‘We have to do something,’ Brick said. ‘She’ll die.’
Cal cocked his head to the side.
‘What?’ asked Brick.
‘Don’t you hear that?’
It was a few more seconds until he did, a soft whine rising up over the ceaseless thunder of the storm. An engine, coming this way.
‘Daisy can handle herself,’ said Cal, pointing as a motorbike skidded round a pile of debris at the end of the demolished street, accelerating their way. ‘We’ve got bigger problems.’
Daisy
London, 12.38 p.m.
It was like throwing herself into a fast-flowing river, the current sweeping her up, pulling her along against her will, so fast and so strong that she didn’t even know which way was up. She spun in mid-air, seeing storm and sky, storm and sky, then him, his mouth so big it could have been a volcano she was hurtling towards. She could see his eyes too, like two inverse suns in the sky, radiating darkness, huge, and staring right at her.
She snapped out her limbs, all six of them – arms, legs and wings. It was like opening a parachute, slowing her sideways fall. The wind was a living thing that buffeted her, huge chunks of stuff flying past, sucked into the vortex. She felt like Dorothy in the tornado, seeing whole houses there and people too, everything being devoured.
A flash of light up ahead, in the middle of the man’s mouth. Schiller, she called. I’m coming.
Daisy! the voice was his, broadcast right into her head. Help us!
The storm man’s mouth ground relentlessly, but Daisy’s fear was still a tiny thing in her tummy, as if the angel was holding it for her, looking after it. She willed herself to move and her body obeyed, her beating wings propelling her forwards. It was like riding a bike, she thought – you think it’s impossible to start with, you think you will never, ever be able to find your balance, then suddenly there you are, racing down the path, and you can’t even remember what it was like to not to be able to ride. It felt as if she had had this body forever, as if she had been born with it.
She twisted to one side to avoid a slab of spinning concrete, screaming as she smashed through the side wall of a floating house. It came apart around her, blasted into brick dust. Ahead she could make out not one angel but two. Howie, of course, he hatched too. He and Schiller were hovering inside a bubble of orange fire, the pair of them so bright that at first Daisy didn’t even notice Rilke and Marcus beside them, held up by invisible string. There was no sign of Jade.
Hang on, she thought to them. In an instant she was there, right on the edge of the vortex. The current was unbelievably strong, the man doing everything he could to pull her into his gullet. Beyond was nothing, not darkness, not light, just an infinite, gaping absence that made Daisy’s head hurt to look at. The worst thing, though, was that even though the storm still raged, all that emanated from his mouth was a creeping, deafening silence. It was like she had gone deaf in one ear.
She snapped out her wings again, locking herself in place. Schiller and Howie were doing the same. It was taking everything they had to stop themselves disappearing down the drain of his mouth. What was she supposed to do? Talk to him, she told herself, like you said you were going to. Tell him to leave you alone.
Daisy cracked her wings, lifting herself up to where the man’s eyes blazed. She wasn’t even sure if they were eyes, because other than them and his mouth the man didn’t really have a face, just a whirling gyre of smoke and storm. And yet they seemed to study her, his hate like a living thing that thrashed and writhed there. She opened her mouth, felt fire burning up from her stomach, scorching her throat, blasting from her mouth.
What she had wanted to say was ‘Leave us alone,’ but what came out was a word that she didn’t know, a word that wasn’t human. It was as though she had spat out a rocket, a pulse of energy escaping her lips with such force that it flipped her backwards. She righted herself in time to see the shockwave strike the man in his left eye, a wave of fire that ate into the rippling black flesh like water through snow.
I’m sorry! Daisy shouted. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, she just wanted him to go away. She opened her mouth to tell him that but another word cannoned out, this one carving its way into his other eye, ripping loose chunks of flickering dark matter that swept down towards his mouth.
The monster’s head rocked backwards, and that gasping, inward breath guttered out. It was as if gravity had suddenly been switched on again, everything falling towards the void below. Daisy punched out her wings, seeing Schiller and Howie do the same. She flew to them through a monsoon of dust and debris.
Schiller, she yelled. The two angels were so alike that she almost couldn’t tell them apart, but somehow she still knew which one he was. He looked at her with the twin suns of his eyes, and even through the fire she could see that he was injured. Rilke clung on to him like a baby monkey. Marcus hung beside them, buoyed up by some invisible force. They both looked so weak, so vulnerable. Go, get them out of here.
I don’t want to leave you, Schiller replied in her head. Daisy reached out to him, her hand made of fire, looking see-through, a ghost’s hand. She brushed it over his ghost-face, their flames overlapping, joining. When she pulled away she drew dewdrops of golden light from his skin.
Go, I’ll be okay.
