No Safer Place
NO SAFER PLACE
7 March 2059
I slipped almost unnoticed into the Barbican. Since it housed so many key employees of Scion, this residential wing had a security guard, who had been mercifully distracted when I arrived. He hadn’t seen my ashen face, the drying blood under my nose.
Somehow, I had managed to leave the Underground before anyone raised the alarm. I must have escaped with seconds to spare. I should have gone straight to ground, but some buried instinct had driven me here, to my father.
He was in the kitchen, watching ScionEye, the flagship broadcast network of the Republic of Scion. I paused to listen to Burnish. Due to an incident on the Underground, one branch was suspended until further notice.
Scarlett Burnish, the Grand Raconteur – the voice of Scion, responsible for public announcements and reading the approved news. She had clear skin, smoothed by cosmetic enamelling, and lips painted to match her red hair, which she wore in an elegant tuck. The high collars she favoured put me in mind of the gallows.
Soon she might be telling the whole citadel my name.
‘In news from elsewhere, the Grand Inquisitor of the Scion Republic of France, BenoîtMénard, will visit Inquisitor Weaver for Novembertide this year,’ Burnish said, with her usual fixed smile. ‘With eight months to go, the Westminster Archon is already preparing for the arrival of our closest friend on the Continent.’
‘Paige?’
I hung up my jacket. ‘It’s me.’
‘Come and sit down.’
‘I just need a shower.’
I headed for the bathroom, sweating not so much bullets as shotgun shells. As soon as I had locked the door, I vomited my guts into the toilet.
Jaxon had always said I was capable of killing with my spirit, but I had never really believed it. Now I was a murderer, and worse, I had left evidence in the carriage: my data pad, smothered in my prints.
There was blood on my fingers. With a shudder, I shucked my clothes and stumbled into the shower. Hot water pounded on my skin.
The scene replayed, over and over.
I hadn’t meant to kill them. I had only meant to send pressure at them through the æther, a tactic I had used for years. It might have caused them enough pain and panic to let me get away with Linwood.
What I had done was unprecedented. It had been instinctual, beyond my control.
My knees suddenly buckled. Huddled in the corner of the shower, I drew them to my chest, shivering.
I wouldn’t be able to hide for long. Scion would match the fingerprints soon. A torch in my eyes, a needle in my neck, and I would disappear.
My head throbbed as I tried to think. I needed to get back to Seven Dials, but I couldn’t lead Scion to Jaxon. Vigiles would be swarming this cohort, making it hard to escape on foot. With the nearest stations closed, there was no way I could get to the den unless I found a bob cab, and they rarely came to this part of London.
Shit.
My father moved to the kitchen. By coming here, I had already implicated him.
He had worked for Scion for over a decade. I had to hope that would protect him when they came.
Until then, I would pretend. I couldn’t bear to tell him to his face what I had done.
Once I had changed, I went mechanically to the kitchen and put a pan of milk on the stove, following my old routine. My father had left my favourite mug out, the big one that said GRAB LIFE BY THE COFFEE.
Scion was still deciding whether caffeine was a cause of unnaturalness. The same doubts had doomed alcohol. Most denizens played it safe and stuck to Floxy, the only Scion-approved high. (Then again, GRAB LIFE BY THE FLAVOURED OXYGEN just wouldn’t have the same ring to it.) As I poured the milk, I looked out of the window.
London sparkled before me. The complex was lit by a transmission screen, mounted on the highest tower of the Barbican Estate. It often ran live broadcasts of the latest public hangings.
At present, it showed a stylised anchor – the symbol of Scion – against a clinical white background. And that chilling motto:
NO SAFER PLACE
When I was young, my father had tried to protect me from that screen, to no avail. If I didn’t get myself out of this, my death would be next to appear.
Clasping the mug, I left the kitchen. Jaxon would tell me what to do. Before I could reach my bedroom, my father intercepted me in the hall.
‘Paige.’
My father worked in the scientific research sector of Scion, and had the frown lines to prove it. He wore the expression he usually did around me, composed mostly of caution.
‘Hi,’ I said, mustering a smile. ‘Sorry I’m late. I did some overtime.’
‘It’s all right. I’m always grateful for a visit,’ he said. ‘Let me get you something to eat.’
I followed him back into the kitchen. When he turned the lights up, my eyes watered with the pain in my skull.
‘You look a bit peaky.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘Are you well, Paige?’
His accent was pure Dublin. Working there for so long had rubbed off on him, and eleven years here had failed to erode it.
