Deliriant

DELIRIANT

It lasted a lifetime. I didn’t know when it had started, didn’t see when it would end.

I remembered movement, a throaty roar, and being strapped to a hard surface. Then a needle was pushed into my arm, and pain took over.

Reality unravelled at the seams. A candle burned nearby, and its flame kept erupting into an inferno. Sweat dripped from my pores like wax – and then I was freezing, desperate for warmth, feeling as if I would die from the cold. There was no middle ground. Just limitless pain.

Fluxion 14 was a deliriant. Made with purple aster, it attacked both the body and the dreamscape, causing phantasmagoria – a vivid series of hallucinations, worsened by fever and chills. I fought my way through endless visions, crying when the pain was too intense to bear in silence.

My hair stuck to my tears as I retched, trying in vain to force the poison from my body. Whether it was sleep, unconsciousness or death, something had to take me from this nightmare.

‘I know it hurts, treasure,’ a voice murmured. ‘But you have to learn, don’t you?’

The room spun like a carousel, twisting until I could barely hold on. I bit a pillow to stifle my screams. I tasted blood and knew I must have bitten something else – my lip, my cheek, my tongue.

Flux never wore off. Even if you vomited, it worked itself into the organs, spread like poison in the blood. The pain washed over me in wave after wave.

‘That is enough. We need her alive,’ a new voice said. ‘Get the antidote at once.’

The antidote. I might yet live. I tried to blink away the rippled haze, the visions and distorted things, but all I could see was the candle.

‘Let me out,’ I said faintly.

‘Bring water.’

The lip of a glass clashed on my teeth. I took deep, thirsty gulps.

‘Please.’

Two burning eyes looked into mine, and suddenly, the nightmare stopped. I plunged into a sweet black sleep.

When I woke, I lay on my stomach, my throat roasted. It was such a severe pain that I was forced to come to my senses, if only to seek water. I realised with a start that I was naked.

I managed to roll on to my side, tasting dry vomit in the corners of my mouth. Shivering uncontrollably, I reached for the æther.

There were other dreamscapes here.

It took a while for my eyes to adjust. I was sprawled on a single bed. To my right was a barred window with no glass. The floor and walls were made of stone.

A bitter draught sent goosebumps racing all over me. My breath came out in tiny clouds. I drew the sheets around my shoulders, swallowing.

A door was ajar in the corner. I could see light. Testing my strength, I went to it, my ankle protesting.

Beyond was a simple bathroom. The light stemmed from a single lamp, revealing a rusted tap on the wall. It was perishing to the touch. When I turned the valve beneath, a deluge of icy water drenched me. I knocked it the other way, but the water refused to heat up.

Despite my situation, I was desperate to wash, if only to clear my head. My hair felt greasy, my body slow and fragile. Bracing myself, I tried again, dipping each limb under the crude excuse for a shower. My joints ached. My skin hurt. A sharp pain lingered where the dart had gone in, and somehow I had strained my neck.

There were no towels, so I used the bedsheets to dry off, then wrapped myself in one. When I tried the main door, I found it locked. I blew on my numb fingers, wishing for a heat pad.

My shivers weren’t just from the cold. I was naked and alone in a dark cell, barely strong enough to stand, and these might be my last hours. Nobody knew what happened to voyant prisoners – none had escaped to tell the tale – but there were rumours of water torture.

I had to be in the Tower of London. The æther was oddly quiet, if so, but my sixth sense was still as weak as the rest of me. All I knew for sure was that my father was not in this building.

Harbouring a voyant was misprision of treason. Was he already dead?

They had needed him enough to pluck him from a war zone. Surely they would spare his life.

Against my will, I slipped into a fitful doze, curled against the back of the bed. When the door crashed open, I snapped awake.

‘Get up.’

A light appeared. I blinked at the sight of an old paraffin lamp. Holding it was a statuesque woman, with polished bronze skin, impeccable posture, and black hair tumbling in loose curls to her waist.

