Bones and Ashes (10 page)

Raiden blew out the candle and got wearily into bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin and tucked them tightly around her. She felt fragile, as if the weight of the covers would bruise her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and pretended the weight of the covers was her mother’s arms around her, holding her tight.

Chapter Eight

Raiden woke to find Marielle by her bed, hovering anxiously. The ghost opened the curtains slowly as she was afraid the sudden light would hurt her. Peters appeared with a cup of tea, his forehead creased with concern.

“I’m fine,” Raiden told them as she accepted the cup. Neither of them looked convinced.  

She sipped the hot tea. She didn’t want to face the other girls after her humiliation last night. She wanted to stay in bed and hide until the gossip had died down and they had found someone else to talk about. But she was a Feralis; at least she was meant to be, and they weren’t afraid of anything, living or dead. Besides, there were more important things to think about. Aren would come for her this afternoon. He had said she could go with him to see Matherson’s former landlady. That mattered more than Blaize and Glacia. 

Raiden swung her legs over the side of the bed and got up. All of her dresses had been sewn back together and pressed. Marielle must have spent all night mending them. When she got back from the bathroom, Marielle helped her into a grey day dress. The ghost’s hands were gentle as she braided Raiden’s hair and pinned it up.

The imp sat quietly on her dressing table, talking to himself in a strange language. Raiden tied a ribbon around her neck to try and conceal the red marks; they were even more pronounced today. It hurt having the ribbon brush against her neck, but at least no one would see the bruises. At breakfast, Cassade and Heather said nothing about last night, to Raiden’s relief. 

The classroom was almost full when they arrived. Blaize was already there with Glacia and Gale. They fell silent as soon as Raiden came in.

Raiden pulled out her chair and went to sit down. With her back turned, she couldn’t see as her chair was slowly moved back by invisible hands. She sat down and fell to the floor with a thud. Laughter rang out. She got up and pulled the chair back to the table. This time she kept hold of it as she sat down. 

The door opened and closed and the room went quiet. A moment later the chalk rose from the desk and floated to the blackboard. The words, ‘The Geology of the British Isles’ gradually appeared on the board.

Mr Smith, the geography teacher, had once been a ghost, but he had faded away as people forgot about him and he forgot. No one was quite sure how it happened. His link to this world had gone, but he couldn’t find his way to the other side. He was lost, stranded between the two worlds of the living and the dead.

There was complete silence except for the occasional yawn from one of the girls and the squeaking of the chalk as it moved across the board. Raiden was conscious of Blaize sitting behind her. Her shoulders were tensed, as she waited for her to do something. 

By the end of the lesson they knew what cliffs harpies preferred to make their nests in and why it was unlikely there had ever been dragons in the British Isles.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Cassade said as they made their way to the next lesson.

“She still hasn’t mentioned her mirror,” Raiden said. She would rather Blaize say something. At least then she could try to explain and offer to pay for it to be repaired.

Mr Crandell, the history master, stood at the front of the classroom. “Take a seat,” he said as they entered. “We will begin right away. We have a great deal to cover this term.”

Raiden sat down next to Cassade. Mr Crandell was a short man, with white wispy hair and black eyes. Thick white eyebrows and a long thin nose dominated his face. He sniffed a lot, as though he had a permanent cold. He looked harmless, but he was an interrogator and he worked for the Inquisition; he was their spy at the school.

A small painting of Oliver Cromwell hung on the wall to the right of the blackboard. The former head of the Inquisition and the man responsible for abolishing the monarchy was much admired by Mr Crandell.

“Let’s see who remembers what we were discussing last term.” He wrote ‘The Battle of Hastings’ on the board and underlined it. “We have the English on the hill and William down here with his army,” he said, making circles on the board to show the two sides. “Now, what was Harold’s fatal mistake?”

Cassade immediately put her hand up. “William had necromancers in his army, Harold didn’t. When his men died, William had them summoned back to fight. It meant he never ran out of men. No matter how many of his soldiers the English killed, he could just summon them back to fight.”

“So, Harold’s failure can be seen partly as a result of the wider social climate of his time. In England in that period, necromancy was generally frowned upon. However, over in Europe all the royal courts had their own personal necromancers. After William the Conqueror all the English monarchs had their own necromancers right up until the English civil war.” He scribbled what he had said on the board. “What else,” he asked.

Heather’s hand shot up, waving to get his attention. He ignored her and instead scanned the room. “Miss Feralis?”

Raiden looked up. She felt self-conscious as everyone turned their attention to her. She hesitated, trying to remember what she had read. “The goblins.”

“What about the goblins,” he said impatiently.

“Harold had the support of the Goblin King, but the battle took place in daylight so they were unable to help him.”

“I wouldn’t consider that a major factor.” He added goblins to the list.

He turned back to the board. She could hear Blaize and Glacia whispering behind her and the soft sound of their laughter. She tried to ignore them. Instead, she watched the clock, counting down to when Aren would come for her.

Her pen suddenly floated off the table, up into the air. She tried to grab it, but it moved out of her reach. She watched as it flew over to Mr Crandell and hit him in the shoulder before falling to the floor. There was a large ink stain on the back of his jacket where the pen had struck him. He spun around, his face turning red.

“Who threw that?” No one answered. The room had gone silent. Mr Crandell picked up the pen from the floor. “Whose pen is this?”

Raiden raised her hand.

“You think this is amusing, Miss Feralis?”

“No, Mr Crandell.” She glanced back to look at Gale. The air witch was pretending to be absorbed with her book. Blaize sat smirking.

