The Unnaturalists

by Tiffany Trent

  I turn and follow the thing that was Charles.

  When we enter the warmth, light, and noise of the Great Hall, we’re met with a few shrieks that fall away into fainting and silence. The Empress stands so abruptly that she knocks over her chair and the crash echoes all the way to the domed ceiling. I follow Charles to the dais and the Manticore follows me. She settles behind me, her spiked tail scraping the steps, lashing like an agitated cat’s. I glimpse the true redness of her fur for the first time; it’s crimson and plush as fresh-spilled blood.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the Empress asks. Her voice is gritty and ancient beyond her supposed years. The way she moves, the way her eyes are like holes in her heavily made-up face make me wonder how old she truly is. It’s strange to stand higher than her; it feels almost sacrilegious. She is so very small.

  Charles bows deeply to her. The golden ribbons on his shoes are one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen. “Have no fear, Most Scientific Majesty,” he says. He raises his voice so that all can hear. “I bring the Manticore as a wedding gift to the new Lord and Lady Grimgorn, and as a salve to Lord Virulen’s longstanding wounds incurred from this deadly Unnatural. I know your Majesty has some quarrel with the Manticore, as well.”

  Charles gestures to someone at the back of the Hall, and I see them slowly wheel in a collecting unit.

  “No,” I whisper. I think of the Forest and all her people, the Waste creeping close. I know with a certainty as sure as my ability to properly identify a rare sylph that the Manticore’s death will spell disaster for the Tinkers and all the creatures who rely on the Forest. By morning, the Waste will be at New London’s back gate.

  Lord Virulen struggles to his feet and limps over to the dais. He looks up at the Manticore with his one good eye. It’s difficult to read his expression because of his perpetual leer, but I see fear gleaming in that eye. Fear and gloating.

  “A worthy gift, Scholar Waddingly,” he says. “Quite worthy indeed.”

  I’m holding the chain loosely, too loosely. I hear it slide almost before I feel it.

  The Manticore leaps. Lord Virulen’s thin scream evaporates beneath her razor claws. I’m dragged down the stairs after her, my elbows knocking the stairs, my knees scraped by steel.

  The Hall reverberates with overturning chairs and screams, not least of which are Charles’s screams of rage.

  But the Manticore looks at me. The light around her heart is so bright I can barely see.

  For the first time, I understand her words: Take this Heart, Vespa. Take it back to the Beast in the Well. You alone can heal this world.

  Low percussion threatens my ears. The everlights dim as all energy in the Hall rushes to surround the Manticore’s burning Heart. The Manticore’s grin bursts in waves of dizzying light. Her paws, her spiked tail, and the chains melt white-hot as she dissolves in a towering blaze of magic.

  My hair crackles and I shut my eyes against the heatless blast. Something rolls against my hands—the ticking Heart. I cup it and feel its steady beating, even as the everlights shatter one by one, as the oriel window bursts in stars of colored glass. Raw myth glitters on wigs and eyelids, makes silver shimmers of gowns and coats.

  People who understand what the dust truly is scrabble frantically for it, heedless of shattered glass. The rest stand with their mouths open or faint away in shock.

  Three points of attention hone in on me at once: Charles, the Empress, and Lucy. The Empress screams: “GET THAT GIRL AT ONCE!”

  The garden entrance door is open to admit air. I can just make it, if I hurry.

  But the guards are quickly surrounding me and I’m too unsteady on my feet. In my frustration, I kick off my shoes, heedless of the ribbons of glass slicing through my stockings and skin. I run, hearing the Manticore’s last words. You alone can heal this world. I slip the Heart into my bodice and it nestles there, ticking its soft song against my handkerchief.

  I see Father’s face in his hands. Bayne’s round eyes and open mouth.

  I’ll never make it in time.

  A terrified turtledove that the bridal couple were to release on the terrace tears free of its perch and rises toward the dome.

