Tomb of Ancients

by Madeleine Roux

  The tall, mullioned windows faced the fields that, far in the distance, held the shepherd’s house, a modest shack I had once stumbled upon by accident. Of much more pressing concern, however, was a line of Adjudicators waiting just across the rickety fence separating the two properties. Most of the fence had been knocked down, but a few narrow posts remained here and there. The yard was pocked with deep holes, and I wondered if one of those led to the other end of the tunnel I’d glimpsed through the massive gape in the kitchen floor.

  “He’s mad as a bag of ferrets if he thinks I’m going to take that bait,” Mr. Morningside grunted. He stood with crossed arms at the window, all of his employees and visitors beside him—except Mrs. Haylam.

  She arrived in a bustle of skirts and muttered complaints, then paused when she caught sight of us all amassed at the windows. Out in the hall behind her lurked two blurry black shapes. Residents. The shadows given life prowled in her wake, drifting by the open doorway but not entering. Mrs. Haylam had abandoned her apron, wearing only a sober, dark frock with a knit muffler around her neck. The spare months between now and when I’d last seen her had aged her significantly. She had previously looked like a proud but gnarled old tree, dark of skin but with a severe kind of beauty. Now she simply seemed weathered, her milky eye so pale it almost glowed in the dimly lit bedroom.

  When her good eye fell on Dalton, she drew up short. It was as if someone had dropped a solid block between them, for she would go no farther.

  “Him,” she spat.

  “Hullo, old girl,” Dalton greeted, turning to face her, though the fabric over his eyes hid much of his expression.

  “We are not so desperate that we need your aid,” she said, sniffing. “And the problem child has returned, too? I might have known. My every bone has ached for hours, an ill omen of the fools darkening our doorstep.”

  “We are indeed that desperate,” Mr. Morningside said. “There are Adjudicators across the fence, and the shepherd flushed this lot out of London with fires and dragons and the Pit only knows what else. It would seem he wants us all in one location. Convenient, no?”

  I chewed my cheek, ignoring the searing look Mrs. Haylam tossed my way. If I needed her help to rid myself of Father, I would sweeten my tone later, but that was a problem for another moment. In the meantime, I feared Mr. Morningside was right.

  “Do you suppose he knows we’re here?” I asked.

  “Doubtful. If he did, he would send more than that pitiful lot,” Mr. Morningside replied. He leaned closer to the window, squinting. “This may just be a warning. Or scouts.”

  They didn’t look to be in a hurry, merely pacing up and down the fence. After my battle with Sparrow, the thought of facing four Adjudicators, even with more allies of my own, lodged a lump in my throat. Mr. Morningside, for all his boasting, had to be afraid. There was no mistaking the state of Coldthistle House—it was a wonder they were still alive with Adjudicators attacking the property at random. They would certainly need us to survive the coming storm.

  “Khent,” I said gently, “stay here with Lee, Mary, and Chijioke. Tell me if anything changes. I need to have a word with my former employers.”

  He nodded solemnly and stood still, but I could tell he itched to follow.

  “What’s this now?” Mr. Morningside asked, cocking a brow.

  “You will see. We should talk terms somewhere more private,” I added, gesturing for Mother and Dalton to accompany me.

  “Terms.” Mr. Morningside tasted the word and sneered; I’m sure he would have much preferred I called it a deal. And I would, if that was what he required. Time was too short and my need too great to worry about such details.

  Mrs. Haylam remained rigid near the door, watching me closely as I strode by her and out into the corridor. The attic space down the hall, while not glamorous, would have to suffice. Residents drifted up and down in the flickering light of the sconces, then came together to follow me, so close that I could feel the cold that rolled off them like the breath of winter. The large ballroom where I had first found the black book was not far off, but I doubted the book remained there. It was only reasonable that after the events of the spring, Mr. Morningside would take greater pains to hide it.

