As if he could see the picture in her mind, Squall raised both hands in a swift, flicking motion. Morrigan gasped as in one jerky movement, the entire group jumped up with both feet and landed neatly on the rail.
Squall turned to smile at her. “Do you think they brought their brollies?”
“Stop—no! Hawthorne, get down. Get down. Jupiter!” She ran forward and tugged at Hawthorne’s hand, then Jupiter’s, trying to pull them back onto the rooftop, but they wouldn’t budge. She spun around to face Squall in fury and frustration. “Why are you doing this?!”
“I told you already.” He spoke so quietly she had to move forward to hear him over the sound of blood rushing in her ears. “You’re doing this. If you were half the Wundersmith you ought to be by now, it wouldn’t be possible for me to tap into your power like this. You must understand: Your lack of control this year has been a very useful window into Nevermoor for me, and by teaching you control—by teaching you anything at all—I am likely shutting that window for good. But the fun is over. My long-term plans are much more important, and I need you alive.”
“Let them go,” Morrigan repeated. She ground the words between her teeth, trying to make her panic sound like wrath, and pressing her hands into fists.
“Gladly,” said Squall in a low, calm voice. “And I’ll also show you where your friends are, as promised. But first, you must channel some of that surplus Wunder into learning the Wretched Art of Inferno, otherwise you, and they”—he gestured to the line of unwitting sleepwalkers on the rail—“and the oracle, and the mesmerist, and the angel, and the professor may all meet a spectacularly unpleasant end tonight. It’s up to you, Miss Crow.”
Morrigan said nothing. She couldn’t speak. Something inside her felt heavy and hot. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breaths coming in jagged bursts.
“THERE!” Squall shouted, pointing at her. His eyes were suddenly wild. “There. That feeling. That fire in your heart, that spark of anger and fear. Focus on it. Feel it. The flickering, burning anger inside—THAT is Inferno.
“Now close your eyes and imagine reaching into your chest. Imagine closing your fist around that flame and holding it in your fingers like a cage. Close your eyes. DO IT.”
Reluctantly, Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut. She could see it in her mind’s eye: It was more than a spark, it was a bonfire. Searing her from the inside out, creeping into her lungs and burning at the back of her throat. The taste of ashes. She shook her head, balling her hands into fists.
“I can’t.”
“You can,” Squall insisted. “You are a Wundersmith. You are in control of that fire. It shrinks and grows on your command. You must decide if it will light a candle or burn down a city.”
In her mind’s eye, Morrigan could see it. A beacon of bright golden flames burning behind her rib cage. She imagined closing her fingers around it, just as he said—controlling it, dousing it gently. The fire hissed, and Morrigan imagined sparks of shimmer-bright Wunder shooting out from between her fingers, like tiny fireworks. She flinched.
“If you are afraid of it, then you are not in control of it,” Squall shouted. “You are not a mouse, Morrigan Crow. You are a dragon. Now open your eyes. Focus. And breathe.”
Morrigan did so. Blazing up from her lungs came a breath like a wind in the desert. This was not the wild, uncontainable fireball that had nearly consumed Heloise that day at Wunsoc. This, at last, was something Morrigan could control.
In that instant, she knew what to do. She knew that Wunder would obey her.
Her gaze settling on a single tapered black candle, Morrigan exhaled a thin stream of fire, purposeful and precise. It found its target. The wick blazed into life—and then, as if they had been waiting for a sign, waiting for Morrigan’s permission, the hundreds of unlit candles covering the rooftop lit up once more, in perfect unison. The rooftop was filled with a warm, flickering glow.
A surprised laugh spilled from Morrigan’s mouth.
She had done this. Not him.
She turned to Squall. The firelight reflected in his dark eyes, and though he didn’t smile, the look of grim satisfaction was unmistakable.
He began to hum. Just a few sweet notes, barely recognizable as a song, but enough to make the back of Morrigan’s neck prickle. The sound was answered by a long and haunting howl, somewhere out in the darkness.
“I did what you wanted.” Morrigan eyed him warily. “We made a deal. You said you’d tell me where my friends are.”
