Page 1 of The Dark Mirror (The Bone Season #5)

1

FORGOTTEN

Once, while it rained outside the den and the lamps burned low in Seven Dials, Nick had told me about a certain prison in Stockholm. Rosenkammaren, it was called – the Rose Chamber, the name a torture of its own. No roses could have grown down there, where sunlight never reached. Its prisoners were hung in chains and left to stand in icy water.

The night Nick found his sister dead in the forest, and devoted himself to destroying the anchor, he accepted the possibility that he could end up in that place. Sometimes he woke in a cold sweat, wondering if the ?ther had already condemned him to the Rose Chamber.

I’ve often wondered if my choices shaped my life, or if it was drawn before I existed, spun out for me like thread from a spindle. I’ve wondered if any of us have a fate; if the pattern and flow of time is ordained, or if we can force it to carve a new path. All voyants reckon with the idea. Some among us glimpse the future, and we like to believe that means we can stop it, but I suspect that degree of control is an illusion, and we have no more power than amaurotics. All we can hope for is a warning. A glimpse of time before it comes.

So we trust in the ?ther, or we try. As someone I love told me once, trust is never being sure if you should trust at all.

My dreamscape had changed. Gone was the field of flowers that had grown there since I was a child.

Now my safe place was a room in Paris, rendered skeletal.

There was the bed, the sheets turned down, lamps on either side. Some way from it, I lay in shadow. White flowers reached between the floorboards – my poppy anemones, still trying to grow, their petals bleached and translucent. Snow gathered around me, like dust on something left forgotten.

Beyond the distant windows, all I could make out was darkness. Night cupped the safe house in its hands. That was normal for a dreamscape; the pallor on its walls was not. Time and again I tried to rise, but an unseen weight pinned me in place, keeping me on the floor.

It might be for the best. Part of me wanted to get to the bed – surely it was soft and warm – but I sensed it would carry me farther away than I could stand to go. It would throw me to a world of teeth that wanted to rip me to shreds. As I slipped back into oblivion, I saw the blood that stained my spirit. Reph blood, human blood, all over my hands.

I slept for hours or weeks or years. Between my periods of absence, I thought I strayed towards the bed – thought I felt the sun, heard a voice – but I always ended up back on the floor, as if I had never moved. The flowers wove around my limbs, as if to hold and comfort me.

And then I stopped falling asleep. Now I was aware and cold, and I realised I had to get to the bed. My silver cord pulled me that way – a weak tug I had rarely felt when I was in my own dreamscape.

When I moved, the white flowers loosened their hold. I turned on to my front and crawled.

Another light trailed in my wake, faint and unresisting.

It was as if my limbs were stone. Each inch I gained left me exhausted, and the closer to the bed I moved, the worse my creeping fear that this was the wrong choice. The lamps had seemed dim and comforting from my place in the deep shadows, but now, as I approached, they shone too bright. No one could fall asleep with those lights flanking their bed. I feared what they might yet reveal, because something was different out there. I could sense it.

I grasped the sheets and hauled myself up. My arms gave way, and I crumpled back to the floor, almost surrendering. You have risen from the ashes before , the flowers said in a voice I remembered, a voice I both cherished and feared. And then I climbed, and I was there, curling up tight. The only way to survive is to believe you always will.

When I woke, I was on another bed. My head rested on a pillow, my hand on my ribs. I lay heavy and woollen for what felt like hours, my breathing slow.

This was not a dreamscape. No shadow pooled at its edges. Red sunlight passed through sheer curtains and glinted off a television on the wall. I sat up, rubbing coarse sleep from my eyes.

The room where I found myself was pristine, except for the unmade sheets on its twin beds. Beside a table, a chair was upholstered in beige leather, a coat thrown over its back. I braced myself with my good hand, listening to the quiet. A door slammed in the distance.

‘Arcturus,’ I said, unnerved.

No answer. I reached for the golden cord, but felt nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion in return.

Are you there?

Something was off about the room. The smoothness of the wooden floor, the straight clean lines of the furniture, the starched bedsheets – all of it spoke of regulation. This was a hotel – and no cheap dosshouse, at that – but it wasn’t Anchotel, the only chain in Scion. Those rooms had scarlet runners and anchors stitched in gold on the pillows.

The last thing I recalled was the masquerade in Paris. Léandre in his lion mask, Le Vieux Orphelin at his side. My private conversation with Inquisitor Ménard. After that meeting, there was only fog, and now I was in a hotel with a headache. Even for me, this was bizarre.