  The attic, sneezy and dark, grew dimmer still when the Residents floated in. They seemed to suck the dismal light from every corner and soak it into their blurred bodies. Mrs. Haylam entered last, carrying with her a short candelabra with fragrant yellow candles. The light held beneath her chin exaggerated every deep crack in her face.

  With Adjudicators gathering at the property’s edge, I dispensed with pleasantries. “I want Father’s spirit out of me,” I told him and Mrs. Haylam bluntly. “If Chijioke can do it, fine, but something tells me it will be more complicated than his usual ceremony.”

  “Far more complicated, I should think,” Mr. Morningside said, propping one elbow on his hand, knuckles tucked under his chin. “But not impossible.”

  I glanced at Mother, and from behind her veil, she smiled back.

  “I have a number of souls stored,” he continued. “The birds, of course. We can choose one of the less . . . unsavory types and use their essence. Perhaps Amelia Canny, or the Italian Countess, if you’re in the mood for something more dangerous. Otherwise”—and here he peered between Mother and Dalton—“we will require a volunteer, but that seems unnecessary.”

  “You will need to be brought to the point of death again,” Mrs. Haylam said, steely. “A simple task.”

  And how you will enjoy that, I thought.

  “Very well,” I replied. “That sounds agreeable. Well, not agreeable, but possible. In return, I will ask that my companions help you defend against the shepherd’s forces. You will need our help to survive.”

  “You will do more than that.” Mr. Morningside grinned, then grinned wider when my face fell. “What you’re asking is complicated and risky, Louisa, and the trouble is that you will need us for it. Therefore, we must survive. Therefore, what you are offering is the bare minimum and not at all interesting to me.”

  “Here we go,” I heard Dalton mutter, crossing his arms.

  “Or you might help Louisa because it is the kind thing to do.” Mother drifted forward, removing her veil. It was always startling, how strange and beautiful she looked, with her inky purple skin and eight delicate pink eyes. Even Mr. Morningside could not tear his eyes away from her. “She is suffering greatly. Father’s spirit is poison, and it is killing her with its cruelty.”

  “How tragic,” Mrs. Haylam drawled. “She was gifted the powers of a god. That she cannot control and understand them is unfortunate but not our problem.”

  “It will be,” I shot back, taking a step toward her. “When I pack up my toys and go home.”

  “Back to London? Back to the angry mobs with torches?” Mr. Morningside sighed, but it was all theatrics. “Oh, Louisa, you are in our game now, and in this game, running only takes you to the edge of the board, it does not remove you as a piece.”

  He had me cornered, and I knew it, but I hated losing to him this way.

  “Ask what you will, then,” I whispered, not afraid anymore to look him straight in the eye, to challenge the Devil himself. “But I will not agree to anything until I know exactly what you require.”

  “I’m afraid it involves another book.” He didn’t seem at all bothered by my glowering. In fact, he had turned his attention to Dalton. For some reason, that frightened me more. “Only this time, you won’t be translating it,” Mr. Morningside said with a wink. “You’ll be destroying it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  My first thought was that Mr. Morningside meant Dalton’s diary, that he wanted it gone, but of course it could not be that simple.

  “You have no idea what you’re asking,” Dalton said, shaking his head and brushing by me, standing up to Henry. They were of equal height and similar frame, though they were different in nearly every other respect. With Mr. Morningside’s dark hair and Dalton’
s ginger complexion, they were like ice and fire.

  “On the contrary, I know just what I’m asking.” Mr. Morningside dodged around him, languidly, his shoulder brushing the other man’s. I saw Dalton flinch at the proximity. “What else would you have me do? The shepherd has gone plum mad. We had a nice enough arrangement going. It’s a pity he had to ruin it.”

  “Louisa tells me you’ve been amassing a bloody army of souls, Henry. Perhaps that ruined it, mm?”

  “Is all this bickering necessary?” Mrs. Haylam pinched her forehead, going to the window behind us and setting down the candelabra. “Dalton will produce the white book and see it destroyed, or he will leave, and he will take poor, poor Louisa with him.”