“I will be speaking to Miss Grimble about this.” He turned back to the board. “Let’s get back to the lesson. I’m sure there are some students who are here to learn.” He picked up the chalk. “Now, Harold had rushed south after fighting the Troll King at Stamford Bridge.”

Her books were suddenly flung off the table and crashed to the floor. She wasn’t quick enough to grab them.

Mr Crandell put his chalk down. “That’s it. Get out of my classroom.”

Raiden rose and bent to pick up her books. The other girls were all looking at her, but no one would meet her eyes. Mr Crandell followed her out of the room. “How dare you interrupt my class! Is this some pathetic attempt to get attention for yourself? You can go and explain your behaviour to Miss Grimble.”

“I --” She didn’t get the chance to defend herself as he shut the door. She hugged her books tightly to her chest. She walked down the corridor and sat down on the stairs. Wet tears splashed onto her books. She rubbed them away with the back of her hand.

She felt a presence settle beside her. A phantom hand gently patted her arm. Mr Smith was trying to comfort her.   

“I hate this place,” she said. “I hate it so much.”

He squeezed her hand. He seemed to sympathise.

After what seemed like hours, the bell finally rang and girls came streaming out of the classrooms. She went down to meet Cassade.

“You have to speak to Grumble about them,” Cassade said.

Raiden didn’t answer. Grumble would never believe her anyway.

“Raiden, this isn’t simple name calling or being spiteful,” Cassade continued. “You need to tell someone. It can’t go on like this.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Raiden --”

“We had better get to English.”

She walked on ahead to the classroom. She hesitated at the door. A sick feeling filled her stomach at the thought of having to face Blaize again. You’re a Feralis, she thought to herself. They’re not afraid of anything. She raised her head and squared her shoulders and went in. 

  As soon as the bell rang, she hurried up to her room to change before she went to meet Aren. She would miss Miss Radbone’s class, but Miss Radbone wouldn’t notice her absence. She never noticed anything. Raiden changed her dress and shoved her arms into her coat. The imp sat on her dressing table, playing with a black ribbon. He had been so quiet; Raiden had forgotten he was even there.

“What am I going to do with you?” She crouched down before him. He hadn’t caused any further damage, but he couldn’t stay here.

“Deg stay. Deg gud,” the imp said. 

“Is Deg your name?” Raiden asked.

He nodded his head and banged his small fist on his chest. “Deg.”

Raiden grabbed the pouches of bones and ashes and tied them at her waist. “Stay here while I’m gone,” she said to Deg as she left the room. She followed the stream of girls down the stairs, but instead of going to class, she slipped out the front door.

Aren was waiting by her carriage. “How is your head?” she asked.

“Better.” He helped her in, and then took the seat across from her. “I’m not sure I should be taking you to this place. Not after what happened yesterday with Matherson.”

“It’s too late now,” Raiden said. “You’re stuck with me.”

Aren smiled at her. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you all, even mother and Elissa.”  

Raiden didn’t know what to say. He always seemed so happy when he talked about working for a living, but was that the truth or just what he wanted her to think?

“I could speak to my grandmother for you or perhaps Xan could do something,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. It’s too late for that. It’s between me and mother.”

They pulled up to a row of run-down terraced houses. The area was poor. The street was filled with mud and excrement. A woman and a little girl walked past in ragged clothes. The child skipped along, holding tightly to her mother’s hand. Tiny horns jutted out from beneath the child’s matted hair. She must have demon blood; her family probably couldn’t afford to have the horns removed.

“The boarding house is the third one along,” Aren said. “The one with the dirty windows. That’s where Matherson lived for the last year before he moved into the house we went to yesterday.”

“Did you find out where he got his money from?” Raiden asked.

“No. I’ve made enquires, but it hasn’t turned up anything yet. Let’s go and see what his former landlady knows.”

She took his arm and he led her across the road. She couldn’t avoid the filth. The hem of her dress was soon splattered with mud. A carriage was parked further down the street. The driver sat bundled up in his box drinking from a flask, his collar turned up against the cold. The carriage had no windows and the horses didn’t move; they stood still as if frozen. Bone was visible on one of the horse’s shoulders where the flesh had rotted away. She realised they weren’t frozen; they were dead. They were zombie horses.

Aren knocked on the door. The door opened a crack and a woman peered out.

“Good day,” Aren said. “My name is Aren Feralis. I’m from Smallpeace, Dawes and Pumprey, the solicitors.” He took a card from his pocket and offered it to the woman. A thin arm emerged to take it. “I’m here about James Matherson. I believe he rented a room from you.”

“He died,” the woman said. She started to close the door.

Aren put his foot against it. “I’m aware of that. My firm has been hired to settle his affairs. I wish to see the room he rented.”

The woman opened the door. Straggly grey hair hung down past her shoulders and her teeth were stained and rotted. She clutched a yellow lace shawl around her. It had most likely once been white, but few things stayed white in London without the use of fairy salts. The pollution turned everything yellow.

The woman sniffed. “Some gentleman has already come to look at it. Why do you want to see it again?”

“No one from my firm has been here,” Aren said. “Did this man give his name?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Raiden nudged Aren. He looked at her and she inclined her head. He looked puzzled. “Give her some money,” she whispered.

“You want me to bribe her?” 

The woman stood waiting. She could hear what they were saying. Eventually, Aren reached into his pocket and drew out a few coins. The woman snatched them greedily. “You’d best come in. We don’t want people talking.”

They followed her into the house. It was just as cold inside as it was outside. Raiden could see through into the parlour; there was a chair and a small table, but little else in the room.

“This gentleman you mentioned,” Aren prompted.

“What about him?” the woman said.

“Do you remember what he looked like?” Raiden asked.

“I might.”

“Anything you could tell us would be most helpful,” Aren said.