“Who do you think makes the orders foolproof to begin with?” He pushes my chin away. “That awful bastard spoils all my fun.”

  I feel him whirl away, then we’re on the move again, and I breathe. I let myself be silenced because, fuck, this isn’t school. This isn’t Jay Garvey or a bunch of sexist arseholes at the bus stop.

  I try to catalogue the turns in my mind. Left turn, thirty steps, left turn. Staircase that bends back on itself after twenty stairs down, and another twenty stairs running in the opposite direction. Long straight corridor, eighty-eight steps, turn right. Ten steps, turn left, swinging door.

  There are no more steps. Not for me.

  I’m lifted and bundled into something that shifts beneath my weight, something with wheels. There’s padding around the inside of it, but its criss-crossed wire frame still digs into me. The trolley bounces when I’m pushed over a threshold. A hollow groan follows a hydraulic whine.

  I’m going down.

  My stomach lurches, and the air closes in on me. For a sick moment, I think I’ve been left to suffocate, but there are other breaths in here besides mine. Breaths behind masks, breaths that hiss to my left and wheeze to my right. Will I see his grace here? The other duke.

  When the lift judders to a stop, its metal echo howls up the shaft. A shutter slams aside, and the trolley is yanked from the lift. I roll forward a little at the movement, and the wire bottom digs into my thigh.

  I struggle again when I’m pulled from the trolley, because now there are eight pairs of hands, and six was excessive. Too many hands; too many voices.

  They lay me on a cold table in a colder room, my wrists still bound beneath the weight of my body. All those hands get to work, strapping down my ankles, thighs, shoulders, and waist with leather pulled tight and buckles with teeth.

  I can’t move. Panic tries to rise, but there’s nowhere for it to go. I’m too full already. Of rage and regret, helplessness and homesickness. Of exhaustion and fear and the last scraps of my willpower. It all burns in my chest like a dying sun, a reckless danger to everything—to me, to Albert, and to whatever else gets in its way.

  My heartbeat pounds in my head, and the pulse in my throat counts the beats between one voice and another.

  “Ya been told why you’re here?” It’s a new voice—American with southern Rs.

  I think about not answering, because my breathing is too fast, and I’ll sound scared, and they’ll know. But something burns my arm—something small and round like a laser.

  “I haven’t been told anything,” I gasp.

  The table starts to tip, the straps pinching my skin as my weight redistributes itself. The leather bites hard into my ankles, gnawing at the dampener. I’m almost upright, barely reclined when the tilting stops. A long, relieved hiss slides out of me.

  “Lucifer’s daughter,” the man says.

  “I’m not Lucifer’s daughter.”

  Laughter shakes the air around me, tingeing it bitter. There are still too many of them.

  The American speaks again. “We know you’re not Lucifer’s daughter. You’re the bastard spawn of Elijah’s bastard son, and you’ve tethered yourself to the fortunes of Michael’s son, where you cling like a tick to a longhorn.”

  I bite my lip. Don’t they know I’m related to Michael? Frankly, his assessment is rich; don’t all these wankers cling to the Bishop like parasites? At least nobody in my house is an unhinged religious creep.

  “We’re not supposed to talk to her about the serp⁠—”

  “Don’t forget yourself,” the American says.

  The cut-off voice is familiar, but sounds different. “You’re the one talking out of bounds.”

  “We got her right here,” the American says. “Why shouldn’t we take advantage o’ that? We’d be fools not to.”

  “Are you gonna tell his lordship he’s a fool, Belhessen?”

  “He told me himself he wants answers about the other girl, and this little bitch lives in the same house.”

  What the hell do they want with Kite?

  The sound of a mic drop hits the top left corner of the room, and a voice drips into it, somehow both soft and clipped. “Remember what we’re here for, Belhessen.”

  “Yes, General,” the American says.

  I try to remember the name of the general Daniel asked Cain Metzger about, but I can’t. Something to do with Messing, the vaewolf Daniel rescued Sean from. But Messing is dead. And that’s when I remember where I heard the cut-off voice.

