The Mime Order (The Bone Season, #2)

by Samantha Shannon

“You want to tell a story about the Rephaim?” His voice was muffled. “Like it’s not real?”

And the difference between a pamphlet and a penny dreadful is that pamphlets claim to tell the truth. Penny dreadfuls don’t. We can’t just shout about the Rephs in the street,” I said. “A penny dreadful will turn them into an urban legend.”

why wasn’t she there?” “Because she knew she’d be judged for it, no matter how much that lecherous, drunken bastard deserved it.” All eyes turned to Ivy, who’d choked out the words as if they were barbs in her throat. “He gave Cutmouth that scar, you know. Got blind drunk one night and did it with one of his knives. She hated his guts.”

It might be nothing. Maybe Cutmouth and Ivy had been friends who’d stayed close enough to share their secrets and that was the end of it. It was clear she had some idea of where Cutmouth was, but she had no reason whatsoever to trust me with the information.

There had been a few large gangs with voyant members, like the Forty Elephants, but it was a “mirror-reader” named Tom Merritt who had stepped up and taken charge of it all in the early 1960s. Interesting that the first Underlord had been a soothsayer, the lowest of Jaxon’s orders.

The Scrimmage is based on the medieval art of mêlée. Mime-Lords, Mime-Queens, and their Mollishers fight in close Combat in a “Rose Ring,” an enduring symbol of the Plague of Unnaturalness. Each of the Combatants fights for his- or herself, but a Mollisher may work with his or her Mime-Lord or Mime-Queen at any time during the battle. The last Candidate standing is declared Victor and is presented with the ceremonial Crown.

Each participant in the scrimmage chooses three flowers to send to Grub Street with their application. They still use the language of flowers as a tribute to the first Underlord’s mollisher, who was, legend has it, a talented anthomancer.”

Two dreamscapes—armored, Rephaite dreamscapes—converged on me.

By daylight, Terebell Sheratan looked almost drained. Deepest brown hair lay on her broad shoulders, and a long, elegant nose swept down from between slightly upturned eyes. Both her lips were spare, making her look disapproving. As with any Rephaite, it was impossible to tell how old or young she was.

Beautiful wasn’t the right word for her, nor for the male at her side. He was as tall as Warden, lean as a knife, with a hairless head and a complexion like argent satin. His wide-spaced eyes were the dim chartreuse of a Rephaite who had gone without feeding for a while.

“We have our ways of staying hidden. Even from dreamwalkers.”

Myself and ten of my cousins are aligned with the Ranthen.” “That is the true name of the ‘scarred ones,’” Terebell said. “I don’t believe I ever formally introduced myself, dreamwalker. I am Terebellum, once Warden of the Sheratan, sovereign-elect of the Ranthen.”

“Nashira is determined to reclaim you. She is in the Archon even now, urging the Grand Inquisitor to increase the intensity of the hunt.” “She knows I live in I-4.” I took a seat. “Why hasn’t she found me yet? The section isn’t that big.” “As I said, you were difficult to locate.

“Thousands?” I stared at them. There had only been about thirty Rephaim in the penal colony. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Once it was clear that we would never reach them in that stronghold, Arcturus made for London to warn you of her hunt. He is an upholder of our dying movement,” she said. “He must be found.”

“You do not seem to understand our culture.” Errai dealt me a withering look. “Any intimacy between Rephaim and humans is forbidden.” “The cord,” Terebell said, “is undesirable, and a complication. Without it, however, it will take a long time for Errai and me to track him down. Perhaps too long. But you can, Paige Mahoney. You know where he is.”

If Warden had been taken by opportunist traffickers—which was possible, if he’d been dressed well and traveling alone—then they might well already be plotting to nab themselves a few more Rephaim.

Then again, Warden wasn’t exactly an easy target. He was nearly seven feet tall and muscled to match; he would have been difficult to catch and restrain. His captors must have gone prepared, which meant they’d been watching him.

When Warden took you away. I was distraught, and he was with me for a long time, and—” He coughed. “Well, it just came out.” His right hand was shaking. I covered it with mine. “And?” The corners of his mouth turned up, just a little. “He said he felt the same.”

I unraveled it to find a note, written in a familiar hand. Until next time, Paige Mahoney. One of the vials was brimful with a lambent, yellow-green liquid. Ectoplasm, the blood of Rephaim. When the other vial caught the light, kindling its coy glow, I knew exactly what it was. Relief welled up inside me, so pure and strong I laughed out loud.

tipped the precious vial of amaranth on to the poltergeist’s mark. Warmth flowered underneath the stone-cold skin. The twisted wound cracked open, like old paint. As I circled my finger over it, it washed away, leaving my skin smooth as buttermilk. And just like that, Jaxon could no longer blacken my name before the Unnatural Assembly.

As I got to the windowsill, I looked again at the ectoplasm. Warden wasn’t the type to spell out his intentions, but he wouldn’t have planted such a thing in my backpack without purpose. I pushed the stopper from the second vial and knocked it back.

At once, everything sharpened. The vial slipped from my fingers and bounced off the carpet. It had the opposite effect to alcohol on my sixth sense, jolting it into hyperactivity.

