by Paul Durham
My eyes remain on the Twins, perched on the eaves overhead. Of course, they’re not the Twins anymore. Wallace’s once-keen eyes have gone dull; Winnie’s talkative lips remain frozen in permanent silence.
“Who were they?” Viola asks.
“Winnie and Wallace,” I say. “They were my friends. Family, really. I’ve known them since…well, for as long as I can remember. We’ve been through everything together—perched shoulder to shoulder during our darkest times.”
Viola fidgets with the violin case she’s rested upright between her knees. “Which was which?” she asks.
“Winnie’s the better-looking one,” I say.
Viola squints back and forth at their grimacing faces.
“The one on the right,” I clarify.
“Oh, of course,” she says. Then, after a moment, “What happened to them?”
“They were destroyed—incinerated. I don’t know exactly what happened, I wasn’t there. I was supposed to meet them but I was late. As always. By the time I arrived, all that was left was scorched brick.” I turn to look at Viola. “Just like the inside of Samuel’s shop.”
Viola lowers her eyes and fiddles with the handle of her case.
“I crossed paths with the Boneless King that night on my way to meet them. I didn’t know who or what he was at the time, but I should have paid closer attention.” I feel myself begin to simmer. “He’s been here before, Viola. A long time ago. We just didn’t have a name or face for him. Back then, it got…pretty bad. I lost—” I try to swallow back my words.
“Lost what?”
“I lost one of my—”
The front doors of the chapel open unexpectedly, and I see two uniformed officers escorting a bewildered, unshaven man down the steps. It’s the squatter who’s lived peacefully in the basement of the Twins’ Domain for as long as I can remember. He’s never bothered anyone.
This is what becomes of our wards once we’re gone.
My insides come to a full boil.
“Goyle, I have something else I need to tell you,” Viola whispers, but I barely hear her.
“The Boneless King and his Netherkin are hunting Bone Masons and Grotesques,” I spit. “They destroyed Hetty’s father. I have no doubt who’s responsible for taking the Twins. And now they’re after Hetty. My ward.”
“I think you’re right, Goyle,” Viola says. “But listen to me, I think I can help. I just need to—”
“I’ll crush him,” I snap. “I won’t rest until every last Netherkin in this city is in my gullet.”
Viola goes silent. She runs her fingers up and down the crimson streak in her pigtail and adjusts her cap low over her eyes. When she speaks again, her voice is measured.
“Goyle, you can’t possibly track down every Netherkin by yourself,” she’s saying. “And you don’t need to. It’s the Boneless King you have to worry about.”
“They’re one and the same,” I say angrily. “They do his bidding. And if he’s going to hide while they do all the dirty work, they’ll pay the price until I find one to help me root him out.”
“How are you going to do that?” Viola implores. “I don’t get the impression any Netherkin are going to stick around long enough to introduce you.”
“Probably not,” I say, glowering. “Except for one.”
Viola’s knuckles go white on the handle of her violin case.
“And I’ve got a bone or two to pick with him.”
By day, without the benefit of music and talkative crowds, the Copper Dragon is just an old, dark restaurant smelling of last night’s spilled drinks and this afternoon’s greasy sandwiches. There’s nobody outside to check IDs at the door.
I glance up at the placard. The useless copper dragon eyes us sleepily. I’m not worried about stepping on any toes—or claws.
My search for answers probably should have brought me here first. But truth be told, I couldn’t bring myself to return. I didn’t want to see the Twins this way again, remember them as two scorched streaks on the side of a wall. I still won’t. My destination is inside.
“Stay here, Viola,” I say.
“Why?”
“It’s a tavern. No place for children.”
“It’s the middle of the day,” she protests.
“Can you just take my advice?” I ask wearily. “I promise to tell you everything as soon as I’m done.”
She stares at me, unrelenting. But I spend my days as a statue—there’s no way she’s going to win this contest.
