Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Ship & Bird Pty Limited
Jessica Townsend has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
Cover and interior art copyright © 2018 by Jim Madsen
Cover design by Sasha Illingworth and Angela Taldone
Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Simultaneously published in 2018 by Hachette Children’s Group in the UK and Hachette Australia
First US Edition: November 2018
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ISBNs: 978-0-316-50891-9 (hardcover), 978-0-316-41990-1 (large print), 978-0-316-50893-3 (ebook), 978-0-316-52646-3 (int’l)
E3-20181011-JV-PC
CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
THE ANGEL ISRAFEL
CHAPTER TWO
SISTERS AND BROTHERS
CHAPTER THREE
THE NOT-TATTOO AND THE NOT-DOOR
CHAPTER FOUR
HOMETRAIN
CHAPTER FIVE
DEARBORN AND MURGATROYD
CHAPTER SIX
MISSTEPS, BLUNDERS, FIASCOES, MONSTROSITIES, AND DEVASTATIONS
CHAPTER SEVEN
A PINKY PROMISE
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE LIVING MAP
CHAPTER NINE
THE CHARLTON FIVE
CHAPTER TEN
DEMANDS AND DRAGONS
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE STEALTH
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEVILISH COURT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FIRE AND ICE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE ELDERS’ HALL
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
YOU’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING MORE BIZARRE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE GHASTLY MARKET
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE HOTEL DEUCALION ACADEMY FOR ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RIDDLES AND BONES
CHAPTER NINETEEN
STOLEN MOMENTS
CHAPTER TWENTY
NOCTURNE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SOMETHING WONDERFUL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE TREACHEROUS TIMEKEEPER
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HALLOWMAS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE WRETCHED ART OF INFERNO
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TRAITOR
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE AUCTION
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NONE SING SO WILDLY WELL
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CLOSING A WINDOW
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE FINAL DEMAND
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This book is dedicated, with love and thanks, to the women who got me to the other side of it:
Mostly Gemma and Helen, but also Fumie Takino’s squad of Japanese cheerleading grannies.
CHAPTER ONE
THE ANGEL ISRAFEL
Spring’s Eve, Winter of One
Morrigan Crow leapt from the Brolly Rail, teeth chattering, hands frozen around the end of her oilskin umbrella. The wind had whipped her hair into a state of extreme disarray. She tried her best to smooth it down while hurrying to catch up with her patron, who was already yards ahead, pelting along the noisy, swarming high street of the Bohemian District.
“Wait!” she called out to him, pushing her way through a knot of women wearing satin gowns and lush velvet cloaks. “Jupiter, slow down.”
Jupiter North turned back but didn’t stop moving. “Can’t slow down, Mog. It’s not in my repertoire. Catch up.”
And he was gone again, running headlong through the mess of pedestrians and rickshaws and horse-drawn carriages and motorized coaches.
Morrigan hurried after him and walked into a sickly-sweet-smelling cloud of sapphire-blue smoke, puffed right at her face by a woman holding a thin gold cigarillo in her blue-stained fingertips.
“Ugh, foul.” Morrigan coughed and waved the smoke away. For a moment, she lost sight of Jupiter through the haze, but then she spotted the top of his bright copper head, bobbing up and down in the crowd, and sprinted to catch up with him.
“A child!” she heard the blue-fingered woman exclaim in her wake. “Darling, look—a child, here in Bohemia. How frightful!”
“It’s a performance piece, darling.”
“Oh, indeed. How novel!”
Morrigan wished she could take a moment to stop and look around. She’d never seen this part of Nevermoor before. If she hadn’t been so worried about losing Jupiter in the crowd, she’d have been excited to see the broad streets lined with theaters and playhouses and music halls, the colorful jumble of bright lights and neon signs. People, dressed in their finest, piled out of carriages on every corner and were ushered inside grand theater doors. Street hawkers shouted and sang, beckoning customers into rowdy pubs. There were restaurants so overflowing with diners that their tables spilled out onto the pavement, every seat occupied, even on this frosty Spring’s Eve, the last day of winter.
Morrigan at last made it to where Jupiter stood waiting for her outside the most crowded—and most beautiful—building on the street. It was a shimmering establishment of white marble and gold; Morrigan thought it looked a bit like a cathedral and a bit like a wedding cake. A brightly lit marquee across the top read:
NEW DELPHIAN MUSIC HALL PRESENTS
GIGI GRAND
and the
GUTTERBORN FIVE
“Are we… going in?” Morrigan puffed. A stitch bloomed painfully in her ribs.
“What, this place?” Jupiter cast a scornful look up at the New Delphian. “Heavens, no. Wouldn’t be caught dead.”
With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he ushered her down an alleyway behind the New Delphian, leaving the crowd behind. It was so narrow they had to walk in single file, stepping over piles of unidentifiable rubbish and bricks that had crumbled loose from the walls. There were no lights down here. It had a strong smell of something dreadful that got stronger the farther down they went. Like bad eggs or dead unnimals, or maybe both.
