thought neither Ara nor Henry had noticed me shuffling away toward the stairs, but a moment later I heard Henry snap the book shut, and then he was at my side.
“That was cruel,” I whispered, realizing my tears hadn’t slowed. “You went too far.”
Henry shrugged, unmoved. “He’s a demon, Spicer. It’s none of your affair. He will do as I ask.”
When I looked at him again, something was different. He was his same handsome self, carefree and smirking, cocky in his apparent victory, but a dark glimmer in his eye disturbed me deeply. There was an absence of light and pity there, just empty blackness.
“That isn’t the point at all, Henry. How could that ever be the point?”
There would be no afternoon tea or refreshing cucumber sandwiches at Coldthistle House. My old place of employment, the house I had known as the Devil’s and then briefly as my own, was smoking, in chaos, and under siege.
We stopped the carriages not far from the short drive that led up to the mansion itself. We got out and stood along the edge of the grass, which even after so much rain curled inward, yellowish and dead at the ends. The shrubberies lining the path had not been pruned in weeks. One of the pointed towers on the west side of the house had recently been on fire; the burnt wood still smoldered.
“Take Niles to Derridon,” Dalton said after a stretched spell of silence. “This is no place for humans just now.”
“But—”
“Please, Fathom.” I could hear the exhaustion in Dalton’s voice as he turned to her. His clothes were still damp from the rain, and her coat and hat were sodden, mud darkening her boots to the knees. She didn’t budge, hands balled into fists at her side.
At last she relented, and nudged the owlish little Niles toward the faster, light carriage.
“Fine,” she muttered as she went. “But I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“Take your time,” Dalton called after her. “And for pity’s sake, be safe.”
I watched her climb back into the driver’s box, wondering if that would be the last I saw of her. The wave I gave her was small, unsteady, for I was loathe to part with such a stalwart companion. She smirked and tipped her tricorn hat in return, and then she was snapping the whip, calling up the horses, and maneuvering back out into the road.
“I wish I didn’t have to send her away.” Dalton sounded winded, as if he had run the whole way from London to Coldthistle. “But God only knows what we’re walking into.”
“Now we know why Wings never returned,” I replied, surveying the battered house and the unkempt lawn. Something lean and golden swooped toward the stables, wings flashing in the fading dusk light.
“One of yours?” I asked, following Dalton as he crept onto the grounds, circling away from the eastern half of the property and keeping to the shadows of the tall, forgotten shrubberies and gargoyle statues. Khent and Mary joined us, and Mother glided along behind them.
“He’s called back all of his command,” Dalton whispered, crouching behind a statuary. We mimicked him except Mother, who seemed simply to melt into the greenery, innately part of it.
“We must see if the others are well,” Mary insisted, her big green eyes darting toward the front doors.
“Wait. We must wait and be patient. Right now we have the advantage; they have no idea we made it this far and survived the Tarasque. We mustn’t spoil this chance.” Dalton peered around the bush, squinting into the coming darkness. “That was an Adjudicator, but impossible to say who from here.”
“Finch?” It seemed the likeliest option, given the last I had seen of him was at the house.
“Hiding is for cowards. If we have the advantage, we should use it.” Khent sniffed and then prodded me in the ribs. “Make another javelin for me with that knife of yours, I’ll knock that stupid bird out of the sky.”
“Shhh.” Mary slapped at his hands. “Look!”
The Adjudicator had ended its graceful ascent on the top of the eastern attic. It stood very still for a moment, blazing with liquid golden light, its features blending into that ever-moving surface, its spear leaning against one shoulder. Then its massive wings stretched open, and it dove toward the lawn. All of us followed it with our eyes, and as it neared the ground, a blur of brown and orange intercepted, leaping from out of nowhere. From a hole in the lawn. The Adjudicator gave a strangled cry and then wrestled free, frantic, taking flight again but this time soaring away from the grounds, disappearing somewhere over the eastern fields.
“Bartholomew!” Mary squealed, covering her mouth.
No sooner had she spoken the dog’s name than it came pelting toward us, muzzle split in what looked like not just panting, but a smile. He found us easily behind the bushes and tackled Mary to the ground, plate-size paws on her shoulders as he licked her face from neck to brow.
“All right, all right, yes, I missed you, too!” She laughed and pushed at him. The dog had gotten even bigger since I left, nearly the height and strength of a lion.
“Goodness gracious,” Dalton breathed with bugged eyes. “He’s huge.”
“Rather changed from the last time you saw him?” I chuckled and reached for the dog, scratching him behind the ears. Bartholomew rewarded me with a nudge of his giant head.
“He was just a pup last we met,” Dalton agreed, marveling at the creature. “Could fit in two of your hands, neat as you please.”
From around the yard near the stables came a soft cry, then another. It was a searching sound, singsong. Poppy.
“Doggie? Doggie! You come back here this instant! Oh, I hope that horrid meanie didn’t carry him off . . .”
