The Unnaturalists

by Tiffany Trent

  He expected the null magic to change him, to find himself stumbling through the crowd on two legs, naked and cold. But the change didn’t come. He was still a ghostly white hound and the crowd drew back from him—Tinkers making warding signs and other people screaming in terror at the sight of his red eyes.

  Then the sentry wights came, pelting him with stinging darts as they chased him through Lowtown. He knew the Raven Guard would come next and probably carry him off to the Refineries or to the Waste. If he could just get to Bayne before then . . .

  He dodged through Lowtown and across the Night Emporium bridge. He lost most of the sentries there, but the Emporium wights crowded around him, asking if he wanted flavored ice or perfumes. He snapped at one and it shrank back with a shriek like a punctured balloon.

  A shopkeeper screamed when he saw him and ran inside to sound his own banshee alarm. With the bridge alight with wailing, Syrus loped out of the tunnel and up into Midtown. The sentry wights found him again soon enough, stinging him with jabs of energy that made him wince.

  Only a few more streets. Please let the gates be open. . . It became the only thing he could think. His hind legs dragged as he pulled himself through the iron gates and up onto the front stoop of the Grimgorn estate. A banshee alarm went off down the street. The sentry wights jabbed at him, but he was sprawled across the porch, too exhausted to do more than growl at them.

  His relief when the door banged open was so great that his tail pounded against the stone seemingly of its own volition.

  “Athena’s Great Grimoire! I came down when I heard the alarms, wondering if it might be you,” Bayne said. He was in his dressing gown, a teacup in one hand. He waded into the swarm of wights, banishing them left and right. “Begone!” he said.

  He lifted his hand and whispered for silence. The banshee alarms ceased mid-wail.

  Bayne drew Syrus in and shut the door behind him. Then he carried him upstairs to his bedchamber before anyone could find them. He set his teacup down on his bedside table.

  “By the Founders, boy, but you do try your damnedest to get me into trouble, don’t you?”

  Bayne’s fingers searched his head and shoulders where the sentry wights had stung him. Then he whispered a word and Syrus felt himself shrinking, his paws returning to hands, his tail disappearing, his fur shriveling until it disappeared into skin.

  A maid came just in time to see Syrus standing naked in Bayne’s sitting room.

  “Saints alive!” she exclaimed.

  “Make us more tea, Bet,” Bayne said. His voice was deadly calm.

  She threw her apron over her head and disappeared back down the hall.

  Bayne put his dressing gown around Syrus’s shoulders, and Syrus slipped into its warmth gratefully, though it hung off his small frame and trailed far past his feet.

  “You lied to me,” Bayne said, as he led Syrus to the fire.

  The Architect went and looked out the front window. He looked odd and certainly not at all menacing or powerful in his pajamas.

  “Well, you lied to everyone,” Syrus said.

  Bayne said nothing, his back still turned.

  “I’m sorry,” Syrus said at last. “I just didn’t want to believe . . .”

  Bayne faced him. “But if you had told me, I could have given you a potion that might have helped reverse the effects of the bite before the damage was done. It may be too late now, I fear.”

  Syrus nodded.

  “I should probably just have given it to you anyway, as a precaution,” Bayne said, “but it’s a deadly nasty thing to have to swallow if you don’t need it. Makes you deathly ill. Didn’t want to risk that with the illness you already had.” He seemed almost sheepish, as if Syrus’s predicament was his fault.

  Syrus squirmed. After the near-death experience he’d had, considering the rest of his life as a werehound was too much. “I promise I’m house-trained,” he said. Then he thought of the night of his first change in the Virulen servant’s quarters and blushed. “I think,” he added.

  Bayne blinked. Then he half-smiled when he realized Syrus was joking.

  “No worries. We shall find a way to reverse it. There must be something left in the Archives.”

  Syrus nodded.

  “But that isn’t why you came here. Or is it?” Bayne asked.

  Betula brought a tray with tea and meat, cheese, and bread. The smell made Syrus drool and he tried not to wipe his mouth on his too-long sleeves.