Morrigan covered her mouth and nose. The smell was so noxious she had to fight the urge to vomit. She wanted more than anything to turn around and go back, but Jupiter kept marching behind her, nudging her along.
“Stop,” he said when they were near the end of the alley. “Is this…? No. Wait, is it…?”
She
turned to see him inspecting a section of the wall that looked exactly like every other section. He gently pressed the grouting between the bricks with his fingertips, leaned in to sniff it, and then gave the wall a tentative lick.
Morrigan gave him a look of horror. “Ugh, stop that. What are you doing?”
Jupiter said nothing at first. He stared at the wall for a moment, frowned, and then looked up at the narrow patch of starry sky between the buildings. “Hmm. Thought so. Can you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
He took her hand and pressed it to the wall. “Close your eyes.”
Morrigan did so, feeling ridiculous. Sometimes it was hard to tell when Jupiter was being silly or serious and she suspected, on this occasion, that he was playing some stupid joke on her. It was her birthday, after all, and although he’d promised her no surprises, it would be just like him to pull an elaborate, embarrassing stunt that ended in a roomful of people singing “Happy Birthday.” She was about to voice her suspicions when—
“Oh!” There was a very subtle, fuzzy tingle in her fingertips. A faint humming in her ears. “Oh.”
Jupiter took hold of her wrist and pulled it back, ever so slightly, from the wall. Morrigan felt resistance, as if the bricks were magnetized and didn’t want to let her go.
“What is that?” she asked.
“A little bit tricksy,” Jupiter murmured. “Follow me.” Leaning back, he placed one foot on the brickwork, and then the other, then—casually defying the law of gravity—proceeded to walk skyward up the wall, hunched over to avoid hitting his head on the other side of the alley.
Morrigan stared at him in silence for a moment, and then gave herself a little shake. She was a Nevermoorian now, after all. A permanent resident of the Hotel Deucalion and a Wundrous Society member to boot. She really ought to stop being so surprised whenever things took a slightly odd turn.
She drew a deep breath (nearly retching again at the horrible smell) and copied Jupiter’s actions exactly. Once both her feet were planted on the wall, the world pitched out of kilter and then righted itself again, so that she felt perfectly at ease. The dreadful smell instantly disappeared and was replaced with fresh, crisp night air. Suddenly, walking up an alley wall with the starry sky stretching out in front of her seemed the most natural thing in the world. Morrigan laughed.
When they emerged from the vertical alley, the world lurched right side up once again.
They were not—as Morrigan had expected—on a rooftop, but in yet another alleyway. This one was noisy and bustling, and bathed in a sickly green light. She and Jupiter joined the end of a long queue of excited people, held back by a velvet rope. The mood was contagious; Morrigan felt a little thrill of anticipation and stood on tiptoes to see what they were queueing for. At the front, plastered to a worn pale blue door, was a messily handwritten sign:
OLD DELPHIAN MUSIC HALL
STAGE DOOR
TONIGHT: The Angel Israfel
“Who’s the Angel Israfel?” Morrigan asked.
Jupiter didn’t answer. He twitched his head for Morrigan to follow him, then sauntered right up to the front of the queue, where a bored-looking woman was checking names off a list. She was dressed all in black, from her heavy boots to the pair of woolly earmuffs hanging around her neck. (Morrigan approved.)
“Queue’s back there,” she said, without looking up. “No photos. And he won’t be signing nothing till the show’s over.”
“I’m afraid I can’t wait that long,” said Jupiter. “Mind if I sneak in now?”
The woman sighed and gave him a blank, perfunctory glance, chewing a wad of gum with her mouth half open. “Name?”
“Jupiter North.”
“You ain’t on the list.”
“No. I mean, yes. I know. I was hoping you might remedy that for me,” he said, smiling through his ginger beard. He gave the little golden W pin on his lapel a subtle tap.
Morrigan cringed. She knew that members of the elite Wundrous Society were admired in Nevermoor, and often received special treatment that ordinary citizens could only dream of, but she’d never seen Jupiter try to use his “pin privilege” in such a blatant fashion before. Did he do it very often, she wondered?
The woman was—understandably, Morrigan thought—unimpressed. She scowled at the little golden W before flicking her thickly glitter-lined eyes up to Jupiter’s hopeful face. “You ain’t on the list, though.”
“He’ll want to see me,” said Jupiter.
Her top lip curled, revealing a mouth full of diamond-encrusted teeth. “Prove it.”
Jupiter tilted his head to the side and raised one eyebrow, and the woman mirrored his expression impatiently. Finally, with a sigh, Jupiter reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a single black feather, shot through with flecks of gold, and twirled it—once, twice—between his fingers.