Not only did we sound like we came from different ends of Ireland, but we also looked nothing alike. He was a redhead, while my curls were icy blonde, kept in a bob. Where his pale face was freckled, mine was not. Apparently I looked more like my mother.
‘Just tired.’ I leaned against the counter. ‘It’s been a long week.’
‘I was reading about the oxygen circuit earlier. Horrible case in IV-2. Underpaid waitrons, pneumonia, seizures—’
‘The central bars are fine. The clients expect quality.’ I watched him lay the table. ‘How’s work?’
‘The usual.’ He set down two glasses. ‘Paige, your job at the bar—’
‘What about it?’
A daughter scrubbing counters for her keep. Nothing could be more embarrassing for a man in his position. How his colleagues must have sneered when they realised I worked at a bar, not the bar.
Soon he would learn what I really did, and wish I had been telling him the truth.
‘I know it isn’t my place – you’ve told me so – but I think you should consider the University,’ he said, after a moment. ‘That job is a dead end. If you got your head down, qualified in French—’
‘I’m happy where I am.’ My voice came out harder than I had intended. ‘Besides, you think they’d let me graduate, with our last name?’
He hadn’t been there when the Schoolmistress gave me my final report. For a suffocating moment, I was back in that room, facing her.
I’m sorry you chose not to apply for the University, Paige, but it might be for the best, given your … temperament. A folder bearing the school crest. Your employment recommendation. We note your aptitude for Physical Enrichment, French, and Scion History.
She had been rigidly polite, for the sake of the other teacher in the room. But just as I left, she had gripped my shoulder and whispered her parting words in my ear: I’ve waited years to be rid of you.The only way you could have brought more disrepute on this school is if you were unnatural, too.
‘I could arrange something,’ my father said. ‘I’d say I’ve earned their trust by now.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Yes, and I’ll use it to do right by you, for all the good it does me.’ The corners of his mouth tightened. ‘I had no choice, Paige.’
‘I know,’ I said softly. ‘And so do your colleagues. They’ll always know exactly how we got here, and they’ll always know we’re a pair of kerns, whether or not I attend your University.’
He gave me a weary look.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘thank you for that.’
I clenched my jaw. Last time I was here, I had managed not to argue with him.
Fortunately, my father preferred a quiet life. He brought out some cutlery and said, ‘Still living with your boyfriend, are you?’
The boyfriend lie had always been a mistake. Ever since I had invented Steve the Invisible, my father had been asking to meet him.
‘We broke up,’ I said.
‘Sorry to hear that. No harm to the lad, but I did wonder where you were hiding him,’ he said. ‘Where are you staying now, then?’
‘Suzette has a spare room in Holborn.’
‘Suzy from school?’
‘Yes.’
Jaxon must have got back to the den by now. I needed to cut this short.
‘Actually, I might not eat. I’ve had a headache all day,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I turn in early?’
‘You have so many of these headaches.’
To my surprise, he came up to me and touched my cheek. More often than not, he avoided my gaze, but now he looked me in the face.
‘You rest,’ he said. ‘I’ll make us breakfast tomorrow. I want to hear all your news, seileán.’
I stared at him. He hadn’t made breakfast since I was about twelve, nor called me by that nickname since we had lived in Ireland.
Eleven years and a lifetime ago.
‘I’d like that,’ I said.
‘All right, then. Goodnight, love.’
‘Goodnight.’
I headed for my room. He left the parlour door ajar, as he always did when I was home.
He had never known how to show he cared. To see him trying now was like a knife beween my ribs.
My old bedroom was always warm. I had moved to Seven Dials as soon as I left school, but officially, I still lived here. Scion would surround the estate when they realised.
By now, they would be analysing my data pad. All denizens provided their fingerprints to Scion. I had surrendered mine when I was eight.
Beneath my blouse, my skin had gone from cold to feverish. All I could see were the bodies on the train. All that damage in one breath.
Jaxon had been waiting for this – the day my spirit became a weapon. Hands shaking, I switched on my second phone and dialled the number for a call box in Mayfair.
There was always a contact near that box, paid to keep an ear out for it. I let the phone ring four times – my personal signal – then hung up.
For several minutes, I waited for the underworld to do its work. At last, my phone vibrated. I had barely accepted the call before Jaxon was off:
‘There you are, light of my life. Have you reconsidered the holiday?’
‘Jaxon—’
‘Of course you have. My mollisher would never squander an entire weekend with an amaurotic, not when London is aquiver with fresh opportunities. Now, Jane Rochford is finally being auctioned tomorrow, and I need you to—’
‘I killed someone.’