  Barely knowing what I do, I gather myself to follow it. Mid-stride, I’m borne aloft. My fingers turn to feathers. The Heart sinks under my skin as my dress sloughs away. I flex my talons and cry out. My voice is fire and my words are no longer human. I rise on unsteady wings, following the dove through the shattered oriel window, the Manticore’s Heart ticking frantically under my skin in time with my own.

  Far away in New London’s everlit night, I can just make out the shadow of a mighty Beast curled alongside the river, its head crowned by the Empress’s ridiculous Tower. There is a hole where its heart should be, right under the Museum.

  That is where I must be, where I belong.

  And then the night has wings and red eyes of its own. Mighty talons grip me with such force I’m sure my wings have snapped. Pain bleeds to absolute darkness.

  CHAPTER 26

  Syrus was half-woken by something tickling at his nose. He swatted at it and settled back into his quilt, grumbling about pesky flies. Then whatever it was bit his nose. Hard.

  He sat straight up and hit his head on a root. He yelped, rubbing at his head and glaring at Piskel, who buzzed and hopped about the old fox’s den like a manic firefly.

  “What?” Syrus growled.

  Then he noticed that it was morning and that he was, once again, naked.

  He had to find a way to get Bayne to make sure he transformed with his clothes on.

  Bayne! Confused memories piled in upon him. He’d led the sentry wights and Guard on a merry chase getting out of the City a few days ago, but he’d finally made it to the river. The swim had been unpleasant and nearly drowned him, but he’d made it under the wall. After that, he remembered only flashes—the forest, howling at the moon, racing through a line of hobs mourning at the Manticore’s den . . .

  Piskel jumped up and down so much it made Syrus’s eyes hurt trying to follow him.

  “Wait. Slow down, please,” Syrus said.

  The sylph came to rest on Syrus’s palm. “Now, slowly. What happened?”

  Piskel pantomimed what had happened. The Manticore had died. Vespa had been taken by the Raven Guard and imprisoned with the other Elementals in the Refinery. It had been very painful to slip out through the nevered bars and nullwards, but Piskel had managed. He didn’t know when Vespa would be taken to the Waste, if that was what was meant to happen.

  Syrus put his head between his knees. He had sincerely hoped and believed that if anyone could save Vespa, it would be Bayne. He’d tried to get back to her before the wedding, but had obviously failed. Now it looked as though the wedding had already taken place and Vespa had been captured. What had happened to Bayne after the wedding? Had he been captured too? Syrus certainly hadn’t expected that it would all fall to him to save the witch. They’d made no plans for this kind of emergency. Bayne had said that if they were all caught, Syrus should go as far away as he could.

  Piskel tugged at his arm, urging him to get up, but Syrus shook him off. Thankfully, Piskel refrained from biting him again.

  “What am I supposed to do?” he said, head in his hands. He felt very sorry for himself. Small and alone and forever forced to shift his shape at every turn of the full moon until one day he would never change back. How could he possibly do anything?

  Piskel trumpeted. It sounded like he was telling Syrus to get help.

  “From who? Everyone who could help is imprisoned!” Syrus said.

  Piskel puffed out his chest and drew his shoulders up. He marched tall and proud around the burrow, looking at Syrus with brooding eyes.

  Syrus shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  Piskel pointed off in the direction of Virulen. He grabbed Syrus’s collar and tried to pull him bodily from the den. Then he took up his pantomime of the brooding person again. He took t
wo roles, pretending first to be a simpering girl and then the brooding man again, looking at her.

  “What? Do you mean Bayne?”

  Piskel nodded so enthusiastically it looked like his head might wobble off. He tugged at Syrus again.

  Finally, Syrus gave in and crawled from the den.

  It was as though a great fire had swept through the Forest while he slept. Though there was no smell of smoke, little bits of ash—no, black sand—drifted here and there. The trees, already leafless, now seemed to lack substance, as if whatever held them firmly knitted together had fled. Pounding and pattering and squealing filled the air as a wave of animals surged up over the rise. Syrus watched in horror as white stags and does fled through the floating dust, as squirrels and skunks and chipmunks, greenmen and hobs and sylphs flitted alongside them. They spared not a glance for him and Piskel but thundered off to the east.