I blinked again, harder. It might have been the lack of strong light, but her face seemed ageless. I was confident she was no younger than me; neither was she elderly. Otherwise I had no idea.

I noticed three odd things about her. First, her eyes were yellow. Not the kind of amber you might call yellow in certain lights – no, these were yellow, tinged with green, and glowed like candle flames.

The second thing was her aura. She was voyant, but not a type I had encountered before.

And third was her dreamscape – exactly like the one I been chasing in Seven Dials. I already knew I couldn’t breach a dreamscape like this, certainly not in my current state.

‘Get up,’ she repeated.

Slowly, I stood, clutching my bedsheet like a shield. This had to be some aftermath of the phantasmagoria. How else could her eyes do that?

‘Take these,’ she said.

I looked at the two pills in her hand. She wore a tailored leather glove.

‘Must I give you every order twice?’

I wanted to refuse, to fight back, but the flux had drained me. Besides, I had no power here. With no other choice, I necked the pills dry.

‘Cover yourself,’ my jailer said. ‘If you resist, I will remove your fingernails.’ She threw a bundle of clothes at me. ‘Pick those up.’

Too unsteady to protest, I did. Black trousers, socks and underwear, including a thin shirt. Ankle boots with low, broad heels. A collared white tunic. Finally, a black gilet, stitched with a small white anchor.

This was a uniform. Wherever I was going, it clearly wasn’t to the gallows. Not yet. I dressed in rigid strokes, hair soaking my collar, fingers cramping on the buttons of the tunic.

It was even colder outside the room. The towering woman led me through a labyrinth of stone corridors, past torches burning in wall brackets, too bright after the cool blue streetlamps of London.

She unlocked a door and went inside. When she returned, a seer came after her. He was scrawny, with a mop of sandy hair and signs of flux poisoning: pallor, glazed eyes.

‘Move,’ the woman said.

He stumbled into step beside me. ‘Carl,’ he managed, clearly in pain.

I nodded. ‘Paige.’

No harm in giving my real name. Scion had got me now.

The woman collected more voyants, all in the same uniform. Three more soothsayers. A few augurs – the second order of clairvoyance, just as populous, who used the raw material of the natural world in their work, from fire and twigs to the human body.

Next came an oracle, who looked intrigued by our situation, and a whisperer with darting eyes. She must be listening to the chatter of the nearest spirits, unheard by the rest of us.

Soon there were twenty of us. Last to join was a palmist with short blue hair, shaking so hard her jaw rattled. Few of them looked older than thirty, or younger than fifteen. All were haggard from flux.

We were steered into a room with a wet floor, lit by a few candles, where several people were already imprisoned. Our jailer loomed in the doorway.

‘I am Pleione Sualocin,’ she said. ‘Tonight you will attend your welcome oration, which will take place in the Residence of the Suzerain.’

A number of wary looks were exchanged.

‘You will not look any Rephaite in the eye. You will keep your gazes on the floor, where they belong,’ Pleione said. ‘You will obey any commands you receive from the Rephaim you encounter.’

The whisperer raised a hand. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but what is a Rephaite?’

‘I am,’ Pleione said. ‘You will not speak again without my permission.’

‘Fuck that,’ said one of the augurs – a tasseographer, to be precise. They used tea leaves to foretell the future. ‘Where are we?’

‘You are about to find out.’

‘What gives you the right to collar us?’ he demanded. ‘Unless you’ve got Senshield working early, you can’t prove I have an aura, you—’

He stopped. As we all stared at him, dark beads of blood seeped from his eyes. A frisson passed through the æther before he collapsed.

Pleione dealt him a pitiless look. When she lifted her face, I saw that her own eyes had turned a clean blue, like the flame on a blowtorch.

‘I trust,’ she said, ‘that there are no further objections.’

The palmist clapped a hand over her mouth. Pleione left, locking the door in her wake.

