Hollowpox: The Hunt for Morrigan Crow Read online

  “The Stealth?” Morrigan yelped. “What did they say? Where did they take him?”

  “No idea,” said Fen. “They’re the Stealth, they didn’t stop for a lovely chat.”

  Morrigan and Jack exchanged a look. If the elite, highly secretive Wundrous Society Investigation Department was involved, something weird was definitely going on.

  Morrigan furrowed her brow and took a deep breath of soothing milk-and-honey smoke. Fen’s description had made her think of Golders Night, and suddenly it was like she was there. The rampaging bearwun. The horrible, claustrophobic feeling of being smashed by waves, over and again. The sudden, searing pain in her leg. The flash of… the flash of green light.

  “Fen, did you see his eyes?” she asked. “Was there anything strange about them?”

  “His eyes?” Fen looked puzzled by the question. “Not that I noticed.”

  “Really?” Morrigan pressed. “Are you sure? They didn’t… turn green, or start glowing, or—”

  “Positive.” The Magnificat gave another sleepy yawn, stretched out, and rolled over on the rug. “Now if you’ve finished pestering me, I’d like to catch up on the seven scheduled naps I’ve already missed today.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HOLLOWPOX

  If Jupiter returned at all that night, Morrigan never saw him. The next time she laid eyes on him was the following morning, from a distance, when everyone at Wunsoc was called to the Gathering Place first thing for a critical announcement.

  It wasn’t good news.

  “For some weeks now,” Elder Quinn told them as she took to the dais, “we have been quietly investigating a series of incidents in Nevermoor that we believed to be related. We’re now certain they are.

  “Several of these you may know about—the highly publicized mystery illness of the designer Juvela De Flimsé, for example. I know some of you are also aware of a recent attack against a junior scholar, and rumors about this have been circulating.” As she said this, Unit 919 all turned to look at Morrigan, but she kept her eyes straight ahead. “I regret to confirm what many have suspected: The attacker in that instance was one of our own. A teacher.”

  The room grew still, the gathering momentarily silenced by the shock of this dreadful announcement. Then a rising tide of whispers swelled as people shared their disapproval, their dismay—and their guesses as to the perpetrator.

  “A third incident,” Elder Quinn said in a raised voice, quelling the chatter, “occurred this past weekend. You will have seen it reported in the news. Again, a Society member was the victim of a violent attack at the Nevermoor Opera House—thankfully, in both cases, the injuries were minor and the victims have made a full recovery.”

  Morrigan felt an indignant twinge in her enormous claw-mark scar.

  “Minor, was it,” she said under her breath. “Lovely.”

  Hawthorne grinned at her. “Got to keep your leg, didn’t you?”

  Elder Quinn continued. “However, these are not the only incidents we’ve been investigating. There have in fact been nearly a dozen so far, and that number continues to rise. These attacks present a formidable threat to the people of Nevermoor, and we are building a task force to deal with the problem as swiftly and thoroughly as possible, overseen by Elder Alioth Saga and led by Captain Jupiter North. I’ve asked Captain North to bring us all up to date. Jove?”

  Cadence leaned over to Morrigan. “Did you know he’d gotten himself involved?”

  “Not exactly,” she admitted. “Though if you look very carefully, you’ll notice my complete and utter lack of surprise.”

  “Doesn’t he have about four hundred jobs already?” asked Hawthorne.

  She sighed. “Yup. Just what he needed, another responsibility.”

  How often would this one take him away from the Deucalion, she wondered?

  Jupiter hit a switch and an enormous three-dimensional map of Nevermoor was projected upward above the dais, so bright that it illuminated the whole room. Sprinkled across the city were glowing red dots. Morrigan noticed immediately that one of them was hovering at the far western point of Grand Boulevard, where the Nevermoor Opera House was located. There was also one just outside Tenterfield Wunderground station—where Brutilus Brown had chased her and Heloise. She counted nine others scattered randomly over the map.

  Had there really been so many attacks? How had they been kept secret?

