I wake in a small, ochre room. The floorboards feel hard and unyielding beneath my body, cords bind my wrists and ankles, and a rag which tastes of alcohol plugs my mouth. I manage to ease myself into a sitting position so I face the door – my back pressed into the peeling wall – and I feel a little less defenceless. There’s a large window to my right, so caked in grime it may as well be bricked up, but the odd splinter of dying afternoon light pushes through, suggesting our prison is not underground. This makes me feel a little better.
Alice sits beside me, the imprint of her body warm against mine. Nate sits opposite; a gag contorts his mouth into an eerie, fixed grin, and he holds his body as though his left side aches. I look into his eyes – sore and inflamed – and we blink a slow, teary greeting. At least we’re both alive. Next, my eyes find Katie – same gag, same eerie grin. She winks. But a tear rolls down her cheek, magnifying her freckles and soaking into her gag. I bet she’s wishing she never moved to London, never laid eyes on me, never even heard of The Gallows Dance. I feel a pang of guilt and let my head fall back against the wall. A reassuring thud. I hear this constant drone like a swarm of bees, and a tar-like substance clogs my left eye – my own blood, I suspect.
I don’t know how long we sit in that room. We stare at the walls, our feet, exchange the odd sympathetic glance. And, of course, I start to deliberate how we got into this mess. It started with the accident at Comic-Con. An earthquake? A bomb? An experiment gone wrong? I press my eyelids shut, my thoughts knotting together. I desperately want to be able to talk it through with the others, but I can’t quite spit the rags out.
I turn my thoughts to the canon instead. Although we can change it, we still seem to keep crossing back into it. We’re like two pieces of thread, running side by side, then twisting into each other only to separate again. So, at this point in canon, Rose had entered the church and was talking to Thorn about how she released the thistle-bomb at the Gallows Dance earlier in the day. I’ve watched the scene so many times; the main body of the church filled with night lights as the sky darkened and the other rebels left. Thorn tried to work out whether she was the right Imp for the Harper mission, and he was much nicer to her than to me – he didn’t crack her over the head and lock her in a room, for a start. ‘Spiky’ was definitely an understatement.
Eventually, I fall asleep. I know this because I have a strange, muddled dream of the city – not my London, but future Imp London. Broken walls, crumbling buildings, a bleak sky imprinted with battered roof lines. I scream and waver on the edge of a barrel. The freckly controller stands beneath me, pointing, laughing, pulling back his boot. Ash cries out and wraps his arms around my thighs. He lies me on the ground like I might crack, and leans over, I think to kiss my forehead. His eyes look the exact same colour as the sky behind, giving the impression he has two holes in his head. And suddenly, it isn’t Ash any more, it’s Nate. A dark chasm opens across his chest.
You did this to me, Violet, he says.
I push my palms into the black hole, but I can’t stem the flow. Blood streams down my arms and spots my face. I’m sorry.
He rests his lips on my skin and whispers, his breath as cold as snow. If only you’d looked after me better, none of this would have happened. He sits back and his eyelids flicker.
Nate, stay with me, I say.
His body dissolves into a red mist, hovers for a moment – a piece of gossamer cut into the shape of a boy – and disperses into the atmosphere like ashes. Like thistledown. I reach out, pawing helplessly at the air. But I feel only a smattering of droplets and the ever-increasing spaces in between.
And that’s when I hear a familiar voice, pushing through layers of time and love and warmth. Mum. Violet, stay with me. I can smell that clean, medicinal smell again, and the faint scent of her favourite perfume, star anise and jasmine. Violet, stay with me.
The creak of the door wakes me. Two dark shapes slip into the room, gaining detail only when they flick on the overhead light. My eyes quickly adjust. It’s Thorn and another Imp, striding across the boards towards me.
Thorn pauses beside Katie for a moment, watching as a dream causes her lashes to tremble. He then kneels beside me and removes the cords from my ankles and wrists. ‘They tell me you look just like her.’
I wait for the rush of blood to my feet and hands, but they feel completely dead, and when I try to pull the rags from my mouth, my fingers just bang awkwardly into my face.
‘Here.’ He leans forward and pulls the gag free, his gloved fingers surprisingly tender.
‘Who?’ I manage to say. ‘Who do I look like?’
‘Like Rose,’ he replies. ‘I never met her, but Saskia and Matthew swear you’re her double.’
Alice mumbles something through her gag. He turns to her. ‘It’ll be your turn shortly, princess, don’t you worry.’
She falls silent. I briefly let my palm settle on her knee.
