“And they found Bill and decided to wait for me,” said Ilsa. The hot burst of hatred felt like a knife twisting in her chest. Alitz had played at being, if not Ilsa’s friend, then her ally. She had taken tea with her in her house. All the time, she was the reason Bill was dead.
“She’s been the Zoo’s intermediary with the Whisperers for decades,” said Cassia, breathing hard. “She’s had access to all our sensitive information to use as she pleases, not to the benefit of Whitechapel, but the Fortunatae.”
The fewer who know that Gedeon Ravenswood is a loose cannon, the better.
“The Fortunatae have known all this time that Gedeon’s gone!” said Ilsa.
“And she knows that Hester’s not leading us,” said Fyfe, catching on. “She could have made a push by now, tried to dismantle the Zoo entirely. Why hasn’t she?”
“Alitz Dicer has demonstrated the utmost patience,” intoned Oren. He was pale, and his eyes drifted without taking anything in. “Years of it. A faultless front. If she is biding her time, there must be a reason.”
There was so much death and terror in the history of the Zoo that Ilsa barely had it in her to process it all, and she realised then that Oren, like Hester, had witnessed some of their worst times. He had smuggled her through the portal the day she was born. He had left his alpha and his people and returned to find them slaughtered. By Alitz.
“Oren,” said Cassia, reaching a hand towards his shoulder. But before she could touch him, Oren lurched abruptly for the door and vanished.
“Where’s Eliot?” said Ilsa, trying to sound casual. Fliss had applied some numbing concoction to the wound and was extracting the bullet with expert surety. “I thought I saw him, but…”
“You did,” said Fyfe. “He saw you chase after Pyval and followed you. He brought you back here, then took some wolves after him again.” Fyfe rubbed his hair. “The stewards will never let them cross the border, Principles or no Principles. I don’t know what he was thinking but… well, he was angry.”
“He’s always angry, Fyfe,” said Cassia, then turned to Ilsa. “Ilsa, I’m so sorry.”
“You din’t do nothing,” Ilsa said, biting back a wince as the bullet came free.
“Precisely. I’ve trained to block out Whisperers. I just didn’t see it coming. I thought we were alone.”
“Ilsa!”
Eliot burst into the room with all the force of the monstrous cat he sometimes was. His shirt was stained with Ilsa’s blood. When his gaze fell on her, it was stormy and frantic, and her heart twisted. Suddenly, inexplicably, she wanted to sob, and she thanked residual shock for helping her keep it in.
He was in front of her in three long strides. His hands drifted up like they would cup her face or touch her hair, but changed their mind. Instead, his eyes swept her face and body, lingering on the bullet wound. He frowned at the neat little puncture Fliss had gotten to stop bleeding.
“I swear it looked way worse five minutes ago,” Ilsa muttered.
“You’re alright.” It was equal parts relief and irritation.
“I’m fine, and I’m sure I won’t get shot no more once I’m back in the Otherworld where I belong, so don’t concern yourself.”
Eliot shot her a glare and turned to Cassia. “What happened?”
Cassia’s face resembled the one Gedeon had earned. “Ilsa called me a spy, and I shot her.”
“That’s the short version,” Ilsa swiftly added.
“I know you don’t like me all that much, Eliot—”
“I beg your pardon?”
“—but you could do me the courtesy of taking the worst of your accusations up with me personally.”
“Cassia, it weren’t him who—”
“It’s hard enough feeling like I belong here without fearing some belligerent dolt like you is undermining everything I do. You know, I don’t have to—”
“I like you,” said Eliot.
Cassia blinked. “Sorry?”
“Less, having been called a belligerent dolt, but” – he rolled his eyes, like it pained him to repeat it – “I like you. I’m aware I don’t show it, but… come on, Cassia. We grew up together. And I never called you a spy. It would be ridiculous to think so. You’re better for the Zoo than any of us, not to mention more intelligent – with the exception of Fyfe, perhaps. You” – he swallowed his chagrin a second time – “of course you belong here.”
