Chapter 22: Exhuming Answers - The Night Market

PART IV

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Pepper jolted awake at the desk, blinking herself back into the world as she surfaced from her dreams. The high-backed chair beneath her groaned as she shifted. The latest items of research lay spread open before her: a sprawl of rough-looking books, loose maps and laminated scrap pages. Some were rolled like scrolls; others wrapped in white and red ropes. One sported a tarnished padlock.

A shaft of light cut through the air from a lamp suspended overhead, casting a glow across yellowed paper and brittle bindings. Her notes, written in the tightly regulated ledger assigned to her, sprawled unevenly at times. Questions scribbled, theories half mapped, ideas scratched out and circled again. Demons. Possessions. Welsh folk stories of creatures that had no names. The nature of blood. How to summon. Why you shouldn’t.

Her handwriting had grown erratic in the last additions where she had clearly been fighting the urge to sleep, descending into a line of pen that tumbled off the page.

She checked the time with a stab of her phone. 2.27 a.m..

She rubbed her eyes, yawned and sat up, glancing around the cavernous reading hall. All around her were bookcases taller than houses, stretching in tiered rows. She could hear the faint rustle of paper, footsteps echoing off the marble floor. Other researchers, Archivists, Alchemists, Family clerks, moved in and out of sight, some quietly comparing notes, others focused so fully on their job they barely seemed alive.

Pepper absent-mindedly gathered a few books she now deemed useless and stood with a groan. Her muscles ached from being curled in a chair for hours. She stretched, carried the tomes back to their towering shelves, and began scanning the spines for something new of worth.

‘Miss Montgomery.’

She turned. Canis Cavendish stood just beyond the halo of the reading lamp’s glow, dressed in a velvet blazer and trousers of midnight blue, his shirt unbuttoned dangerously low, and looking somewhat confused.

‘Canis,’ she said, adjusting her collar slightly and summoning a weary smile. ‘Sir. How may I help you?’

‘You cannot help me at all, dear,’ he said, smiling faintly. ‘I’m just . . . surprised to see you. You’re here by yourself?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How? I know Viola lacks access to the Vault.’

‘You’re right. She doesn’t.’ Pepper met his gaze without flinching. ‘Quinn graciously provided it to me. For research purposes.’

‘Of course she has. Why wouldn’t she?’ His smile widened just enough to show teeth. ‘And what, precisely, does my sister have you researching?’

Pepper hesitated a beat.

‘Miss Quinn believes that by studying the thing that resides inside my brother, and exploring how to . . . remove it . . . there could be broader benefits to the family.’

‘Ah,’ Canis said smoothly, ‘that certainly sounds like something she’d say. Though I imagine she would relish the chance to annoy everybody here by doing the work herself. May I ask how said research is coming along?’

‘It’s . . . progressing.’

‘Come now, Pepper. Speak plainly.’

She sighed, gesturing toward the notes scattered across the table. ‘Not well. Welsh folklore history is surprisingly sparse. Even vampiric. I’m inclined to believe there wasn’t a foothold there, but it sounds bloody impossible. You get plenty from the Scottish Highlands and Yorkshire. Even Cornwall. But Wales? It’s a black hole. Either the records don’t exist or it simply didn’t happen. Which is odd, considering how old – ancient – Wales is.’

Canis nodded slowly, skimming his fingers over the books on display. ‘You’re not wrong. But you are missing an obvious piece of the puzzle. Wales was invaded by the English – somewhere around the thirteenth century, if memory serves correctly. Their campaign to dominate involved more than swords and garrisons. They turned castles into forts, erased histories, traditions, crushed native beliefs. Even tried to kill the language. Just like the Romans before them. You can’t control a people without first making them forget who they are. Erase their identity, and they’ll adopt whichever one you provide. Time, eventually, removes the evidence.’

Pepper narrowed her eyes. ‘The winners write the history.’

‘Exactly. And they write what they want. Heroes are turned into villains. Rebellions become genocide. Superstitions swept aside. And history books after will seldom tell the truth,’ Canis replied, dry as bone. ‘But you’re hoping to find clues about your brother’s . . . situation. Wouldn’t it be easier if he just told you?’

‘His memory is . . . patchy,’ she said carefully. ‘The trauma, all he’s been through, has done a number on him, so solid details are lacking. The only clue I’ve had to go on is something called a, uh, Sin Eater.’

