Malachai Grimstead.
He is bending over a table, observing the glittering insides of a corpse. An audience is seated around him. Blood rises up to his elbows. “The human body contains wonders to behold,” his voice echoes, although I do not see his lips move. “As doctors, we are blessed with the gifts of life and death. In our hands hangs the balance.”
My head spins.
Now I am elsewhere.
I see a man, sitting behind a large wooden desk stacked with books and papers. The brass plaque in front of him reads Dr. Levy. Daylight streams in through the tall windows and glints off a ring on his finger—?a six-pointed star. His brow is furrowed.
He is facing another man, who is impeccably dressed. Everything about him is clean and orderly, down to his trimmed fingernails.
“I am sorry, Malachai,” the man behind the desk says. “Your . . . experiments have begun to attract attention.” He rubs his pale hands together in what seems to be a nervous gesture. “I’m afraid we will have to discontinue your education here.”
Malachai fumes. He stands up quickly, scattering papers from the desk. “You call yourself a scientist?” he bellows. “Your mind cannot comprehend the realms in which I delve. My deeds will go down in history!”
The vision passes, like water being sopped up by a sponge. Red splotches burn behind my eyelids.
I feel disconnected from myself, as if I have no physical body here, just my thoughts, floating . . .
A flash of bright light, and I am back in the room with the rats. Blood drops splatter the floor. The shiny beakers from before are smashed. A foul odor burns my nostrils. A boy sits backed into a corner, wearing only his smallclothes. His skinny knees are drawn up to his chest.
I stiffen.
I know that face. It is the boy from the alley! The Rosy Boy. I hear his voice in my head: Help, he whispered. Please, help me.
From the edge of my vision, Malachai enters the scene, a squirming rodent gripped firmly in one hand. In the other, a thin syringe gleams, a drop of liquid balanced at its tip. In one quick motion he plunges it into the rat’s thick skin. It squirms, trying to break free, but Malachai holds it tightly. After what seems like forever, he drops the syringe on the floor.
Now he approaches the boy, who winces and draws back. Quicker than a striking cobra, Malachai lashes out with his free hand and grabs the boy’s left arm.
“This won’t hurt,” he says in a flat, dead voice. “Just a pinch.”
The boy screams as the rat sinks its teeth into his arm.
“Shush,” Malachai whispers in feigned sincerity as the rat scampers away. “Quiet now.” He cocks his head. “Do you like to sing?”
“I want to go home,” the boy sobs. “I want me mum.”
“I want me mum,” Malachai cruelly mimics, and then leans in close. “I have a song for you.”
I shudder, for I know what is coming.
“Ring around the rosy,” Malachai sings quietly. “A pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!”
The monster called Malachai raises his head. “I have given you a rosy gift,” he taunts. “Run along now, and spread it to your family and those who come to visit.”
I awake, gasping, and stare into the darkness.
Rats. The disease is being spread by rats.
And then I hear it again, the dreadful refrain that has tormented me to no end.
Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
M
Darkness looms in front of me. The faerie stone has dimmed. I sit with my back against the tunnel wall, my knees drawn up to my chest.
Rats.
Malachai is using rats to spread the rosy sickness.
I have to stop him. But how?
Only now do I notice faint light a short distance away, near the tracks. Five candles are planted in the earth. They form a circle, and the flames sputter and hiss in the stuffy air.
Someone has been here.
“Emily?” I call, my voice hoarse. “Gabriel?”
I stand up and step away from the tunnel wall, slowly approaching the mysterious circle of candles. The smoke is thin, but it burns my eyes and scratches my throat.
“Jess,” I hear a weak voice call.
“Emily!” I shout, looking left and right.
And then I see them.
There—?farther along the tunnel wall, on the opposite side—?two figures are slumped. I race to the spot and kneel to cradle Emily’s head in my hands. She is pale and feverish, sweating. Her light is back but pulsing slowly, and her lips are dry and cracked. “Water,” she croaks. “I need something . . . to drink.”
“We don’t have any water, Em,” I tell her. “I promise I will get you out of here.” And I certainly hope I can.
Next to her, Gabriel is sitting against the wall too, his head lolling on his neck. A long red gash is scored across his face, and his harp lies broken beside him. “Gabriel,” I start. “Are you hurt?”
His eyes open and close slowly. I no longer have my satchel and can’t even give him an acacia leaf.
“Someone is here,” he whispers. It seems as if all the strength has left his body. “We saw him.”