The garden entrance door is open to admit air. I can just make it, if I hurry.
But the guards are quickly surrounding me and I’m too unsteady on my feet. In my frustration, I kick off my shoes, heedless of the ribbons of glass slicing through my stockings and skin. I run, hearing the Manticore’s last words.
I see Father’s face in his hands. Bayne’s round eyes and open mouth.
I’ll never make it in time.
A terrified turtledove that the bridal couple were to release on the terrace tears free of its perch and rises toward the dome.
Barely knowing what I do, I gather myself to follow it. Mid-stride, I’m borne aloft. My fingers turn to feathers. The Heart sinks under my skin as my dress sloughs away. I flex my talons and cry out. My voice is fire and my words are no longer human. I rise on unsteady wings, following the dove through the shattered oriel window, the Manticore’s Heart ticking frantically under my skin in time with my own.
Far away in New London’s everlit night, I can just make out the shadow of a mighty Beast curled alongside the river, its head crowned by the Empress’s ridiculous Tower. There is a hole where its heart should be, right under the Museum.
That is where I must be, where I belong.
And then the night has wings and red eyes of its own. Mighty talons grip me with such force I’m sure my wings have snapped. Pain bleeds to absolute darkness.
CHAPTER 26
Syrus was half-woken by something tickling at his nose. He swatted at it and settled back into his quilt, grumbling about pesky flies. Then whatever it was bit his nose. Hard.
He sat straight up and hit his head on a root. He yelped, rubbing at his head and glaring at Piskel, who buzzed and hopped about the old fox’s den like a manic firefly.
“What?” Syrus growled.
Then he noticed that it was morning and that he was, once again, naked.
He had to find a way to get Bayne to make sure he transformed with his clothes
Bayne! Confused memories piled in upon him. He’d led the sentry wights and Guard on a merry chase getting out of the City a few days ago, but he’d finally made it to the river. The swim had been unpleasant and nearly drowned him, but he’d made it under the wall. After that, he remembered only flashes—the forest, howling at the moon, racing through a line of hobs mourning at the Manticore’s den . . .
Piskel jumped up and down so much it made Syrus’s eyes hurt trying to follow him.
“Wait. Slow down, please,” Syrus said.
The sylph came to rest on Syrus’s palm. “Now, slowly. What happened?”
Piskel pantomimed what had happened. The Manticore had died. Vespa had been taken by the Raven Guard and imprisoned with the other Elementals in the Refinery. It had been very painful to slip out through the nevered bars and nullwards, but Piskel had managed. He didn’t know when Vespa would be taken to the Waste, if that was what was meant to happen.
Syrus put his head between his knees. He had sincerely hoped and believed that if anyone could save Vespa, it would be Bayne. He’d tried to get back to her before the wedding, but had obviously failed. Now it looked as though the wedding had already taken place and Vespa had been captured. What had happened to Bayne after the wedding? Had he been captured too? Syrus certainly hadn’t expected that it would all fall to him to save the witch. They’d made no plans for this kind of emergency. Bayne had said that if they were all caught, Syrus should go as far away as he could.
Piskel tugged at his arm, urging him to get up, but Syrus shook him off. Thankfully, Piskel refrained from biting him again.
“What am I supposed to do?” he said, head in his hands. He felt very sorry for himself. Small and alone and forever forced to shift his shape at every turn of the full moon until one day he would never change back. How could he possibly do anything?
Piskel trumpeted. It sounded like he was telling Syrus to get help.
“From who? Everyone who could help is imprisoned!” Syrus said.
Piskel puffed out his chest and drew his shoulders up. He marched tall and proud around the burrow, looking at Syrus with brooding eyes.
Syrus shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”
Piskel pointed off in the direction of Virulen. He grabbed Syrus’s collar and tried to pull him bodily from the den. Then he took up his pantomime of the brooding person again. He took two roles, pretending first to be a simpering girl and then the brooding man again, looking at her.
“What? Do you mean Bayne?”
Piskel nodded so enthusiastically it looked like his head might wobble off. He tugged at Syrus again.
Finally, Syrus gave in and crawled from the den.
It was as though a great fire had swept through the Forest while he slept. Though there was no smell of smoke, little bits of ash—no, black sand—drifted here and there. The trees, already leafless, now seemed to lack substance, as if whatever held them firmly knitted together had fled. Pounding and pattering and squealing filled the air as a wave of animals surged up over the rise. Syrus watched in horror as white stags and does fled through the floating dust, as squirrels and skunks and chipmunks, greenmen and hobs and sylphs flitted alongside them. They spared not a glance for him and Piskel but thundered off to the east.
Silence stretched under the failing trees until a sizzling noise drew his gaze westward. Sharp light rode a wave of darkness through the once-dense forest. Distant trees collapsed into dust and realization dawned.
The Manticore was truly gone.
And now the Waste was devouring the Forest. He didn’t know if it could leap the River, but it would devour the remaining clans in Tinkerville. He had to warn them. . . .
He started off in that direction, but Piskel frantically dragged and pushed at him, trying to force him east toward Virulen like the other animals. Soon, the Waste would sweep this part of the Forest and him with it.
Cursing in frustration, he shifted into werehound form and ran toward Virulen as fast as his paws would carry him.
Syrus was afraid that getting into Virulen would be nearly impossible, but he needn’t have worried. Animals and Elementals were trying to flee the onslaught of the Waste as quickly as possible, and in typical fashion the Lords were taking advantage. As Syrus neared the pasture, thinking to slip in under the garden boxwoods or at the kitchen midden, he heard guns firing. He shifted back into human form, clenching his fists and wishing that he had the magical power of the Architects so he could smite them for their stupidity. He retrieved his dart pipe and knife from where he had stashed them on the lip of an old cistern near the back gate before slipping through it.
Bayne stood a little off to the side. He leaned on his musket watching the others with a look of deep displeasure on his face. Syrus watched him dispatch his servant for something. Alone, Bayne half-turned toward the manor as if he’d rather be indoors than witness this hunting charade.
Syrus threw pebbles from the hedge to get Bayne’s attention.
“My lord,” he called.
He tried not to cringe when he found the barrel of the musket pointed at his chest.
Bayne lowered the musket, but raised a brow. “Where have you been?” He drew Syrus out of the hedge, cloaking him in his hunting jacket.
Syrus coughed in embarrassment. “Bayne . . . the Waste . . .”
Another musket fired and a stag went down in the field.
“Vespa’s been captured,” Syrus said. Piskel floated around them.
That got his attention.
