Even the tiniest shock threatens her grip, now. The substance of her spirit has been stretched as far as it will go; there is not much of the Hall to protect any longer, but not much of herself to cover it, either. Despite her resolution to protect her mortal consort, she finds herself drawing on his strength more and more, to hold on through these final days.
The worst of it is not the physical pain, not now. It is the knowledge that everything she has fought for all these centuries must end. Some few fae may find a way to stay in London; they will become changelings, or subsist on mortal bread until their spirits are altered beyond recognition. The era of the Onyx Court, though, is over. No more will faeries be a hidden part of the city’s life. Magic will pass a little further out of this world, to fade and be forgotten.
She no longer even has the strength to rage against that loss.
All she can do now is postpone it for as long as possible. Hold on, and give her people as much time as she can.
They are fae. Miracles are not something they pray for.
The Galenic Academy, Onyx Halclass="underline" August 6, 1884
By the time he reached the gold and silver arch of the Academy boundary, Dead Rick was completely blown. His lungs burned and his fingers ached with the weight of the box, but he didn’t dare pause or set it down. He’d run all the way from Aldersgate to Cloak Lane, all the way from the entrance to here, until at the end he was staggering like a drunk, for fear Nadrett’s men might be following him. And they might still—but if they burst into the Academy, somebody would stop them.
He hoped.
Certainly the fae and mortals there looked as if they might stop him, when he lurched into the main hall. Dead Rick kept moving, both to avoid any questions, and because once he stopped he doubted he could start again. The library was a quiet place, the safest he could think of; if he collapsed there, surely Irrith would find him.
With his hands full, he resorted to using his foot to open the door. The room beyond was dismayingly full of people, but at that exact moment the only thing he cared about was the table, on which he could lay his burden at last.
He drew in one shuddering, relieved breath, hearing it loud in the silence around him. Then the silence was broken by a single, murderous word. “You.”
It was all the warning he got. Dead Rick’s reflexes were shredded by exhaustion; he hadn’t even turned his head before a body slammed into him from the side and carried him to the floor.
He howled, reaching out instinctively to protect his memories. Hands slapped his aside, then reformed into fists, striking his face two swift blows. The habits of seven years in the Goblin Market took over: he got one arm between them, grabbed the side of his attacker’s head, threw her hard to the floor. He rolled with her, his free hand moving to crush her throat—
The strong arms that wrapped about his shoulders and arms to drag him back weren’t necessary. He’d already stopped, frozen by the sight of the face beneath him. Seven years older, but he recognized that thick dark hair, the upturned nose, the furious hazel eyes. And the voice, shrieking curses at him, in which he recognized the name Owen.
He couldn’t even answer. All he could do was sprawl on the floor, Feidelm pinning his arms like a wrestler, and stare at her. Of course she was here. The boy was, after all, and Dead Rick remembered her screams when he’d stolen the boy away. Of course she would come after him, no matter how long it took.
They’d gathered quite an audience. An old mortal woman and two fae under glamour; they’d been there when he came in. More crowded the doorway, crouching or stretching or in one case hovering on dragonfly wings to see past their fellows, until a voice said, “Let me through.”
It wasn’t a loud voice; it didn’t have to be. The authority in it parted the crowd like a knife through soft flesh, making a gap for a tall, dark-skinned figure to pass.
Irrith had been right when she said Dead Rick didn’t recognize the faerie. He didn’t have to, though, to know this was Abd ar-Rashid, the genie who was Scholarch of the Galenic Academy. He murmured a quiet request to the ink-stained sprite at his side, and soon the door was closed once more, with Abd ar-Rashid and Niklas von das Ticken inside.
The genie’s dark eyes glinted like two chips of the Onyx Hall’s stone as he took in Dead Rick’s presence and appearance. Still in that quiet, authoritative tone, he asked, “What is happening here?”
Feidelm had finally released Dead Rick. He remained slumped at her feet as she stood and answered. “The Goodemeades brought Miss Baker here to see the boy in my care. Then this one came in, and she attacked him.”
The mortal girl scrambled upright and pointed at Dead Rick, her hand shaking. “He’s the one who stole Owen, he is.”
Abd ar-Rashid turned his gaze back to Dead Rick. “Is this true?”
The skriker was too exhausted to lie, even if he thought it would have fooled anyone. “Yes. It’s true.”
The genie gestured to the box on the table. “And what is this?”
That gave Dead Rick the energy he needed. He was up before he knew it, bracing himself between the genie and the box as if he would last two seconds in another fight. “It’s my fucking property, is what it is, and anybody so much as tries to touch it, they’ll bleed.”
Niklas made a low, amused noise, and cocked a pistol that seemed to have come from nowhere.
Where was Irrith? Dead Rick wasn’t doing a very good job of winning friends here. But he had a card to play, one he thought they’d like. “Before your dwarf there goes shooting me, you should know—I can tell you where the ghost of Galen St. Clair is.”
“Nadrett has him,” one of the glamoured fae said.
“Not no more, ’e don’t.” Presuming Aspell had gotten away with the plate. He was a tricky snake, maybe tricky enough to escape Nadrett. “Keep that girl from tearing my throat out—give me some ’elp on a little matter of my own—and I’ll tell you ’ow to find your dead Prince.”
“Dead Rick.” It was the other glamoured faerie. She spoke his name gently, and came forward with slow, careful steps; then the glamour fell from her, revealing the same kind face on a brownie half the height. The mortal girl made a stifled noise and retreated sharply. The faerie said, “You don’t remember any of us, do you?”
He knew enough to guess who she was. Within two tries, anyway. Even in the Goblin Market, he’d heard of the Goodemeades, the brownie sisters that had dwelt in Islington since the earliest days of the Onyx Hall. Whether she was Rosamund or Gertrude, she would try to help him—if he let her. The pity and sorrow in her eyes threatened to choke him. They had him pinned with his back to the table, surrounding him in an arc with no way to escape, and if it weren’t for the crate behind him he would have tried to bolt for safety… but that would mean leaving his memories behind.
Then the door opened, and Irrith stood framed in the gap. “He doesn’t remember anything,” she said softly, with a grimace of apology to the skriker. “Niklas, don’t shoot him; I don’t want to see what he’d do to you if you tried.”