  “Thank you, Bet,” Bayne said. “And see if you can find more boy’s clothes, will you? Our young friend can’t wander around in my dressing gown.”

  “Yessir,” she said. She disappeared, and a few moments later, Syrus heard footsteps exiting the estate.

  Bayne handed him a cup of tea and looked at him quizzically, waiting for his response.

  “No. That’s not why I came,” Syrus said. His hands trembled on the china as he stared at the food.

  Bayne saw the direction of his gaze. “Hungry? Help yourself, by all means.”

  Syrus set the teacup down and lunged toward a plate of food. He ate as if the wights were after him again. He burped happily afterward, then covered his mouth in shame.

  Bayne frowned. “So, were you successful in getting Vespa to the Manticore?”

  Syrus ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “Yeessss,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “Charles,” Syrus said. “That is, Charles caught us as we were going there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He made Vespa capture the Manticore and he’s holding her now.”

  Bayne set his china cup down so hard that he broke the handle.

  “Damn it!” He dug at his eyes with the heels of his hands, cursing vehemently to himself.

  Syrus shrugged. “He’s taken them, yes, but he said something about giving the Manticore as a wedding present to you and Lucy Virulen. Maybe there’s still time.” Syrus eyed the last cream cake on the tray. Hunger eclipsed everything.

  Bayne dropped his hands. “Why can nothing go as I plan? Why?”

  Syrus thought of the clans at Tinkerville, of Truffler who had only recently cared for him so tenderly when he was ill. He’d left him thinking that he’d be safer in the Forest, and now that the Manticore had been captured, Truffler wasn’t safe at all. He thought of Vespa and how she’d said something had happened to her magic. And then he thought of Nainai reading his face and telling him he was meant to do great things. A great person didn’t sit around eating cream cakes or bemoaning his fate when destruction threatened.

  “We need to help them,” Syrus said.

  Bayne sat very, very still, his jaw working with tension. He stared at some distant point below them, as if he could see through the floor.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “Yes, we do.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The Imperial Matchmaker advises that the wedding take place in a fortnight, else the stars won’t be aligned properly again for another two years. I wonder how much Lucy paid her to say that.

  My days are so filled with wedding planning that I should think of nothing else. But my terror and rage is uppermost in my mind, such that I seldom speak at all, for fear I will burst into tears. There must be a way. Every moment I can, I open the magic books to see if they’ll reveal their secrets to me. I’ve even snuck into the Virulen library deep in the night, hoping some forbidden book remains there that will tell me what to do. But I found nothing. I carry the Ceylon Codex from the museum for comfort, but there’s little else it’s good for.

  Charles and Lucy seem to have grown quite fond of each other. Every afternoon, he joins us for tea in her sitting room and he acts as giddy as a girl over invitation styles and wedding favors. Lucy will, of course, wear the ancestral wedding gown of the Virulens, but there is still much to decide—bridesmaid gowns, the buffet menu, musicians to hire for the wedding masque.

  Charles is there through all of it. There’s scarcely a time now when Lucy and I
are alone together, despite Charles’s earlier assertions that he is here doing an experiment for Father. The one time I’ve been alone with Lucy, I try desperately to tell her what he’s done, but I can only stutter and stumble, as if my lips had truly been sewn shut. Lucy, of course, thinks I’m having fits and sends me to my room with a posset and strict admonitions to see to my health.

  No utterance against Charles can I make, nor any warning of the desperateness of my situation. One day, in sheer frustration I manage to pour tea on Charles’s hand. I watch in horror as the skin parts for a moment, revealing only to me the dark, scaly second skin beneath. Definitely not human. But what is he?

  No one is amused, and I’m banished to the corner to knit doilies with the other maids, still unable to say a single word.

  And every night, the Manticore’s silver song rises through the broken Refinery and pierces my heart.

  Today, I try again to write a letter to Father. I can speak about the weather, the wedding plans, even inquire about his work. But the moment I begin to beg him for help or to speak against Charles, the ink runs away across the page in meaningless dribbles. I can no more write the words than I can say them.

