were sending werehounds after him, too.
A hand clutched at him and then another. He turned and kicked one person in the shins with his good foot, and they went down together in a tangle of limbs because his bitten foot couldn’t support his weight anymore. He crawled free, punching and scratching, trying to save his little dagger as a last resort. When he’d crawled up to another landing, he loaded his dart pipe with trembling hands and blew two darts into the closest white-eyed Tinkers. At least they’d only be asleep for a little while, rather than permanently hurt.
The darts bought him some time, but not enough. The first of the werehounds was soon upon him, grabbing him by the back of the coat and shaking him away from the door. He twisted, drawing the little knife. He stabbed as he could, the werehound dancing and leaping and trying to drag him down the stairs. The last blow slid between the ribs, puncturing a lung.
The werehound loosened its grip, slumping against the rail, wheezing and whistling. It gazed up at him with a look so human that Syrus felt queasy. He watched as it shimmered and slowly shifted into the form of his cousin Raine, the one who had proudly declared she would use his earnings as her dowry. Now, she clutched her side, desperately trying to draw air into her collapsed lung.
He stared. The Refiners had taken his people and turned them into dogs. And he had killed his cousin.
He reached for her, but she gestured him away. “Go,” she breathed. He could barely hear her over the howls of her kin, the throbbing of the boilers far below. She nodded toward the door.
He went, closing it just as more jaws sought the hem of his coat. He looked desperately for something to wedge the door shut, and found a bit of rusting railing to wedge through the door handle. But with enough time and strength, they’d surely break through.
A small widow’s walk circled the smokestack that belched glowing smog above him. Syrus’s eyes and nose streamed; the burning bone smell seared like acid now. He couldn’t stay up here much longer, but as he looked over the edge, he had absolutely no idea how he would get down.
He crouched against the smokestack, out of sight of the door. The white-eyed Tinkers banged against it; the werehounds howled for his blood.
Syrus put his head in his hands. He wanted to cry. His foot throbbed with pain; his lungs hurt from trying to breathe the acrid air. But more than that, his heart hurt that his world was even crueler than Granny Reed had once said. Everyone with any sense knew that this world belonged to the Elementals and their kind. Humans were just visitors in this land. But now, all indications were that the New Londoners were much worse than he’d ever dreamed. They were not only destroying Elementals to power their infernal machines, but turning his people into monsters. How much further would they go? All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t stop them by himself. And yet, something had to be done.
His people would soon have that door open, and then what?
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the seeping tears. He went to the railing and looked down over the edge of the dome. The ground was lost in pre-dawn mist.
He could just make out the rusting rungs of what looked like a ladder built into the side of the dome, but he would have to free-climb for several hundred yards before he made it. He could probably do it on any average day. But with a bum foot and werehounds possibly waiting for him below . . .
He withdrew the stone from his pocket. Couldn’t hurt to give it a try.
Light shivered next to him and spat out a handsome man in a dressing gown, who stared at him disapprovingly and said, “Athena’s Girdle, boy! Could you pick a less decent hour to summon a chap?”
Syrus stared. This was the same Architect who had been with the witch outside Rackham’s, the one the witch had called Hal.
The Architect looked around. “I doubt there’s any less decent place, either. How did you . . . ?”
He saw Syrus’s injury and heard the banging at the door simultaneously. He made a sound of disgust.
“Never mind. Come here and take hold of my sleeve,” he said.
Syrus hesitated. It occurred to him that he could be jumping from the kettle into the fire, as
“Oh, dash it all, boy!” the Architect said. “I am not leading you to certain doom! Take hold of my sleeve or stay here and suffer your fate. I’m under house arrest. If my valet finds I’m gone, there’ll be more than a pack of angry Refiners waiting, I promise you.”
Syrus took hold of the Architect’s sleeve just as the Tinkers burst through the door. Their white eyes dissolved into the green haze of the New London dawn.
CHAPTER 15
I’ve never been particularly enraptured with girlish things. Give me a sylphid net, a capture box, and a sketchbook and I’m the closest to Scientific Paradise one can rationally get. Now I feel guilty for my enjoyment of those things, with Piskel riding comfortably in my pocket by day and sleeping in a little nest I’ve made for him in my wardrobe by night. I had to coax him out from under the werehound’s skull with the mere promise of jam cake after Hal was escorted away. It wasn’t easy.
Hal. I have no idea what’s become of him. I tried to ask Father, but he very quickly set aside my queries. “Pedant Lumin was dismissed,” he said, not looking me in the eye, when I asked one evening. “He will soon be replaced, have no fear. You should turn your mind to other matters. You have much to learn before taking up your place in the Virulen household.” And with a snap of his newspaper, he’d ended the discussion. There has been no letter, no magic whisper, nothing since. Even when I ask Piskel about Hal, the sylphid only shakes his head and sighs.
So, I was actually relieved when Mistress Virulen’s request came for me to join her at the Night Emporium this afternoon. We’re to begin shopping for our Carnival gowns and she has promised to take me to high tea at The Menagerie, an exclusive Uptown ladies’ club, afterward.
Aunt Minta won’t allow me to take the trolley to the Emporium unaccompanied. “Let’s hire a carriage instead. There’s been trouble at the Lowtown Refinery and more predicted throughout the City,” she says, as she pulls on her kid gloves. “They suspect the Architects are involved.”
I try not to show any emotion at the mention of them. I have left Piskel behind in his wardrobe nest today, as his presence might be too dangerous for both of us. He must not be seen. He would be mounted for a Museum display and I would be sent to the decontamination asylum for certain if the sylphid were to be found on my person.
We wait in the foyer until the carriage is announced and then step out into another gray New London afternoon. The air is sharp with the promise of an autumn storm; green-edged gusts skirl down the cobbled street, catching our skirts and tangling them about our legs. I hold my new bonnet tight against my head as we hurry to the carriage; the driving wight blinks at us as we nearly trip over him in our haste to get inside.
“The Night Emporium,” Aunt Minta calls through the speaking tube, and we’re off, rocking down through the blustery streets.
We don’t speak much until we’re almost at my destination, and then Aunt Minta puts her hand over mine. “Now, my dear,” she says, “remember what we’ve been working toward. Discretion and decorum—these will be of utmost value to your new mistress.”
I nod. We’ve been through so many things over the last few days that I can scarcely remember more than pacing up and down in the parlor balancing a book on my head while Aunt Minta corrected every flaw in my posture with an old cane. “Shoulders back, bosom
And the blushing, the hideous blushing, as my corsets were laced tighter, my gowns cut lower, a bustle added to make sure “back there” was as well-proportioned as “up front.” I have never thought of any of it before and now it seems it’s all I can think of, because I can’t bear to think about anything else.
Aunt Minta squeezes my hand, bringing me out of my gloom. The carriage has stopped at the entrance to the Night Emporium. Aunt Minta peeps out the door. “Ah, there they are.” She points out the guards near the gate. A