  The blindfold is tugged off me, and I cry out when it rips my hair from my scalp. I blink through the sting of tears as yellow robes dance around in my black-spotted vision. The faces are from many places, but the sneers are universal. Most of their hoods are down now, their robes an irredeemable mustard like Albert’s saggy old hoodie. No red sleeves.

  The room is intensely white with sharp corners. I blink against the bright sting, hoping the tears coating my abused eyeballs will kill the black spots. I can barely turn my head because there’s a cushioned rest on either side of my face, but my gaze darts left to where the American’s voice last came from. There are two men there. One is blonde and bearded with a dark blue robe instead of a yellow one—Belhessen, the American.

  The other is pale-faced and familiar with a malicious grin. “Remember me, little one?”

  “Flenk,” I spit, like the removal of the blindfold has unlocked my tongue. “Yeah, I remember how you showed up in the wrong garden, then cried like a child when you hit our defences.”

  His palm hits my face awkwardly because of the headrest, but it still stings, so I bite the inside of my lip to suppress a cry.

  “No marks.” Belhessen drags Flenk’s hand away from my burning cheek. “We ain’t s’posed to leave no marks.”

  Laughter hums through the speaker in the corner. There’s a camera next to it.

  Scarth—that’s his name—General Scarth.

  “Nobody has told me what I’m here for,” I tell Belhessen, feeling braver now I know they can’t leave marks on me. Brave for stupid reasons that make no sense. Maybe it’s not bravery at all, but sheer recklessness that propels my mouth. “If you’ve got orders to discuss something with me, can you just get on with it. I’ve been here ten minutes already, and all you’ve done is bicker with this—god, what was it my brother called him? Oh, yeah, a spoon. I’m bored out of my mind in this fuckscape you call a palace.”

  The burning laser hits my arm again, and I grit my teeth and try to find the source of it. There’s nothing obvious. No James Bond style lasers hanging from the ceiling. But there’s a man with his hood still up—a man I barely noticed hovering behind the rest of the group—and he’s shuffling forward now, his face buried in the dark. He’s the only one with a black robe, the only one wearing gloves. He straightens when he realises I’m watching him, fists clenched at his sides. Two fingers of his glove hang empty. Two missing fingers.

  “What d’ya know about the elimination of Cain Metzger?” Belhessen asks.

  “The butcher?”

  Belhessen laughs. “You’re familiar with his work, huh?”

  “I’m familiar with the sound his nose makes when it’s punched, and what his skull sounds like when it crashes into a tr⁠—”

  A strong hand grips my face, crushing my jaw until there’s no room inside my mouth for air, until it’s filled entirely with my tongue. “D’ya know how many o’ these men have lost their tongues for less than the disrespect you’re displaying right now, girl? It’s a simple procedure. Anyone can do it. O’ course, it helps to know what you’re doing. We wouldn’t want ya choking on your own blood now, would we?”

  Belhessen’s grip tightens until my tongue pokes out, and he stares at it, snarling with bared teeth. Too many teeth. I should’ve known there’d be vaewolves here. My nostrils flare and flatten while I struggle to breathe. Then the hand is gone.

  “What d’ya know about the elimination of Cain Metzger?” he tries again.

  “Nothing. I haven’t seen him since…”

  “Since?”

  “January.” My throat is so dry it hurts to swallow. “On the tube. He went after my sister, and… I didn’t see what happened. The lights went out, and Metzger passed out. Someone carved MURDERER into his forehead.”

  Belhessen looks at the camera in the corner. “Raguel?”

  An icy burn races through my seizing veins, making me shiver. Raguel is one of Michael’s brothers—an archangel. Is he the one who protected the duke’s sea fort? Is he in that room watching us? How many generals does the Bishop have?

  “Yes,” the general in the speaker says. “Raguel is the only one who sentences the old-fashioned way.”

  “Angels and their holier-than-thou meddling,” Flenk mutters.

  I sigh with relief that it’s not Raguel betraying his brothers in the room at the end of the camera feed. And really? Holier than thou?

  “You got something to say?” Flenk asks.

  I try to shake my head, but the cushion stops it moving. “No.”

