Samantha Shannon - The Bone Season

Wrapped in an old dressing gown, I padded barefoot to the kitchen and put a pan of milk on the stove. I always did it when I was home; I shouldn’t break routine. My father had left my favorite mug out, the big one that said GRAB LIFE BY THE COFFEE. I’d never been a fan of flavored oxygen, or Floxy®, the Scion alternative to alcohol. Coffee was just about legal. They were still researching whether or not caffeine triggered clairvoyance. But then, GRAB LIFE BY THE FLAVORED OXYGEN just wouldn’t have the same vitality.

Using my spirit had done something to my head. I could hardly keep my eyes open. As I poured the milk, I looked out of the window. My father had impeccable taste when it came to interior design. It helped that he had money enough to afford the high-security places on the exclusive Barbican Estate. The apartment was fresh and spacious, full of light. The hallways smelled of potpourri and linen. There were large square windows in every room. The biggest was in the living room, a vast skylight covering the west-facing wall, next to the elaborate French doors that led out to the balcony. As a child I’d often watched the sun set from that window.

Outside, the citadel whirled on. Above our complex stood the three brutalist columns of the Barbican Estate, where the white-collar Scion workers lived. At the top of the Lauderdale Tower was the I-5 transmission screen. It was from this screen that they projected public hangings on a Sunday evening. At present it bore the Scion system’s static insignia—a red symbol resembling an anchor—and a single word in black: SCION, all on a clinical white background. Then there was that awful slogan: NO SAFER PLACE.

More like no safe place. Not for us.

I sipped my milk and looked at the symbol for a while, wishing it all the way to hell. Then I washed up my mug, poured a glass of water, and headed for my bedroom. I had to call Jaxon.

My father intercepted me in the hallway.

“Paige, wait.”

I stopped.

Irish by birth, with a scalding head of red hair, my father worked in the scientific research division of Scion. When he wasn’t doing that, he was scribbling formulas on his data pad and waxing lyrical about clinical biochemistry, one of his two degrees. We looked nothing alike.

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry I’m so late. I did some extra hours.”

“No need to apologize.” He beckoned me into the living room. “Let me get you something to eat. You look peaky.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You know, I was reading about the oxygen circuit today. Horrible case in IV-2. Underpaid staff, dirty oxygen, clients having seizures—very unpleasant.”

“The central bars are fine, honestly. The clients expect quality.” I watched him lay the table. “How’s work?”

“Good.” He looked up at me. “Paige, about your work in the bar—”

“What about it?” I said.

A daughter working in the lowest echelons of the citadel. Nothing could be more embarrassing for a man in his position. How uncomfortable he must have been when his colleagues asked about his children, expecting him to have sired a doctor or a lawyer. How they must have whispered when they realized I worked in a bar, not at the Bar. The lie was a small mercy. He could never have coped with the truth: that I was an unnatural, a criminal.

And a murderer. The thought made me sick.

“I know it isn’t my place to say this, but I think you should consider reapplying for a place at the University. That job is a dead end. Low money, no prospects. But the University—”

“No.” My voice came out harder than I’d intended. “I like my job. It was my choice.”

I still remembered the Schoolmistress giving me my final report. “I’m sorry you chose not to apply for the University, Paige,” she’d said, “but it might be for the best. You’ve had far too much time away from school. It’s not considered proper for a young lady of quality.” She’d handed me a thin, leather-bound folder bearing the school crest. “Here is an employment recommendation from your tutors. They note your aptitude for Physical Enrichment, French, and Scion History.”

I didn’t care. I’d always hated school: the uniform, the dogma. Leaving was the high point of my formative years.

“I could arrange something,” my father said. He’d so wanted an educated daughter. “You could reapply.”

“Nepotism doesn’t work on Scion,” I said. “You should know.”

“I didn’t have the choice, Paige.” A muscle flinched in his cheek. “I didn’t have that luxury.”

I didn’t want to have this conversation. I didn’t want to think of what we’d left behind.

“Still living with your boyfriend?” he said.

The boyfriend lie had always been a mistake. Ever since I’d invented him, my father had been asking to meet him. “I broke up with him,” I said. “It wasn’t right. But it’s okay. Suzette has a spare place in her apartment—you remember?”

“Suzy from school?”

“Yes.”

As I spoke, a sharp pain lanced through the side of my head. I couldn’t wait for him to make dinner. I had to call Jaxon, tell him what had happened. Now.

“Actually, I’ve got a bit of a headache,” I said. “Do you mind if I turn in early?”

He came to my side and took my chin in one hand. “You always have these headaches. You’re overtired.” He brushed his thumb over my face, the shadows under my eyes. “There’s a good documentary on, if you’re up to it—I’ll get you set up on the couch.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” I gently pushed his hand away. “Do you have any painkillers?”

After a moment, he nodded. “In the bathroom. I’ll do us an Ulster fry in the morning, all right? I want to hear all your news, seillean .”

I stared at him. He hadn’t made me breakfast since I was about twelve; nor had he called me by that nickname since we’d lived in Ireland. Ten years ago. A lifetime ago.

“Paige?”

“Okay,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

I pulled away and headed for my room. My father said nothing more. He left the door ajar, as he always did when I was home. He’d never known how to act around me.

The guest room was as warm as ever. My old bedroom. I’d moved to Dials as soon as school was over, but my father had never taken a lodger—he didn’t need one. Officially, I still lived here. Easier to leave it on the records. I opened the door to the balcony, which stretched between my room and the kitchen. My skin had gone from cold to burning hot—my eyes had an odd strained feeling, like I’d stared into a light for hours. All I could see was the face of my victim—and the vacuity, the insanity , of the one I’d left alive.

That damage had been caused in seconds. My spirit wasn’t just a scout—it was a weapon. Jaxon had been waiting for this.

I found my phone and called Jaxon’s room in the den. It barely rang before he was off.

“Well, well! I thought you’d left me for the weekend. Where’s the fire, honeybee? Have you rethought the holiday? You don’t really need one, do you? I thought not. I absolutely cannot lose my walker for two days. Have a heart, darling. Excellent. I’m delighted you agree. Did you get your hands on Jane Rochford, by the way? I’ll transfer you another few thousand if you need it. Just don’t tell me that toffee-nosed bastard Didion nabbed Anne Naylor and —”

“I killed someone.”

Silence.

“Who?” Jax sounded odd.

“Underguard. They tried to detain a medium.”

“So you killed the Underguard.”

“I killed one.”

He inhaled sharply. “And the other?”

“I put him in his hadal zone.”

“Wait, you did it with your––?” When I didn’t reply, he began to laugh. I could hear him clapping his hand on his desk. “At last. At last . Paige, you little thaumaturge , you did it! You’re wasted on séances, really you are. So this man—the Underguard—he’s really a vegetable?”