  “I think we’re all agreed that this is deeply unusual and worrying behavior, especially from one of our own,” said Jupiter. “I will say, firstly, that this is not a case of coordinated attacks or copycat crimes. The Stealth ruled that out early in the investigation. Yesterday our resident unnimologist Dr. Valerie Bramble, and Dr. Malcolm Lutwyche from the Wunsoc Teaching Hospital, confirmed what they have suspected for some time.

  “The attackers have all contracted the same unknown, highly aggressive virus. It causes normal brain function to shut down, resulting in erratic, violent—and, I would like to emphasize, completely involuntary—behavior.

  “As I’m sure many of you have realized by now,” he continued gravely, “there is something else the attackers have in common. They are all Wunimals.”

  “What’s that got to do with Dr. Bramble?” someone called out from a seat near the back. “She’s an unnimologist. Wunimals aren’t unnimals. Don’t know how many times we have to say it.”

  There was scattered applause and a few cheers from the audience for this. Morrigan turned in her seat and saw that the speaker was himself a Wunimal Minor—some sort of lizardwun, she thought, judging from the greenish tinge of his skin and his bulbous yellow eyes.

  Dr. Bramble stood up from her seat to address the growing upset. “Apologies for the implied slight, Mr. Graves,” she said, holding a hand to her chest. “You’re quite right, of course, I’m no Wunimal expert. But there have been many illnesses that originated in unnimals before migrating to Wunimal populations, and it is possible that’s what happened here. I’ve seen similar symptoms in diseases such as Fainting Meerkat Syndrome, for example, and the Equine Racing Flu, even the Foxpox. We can’t disregard—”

  “This is nothing like Fainting Meerkat Syndrome,” said a little voice from one of the middle rows. Morrigan wasn’t sure who’d spoken, until a small furry gentleman in a tiny bowler hat climbed up to stand on top of his neighbor’s head, muttering, “Pardon me, you don’t mind, do you—cheers, Barry.” The meerkatwun cleared his throat to address Dr. Bramble and the gathering. “My aunt Lucille died of Fainting Meerkat Syndrome. It’s a horrible disease. Every time she fainted we didn’t know whether she’d wake up. Then one day… she didn’t. I miss her very much, and I won’t have you suggesting she was some kind of vicious unnimal, going around attacking folks willy-nilly!”

  “Hear, hear,” said the lizardwun from the back, and there was more applause and cheering.

  “Dr. Bramble isn’t suggesting anything of the sort,” Jupiter called out over the noise. “Let me be clear: We don’t know anything, and therefore we can’t rule anything out. We’re determined to get to the bottom of this, and we will use every scrap of information we can find.

  “We don’t know how it’s passed on, but the illness is spreading,” he continued without pausing, indicating the map. “Fast. These are the casualties of the virus so far, at least the ones we know about. The red dots indicate where the infected were when the virus peaked, before apparently exiting the body and leaving the Wunimal in a comatose state. This is what we’re calling the point of culmination. This culmination period seems to last several minutes for some Wunimals, and up to an hour for others. It’s marked by acts of violent, frantic, uncontrollable aggression, sometimes against others, sometimes against public property, and sometimes against themselves. This frenzied culmination—and subsequent coma—is what makes the illness dangerous not only to the Wunimals it infects, but to everyone else around them.”

  “Excuse me, Captain North,” Miss Cheery called out, sticking her hand in the air. �
��You just used the word casualties. Are you saying there have been deaths?”

  “Not… deaths, no. Casualties may be the wrong word.” Jupiter rubbed his left temple, looking weary. He hesitated for a moment, looking to where the High Council of Elders were seated, as if seeking their permission to reveal something. Morrigan saw Elder Quinn nod silently. “The infected Wunimals—the ones we know about—have been moved from the Royal Lightwing Wunimal Hospital to a locked ward of the teaching hospital here at Wunsoc, where they’re being cared for and monitored in isolation. The good news is, they appear to be free of the virus. The bad news is that they’ve been left—there’s no other word for it—hollow.”

  The silence in the Gathering Place was as thick as soup. Jupiter’s words hung in the air, the weight of their impact threatening to drop on everyone’s heads.

