The Rookery

Book 2: The Nightjar Duology

by Deborah Hewitt

Genres: Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

The Rookery, city of secrets, lies and magic, is facing destruction. But does Alice have the power to save her new home?

Will she give her life to save its secrets?

When Alice discovered this alternate London, her life changed forever. She discovered she was seeing Nightjars – miraculous birds that guard our souls. But her newfound magic has a dark side. So in an effort to protect her friends, Alice is training to wield her rare abilities under House Mielikki – the House of Life. Yet something isn't right. And after a series of attacks leaves her reeling, it's clear someone wants her to fail.

Alice must plunge into a world of seductive magic and unimaginable perils to uncover the conspiracy. And when she discovers why Rookery itself is at risk, she realizes the price she must pay to save it.

The Rookery is the dazzling, magical sequel to The Nightjar by Deborah Hewitt.

Praise for The Nightjar:

'The wildly imaginative Hewitt is a writer to watch' Publishers Weekly starred review

'An unusual and exciting story . . . the plot explodes off the page' TheBookbag

'A magical adventure full of danger, betrayal, and devotion' Booklist

Release date: August 10, 2021

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 464

Sample

1



Someone was following her. Alice was sure of it. She fixed her eyes on the pavement, watching for movement in her peripheral vision. Tension coiled beneath her skin, magnifying every shadow that crossed her path. The breeze sent a discarded wrapper skittering across the stone and her pulse jumped when her boot crunched down on it. Litter. Just litter. A drizzle of sweat slid between her shoulder blades, sticking her shirt to her back. Alice tugged it from her waistband and shook it out with a trembling hand, wafting cool air against her torso. She’d been carrying a fever for weeks; it made her light-headed and sluggish and she could afford neither. Not tonight.

Something rustled behind her and Alice’s hearing sharpened. She glanced over her shoulder, but her eyes failed to pick out anything unusual. It was a short, narrow street lined by a row of Georgian terraced houses. A handful of vintage saloon cars sat outside them, their paintwork glinting below the gas street lamp.

This part of the city was quieter; there were fewer pubs and bars here to invite interest after midnight. It made it easier to block out the distant sounds of urban life and listen for the noises that didn’t belong: a whisper of muffled panting; the turn of a coat; the heavy tread of footsteps striking the pavement in an alternating rhythm to her own. If she slowed, the footsteps slowed. If she stopped – silence. She peered into the gloom, searching … but there was no one there. The street was empty.

A strange sense of claustrophobia tightened her chest and the sound of her breathing was loud in her ears. The dark night pressed in around her, reminding her that she was alone. Fenced in by buildings and high walls. Trapped. A bead of sweat gathered at her hairline and she swiped it away with a grim smile. No. That was the fever talking. Just fever-driven paranoia; she’d had months of it. It had started in Ireland, and got worse, not better. Alice loosened another button on her shirt and gave herself a mental shake. She should have been in bed, resting and trying to build her strength; instead, circumstances had forced her to travel across the Rookery in the middle of the night, and she only hoped it was worth the effort. Her pace quickened as she crossed the road and fought to maintain her focus.

She couldn’t be far from the entrance to The Necropolis. The private members’ club had an invitation-only policy and she’d been warned it would go into lockdown at the first sign of trouble. Trouble in the form of the Bow Street Runners. The city’s police force was desperate to get inside the club and shut it down. Luckily, without an invitation they would never discover the hidden entrance.

Behind her, the sound of footsteps grew louder, and Alice’s nerves pulled tight. Not fevered delusions, real footsteps that smacked and echoed from the stone – and they were growing closer, rounding the corner towards her. What if she had been followed by a Runner? Her foot touched down on a grimy kerb at the junction of an alleyway and she made a sudden decision. Darting into the passage, she pressed her back flat against the wall, the rough brick snagging at her greatcoat. She exhaled quietly. The alley was deserted and steeped in shadows: ideal for lying in wait, unseen.

Removing her clammy hands from her pockets, she curled them into fists, eyes pinned to the entrance. The footsteps stopped abruptly and Alice stiffened. She hadn’t been imagining it; someone had been following her – and whoever it was had seen her take the detour; they knew exactly where she was. Why, then, were they stalling? The muffled panting had slowed and Alice could almost taste their hesitation. If her pursuer crossed the pavement at the end of the alley, she might see their face in the glow from the street lamp. Come on, she urged. Move into the light. She shifted her weight to see more clearly, her skin prickling with adrenaline.