‘Arcturus,’ I said again.

And then, with a sickening jolt, it came back to me.

Arcturus had returned to Nashira. He had been using me for information, all that time.

He was nowhere to be seen or sensed, which seemed to confirm the things I remembered. I forced myself to go over our confrontation in Paris. He intended to betray the clairvoyant syndicates to Scion. I had acted quickly to protect the Mime Order, but for all I knew, he might have beaten me to my allies. I might be the only survivor of a failed revolution.

Was that why I was here, alone?

With considerable effort, I roused my gift and focused on the ?ther, pain lancing my temples. There were thousands of dreamscapes in the vicinity, but none that I recognised. My legs shook as I rose, grasping the bedpost for support. Instead of my usual nightshirt, I was dressed in drawstring shorts and a white shirt with cap sleeves. My arms looked slimmer than before, the muscle less defined. How long had I been here?

Now my heart was pounding, my skin clammy. I walked to the window, my head swimming. The room overlooked a long street, where streetlamps were coming alive – and one glimpse of those streetlamps rocked the foundations of my world.

Their glow was amber.

Not blue.

All Scion citadels had blue streetlamps, supposedly to calm the population. Unless this was a city in Spain or Portugal, which had only recently fallen to the anchor, then this was not Scion. Somehow, I was in the free world.

The realisation broke me from my stupor. I stumbled to another door, which led to a bathroom, and tapped a pad to turn the lights on, revealing my startled reflection in the mirror.

I had dyed my hair for the masquerade. It was still brown, though a touch darker than I remembered. A fresh bruise stained my left cheekbone. I tasted a powdery bitterness, as if I had eaten flour. My left wrist, always troublesome, was throbbing. When I looked at it, I saw pink stripes – marks that could only have been left by fingers.

I rushed to the door, turned the deadbolt, and jammed one of the chairs under the handle.

Impaired recollection, nausea, unusual taste. Someone had been giving me white aster – an ethereal drug that caused amnesia – to meddle with my sense of time. There was no other logical explanation for why I hadn’t a bull’s notion of where I was or how I had got here.

This had to be something to do with the Domino Programme, the espionage network I had been working for in Paris. They used white aster on agents who wanted to leave, to erase their memory of its existence – but Ducos had told me I was classified as an associate, that I could keep my memories. I trusted her enough to think she would have kept her word.

It had been twelve years since I was last in the free world. I scoured the room for clues, finding no hint as to my location. When I saw a white mug on the table, I picked it up and turned it, revealing a smeared crescent of lipstick on its rim, a rich cherry I recognised.

Eléonore Cordier wore it.

Cordier had been the medical officer for my sub-network, Mannequin. Last I had seen her, she had drained the excess fluid off my lung, to give me some relief from the pneumonia that had plagued me for weeks. After that, she had vanished, apparently detained by Scion.

I soon found other traces of her. A dress I had seen her wearing in Paris. A comb with black hair in its teeth. A bottle of perfume – a blend of cypress and wild geranium, the label written in French.

Why I was sharing a room with her, I wasn’t sure. But this might be my only chance to get away. I would have to go with my gut, and my gut was telling me to run.

In the bathroom, I forced myself to run the tap and splash my face with icy water. It shocked away the listless haze, even if it also left me shuddering. Next, I pulled open the wardrobe, finding three coats with a safe behind them. No luck with the master code that had sometimes worked in London, and trying to bounce it might draw attention.

There was a suitcase under the bed. I took out a cream jersey with a roll neck and yanked it over the shirt. A pair of dark twilled trousers were a perfect fit. So were the hiking boots in the wardrobe, and the woollen hat I placed over my hair. Finally, I swung on a fleece-lined jacket.

The fact that I had my own clothes was jarring. I seemed clean and fed, even if I had shed a little weight, but the bruises told a different story.

Supplies were my next concern. I took a canvas bag from the wardrobe, stuffed it with snacks and drinks from the minibar, and tightened the straps around my shoulders. No sign of a phone. Not that I would have been able to call anyone – all of my human allies used burners, and the Ranthen had never warmed to human technology. I searched the coats in the wardrobe and found a single banknote and a lighter, both of which I pocketed.

There were no weapons. I would have to rely on my wits. They had saved me before.

Acting the part is half the trick, darling , Jaxon had advised me once. Behave as if you belong, and see who dares to question you.