  “And really, holier than thou?” Flenk mimics.

  Fuck, I said it out loud. “Well, archangels are supposed to be holier than thou. That’s kind of the point.”

  The general chuckles in the corner, but Flenk’s not over it.

  “They have no right to judge us. We shouldn’t be subject to their laws.”

  “Whose laws, then?” I ask, mouth still making words without my permission. “Who do you answer to when you kidnap people and get your creepy faceless friends to burn holes in their skin?”

  “We’ve got our own laws.”

  “They’re not laws, are they? I mean, kidnapping is illegal in England.”

  Laughter rises around me, and I wonder if it’s true what Belhessen said about their tongues. Then I see the scars on their throats, stretching from ear to ear.

  “Who says we’re in England?” Flenk shoots back.

  I suppress a gasp. “Pretty sure kidnapping is illegal in every country. And I was in England when I was kidnapped, so…”

  “Like I said, we’ve got our own laws.”

  “That explains why the angels intervene, then,” I say. “They don’t do that with decent people, you know.”

  Flenk’s jaw tightens. “The angels know nothing of righteousness.”

  “Enough,” the general calls from the corner.

  Belhessen addresses the general. “Raguel mighta sentenced him, but the manner o’ death…” He shakes his head. “That ain’t the work of angels. I suspect⁠—”

  “Your nephew?” the general suggests. “Or another of Ruskin’s men? Which suggests?”

  “Traffickin’,” Belhessen says. “Metzger was, what? Supplyin’? Storin’?” He shrugs at the camera. “Why would he do it?”

  “Why, indeed?” the general murmurs.

  Belhessen sighs. “Should I get the girl back to her room, General?”

  I hold my breath.

  “No. Prepare her for me.”

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I bite my lip and stay silent. My eyes itch, but I don’t cry. I try not to think about what he means, because whatever it is, I will get through it.

  I just might have to walk through fire first; I can do that.

  Belhessen doesn’t look at me when he slides the sweaty headrest upwards, or when he flicks his hand at the door and all the yellow men file out. He doesn’t even look at me when he lifts my head to hook elastic around the back of it. He pulls goggles down over my eyes, and I see nothing after that—nothing but whiteness, intense and glowing. I close my itchy eyes, ignoring the puddles forming, but the whiteness eats at my eyelids. Headphones are settled over my ears, muffling the room.

  I feel Belhessen leave, and I wait.

  4

  The General

  I count the passing seconds, hating the silence until something worse comes along. Sound, barely noticeable at first, whispers into my ears, then storms like the gallop of the sea, hidden in the depths of a seashell. Then more sounds, gaining in frequency and pitch. Wind screaming. Metallic thrumming. Electronic whining.

  I count through the noise.

  I try to ignore the extreme whiteness inside the frosty goggles, but I’ve lived through this dark-light before. And because I’ve lived through it before, I know what’s coming. Shadows, benign at first, pass in front of my closed eyelids, but when I open my eyes, the shadows grow long, malevolent faces with rough features and bottomless, hollow eyes, and the sounds in my ears shrill and peak like formless profanities falling from gaping mouths.

  Still, I count my way through the fire.

  My body aches from forced stillness. I wriggle, trying to correct the unnatural arch of my spine and ease the throbbing numbness where the leather clamps my skin. Trying to swallow saliva that doesn’t exist. To shut out the iciness in here because it’s multiplied since the men left, taking their heat with them.

  The air shifts, and I know there’s someone in front of me. I jump when his large hands circle my arms just above the elbow. They’re softer than I expect when he squeezes me gently, dragging them up my arms, thumbs trailing up my t-shirt to my shoulders.

  The headphones come off suddenly, and I gasp. The sounds continue, caught in a loop inside my brain, making his voice harder to hear.

  “It will take a minute or two to clear,” the general says, his voice soft and refined, like he’s old and noble.