  She had said it with such finality that we were all silent for a moment. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Of course, it was completely in line with Mr. Morningside’s usual tricks, but even for him this seemed extreme.

  “Destroy the book?” I breathed. “Is that even possible?”

  “It is,” Mr. Morningside replied breezily. “Dalton knows it, too.”

  I waited for Dalton to say something, rubbing my hands nervously across my skirt. “What does that do? If the book is gone, I mean, what will happen?”

  “We—Upworlders, the shepherd—” He choked a little on his words and closed his eyes. “We will all cease to exist.”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering part of the diary. “The book is what gives all of you power. Father consumed our book, which is why we Dark Fae are still here.”

  “Precisely.” Mr. Morningside looked grim, suddenly, as if the weight of what he was asking had finally sunk in. “What would you have me do, Spicer? The shepherd is out of control. Do you see anyone else setting up cults all over London? He wants us dead.”

  Dalton grunted. “No, he wants you contained.”

  “He wants us dead.” Mr. Morningside rounded on him, sticking a pointed finger into his face with a sneer. “You’ve lived long enough and look miserable doing it. You’ve always hated the game, so now you’re invited to leave it. Destroy the book, and I help the girl.”

  Nobody moved. For a moment, I was convinced Dalton might strike him. His entire body had gone too still, frozen with rage, his cheeks dark red. His eyes were covered, but had they been visible and whole, they might have been shooting flames. A tremor began in his right leg, but he stopped it and slowly, carefully, took a step back. Mr. Morningside lowered his hand but otherwise waited, his terms given.

  Mother and I watched the Upworlder go with weary steps to the door, where he paused and put one hand on the frame, leaning away from the Residents that gathered there to watch and loom.

  “You didn’t have to make this personal, Henry,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Mr. Morningside replied, adjusting his cravat. “Yes, you made certain that I did.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  I found Dalton Spicer out on one of the narrow balconies attached to the Green Suite. Like the other rooms on that floor, its furniture had been covered and left abandoned. There were no guests at Coldthistle House, and though the people who were drawn to it had committed great evils, the place still felt emptier and colder for their absence.

  He stood with his back to me, night draped around him, his palms resting on a railing still damp with rain. I watched him trace shapes into the droplets for a moment, and then he regarded the forest. The balcony faced north, toward the hidden spring and the woods where I had first encountered Khent, when he attacked me and my father, who had been masquerading as Mary.

  “There must be something else he wants,” I pressed. “We can find a way to bargain with him.”

  “No,” he laughed. “You don’t know him like I do. Once he sets his mind to something, he gets it, no matter the consequences.”

  “I’ve been reading the diary, and I must say it’s . . . disturbing. All the riddles and violence . . . ,” I said, standing half inside still for the meager warmth. “Why didn’t Mr. Morningside turn back? So much pointless danger . . .”

  Dalton pulled away the covering over his eyes and inhaled deeply, rubbing his face, lifting his nose to the cold night air. “When I met him, he was a different man. Not kinder, not wiser, but more malleable.”

  I let that hang between us for a moment, and then I said, “Mother tells me Father changed, too. That the war among all of you broke something in him.”

  He gave a wry smile at that and tilted his head toward me. “Yes, yes, that’s it exactly. I think it broke Henry, too, but he covers it well. When I first met him, it was at a meeting between him and the shepherd. They were forging an alliance, a temporary one, to punish the Father of Trees for overreaching. Henry had this . . . this frictionless poise. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was dangerous, yes, but he listened. He compromised.”

  “He listened?” I snorted. “Then, God, he really was different.”

  “You have no idea.” Dalton placed the fabric back over his eyes and scrubbed one hand over his mouth, as if trying to wipe something invisible away. “After we Upworlders hunted down the Dark Fae, your people, Henry stopped listening. He stopped compromising. I think he realized he was going to live forever, and living forever with that much guilt requires a heart of stone.”

  “Is that why he wanted to know so much about the books?” I asked.