Wings. A streak of bone-white feathers at the corner of Alice’s eye drew her attention to a stack of abandoned pallets on the cobbles. There, claws gripping the wood precariously, preening itself, was her nightjar. In the right light, it might have been mistaken for a white dove. Doves, however, were tall, with elegant necks and beaks and perfectly proportioned round heads. This bird was squat, with a puffed-up chest, no visible neck and large eyes. Its beak was short and thin, with bristles either side, and its long wings were pointed and kestrel-like.

The nightjar darted its head towards her, peering from its makeshift perch. It churred, low in its throat – a repetitive trilling sound – and Alice knew, suddenly, what to do about her follower. Glancing up the length of the alley and back, Alice crooked her finger at the pale bird and it swooped towards her. She flinched when the nightjar landed on her shoulder.

‘Give me a bird’s-eye view,’ she hissed.

The bird’s claws pinched her arm, just briefly, and it stretched upwards, its magnificent wings unfolding as it rose into the air. Despite their strained relationship, Alice had spent months experimenting with her nightjar connection; it had been a revelation to discover that, when focused, she could see the world through her soul-bird’s eyes. The eyes were the windows to the soul – so why not vice versa?

Alice steadied herself against the brick wall, took a sharp breath and grasped the cord binding her wrist to the bird’s leg. A burst of euphoria rushed through her body, and she blinked rapidly to maintain her concentration. The cord pulsed gently and her palm tingled with shivers of pleasure. Light bled through the gaps in her fingers as she tightened her grip and stared into the dazzling brightness. A flash of white … and then Alice’s consciousness snapped along the cord like electricity, hurling her mind into the waiting nightjar.

Alice’s vision juddered. She could see the top of her own head and shoulders: a sensation that always tripped her nausea. Maintaining the hold on her nightjar’s sight meant discarding the solid floor she knew was beneath her and the heavy gravity that weighed down her flesh-and-bone body. She forced her mind to open itself to the steady stream of images pouring in through the glowing cord. She hovered several feet higher, resisting the urge to swoop away. Caught between two bodies, she scanned the alley from above: the top of the pallets, the dustbins, the battered cardboard boxes … all laid out beneath her.

With another waft of her wings, Alice propelled herself through the air, gliding along the alley and turning sharply at the end. Around the corner, there was a figure resting against a set of iron railings – oblivious to the nightjar’s invisible presence. A roll-up cigarette dangled from his lips, and in his cupped hands he struck a match. It dwindled immediately and he tossed it into the road before trying again. This time, the flame caught and he lit his cigarette, tipping his head back with a satisfied grin. His straw-like hair shone in the street lamp’s glow.

‘Alice?’ he murmured. ‘Is it you hiding down there?’

Alice’s consciousness shot back to her human body and she jerked upright, thoroughly disoriented.

‘August?’ she snapped, scrabbling against the wall for balance as she rose. ‘Why the hell are you stalking me?’

He stepped out into the road, casting a long shadow into the dark alley. Alice exhaled in a bid to ease some of the tension trapped in her muscles. Bloody August. Still, it was good to see him. They’d briefly shared a house owned by Crowley: Coram House, the jewel of the Rookery’s version of Bloomsbury and home to waifs and strays. August was one of the trusted few, along with their other housemates – Sasha, Jude and, of course, Crowley – who knew the full and unvarnished truth about who she was. They’d all been at Marble Arch that night, and yet none had retracted their offers of friendship afterwards.

She looked him up and down. He’d lost a little of his trademark scarecrow look in the many months since she’d seen him last. The shock of hair had been tamed, and though his faded black corduroys and jumper were as shabby as ever, they were at least clean. He’d filled out a bit too – the sharp edges had softened and now he was tall rather than scrawny.

‘I was early,’ he said, ‘so I thought I’d come and meet you. I wasn’t sure it was you and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by shouting.’ He glanced cautiously along the street. ‘We can walk together. Are you coming?’

She nodded. August was the one with the invitation to The Necropolis – not her. He was the one who belonged to the private members’ club – not her. Alice didn’t really belong anywhere.

* * *

A curl of smoke wound through the clubhouse. It weaved between the busy tables and darkened booths, snaking over shoulders and wreathing heads that were bent in furtive conversation. Sandalwood and pine incense courtesy of the reeds burning on the bar’s countertop. It was, according to August, a security measure: the warm, musky blend was known for its calming effects – just as the drinking den was known for its unrest, heavy on incense, light on trust.

Alice watched the sinuous wisps dance closer. The fragrance wasn’t quite a sedative – no one would be reckless enough to come to a place like this and risk having their senses dulled completely – but it paid to remain on your guard. Doubly so when you were battling the lethargic side effects of a fever.

‘There’s something wrong with you,’ said August, squinting at her across the round table, ‘and it’s not hay fever or flu or whatever else you’re going to fob me off with.’ He rapped the surface with his fingertips, scattering ash across the polished wood. ‘Are you going to tell me what?’