“Actually, no,” said Squall. “I said I’d show you where your friends are, and I intend to keep that promise.” With another careful flicker of movement from Squall, the people on the balustrade jumped off backward onto the rooftop. They returned, expressionless, to their original positions in the séance circle. Another howl pierced the air. Morrigan thought it sounded like it came from somewhere far below them, down in the street. “Shall we go?” He cocked his head toward the edge of the roof, as if he intended for the two of them to leap off and fly all the way to the Ghastly Market.
Morrigan barked an incredulous half-laugh. “Are you mad? I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re going to tell me where Cadence and Lambeth are.”
He gave a little shake of his head. “I think not.”
Another howl from below—closer this time. It sounded like it was coming from the hotel forecourt. And there was something else. The braying of a horse, and the clattering of hooves on stone.
“I’m not going with you,” she said again. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Yes. I think you’re precisely the kind of idiot who would do something stupid to save her friends.” Squall’s smile was pitying. “And I’ll prove it.”
He made a small, casual gesture with his left hand, and then…
It all happened too quickly for Morrigan to even think.
Hawthorne was suddenly running from his place in the frozen circle, heading straight for the rooftop’s edge at full pelt.
“Hawthorne, no!” Morrigan shrieked. Gripped by instinct and terror, she ran after him without even making the decision to do so. She reached out to grasp at Hawthorne just as he leapt joltingly up the balustrade and, seizing the back of his coat, was yanked forward by his momentum. Together they tumbled from the roof and plummeted down, down, down, Morrigan’s screams muffled by pillows of cold autumnal air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TRAITOR
It felt as if the ground were rising to meet them.
Morrigan closed her eyes as they sped downward and, still gripping Hawthorne’s coat as if that might somehow save them both, she waited for the moment of impact. Waited to shatter every bone in her body when it hit the hotel forecourt.
But the moment didn’t come.
A chorus of howls erupted from the darkness below. A piercing bray of horses, a clash of hooves. Morrigan’s eyes flew open just in time to see a hundred fiery eyes staring up at her, and the shadowy figures of horses, hounds, and huntsmen emerging from a roiling cloud of smoke.
Morrigan and Hawthorne didn’t crash. They didn’t land, didn’t lose even a second of momentum. They fell into the amorphous black cloud that was the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow, and never met the ground. Morrigan was once again astride a shadow-horse, galloping through the near-deserted streets of Nevermoor at a pace so fast, it was impossible to register where they were headed. She glanced across and saw Hawthorne on the horse next to hers. Morrigan wondered if any part of him understood what was happening, if he in his puppet state could feel the terror she felt.
When they stopped at last, shaken but whole, they slid from their mounts, finally feeling solid ground beneath their feet. The black fog that cradled and surrounded them cleared to reveal an imposing stone building. Etched into the stone, above the grand arching entry, were five words that made her heart sink.
THE MUSEUM OF STOLEN MOMENTS
She stooped to catch Hawthorne as he collapsed to the ground, trying to prop him upright. “Are you okay?”
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“I… think so. Yeah.” He was dazed, but seemed to at least be himself again. “What—what happened? Where are we?”
The Hunt of Smoke and Shadow withdrew but didn’t leave. Their glowing red eyes peered out of the darkness as they skulked nearby, half-hidden and watchful. Morrigan looked around for a sign of Squall, but they seemed to be alone.
She gazed up at the museum. The doorway was open, and noise drifted out from inside. Laughter and chatter. The clinking of champagne glasses. “This is where Ezra Squall brought me before. I think we’ve found where the Ghastly Market is being held tonight.”
Hawthorne made a strange choking sound. “How?”
“Squall,” she whispered. “He was on the rooftop—during the séance—do you remember any of it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I remember we stood up to leave. We were laughing. And then… it’s like I was suddenly dreaming. There was something in my head, like a strange voice, but I felt calm. I just wanted to go to sleep.”
