Ilsa looked over her shoulder. A man sneered and spat on the ground as he veered out of the girl’s path.
“And Oracles can see your future?” Ilsa said, mining her knowledge of the occult.
“Theoretically, they can see anything that can be observed, regardless of time or space.”
Ilsa wasn’t sure what that meant. She only knew they had tried to kill her. “Ain’t they dangerous?”
“Immeasurably. But whether they pose any threat is another matter. I assure you the weakest, most wretched beings you meet here will be Oracles. They have little loyalty, little capacity. The only thing they’re good for is keeping the wrong people in power by falling to their knees for their precious opiates.”
“What ’bout them four what attacked Martha and me?”
“Acolytes. The militia of the Docklands.”
What did a militia force of Oracles want with her? And why had the very ruler of Camden thought to rescue her? Ilsa wondered if she’d missed a step – if the whisky had dulled her mind too much – but the questions kept coming to her.
“And what kind of soldier are you, captain?”
“A different kind,” he said. “My faction is the North, but I belong to the highest bidder.”
That was three types of soldier in one town. Ilsa sped up to get in his line of sight. “You know, this ain’t looking to me like a better place than the one you took me from.”
Captain Fowler sighed. His expression darkened and he said quietly, “Granted, London is not what it was meant to be. Not yet. But I told you the truth.”
“You told me your opinion.”
“An opinion then,” he said. “It is my opinion that we can not only live in accord but better one another. It’s why we were put here together in the Witherward.”
“In your opinion,” added Ilsa. He shot her a look. “And on the condition you can stop attacking each other.”
“We need only decide we want to,” said the captain.
Ilsa looked back over her shoulder, but the Oracle girl had vanished around the bend.
“These acolytes. Why’d they want to kill me?”
The captain studied her meaningfully. With his hood lowered and the sunlight on him, Ilsa saw he was younger than she’d thought. “Revenge,” he said solemnly. “They were provoked.”
With that, he picked up speed again until Ilsa was trotting to keep up.
6
Ilsa never had the money to spare for transport. She loved to fly, though it was a strain, but a girl could miss a lot of hidden magic when she was up in the air, so Ilsa was used to traversing the city on foot.
But that was on a normal day. By the time they had been walking for an hour, the steadying effect of the scotch had burned off. She wasn’t sure if she could really smell blood, or if seeing the floor of the fish market painted with it was irreparably burned onto her conscious mind. She was weak from tensing every muscle in her body. The day was hot, but she was dressed for a winter’s night, and the heat made her feel like she couldn’t breathe.
There was so much she wanted to ask, but every step took more energy than the last, and by the time they reached a grand white house set in the northeast corner of the park, she was swaying like the Oracle girl they had passed. Ilsa thought the place was different in the London she’d grown up in, but she was too disorientated to be sure.
Captain Fowler made his presence known at the gate while Ilsa slumped against the fencepost and closed her eyes. She was vaguely aware of words exchanged; of accusations by the captain as to why a carriage wasn’t sent.
“If we had known you would traumatise her before you even reached the portal, we would have. Couldn’t you have hailed one?”
“I would never trust a hackney driver in the current circumstances, especially with a wanted girl under my protection. My fee?”
A heavy thump struck the ground too close. A shape blocked the sun that filtered through her eyelids. A huff of warm, wet air shocked her upright, and when she opened her eyes, it was into the maw of a humungous beast with black lips, ragged grey fur, and fangs as long as her fingers.
A scream Ilsa didn’t have the strength to utter built in her throat. This was it. She had let her guard down but for a moment and this world was going to end her.
“For pity’s sake, give her space,” said a female voice, and the beast obeyed. It was a wolf, Ilsa realised, as it moved away and its whole face came into vision. Nearly as tall as her at the shoulder and with unnatural eyes for a canine – blue-green and too intelligent – but a wolf. Probably one of the militia. Still, her heart hammered on. Real wolf or sentient human, those jaws could have snapped her neck if their owner chose. Ilsa tried her best to hold herself upright as the shock rushed out of her as quickly as it had come, but she must have failed, as the next thing she knew, a girl with cold hands was pulling her to her feet and guiding her towards the house.
“Martha…”
“My name is Cassia.”
She craned over the girl’s shoulder. There were wolves everywhere; giant ones, most with scars and stories of violence etched into their fur, and all with their prying human eyes on her. And beyond them, on the other side of the closing gate, was Captain Fowler. He raised his hood, bowed curtly, and strode away.
* * *
She awoke slowly, and with a clear mind.
Nothing