She swigged a mouthful of gin and sat back, shaking her head. ‘No. Are you going to tell me what your secret new job is?’

August shrugged. ‘It’s not important.’

Alice raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s kept you from coming with Sasha and Jude every time we’ve met up for the past few months. Sounds important to me.’

He gave her a shifty look. ‘If I tell anyone, I’m done. Fired. My esteemed employers have already made that pretty clear.’

Alice’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not working for the Fellowship again?’ she asked sharply.

He choked on his drink. ‘What, you think my IQ is in single digits?’

She relaxed in her chair. The Fellowship were a death cult, led by a sadistic hemomancer named Marianne Northam. Alice despised her, and the feeling was mutual.

‘Anyway, stop changing the subject,’ said August. ‘You don’t look right. Tell me what’s wrong.’

Alice sighed. ‘No.’

‘Because?’

‘Because you have all the subtlety of a town crier.’

He grinned and leaned back, scraping a hand through his hair. ‘Ouch.’ Then he added, ‘You’re worried I’ll tell Crowley?’

‘No.’ Alice sighed and absently drew her finger through a dribble of gin on the table. ‘Maybe.’ She’d done her best to avoid Crowley since her return to the city. She wasn’t ready to see him – maybe she never would be – and he was trying to respect her wishes. ‘I don’t want this to be the reason we—’

‘You don’t want a pity party,’ said August. ‘I get it.’

‘No. And no one can know we’ve come here. Not yet.’

He grinned. ‘Clandestine meetings at night … secret drinks in strange bars … People will talk.’

She raised the glass and pressed it to her forehead, closing her eyes at the cool relief it provided. ‘If they do,’ she said, ‘just tell them … tell them you’ve defied expectations and finally managed to come in useful.’

Something brushed her hand and Alice’s eyes flew open.

‘Here,’ said August, prising the glass from her. He pressed his palms around the sides of the drink and exhaled abruptly. There was a sharp crack and a sudden film of condensation coated the glass. He passed the drink back. A layer of thick ice now sat at the bottom, poking up through the surface of her gin.

‘Thanks,’ she said, and then paused. ‘I thought your magic gave you power over water, not gin. I’m impressed.’

He grinned. ‘It’s because they water it down. Never trust a bar run by necromancers.’

‘You’re a necromancer,’ she pointed out, pressing the icy glass to her forehead.

‘Exactly.’

Across the room, a glass smashed and a lazy collective jeer went up around the clubhouse. A woman pushed back her chair to brush the fragments from her skirt with a sigh. On the table before her, a polished Ouija board was laid out. The woman drew another empty glass closer, tipped it upside down and began sliding it from letter to letter, her lips moving silently.

Alice’s gaze trailed around the clubhouse, taking in the oxblood leather sofas, the green velvet armchairs and the dozens of gas lamps and mismatched picture frames on the walls. Somehow, the trappings of a drinking den didn’t seem incongruous with the bar’s more unusual decor: the metre-wide clock, rusted metal signs and ticket booth. Stone arches, tiled walls and columns divided the space into neat sections. The Necropolis had once been a train station, which was why the rear of the building led to a crumbling platform and a defunct steam train, sitting on tracks that led nowhere.

At the end of the nineteenth century, when an overcrowded London had run out of space to bury its dead, the authorities had come up with a macabre solution: transport coffins and mourners to a cemetery far outside the city’s walls, on specially modified trains. The London Necropolis Railway was short-lived, however, thanks to a well-placed bomb during the Blitz. But in the Rookery, London’s darkly magical twin, the station at 121 Westminster Bridge Road and one remaining train had been repurposed in the most fitting way: there was no better location, surely, for a members’ club exclusively for necromancers. Considered too unnatural, their magic was banned across the city, but here they were among friends.

Three tables over, there was a sudden frenzy of murmuring and Alice turned towards the noise. A group of bearded men were taking it in turns to examine a handful of small objects they’d tossed onto the wooden floor. Alice assumed they were dice.

‘They’re allowed to gamble in here?’ she said.

‘No,’ said August with a wry smile. ‘They’re throwing oracle bones and trying to unpick the future. Funny, though, that none of them predicted the lovely Ouija woman over there was going to smash that glass.’

Even in a city like the Rookery, divination was treated with scepticism. Alice didn’t believe in fortune-telling. Then again, a year ago she hadn’t believed in magic either – and now, here she was, sitting in a bar accessed by an enchanted door that only opened once a week, and only to those who knew how to find it.



Copyright © 2021 by Deborah Hewitt