Scarlett Burnish, a traitor to the anchor.
Golden light flared into the office. In a movement so fast I almost missed it, Burnish had the letter-opener from Weaver’s desk in her hand. It whistled past my head and punched through the Vigile’s visor, splintering red plastic. The handle jutted grotesquely from his forehead. Blood wept down the bridge of his nose. He teetered before his dead weight thumped to the floor.
In the clock tower, the bells struck one. The ?ther heaved with the reverberations of another death.
‘Quickly, Mahoney,’ Burnish said. ‘Follow me.’
More dreamscapes were already closing in. Something made me look up at the surveillance cameras. Deactivated. Burnish pressed the back of the bust behind her, that of Inquisitor Mayfield, opening a gap in the wall. ‘Hurry,’ she said, and chivvied me into the space beyond it. She had barely closed the wall behind us before more Vigiles thundered into the Inquisitorial Office. Her hand clamped over my mouth.
We waited. Muffled orders could be heard through the wall for some time before their footsteps retreated.
Burnish uncovered my lips. A crack split the silence, and her face was illuminated by a tube of light, making her red hair shine like paint against her skin. Wordlessly, I followed her through a long, unlit passage, just wide enough for us to move in single file.
She hurried me down a winding flight of steps. At the bottom, she held her light towards my face.
‘Who do you work for?’ I rasped. ‘The Ranthen? Which – which government, which organisation?’
‘Good grief, Mahoney, the state of you . . .’ She ignored my question, taking in the streams of blood, the glistening crystals lodged in my arms. ‘All right, stay calm. I can give you medical attention. Where’s Alsafi?’
‘Nashira.’ I couldn’t control my breathing. ‘I told him to leave me, I told him . . .’
‘No.’ She started back up the stairs, then seemed to think better of it. Her fist struck the wall, and her face contorted in frustration. ‘That son-of-a-bitch—’ The rest of her thought was lost as she seized me by the shoulders. ‘Did he mention me? Did he implicate me?’
Her grip was like iron. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No. He didn’t even tell me.’
‘Did she capture him, or destroy him?’
‘He’s gone.’
Her eyes closed briefly. ‘Damn it.’ One long breath, and she was back to business. ‘We have to be quick.’ She whipped off her silk scarf and used it to staunch the flow of blood from my arm, careful not to push the shard in any farther. ‘Weaver’s bloody whiskers, you’re freezing,’ she bit out, but pulled my other arm around her neck. ‘You had better be worth all this, Underqueen.’
A few hours ago, I wouldn’t have followed Scion’s sweetheart anywhere, but if Alsafi had trusted her, I would have to do the same. It was her or whatever brutal death awaited me in the basement.
We set off into a concrete passageway, me leaning on her as little as I could, but my strength was leaving me. ‘Stay awake, Mahoney,’ she said. ‘Stay awake.’ As we walked, she took what I thought was a handkerchief from her pocket. As she stretched the thing over her face, it moulded to her features, recasting them into those of a woman twice her age. She tapped two drops from a bottle into her eyes and hid her hair inside a woollen beret. I couldn’t process this. She was clearly a spy, but who had planted her, and when?
After what felt like years of staggering, Burnish stopped and entered a code into a keypad, and a pair of doors opened. We stepped into a coffin-like elevator that stank of mould and made an anguished death-rattle as it trundled to the surface. When we reached what it told us was street level, Burnish went to a wooden door and unlocked it.
We emerged into thick snow in a dead end just off Whitehall. I wouldn’t have given the door a second glance if I’d passed it.
I was out of the Archon.
I had made it out alive.
A lorry was parked just outside the cul-de-sac. Burnish opened its back door and helped me climb inside. I registered hands taking hold of my elbows just before I passed out.
‘. . . was right. She was alive, all that time. I just can’t . . .’
The floor shivered beneath me. There was pain at the top of my arm, but it was nothing compared to the sick, steady throb above my left eye.
‘Nick,’ the voice whispered. ‘Nick, I think she’s waking up.’
A hand brushed my cheek. As if he were swimming up through deep water, Nick Nyg?rd came into focus.
My senses were still drowsy; it took me a moment to realise, to see him. A cut vaulted above his eye, and his face was greased with sweat, but he was alive. I reached out to touch him, to convince myself that he was real.
‘Nick.’
‘Shh, s?tnos. We’ve got you.’
He pressed me gently against him, resting his chin on the top of my head. The awareness of everything that had happened hit me like a punch to the gut. I tried to speak, but a gate had given way. All I could do was weep. Hardly any sound came out; just broken, straining rasps, punctured with frail sobs. With each shock, my ribs ached and my head pounded and the water beat my lungs apart again. I could feel Nick shaking. Maria rubbed my back, shushing me, speaking to me like you would to a child: ‘It’s going to be okay, sweet. It’s going to be okay.’ I cried until I could no longer feel the pain.
My eyelids lifted again. Now I was on a threadbare blanket, and I couldn’t see a thing. My ears felt stuffed with cotton wool, but I could just hear the low hum of nervous conversation.
My arms and legs were a collage of dressings. Someone must have removed the glass. I drifted off again, riding the last wave of whatever sedative I had been given, which soon broke. When my eyes flickered open, I felt more clear-headed, but at the cost of the anaesthesia. Most of the left side of my body was smarting.
Arcturus Mesarthim sat beside me, like a sentry.
‘You are a fool, Paige Mahoney.’ His voice was darkest velvet. ‘A headstrong fool.’
‘Aren’t you used to it by now?’
‘You exceeded my expectations.’
I sighed. ‘I exceeded Vance’s, too, I think.’
He had made questionable choices of his own. It was he who had said that war required risk, and I had chosen to risk my own life.
‘Sorry for pointing a gun at you,’ I rasped.
‘Hm.’
He glanced down at me, his eyes burning softly. With effort, I moved my arm and laced my fingers between his knuckles. His thumb lightly caressed my cheekbone, skirting around the cuts and bruises. In the darkness of the Archon, I had thought I would never see his face, feel his hands on me again. And I hadn’t truly realised, until now, that I treasured being touched by him.
‘What did they do to you?’
His voice was a low rumble. I shook my head.
‘I don’t think I can—’ I breathed in. ‘I’m all right.’