As a dream-form, I cut my way through the overgrown poppy anemones, searching for any clue, any difference. Dusk had fallen in my mind. The flowers tangled around my knees, brilliantly red beneath the night sky. Each petal was edged with chartreuse light, as if my mind was bioluminescent.

Golden light was streaming from the center of my mind and blazing a path into the æther, well beyond the range of my spirit. His blood had made him visible.

beacon in the æther, beckoning me to a familiar district. Warden was in Camden.

“What’s the story about?” “It’s . . . well, it’s sort of our story. About a Bone Season and all the humans escaping and the Rephaim coming to hunt them, but a few of them helping us, too.” His dark eyes peeked up at me. “We made Liss the main character. As a tribute. Do you think that’s okay?”

“It’s called the Interchange. Nobody’s been allowed in there since I’ve been in II-4.” “Why?” “I’m not sure, but Agatha’s gutterlings think it’s the Rag Dolls’ den. There’s a door to get into it, but they always have a guard. Nobody goes in the Interchange except them.

And as I held the image in my mind’s eye, I felt him again—and this time, it was more than a sting at my senses. The lantern of his dreamscape flared to life, as if he’d woken from a deep sleep. The image I received in return was dark at the edges, like a frame from a silent film. A cell with bars. A chain. A guard with an orange aura.

Why would the mime-lord of II-4 be holding a Rephaite in his compound? He had to have known what he was doing, or he would never have been able to capture one.

“Warden.” He didn’t answer. Fear came snaking around my chest, pushing against anger. Someone—multiple people, by the looks of it—had beaten the shit out of him. His aura was a candle in a draft, flickering and weak.

A bangle of scarlet poppy anemones hung on his left wrist, the sort of thing I’d often twisted together with daisies as a child. The whole of his arm was peppered with necrotic tissue, shot through the smooth dark gold of his skin.

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you,” he choked. “He’s only here once in a blue moon. We take orders from his mollisher.”

It seemed incredible that a tiny red bloom, as light as a feather, could do so much damage to a Rephaite’s anatomy. They were muscular, statuesque creatures, impossible to take down with physical force, yet the key to their downfall could fit in my palm.

“They came for me during the day, when I was resting. They blindfolded and bound me with the flower, then transported me here in a large vehicle.” My heart rate was climbing. The Rag Dolls shouldn’t know a thing about the Rephaim, let alone how to capture them.

“Nick,” I said, “there’s a link between the syndicate and the Rephaim. There has to be, or they wouldn’t have known how to capture Warden. I have to find out how much more they know.

The fact that syndicate members knew about the Rephaim was disturbing. One of the survivors of the first Bone Season rebellion could well have returned to London and concealed himself deep in the catacombs of Camden, where nobody could get to him.

Arcturus Mesarthim belonged to the halls of Magdalen, to red curtains and firelight talks and music from a century ago. To think of him walking the streets of London was almost impossible.

“Do not think that the masquerade ends here, Paige. We have merely exchanged one style of dance for another. It is not only the Sargas that fear any prolonged contact between Rephaim and humans.”

“What does being a flesh-traitor entail?” “It is to be denied access to the Netherworld for all eternity. To be non-Rephaite. A blood-traitor betrays the ruling family, but the flesh-traitor betrays all Rephaim. To earn these punishments, I committed one of the very highest flesh-crimes. I consorted with a human.”

“Nashira is pressuring the Grand Inquisitor to pour all his resources into finding the fugitives. She already has two survivors of the escape in the interrogation rooms.”

“Decapitation is the favored execution style of the Sargas dynasty in the corporeal world. It signifies the removal of the dreamscape. It is quite possible that a Rephaite did it. Or a human in the thrall of the Sargas.”

“SciSORS.” Shallow breaths passed his lips. “I can’t work for them for another day, Paige. I can’t.”

“They got one of the Bone Season prisoners. Ella Parsons. They called my entire department to watch when they brought her in.” My skin prickled. “Watch what? Nick, what?” “Watch them test Fluxion 18.”

“Nick,” I said, “did Ella recognize you?” He hung his head. “She reached out to me before she passed out. They asked if I knew her. I said I’d never seen her before. We were sent back to our labs, but I left early.” Sweat seeped from his hairline. “They must have guessed. I’ll be arrested next time I set foot in that place.”

“There’s more. They’re not just going to target public transport when they introduce Senshield. They’re going for essential services, too. Doctors’ offices, hospitals, homeless shelters, banks. All of them will be equipped with the scanners.”

“Go,” Warden said, very softly. “I left you often enough in the penal colony, with no words of explanation. Manipulate your mime-lord, Paige, as he has spent his life manipulating others. Use him to your advantage.” “I can’t out-Jaxon him. He’s the master of manipulation.”

My freedom—the freedom I’d fought for, that people had died for—seemed like just as much of a charade in the Seven Seals as in Scion. I was nothing but a dog on Jaxon Hall’s leash.

“What’s he going to eat? Aura à gogo? Dreamwalker au gratin? Shall I get him the menu and serve him a busker?” “Funny.” “It’s not funny, Paige. That one in the city gave me my first experience of being fast food.”

Voyants didn’t hold funeral services—it wasn’t in our culture to grieve over an empty corpse—but it might have helped. Given me a chance to say sorry and goodbye.