  I know better than to let the sound of him mislead me, yet here I am taking comfort in his gentle manners when his touch is just as unwanted as the rough hands I endured earlier. Based on the amount of airspace he takes up in front of me and the size of his hands—which drop away from my body when he steps back a little—I imagine he’s tall. I wonder how far up I’d have to look to see his eyes. They’d be blue and icy, and he’d have dark hair, long and wavy, unless he’s a vaewolf—didn’t Albert say vaewolves were descended from Norsemen? Are they all blonde? Doesn’t matter. He’d be an impressive, imposing man like Magnus or Boxer.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  My throat feels eviscerated.

  “Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I feel his body shift, hear his footsteps and the mundane slam of a cupboard door, then the hiss of the tap and the abrupt cut-off of the valve. He tips the glass carefully against my lips. The water is warm, but it soothes my throat, and I’m cold enough already. I guzzle it down, clamping the glass with my jaw, so it tips more.

  The general laughs and removes the glass when water dribbles down the sides of my mouth. “You won’t be drowning yourself on my watch.”

  I stay silent.

  “You weren’t so quiet before.”

  “Y-you haven’t asked me anything.”

  His fingers press into the burns on my arm—not gentle now—and I wince. My shirt sleeve tightens, then I feel the material give, hear it rip. Then the prodding fingers are back.

  The general makes a kuh-kuh sound, something like tutting. “Abe will be punished for this. No marks. That is the rule. No marks.”

  I bite my lip hard when an intense sting pulses through the inside of my thigh. But it doesn’t ease up because something’s wriggling there—hard and cold and parasitic—like a metal leech with tickling, articulated legs. I moan as it stretches my skin, squelching up my leg, skimming my hipbone. A fist of nausea flexes in my stomach, forcing bile up my throat.

  I swallow it. “Feel sick.”

  The general makes the kuh-kuh sound again but doesn’t speak. I feel his hands sweep through the air, like they’re controlling the direction of the parasite, and I let it comfort me, because he doesn’t want to leave marks. If he’s controlling it, it can’t burrow into my organs, or drink my blood, or lay eggs.

  Way to control the nausea, Violet.

  I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, whimpering into my closed mouth, and just about have the nausea under control when the creature slithers up my spine. I hear the wet tunnelling, the squelch of moving flesh, the snap as the thing clears each vertebra, the screech of my bones as they’re sanded raw.

  I struggle for breath, but I still clamp my lips together to stop myself puking. Every time I swallow bile, I breathe hard through my mouth a couple of times, then clamp it shut again, trying to drag air in through my nostrils. But I scream when a needle the size of a pencil bursts through my skin from the inside. I feel the parasite slither out and creep up my neck into my hair, nestling there while blood trickles slowly down my back. I hum to keep the nausea down, counting slow groups of five like Magnus taught me.

  “It’s a new toy,” the general says dispassionately. “How did it feel?”

  “Gross,” I say, not wanting to open my mouth for longer than necessary.

  He plucks the creature from my hair, and I hear its little legs whirring. “I have tested it on myself, of course, but my pain threshold is high. Gross is not terribly descriptive. Try harder.”

  My whole body is shaking, teeth chattering, eyes stinging against the tears building behind the white goggles. I’m trying not to panic, but I feel that spiralling sense of helplessness coming for me, and I let out a sob.

  “Just try,” the general says.

  “I-I could hear it burrowing under my skin, sort of tickling me on the inside with its f-feet, but it felt hard and metallic, like a ball bearing.” I clear my throat and swallow, relieved the sick wave pulsing in my stomach is losing momentum. “It felt like my skin was stretching, like it was too tight, like it would tear, and everything inside would spill out. It was like my bones were being rubbed with sandpaper, like my bones were moving.”

  “Better.” He grips my chin, his thumb finding the dip beneath my bottom lip. “Do you still feel nauseated.”

  Do I? “No.”

  He presses my lip hard against my teeth, and I hum at the pain of it until my mouth bursts open. Then his thumb is on my tongue, holding it down. I gag, and spit pools in my mouth. I swallow it, my mouth closing momentarily around his thumb as I suppress the urge to bite. I do not want him chopping my tongue off. I swallow again, so I don’t dribble all over him. He abruptly pulls his thumb away, leaving salt behind, and I wish I could spit it out.

 

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