Page 40 of The Song Rising

It took me a moment to work out that the disembodied voice was coming from Nick’s data pad, muffled by the cushion that had fallen on to it. With slack vision, I lifted it from the floor. Warden stirred beside me.

“We must not be tempted by change, when change, by its very nature, is an act of destruction,” Frank Weaver was saying.“Mahoney’s group, ‘The Mime Order,’ is now classified as a terrorist organization under Scion law. It has shed the blood of Scion’s denizens and threatened the Inquisitor’s peace.”

I waited, not breathing.

“However, all is not lost. Thanks to a recent development in Radiesthesic Detection Technology, we were able to use Mahoney’s own unnaturalness to recalibrate our Senshield scanners.” No. No, no, no. “Four of seven types of unnaturalness are now detectable.”

“Vance,” I whispered.

It was her. Weaver might be the one speaking, but I sensed her face beneath his, her fingers knotted in his strings.

They had made the announcement before I could, and they had laid the blame at my door. If the syndicate believed it, they would never forgive me.

I should have insisted on speaking to the Unnatural Assembly hours ago, curfew or otherwise . . .

“To ensure that Senshield is used with the greatest possible efficiency, and to support internal security forces at this time,” Weaver continued, “I have no choice but to execute martial law, our highest level of security.”

Warden lifted himself onto his elbows.

“A division of ScionIDE, our loyal army, has been recalled to safeguard this citadel. They are led by Grand Commander Hildred Vance, who is determined to restore our capital to its former state of safety before the new year. Upon the arrival of the First Inquisitorial Division in the capital, martial law will be effective in the Scion Citadel of London until Paige Mahoney is in Inquisitorial custody. All denizens should remain indoors until further notice. There is no safer place than Scion.”

The broadcast ended, leaving the anchor to spin on the screen.

Martial law. We had guessed it was coming, yet hearing it from Weaver made it truly real.

The short-lived warmth was torn away from me, like rind off fruit. I snatched my blouse from the floor and left the pocket of heat in the room, needing air, needing the cold to shock me back to reality. When I flung open the front door, the night hit my body like a shout hits the ears. I leaned against the door frame, clutching my blouse around me. The wind scalded my legs and cheeks.

Something was straining in my dreamscape. I could hear things I hadn’t heard since I was six years old. Gunfire and screaming. Hoofbeats. My cousin’s tortured cries.

Warden stood in the doorway to the parlor. I took deep breaths.

“I need to see the commanders, now. The syndicate won’t survive martial law for long.” I towed the cold into my lungs, as if it could freeze the fear. Ice was spreading through my core, forking out to every limb. “You get the Ranthen. Find me as soon as you can.”

I strode past him, back into the parlor. As I searched for my phone, I didn’t make eye contact with him. I dug the burner out from behind the couch, where the shapes of our bodies were pressed, and buckled on my coat and boots while Warden prepared for the séance.

Neither of us spoke, even when I left.

In case of emergency, our meeting place was always Battersea Power Station, which was close enough to the safe house for me to go on foot. I didn’t allow myself to think as I ran, weaving past squadrons of Vigiles, urging my legs through freshly piled snow. Soon I was squirming under the fence that surrounded the derelict—the skeleton of a massive, coal-fired power station that had long since fallen out of use. Stars glistened above its four pale chimneys.

A few sets of footprints had already spoiled the snow. I found Glym, Eliza, and the Pearl Queen waiting inside, all with grave expressions. Behind them, Maria was slumped over a control panel. Her hair flamed against her pallid brow, and she was strangling a bottle with one hand.

Memories gathered like crows in my mind. None of them were clear, but I had the sense of being surrounded. Suffocated.

Tom and Nick arrived. Next was Minty Wolfson, whose dress, hands, and face were spattered with ink. “Where the hell is Wynn?” Maria bit out.

“She’s coming,” I said.

When Wynn arrived, she stood apart from the others. For the first time since I had met her, she was armed. I could see the leather strap of a holster where her coat fell open.

“Have all the cells been informed that everyone is to stay indoors, as agreed?” I asked. Nods. “We need to act quickly to get our voyants to safety. ScionIDE is coming to crush the Mime Order. With Senshield, they’ll root us out in days, and they won’t be anywhere near as easy to avoid as the Vigiles.”

“We might have a chance if we stay on the move. Or go to ground here as best we can.” Maria drank from the bottle again. “The First Inquisitorial Division has spent years stationed on the Isle of Wight. We know these streets. They don’t.” She wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. “This could be fine.”

She didn’t sound convinced.

“It won’t work. We can’t hide in plain sight anymore,” I said quietly. Her face crumpled. “Senshield would have pushed us into hiding in the end. This just . . . forces us to take action earlier than we expected.”

The silence that followed was almost painful, heavy with shock and grief. Never, in all of syndicate history, had voyants been forced to leave their districts, their sections, the streets that were their homes. What I was proposing—what I was ordering—was an evacuation.

---