Page 27 of The Mask Falling

“Okay,” I whispered.

Arcturus let go. I counted down from three, took a breath that stoked fire in my chest, and kicked off the side of the pool.

A bubble stoppered my throat at once. My headlamp kept working, but the water was almost opaque. Chest bucking, I scrabbled for purchase, using the crags of the tunnel as handholds.

Something knocked against my cheekbone. Shock made me inhale. My nose burned, my eyes stung, and then I was back in the dark of the basement, arms chained above my head, stomach bloated with foul water, and there was no light and no escape and no one was coming—

A hand plunged through the whiteness and took hold of my arm. Next thing I knew, I was back on solid ground, my vision furred with black.

“Bravo,” the polyglot said.

Behind me, Arcturus broke the surface. The voyants traded glances as I tried to get my cough under control, and as Arcturus lifted himself from the pool. He knew not to help me stand.

My fingers curled into a fist. I was shaking violently, my heart pounding. If I could survive the swim, I could get back on my feet. I braced my hands on my thighs and rose.

There was no more water after that. Soon we were dripping our way through dry tunnels. My clothes were soaked and smudged with chalk, and blood seeped from a graze on my cheek.

At last, we entered a long cavern, warm and dimly lit. A gauze of sand covered its floor. Numa were tucked into every nook and alcove, stashed beside all manner of personal effects: toothbrushes and combs, board games, ornaments. Voyants cooked over stoves and conversed in low voices. Some were enveloped in sleeping bags. Perhaps this was the only place they could rest, far below the surface, in a place where Scion remained blind.

Art mediums worked together to paint a mural across one wall, all with the blank expressions of the possessed. Their brushes trailed surreal patterns. People bathed and floated on their backs in another flooded passage. Beside a column, a cartomancer studied a tarot deck with the eye not concealed beneath a patch. He suddenly looked up at me, took me in, and crooked a finger. The urge to go to him was terrible.

When Liss Rymore had performed a reading for me in the colony, the final card had been lost. Part of me wanted to know the end of my story—except there was no time, and we were too conspicuous. Stares and whispers followed us across the cavern. Over and over, I heard the same word:Réphaïte.

Our escorts stopped beside a beaded curtain. “They followed me down here,” Mélusine said to the others. “They are my responsibility. I will introduce them to the grands ducs.”

None of them protested. When they were out of earshot, Mélusine turned back to me. “So.” She folded her muscular arms. “Are you really the Underqueen?”

“In the flesh,” I said.

“We thought you were dead.” A weighted pause. “I will . . . announce you to the grands ducs.”

“Just say that someone’s here to see them, if you would. I’d prefer to introduce myself.”

“As you decree, Underqueen.”

With that, she went through.

Water sloshed in my boots. My nose ran. I wrung out my hair, which was already curling again, and draped my sodden coat around my shoulders like a cape.

When it came to amicable relations with other syndicate leaders, my track record was spotty. In Edinburgh, I had forged a good alliance with the Spaewife—it helped that Liss had been her niece— but the Scuttling Queen had not welcomed me in Manchester. The grands ducs might not open their arms to a fellow clairvoyant ruler.

“Tell me I look regal,” I said to Arcturus. “This isn’t the grand entrance I imagined.”

In answer, he cupped one side of my face and brushed his thumb across my damp cheekbone, smoothing back the wisp of hair that had been stuck there.

“Thank you,” I said.

He let go. “You are trembling.”

“I’m all right.”

With a last, scrutinizing look at my face, he turned his attention to the curtain. When I followed his line of sight, I realized. What I had thought were beads were, in fact, teeth. Hundreds of human teeth. Before I could think better of this audience, Mélusine returned.

“They are not pleased,” she said, “but you may enter. They are bored today.” She held back the curtain. “Tread carefully, Underqueen, or your blood will be their entertainment.”

4

An Empty Throne

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