  Silence stretched under the failing trees until a sizzling noise drew his gaze westward. Sharp light rode a wave of darkness through the once-dense forest. Distant trees collapsed into dust and realization dawned.

  The Manticore was truly gone.

  And now the Waste was devouring the Forest. He didn’t know if it could leap the River, but it would devour the remaining clans in Tinkerville. He had to warn them. . . .

  He started off in that direction, but Piskel frantically dragged and pushed at him, trying to force him east toward Virulen like the other animals. Soon, the Waste would sweep this part of the Forest and him with it.

  Cursing in frustration, he shifted into werehound form and ran toward Virulen as fast as his paws would carry him.

  * * *

  Syrus was afraid that getting into Virulen would be nearly impossible, but he needn’t have worried. Animals and Elementals were trying to flee the onslaught of the Waste as quickly as possible, and in typical fashion the Lords were taking advantage. As Syrus neared the pasture, thinking to slip in under the garden boxwoods or at the kitchen midden, he heard guns firing. He shifted back into human form, clenching his fists and wishing that he had the magical power of the Architects so he could smite them for their stupidity. He retrieved his dart pipe and knife from where he had stashed them on the lip of an old cistern near the back gate before slipping through it.

  Bayne stood a little off to the side. He leaned on his musket watching the others with a look of deep displeasure on his face. Syrus watched him dispatch his servant for something. Alone, Bayne half-turned toward the manor as if he’d rather be indoors than witness this hunting charade.

  Syrus threw pebbles from the hedge to get Bayne’s attention.

  “My lord,” he called.

  He tried not to cringe when he found the barrel of the musket pointed at his chest.

  Bayne lowered the musket, but raised a brow. “Where have you been?” He drew Syrus out of the hedge, cloaking him in his hunting jacket.

  Syrus coughed in embarrassment. “Bayne . . . the Waste . . .”

  Another musket fired and a stag went down in the field.

  “Vespa’s been captured,” Syrus said. Piskel floated around them.

  That got his attention.

  As did the black sandstorm coming over the hill.

  “Into the house,” Bayne shouted. He grabbed Syrus’s shoulder and dragged him along. He shouted at the other lords. Some of them heeded him, but others didn’t. As they ran toward the garden gate, the Guards turned down the wards enough for them to pass. Those who waited too long became pillars of salt on the dark tide. Syrus looked over his shoulder as he ran. The Waste flooded right up to the gate, stopping only at the wards. Little puffs of dust flew up as if testing the field.

  Bayne took Syrus by the shoulder. “In here,” he said.

  He directed him upstairs and into his private chamber. Word was already spreading among the staff; there were whispers down the halls. One maid sobbed as she stared out a window at the black desert crouching at the back door.

  Bayne shut the door and told the manservant to make sure no one entered. He put his musket by the door and loosened his cuffs.

  “What happened?” he said, turning to Syrus. “I thought you would have returned here by now, if you’d survived.”

  “I . . . got lost.”

  Bayne raised a brow, then tossed him some clothes. “You’re in luck,” he said. “My bath boy just quit yesterday.”

  Syrus waved a hand. “Look, that’s not important. We’re all in grave danger—”

  “Well, that’s rather obvious . . .” Bayne gestured out the window.

  Syrus ignored his sarcasm and finished, “But if we can just get Vespa out and get the Heart away from Charles, maybe we can return it to its rightful owner.” He struggled into his shirt and trousers.

  “Us and what army? Do you not see the Guard everywhere?” There was an odd expression on Bayne’s face, as if he was only saying the words so harshly to convince himself there was no hope. He went to the window and stared out at the eye-stinging expanse of the Waste.

  Syrus didn’t know what more to say. He stared at the lord’s back, the stillness of his ruffled sleeves. He felt like he was in a game of tiles. He had played his last one, his finest one, and now was just waiting to see if his opponent had anything left.

  “I tried to stop the wedding, you know,” Bayne said. “But she put that spell on me. And my father . . . he . . .” He trailed off.

  “Maybe it’s time you stopped doing what your daddy tells you,” Syrus said.

