Blood and Feathers Page 6

  HOUSES FEEL SMALLER when it’s raining. They might keep you dry, but they close you inside them, wrap you up in suffocating air. After a while, the locks on the doors seem like they’re not so much to keep others out as they are to keep you in.

  That’s why Annabel went for a walk.

  She corralled them all in the kitchen: Holly, who put up such a fight that it looked like she might only leave the house if she were allowed to wear her sandals; Rush, determined (as always) to fit both feet into one Wellington boot; Floss, the dog, who didn’t mind missing out on a walk if it meant she got to stay dry – thanks all the same. Annabel fought with boots, with hats and waterproof trousers, and wondered whether it might not be more practical to put the lead on the toddlers and the waterproofs on the dog, but sooner than she had expected, they were ready.

  ANNABEL USED TO love walking in the rain. She would fold her umbrella, throw back her hood and turn her face upwards until the water ran down her cheeks like tears. Even the hardest rain, the kind that sent everyone else scurrying for shelter, didn’t stop her from running out and opening her arms to greet it. Now, it was different. Now, she spent the rainy days tripping over the dog lead and trying to keep hold of both children. Holly would think nothing of breaking away and jumping into the road if there was a particularly promising puddle, and Rush was prone to falling over every time he tried to turn left, as though his feet couldn’t quite work out how to avoid each other. The rain that had once been a friend was now a hindrance, streaming into her eyes and pasting her hair to her skin.

  No-one had told her how frightening the rain could be.

  They inched their way along the pavement – every broken paving slab suddenly a lake, an ocean, a river to be explored. Rush found a cluster of snails hidden beneath a branch and set about flattening them under his boots. He toppled sideways, of course, and landed on the pavement with a flat splash, but this did little to deter him and instead he began to squash them with the back of his hand. Annabel’s heart sank and she hauled him to his feet. She wondered whether fifteen months was too young to be a sociopath, and wiped his hands.

  Holly was never one to wait for her brother and was ploughing through the puddles up ahead. Or rather, not so much ploughing as kicking, splashing, slicing and jumping – often all at once – up the road. Puddles were drained in her wake, and Annabel smiled despite herself. Moses had nothing on her daughter. She tugged on the lead and on Rush’s hand, leading them after Holly and catching her wrist as they reached the end of the pavement. The street was quiet: even cars were few and far between in this kind of weather.

  They crossed the road and headed for the alleyway: a narrow cut-through laid with uneven gravel which hid some of the best puddles in the neighbourhood. She had no idea how many hours she’d spent there since Holly could first walk, wasn’t sure she could bear to count them. The last year seemed to have been very rainy, but perhaps that was her imagination. She didn’t like the alley – its sides were too high, its lighting too bleak, but at least it was a change of scene, a different kind of prison.

  Holly flung herself at the first puddle, splashing water, scooping it with great sideways kicks that flicked mud and grit onto the walls and the lamppost. She was giggling. An urgent tug on Annabel’s hand made her look down at Rush, who was straining towards his sister. “You’re right, don’t let her have all the fun. But do me a favour and try not to fall over, okay?” Annabel reached down over his shoulder and zipped his jacket up to his neck, letting him toddle unsteadily to the water. For once, Holly was in the mood to share and took her brother’s hand, helping him to balance as he hopped about.

  There was another tug on Annabel’s hand, this time from the dog lead. She had more or less forgotten Floss, and was surprised to see her pressed against the wall of the alley at the extent of her lead, her ears back and teeth bared. She was staring at the children. Annabel’s heart leapt. Would Floss ever...? She wouldn’t; of course not. But she tightened her grip on the lead and stepped slowly in between the dog and the children. Floss suddenly snarled, barked and then lay down on her stomach, inching backwards.