Cassia probably didn’t blush like regular mortals. She just stared at him with an unnerving vacancy. Fyfe, meanwhile, had turned beet-red at Eliot’s throwaway compliment. But despite the meaningful glance Eliot cast her as his speech ended, Ilsa did nothing but glare.
Eliot cleared his throat. “Tell me everything I missed.”
Ilsa couldn’t repeat her awful discovery, and Fyfe didn’t look like he would ever be able to say the words aloud. But Cassia looked Eliot square in the eye, the way Ilsa had never seen her do. “Let’s you and I talk,” she said, almost pleasantly. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Eliot stiffened at the proposition, but followed Cassia from the room, leaving Ilsa with Fliss and Fyfe, who stood fixed to a point right by Ilsa’s shoulder, and was uncharacteristically quiet. His expression was solemn.
“I’m sorry ’bout Alitz, Fyfe,” she said.
“Oh.” He brushed it off with an unconvincing hand gesture. “I need a better astrology tutor anyway.” Ilsa eyed him quizzically. Fyfe managed a smile. He took one of her curls between his fingers and tugged it playfully. “If she was any good at reading the stars, she ought to have seen Ilsa Ravenswood coming.”
* * *
Ilsa didn’t want to sleep, but as soon as the curtains were drawn, sleep took her. The cocktail of healing potions and pain tonics dragged her under, and when she finally struggled free of the fog and blinked awake, the world outside was dark.
She dragged herself into a sitting position and tested her shoulder. The pain ran deep – a dull ache echoing through layers of tissue and radiating to her chest and arm – but it was manageable. Being shot in the Otherworld couldn’t possibly be this easy, she thought as she struggled into a robe. She found a fierce bruise on her right hip from her fall, and an intimidating collection of cuts and scrapes – including those from her altercation with the drawing room mirror – but for two assassination attempts, Ilsa had to admit, she wasn’t doing half bad.
The clock in Gedeon’s sitting room said it was a little after nine thirty – still early – but an impenetrable quiet blanketed the Zoo. Ilsa wondered at being left so alone. Where was Eliot? Had Fyfe or Cassia come to check on her? Had Aelius returned from the Heart and heard what had happened? Her feet carried her down the hall to Hester’s rooms; the one place she could be sure of finding someone to quell the strange unease the quiet brought her.
But the door to Hester’s sitting room gaped wide, the bedchamber visible beyond, and neither her cousin nor Fliss was anywhere to be seen.
Something’s wrong, said a voice inside her.
She hurried for the stairs, the only sound the soft pad of her slippers on the hardwood floors. Had they been attacked again? Had all her friends been rounded up and slaughtered by vengeful Oracles?
She didn’t know where to search for them. The thud of her own racing heartbeat rose in her ears as she swung around a corner – and walked right into Cadell Fowler.
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The captain looked, at first glance, like he had come in from the rain. His sleeves and the front of his shirt glistened with moisture. It wasn’t until he caught Ilsa puzzling over his appearance and self-consciously shook out a sleeve that the stains revealed themselves.
Blood.
It spattered to the floor in several fat droplets and trickled from his coattails onto the marble floor behind him.
Ilsa backed away. Her brain still lagged from sleep and medicine, and the confusion put her on edge. Cadell Fowler had saved her life and restored her to her family. He had listened to her concerns and offered advice like a friend
. He’d helped her crash a party, just for fun. But he was a mercenary – an assassin – and he was covered in blood. Perhaps he wasn’t an ally tonight.
Sensing her alarm, the captain raised his hands.
“Whose blood?” Ilsa challenged.
“Several people’s. Aelius Hoverly among them,” he said, and Ilsa’s stomach lurched. The captain nodded in the direction of Aelius’s chambers. “That way.”
She started running, but didn’t get far before Fowler called her name. When she looked back, he was glancing around.
“The washroom?” he said.
“I—” Why was this killer in her house, covered in Aelius’s blood, asking where he could clean it off? “By the stairs.”
As she reached Aelius’s rooms, her pulse was thrumming so fast it was making her dizzy. It was a repeat of the scene from that morning; the entire Zoo crowded around, tense and silent with fear. The door was closed. Oren leaned against the jamb with his head bent to the wood, like he was trying to hear inside. Eliot sat opposite, his head in his hands. It was Fyfe – slumped against the wall, chewing on his nails and bouncing his leg – who noticed her. There was blood on his shirtsleeves.
