The Unnaturalists Read online

  The mysterious strongbox is open. The gentle breeze from where I’ve pushed the door open stirs grains of black sand. The Waste. The Tinker was right—the box was indeed filled with a sample of the Creeping Waste. Stares of irritation, horror, and fear turn on me through several pairs of nullgoggles.

  “Father.” My breath is a whisper, my gaze held by those gently stirring grains of sand. It’s as though we’re frozen in one of the Church’s instructive paintings, like The Chastening of Athena. I cannot help but wonder if someone will call our painting Curiosity Kills the Cat.

  If anyone survives to paint it.

  Will I feel myself turning into a pillar of salt as the Waste touches me? Or will it happen so fast I’ll feel nothing? One moment, flesh. The next, salt blowing across a desolate sea of black sand.

  It occurs to me, too, that I might just have destroyed New London because I opened a door hastily.

  “Vespa,” my Father says. His voice is muffled, but it’s so calm and toneless that I understand him perfectly. “Shut the door very carefully. I will find you later.”

  Everything I was about to say dies at the back of my throat. I nod. The grains are settling, and if I am as careful as he asks, they will stay in the box. Sweat glimmers on his brow.

  I close the door slowly, oh so slowly, and back away from the alcove as if even the sound of my boots could stir the Waste. My face scalds with embarrassment as I pass the desk clerk. But I put my nose in the air just as high as his and march past.

  I am full of questions, but the one that will not leave my mind is this: What is Father doing with the Waste?

  I climb the stairs slowly. I’m not looking forward to being in that room with Charles again or listening to his recriminations. Or having to apologize to Father later. I just want to be alone in my laboratory, dreaming over the Ceylon Codex again. Is that so much to ask?

  When I enter, I’m surprised. The Wad is nowhere to be seen, but Pedant Lumin is still there. I seem to have caught him in the middle of something. He swiftly puts a hand behind his back. Something shimmers at the edge of his arm.

  He edges toward the door, clearing his throat. “I sent Mr. Waddingly with the unit back to storage. It unfortunately isn’t working properly,” he says.

  I stand in front of the door. My heart’s fluttering in my chest, still thinking about what I almost did, but I force myself to speak. “Really? That’s the last working unit we had, as far as I know.”

  “I shall speak to your father about it.”

  I nod. Father doesn’t like this new Pedant. There was some grumbling over dinner the other night about being forced to make appointments to unsuitable candidates, and I’m guessing he was referring to Pedant Lumin. The Board must have appointed him without Father’s full support.

  I decide to focus on the issue at hand. “What happened to all the sylphids, then?” I ask.

  I look around the room. All I see is a pile of dust glimmering on the laboratory table, a pile I don’t recall seeing before. Is Pedant Simian’s entire collection gone? That, I’m quite certain, will be enough to banish me from the Museum forever.

  “All the sylphids?” Pedant Lumin asks. “I don’t know what you mean.” He’s still edging toward the door, but I’m between him and it.

  A sweet smell wafts to me over the scent of preservative spirits and moldering tomes. Like plums and confectioners’ sugar . . .

  There’s a soft plop on the floor behind Pedant Lumin. I step around him and see wadded paper wrapping and crumbs of jam cake. Something burrows inside the rubbish.

  “Is that . . . jam cake?” I ask. Jam cake is my favorite.

  A bright little head emerges. It’s a sylphid, cheeks engorged with cake. It tries to curse me, but only manages to spit crumbs.

  I draw back, but Pedant Lumin scoops up the mess and stuffs it in his pocket. The little head pokes up again, unrepentant.

  “Pedant Lumin,” I say, “why have you got a sylphid eating jam cake in your pocket? And where did the other sylphids that I’m to mount go?”

  “I don’t know,” he says almost sheepishly. “I found this one and coaxed him out of his hiding place behind a cabinet.”

  The little sylphid starts squeaking again, pointing and spewing crumbs.

  “Perhaps Charles found a way to dispose of them,” I say.