  The alley felt cold. Colder than it should in the rain, colder than it had done in all the times Annabel had walked here. Her breath rattled as she turned her head back to look at Holly and Rush, but there was nothing wrong. They were both still jumping, holding hands, laughing. Relief settled over her. It was just one of those days, the kind where low cloud and a twitchy dog could convince you the world was about to end. There had been more of them, lately, than she was used to. Perhaps it was time to do something about it.

  She gathered the lead into her pocket, trying to coax Floss – whose snarling had faded to an unsettled whimper – away from the wall.

  She looked back at her children just in time to see the puddle close over their heads, its surface smooth as glass.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Preaching to the Choirs

  “SO, WAIT. IT’S the clan that determines the gifts, right? No. Other way round? No... Oh, I’m so confused.” Alice slumped forward on the sofa, resting her head on her knees.

  Mallory ran his hand through his hair and groaned. “One more time. The Archangels head the clans. Which are also known as... come on, Alice?”

  “Choirs.” Alice’s voice was muffled by her legs. They’d been going over this for what felt like hours.

  “Correct. Choirs. And the Archangels are the...?”

  “Generals. Mallory” – Alice sat up – “do we really have to do this? Now? Or, you know, ever? I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand? Of course you don’t. But you need to, so you will.”

  “It’s like being back at school. Only worse.”

  “Stop whining.”

  “Can you at least tell me why you’re so freaked out?”

  “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, you did catch fire there a little bit.”

  “Thanks, yes. Spotted that.” Alice wriggled back into the cushions. They were actually quite comfortable once you got used to them. “What I mean is why are you so bothered by it? You’ve got wings. I’m guessing things like this happen to you all the time. It’s all rather new to me.”

  “I told you: the fire? It’s unusual...”

  “No kidding.”

  “I mean it’s not as common as you seem to think. Which is why I’m trying to explain how this works.”

  “I seriously need to know this? Really? Honestly?”

  “Yes.” He took another gulp from his flask and muttered something under his breath. Alice couldn’t quite hear all of it, but what she did make out sounded very rude indeed. Mallory cleared his throat and continued. “Each Archangel acts as the general of the choir: every angel within it reports to him.”

  “Him? All of them? Not very equal opportunities, is it?”

  “No, it’s not. Get over it. The choir is made up of angels with gifts that somehow correlate to their Archangel. In my case, that’s Raphael, a healer. I was sent to find you because we believed you would also belong to Raphael, like your mother.”

  “She was a healer?”

  “An empath. Like I said, the gifts aren’t necessarily exact. Empathy, healing... they belong together. But fire? That’s something altogether different.”

  By now, he was pacing the room. It had dawned on Alice that he did this a lot. There was a dirty grey worn patch on the rug where he walked. Her head was spinning, and he wasn’t helping.

  She couldn’t remember that much of what had happened. She knew there had been fire – that she was very clear on – and that Gwyn had left, but everything else was hazy and Mallory had been on edge since.

  That had been two days ago.

  The first day, he’d just been jumpy: his hand sliding to his gun at the slightest sound. Vin had complained of cabin fever early on and escaped to the outside world, and Alice’s heart sank when Mallory firmly bolted the door behind him. “He’ll be back. In the meantime...” And he began the most bone-n
umbingly dull lecture that Alice had ever heard, managing to make even angels boring. He was still going, and none of it made any more sense than it had in the beginning.

  Alice sighed. “Alright, I give in. Why’s it so important? What’s so special about the fire? Or me?”

  “I told you, pay attention...”

  “Actually,” she said, interrupting him, “You didn’t. You’ve been blathering on about how it’s a big deal, but you’ve not managed to get round to telling me why.”

  “Oh. I haven’t?” He stopped pacing. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Mallory scratched his head, then sighed. “You’re right. I’m being an arse. Sorry.” He sat down next to her. “Any kind of fire is important. Fire belongs to Michael.”

  “As in...”

  “As in that Michael. His is by far the smallest clan. I can’t remember the last time I met anyone – Descended or Earthbound – who was one of Michael’s. To the best of my knowledge, there’s never been a half-born with a gift like yours. So yes, it’s a big deal. You’re a big deal.”