He nodded, closed his eyes, and burned himself and the others out of existence. Air rushed in to fill the space they had just occupied, making the glowing embers bob and play. Daisy looked through them to see Howie there, his face both a boy’s and an angel’s, all in one. She felt like she had known him for so long that it was hard to believe this was the first time they had actually met.
Are you okay?
He didn’t get a chance to reply. The man in the storm was recovering, the engine of his mouth starting up again, sucking Daisy in. The noise was so loud that it felt like a fist pummelling her brain, a million-strong orchestra of steel drums playing out of sync. She screamed, her voice almost as loud, a physical thing that cut upwards into the churning sky, blasting away clouds so that – for just a second – the sun shone through.
She flapped her wings, imagining she was a bird, darting away. Another huge piece of building spun towards her but she passed right through it, ripping it to pieces. Howie was beside her, his wings pumping.
We have to fight it, Daisy said. Just speak, the angels know what to do.
They turned together, facing the man. Daisy opened her mouth, the word halfway up her throat before a bolt of black lightning snapped out from the storm and lashed across her chest. She felt as if everything inside her had been pulled loose, the blow sending her hurtling through the air. She extended her wings but it only seemed to make her spin faster. Another whipcrack, then a shout that could only have been Howie fighting back.
Come on! she yelled at herself, pushing her wings out with every ounce of strength she had, controlling her fall. She looked back at the storm – it seemed miles away now – patting the flames of her body to make sure everything was okay. Her human heart thumped, her angel heart thrummed, but that awful feeling sat in her tummy. It was the same feeling she’d had when she had found her mum and dad, dead in the bed, only so much worse. It was the storm, that’s how it wanted the whole world to feel.
The thought made her furious, dwarfing the tickle of fear. She flicked her wings, propelling herself into the heaving mass of the tornado. Howie was there, a blur of fire against the darkness, his shouts crashing against the skin of the beast. More jagged thorns of black lightning tore up towards him, unleashing a fountain of sparks when they snapped against his burning armour.
Daisy opened her mouth and let the angel speak, the word boiling through the air, smashing into the beast. It fired another shard of broken black light her way and she dodged it with a twist of her wing, speaking again, then again, Howie joining her, forcing the storm back. Its sucking breath snapped off again, the turbine of its gullet stalling. She didn’t let up, screaming another word out, seeing it eat into
the skin of his face.
It’s working, it’s working, keep going! she said to Howie, the words in her head joined by another from her mouth, something ancient and alien that split the air in two as it roared towards the storm. Keep going, Howie, we’re going to beat him!
The man’s mouth opened even wider, seeming to take up the whole sky. This time he didn’t breathe in, but out, a monstrous foghorn that punched her backwards. She blacked out for a moment, as though her brain was a computer restarting, and when she came to, she realised she was falling. She screamed, and the voice was hers. When she tried to move her wings they did not obey. She looked down at herself, the flames gone, just her own body there, her school uniform, one shoe missing. She tumbled towards the abyss below, calling out to her angel, Where are you? Come back!
The beast was still pumping out its call, a word that seemed endless. The air was full of movement, a million pieces of debris churning towards her in a tidal wave. Something struck her, the pain unbelievable, filling her whole body as the pit rose up to greet her.
Cal
London, 12.42 p.m.
Cal watched the motorbike glide to a stop in the middle of the street, beside the ruin of a house. There were two people on it, a man and a woman, neither of them wearing helmets.
‘We should go,’ said Brick. He had let go of Adam and was stumbling over a mound of broken stone. The little kid didn’t even seem to notice, wide-eyed as he watched the skies. Above them the storm still raged, and Cal could see where Daisy hung, a burning moon orbiting a core of darkness. Be safe, he told her, turning back.
The man clambered off the bike and held up his hands as if to show that he wasn’t armed. The woman followed, taking a couple of steps towards them. They turned and spoke to each other, the man shrugging.
‘Who the hell are these guys?’ Cal asked. Brick didn’t answer, still retreating, leaving Adam in between him and the newcomers. Unbelievable, Cal thought, stretching out his hand to the boy. ‘Adam, mate, come here.’
The man shouted something, but the roar of the storm was just too loud.
‘. . . don’t want to . . . you . . . questions,’ the man tried again, his shout reduced to a whisper.
‘What?’ Cal called back. Something detonated inside the storm, a pop of thunder. The woman moved forward and Cal waved her back. ‘No, stay there, don’t come any closer.’
She couldn’t hear him, taking another step their way. Brick was half running, half tripping over the cracked tarmac. Cal moved towards Adam, ready to pick him up and carry him away.
‘Wait!’ the bike man was yelling. ‘. . . back . . .’