  I throw the pot of everink against the wall in frustration and watch it bleed down the faded wallpaper. What can I do? How can I help myself? I’ve waited in vain for Syrus to return, but there’s been no sign, no word. I should have known better than to rely on him. I swallow, realizing that I’m only thinking these things because I can’t accept the fact that Charles may have gotten him, after all. Syrus’s soul may already be in that nasty jar.

  I must attend Lucy soon, for the Grimgorns will arrive tonight. I wish there was some way to magically fortify myself against the sight of Lucy and Bayne together, but the magic seems to have gone away as fast as it came. I am a witch without spells.

  The maids come to dress and powder me. Only Lord Virulen has a wardrobe wight—they’re extraordinarily expensive. I’m glad enough for that. I don’t think I could stand for a wight to touch me again, knowing what I do about their origins. I endure their ministrations, but all the while I’m thinking about what I can do, what I must do, to break free. I consider that if I could somehow wrest the neverkey from Charles, I could get in to see the Manticore. But Lucy has kept me close by her late into every night, and there are men watching everywhere.

  I will figure this out.

  In the parlor, I serve tea to Lucy, Lord Virulen, Lord and Lady Grimgorn, and Bayne. Charles is thankfully absent; I would guess he’s afraid of what Bayne might do to him. Bayne watches my every move. I look up once to see Lucy frowning, and after that, I keep my eyes lowered. I must pretend that I’ve never seen or spoken to him. They talk mostly of the wedding tour, and how delicately that must be achieved considering the growing Waste between New London and Scientia. Bayne doesn’t involve himself in any of it, but lets his parents, Lucy, and Lord Virulen sort out the details.

  I slip over to the window seat while they continue to talk. I slide the Ceylon Codex out of my pocket and turn its old pages. Although I can’t make out the symbols, at least my eyes don’t sting when I look at them. The strange Dragonlike creature has a golden heart. I’d never noticed that before.

  “What is that you’re reading?” Bayne says.

  He’s come up behind me without my realizing it. I twist to look up at him, and see his eyes on the book.

  I pass the book to him, trying to modulate my voice as if I’m speaking to someone I barely know. “It’s called the Ceylon Codex. It’s full of Dragons. My Father used to study them at the Museum.”

  He takes it very delicately, as he once took my hand. He turns the pages with the very edges of his fingers to keep from smudging them. “Fascinating. What do you think of it?”

  “I think . . .”

  Our eyes meet. “Bayne . . .” I whisper. My voice trembles.

  Just at that moment, I turn and see that everyone is looking at us. The room has fallen deathly silent.

  “Vespa,” Lucy says, her voice snapping with frost, “remove the tea things, please.”

  I take the tray and head toward the kitchen. I hear Bayne excusing himself. I try to hurry and disappear down the kitchen corridor before he can catch up to me, but to no avail.

  “Miss Nyx,” he calls after me. I haven’t heard him call me that since the first day we met.

  I stop, but I don’t turn.

  He comes up beside me. “I beg a word with you.”

  “My lord.” I bow my head. “I have errands for your impending wedding.” I close my eyes. The tray is so heavy my arms shake.

  He takes the tray from me and sets it on the floor. “I do not know why you did what you did,” he says. “I want to believe that you didn’t understand. But you have bound me now with shackles tighter than any signed contract or brokered promise.”

  “If you had only told me,” I say. “If I had only known, I would never have—”

  “Release me, then. Unbind me from this charm. Only you can undo this. I cannot break this spell on my own. Your strength, unschooled as it is, is greater than any I possess.”

  My teeth chatter with tension. “I can’t! I—”

  The door opens, and his mother pokes her aristocratic nose around the door frame looking for him.

  “Bayne, we need your signature now,” she says, eyeing me.

  He turns away without another word or look.

  I make my face as cold as I can. I bend and pick up my tray and say icily, “Good day, my lord,” as I make my way to the kitchens. But it is as though I am walking on a thousand teacups all made of the pieces of my heart.