  “I think I preferred it when I didn’t know, thanks.”

  “You think I’m giving you a headache? You wait till Gwyn gets back. I’m a fluffy kitty by comparison.” He tipped his head back against the cushions. “Before you ask, he’s gone back up.” He pointed to the ceiling with a long, grubby finger. Alice was never sure how or when Mallory managed to get in such a mess. His state was one of almost perpetual-dishevelment. Vin, like Mallory, had been slightly untidy, but Mallory seemed so much more worn down. Rough around the edges, she thought, didn’t even begin to cover it, and yet his company was easy – unlike Gwyn’s, who made her feel like she was tiptoeing across thin ice.

  And she suddenly noticed that Mallory was still talking, and did her best to look attentive. She didn’t have a clue what he’d just said.

  “...only imagine what he’ll have planned for you when he gets back.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You don’t honestly think he’s going to be happy leaving you in my hands, do you? You’re his ticket up the ranks.”

  “Promotion?”

  “Just the same as any army. You work, you get promoted. You rise. Why d’you think he was assigned to me? For kicks?”

  “I thought you were maybe friends or something?”

  “Friends? Ha!” Mallory’s laugh wasn’t as warm as it might have been. “I promise you something, Alice: Gwyn has never been my friend. And when I get home, I want to put as much air between him and me as I can. He’s one of Gabriel’s, and with one notable exception, I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them. They’re block-headed, they’re ambitious and – mostly – they’re bastards. A bit like Gabriel.”

  “But he’s an Archangel. Isn’t he supposed to be...”

  “Angelic? Yeah, sure. Just like angels are supposed to live in dives and carry pistols. Just like they’re supposed to spend their lives scraping...” His eyes were empty, his face blank, and he looked like someone altogether different. But then he rubbed his hand across his face and became Mallory again. “Besides,” he continued, standing up, “Gabriel’s never been much of a fan of mine. He was all for making my little suspension permanent.” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders, and his wings opened behind him. The feathers shivered as he stretched. “Unfortunately for him, he’s not the only one with a voice, and I do have a few friends.”

  “Do you miss them?” He clearly did, but Alice couldn’t think what else to say.

  He smiled. “It’s not important whether I miss them or not. What matters is that I do my job.”

  “You’re not exactly what I’d imagine an angel would be like, you know.”

  Mallory’s eyes were already moving towards the bottle standing by the sink, and Alice recognised the signs. Talking about home was not a good idea. “I’d always pictured something, well, fluffier.”

  “I hope that’s a metaphor,” he said with a laugh.

  “I just thought, you know, guardian angels. That kind of thing.”

  “In my considerable experience, I have to tell you that the only guardian angels you’re likely to come across any time soon are me and my buddy here.” He waved the gun, setting it down on the worktop and picking up the bottle. He glanced back at her, casually, and he must have seen something in her face because he suddenly looked down at his hands and stopped. He put the bottle back down. “Sorry. I just... Sorry.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’d like to hear more, though.”

  “About Gabriel? Or the choirs...?”

  “God, no. Spare me the choirs.”

  “It’s dull. I get it.” He rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t rather I told you about Raphael? He’s a good man.”

  “I’d hope so. Angel and stuff.”

  “And as I keep telling you” – he sighed – “angels aren’t so angelic. Our job is to keep the Fallen down, even if that means breaking them into pieces. They used to be our brothers. That’s not an easy job, and if you’re a good person, you’re probably not going to be doing it very long. Or at least you won’t be a good person for very long after you start. Gabriel’s been doing it longer than anyone.”

  “What makes him so different from all the rest of you?”

  “He enjoys it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Alice, when the lights go out and the world stops, at the end of time, and there’s nothing left but dust and ash and embers... Gabriel will still be standing there with blood on his hands.”