Thorn extends his hand towards me. I don’t know what to do, so I take it. For a moment, I feel thankful he wears a glove, sure that his flesh would otherwise sear my own, like it seemed to Katie’s. He pulls me into a standing position, and I force myself to look into that single eye. It holds me like a spotlight.
‘I apologize for the rough treatment of you and your friends.’ Again, his gaze settles on a sleeping Katie. ‘I fear years of oppression have dulled our humanity somewhat. It’s something we hope to reinstate. And the death of Rose, the failure of the thistle-bomb mission, have left the rebels rather shaken and confused. I’m hopeful you can answer some of our questions.’
He looks at me again – he’s terrifying. His size, his power. But I refuse to appear weak, so I just stare defiantly into that single, piercing spotlight.
He smiles. ‘Come, I’ll show you around our humble abode.’
I can’t help wondering why he’s singling me out. I guess it’s because I look so like Rose, or perhaps it’s the canon, dragging me along again. I follow him from the room, casting a quick glance over my shoulder to Nate, whose mouth remains fixed but whose eyes blink firmly, reassuring me, lending me strength.
Thorn leads me down a dark staircase. The Imp with the rifle follows me, so close I can hear the rattle of phlegm in his chest. We step into the main body of the church. Just like I remembered, hundreds of night lights bathe the stone in a warm glow – a glow which never reaches the ceiling, giving the appearance that the roof is missing and we stand beneath a dark, empty sky. Most of the rebels have returned to their nearby shelters to rest. I suddenly feel very small, except for my heart, which feels all swollen and ready to split my chest in two.
Thorn stares at a boarded-up window, and I imagine how it once looked, filled with stained glass, a kaleido-scope of colour. But the Gem bombs put an end to that. A plaque rests beneath the window, roughly engraved with the words: Apes became Imps, Imps became rebels – the pinnacle of human revolution. I recall this from the book, a play on the old Gem motto: Apes became Imps, Imps became Gems – the pinnacle of human evolution.
‘You like our motto?’ Thorn asks. He asked Rose this exact same question. The threads are twisting together again.
‘It’s very clever,’ I reply, just like Rose did. It makes me feel safer, knowing the lines.
‘And what about our cause? Imp emancipation, equal rights,’ he says, again, straight from canon.
‘Your cause is the same as mine.’ I know it’s optimistic, but I can’t help hoping that if I just keep saying what Rose said everything will be OK. He’ll invite me to meet Baba, and I’ll say yes – just like Rose – and then I can ask Baba how we get home.
Thorn continues to stare at the boarded-up window. Slowly, he pulls my smartphone from his blazer pocket. ‘What’s this?’
Shit. Those threads have just diverged, big style.
‘My phone,’ I answer numbly.
‘Saskia thought it was Gem technology. But it isn’t, is it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s old technology. Very old. And I’m guessing it’s Imp.’
I nod.
‘Care to enlighten me how you and your little friends have ancient Imp technology in your possession?’
I swallow. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Try me.’
‘We’re ancient Imps.’ It must sound so ridiculous, but I can’t think of anything else to say.
He scowls and taps the phone against his chin. ‘A comedian, hey?’ He slips it into his blazer pocket. ‘So why kill Rose?’
This sudden change in conversation throws me, and I have to replay the words in my head several times before I can extract their meaning. My hands start shaking, my nails bite against my palms. ‘We didn’t kill Rose,’ I reply.
‘Not directly, I agree. But your presence got her killed. Saskia told me. Your pretty red-haired friend alerted the guards.’
‘I know. I’m sorry . . . We never meant for it to happen.’
‘So what were you doing at the Coliseum?’
I stare, transfixed by that single eye. In canon it was grey, like a piece of broken slate, like the city itself festered inside him. But current-Thorn’s eye is lavender blue . . . and full of hate.
‘Well?’ he asks.
I try to formulate some clever response, something that will keep us alive if not get him onside. But it’s like the rags sucked all the words from my mouth. ‘I don’t know.’
He moves towards me. A candelabrum sends an angular shadow scudding across his face, making him all the more terrifying. He holds my face with his gloved hands, the leather cool against my skin. ‘Saskia swears you could be Rose’s sister. Are you?’
‘No,’ I whisper.
His voice hardens. ‘Were you sent by the Gems to replace her and infiltrate the rebels?’
‘God no. I was at Comic-Con.’
His hand drops from my face and it’s like he’s pulled the rags out all over again because the words start tumbling out of me. ‘I’m from the past, well not the past, from a different reality, which is your past. That’s how we’ve got the phones – the Imp technology. You see, in my world, Rose is a character from a book, which they made into a film. She’s this really cool heroine – she’s brave and strong and beautiful and everything I’m not. That’s why I’m dressed like her, so I could pretend to be her, just for one day.’
