At the back of the hall was a marble fountain shaped into stone-white nymphs, their gaping mouths spewing waterfalls of bubbling dark wine. Behind it, a man stood guard in front of a towering black door marked with a chain of pulsing sigils that ran in strange, concentric patterns. Truth be told, Marie might have mistaken the man for a ghost or a haint. Cherry-red circles were painted on the apples of his cheeks, the rest of his face covered in chalky powder, the theatrical pomp of a stage actor.
When they approached, he leaned in close, red cheekbones jutted high as he spoke the words barring their passage in a dreamy lilt: “What follows the flesh when the soul is long gone? What comes to the front when the man in the mirror sings no song?”
From behind the door came a swelled roaring, the great and terrible shudder of a beast opening its maw. Just what was waiting behind that door? “Beast after body,” answered Jon.
Marie silently turned the words over in her mind.Wine beforeblood. Beast after body.The phrase hung thickly in the air, a spell complete, a dark ritual coming to a close.
For a moment, she was sure that he would turn them away. Then a smile broke across his face, quick as lightning, stretching from ear to ear. “Magnifique! Y’all best hurry on now,” the doorman urged, that smile still frozen into factitious cheer. “Show ’bout to start.”
He led them through the door and down a staircase that spiraled so deep into the boat that it seemed to lead to nothing at all. Marie reached for the banister that ran along its length, but the moment she touched it, she quickly withdrew her hand. The metal quivered beneath her fingertips, alive and writhing like a wet-bellied thing.
She held firm to Jon’s hand as they descended. Down and down they went, the walls growing tighter, closer, the music from above waning with every step as they wound deeper into the steamboat’s shadowed innards. Marie had been sure there was only one deck beneath them, so why then did the steps lead so deep? She was sure the staircase should have ended two turns down. The walls tremored every few seconds, as if something were slowly worming its way through them. She was beginning to think there was something deeply unnatural about this place. Something verywrong.
When they descended to the bottom deck, their guide led them down a tight passageway hissing with steam, then into a private viewing box that sat high above rows and rows of seats filled with chanting people—widows sheathed behind their veils, maidens, and golden-leafed men—some banging their fists, others hooting and howling, their eyes excitedly trained on a pit carved into the center of the room. Except the pit was dressed to be more of a stage—covered in a flowing red velvet curtain that was pulled to a close. If she didn’t know any better, she might have believed they were in an opera house in the Quarter. But this was not the Quarter. And this place, she knew at last, was no opera house. It was more of a colosseum. Which shouldn’t be possible. This place was larger than any steamboat could conceivably contain, even one as abundant asLa Lune.There was magic at work here.
“What is this place?” asked Marie.
Jon’s gaze was trained on the pit below. “I would say it was hell. But I hear even a realm such as that has rules. There are no ruleshere.” Then he turned, considered her from behind the sharp, pointed lines of his panther mask. His voice was flat. Final. “Only misery.”
Frantic chanting overtook the crowd. The sound was deafening. They raised their Hands of Glory in the dark, a sea of silver flames dancing in open white palms. She’d scented something metallic and alchemical on the steamboat’s second deck. And now she knew why. Because they were here.
The Brotherhood of the White Hand.
She counted at least a dozen of them—the alchemists in their hooded robes drawn over their sallow faces. A man in the front row with long white hair suddenly stood, turning to address the crowd. It was Gailon. She recognized him immediately—because he was one of the few in the entire chamber who did not conceal his face. No mask. No covering. And why should he? In Marie’s opinion, the Grand Wizard was the special kind of idiot who relished in the notoriety. He wanted everyone to know—tosee—the results of his work. He stood, draped in the Brotherhood’s colors: a long black robe that flowed out around him like rippling dark water, trimmed in glowing white sigils. The moonstone brooch at his chest shone in the shifting torchlight, the mark of the pale hand.
The alchemist lifted his white staff, then slammed it on the floor, sending a shock wave of power throughout the chamber, hushing the crowd at once.
And then the curtain rose.
Ten black men were chained together in a line. Emaciated down to bones. Their faces deeply swollen from fresh bruising. They were slaves. Quite possibly runaways. It was true, runaways were often dealt the worst blows by their masters, anything to weaken the resolve of anyone who might harbor similar notions of escape.
Marie’s chest constricted. This was not going to be a show, not one she would ever pay to see. This was going to be punishment. Public. And if the chanting crowd was any indication—unspeakably brutal.
Gailon’s voice thundered out to the crowd, his words cracking the air like a lash.
“Transforma!”
The first man let out a screech.
His arm split cleanly open—bone bulging, bits of pink fleshy muscle exposed and writhing as it reconfigured itself into a new shape at the alchemist’s behest. The rest of the slaves watched in wild fear, shaking and trembling. The smallest of the ten wet himself. Marie’s eyes shifted through the crowd, searching for an ounce of disgust, some sense of reason. But the crowd only watched, breathlessly enchanted.
“Transcende!”
The horde of robed alchemists answered in one hollow voice, echoing Gailon’s words back to him. This wasn’t cheering. This was decree. Marie gripped the railing, her gut clenching, fear and rage twisting her insides with a cold fist as a single realization struck her. The Brotherhood had not simply boarded the steamboat like the rest. They were not guests to this cursed sport, bloodthirsty spectators seeking to be entertained. Theyruledit.
The man was bowled on the ground now, screaming and hollering as his bones broke and mended all at once, his arms extending out until they merged into a crooked winged shape. Marie didn’t know much about the laws of alchemy. But she was sure of one thing—that it should never be used on people. It was for objects—for stones and metals and the like. And for elements of the natural world—fire, wind, water, earth. But not people. Never people.
Marie glanced at Jon. His eyes remained unflinchingly fixed on the spectacle. But she saw the way his jaw tightened, the hard set of his lips when the black man screamed out for mercy.
“Progredere!”
Feathers erupted from his skin, raised on horrible end. His jaw broke, unhinged and hanging, until it stretched itself into a hooked beak. His wings spread wide, his eyes bright, molten green. He let out a long, broken cry, a horrible sound that ripped from his beak and out into the chamber. The transformation was complete. Marie stared, breathless and shaking, at what the man had become. But he was not a man anymore. Not fully. The beast had come and taken his place. Marie was reminded of Jon’s story on the rowboat.Suppose it’s just as well, ’cause the truth is, love, folks are what they believe they are.
Wild cheering erupted.
Marie’s eyes fell to the seat beside Gailon’s, to the face she’d know anywhere. Felix Corbin. Front and center, the mayor of New Orleans grinning like a fool. Of course he was here. He was as much to blame as the Brotherhood for this madness. He would want the runaways publicly punished, even more so if their debasement lined his pockets with more coin.
Transforma, transcende, progredere!Transform, transcend, progress! The Brotherhood of the White Hand’s sacred creed. She’d seen it all over the city, plastered on the shining placards that advertised their latest miracles and advancements. But this was not advancement. This was ungodly. Unnatural.