I stand my ground until she finally takes a reluctant seat on the curb; then I push through the front door. I stomp past the waitresses as they clear tables and ready for their evening shifts. I’m not subtle, but they can’t see me anyway. They may catch a chill as I pass but nothing more. The place is lifeless and dreary, the air stale. I round the corner and reach an old, seldom-used door, but stop in my tracks.
“Viola!” I gasp. “What are you doing in here?” I do a double take to the front of the tavern, and glance around at the employees. Fortunately, they’re all busy with their tasks. “How did you get in here?”
“Kitchen door was open,” she says, thrusting her thumb behind her. “I never actually agreed to stay outside,” she says quickly, before I can protest. “You just assumed.”
I grumble. I don’t have the stomach for a debate.
“Fine. But please—keep your distance and let me do the talking. Onesimus can be shifty.”
“Onesimus?”
“The Netherkin in the basement. He can’t move much anymore—that is, if he’s there at all. But he can still be dangerous if you get too close.”
The Copper Dragon’s basement is really just a crawl space, its earthen floor littered with forgotten casks and discarded supplies. Even in my wisp form of a boy, I still need to duck my head to navigate it. Like the lair of a giant spider, it’s covered in a tapestry of gray cobwebs. They catch a ray of dim light from a tiny, barred square of glass that looks out on the back alley. The bars are unnecessary; no burglar is likely to venture down here. Even Viola stays at the base of the steps without my asking.
Onesimus is the oldest Netherkin I’ve ever met. He’s been around longer than me, and the details of his demise remain unclear. He once told me he was shot in the back in a duel in the alley behind the Dragon, insisting that his opponent was a dishonorable cheat. I’ve also heard he was a traitor and a horse thief who got himself hanged in the Common—he ended up here because a tavern stool was the closest thing he’d ever had to a home. My money’s on the latter.
Onesimus is also a compulsive gossip. We made a deal long ago. I spared him in exchange for his promise to provide me with information whenever I called on him. It was once useful to have a gabby Netherkin in my pocket. But he finally went senile and his ramblings became impossible to decipher. I haven’t bothered to visit him in years, and wouldn’t go to the trouble now if I had any other option. I’m not sure what happens to old Netherkin who linger too long—but I’ve long since assumed that they eventually just fade away and disappear.
Today I’m relieved to discover that ever-stubborn Onesimus hasn’t gone anywhere. I find him sitting cross-legged in a dusty nook, just past the little beam of light. He’s more humanoid than most Netherkin—an emaciated, hairless old man, covered in a thin membrane of skin that shimmers like snake scales. It changes colors with his moods. The effect creeps even me out—you know how I feel about snakes.
“Penhallow, my old friend,” he rasps. “Is that you?”
Onesimus’s skin glimmers pale blue as he unfolds his serpentine limbs, leaning in for a closer look. His head is barely more than a skull. His eyes are only sickly white orbs, and the skin that remains doesn’t cover his bare jaw or dull, brittle teeth.
I just stand there with my arms crossed, glowering. Onesimus knows exactly who it is, but he likes to play these little games.
“It is-s-s you,” he whisper-hisses after a moment. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He has no lips a
nd frequently licks the spittle that drips down his chin as he talks.
Onesimus is shrewd and perceptive, but my reply surprises even him. I lurch forward and clutch him by the neck.
He tries to shriek and struggle in protest, but he’s too weak. For a moment, his form blurs in and out of existence, but I’m not ready to let him go just yet.
“I thought we had an understanding, Onesimus. I thought you knew better.”
He can only choke in reply. I loosen my grip and he falls to the dirt floor, kicking up dust. He gasps and his skin shimmers crimson in anger.
When he can speak again, he hisses every curse his decrepit mind can remember.
“I protected you, Onesimus,” I say. “My friends would have devoured you the first night we found you here, but I convinced them to let you stay.”
“Vile, nasty demons,” Onesimus is muttering. His white orbs throb with disdain.
“You remember why I did that, don’t you?” I say.
“Monsters. Abominations.” He’s mumbling now.
