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CHAPTER FOUR

Monsters Welcome Never More

Hallowmas Night

One foot in front of the other.

Don’t react, Morrigan repeated in her head. Don’t let your eyeline stray. Pretend you’re not surrounded by dead people.

It was even harder than she’d expected at first. Not just because of the dread that enveloped her the moment she stepped outside Wunsoc, or the occasional hostile bump to her psyche from what she knew must be a close-passing ghost, but also because of the enormous, watchful crowds gathered behind the barrier on either side of Lightwing Parade. Morrigan felt the weight of their collective attention, the rise and fall of their excitement as the parade neared and then passed them, like two big lungs breathing in and out.

She envied the spectators a little. The Society took special measures to protect the crowds at the Black Parade from the effects of the Unresting, and so there was a calm, expectant, even jubilant mood on the other side of the barriers. She could see those ‘special measures’ dotted along the parade route, mingling with the crowd, their tails wagging and teeth bared in dopey, happy grins – spaniels and setters and retrievers and poodles, standing proudly with their human handlers, radiating good feelings all around with their shielding, reassuring auras. Dogs, according to Jupiter, were some of the most powerful and cost-effective buffers against psychological harm. Morrigan wished she could have tucked a Chihuahua into her pocket.

As they went on, though, it started to feel easier. The night seemed to shrink, drawing protectively around them like a great black cloak. The soft sounds of the crowd fell away, and the light from the streetlamps fell away, and the smell of sugared hazelnuts roasting and fairy floss spinning all fell away, fell away, fell away … until all Morrigan could hear was hundreds of footsteps marching in sync, and all she could smell was the burning wax of the nightbeacons.

The Unresting were drawn to the light cast by the black candles, which had been made for this purpose by the Royal Sorcery Council, laced with various ingredients designed to lure and trap them. (The RSC were famously protective of the recipe.) The ghosts would seek out the pools of candlelight and then be unable to turn away, hypnotised like insects hovering around a flame.

Poor Jupiter, Morrigan thought. She didn’t envy him his task tonight. Having to see their ghastly faces drawing closer around him, but never to look directly at them. Never let his hands tremble. If anyone could hold their nerve all the way from the north end of Old Town to Eldritch in the south, though, it was Jupiter.

Morrigan and her friends had learned the twisting, turning parade route by heart. Conall explained that it was designed to maximise the number of Unresting they collected along the way, snaking past prisons, temples, churches, courthouses and cemeteries. Places of misery and places of absolution. Those were the city seams he’d talked about, where the grit and grime liked to gather.

When they marched by the prison, Morrigan could see what he meant. Dredmalis Dungeon was grim . A bleak, stone-grey building surrounded by high walls topped with barbed wire, bordering a graveyard crammed with busted old headstones, like a skull full of crumbling teeth. Even seeing it in her peripheral vision made Morrigan shudder.

She was relieved when they emerged from their East Quarter detour into the wide, open Lightwing Parade again … but that relief vanished when she heard a hiss from somewhere in the crowd.

‘Wundersmith!’

It was whispered with such savage force there could be no doubt it was meant as an insult or accusation.

Two hands instantly grasped for Morrigan’s and squeezed, concealed from onlookers by the long sleeves of their cloaks. Cadence on her right and Hawthorne on her left. Morrigan felt a lump in her throat, but tilted her chin up a little higher.

She was used to moments like this now. Ever since she’d been outed in the newspapers several weeks ago as Nevermoor’s first Wundersmith in over a hundred years, she’d been glared at, whispered about and occasionally shouted at by perfect strangers. It didn’t always feel like fear or hatred, exactly … sometimes it just felt like curiosity. But that still wasn’t fun. She didn’t want to be an object of curiosity.

Morrigan couldn’t say she blamed them, particularly. The last Wundersmith in Nevermoor had, after all, committed the quite memorable crime of murdering a bunch of people and attempting to conquer the city with his own army of monsters. It was understandable that Nevermoorians might be a bit touchy about the arrival of another one, with dangerous, unknown, potentially unlimited powers.

The trouble was, there was no way for Morrigan to publicly reassure people that she wasn’t planning to murder a bunch of people and conquer the city, without sounding quite a lot like someone who’s maybe planning to murder a bunch of people and conquer the city.

Ezra Squall had certainly managed to mess things up for her.

Morrigan blinked and stumbled, making the person behind bump into her with an impatient huff. She righted herself quickly and carried on.

What was that?

That weird brain-flicker again. A fox in the streetlight. A shadow across the moon. Something she’d forgotten.

‘ Wundersmith! ’

Another whisper. And then another.

‘ Wundersmith, go home! Wundersmith, go home! ’

Go home? What did they mean, go home ? Home to the Hotel Deucalion, or … Did they mean … ?

Morrigan blinked, swallowing hard.

The whispers didn’t stop; they grew louder as more voices joined the chorus, and others began chanting—

‘ SEND HER BACK. SEND HER BACK. SEND HER BACK. ’

The parade was halted in its tracks as people swarmed through the barriers and into the empty street in front of them, a choreographed stream coming from every direction to block their path. Without thinking about it, Morrigan, Cadence, Hawthorne, Thaddea and Lam stepped in front of the younger members of Unit 920, and the others followed in a heartbeat.