He chuckles. ‘You don’t think you’re beautiful?’
I shake my head, and my eyes drop to his boots.
My vulnerability must rile him – he grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me forward. The sudden movement extinguishes several night lights; their thin lines of smoke escape towards the ceiling. I find myself envying that smoke.
‘Stop playing games,’ he shouts. ‘Tell me the truth or I’ll bring your little friends downstairs and slit their throats, one by one, as you watch.’
‘No!’ I feel a stabbing pain in my head. A layer of sweat coats my skin and the rat meat churns in my stomach like it still has claws and teeth and attitude. I must look a little peaky because Thorn slips his hands beneath my elbows, taking my weight.
‘Darren,’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘Go and fetch the boy.’
He sounds like he’s far, far away, and I suddenly feel strangely detached, like I really am about to watch a scene from a film.
‘No, not Nate,’ I manage to say.
But Thorn doesn’t even look at me. ‘You heard me, Darren. Bring me the boy.’
Darren darts back up the stairs. I watch him go and this shapeless, horrible emotion rises up my throat. ‘No, no please. I’ll do anything.’
Thorn clasps my hands into his chest as if forcing me to pray. ‘Tell me the truth.’
The emotion takes form: fear. ‘I am telling you the truth, I swear it. I don’t know what else to tell you. In my world, you’re a character from a book set in the future, a dystopian one, you’re this . . . this flawed hero.’
He throws his head back and laughs, revealing the ridges of his palate. ‘A flawed hero?’
I know I’m babbling, but the adrenalin seems to have dulled my brain and roused my vocal chords. ‘Yes, a flawed hero. You’re brave and strong, but you’re also mean and blinded by revenge.’
I hear Nate before I see him; a muffled cry followed by a series of thumps as Darren hauls him down the stairs. Nate looks so young, so helpless, his eyes revolving in their sockets like a hunted animal’s. Darren shoves him to the ground. Nate trips on his own feet, and with his hands still bound behind his back he’s unable to break his fall. I rush to catch him, but Darren pulls me back, digging the nose of the rifle between my shoulder blades.
‘It’s OK, Nate, I can fix this, I promise.’ I feel my tears, cold against my skin.
Thorn moves behind Nate, swamping his torso with a heavily muscled forearm. With his spare hand, Thorn pulls a switchblade from his belt and presses it against the smooth stretch of Nate’s throat.
‘Please, don’t!’ A high-pitched wail I barely recognize as my own.
‘The truth,’ Thorn says.
I can see the slight dent in Nate’s neck where the knife pushes in, a peach about to be sliced, the skin only just protecting the soft tissue beneath. I think I may be sick. ‘Please don’t hurt him, I’ll tell you anything.’
Nate keeps his eyes on me, and I get a strange wrench of sadness. Thorn was your hero, and now you’re going to die at his hand. But Nate doesn’t look sad, he looks determined, clear-headed, his light-brown eyes desperately trying to tell me something. I need to think like Nate. I need to be smart.
‘What do you mean?’ Thorn shouts. ‘Tell me or I’ll slice him like a pig.’
Something slots into place and I don’t feel scared any more. Because I am a diehard Gallows Dance fan, I don’t just know things about Thorn, I know what makes him tick. If anyone can talk their way out of this, it’s me. ‘Ruth . . . you want revenge because of what they did to Ruth. The Imp-girl that you fell in love with when you were young. The Gems hanged her at the Gallows Dance because she had a relationship with a Gem – you.’ I watch Thorn’s grip loosen a little, the blade easing against Nate’s skin. But I don’t stop. ‘You see I know things I shouldn’t, don’t I? Because I’ve read them and I’ve watched them – you’re a Gem. And underneath that eyepatch is another working eye. You just wear the patch to break up the evenness of your features, because you’re ashamed that you’re one of them. And every time you punch a Gem, or scalp a Gem, or kill a Gem, you’re actually trying to kill that part of yourself that you loathe – the Gem part. Because deep down you blame yourself for her death, because if you hadn’t loved her, she would still be alive.’
My words echo around the vast stone chamber, simply refusing to fade.
‘Shit,’ Darren says, the pressure from his rifle easing against my back.
Thorn releases this guttural noise like I’ve punched him in the stomach. He stares at me, his face caught between disbelief and sorrow, tears spilling from his uncovered eye and seeping beneath his eyepatch. He raises his hand, blade glinting in the candlelight. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to stab Nate in the head.
But instead, he pulls the gag free.
‘Baba!’ Nate screams, like the word was corked up inside him. ‘We need to see Baba.’
Thorn nods. ‘I think perhaps you do.’