  “Perhaps.” Pedant Lumin’s hands move, shifting so that they look like they’re cradling a ball. One hand is still sticky with jam cake. I see a blue glow on the edges of his fingers, like what I thought I saw the other day during the episode with the Sphinx.

  I swallow hard and back toward the door. I don’t know what Pedant Lumin’s doing or why, but I think it best if I retreat. “Shame,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “I should have liked to study them. And Pedant Simian will be furious at the loss.” And I will most likely be dismissed.

  Our eyes meet. He’s looking at me in such a peculiar way, as if he expects something to happen. Nothing does, except that the little sylphid continues to glare at me from his pocket. He swallows and resumes his miniature tirade.

  Pedant Lumin’s eyes narrow. His hands drop, one of them covers the sylphid’s head and gently pushes him down into his pocket. He brushes his hands along his robes, leaving a trail of crumbs and jam.

  “His name is Piskel. I’ve made peace with him,” Pedant Lumin says.

  “Peace? With jam cake?” It’s an interesting concept, one that would certainly work for me, but the door handle is at my fingers now. I’ve only to slip out in one swift motion.

  Before I can, Pedant Lumin’s gloveless fingers slide along my temples. His grip is strong but gentle. I sense he could break me, but he holds me as if I’m fragile as an egg. His brilliant eyes bore deep into mine as he bends closer. I can’t look away, and for a strange moment I fear he might kiss me. Except I have no fear at all; in fact, I think I might like it. He smells of crushed roses and jam cake. I’m utterly terrified.

  “Who are you?” he asks. His voice is less sure than usual; there’s a tremor in it. Hope? Uncertainty? Fear?

  I might ask the same of you, I try to say. But I can’t. Blue light fills my peripheral vision, and an odd pulse of energy courses through me, holding me still and silent. It’s like that moment again of falling eternally forward through the paralytic field. Only this time, there is no screaming, no smiling Sphinx, only his steady breathing and his mind fluttering soft and golden through my own.

  I stiffen. If he doesn’t let go of me in approximately two seconds, I will kick him in his well-shaped shins. My cousin Manny taught me that trick long ago.

  “Unhand me, sir,” I say, with as much icy calm as I can manage.

  He does so, albeit reluctantly. My left temple is sticky with cake. I wipe it with my gloved hand, but I think I only succeed in smearing jam everywhere. I feel a terrible strangeness, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “How dare you treat me so?” I say. I’m suddenly furious, but I’m not sure if I’m more furious because he didn’t kiss me or because he seized me so rudely. I’ve never had thoughts like these before. Never. I don’t want to start having them now.

  He grins and, bowing, hands me a handkerchief from another of his robe pockets.

  “I had to be certain,” he says. “Forgive me.”

  “Certain of what?” I ask. I refrain from using the handkerchief to clean off the jam cake. Instead I draw myself up as tall as I can. My eyes are almost level with his.

  “Miss Nyx, I do believe you are a witch.”

  I stare at him. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say, but that certainly wasn’t it.

  “How do you know?”

  His lips twitch. “I think that will be obvious to you soon enough. I will keep your secret. I trust you will keep mine.” He bows again and leaves me standing there with jam and crumbs drying in my hair, his handkerchief clutched in my hand, my nose throbbing again where Piskel bit me.

  I look down at the handkerchief.
Embroidered in the corner are two A’s linked at the center in a cross-hatched diamond.

  The Architects of Athena.

  I stare at the closed door in shock. Pedant Lumin is an Architect. And he has revealed himself to me. Not only that, but he is also under the delusion that I’m a witch.

  At least one thing is certain.

  The world has gone mad. Absolutely and utterly mad.

  CHAPTER 6

  The need for the stone came sooner than Syrus could have imagined.

  Two nights after his encounter with the Architects, he settled gratefully into the nest of old quilts between uncles, aunts, and cousins. Granny Reed was at the rusting potbelly stove, feeding it carefully gathered wood and pony dung. As it often did when winter approached, the passenger car smelled of bodies that hadn’t been washed in a while. But Syrus didn’t mind so long as everyone was warm.