  Dalton took my meaning and nodded. “He saw his life stretching out before him, a long, long forever of a life, always burdened by what we had done to your folk. He had tried living with that stone heart and decided it was better to shatter the thing and be done. It wasn’t just knowledge he was seeking in the salt flats, it was his own annihilation.”

  “Did Ara know? Is that why she kept trying to stop him?”

  At that, he chuckled and ran his palm flat through the rain on the banister. “No, she didn’t know, not at first. Neither did I. She doesn’t think that way. Mrs. Haylam would happily live forever with the death of millions on her shoulders. She’s simply made of stronger stuff.”

  “No,” I said, plunging out into the cold to stand beside him. “That isn’t strength at all. I don’t think there’s a word for what that is.”

  “Anyway.” He shrugged. “She’s too callous, too selfish to think Henry might endanger himself or her. Never, ever be fooled by her temperament, Louisa. She worships the ground on which he walks.”

  I watched him fiddle with the raindrops for a moment longer. “But he didn’t ask you to destroy the black book.”

  “No. I think . . . I think, strange as it may be, that he’s quite fond of this house and those he employs. Destroying the Elbion would be their downfall, too. Where would they go? He’s protected them for so long, and you’ve seen how dangerous it can be.”

  My brows rose at that. “Awfully sentimental,” I said. “For the Devil.”

  “Maybe they ease his loneliness. That’s worth something. I imagine it’s depressing, conversing with birds all day, and he long ago chased demons like Faraday out of his life. Too miserable to be around, even for demons.”

  It was growing too cold to stay outside, and I longed for sleep. The Adjudicators, or so it seemed, had yet to make their move. The iciness in my gut had eased, and I wondered if they had left, delaying their attack. Maybe the shepherd sensed we had come, or that Dalton had, and had chosen to restrategize.

  “And Henry knows how to destroy the books? Where to go?” I asked, lingering in the door.

  “Yes.”

  “The riddles . . . He knows the answers to them? The correct answers?”

  Dalton sighed. “All but one. Finish the diary, Louisa, you will see. I lost track of Henry for so long, it wouldn’t surprise me if he learned more of the riddles on his own. Or he sent Mrs. Haylam to investigate. She would do anything he asked. Somehow . . . he has that way about him, convincing others to give up everything for him. Only it’s a hollow promise, and there’s no reward at the end.”

  As I watched, he crumbled toward the balcony
, holding himself upright tentatively. I wasn’t welcome or needed, and I backed into the house, hugging myself.

  “You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” I whispered.

  “Yes,” he said, turning his face away from the sky. “Yes, I’ll help you destroy the white book.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  1247, The Road East

  Screams, hollow and damned as the void, trailed after us down the road. Ara’s shadow creatures had been left to fend for themselves, but those high, terrible wails told us of their fate.

  “So soon?” she whispered as we ran. “How is it possible?”

  Their sacrifice was soon forgotten, as we heard the impending thunder and the quaking of the ground beneath our feet. The stretch of land beside the road was uneven and treacherous, and our lead was swiftly lost.

  How the creature had circled behind the road and come back upon us before we’d even run a quarter mile soon became clear. For we traveled on two legs while our pursuer tracked us on eight. I have seen many wondrous and terrible creatures in my day, but never something so grotesque. It surged ahead, rounding, blocking our path, the size across of three men, and as tall as five. Its body—long, curved, and segmented—was that of a scorpion’s, a faded-brown color translucent as parchment, the veins and organs within throbbing and red. It reeked of deep earth, with clay and bits of mud and sand still falling from its head and tail as it clacked its massive pincer arms together. A human stomach, chest, and head rose from the body, sharing the oddly thin skin, heart pulsing and pumping before our eyes.

  The pointed barb of its tail swayed back and forth, preparing to strike.

  I would have appealed to it but for the shock that rooted me to the ground. Even frozen, I would have begged it with my eyes, but that was no use, for it had none of its own to see me. Its pointed legs carried it backward and forward a beat, and I felt Henry’s hand clasp mine, squeezing.