  “He sounds like a piece of work. You’re sure he’s one of the good guys?”

  “He is. He’s just a bad one.”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever seen much of a difference between the bad good guys and the good bad guys.”

  “Oh, there is one. Namely that he’s ours.”

  “Are you allowed to say things like that?”

  “Privilege of being an Earthbound. You get to say what you like. Don’t tell them, though. They might think I’m enjoying it too much and make me go home.” He winked.

  Alice was a breath away from asking exactly what it was he had done that had earned him his banishment, but thought better of it. The only time Mallory’s cheery facade slipped was when he spoke about his home – or rather, didn’t speak about it. His evasion skills were top-class, and whatever he was being punished for, it seemed pretty effective. Of course, he wasn’t all that bad at punishing himself, either – not if what Vin had told her before he skipped out was true. While Mallory prowled the church, Vin had drawn her close and whispered in her ear, “He’s given you the soldier speech, hasn’t he?”

  “Soldier... yes. Yes, he has. You’re not going to, too, are you?”

  “Do I look like a soldier to you? I’m a lover, not a fighter, baby.” He clicked his tongue and pointed a finger at her, making her smile. Suddenly, he was serious again. “But Mallory, he’s right, he’s a soldier. He might have a healer’s touch, but a soldier is what he is, what he does. He sees what a soldier sees: war. And down here, it’s in your face, all the time. Every corner of the world is at war – with itself, with the Fallen, with the Descendeds, with the darkness, with hope, with the future, with the past... we can’t get away from it. It dogs our footsteps. It seeps into our dreams. And for Mallory – well, you can imagine what that’s like.”

  “That’s why he drinks, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, don’t let him fool you. The drinking is the least of his issues.” He stopped, laughed when she looked alarmed. “That sounds worse than it is. By Earthbound standards, he’s practically an angel – you see what I did there? – and believe me, if I were you right now, Mallory is the one I’d want looking out for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love him, but down here? It’s not good for him.”

  Mallory didn’t exactly look unhappy. He had perched himself on the edge of the worktop and was flipping through a magazine. Alice peered at the cover. It was dated August 1994. In any other home, this might be surprising. Not here.


  “Why do you live here, anyway?”

  “Why?” He looked up over the top of the magazine. “Because I like it.” He followed her gaze around the room, taking in the boxes, the bottles, the junk piled high. “Well, maybe I don’t like that so much, but I like this place. It reminds me of somewhere. And besides, where else am I supposed to go?”

  “That brings me to my next question,” Alice said, stretching. “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “Well, I can’t go home, can I?”

  “Nope. And if you remember, I told you that at the time.”

  “So, I’ll say it again: what about me?”

  “And, again: what about you?”

  “If I can’t go home, and I can’t stay here... where the hell am I supposed to go?”

  “What’s wrong with here?” He dropped the magazine, and a small plume of dust drifted into the air.

  Alice raised her eyebrows. “You mean, apart from that? Mallory, I can’t sit around here all day, forever. I’ve got no home, no... family” – she swallowed hard as her voice cracked – “and you say I can’t go back to work. So tell me, please, what I can do?”

  “You, Alice, can do plenty. But until Gwyn gets back, the topic’s closed. Here.” He finally picked up the bottle, and handed her a magazine. It had a picture of a woman with red lipstick, slicked-back hair and shoulderpads on the cover. Alice fervently hoped Gwyn wasn’t gone too long.

  IT WAS DARK by the time he came back, and Alice now knew more about blusher than she had ever thought possible. It was taking her mind off other things, the things still in that mental ‘save for later’ box; and there were plenty of those. Every time she closed her eyes, something new and unpleasant flashed across them: statues that talked, graves that opened and then closed without warning. Fire. Red eyes that stared right into her. The house, burning. Fire, everywhere fire. Her father – sitting in his chair. Her father – his neck breaking. Her father, who had lied to her, and her father... who had kept his secrets and then left her all alone.