“What happened?” she whispered when he pulled her aside.
“He got into some trouble in the Heart,” said Fyfe. “Some Sorcerers turned against him. Aelius thought they were loyalists, but they had connections to the rebels. He was double-crossed.”
Ilsa paled, and braced herself against the wall. It was as she had feared. Aelius had told her it was dangerous, and still she had pushed. Still she had threatened to smear his past mistakes across the Zoo if he didn’t do as she asked.
It’s my fault.
Her hands curled into fists as she imagined them closing around Jorn’s throat. So this is what he had Seen when he looked ahead to her next mistake. He had known, had Seen her send Aelius to his near-death, and he had not warned her.
“Is he…” she began weakly, but she was afraid to say the words.
Fyfe swallowed. “He took half a dozen cutting curses,” he said. “Fliss and Cassia are working on him. We sent for more healers and they went in there an hour ago, but… there was blood everywhere, Ilsa.”
There still was. A crimson footprint had smeared across the floor. A bloodied rag lay crumpled next to Ferrien where he was slumped against the wall. Aside from Fyfe, three or four others had traces of blood on their clothes, presumably from hauling a man near death to his bed.
“How’d he get back here?” Ilsa asked. Her voice was hoarse. My fault my fault my fault.
“The Wraith,” said Fyfe. “He showed up at the door with Aelius over his shoulder. He’s been quiet but I think… I think he intervened. When Eliot tried to dismiss him, he said that he’d slaughtered three Sorcerers tonight and could he clean up first.”
Fowler. Fowler had undone Ilsa’s mistake – or tried to. Gratitude doused the toxic, writhing guilt inside her like cool water.
She thought about seeking him out, but at that moment Aelius’s door opened, and the crowd keeping vigil leapt to attention.
Fliss emerged, darkening bloodstains marring her blouse, followed by the extra healers. One carried a mess of surgical instruments and gauze on a tray; the onlookers leaned away from him and his macabre burden as he passed.
Then Cassia appeared, looking pristine, and closed the door shut behind her with a gentle click. Her eyes turned enquiring when they landed on Ilsa, flicking between her face and her shoulder. Ilsa mouthed that she was okay and pressed forward.
“He’s very weak,” said Cassia, “but if he can find the will, he should live.” A collective exhale deflated the atmosphere. “All of you to bed. You have duties in the morning.”
The wolves dispersed sleepily, still muttering about Aelius’s injuries. When the last of their footsteps had faded through the house, Cassia turned to the four of them who remained: Ilsa, Oren, Fyfe, and Eliot.
“Hester’s in there,” she said. “Neither Fliss nor I could get her to leave. The rest of us should get some rest.”
She made towards the stairs, but Ilsa blocked her path. “I want to see him.”
Cassia shook her head. “In the morning. He needs to heal.”
“No, now. This is my fault, Cassia. He went to see them Sorcerers because I asked him to, even when he warned me.” She could feel the curious glances of Cassia, Oren, and Fyfe; Eliot’s eyes were trained on the floor. “I’ll go mad if I don’t see him myself.”
“If Ilsa’s seeing him, I am too,” said Fyfe, squaring his shoulders.
Cassia scowled. “No, Fyfe, I—”
“I know the spells and potions used to heal. I wanted to help but you told me I would be in the way. You said—”
“I said you could see him as soon as he was stable,” finished Cassia resignedly.
“Well, if Ilsa and Fyfe are going in there,” said Oren, stepping forward.
“And if everyone else is,” added Eliot.
“Heaven and earth,” muttered Cassia, opening the door, and they all poured into the room. “Just for a minute.”
Hester turned stony, tired eyes on them as they entered. There was a sheen of sweat across her brow and she sat angled towards one of the windows that had been thrown open. Her fingers trembled on the arm of her chair, and Ilsa remembered what Eliot had told her: Hester was afraid of blood. She was there throughout, all the same.