“That was him. The voice in your head, that was Squall.” Hawthorne turned a ghostly shade of white at this news, but Morrigan went on. “He made you jump off the rooftop, and I tried to stop you but we both fell, and the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow caught us and brought us here. Hawthorne, the Ghastly Market is happening inside this building, and they have Cadence and Lambeth and Professor Onstald… it’s all Squall’s doing and—”
“Get out of here!” came a hoarse whisper that made them both jump. “Shoo!”
A lone figure had emerged from the museum and was scuttling down the steps toward them. Morrigan tensed to run, grabbing Hawthorne’s arm, but he stopped her.
“I think it’s Mildmay,” he whispered, and then a little louder, “Mildmay! Is the Stealth already here, have they found—”
“You have to run,” Mildmay said in a hushed voice as he approached. He took their arms and began steering them away, glancing over his shoulder at the open museum door. Morrigan felt a rush of relief even in her confusion. They wouldn’t have to deal with this alone. If someone from the Society was there, help must already be on the way. Mildmay stopped when they reached the shadows. “Get away from here, now.”
“Are the Stealth in there?” Morrigan pressed, trying to see over his shoulder. “Are they shutting it down? They said they’d send a runner to fetch Jupiter when—”
“Please, Miss Crow, you have to leave here now. You have no idea how much danger you’re in. If anyone sees you—if he knows you’re here…”
“If who knows?”
“The Wundersmith,” hissed Mildmay. “Don’t you realize? He’s trying to lure you here, he wanted me to bring you myself but I… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t do it anymore.”
Morrigan’s head was spinning. “Squall wanted you to bring me here? Why would he—What do you mean, you wouldn’t do it any—”
Oh.
Morrigan’s mouth dropped open and stayed there.
My little Society puppet. That was what Squall had said. My pair of willing hands.
“You! You’re the one who’s been helping Squall all this time.”
There was a soft intake of breath from Hawthorne. Mildmay looked as if he might be sick. Sweaty and faintly greenish, he trembled. But he didn’t deny it.
“Miss Crow… please.” He bit back a whimpering sound. “You have to believe me, I’m so very sorry for what I’ve—for my part in…” He was wringing his hands, his forehead wrinkled like a puppy’s. Morrigan thought he looked genuinely upset. But was he upset at what he’d done, she wondered, or just that he’d been discovered? “I never… none of this was my idea! Squall, he forced me.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his chin quivering and eyes watering in a way that made Morrigan feel revulsion instead of pity.
“I was weak,” he continued. “I admit it. I was bitter and jealous. Everyone knows I’m the weakest in my unit. The boring one. Map boy, that’s what they always called me.” His face twisted into something ugly. “I wanted to be important, so when the Wundersmith came to me, when he asked for my help—me, of all people!—I thought I’d found a way to get back at them. Squall’s the most powerful man in the Wintersea Republic! He promised me a place in his empire, a seat at his right side—how could I turn that down?” He paused. “At first all I had to do was pass on bits of information. I didn’t know anyone was going to get hurt. You have to believe me.”
“What sort of information?”
“Rare knacks. Who had them. Where they lived, their daily routine, that sort of thing. When they were”—his next words were barely audible—“when they were likely to be alone.”
“Who to kidnap and how to kidnap them, in other words,” said Morrigan, and her voice shook with anger.
Mildmay rubbed the back of his neck, still unable to look at her.
Hawthorne made a strange sort of stifled noise. His jaw was working overtime, clenching and unclenching, and Morrigan could tell he was trying to bite back his own fury. Hawthorne was just about the most loyal person she knew.
“You arranged for them to be snatched by the Bonesmen and put up for sale,” he hissed at Mildmay. “You make me sick.”
Mildmay looked distraught. “Please—don’t you see I’m trying to help you? Morrigan, the Wundersmith wanted me to set you up too. But I refused. I couldn’t do that to you, not to my best student. I refused to work for him anymore. That’s why I’m here! I knew he would try to lure you to the Ghastly Market tonight, so I’ve been waiting outside, hoping to stop you. I couldn’t let them sell you too, I just—”
“But you’d let them sell Cadence! And Lambeth!” Morrigan shouted, then dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “How could you, Mildmay?”