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. Her mouth fell open, and Morrigan could see the wad of bright blue bubble gum wedged between her teeth. With an apprehensive glance at the queue growing behind Jupiter, the woman pushed open the faded blue door and jerked her head, motioning the two of them inside. “Hurry up, then. Five minutes to curtain.”
It was dark backstage at the Old Delphian. There was a hushed, expectant air as black-clothed stagehands moved about quietly and efficiently.
“What was that feather?” Morrigan asked in a whisper.
“More persuasive than a pin, apparently,” murmured Jupiter, sounding a bit put out. He handed Morrigan one of two pairs of earmuffs he’d pilfered from a box marked CREW. “Here, put these on. He’s about to sing.”
“Who, you mean the Angel Is… er, thingy?” she asked.
“Israfel, yes.” He ran a hand through his copper hair, which Morrigan recognized as a sign that he was nervous.
“But I want to hear it.”
“Oh no, you don’t. Trust me.” From where they stood, Jupiter looked through the curtain out into the audience beyond, and Morrigan took a quick peek too. “You never want to hear one of his kind sing, Mog.”
“Why not?”
“Because it will be the sweetest sound you’ll ever hear,” he said. “It will trigger something in your brain that will bring you a perfect and unbroken peace, the best you could ever hope to feel. It will remind you that you are an entirely whole human being, flawless and complete, and that you already have all you will ever want or need. Loneliness and sadness will be a distant memory. Your heart will fill up, and you’ll feel the world could never disappoint you again.”
“Sounds dreadful,” Morrigan said in a flat voice.
“It is dreadful,” Jupiter insisted, his face somber, “because it’s transient. Because Israfel can’t keep singing forever. And when he stops, eventually that feeling of perfect happiness will fade away. And you’ll be left here in the real world, with all its hardness and imperfection and muck. It will be so unbearable, and you will be so empty, it’ll feel as if your life has stopped. As if you are trapped in a bubble, while the rest of the world carries on living imperfectly around you. You see those people out there?” He drew the curtain back very slightly, and they looked again into the audience.
The sea of faces, lit by the glow of the empty orchestra pit, all shared the same expression—eager but somehow vacant. Wanting. Wanting. “They’re not patrons of the fine arts,” Jupiter continued. “They’re not here because they appreciate a masterful performance.” He looked down at Morrigan and whispered, “Junkies, Mog. Every last one of them. Here for their next hit.”
Morrigan peered out at those hungry faces and felt a coldness creep upon her.
A woman’s voice pierced the atmosphere. The audience was silenced.
“Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you, on the evening of his one hundredth triumphant, transcendent performance here at the Old Delph… the one and only, the celestial, the divine…” The amplified voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Please show some love for the Angel Israfel.”
The hush in
stantly splintered, the music hall erupting into joyful noise as people applauded, whooped, and whistled. Jupiter elbowed Morrigan hard in the side and she snapped her earmuffs tightly into place. They blocked out every scrap of noise, so all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. Morrigan knew they weren’t here to see a show. They had a much more important job to do, but even so… it was a bit annoying, really.
The darkness of the hall was replaced with a pure golden glow. She blinked into the glare. Above the crowd, high up toward the ceiling, in the center of the opulent space, a spotlight illuminated a man of such strange, otherworldly beauty that Morrigan actually gasped.
The Angel Israfel floated in midair, held aloft by a pair of powerful, sinewy wings—feathers black as night, veined with iridescent, glittering gold. They protruded from between his shoulder blades, beating slowly and rhythmically. He must have had a wingspan of at least three yards. His body too was strong and muscular, but lithe, and his cool black skin was veined in tiny rivers of gold as if he had been broken apart like a vase and repaired with precious metals.
He looked down at the audience and his gaze was at once benevolent and coolly curious. All around, people stared up at Israfel, weeping and shaking, clutching themselves tight for comfort. Several audience members had fainted right there on the floor of the music hall. Morrigan couldn’t help but think this was all a bit much. He hadn’t even opened his mouth to sing yet.
Then he did.
And the audience stopped moving.
And they looked as if they might never start back up again.
A still, abiding peace descended like snow.
Morrigan could have stayed there, huddled at the side of the stage, watching this strange, silent spectacle all night… but Jupiter got bored after a few minutes. (Typical, Morrigan thought.)
In the dim and smoky backstage depths, Jupiter found Israfel’s dressing room and he and Morrigan let themselves in to wait for him. Only when the heavy steel door was fully closed did Jupiter indicate it was safe to remove their earmuffs.
Morrigan gazed around the dressing room, wrinkling her nose. It was overflowing with detritus. Empty cans and bottles littered every surface, along with half-eaten boxes of chocolates and dozens of vases filled with flowers in various stages of death. Clothes were piled up on the floor, the sofa, the dressing table, the chair, and there was a musty smell of unwashed fabric. The Angel Israfel was a slob.
Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Page 1