“Because I told them you were old, weak, and harmless,” I answer for him. He grunts and his skin softens to a peachy red. “All you had to do was stay out of our way. Keep to yourself and rot in this hole.”
“That’s all I’ve done!” he spits.
“And,” I continue, “keep us informed if trouble was on its way.”
Onesimus laps the drool off his chin and furrows what remains of his brow.
“Do you remember that part?” I ask.
“I’m very old,” he says meekly, his skin pulsing a cool blue again. “My memory often fails me.”
I take a menacing step forward. “Do I need to refresh it?”
“No, no. Not necessary,” he says. “It’s coming back to me now.”
Onesimus’s skin goes silver and he coils himself back into a cross-legged pile.
“But even with my wits about me,” he adds, “I have no idea what’s gotten a bee in your bonnet.”
“My friends, Onesimus. You know, the ones you were so fond of?”
He shrugs his shoulders unconvincingly.
I glare hard and clench my fists.
“Oh,” he says quickly. “You mean the fat mouse and the beady-eyed little wretch?”
I give him a dark nod.
“Yes, well, I haven’t seen them in ages.”
This time I do lunge, and Onesimus’s white orbs go wide as he tries to scamper away.
“Ouch! Stop that, you nasty little ape!” he cries as I grab him by a decaying ear. I give it a hard pinch.
“The last time you would have seen them was a week ago,” I point out. “Right here. Before they were incinerated.”
“Please let go,” he squeals.
“I want you to tell me who did that to them, and where I can find them,” I demand. “I’d ask if it was you, but I know better.”
“Arrgh!” Onesimus screeches. I realize that as my anger’s risen, my grip on his ear has tightened. Suddenly, it’s disappeared altogether in a cloud of vapor, and I find my fingers holding nothing at all.
“Now you’ve done it!” he wails. “I only had two of those, you know!”
“How many Netherkin?” I rage on. “Were they Shadow Men? It would take more than a few to do that to Wallace and Winnie.”
Onesimus rubs a palm over his hairless scalp. His skin is a shifting rainbow of ominous colors, reflecting pain, fear, and venom. He looks at me with poison in his milky orbs, but I see them drawn to something over my shoulder. I follow his gaze.
Viola! She’s crept from the stairs and is watching from behind a wooden beam. That girl’s as stubborn as a fountainhead. I return my glare to Onesimus.
“Netherkin,” I repeat. “How many?”
Onesimus just shakes his head.
“Let’s try the other ear,” I say, and reach for it.
He extends both shimmering palms in front of his face and cowers. “No, I mean not Netherkin!” he cries before I can do more damage. “It was him. The one who walks among the living but commands the dead. He’s called the Boneless King.”
“Yes,” I say. “I know the Boneless King sent them.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Onesimus insists. “It was the Boneless King himself who met your rodent and the filthy street urchin.” Onesimus’s skin pulses ominously. “He made quick work of them too. They hardly put up a fight.”
The Boneless King alone? Without the aid of Netherkin? If it’s true, he’s already more powerful than I realized.
“The grubby vermin went first,” Onesimus is saying. He wipes the spittle from his chin with the back of his hand. “Then it was the girl’s turn.”
I feel my fury rising at the sound of Onesimus’s words. I glance back at Viola, who’s still watching from behind the beam.
“It was quick, but far from painless,” Onesimus adds with a touch of glee.
“Where is he?” I demand.
Onesimus looks up from nursing his injury. He paws the hole left by his missing ear the way a cat cleans its wounds.
“I’m sorry,” he says bitterly. “I’m having trouble hearing you. Could you try speaking into my good ear?” He points a shimmering finger to the other side of his head.
I lean forward and growl into his remaining ear. “Tell me where the Boneless King is right now, or I’ll grind you into the dust of this basement.”
Onesimus’s white orbs stare at me hard, and he presses his mouth toward my own ear, resting it against the folds of my hood.
“Tonight the Boneless King rests on his throne. But not for long. He’s gathering his army. Calling them from every hollow and crypt in the city. And when he’s done…” Onesimus’s skin flares. “You’ll be the one ground into dust—just like your friends.”