A long silence. I heard a faint crackle before Jaxon spoke again.
‘Who?’
‘Underguards,’ I said. ‘It was a spot check. They tried to detain us, me and a seer.’
‘So you killed them.’
‘No. Just one.’
‘And the other?’
‘He’s … in his hadal zone.’
‘Wait.’ His voice softened. ‘You did it with your spirit?’
When I didn’t reply, he began to laugh. I could hear him clapping his hand on his desk.
‘Paige, you little thaumaturge,’ he erupted, ‘you did it. Didn’t I always say you could?’
‘Jax, I fucking killed someone—’
‘You certainly did. Magnificent work,’ Jaxon said, with relish. ‘You’ve bloomed like the rare flower you are, my wilful wunderkind.’ I pictured him in the gloom of the den, taking a celebratory puff of his cigar. ‘The second Underguard. He’s still alive?’
‘Yes.’ I sleeved the sweat from my brow. ‘I couldn’t do it.’
‘Well, never mind. He’ll only babble, in that state, if he can speak at all.’ He said it without a care in the world. ‘So my dreamwalker has finally entered – and emptied – a dreamscape. Did they have any idea what hit them?’
‘No.’ I paced the room. ‘They thought I was an oracle.’
‘Amateurs.’
Just then, a new message appeared on the screen, accompanied by the cool tones of Scarlett Burnish.
DUE TO PASSENGER ACTION, ALL PUBLIC TRANSPORT IN I-4 AND I-5 HAS BEEN SUSPENDED. UNDERGROUND STATIONS ARE NOW CLOSED. PLEASE STAND BY FOR FURTHER ANNOUNCEMENTS.
‘Jaxon,’ I whispered. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Try not to panic, Paige. It’s unbecoming. Are you with your father?’
‘Yes.’ I blotted my face again. ‘You’d better have a plan.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Just sit tight, before you run headfirst into a dragnet.’
‘I can’t just wait to be detained.’
‘Darling, I have fired you into firmer stuff than this. The last thing they’ll expect is for you to have fled to your registered address. Why did you do that, by the way?’
‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else. I’m not on your turf, Jax.’
‘Don’t remind me. Ognena Maria might have aided you,’ Jaxon mused, ‘but then, I would hate to be in her debt, and I doubt she would want to involve her own voyants. She is rather precious about their wellbeing.’ His tone grew serious. ‘Now you’re there, stay out of sight, and dispose of that phone. If they come, you know what to do.’
There was a warning in those words. None of us could be captured.
‘Hold your nerve for the next hour. Scion will take at least that long to match your fingerprints,’ Jaxon said. ‘When you see an opportunity, make for the river. Eliza will find you in the morning.’
‘I’ll be a fugitive. For good.’
‘That only makes you more interesting. See you soon, Pale Dreamer.’
I hung up.
Jaxon Hall didn’t know how to worry. He had danced on the edge of a knife all his life, and I doubted his blood could run any colder.
I removed the battery from the phone. Jaxon could be a colossal bastard, but three years ago, I had chosen to trust him. He could help me disappear.
There was a pocket pistol in one of the drawers, concealed under a stack of clothes. I loaded it, checked the knife in my boot.
Next, I needed my first edition of On the Merits of Unnaturalness, the most notorious pamphlet in the citadel. Written by Jaxon, it detailed every known type of clairvoyance and sorted them into seven orders.
My copy was covered in annotations: new ideas, explanatory notes, contact details for promising cases. Last time I stayed here, I had dropped it between my bed and the wall. It was still there, covered in dust. I fished it out, then retrieved my emergency backpack from the wardrobe.
I fastened On the Merits of Unnaturalness into a pocket. If they found it here, they would never believe my father hadn’t known what I was. That was his only chance now, to deny it. Even if I warned him, he had nowhere to go. Better he pleaded ignorance.
Finally, I sat on my bed, the pistol in my hand. Somewhere in the distance, in the darkness, there was thunder.
Whatever my spirit had done, it had drained me to the quick. Before I could stop it, I had passed out, still with the taste of blood in my throat.
When I woke, I knew something was wrong. The æther warned of unfamiliar dreamscapes in the building. I could hear an echoing clamour in the stairwell, closer by the moment.
That wasn’t old Alice Heron next door, who used a frame and always took the lift. Those were the boots and radios of a detainment squad.
They had come for me.
They had finally come.
