Page 3 of The Bone Season

‘Yes, but I’ll be past the turnstiles. I’ve never seen an Underguard at Leicester Square.’ I stood. ‘Breakfast on Monday?’

‘Unless something more interesting than you crops up.’ Danica glanced at the clock. ‘Don’t die.’

‘I won’t. See you on Monday.’

I swung on my jacket and made for the door, greeting the spirit in the corner. Pieter gave a dull hum in reply. Being dead sometimes got to him.

Pieter was a muse, the spirit of the Dutch artist Pieter Claesz, found by a binder in Haarlem and traded along the ley line into Scion. Eliza – our medium – would let him possess her now and again, allowing her to paint a masterpiece. When she was done, I would flog it to unwary collectors at the black market.

Spirits could be temperamental, of course. Sometimes we could go for months without a painting. Even when we did get one, it left Eliza drained for days.

I locked the door behind me, glad to see the rain had stopped. The streetlamps were luminous blue, the moon a smirk of white.

Seven Dials was always lively on a Friday night. Airlift, the local oxygen bar, overflowed with laughing amaurotics. To my right, one of our couriers sat by the sundial pillar, the heart and namesake of the district. The rain had washed its six blue faces.

The courier gave me a nod. I returned it. As I walked down Monmouth Street, I subtly called a spool of ghosts to my side.

London had so much death in its history, it was hard to find a spot without spirits. They could be hostile, or willing to help. I liked to keep a few to hand when I went out at night, in case of Vigiles.

The amaurotics in that bar were none the wiser. They were the normal ones, the naturals – the people Scion was built to protect from unnaturals like me, who conversed with the dead. I strode away from them.

‘Fortune for a bob,’ came a whisper. I stopped. ‘Best oracle in London, I promise you. A bob or two for a poor busker?’

The voice belonged to a thin man, huddled in an equally thin jacket. I read his aura. Not an oracle, but a soothsayer. I shot a glance over my shoulder before I yanked him into the nearest doorway.

‘You’re not an oracle, but you are loud,’ I said, my voice low and dark. ‘We’re surrounded by amaurotics, you fool. Are you off the cot?’

His eyes flared wide. ‘Pale Dreamer,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘Please, don’t tell the White Binder I lied. I just wanted—’

‘You need to go before he sees you.’ I dug into my pocket and crushed a few notes into his hand. ‘Get out of here. Use this for a doss.’

‘Thank you.’

He slipped the notes into his jacket. I watched him leave, wondering if he had meant to beg for a place in the syndicate.

If so, he had chosen the wrong district. Any voyant who wanted to ply their trade here would first have to seek permission from Jaxon, and he rarely gave it. I was among the lucky ones, to work in Seven Dials.

Leicester Square was mercifully quiet. I had missed rush hour. As usual, most of the commuters were amaurotic. They had no auras to put them in danger.

Underguards came on duty at six to monitor the transport network. Like the rest of the Night Vigilance Division, they were uniformed voyants, bound to serve Scion for thirty years before submitting to execution. For some, that was easier than fighting to survive longer.

Their main duty was to hunt their own. Unlike amaurotics, they could see auras. That made them essential to Scion.

I had never considered joining. There was cruelty among voyants, but I could never condemn anyone to a miserable death on the Lychgate.

Still, occasionally, when I had worked hard for days and Jaxon forgot to pay me, I was tempted.

There were no Underguards to be seen. I scanned my travel permit, releasing my spool. Ghosts resented being taken too far from their haunts, and spot checks on the trains were rare – once you were past the turnstiles, the risk of detection plummeted.

As I descended, my headache grew worse. I was in no mood for the busy interchange at Inquisitors Cross, but I couldn’t face Jaxon. He would only try to wheedle me out of visiting my father.

I reached the platform with a few minutes to spare. The prerecorded voice of Scarlett Burnish came through the speakers: ‘The next train is northbound to Inquisitors Cross. Please have your identity cards and travel permits ready for inspection. Thank you, and have a pleasant evening.’

What I wanted was aquietevening. Jaxon had run me ragged all week. He only gave me a lunch break if he was feeling generous, an event as rare as blue apples these days. Seeing my father was always an agony of evasions and small talk, but he let me sleep in for as long as I wanted. I would have a hot bath and call it a night.

A message appeared on the screens that lined the platform, black text on a white background. The other commuters barely looked up, even as it lit their faces.

RDT: RADIESTHESIC DETECTION TECHNOLOGY

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