‘ SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK! ’

The familiar voice of Laurent St James – founder of the Concerned Citizens of Nevermoor Party, campaigner against Wunimal rights, loud owner of terrible opinions and most notably, in the words of Jupiter North, ‘some rich idiot’ – boomed unpleasantly from his beloved megaphone.

‘Ugh, not this guy again. Hasn’t he shouted about you enough for one lifetime?’ Cadence muttered to Morrigan. ‘Take a day off, mate.’

‘The Concerned Citizens of Nevermoor say NEVER MORE!’ shouted St James. ‘Never more will we allow our city to be controlled by a maker of monsters, by a wolf in sheep’s clothing, by a too-powerful, too-dangerous, megalomaniacal despot!’

‘Is he talking about me?’ Hawthorne said quietly, grinning as he lifted the sleeve of his cloak to reveal his werewolf costume again. ‘How rude.’

Morrigan almost laughed, but not quite.

‘Never more will we allow our citizens to be put at risk! The Wundrous Society has smuggled in a WUNDERSMITH from the WINTERSEA REPUBLIC, our ENEMY NATION! We must rise as one and say NEVER MORE! Never more will we let them do as they please, running their wild schemes on the taxpayer’s coin and putting our children in danger!’ He paused, picking up a small child beside him and lifting her onto his shoulders. ‘We must rise up and DEMAND that they SEND HER BACK!’

Then he handed the megaphone up to the little girl, whose tiny voice grew monstrous as she shrieked, ‘SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK! SEND HER BACK!’

Morrigan felt sick. She turned in a circle, but there was nowhere to go. She was surrounded by so-called Concerned Citizens holding signs with slogans like MONSTERS WELCOME NEVER MORE! and HEY WINTERSEA, WE DON’T WANT YOUR WUNDERSMITH! Though they’d grown since she’d last seen them, still they numbered only a hundred, maybe two. But there were thousands of Nevermoorians lining Lightwing Parade, and even some of them took up the chant. Unit 919 closed around her.

‘DO SOMETHING, you fool!’ came a sharp shout. Morrigan turned to the sound of the voice and saw a familiar pale face in the crowd, twisted with disgust. Her fingertips tingled with gathering Wunder. He was right, she ought to do something, she had to do something—

‘MOOOOGGGGG! MOG, I’M COMING!’

The sea of black cloaks parted to let Jupiter through, still holding his candle aloft. He launched himself to the front of the parade, blazing with righteous anger, shouting, ‘How dare you!’ and Laurent St James put the child back on the ground, squaring up to Jupiter and bellowing, ‘ SEND HER BACK, SEND HER BACK! ’ right into his face.

Several things happened at once.

Unbalanced, Jupiter dropped his nightbeacon. It rolled into the crowd of Concerned Citizens, still alight. The little girl reached down to pick it up. Time slowed to a crawl and Morrigan felt every drop of water in her body turn to ice. She wanted to shout a warning but the words stuck in her throat, so she ran for the candle instead, fingers tingling as she grabbed it just in time and—

They were everywhere.

Everywhere.

There was no Wundrous defence against this. No way of unseeing it.

The artists were all wrong, they were too gentle. They lied . The misery they’d painted wasn’t big enough, it wasn’t hard enough, it wasn’t frightening or painful or ghastly enough.

The Unresting wore their guilt on the outside like chains. Like thick vines creeping around their hands and feet, wrapped round their necks, forever twisting, tightening, squeezing.

The nightbeacon didn’t just let Morrigan see them, it let her hear them too. And that was worse. It was so much worse, it was unbearable .

No rest , they sang without words. No rest.

Morrigan wanted to weep. She wanted to run. She could hear words beneath the wailing, could hear her name spoken in familiar, panicked voices, but they felt so far away, and all she could see was the Unresting.

A ghoulish woman advanced on her, mouth open in a silent scream, reaching out with pale, grasping hands through a tangle of vines.

‘ GET AWAY FROM ME! ’

Before the words even left her mouth, Morrigan regretted them. A sea of faces turned towards her, black-socket eyes and gaping maws growing wide with horror or hunger.

She’d broken the rules.

She’d noticed the Unresting. And they’d noticed her right back.

For one breathless moment, Morrigan was certain they would swarm her … but what happened was somehow worse. They scattered, screaming a demonic chorus and howling into the night. Morrigan felt their collective anguish billow upwards like a mushroom cloud and then dissipate, leaving her dizzy and nauseous … and leaving the Black Parade utterly empty of the dead.

The Concerned Citizens watched, bemused, as their too-powerful, too-dangerous, megalomaniacal despot swayed where she stood, trembling violently, face drained of colour.

‘Mog. It’s all right. Give it to me.’

Morrigan was dimly aware that someone had been tugging fiercely at the nightbeacon, but her fingers were closed tight like talons around it, unable to let go.

‘They were everywhere,’ she said quietly, blinking against the sudden wash of light.

‘I know.’ Jupiter uncurled her fingers one by one.

‘I heard them.’

‘I know.’

‘I want—’

Morrigan didn’t know how to say all she felt. She wanted to unsee what she’d just seen, wanted to cut the memory of it out of her brain forever. To forget and forget and forget.

‘I know,’ Jupiter said again.

And she looked at him and knew that he did.