Canis blinked. ‘I haven’t heard that name in a long time.’

He stepped closer, tilting his head.

‘Sin Eaters were part of old Celtic ritual. When someone passed, they’d summon one to take on what the priest couldn’t absolve. It was a ritual of consumption. A crust of bread, a bowl of ale. The meal was consumed beside the body, so that whatever clung to the dead would pass into the living. The belief was that the Sin Eater would carry the adopted sins into the afterlife, sparing the dead from damnation. Some instances of this were simply symbolic. Others were not.’

‘Yeah,’ said Pepper. ‘That I found. But this lead I have, this one in Wales was different. They allegedly kept the Sins in some sort of chest, literally trapped them.’

Canis frowned. ‘That doesn’t align with the rite. Sin Eaters absorbed the guilt. They didn’t collect it.’

‘Exactly,’ said Pepper. ‘Which is what’s confusing. Whatever was used wasn’t symbolic. It was . . . physical and functional. And, dare I say, magical?’

Canis formed the beginnings of a smile as his eyes searched the air in thought.

‘Any object capable of performing that would be tremendously strong. More likely than not a—’

They said it in unison.

‘Relic.’

He revealed a row of brilliant white teeth in amusement at this revelation.

‘Let’s go have a look, shall we?’

Pepper kept step with Canis through the Vault, the echo of their footfalls muffled by the carpet runner that split the stone floor like a river of red. They passed under archways and between displays framed in brass, or glass, or nothing. The Relics, in all their variations, were exposed, and Pepper was assessing the layers of security in the process. Strangely, she couldn’t detect a single security camera within the Vault itself, no matter how keenly she looked. Her memory returned to the lockdown: the sudden shift in light, the colossal metal door that sealed them inside the gallery, like an animal attempting to close its throat and swallow them whole, until the threat had passed. She glanced behind herself, where the slab of metal remained set in the wall, sleeping, for now, and shivered.

Canis, of course, was utterly unfazed.

‘Relics,’ he mused, checking the clunky gold watch around his wrist. ‘Fascinating things, are they not? Not my area, truth be told. There’s too much homework involved, and then there’s the unpredictability . . . Some grant blessings, some spirit them away, others meddle, some . . . well, some simply exist. All share something in common: they are expensive. It makes sense that there is an entire industry built around their acquisition. More than a few are older than any Family we know of, and I don’t say that lightly.’ He glanced toward a quiet corner. ‘Let’s ask someone.’

At the far end of the gallery, near a case displaying a tangled wrought-iron crown half fused with bone, a lone Archivist stood at a plinth. She wore a long charcoal-grey tabard marked with faded runes across the shoulders, her hair twisted in a honey-brown braid that shimmered beneath the lights. She was pressing her gloved fingers against a mask of deep onyx with a flail of raven feathers, testing its surface for something, when she noticed Canis and turned without surprise. Her bow was deep. Her voice was clear and flat, and exact.

‘Sir. A pleasure to see you here. Can I be of assistance?’

‘Actually, you can. We are in need of a bit of clarity,’ Canis said, gesturing lightly to Pepper. ‘My colleague is seeking information on a potential Relic. Miss Montgomery?’

Pepper’s mouth was dry. She laced her fingers in front of her, straightened her back, and tried to sound like someone who belonged here.

‘It’s . . . possibly post-war. North Wales. Last seen in the early nineteen forties. A wooden box, about yay big.’ She mimed the shape in her hands. ‘An elderly woman inherited it from a Sin Eater, apparently. Family heirloom. Sadly, I don’t have the names, nothing concrete. But the thing was . . . it would hold the captured sins. The chest had strange markings . . . Norse-like symbols, the witness said. They, uh, moved across the surface.’

The Archivist blinked once, slow and deliberate. ‘Moving script has been reported before. Not Norse, more likely proto-Futhark. Or perhaps Vedrunic. There are also Babylonian glyph-forms with kinetic tendencies, though they’re rarer. Do know if the marks burned, shimmered or refracted?’

‘I . . . don’t know. He didn’t say. I know how it sounds.’

‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Canis said lightly. ‘Quinn tells me stories about girls living with foxes. The peculiar is the norm here. We’re in good company.’

The Archivist turned, leading them deeper between the Relics, toward a computer terminal that emitted a green phosphorous glow.