Jaxon might be a soulless bastard, but I could still use his lessons. I slipped out of the room, into a dark corridor, and walked until I saw an elevator. As I strode towards it, a display above the doors lit up. No sooner had I swerved into another corridor than the elevator pinged open and three people – two amaurotics, one voyant – had marched from inside.

‘—room number did she say it was?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Good. We do this carefully.’ The voices sounded American. I flattened myself into a doorway. ‘Scott, you get the personal effects. Torres, are you certain you don’t need backup?’

‘Not if she’s sedated.’

‘What if she isn’t?’

‘Guess we’ll find out.’

Their footsteps were quiet. As soon as they were out of earshot, I ran to the elevator. Steeling my nerves, I hit the key for the ground floor and waited, sweat prickling under my shirt.

The elevator glided down. As soon as the doors opened, I knew I had made my first mistake of the evening.

A woman stood behind an illuminated desk. Twelve other people were stationed in the foyer, mostly built like houses. As I froze, the nearest saw me, his expression stiffening. I pounded the key for the highest floor.

‘Ms Mahoney,’ the stranger barked, running at me. ‘Wait a moment—’ The doors closed just in time, muffling the next command: ‘Take the stairs! Do not let her leave!’

What in the Scion Republic of Fuck is happening?

I was not going anywhere with a group of armed strangers. When the elevator stopped, I rushed past an elderly woman and went for the nearest window, only for it to stick on a safety latch. Gritting my teeth, I detached a fire extinguisher from its bracket and punched it through the glass.

By the time my pursuers caught up, I was inching along a ledge, clinging to whatever fingerholds I could find. My hands were already starting to hurt, but if I could just get to the roof …

A click stopped me dead. I locked eyes with the man from the foyer, now aiming a pistol at me from the window. He had olive skin and black hair, slicked back from his well-boned face.

‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Stay where you are.’ He reached into his jacket. ‘Are you Paige Eva Mahoney?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Steve Mun. Atlantic Intelligence Bureau.’ He showed me a badge that probably meant something to someone, somewhere. ‘I have orders to get you to safety, out of reach of Inquisitor Weaver.’

‘I’m out of his reach now. And it might help me feel a touch safer if you lowered your gun, Steve.’

People on the street were staring up at us, keeping away from the broken glass. A woman held a silver phone up. Mun glanced at the

crowd, his jaw clenching.

‘All right.’ He holstered the pistol. ‘Take my hand, and we can talk.’

He held it out, showing a starched white cuff.

I did not believe for one moment that Steve Mun wanted a polite conversation. Craning my neck, I looked down the street, searching for a way out. I couldn’t use my gift on him without losing control of my body, and the fall would break a few bones from this height.

The rumble of an engine drew my eye. I allowed myself a grim smile.

‘If you think there’s a safe place for me,’ I said to Mun, ‘you really don’t know who I am.’

The amnesia had not stolen my training. As Mun made a grab for me, I launched myself back and landed on the lorry, the impact shuddering up through my knees to rattle my hips. The driver braked, but by the time he got out, I was on the ground and sprinting in the other direction, away from the three black cars outside the hotel.

I ran through the bustling streets of a city I had never seen, taunted by its amber streetlamps. Still no obvious clue where I was. I cleared some tramlines and skirted the edge of a shopping centre. Entering it might help me lose my pursuers, but there might be security cameras or guards. I kept going.

On the other side of the building, I found a row of bus stops, where people were stepping on to a coach. This was my chance. Holding my nerve, I slowed down and joined the back of the group.

‘Hello,’ I said to the driver, a grizzled amaurotic. ‘Are there any seats available?’

He eyed me. ‘You have a ticket?’

‘No. Could I buy one?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ll … ride the whole way, if I could.’ I offered the creased banknote. ‘Is this enough?’

‘No change.’

I nodded, and he took the only money I had. As the doors hissed shut and the coach pulled away from the curb, I sat at the back and glanced through the rear window, seeing one of the black cars speed past, none the wiser that their target had just slipped the net.

As the coach left the city, I scarfed down a chocolate bar from the hotel and managed a few swallows of water, keeping my hood up and my face turned away from the other passengers. It occurred to me that I should have looked harder at the banknote, which might have told me where I was. Now I had no money, and still no sense of where in the world I had woken up.

For the second time, I checked the golden cord. Even knowing Arcturus had betrayed me, it was disconcerting not to feel it answer to my touch.

I must have nodded off. Next thing I knew, the driver was clearing his throat above me, startling me awake.