  The summoning stone was secure in an inner pocket of his jacket and he patted its hard circle one more time just to be sure it was there. In a family of pickpockets, he’d be an absolute idiot to keep the stone where it would be easy for one of his cousins to steal it. He hadn’t told anyone about his encounter for just that reason. He was hoping to be able to tell Granny when all the others weren’t around; he just hadn’t found a chance yet. Perhaps tomorrow.

  Evidently, Granny hadn’t told the story of the Manticore’s Heart last night because he heard her say, around her corncob pipe: “It was quite some time ago that a Tinker witch made a bargain with a Scientist from a City in the World Before. He asked her to steal something very powerful for him. And what he asked her to steal was none other than the Heart of Tianlong, the heavenly Dragon that rested on the banks of that river yonder. For it was said that the Heart of Tianlong was a well into the Universe, and if a man held that—well, then he held the power of the Universe in his hand. But only a powerful witch could remove the Heart.

  “So, she took the Heart and sold it to the Scientist who in turn used it to bring his City here. And one of the Scientist’s followers called himself Emperor, and his descendants still rule to this day.

  “At the time, the Emperor had only one daughter, a Princess named Athena. And Athena was as wise and just as her father wasn’t. She knew that magic is the lifeblood of this world, and she was determined to use her knowledge to keep magic alive.

  “In his dungeons, the Emperor experimented on Elementals, stealing the secrets of their magic when he could. He had discovered that when he used their magic in conjunction with Tianlong’s Heart that his mortal life could be extended. But not indefinitely. Occasionally, he needed to recharge the Heart, so to speak. That didn’t satisfy him, though. He wanted a direct way to absorb the Elementals’ power and live forever. And so he tortured and maimed and killed the Elementals in service of that desire.

  “The Princess came to understand the truth of her father’s evil, for she visited the dungeons and a Manticore, who was near death, told her what had happened. And that night, when the Tower was very quiet, the Princess snuck into her father’s secret cabinet, stole the Heart from where he kept it, and fitted it into the Manticore’s chest to help her live. She released the Manticore and freed magic back into the world where it belongs. She fled with the Manticore and a guard who had fallen in love with her, but eventually her father caught her and marched her off to the Creeping Waste to her death.

  “And that, my dears,” Granny said, looking around, “is why we must be ever-vigilant and protect the Manticore at all costs. For the Empress is doing this very thing again, I guarantee it. That’s why all the Elementals have been disappearing and why the Creeping Waste keeps growing. She’ll make sure there will be no one to aid us this time. We must stay here and ensure that magic survives. Protect the Manticore and protect us all.”

  There were murmurs of assent that soon fell into whispers and snatches of swaddlesongs. Granny kept the stove open a long time, smoking and staring into the flames.

  “But Nainai, what happened to Tianlong?” Syrus asked.

  Granny looked at him, and it was almost as though her face was wreathed in fire. “Tianlong still sleeps by the river, and there is a hole where his Heart should be. The Manticore is all that stands between us and the Waste.”

  Syrus fell asleep thinking about Granny’s story. It took a long while to drift off. Not only did his thoughts chase around like foxes in a rabbit pen, but the new baby was fussy. He’d grown used to such things, but tonight the baby was as loud as his thoughts.

  Nainai often read his face and said he would “change the world.” But Syrus wondered how. Certainly, his people thought him special for his gifts. But how could these gifts be used to protect the Manticore and his people? Maybe the Architect he’d met today would open the way. He patted his breast pocket before his thoughts drained away into warm darkness.

  The last thing he saw was Granny’s outline in front of the stove, smoke drifting from her pipe. He didn’t feel the little fingers that slipped down toward his chest, nor did he hear the hushed giggle as his cousin Amalthea worked the stone from his secret pocket and tiptoed back to her place.

  Three hours later, when the doors splintered inward and the Raven Guard stormed in, Syrus’s searching fingers met with nothing but string, lint, and the jade toad he had stolen from the girl in the carriage.