Her fears were swiftly abated as Bartholomew poked his shaggy head out from around a shrub, to the delighted shrieks of Poppy, his steadfast coconspirator. I heard her little footsteps on the gravel before I saw her, and then she appeared from behind a gargoyle, braided tails swinging. Dressed in a stained white frock, she seemed thinner than I remembered, though still with large, doll-like eyes and a permanent reddish-brown stain covering a large part of her face. She stopped short, understandably, finding not only her faithful hound but three familiar faces and two strangers hiding among the verge.
“I know you!” she exclaimed, pointing. “And you, and you also! Have you come to drive off the shepherd man?”
“Poppy!” Mary pushed herself up from the ground and threw her arms around the little girl, who, if pressed, could scream loud enough to pop each of our heads like an overripe melon.
“It is ever so nice to see you again, Mary,” the girl said, squeezing her fast and then stepping away. “It is really you,
Mary?”
“It’s me,” she replied. “I promise.”
“And this is Dalton Spicer, an old friend of Mr. Morningside’s,” I explained, making hasty introductions. “This is . . . Well, this is Mother.”
“Whose mother?” Poppy asked, scrunching up her nose.
“I’ll explain more later, yes? But can you tell us, is it safe to go in the house? Are there more of those Adjudicators about?” I asked.
Poppy swung around and nodded toward the front doors, taking Mary’s hand and holding it tight. “Chijioke has the doors barred, but I know the special knock. It’s quite safe inside. The shepherd’s people come and go, but Mrs. Haylam says it won’t be long before there are a lot and we are really and truly something that starts with an f but that I am not allowed to say.”
“Then we should go in quickly,” Dalton said, glancing nervously toward the front entrance. “All of you go ahead, I’ll be along shortly. Any Adjudicators will think twice before attacking me on sight.”
Khent snorted. “Is that impending betrayal I smell?”
“You have nothing to fear from me, sir, not if the shepherd is ready to send the full might of his host against Henry. Go now, and keep your heads down!”
I took Khent and Mary by the forearms and tugged them along. Mother came with us, though she looked quizzically at Poppy and then Bartholomew, as if placing them in some kind of invisible order she had sorted out. She moved with speed when she wanted to, and she matched our strides as we shouldered up to the front doors, where Poppy gave the special knock.
The Deptford safe house and its pass phrase felt hundreds of years ago. I was so bloody tired, my body aching, my hand still in dull pain, my mind eager for unbroken rest. Father’s voice disturbed me less with Mother so near, and it gave me hope that she could be a soothing presence until he was removed completely. Perhaps I might never need to hear him again.
“Poppy? Is that you?”
I saw Mary practically wilt at the sound of his voice rumbling through the door.
“It’s me plus a bit more, but they are all nice. I think.”
“What?”
“It’s us!” Mary cried, laughing with relief. “We sent word but came when you never wrote back!”
There was a soft, sworn word and then the sound of boards grinding against boards. At least six different padlocks were undone, and then, with a shuddering groan, the tall, broad doors of Coldthistle House opened to me once more. It was dark inside and musty with old air, but the sight of Chijioke there with a hopeful smile was all the welcome we needed. Mary flung herself into his arms, and we filed in behind to fill the foyer. Chijioke had just set her down lightly on her feet when someone cleared their throat from the open staircase. I knew, of course, who it would be, but my blood still ran cold at the sound of his dark, twisting voice.
“Well, it appears I was right. Fate has brought you back to Coldthistle House, Louisa, and I see you did not come alone.”
Chapter Sixteen
Henry Morningside, the Devil himself, did not look well.
His hair was neatly coiffed, naturally, but his dove-gray suit hung rumpled and loose on his frame. Vivid purple smudges underlined his eyes, and he had lost weight, which showed most in the too-tight skin over his hands—the flesh there looked stretched, as if he placed naked bones and not fingers on the greasy banister.
Nobody spoke, leaving the echo of Mr. Morningside’s voice to dance among the dust motes until Dalton returned and stepped out from around me and presented himself, staring up at Mr. Morningside before giving a short, polite bow.
“Hello, Henry. Did you miss me?”
Mr. Morningside’s nostrils flared considerably, and he stiffened, giving me a glare that said clearly I was somehow to blame for Dalton Spicer’s appearance. Perhaps I was, but I had not forced anyone to come, and the bad blood between the two men was their own sordid business. But more and more I knew how Mr. Morningside’s mind worked, and if he could find a grudge to lay at someone’s feet, he would do it with pleasure. Either that, or he sensed Spicer’s and my fragile allegiance to one another and wanted simply to drive a wedge in our friendship.