The young teacher sobbed, and his eyes were beseeching. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain it. I was just… I was sick of being on the outside, Miss Crow. You know what that feels like, don’t you? To be different. We’re the same, you and I, we—”
“Morrigan’s nothing like you!” Hawthorne spat back at Mildmay, and Mildmay flinched. “She would never betray her friends.”
The teacher dropped to his knees, shaking, and covered his face with his hands. Several moments passed in near silence, his quiet heaving sobs the only sound other than a distant hum of civilized chatter from inside the museum.
And then… the sound of someone clapping.
“Bravo, Henry,” came a soft voice from the darkness. “What a performance.”
Mildmay jumped frantically to his feet, whirling on the spot to see who’d spoken. His eyes grew wide as Ezra Squall stepped into the light, a sinister smile curving one corner of his mouth. His solo round of applause rang out in the street. Morrigan felt Hawthorne draw nearer and dig his fingernails into her arm, heard his breathing speed up. Since he didn’t remember anything from the rooftop, this was, she realized, the first time her friend had ever really come face-to-face with the Wundersmith.
“He came here on the Gossamer,” she whispered to Hawthorne, squinting to see the telltale shimmer of light surrounding Squall and trying to sound braver than she felt. “He can’t touch us.”
“Yeah, but his Hunt can,” Hawthorne pointed out, barely moving his mouth. As if on cue, a low growl emanated from the shadows surrounding them. Morrigan shivered.
Squall whistled soft and low, and the wolves appeared. They circled Mildmay, fur black as pitch and eyes like glowing embers, and the teacher cowered away from them, a shrunken man.
Squall sneered down at him. “Henry would love for you to believe he was trying to save you from the auction, Miss Crow, but he knows I didn’t bring you here to be sold. He knows I set up this entire affair so that you could be the hero who shut it down. So that you can finally become the Wundersmith they all fear you will. You need to be allowed to start using the powers you have been given,” said Squall, raising his voice even higher, “before the Wunder you’ve been gathering becomes as bored as I am and CHOKES THE LIFE RIGHT OUT OF YOU.”
Morri
gan jumped at those shrill words. Her heart pounded somewhere in the region of her throat.
“Please, Morrigan,” implored Mildmay. His eyes were red and swollen. “Don’t listen to him. Run. Just run away.”
“Oh, well done, Mr. Mildmay, very well done.” Squall let out a high-pitched giggle like a madman. “Henry here has decided it’s against his interests to allow you to shut down the Ghastly Market, Miss Crow. It’s become quite the little earner for you, hasn’t it, dear boy? You’re getting yourself a reputation among Nevermoor’s wealthiest and most nefarious. Wouldn’t want to let them down, would you?” Squall paused, turned to look directly at Morrigan, and spoke slowly. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Crow? He. Is. Trying. To. Stall. You. He means to keep you out here until the auction is over and the sale of your friends has earned him a decent fee. He’s been taking a cut of every sale.”
Morrigan watched Mildmay closely. As Squall spoke, a strange transformation was taking place. Her teacher’s boyish, tearstained face—screwed up in distress and red from sobbing—began to relax. He wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt. With a big dramatic sniff, his face split into a familiar, slightly sheepish grin.
It was all so Mildmayish, Morrigan thought, a chill creeping down her neck. Yet somehow not like Mildmay at all. Somehow, it was like looking at a total stranger.
He chuckled. He checked his wristwatch. He shrugged.
“Well, that ought to have done the trick.” All the usual heartiness had returned to his voice. “They should be just about sold by now, I think. Thank you for your time, Miss Crow. You always were my most attentive student.” He took a deep bow, still laughing.
Morrigan felt hot, angry tears spring to her eyes. She couldn’t speak; she could barely think. She bared her teeth and, with a snarl like a raging unnimal, launched herself at Mildmay, knocking him to the ground.
“Traitor!” she screamed, and lunged at him again, no longer caring who heard. She could almost feel the rage boiling inside her veins. Hawthorne stepped between them, trying to pull her away.
Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Page 29