‘There have been records,’ she said, ‘of artifacts created with such intentions in mind. It is not unheard of – though it is rare. Most containment relics do not endure time well. The contents tend to resist, leading to their destruction.’

She set upon the keyboard, her fingers clicking and clattering. All the while, windows on the screen popped up and vanished to the rhythm.

‘Making it more valuable, one would assume?’ Canis asked.

‘Significantly,’ the Archivist replied, emotionless. ‘One moment, please.’

Pepper glanced about, casually positioning herself before a pewter vase, dark and etched with looping thorns. It looked quite unpleasant to hold. A plaque beneath it read:

Water of the Mire
CAT: GE930A

Canis bent in closer, squinting at the wording.

‘What’s this happy little thing?’ he asked, looking it up and down.

‘That,’ the Archivist said without turning, ‘would be what is commonly referred to as the Assassin’s Jug. It infuses any liquid placed within with an undetectable poison. Even the cleanest water becomes lethal. A gift of divine spite. We’re currently tracing its usage and have already discovered evidence of its use in the death of Edward the Sixth. Some in our collection are truly fascinating artifacts . . .’

Pepper swallowed, trying not to glance too obviously at the Eternal Rose, innocently resting right beside on its pedestal.

‘We have no listing under those parameters,’ the Archivist said, turning from the terminal. ‘Not yet. But it may exist outside our registry. Some relics are held privately, others are still unclaimed, with exhumers . . . Would you like me to add the description to our archive watchlist?’

Canis nodded. ‘Please do.’

The Archivist did so. For a moment, Pepper’s eyes shifted around her. She scanned every detail. The pedestals. The angles of the displays. No visible guards making rounds. Still no cameras visible. No pressure sensors that she could see. And the thing that bothered her most during the lockdown: there was no panic.

‘While we’re at it, has there been any update to GE713N?’

The Archivist tapped away at the keyboard once more. ‘Ah. The Eternal Rose. Yes, actually, there were some preliminary reports that came back from initial testing.’

‘Anything promising?’ Canis bent forward to examine the screen.

Pepper did her best to act like she wasn’t listening.

‘Improvement has been made by keeping it in proximity of people, animals. Apparently, it displays an almost parasitic effect where it absorbs the life from those around it. According to this, recent hypothesis is that the Eternal Rose absorbs these trace amounts, providing its curative properties. However, there is a point being made here, that calculating size and mass, the Relic is limited in its use.’

‘How limited?’ Canis frowned.

‘It can only be used a single time – and it’ll expire in the process.’

A shock of fright bounded up Pepper’s spine at this revelation.

‘Considering how much we paid that is quite the disappointment.’ Canis made an exasperated sigh before composing himself. ‘Please add a note there and thank everyone involved for their labours. And to keep up the good work.’

Pepper’s head spun. This plan of theirs, this entire plan, was hinging on the shared usage of the Eternal Rose, and now they would have to choose who would get its benefits? Before Pepper could comprehend this further, she thanked the Archivist for her help. Canis had begun to talk as she left the gallery.

‘Anyway. Your efforts are not an entirely lost cause in my opinion. Scant progress made is better than none at all. If anything resembling this box of yours crops up, we will be in the know. And I’m sure my parents would be more than interested in the outcome.’

Most of this was tuned out, lending her to think on the lack of visible security. In a moment of absolute madness, she tested her theory.

‘Thank you, Canis. You’ve been very generous in your—’

Near the plinth where a braided bracelet of dull red stone rested in a velvet curve, she brushed her elbow too wide, too obvious. The bracelet clattered to the ground, a sharp sound in the quiet. She stooped at once, cheeks flushed, heart hammering.

No one rushed in. No alarms. No security sweep.

Canis raised an eyebrow as she apologised profusely and righted it.

‘It’s not me you have to apologise to. If the Archivists had seen that . . .’ He whistled quietly. ‘They’re protective of their toys. And not known for forgiveness. Still, no harm done, eh?’

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, placing the bracelet back with sheepish care.

But her thoughts were racing. It was clear that the Vault’s defences were constructed with the singular intention of keeping the undesirable out. It was arrogantly presumed nobody would make it this far, evident by the lack of methods within which meant that when it came to stealing the Eternal Rose, the hard part was getting in at all. A problem she had already solved.

All she had to do was come up with how to smuggle it out.

Who got to use it after that was a problem for another day.