I was on my feet at once, throwing a jacket over my shirt, pulling on boots and gloves, pulse racing. Nick had prepared me for this day, but the escape would test my stamina to the limit – and no matter what happened, I could not lead Scion to the others.
They were on this floor now, slowing to mask their approach. I slung on my backpack, tucked the pistol into my waistband, and opened the door to the balcony.
I could do this.
Rain battered my clothes. I stood on the balustrade, finding my balance, then jumped for an eave and climbed on to the roof. By the time the Vigiles reached the apartment, I had started to run.
In London, Scion usually avoided killing amaurotics. My father would be tranquillised, to shut him up while they detained me.
I hoped that was all they would do to him.
The complex was quiet. I glanced over the parapet. No sign of the security guards. It didn’t take me long to spot the paddy wagon in the car park, the van with tinted windows and gleaming white headlights. If anyone had taken the time to look, they would have seen the anchor on its back doors.
My boots had decent grip, but these conditions could be lethal. Nevertheless, I kept moving.
I didn’t know the rooftops of the Barbican. They were a concrete labyrinth. Fighting to see through the downpour, I edged around dormer windows and planters, slid across the arched glass ceilings of the corridors.
So far, I had no pursuers. I swung my boot up to a wet ledge and scaled a ladder, the rain plastering my hair to my face. At the first opportunity, I hurdled on to a balcony, where I found a door unlocked. Breathing hard, I tore through the deserted apartment, seizing the opportunity to get rid of my phone, then ran down several flights of stairs, towards the front door of the building. I needed to get to the street, to vanish into a dark alley …
Red lights stopped me in my tracks. I doubled back and slammed the door. Turning wildly, I pulled a fire axe from its case, smashed a window, and scrambled into a small courtyard, cutting my forearms on the glass. Then I was back in the rain, shinning up a drainpipe.
My heart stopped when I saw them. The rooftops were infested with masked figures in red jackets. Several torch beams moved towards me, glaring into my eyes.
These weren’t Vigiles. I had never seen a uniform like this in London.
‘Stay where you are.’
The nearest stepped towards me, a gun in one gloved hand. I backed away, feeling the aura of a powerful medium. The torchlight revealed a gaunt face, sharp chips of eyes, a thin mouth.
‘Don’t run, Paige. It’s too late,’ he called. ‘Why don’t you come out of the rain?’
I did a quick sweep of my surroundings. A helicopter came to hover overhead.
The next building was an office block. The gap was wide – at least twenty feet, farther than I had ever dared to jump. Unless I wanted to attack the medium and abandon my body, I would have to try.
I had nothing to lose.
‘I’ll pass,’ I called back, and took off again.
Muffled shouts broke out in my wake. I dropped to a lower stretch of roof, escaping the searchlight that beamed from the chopper, and drew my pistol.
The medium sprinted after me. I could hear his boots pounding on the roof, seconds behind mine. He was trained for these pursuits. I was nimble and slim, narrow enough to slip between rails and under fences, but so was my pursuer. When I squeezed off two shots from the pistol, he eluded them without stopping.
I aimed blindly over my shoulder again. My lungs were already at bursting point. A flare in my ankle alerted me to an injury.
The medium was returning fire. I leapt over flexipipes and ventilation ducts, trying to turn my sixth sense on him, but I couldn’t keep my focus on his dreamscape. There was nothing I could do to deter him.
Cold rain thrashed at my eyes. As I gathered speed, adrenalin snuffed the fire in my ankle.
A fifteen-storey drop yawned in front of me. I told myself that if I could only clear this gap, I could disappear into the shadows for good. I could leave Paige behind and embrace the Pale Dreamer.
Knees towards your chest, Nick had taught me. Eyes on your landing spot.
The edge rushed closer. Too late to stop or turn back now. My boot hit the very end of the roof, and I launched myself over the precipice.
For a strange moment, I was in flight, nothing to hold me up or down.
I collided with solid brick. As I fell, I grabbed a ledge, clinging on by my fingertips. Kicking for purchase, boots scraping the wall, I started to haul my body upward. A coin fell out of my jacket, into the darkness below.
My victory was short-lived. As I struggled on to the other roof, a bolt of agonising pain tore up my spine. I slipped down the wall, one hand still clinging on, and craned my neck to look over my shoulder. A dart was buried in my back.
Flux.
They had flux.
The drug surged into me. Behind me, I heard shouting above the chopper, the rain. Soaked and numb, I formed two last thoughts. First, that Jaxon was going to kill me – and second, that he wouldn’t have the chance. I was already dead.
My fingers lost their strength.
I let go.