  “When the disease—or the Hollowpox, we’re calling it, for want of a better name—when the Hollowpox leaves the body,” he continued, “it seems to take almost everything with it. It wouldn’t necessarily be obvious to anyone who isn’t like me, who isn’t a Witness. But they’re not just comatose, they’re… sort of… empty. No sense of self, no brain activity. Completely unresponsive. We remain hopeful that these effects may be temporary, but right now it’s impossible to know for sure.”

  Morrigan thought back to Fen’s description of Victor the day before. All the life drained out of his eyes, she’d said. Didn’t blink. Barely breathed.

  There was a rumbling of whispers, and people began to look around the room. There weren’t nearly as many Wunimals in the Society as humans, but those present seemed suddenly more visible than ever. Morrigan watched Elder Saga the bullwun closely. His face was inscrutable.

  “I know you must have questions,” said Jupiter. A forest of hands instantly shot into the air.

  “What about humans?” someone called out. “Could we catch this disease?”

  “How can we protect ourselves from catching it?” called the meerkatwun, still perched on his neighbor’s head.

  “How can we stop the attacks?”

  “Do you need volunteers, Captain North?”

  “Is there a cure?”

  Jupiter held up his hands. “One at a time, please. Firstly, no, the Hollowpox doesn’t seem inclined—or perhaps isn’t able—to invade a human host. We think it can only thrive in a Wunimal body. Although, again, we’re not ruling anything out.”

  “Because you don’t know anything,” Baz Charlton jeered from a few rows behind Unit 919. “Bunch of useless know-nothings.”

  Cadence made a quiet noise of disgust. “For goodness’ sake. He never shuts up.”

  Morrigan snorted. She was glad Cadence disliked her patron as much as she and Jupiter did, because he was truly awful and deserved every bit of her scorn.

  On the other hand, she felt bad for her friend. Morrigan was proud to have an excellent patron that other people admired. But Cadence was stuck with horrible Baz, who didn’t care about her at all, or about any of the other ten gazillion candidates and scholars he’d collected for himself. She deserved much better than him.

  “Correct,” Jupiter agreed, looking Baz dead in the eye. “This is a brand-new threat that we are all seeing for the first time. If you think you have better information than we do, Mr. Charlton, then by all means—come on up and share it with us.”

  “If this is only affecting Wunimals,” Baz went on, ignoring the invitation, “why don’t we just lock all the Wunimals up together? Dead simple. They can attack each other instead of us.”

  There was a sudden BANG. The room went terrifyingly quiet as people looked to Elder Saga, who had stamped one of his great hooves on the dais and was glaring at Baz with a face like a thundercloud.

  “What?” Baz said, trying to look innocent. “Don’t mean nothing bad by it, Elder Saga. Just meant… you know…”

  He trailed off, and Elder Saga remained silent, staring at him until he sank down low in his seat.

  “Elder Quinn mentioned the Hollowpox task force earlier,” Jupiter carried on. “Alongside Inspector Rivers from the Stealth, Elder Saga and I are leading the efforts to contain these attacks, to lessen their impact, and hopefully to learn enough to prevent them before they occur. Dr. Bramble and Dr. Lutwyche are investigating the symptoms and origin of the pox itself, and Holliday Wu is managing the public distraction efforts.”

  “Not doing a very good job, though, is she?” Baz piped up again. “Considering we all read about it in the papers this weekend.”

  Jupiter opened his mouth to say something, but Holliday didn’t need to be spoken for.

  “And what can you tell me about all the other attacks, Baz?” she said coolly, not even bothering to stand up or turn around in her seat. “Same as what’s in your head: nothing. That’s because I’ve hushed them up. How about this? I’ll do my job, and you do yours… whatever it may be. Presumably something that requires you to smell bad and sound stupid.”

  The Gathering Place erupted into laughter, easing some of the tension. Morrigan even spotted Elder Saga having a tiny chuckle.

  “What about the infected Wunimals, Captain North?” a quiet, familiar voice called out as the laughter died down. Morrigan turned to see Sofia standing up on her seat, one paw raised, and felt a sharp pang of guilt for thinking anything about this could be funny. “The ones you said were hollow. What’s going to happen to them?”

  Jupiter took a deep breath before answering.