“Quite a day,” she said lightly, but the humour didn’t touch her features. She roused herself to roll her chair across the small sitting room. The strength and grace of her thin arms as they turned the wheels was surprising; Ilsa had never seen Hester move for herself, but she made it look easy.
At the door to the bedchamber, she turned to Ilsa. “Prepare yourself, cousin dearest,” she said, before leading the way in.
Ilsa quickly smothered her alarm. She should have been prepared; she’d suspected Aelius wasn’t wearing his true form. This version of him was smaller, less muscled, with bones and tendons carving depressions and ridges along his arms. His narrow shoulders seemed to fold around his chest protectively, and his skin was lighter, greyer, like sun-bleached fabric. Two folds of weakened skin hung heavy under his resting eyes. The glossy black hair and moustache he normally wore were complete works of fiction.
The Aelius Ilsa had come to know appeared to be around thirty. The real man was fifty years his senior.
Unsure of herself, Ilsa glanced around, and found that everyone looked as awkward as she; everyone’s eyes sought somewhere to rest other than on him. He wouldn’t want them to see him like this, and they all knew it.
But when he stirred and murmured, their qualms were forgotten. Oren went to his bedside and gripped his hand.
“Welcome back old, old friend,” he said. Aelius murmured again, and Oren got closer to hear his reply; something that sounded to Ilsa’s ears like a string of curses.
Oren straightened and smiled. “I think he’ll be just fine.”
“Aelius,” said Ilsa, squeezing past Fyfe to approach Aelius’s other side. “Aelius, I—”
“Shhh,” Aelius managed – an easy word even for the frailest – and stretched a wrinkled hand up to catch hers. Tears had pooled in her eyes before she could stop them.
“Why d’you got to be so brave?” she scolded through her tears. “You should’ve told me I was a fool, like Eliot does.”
She caught Eliot’s eye, and despite the tempest of fear and anguish in his features, he managed a ghost of a smile.
Aelius was suddenly gripping her hand with some force, Oren’s too, and beckoning their attention again. They both leaned closer as he struggled to force out the words.
“Gedeon,” he gasped, his chest heaving from the effort. “You need to find Gedeon. He’s in terrible danger.”
Ilsa felt everyone stop breathing at once.
“Aelius.” Hester said his name like a command. She came to the side of the bed and Ilsa was forced backwards. “Aelius!”
“What does he mean?” said Cassia quietly. Despite her recent penchant for violence towards Gedeon, she looked stricken. “Hester?”
“Cassia,” said Oren gently, “he’s under the influence of a healing tonic. He might be delusional.”
“And he might not,” said Cassia, her voice rising.
“Let him speak!” said Ilsa. She had forced her way back to Aelius’s side, and could see that he was struggling, but still conscious; still present. And she knew, unlike the others, what Aelius had been doing. “He knows something Gedeon don’t.”
The frown on Cassia’s porcelain forehead was as deep as Ilsa had ever seen. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.
Ilsa shot a glance at Eliot, but all his mistrusts and reasons didn’t matter anymore. Gedeon was in danger. “Aelius went to the Heart because I asked him to,” she said, her voice breaking from desperation, or shame. “He went to try and find out what the rebels know ’bout the seventh Seer’s amulet.”
Oren and Cassia appeared confused. Hester laughed disbelievingly.
“To what end?” she said. “It’s a fairy tale.”
“We don’t think it is.”
Ilsa told them how they’d tracked Gedeon as far as the crypt at the Seer’s temple, and then discovered he had researched the amulet in the library. When she explained their theories about the Heart rebels being after it too, she skirted the truth of Aelius knowing the raid was coming. All the time, she held his hand in hers, squeezing his fingers, willing him to find the strength.
“You were right,” he said thinly when she was done. “The rebels think the amulet is here. Their spells tell them that it is.” He coughed. “Or was.”
“Was?”
“Within the last twenty years. They’re certain.” He laughed a painful laugh that made Ilsa wince. “They meant to kill me. So they told me everything.”
“What of Gedeon?” said Hester. “What did they tell you about him?”
Aelius’s humour vanished. “He’s been… planning for months. A coup.”
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