And with that, Onesimus snaps his brittle teeth down on my own ear.
Fortunately for me, his jaws are weak and his teeth crumble in his mouth. Unfortunately for him, his nip is enough to send me into a rage. This time when I leap and clutch him, my fingers shift into claws. The vest on my back sprouts into wings and my own jaws expand. My teeth are neither weak nor brittle.
I sink them into the feeble old specter. His cries rattle the subterranean walls.
“Where?” I demand.
“I don’t know!” He thrashes but can’t escape.
“Where?” I repeat, my mouth full. His hand and wrist disappear.
“I don’t know! Ask your new friend!”
Behind me, Viola may be calling out my name, but I’m not listening.
“Where?” I say again, and Onesimus’s arm disappears up to the elbow.
“I don’t know! I wasn’t summoned! I’m of no use to him—too old and weak!”
“Then you’re of no use to me either,” I jeer, and open wide to swallow him whole.
“Goyle, stop!”
I feel something tug at my shoulders and I release him. I swivel around, my eyes blind with fury.
Viola’s own face is stricken with terror. She’s never seen me like this before.
“Stop!” she pleads. “You’re torturing him.”
I’m stunned. How could she feel empathy for this beast? Can’t she understand that this needs to be done?
My glare drills into her in disbelief; then I fix my gaze back on Onesimus. He’s dragged himself into his nook in a crumpled, shimmering ball.
“Where?” I say one last time.
“The Spite House,” he wheezes. “Up the hill past Christ Church. That’s where you’ll find the Boneless King.”
Onesimus’s skin flickers crimson as I turn on my heel and stomp out of the crawl space.
He can thank Viola that he’s got anything left to flicker at all.
I’ve caught a lucky break tonight. My first in a long time. Hetty and Tomás are sleeping at a relative’s house while their mother works late. That means they’re away from my Domain, and gives me an opportunity to venture out after dark. It’s still a risk, but I think my other wards can spare me. It’s Hetty
and her family the Boneless King is after.
The energy swirling over Copp’s Hill Burying Ground the night we visited makes sense now. That’s where the Boneless King has hunkered down. He’s biding his time, gathering strength—and an army to do his bidding. Of course, if he’s already powerful enough to so easily handle Wallace and Winnie, maybe he’s plenty strong already. But I’d like to think Onesimus is exaggerating. I know my friends, and I’m sure they gave that wobbly skin-walker one heck of a fight.
Even so, I can’t allow the Boneless King any more time.
Viola insisted on coming with me again. Being the reasonable and forgiving Grotesque that I am, I didn’t hold her foolishness in the crawl space against her.
All right, the truth is we got into a knock-down, drag-out argument right in front of the Copper Dragon. I refused to let her come, and Viola pointed out—accurately, to my dismay—that she knew exactly where I was going. She insisted that she’d just follow me anyway.
So here she is by my side as we navigate down a narrow street busy with tourists. They browse menus outside restaurants while locals sip espresso at cafes that have hardly changed in sixty years. Viola doesn’t say a word as we weave between leisurely strolling couples—she’s hardly said anything at all since our argument. I’m still angry and befuddled by her behavior, but the fact is, I’m relieved she’s here. I couldn’t have borne the thought of her returning alone to that boneyard of a theater. Not that I’m about to admit it.
“You know, I’ve met people like you before,” I grouse as we go. “Squids. Weirdos who can see Netherkin.”
“And Grotesques,” she mutters.
“Not one of them was right in the head,” I say.
“Maybe speaking with invisible monsters is enough to make anyone a little crazy,” she huffs.
“Or maybe a little too sympathetic,” I add, a bite in my tone.
She adjusts her wool cap over her eyes and doesn’t seem inclined to talk anymore.
We walk past Christ Church, which everyone calls the Old North Church nowadays. The road turns steep as we follow the redbrick path up the hill. When Copp’s Hill Burying Ground comes into view, I take the narrow side street nearest where the Black Rabbit fled.