  Bayne turned. Syrus couldn’t see his eyes, but he worried now that he’d gone too far. Piskel squirmed inside his coat sleeve.

  “You’re probably right,” Bayne said at last. “Now, what do you propose we do?”

  “Piskel and I can find us a way into the Refinery, but you’re going to have to get us out. And then, we’ll just have to hope we can get the Heart where it needs to be.” He grinned.

  A knock came at the door.

  “What is it, Boswick?” Bayne asked, opening the door a sliver.

  “Your lady wife, sir. She requests that you pack hastily and meet her in the family carriage. All who can are evacuating the estate and retreating to the City.”

  “Is there a way still clear by carriage, I wonder?” Bayne asked.

  Boswick shrugged.

  “Well, go find out, man!”

  Boswick hurried off.

  Bayne gestured to Syrus to help him and together they pulled a sizable foot locker out from a little room behind a tapestry.

  Bayne threw it open. “In you go.” He smiled.

  Syrus stared at him.

  “How else am I to get you to my town house without Charles finding out?” Bayne said. “If we are to do this, I must conserve every bit of magical strength I still possess.”

  Bayne packed a few coats down and then Syrus crawled inside. Bayne threw in a few more things, and then the Architect closed the lid and strapped him in. The inside of the trunk smelled of scented paper and shoes. Syrus sneezed.

  Bayne thumped the lid. “Best not do that again,” he cautioned, his voice muffled through the trunk lid.

  Piskel crawled out of Syrus’s pocket and clambered up next to his face. He didn’t exactly look pleased, but there wasn’t much either of them could do about it until the trunk opened again.

  After what felt like hours later but was probably more like thirty minutes, Syrus felt someone lift the trunk, grunting and protesting under its weight. He was carried out and strapped to the back of a carriage, presumably. He just hoped the Waste hadn’t reached the road or Tinkerville. He also hoped no one would toss the luggage to help the carriage go faster.

  It was a long, cold, bone-shattering ride being jounced along in the dark behind the carriage, but at last the carriage came to a stop. Syrus prayed that Bayne’s new wife wasn’t in charge of opening the trunks or they would all have a nasty surprise.

  Then he was lifted and carried. He heard shouting following feet that ran upstairs.

  Bayne yelled, “Th
is farce of a marriage will be annulled, I swear by all the saints!” before the door slammed.

  Then he heard the straps being unbuckled and the lid was thrown back.

  Bayne’s furious expression greeted him.

  Syrus gulped a breath of fresh air. “Honeymoon not going too well?” He remembered how his people always made fun of a new married couple. They’d give them the clan car all to themselves one night, but they’d sure make it difficult—singing and hooting outside the window all night long. He thought it was odd that Cityfolk didn’t do the same.

  “That woman is an absolute shrew!” Bayne said.

  Syrus couldn’t help but chuckle. Piskel was laughing so hard that he fell out of the trunk.

  “Tell me first,” Syrus said. “Is there anything left of . . . of the trainyard by the city gates?”

  Bayne shook his head. “All that’s left is a narrow strip of road that’s nullwarded between the city and Virulen. It was the only way we managed to get through. Everything on the west side of the road is gone. We don’t know how long the road itself will hold before the Waste breaks through.”

  Syrus went to the window and looked out between the drapes. They were in the Grimgorn Uptown house. The sloping crest of Tower Hill came down virtually into the back garden. It was an ugly, thorn-tangled view, but he barely saw it. All he could think of were his poor people sleeping, unaware that the Manticore was dead, unaware that the wave of the Waste was about to destroy them.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” Bayne said.

  Syrus didn’t know how much Bayne knew about the trainyard and his people, but he realized with a sinking heart that the enslaved Tinkers and werehounds in the Refineries were probably all that was left of his people now.

  A single tear trickled down his cheek. He felt Piskel catch it on his tiny hand. The sylph turned it into a bit of glimmering crystal, which he gave to Syrus with great ceremony. Syrus said words of thanks in the old language and slipped the crystal into his pocket.