The Unnaturalists

A strange expression crosses Hal’s face. “I was also sent to investigate . . .” He pauses and shakes his head. “It’s delicate. All I will say is that I suspect your father’s assistant may be other than he seems. Have a care around him.”

I nod. I’ve always been careful of The Wad. I don’t really see how I could do more.

“What I didn’t expect to find is that your father is also involved in some kind of dangerous experiment, something involving the Waste. I never expected to find that he is trying to procure the Heart of All Matter from the Manticore as part of his experiment. Why would he need something so powerful? Surely, the Waste will overwhelm the City, if he attempts to use it as our theories suggest. I didn’t expect to find Nyx’s daughter a witch into the bargain, a witch it appears he will try to use for his own ends.”

“But it can’t be true, can it? My own father . . .”

Memory threatens to crush me utterly. All our tea times in his office, long walks by Chimera Park, Father’s approving smile whenever I showed him a particularly good sketch or mount, that day long ago when the sylphids crowded around me and he had them destroyed . . . I stare down at my shoelaces, noting absently that one is untied again before everything dissolves in runnels of silver and darkness.

“Vespa,” Hal says in that same low tone he used to keep me from looking at the Sphinx. I look into his eyes. His sad smile nearly takes my breath.

“I will teach you all I can. You will learn to protect yourself with your magic. No one will harm you.”

I can’t say anything. I find myself absorbed in the curve of Hal’s mouth, the edge of his cheek, the blue ocean of his eyes so very close to me. I don’t think about it. I lean forward and kiss him, just like we used to do in Seminary when we practiced on the backs of our own hands.

But this is so different from kissing one’s own hand.

For a moment, his lips yield to mine. The magic between us—for that’s what it must be—stings with gentle heat. Our thoughts merge, like that day in the laboratory, only more softly. We are together in a golden field with the sun pouring down all around us. I have never been so warm, so awash in light. Sylphids dance through the air in a sparkling cloud around us, playing in our hair, whispering their sibilant love charms. Other Elementals come to the edge of the light; I see their shapes before I’m entirely blinded. I sigh his name against his lips in wonder.

He breaks the kiss almost roughly, standing back and adjusting his robes with trembling hands. The darkness of the moldy storage room eats holes through the golden world until it’s gone. Piskel drifts near, shaking a finger at us. Then he sees what’s between us, and his little face darkens in confusion.

“Hal?”

Hal shakes his head, almost like a dog coming out from under a waterfall. “We mustn’t. I mustn’t. I don’t want—” He stops.

“What?” I feel cold outside his embrace, though my lips still burn with his kiss. I cross my arms over my chest. “You don’t want what? To dally with a witch?”

He glowers. “It’s not that. You know it’s not. It’s just . . . It’s not safe. . . .”

We hear the footsteps simultaneously. Piskel dives between jars, dousing his light under a werehound skull.

I am not sure what to do. In perhaps the most useless gesture of all time, I gather some dusty charts into my arms, trying to pretend that I’m fetching them as the Pedant’s assistant.

Two black-coated gentlemen enter. They are very well-dressed. Both of them wear a Wyvern brooch pinned on their cravats. They certainly carry themselves as if they hail from Uptown. They dip their heads and sweep their tricorns from their white wigs almost in unison.

“If you will come with us, sir,” one of them says.

Hal’s gaze moves from me to the two gentlemen as if he’s contemplating some insane magical feat.

Then his shoulders slump. He walks toward the gentlemen like a condemned man, letting them take his arms.

“Hal?” I whisper. “What—”

They usher him past me with sidelong glances of scorn. Hal looks back at me over his shoulder. “Be safe. Be wise. Be vigilant.”

And in my mind, I hear a whisper, I will come to you when I can.

He turns and allows them to escort him from the door without another glance. I hear their feet on the steps as the charts slide from my arms onto the floor.

CHAPTER 14

Syrus hadn’t bothered looking up at the ghastly, shrieking things tethered to the roofs. He put his hands over his ears and ran as fast as he could, their cries following his progress until they died away at the gates of Midtown. A regiment of sentry wights tried to seal off the Midtown gate and called mechanically after him as he ducked through them. One persistent wight chased him all the way across the Night Emporium Bridge and almost to the Dials before it was reined in by its own warding field and returned to its proper post. Human sentries picked up where they left off, chasing him through Lowtown.

In the end, Syrus lost them only by cutting through the maze of alleys that led to the Lowtown Refinery. Just before dawn, he found himself alone, staring up at the glowing smokestacks, the scent of burned bone filling his aching lungs.

Stupid witch, he thought, gulping at the foul air. Why couldn’t she see reason? He’d never get into Midtown again after that episode. And how was he to get her to understand if he couldn’t speak to her again? What did the Manticore need her for, anyway? He realized that he didn’t even know. He was just acting on orders, unsure of whether anything he hoped would come to pass as a result.

He clutched at the iron-spiked fence to hold himself up. The nevered bars stung and he pulled away. Somehow, when he did so, the bar slid off its base, leaving a gap in the fence wide enough for him to slip through. He stared. Someone had obviously been filing away at the fence in secret, trying to escape. The gap was wide enough that he might be able to slip his family through it if he could just get them out. But was the fence armed with banshee alarms like the houses in Midtown?

He looked around. No one was about. He slid his hand through the gap in the bars. No werehounds came, no alarms sounded. All he heard was the steady chugging of machinery deep within the Refinery.

He was through the fence almost before he’d decided what to do. The nevered bars stung his skin until he stood completely within the fence’s perimeter. If the witch wouldn’t help and if the Manticore couldn’t help without her, then maybe it was time to help himself.

He had heard horrendous things about the Refineries and how the Refiners kept their secrets to themselves. Werehound guards were one thing, but the illusion mines were another. It was said that if you stepped on one, a beautiful illusion sprang up all around you that held you in thrall until guards came or the mine itself blew. And in the green-glowing darkness, one edge of tile could just as well be a trip plate as another. He’d had three cousins who’d tried to break into this Refinery on a lark once. (No one ever tried to break into the Imperial Refinery near the Tower. That would have been suicide). Only one of them had come back to tell the tale, and he hadn’t made it inside before the werehounds chased him off. He was the only reason Syrus knew about the mines, but also the reason why no one had tried breaking into this Refinery again.

Still. Syrus had come through the fence. He wasn’t going to allow something to catch him while he stood here like a complete ninnyhammer, as Nainai used to say.

There was a long, paved courtyard, and then what looked like another fence. He swallowed a raw burning in his throat. Surely if someone had managed to file this fence down, they’d done so on the inner fence too?

He knelt and picked up some gravel at the edge of the tiled courtyard, enough to help him get across to the other fence, he hoped.

He skidded the stone across the tiles. Nothing. He followed the pebble’s path as best he could, wishing that he had the witch’s unused powers so he could float above the ground. He gritted his teeth against the thought that he wouldn’t be in this mess if she’d only see reason. He forced himself to concentrate on following the pebble instead.

Syrus was very nearly across, his muscles clenching, his mouth cotton-dry, when the stone he threw