Page 120 of The Mask Falling

“Is that what you’re wearing, Warden?”

“Just had that chat with him,” I said.

“You can’t talk.” She nodded to my boots. “You’ll get sump foot in those.”

“The perdues said they’d have spare equipment.” I zipped my oilskin up to my chin, hefted on my backpack, and tightened the straps. “All right, then. Time to head back to hell.”

There was a long and brittle silence between the three of us. After everything we had done to escape Sheol I, all the suffering that had followed, we were making our way back into the belly of the beast. I opened the door and stepped outside before I could lose my nerve.

Ivy had lived as a fugitive for months. As we made our way southwest, I never had to warn her to watch out for cameras or keep her face hidden—those instincts were etched into her. The glow of the streetlamps mixed like watercolor with the sunset, staining the snow lilac.

We were to access the tunnels through an underground parking garage. By the time we arrived at dusk, four of the perdues were already in a far corner, choosing items from a pool of supplies. None of them wore masks tonight. They looked more like hikers than criminals.

“Ah, Underqueen,” Renelde called. “You made it.” She shone her lamp toward Ivy. “Who is this?”

“A friend,” I said. “Ivy.”

Renelde eyed her with misgiving. “Le Prince Creux will not like this.” She spoke in French. “We have some supplies for you. Mal guessed your size, so if the boots pinch, blame him.”

I took the waterproof pair she indicated and pulled them on. A perfect fit. Malperdy gave a satisfied nod. At his behest, I gloved my hands and padded my calves with gaiters.

Ivy already had what she needed. I donned a headlamp and moved my supplies into a waterproof backpack. The faces around me were rendered strange and hollow by the light.

Le Bateleur had frothing gray hair. I guessed he was about seventy, each year scored deep into weathered skin. Malperdy—a redhead with a sharp nose, about my age—resembled a fox even without his mask. Finally, there was a moon-faced soothsayer in his forties, bald as a spoon and built like a keg. His huge arms bore reflected tattoos of a scythe.

“This is Ankou.” Renelde smiled. “Don’t ever try to arm wrestle him.”

She flashed her headlamp twice, and Ankou looked up at her with raised eyebrows. Renelde pointed to me, swept her right hand in a nosedive, then skirted one finger across her throat, left to right. His eyebrows jumped higher.

“Can you sign?” Renelde asked me. “Ankou is deaf. He can try to read your lips at close quarters, but that has its limits.”

“I can’t. Warden can, though.”

Arcturus stepped into the flashlight and presumably introduced himself. Ankou stared at him with a furrowed brow—I remembered all too well how surreal it was to see a Rephaite for the first time—before he slowly laid down what he was holding and answered, blunt fingers moving at speed. He had a short exchange with Arcturus, then looked back to me.

“I’m honored to meet you at last, Underqueen,” Renelde translated, watching him. “We hoped you might visit us, after the stories from London. I look forward to finding out if they are true.”

“All good, I trust,” I said with a smile. When Renelde signed it, Ankou let out a stentorian chuckle, nodded, and mirrored the motion with one fist. “Will you thank him for coming?”

She did, and his smile widened into a toothy grin. He went back to sharpening a deadly-looking sickle.

“Where is the entrance?” I asked Renelde. She nodded to a crack at the bottom of a wall, just large enough to fit through. I crouched and shone my headlamp into the dark, revealing chunks of rubble.

Le Bateleur leaned down and grasped my shoulder. “Underqueen,” he said, “I am only here to see you off and to introduce you to your guide. He is here.”

I looked.

A very pale man had just walked into the parking garage. He was about the same age as Renelde, lean, and—incredibly—nearly as tall as Arcturus. His hair was bone-white, as was his scruffy beard. He wore a tight black shirt, trousers with capacious pockets, and a utility belt. A dark jacket was slung over his shoulder. Everything about him exuded authority. I was surprised he was only a mollisher.

“Underqueen,” Le Bateleur said when the man had reached us, “allow me to introduce Le Prince Creux, compagnon d’armes to Le Vieux Orphelin.”

“Prince,” I said.

Le Prince Creux ran a cool gaze over me before he extended a hand. “Underqueen.” His lashes were barbs of frost, his eyes a light blue, with the keyhole pupils of a full-sighted voyant. “Léandre will do.”

“Paige will be fine, too.” I touched three fingers to my brow. “Generous of you to guide us.”

Expressionless, he returned the salute, then gave Arcturus a cursory look. “I assume you are the Rephaite bodyguard.”

---