“Did I miss you?” Henry scoffed, and then he produced a handkerchief, wiping idly at the neglected banister. “How long ago was Hungary? Dear me, has it already been two hundred years? Goodness, Dalton, what an extraordinary idea, that I would long for a pebble in my boot, a fly in my porridge, a bee in my—”
“Aye. We get it, you’re not friendly,” I muttered, rolling my eyes at his theatrics. “Be that as it may, I happened to notice a few changes since I left. Most noticeably that the house is in shambles, the doors are barricaded, and there are Upworlders attacking at random. Oh, and here’s something fun for you, we were chased halfway across the county by a dragon lion the size of Whitby. Anything sound amiss there and possibly more important than an ancient spat?”
Mr. Morningside lifted his brows, retaking my measure, or more accurately, reassessing me. As an adversary, perhaps, or as a former employee with a vengeful god locked in her head. He wound his way languidly down the stairs, pausing at the bottom one to smirk.
“You haven’t been paying attention, Louisa. All of this,” he gestured to the floor, the ceiling, and us, “is nothing but ancient spat after ancient spat. Generally, I can’t even remember what it is we’re fighting about.”
I strode toward him, furious, but Dalton stopped me from throttling him on the staircase. “Oh, you smug—you . . . you liar. You and the shepherd tried to murder all of my people, and then you had a sliver of conscience and enough spine to feel sorry about it. Now you’re taking sides and still losing by the looks of it.”
Mr. Morningside feigned a choking noise and pressed his palm over his heart. “Louisa, you vanquish me, have mercy. Very well, we are somewhat compromised here, but the shepherd will stop eventually. He doesn’t have the stomach for direct conflict. No, he rather prefers”—and here he fixed his gaze deliberately on Dalton—“subterfuge.”
“I’ve taken no sides, Henry,” Dalton said, putting his hands up in surrender. “There is no love between you and me, but likewise I disagree with the shepherd’s methods. You don’t know what it’s like in London. His followers are spreading everywhere; they found Louisa and attacked her right out in the open, in front of half of London society. Good God, Henry, he sent Sparrow after her.”
For the first time since our return, Henry looked legitimately taken aback. “Oh? And?”
“And she’s dead,” I said. “We had to defend ourselves.”
“Now that is interesting,” Henry drawled. He glanced with sparkling yellow eyes at Mary and Khent, nodding. “You three make a formidable little army. Fortunately for us, you escaped the riffraff in town. Your timing is appreciated.”
“Where are Lee and Mrs. Haylam?” Mary piped up, her arm linked with Chijioke’s. “They’re not . . . Are they well?”
Mr. Morningside took the final step off the staircase, waving away Mary’s questions with his handkerchief. He had at last noticed Mother, and nothing in the world could have torn his attention away from her as he took short, slow steps in her direction.
“They’re counting beans in the larder,” he said. “Supplies have been scarce since the shepherd began his campaign. But who is this? That is what I want to know. Who is this?”
It must have been a leftover protective instinct from when she was a very small, very crushable spider, but I leapt in front of her. She did not move me aside, yet placed an infinitely caring hand on my shoulder. I knew without a glance that she was smiling over my head at Henry. With her other hand she lifted her veil, and I watched him go pale and gasp.
“Greetings, Dark One. It has been too long.”
Mr. Morningside struggled to come up with a response, then swallowed hard and swept her, and I suppose me, a bow.
“He looks nervous,” I said under my breath to Dalton.
He smirked. “Henry has been keeping Dark Fae here under c
ontract, hasn’t he? They’re practically prisoners. Now Mother has returned. I would be sweating if I were him, too.”
“No,” I told him, still softly. “They like working here.”
“Do they?” Dalton lifted a brow. “Will they still think that way when Henry shows his true colors?”
“He’s fooled everyone this long . . .”
“It won’t go on forever,” Dalton whispered. “It can’t.”
Henry, meanwhile, kept a weather eye on Mother. “Gracious me, how long has it been?” His voice was too high to be casual. “Seven hundred years? Eight?”
“Longer,” she said.
“Indeed.” Mr. Morningside stuffed his handkerchief away and fussed with his blue cravat. “And the nature of this . . . this visit?”
Mother’s other hand landed on my shoulder, and I could feel the warmth of her skin through my cloak and dress. “I am here for Louisa. Father’s twisted spirit resides in her, and there is reason to believe you or one of your kind may know how to change that. Help her, Star of the Morning, and there will be no quarrel between us.”
The smallest flicker of darkness flitted across his eyes. It was there and then gone so quickly, I couldn’t be certain I’d seen it at all. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his hand went still on his cravat. A plan had begun forming in his head, and if that hint of darkness was to be believed, it was nothing good.
“Of course,” he said, his face splitting with a wide, white smile. “Anything for a dear, old friend.”
I crept silently into the kitchens, anxious to find Lee, though decidedly less interested in running across Mrs. Haylam. She had been my introduction to the house, but she’d never warmed to me. All along she must have suspected something, that I was not just a wayward girl, recently escaped from school, but part of this world beneath the world. I was beginning to suspect that she was the “Ara” mentioned frequently in Dalton’s diary. The physical description—particularly her many strange markings—fit, and so did the sour attitude.
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