‘End of the line.’

With a nod, I sat up. It was unlike me to fall asleep in such a fraught situation. ‘Thank you.’

I drew my bag on to my shoulder and stepped off the coach. At first glance, this seemed to be a smaller city than the last, though certainly a city, from the number of dreamscapes.

That escape had been lucky. From here on out, I had to be more careful, but it would be hard. I knew how to orient myself in Scion. I could work out where to go and who was probably safe to approach. In the free world, I was clueless. Worse still, I had no allies.

This felt like the longest day of my life, and I could only have been awake for a grand total of an hour.

The night was mild, almost warm. I passed some kind of bar, where people laughed and drank and ate beneath outdoor umbrellas. Across the street, a lone voyant sat on a bench, studying a phone. I paused, then kept walking.

Until I knew more about voyants in the free world, it might be wise to approach an amaurotic, someone unable to sense what I was. For all I knew, voyants here would hand me over to the authorities as quickly as anyone else. This man might not even know he was a binder. Had he ever learned why his skin itched? Had he asked his doctor time and time again, to no avail?

At least I had the tool I needed to perform an emergency invocation. I found a doorway, out of sight, where I sparked the lighter, creating a numen. The nearest spirits perked up.

‘I call the itinerant dead of this place,’ I whispered. A ghost detached itself from a house and drifted to me. ‘I need to reach my friends. Can you take me to anyone who can help?’

The ghost rang with agreement. It must have spoken English while it had been embodied. I shadowed it to a row of pastel buildings in a square, lined up like cakes with fondant icing. Intricate white art decorated two of their facades, giving a false impression of chalk, until you saw the shadow and realised it was plaster. My guide slid through the door of a green building, and I followed.

Inside, people sat at round tables, working or talking over drinks, some with paperwork and books in front of them, or laptops illuminating their faces. Behind the bar, a lean amaurotic was concentrating on making a drink, dark curls falling over his forehead.

‘Dobry wieczór,’ he said, without looking up.

The ghost circled him twice. I gave it a nod of acknowledgement, and it disappeared through the wall.

‘Hi,’ I said to the bartender. ‘Would you happen to speak any English or French?’

‘English, yes.’ He turned to face me, setting the glass on a wooden tray. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me where I am. I think I got on the wrong bus.’

‘It happens,’ he said mildly. ‘This is Legnica.’

‘Right.’ I was none the wiser. ‘And where is that?’

He glanced at me over brow-line spectacles, taking in my bag and hiking boots. ‘You are very lost,’ he remarked. ‘Legnica is west of Wroc?aw. Is that where you took the bus?’

‘Yes,’ I said, with all the unwarranted confidence in the world. At this point, I decided to sacrifice all subtlety: ‘This is going to sound ridiculous, but what country are we in, please?’

‘Are you joking?’

‘Humour me.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Poland,’ he said, clearly expecting a punchline. ‘In … Europe.’

All I could do, for a moment, was stare at him.

‘Poland,’ I repeated.

‘Yes.’ He drummed his fingers. ‘From your expression, this is not where you are meant to be.’

For the life of me, I could not understand this. My knowledge of the free world was threadbare, stitched together from old maps and forbidden conversations, but I was certain Poland was nowhere near France. I could be hundreds of miles away from anyone I knew.

‘One more question, if you’ll indulge me,’ I said to the bartender, who gave me a slow nod. ‘Do you know anyone who tells fortunes, claims they can talk to spirits, that sort of thing?’

‘Are you okay?’

I laughed. ‘Absolutely fine.’

He eyed me, and I waited. There must have been a reason the ghost led me to him.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Kazik, my boyfriend.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘But how do I know this is not a trick, and you are not a criminal, trying to rob the handsome bartender?’

‘You don’t think a criminal would have at least attempted to come up with a convincing story?’

‘A good point.’ He checked his watch. ‘We are closing in half an hour. Can you wait?’

‘If you could find me somewhere inconspicuous to sit.’

‘Why, are you being chased?’

‘Yes, actually.’

That got a chuckle out of him. ‘And you say you are not a criminal.’ (If only he knew.) ‘Okay, sit around the corner, and I will bring you a drink. On the house,’ he added, before I could turn out my pockets. ‘You look like you need it.’

‘I’m Tobiasz,’ the bartender said, as we walked through the dark streets of Legnica. ‘And you?’

‘Cora,’ I said. ‘Thank you for helping me, Tobiasz.’