At first, no one spoke. I had no idea what I had just witnessed, and apparently, neither did anyone else. The palmist slid to the floor with a weak sound of despair, holding her right arm as if it hurt.

I sat in a corner. Beneath my sleeves, my skin was stippled with goosebumps. It had been a bad idea to wet my hair in this cold place.

A man in his early twenties, bald and tall and broad-shouldered, moved to sit beside me. His large eyes were as deep a brown as his skin.

‘Julian,’ he said.

‘Paige.’ I cleared my throat. ‘How did you end up here?’

‘Believe it or not, I was on my way to buy milk.’ Julian breathed out through his nose. ‘Did they just get you for your aura?’

‘I may also have killed an Underguard.’ It didn’t sound real. ‘You?’

‘I may also have killed a Vigile.’ He looked weary. ‘I only wanted a cup of tea.’

We both glanced at the tasseographer, who lay where he had fallen. He was still breathing, but out cold, his aura fainter than before.

‘She just … looked at him.’ Julian spoke quietly. ‘She was voyant, wasn’t she?’

‘Of some kind. On that note, I can’t get a read on you.’

‘I didn’t do it with my gift, if that’s what you’re asking.’ He leaned against the wall. ‘I shot him with his own gun in the struggle, but he must have called for backup. Didn’t take them long to find me.’

He was avoiding my unspoken question. I nodded, letting it slide. His aura did interest me, but some voyants liked to keep their gifts secret.

Icy water dripped from the ceiling and landed on my nose. A crystallist was rocking back and forth, muttering to himself in another language. All the soothsayers and augurs must be losing it without their numa, the materials they used to connect with the æther.

‘I can’t put a finger on your aura, either.’ Julian narrowed his eyes. ‘I’d say oracle, but—’

‘But?’

‘I met an oracle a few years ago, and you’re not giving me the same feeling. Are you a sibyl?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m an acultomancer.’

It was a lie I often told. A deflection, but also a test of competence. That type of soothsaying was rare enough that people sometimes believed me, if they didn’t have the knack for auras.

Julian arched an eyebrow. Evidently he did have the knack.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What did you do, stab your Underguard with a needle?’

‘Something like that,’ I said.

There was a crash from outside, then a scream. Everyone stopped talking.

‘I haven’t read On the Meritsof Unnaturalness in a while,’ Julian said, lowering his voice further, ‘but surely your aura would be purple.’

‘It is purple,’ I said.

‘It’s clearly red.’

‘What are you, a painter?’

‘Well, no, I just—’ Seeing my face, he said gravely, ‘Red and purple can be easy to confuse.’

‘Yes.’

He took the hint and dropped the subject.

His mention of the pamphlet had left me with a churning stomach. Scion must have taken my backpack, and with it, my annotated copy. I could never have got such a thing without knowing the writer.

Scion would have no mercy on a member of the syndicate.

Even as I thought it, I scanned the room. I didn’t recognise anyone, which was probably for the best. Jaxon had many enemies.

‘I don’t know about you lot,’ the whisperer said, ‘but I’ve got no idea what’s going on.’ Her eyelid twitched. ‘Where are we?’

‘Must be a new wing,’ said a soothsayer.

‘What?’

‘It can’t be,’ Carl croaked. ‘Why would they flux us just to move us around?’

‘To make us easier to torture,’ a medium said, her gaze distant and blank. ‘That’ll be why we’re here. To be interrogated.’

A clouded ringing filled my ears. I talked a big game on the streets, but I had no idea how strong I would be if they put me on the waterboard.

The oracle spoke: ‘Where do you think we are, exactly?’

That earned him several frowns.

‘The Tower of London,’ the medium said. ‘You really don’t know where you’ve been locked up?’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘How long have you been locked up?’

‘I lost track after three years.’

‘Three.’ A hoarse laugh from the corner. ‘Lucky for some. Try nine.’

Something wasn’t adding up. Scion didn’t put voyants in prison – not to our knowledge, at least. Anyone who was detained was executed without trial. There was no need to store us.

