The Mesmerist(46)

I stiffen.

I know that face. It is the boy from the alley! The Rosy Boy. I hear his voice in my head: Help, he whispered. Please, help me.

From the edge of my vision, Malachai enters the scene, a squirming rodent gripped firmly in one hand. In the other, a thin syringe gleams, a drop of liquid balanced at its tip. In one quick motion he plunges it into the rat’s thick skin. It squirms, trying to break free, but Malachai holds it tightly. After what seems like forever, he drops the syringe on the floor.

Now he approaches the boy, who winces and draws back. Quicker than a striking cobra, Malachai lashes out with his free hand and grabs the boy’s left arm.

“This won’t hurt,” he says in a flat, dead voice. “Just a pinch.”

The boy screams as the rat sinks its teeth into his arm.

“Shush,” Malachai whispers in feigned sincerity as the rat scampers away. “Quiet now.” He cocks his head. “Do you like to sing?”

“I want to go home,” the boy sobs. “I want me mum.”

“I want me mum,” Malachai cruelly mimics, and then leans in close. “I have a song for you.”

I shudder, for I know what is coming.

“Ring around the rosy,” Malachai sings quietly. “A pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!”

The monster called Malachai raises his head. “I have given you a rosy gift,” he taunts. “Run along now, and spread it to your family and those who come to visit.”

I awake, gasping, and stare into the darkness.

Rats. The disease is being spread by rats.

And then I hear it again, the dreadful refrain that has tormented me to no end.

Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO





M


Darkness looms in front of me. The faerie stone has dimmed. I sit with my back against the tunnel wall, my knees drawn up to my chest.

Rats.

Malachai is using rats to spread the rosy sickness.

I have to stop him. But how?

Only now do I notice faint light a short distance away, near the tracks. Five candles are planted in the earth. They form a circle, and the flames sputter and hiss in the stuffy air.

Someone has been here.

“Emily?” I call, my voice hoarse. “Gabriel?”

I stand up and step away from the tunnel wall, slowly approaching the mysterious circle of candles. The smoke is thin, but it burns my eyes and scratches my throat.

“Jess,” I hear a weak voice call.

“Emily!” I shout, looking left and right.

And then I see them.

There—?farther along the tunnel wall, on the opposite side—?two figures are slumped. I race to the spot and kneel to cradle Emily’s head in my hands. She is pale and feverish, sweating. Her light is back but pulsing slowly, and her lips are dry and cracked. “Water,” she croaks. “I need something . . . to drink.”

“We don’t have any water, Em,” I tell her. “I promise I will get you out of here.” And I certainly hope I can.

Next to her, Gabriel is sitting against the wall too, his head lolling on his neck. A long red gash is scored across his face, and his harp lies broken beside him. “Gabriel,” I start. “Are you hurt?”

His eyes open and close slowly. I no longer have my satchel and can’t even give him an acacia leaf.

“Someone is here,” he whispers. It seems as if all the strength has left his body. “We saw him.”

“Who?” I ask. “Who did you see?”

“That would be me,” a calm voice calls.

I turn quickly, back to the circle of candles. A shape, tall and ghostly, walks toward me. It is him, Malachai. I can feel it in every pore of my skin.

I stand up, scanning the ground for my satchel, thinking that somehow it could be here, not taken by the creatures who attacked us, leaving us defenseless for their master’s arrival.

The figure draws closer. “Stay away!” I shout, inching back. My fingertips touch the wall behind me.

And then the words I have heard inside my head for so long are truly spoken aloud.

“Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.”

The bearer of the voice steps into the circle of candles.

He wears not the skin of a monster, but that of a human man. His black waistcoat looks to be made from velvet, and the vest within is stitched with red paisley swirls. He has the appearance of a gentleman, and the silken ascot tucked into his high-collared white shirt is elegantly knotted.

I am struck still. Father’s killer is in front of me. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. My hands are clammy. For all my talk of bravery, I cannot move, cannot even speak. Waves of heat seem to radiate from him, and my face sweats profusely.

He looks at Emily and Gabriel for a long moment, and then his gaze falls back to me. I feel as if he is searching my very soul, but I force myself not to look away. “I must say, Jessamine,” he says, “you run with a rather ragged lot.”

The sound of my name in his mouth sickens me.

“Where is the other one?” he asks. “That prancing fop? My old friend Balthazar.”

Fear roils in my stomach, a twisting knot of pain, but somehow I find the courage to speak. “Where’s Darby?” I demand. “What have you done with her?”