  * * *

  On the day of the wedding, I am up before dawn being trussed and pinched and perfumed. My hair is so tall I’m afraid I won’t be able to get through the doorway. I’m exhausted because I haven’t slept at all between Lucy’s tantrums over a fault in the wedding favors, avoiding Bayne and Charles, and thinking about what I might do to free myself of these wretched, wretched spells. Short of trying to sneak away after this wedding, I have no solutions. And somehow, with both Charles and Lucy watching me like hawks, I have the feeling I won’t get very far.

  The maids cluck at the circles under my eyes, my puffy eyelids. They powder my face even whiter than usual to account for it; I look like a ghost.

  But there’s no time to worry over it. I must help Lucy in her chambers with the ancient Virulen wedding gown and escort her down to the chapel, as she has no mother of her own to do so. We have this loss in common, but with so many maids at her disposal, I’m hard-pressed to see why Lucy even has need of me. Except that I’m the reason she’s getting married in the first place.

  I sigh. Last night, a note was slid under my door, eversealed with the Wyvern seal of Grimgorn. I threw it in the fire unread. It’s bad enough that I am a witch without magic, but even the accusation of being my new lord’s mistress, whether true or false . . . I shudder at how fast Lucy would most likely have me sent to the Waste for that, despite all her charming smiles. I can’t bear to read whatever accusations he might levy against me, or even kind words. Nothing can happen between us.

  And yet, as I hurry up and down stairs and through everlit corridors packed with servants and guests, I wonder again if perhaps somehow Bayne would still help me, if I could only explain to him what happened, if I could make him understand that I literally have no magic to free him. Would he understand and forgive me? Would he put aside his hurt to help me free the Manticore? Could he, bound as he is by a spell I can’t release?

  I find Lucy holding tight to her bedpost and cursing the maids cinching her into the corset that looks more like a torture device than an undergarment. Her black hair straggles around her shoulders and her cosmetics still aren’t on.

  Lucy is determined to have an eighteen-inch waist because she is eighteen, for reasons that elude me. But all the rich cakes with tea have taken their toll. Though she looks natural and healthy to me (and my waist size hovers above hers�
�though only just), she has had many a tantrum over the failure of the maids to cinch her properly these last few days.

  “Ah,” she gasps, “there you are! Help the maids with the dress, will you? Where is that saints-bedamned hairdresser?” she shouts to no one in particular.

  I hurry to help with the ancestral wedding dress of Virulen. It has been used by every Virulen woman since the New Creation, and is so ancient that its once-vermilion silk has aged to deep claret. It was spun from the silk of a now-extinct shadowspider. We’ve a few preserved at the Museum—ghastly, leggy, shriveled things. But their silk is flawless and beautiful as none other. This dress alone is worth a fortune.

  It’s so heavy that it takes three of us to lift the thing over Lucy’s head. It smells of musty roses, but it slides on with a sigh, as if it knows the blood of its mistress.

  Lucy can barely breathe, much less sit, when the hairdresser finally enters and waves her over to her vanity. He is foppish and odd.

  Lucy stares at me in the mirror. The hairdresser is teasing her hair upward—soon it’ll be even taller than mine. He affixes hothouse blood roses into the weave and across the shoulders of her dress.

  “I’ve noticed something has been awkward about you lately. You’re so quiet . . . and clumsy. What is it? You can tell me, I assure you,” Lucy says.

  But I know I can’t. My lips are still sewn shut.

  “I haven’t asked anything further of you, you know,” she says. “I should think you’d be grateful.”

  She pouts a little, fidgeting with the roses about her bodice.

  I nod.

  “Now,” she says, “when the time comes for heirs, that might be a different story.”

  The hairdresser’s lips quirk. He pulls her hair and she yelps and glares at him. “Do that again and your fingers will never touch hair again. Or anything else for that matter,” she says.

  A bright spot appears on his cheek, but he murmurs, “Yes, my lady,” in a voice as smooth as the pomade he applies.