I wasn’t sure why I gave that name. It had been a long time since I had last thought of my mother.

‘Well, I had no other tourists to rescue tonight.’ Tobiasz tucked his hands into his pockets. ‘You are backpacking in Europe?’

‘Yes.’ It made for a good cover story. ‘I got separated from my friends.’

‘And where are you from?’

I tried to think of a safe answer. ‘Iceland.’ It was only one letter off. ‘The capital of Iceland.’

‘Reykjavík.’ He looked impressed. ‘I was never in Iceland.’

‘Oh, it’s great. Significant amounts of … ice.’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘Are you from Legnica?’

‘No, I am just coming south for university in Wroc?aw. I live here with Kazik in the summer. Which is where I am taking you now.’

‘What do you study?’

‘Art. I want to be a sculptor, like my grandmother,’ Tobiasz said. ‘Are you studying back in Iceland?’

I was almost lost for words. It was surreal to have a conversation this ordinary, without a single mention of Scion. It made me wonder what kind of life I would have led, had I remained outside it.

‘I skipped university,’ I eventually said. ‘I’m in the demolition business.’

Demolition of sensible plans, old palaces and tyrannical regimes.

As I kept pace, I checked the ?ther. The suits might have worked out where I had gone, from security footage. Tobiasz had been kind to help a complete stranger, but he was under the impression that I was a lost backpacker, not a fugitive from Scion. The last thing I wanted was to get anyone else caught up in the long trail of destruction my life had become.

We turned into an alley, where he unlocked a door. ‘If you’re going to rob me, this is your chance,’ Tobiasz pointed out.

‘Note that I’ve let it pass.’

He secured the gate behind us and tapped an intercom. When the door opened, he led me up a flight of stairs.

The apartment was neat, with a wooden floor and ivory walls. A whisperer in his early twenties sat at a breakfast bar, a laptop open in front of him, nodding along to soft music.

‘Kazik.’ Tobiasz grasped his shoulder. ‘This is Cora. She thinks you can help her with something.’

‘Okay.’ Kazik kept looking at the screen. ‘And is this why we are speaking English?’

I lowered my hood. When Kazik glanced up from his laptop, he went very still.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I said. ‘I just need some information, and I’ll be on my way.’ As Kazik closed the laptop and breathed out, I stepped closer, scrutinising him. ‘You’re clairvoyant.’

‘As you would call it,’ he said. ‘But we never thought you would visit us here, Underqueen.’

Now it was my turn to tense. Tobiasz looked between us.

‘You know Cora?’

‘We have not met.’ Kazik glanced at him, a muscle flinching in his cheek. ‘Underqueen, where did you come from?’

‘Wroc?aw, I think,’ I said. ‘I woke up in a hotel, but I really have no idea why I’m here.’

‘That makes all of us.’

‘You didn’t say this before,’ Tobiasz said, frowning. ‘You were in a hotel and don’t remember why?’ Shaking his head, he took a phone from his pocket. ‘I do not like this. Someone could have been hurting you, like trafficking. I think we should call to the police, to—’

‘No police,’ Kazik and I shouted in unison.

‘Okay, but please, someone tell me what’s going on.’

‘Cora, as you call her, is Paige Mahoney,’ Kazik said. ‘You remember I told you about her, Tobiasz. The one who is organising a resistance to Scion in London.’

Tobiasz knitted his brows. ‘You mean the woman they’re looking for,’ he said. ‘The fugitive?’

‘I’m sorry I lied,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know who I could trust with my real name.’

‘You are … like Kazik, then,’ Tobiasz said, a question in his tone. After a moment, I nodded, wondering how much Kazik had told him about clairvoyance. ‘Then you are welcome.’

‘Thank you. I need to contact the syndicates of London and Paris,’ I said to Kazik. ‘Are clairvoyants organised here?’

Kazik shook his head. ‘Not so much in Legnica, but a number of jasnowidze – clairvoyants – were asked to keep watch for you in this region. There is also a reward for your capture and return to Scion.’

‘Who told you to look out for me?’

‘I think it is better that you don’t know. I will send a message in the morning. You can stay here until then.’

‘I appreciate that, but there are other people trying to find me. I don’t want to put either of you in danger.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. They sounded American.’

‘How can you not know who is following you, or how you got to Legnica?’ Kazik said, exasperated. ‘Do you even know how long you were gone?’ Then he landed the blow: ‘Six months, Underqueen. You disappeared for half a year.’