  The Guard had been in the Imperial service since the first Emperor, John Vaunt, had created them. No one knew how the Emperor had made them—no one dared question—but they were obviously the work of some dark, twisted magic. Though the Guard spoke and moved as humans did in their rusting suits of armor, they had the heads of Ravens and, it was rumored, communicated secretly with their winged cousins that patrolled the skies around the Empress’s Tower. The Guard were killing machines, powerful and quick and utterly devoid of emotion.

  The armored creatures moved through the train car, shaking people out of their quilts. They either shoved the Tinkers toward their compatriots at one end of the car or skewered them. It was only when the blood started to flow that the screaming began. Syrus watched in horror as his cousin Amalthea was pierced and tossed aside while her mother wailed.

  Wicked dancing shadows lit the broken panes and dark stains that spread among the quilts on the floor. Granny Reed stood and thrust a rolled blanket into the stove. She lunged toward the nearest Guard, trying to set his feathered head afire, but he turned his long pike on her before she reached him, slitting a dark line from chest to navel. He shoved her body aside, then stamped out the flaming quilt with an armored foot.

  “Nainai,” Syrus breathed. He was too shocked to yell. He patted his chest all over again for the summoning stone, but the toad mocked him.

  “More will die, unless those eligible for Refinery work come quietly with us,” one of the Guards said in his spiritless voice.

  Someone spat. Otherwise, all Syrus heard was labored breathing and hushed weeping.

  “Syrus,” his Uncle Gen whispered. “Get out of here before they take you or kill you—do you understand?”

  Syrus was about to protest, but then saw the glint of a curved dagger under his uncle’s sleeve. Most Tinkers slept with their weapons outside their doors; it was too dangerous to have weapons among a nest of children and babies and grandmothers. But when Syrus thought of how easily the Guard had entered and slain so many before they’d even had a chance to wake, he wished with all his might he’d kept his dagger and dart pipe.

  His uncle shook his wrist gently. “Do you understand?” he repeated.

  Syrus nodded.

  “Out that window there,” Uncle Gen said, tilting his head toward it. “And go warn the others if they’ve not already been captured. There hasn’t been a Cull like this since your parents were taken. We’ve gotten soft.”

  “But—” Syrus started to say.

  The Raven Guard waded toward them.

  “Now!” his uncle hissed.

  Syrus slithered toward the wall. Hoping none of the Guard would notice, he tugged at the
end of a leather flap that had been loosely nailed over a broken window.

  His hopes were quickly dashed when a blast of energy sizzled right next to his hand. The only fortunate thing about it was that it blew the leather clean off the window.

  “Go now!” Uncle Gen shouted. Syrus saw his uncle throw his dagger, even as a blast of energy took him down. Syrus dove through the window, rolling on the hard, cold ground. As he crouched by a rusting wheel, he realized the Guard had used their pikes merely for effect. Their real weapons were the thunderbusses.

  He ran to the next train car and the next, thankful each time that they were empty. The others must have heard and slunk off to the Forest. He was glad they’d escaped, but he was angry, too. Angry that no one had come to help his family, that Granny Reed and Uncle Gen, aunts and tiny cousins had been murdered in their beds. He gritted his teeth against sobs.

  Truffler shuffled along behind him, making frightened noises. He turned to the hob as he headed toward the Forest. “Hide,” he hissed. “You don’t want them to find you and collect you, do you?”

  It was then he heard the clanking footsteps behind him. He deeply regretted again that he had hung up his dart pipe in the entryway to the passenger car like everyone else. He wondered what must have happened to the summoning stone the Architect had given him—most likely one of his cousins had managed to steal it. All he was left with was the toad, the toad that Granny Reed had said would bring down trouble. He had to wonder if something he’d done—stealing the toad, helping the Architects—had brought this Cull down on his clan. Best not think on that now.

  The Raven Guard was just behind him—Syrus sensed the scrape of metal through the tossing trees, the vague scent of guano and rust over the forest loam as the wind changed direction. The Guard didn’t call or taunt; his threat was in his steadiness of purpose, a purpose given by the Empress in her Tower. Syrus knew the Guard would find him and destroy him or bundle him off to the Refinery with the rest of his clan.