  “We don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But they’re safe and in very capable hands at the teaching hospital. And I promise you, we’re working hard to find a cure.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE GOSSAMER-SPUN GARDEN

  Later that afternoon on Sub-Nine, Morrigan and Sofia flipped through The Book of Ghostly Hours, trying to find the lesson Rook had scheduled. It wasn’t the first time Morrigan had seen the study chamber empty of academics—she supposed they must have jobs to go to and classes to take—but it was surprising how deathly silent the place was without the occasional stirring of a teaspoon in a mug or discreet clearing of a throat.

  The quiet felt especially palpable because of the elephant-sized Thing They Were Quite Obviously Not Discussing. Finally, Morrigan couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “What’s your knack?”

  It was not one of the many questions she had wanted to ask. She’d wanted to ask, Are you worried, Sofia? Are you scared of catching the Hollowpox? Do you think they’ll find a cure soon? But the foxwun hadn’t mentioned the morning’s C&D gathering, and Morrigan was too nervous to bring it up for fear of upsetting her. Anyway, what would be the point? Of course she was worried. Everyone was worried.

  “Me? I bring dead things to life.” Sofia ran her paw down the page nonchalantly, as if she’d just imparted the most mundane piece of information. As if she’d said, Me? I make cheese sandwiches.

  Morrigan blinked. “You… sorry, did you just say you bring dead things—”

  Registering the new eagerness in her voice, Sofia looked up, smiling apologetically. “Oh—ah, no. Don’t get excited. It’s not as good as it sounds, trust me. It doesn’t work on people or Wunimals. Or large unnimals. Or small unnimals, for that matter.”

  “What does it work on?”

  Sofia’s face turned thoughtful. “Erm… insects? Some rodents? Most plants, if they’re small enough and haven’t been dead for very long. Essentially, if you’ve a bug, rat, or shrub that desperately needs resurrecting, I’m your gal.”

  “Oh,” said Morrigan, trying not to sound disappointed and utterly failing. “Oh, right. Cool.”

  “Not remotely cool,” Sofia said with a quiet chuckle. “Everyone makes that same face when they find out—yes, that’s it, the politely crestfallen face. Don’t worry, I’m not offended.”

  Morrigan felt terrible. “No—it is cool! Honestly. I’ve never been able to take care of a living plant, let alone bring a dead one back to life.”

  “Thanks, that’s kind of you.” S
ofia brightened a little. “I suppose it is useful sometimes. In its own little ways.”

  “What about Conall?”

  “Oh, Conall’s knack is good. He’s a medium—he speaks to the dead.” She paused, glancing away for a second, then murmured, “Well. He can speak to the dead. He doesn’t anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “The rumor is that something bad happened to him when he was contacting the beyond one time.”

  “Something bad?” Morrigan asked, leaning forward on her elbows. “Like what?”

  “I’ve never asked.” Sofia glanced back over her shoulder as if to make sure they were still alone in the study chamber, and added quietly, “But… it must have spooked him, because for years he’s absolutely refused to use his knack. I almost don’t want to know what it was. Conall doesn’t scare easily.” She tapped a page in The Book of Ghostly Hours. “Here—this is the one. The Gossamer-Spun Garden, in Van Ophoven. You’re going to love it.”

  LOCATION: School of Wundrous Arts, Sub-Nine of Proudfoot House, Van Ophoven

  PARTICIPANTS & EVENTS: Brilliance Amadeo, Elodie Bauer, Owain Binks

  A beginner’s lesson in Weaving given by Amadeo to Bauer and Binks

  DATE & TIME: Age of Endings, Second Wednesday, Spring of Two

  13:00–15:47

  There was a bit of a walk to get to Van Ophoven (named for the Wundersmith Emmeline Van Ophoven). Morrigan had spent her first few days in the School of Wundrous Arts utterly intimidated by its bizarre layout. But once she’d understood the underlying principle of the place, it was easy enough to find her way around.

  There were ten grand arches lining the main hall, Rook had explained to her. The first nine led to nine enormous chambers, each named for one of the original Wundersmiths (the tenth led to the academics’ study room). Each of those nine chambers contained another archway leading to a second chamber named for a Wundersmith in the generation that followed… which led to another chamber named for one from the next generation… and on and on like branches on a family tree.