‘When were you caught?’ I whispered to Julian. ‘Do you remember?’

‘About two weeks ago, I think.’

‘We’re not here to be tortured. They’re ending it,’ an augur said. ‘We’re in for the swing today, and I’m glad.’

‘No.’ A taut voice, another soothsayer. ‘We’ve all seen hanged voyants. They’re never dressed like this.’ She pulled at her gilet. ‘We’ve been … chosen for something. I think they’ve pressed us into the NVD.’

Julian nodded, his face clearing. ‘There could be a shortage of volunteers.’

‘As if we’d ever stoop to rubbing shoulders with those spineless bastards,’ the first augur muttered. ‘Better to hang now and be done with it.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ the oracle said.

There was a long silence, broken only by the palmist, who was trying to stifle her sobs on her sleeve. She sounded heartbroken.

Someone else was in a bad way. A boy with freckles and a wispy fringe, so pale he almost looked bloodless. I had failed to notice him because he had no aura.

‘What is this place?’ He could hardly get the words out. ‘Who are all of you?’

Julian furrowed his brow. ‘You’re amaurotic. Why have they taken you?’

‘I’m what?’

‘Probably a mix-up.’ The oracle sounded bored. ‘Tough luck, kid.’

The boy looked as though he might faint. He lurched to his feet and yanked at the bars.

‘Please. I’m not meant to be here,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not unnatural, I swear!’ He was almost in tears. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the stone!’

‘Stop it,’ I hissed. A few people swore at him. ‘Do you want to be next?’

He sank back to the floor. I guessed he was about fifteen. I was reminded of a different time, when I was both surrounded and alone.

‘Hey,’ I said, gentler. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sebastian Pearce,’ he said. ‘Seb.’ He shifted closer to me. ‘Are you really … unnaturals?’

‘I’ll do unnatural things with your entrails if you don’t stop flapping that jaw of yours, rottie,’ a voice sneered. ‘Ever heard of a splanchomancer?’

Seb cringed.

‘He’s being dramatic,’ I said. ‘I’m Paige. This is Julian.’

Julian gave me a bemused look. Clearly it was my job to make small talk with the amaurotic. Seb glanced between us like a nervous rabbit.

‘We’re not going to hurt you, Seb,’ I said. ‘Where are you from?’

Seb hesitated. ‘IV-1.’

‘Nice area,’ Julian said gamely. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Richmond.’

Seb wrapped one arm around his knees. His stained lips shook with cold.

‘Tell us what happened to you,’ I said.

He glanced at the others. I couldn’t find it in myself to blame him for his fear. From the second he could understand words, he would have been told that voyants were the source of all evil.

‘One of the other students planted something in my satchel. A stone,’ he said. ‘The Schoolmaster saw me trying to get rid of it and called the Vigiles to assess me. It took hours to convince them I was innocent. A week later, on my way home, two strangers followed me. I heard a gunshot, and— and then I think I must have fainted. I was sick.’

I wondered about the effects of flux on amaurotics. The physical symptoms might appear, but probably not the phantasmagoria.

‘That’s awful,’ I said. ‘I’m sure this is all a terrible mistake.’

Seb perked up. ‘Then they’ll let me go home?’

‘Probably not,’ the oracle said.

The sound of footsteps silenced us. Pleione pulled open the door.

‘Follow me,’ she said.

No one dared protest. We stepped over the tasseographer as we left.

Pleione led us outside. The air was cold enough to snap, all our surroundings smudged by mist. Seb stuck to my side. Head down, eyes open, I told myself. Nick had taught me that rule; I would follow it here.

We walked over grey cobblestones, wet after a night of rain, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps – a pale glow, not blue. It took a moment to realise they were gaslights. The buildings were nowhere near the height of those in London. Julian fell into step beside me as Pleione led us onward. We soon found ourselves in a bustling town.

This street was significantly wider than the first. Not a car or a moto in sight – just a long line of ramshackle dwellings, winding drunkenly from one end to the other. Thin walls propped up scraps of corrugated metal, clothes drying on lines between them.

Larger buildings flanked the slum, grand remnants of ages past. In sharp contrast to the shacks, they were clean and stately, with ornate façades – carved limestone, wooden doors, pointed windows lit by candles. Some were crenellated, like the castles of the monarch days.

Scion had sent us back in time.

About halfway along the street, a group of figures waited on a stage. Hundreds of lanterns flickered around them, illuminating their ornate masks. A violin sang below the boards – voyant music, the sort only a whisperer could perform, luring the nearest spirits.

Looking up at these people – actors, mimes – was an unruly audience. Every member of that audience wore a red tunic and a black gilet.

‘Welcome,’ someone called to us. ‘Everyone, it’s the new crop!’

Rowdy cheers and whistles erupted. Above, the performers began to dance. All of them were clairvoyant; in fact, almost everyone was clairvoyant – the dancers, the spectators, most of my group.

This was no back-alley gathering of thieves.

The performance went on for a while. Not all the spectators were paying attention. Some were talking among themselves, others jeering at the stage. I was sure I heard a shout of cowards.

Everyone in my group looked just as baffled as I felt. Either my brain was still drug-addled, or this was some kind of voyant cult.

After the initial dance, a woman in a winged mask stepped on to a high platform, her dark hair slicked into a tight bun. She jumped and seized two purple drapes that hung from the rigging above. Weaving her legs and arms around them, she climbed nimbly before unravelling into a pose, earning a smattering of applause.

Looking past her, I took the chance to study the street. This was definitely not the Scion Citadel of London. Old buildings, gas lamps, cobblestones – it was as if centuries had rewound.

I knew exactly where I was.

In 1859, on the first of September, the university city of Oxford had burned to the ground. At the time, the tragedy had been pinned on the Carrington Event, a geomagnetic storm of unprecedented magnitude. The story had never made sense to me, but there was no point in questioning Scion.

What remained of the city was a Type A Restricted Sector. Because of some indefinable contamination caused by the storm, no one was allowed to set foot there. Scion had wiped it from the maps.

According to Jaxon, a journalist from the Roaring Boy had tried to drive to Oxford once. He had never returned. The Roaring Boy – a penny paper, already on thin ice – had vanished a week later.

Pleione turned to look at us. In the dark, her eyes were as bright as the gas lamps.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘You do not want to be late for the oration.’

We followed her, stupefied.

She brought us to a pair of lofty iron gates. Two men let us pass. Both bore a resemblance to Pleione – same yellow eyes, same daunting stature, same faint metallic sheen. Pleione sailed into a large courtyard, where other people joined us, dressed in white or grey.

We filed into a stone building, forbidding in its grandeur. Pleione led us down its corridors, illuminated by flickering chandeliers and candelabras.

Our journey ended – or began – in a cavernous room where bookshelves swept up to a plaster ceiling, packed with beautiful old tomes. The décor was baroque, the dressed stone floor like a chessboard, arched windows lining one of the walls. Pleione shepherded us into rows. I stood between Julian and Seb.

This room was a melting pot of voyants, from augurs and soothsayers to mediums and sensors. As far as I could tell, the oracle was the only person from my order.

Pleione went to stand on a low platform with a balustrade. She joined the end of a line of tall figures, presumably her fellow Rephaim (whatever that meant), who had the look of statues on display in a museum.

All of them wore dark clothing in a style that reminded me of the Tudor portraits I had seen at the black market – though a touch more practical, bordering on military in their cut. They almost looked human, but those dreamscapes and yellow eyes told me otherwise.

One of them – a pale, expressionless woman – finally approached the balustrade.

‘If you paid me all the money in London,’ Julian said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I couldn’t even guess what she was going to say.’

The room slowly fell silent.

‘Let’s find out,’ I whispered back.