The woman took another step, and just like that she turned, charging forwards. Cal swore, breaking into a sprint. The woman lunged at Adam, her lips pulled back over her teeth. She was fast, half pouncing, half falling on the boy, grabbing fistfuls of his hair.
‘Get off him!’ Cal slammed into her as if he was playing rugby, the impact sending them both sprawling across the ground. They rolled, her mouth a cobra’s, snapping at his arms, his throat, her teeth clacking. He managed to pin her down, aimed a punch only to be bucked off by her writhing body. He grabbed flesh, locking himself in place, trying again. His fist connected with her nose in an eruption of blood, but she didn’t even seem to feel it, scraping at him with broken fingernails.
Brick! Cal tried to shout, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. He glanced over to see the bigger boy hanging back behind a car, just watching. You selfish bastard, he thought. A look in the other direction told him that at least the man wasn’t moving any closer. The woman – the thing – beneath him grabbed his face in an iron fist, her thumb in his eye socket. Cal let out a guttural cry, batting her away, lashing out again, hearing something crack beneath his fist. He wedged his elbow into her throat, putting all his weight on it, trying to deflect her flailing arms with his free hand. She groaned, choking, the most horrific sound Cal had heard in his life, but the murder never left her bulging eyes.
‘I’m sorry!’ he screamed. ‘I’m sorry.’
A gunshot ripped across the street. Cal looked back, blinded by fire, realising that it hadn’t been a gunshot at all. Schiller stood there, a statue of flame, his wings the tallest thing in the demolished street. Rilke and Marcus were on their knees beside him.
Schiller looked over with his molten eyes and the woman beneath Cal popped. He fell into the mess of her, suddenly drowning inside a cloud of ash. He coughed, rolling away, lying on his back for as long as it took him to remember the man. When he glanced over again, though, he saw that the man had fallen on to his backside, his mouth hanging open.
‘Wait,’ he shouted. ‘. . . don’t . . . you.’
Rilke pointed to him.
‘Kill him too,’ she said, her voice perfectly clear. The storm had grown quiet. Cal looked up to see that it was no longer sucking in air. The twin flames of Daisy and the other boy hung beside its mouth, emitting barking shouts that seemed to explode against the darkness like anti-aircraft fire. They’re winning, he thought, the relief like sunlight inside him.
Then the beast opened his jaws and a fist of noise erupted from his mouth. He vomited a cloud of dust, a whole city reduced to rubble and blasted outwards, engulfing the light, making the day grow even darker. Schiller spread his wings, took a deep breath, then vanished with such speed that his sister fell through him. She scuttled on her hands and knees like a crab until she found her balance.
‘Schiller no!’ she screamed at the storm, holding her hands out to it. ‘No! She doesn’t need you, I need you!’
The man in the storm breathed out his cloud of poison, the ground shaking so much that Cal had to crouch down to stop from falling. A spark ignited in the maelstrom, Schiller, fighting against the tide.
‘Schiller!’ Rilke called again.
But it was too late, he was gone. Cal scrambled up, running across the street, stopping twenty-five, thirty metres away from the motorbike man.
‘Who are you?’ he yelled. He had to repeat himself twice before the man could hear him over the sound of the storm. He stepped forwards but Cal held up his hand. ‘Come any closer and you’ll die,’ he said. ‘Just tell me what you want.’
‘My name is Graham Hayling,’ he yelled back. ‘And I want to help.’
Daisy
London, 12.46 p.m.
She felt like a stone thrown into the ocean, plummeting into the cold, lightless depths. On either side of her she could see distant walls of sheer rock where the city had been torn in half, waterfalls of debris falling from the top of them. Beneath her was nothing but the pit.
‘Please!’ she called out to her angel, but it did not answer. Something bad had happened to it. ‘Help me!’
She fell, tumbling head over feet, the world above growing darker and quieter with every thrashing beat of her pulse. Any second now she’d hit the bottom and that would be it. She’d be buried here forever, in this hole, miles away from everyone and everything. It was the worst thought in the world until another one occurred to her – that the pit might simply go on forever, that she might never stop falling. She screamed for help again, her wretched cry lost in the roar of wind in her ears.
Fire, erupting, and for a second she thought her angel had returned. Then she felt arms around her, and turned to see Schiller there, falling alongside her. He extended his wings, the flames impossibly bright against the shadows, then came the familiar stomach-churning rush as he carried them out of the pit. They reappeared in the middle of the storm, in the centre of the beast’s raging howl, and Daisy had flexed her wings before she realised her angel was back.
Thank you, she said to them both, breaking free of Schiller in order to avoid a hail of concrete and metal that ripped past. Something else was hurtling towards her, a tower block, still intact. She opened her mouth and let her angel speak, the word hitting the building like a missile, demolishing it in mid-air. She soared through the dust, through the million pieces of debris that still streame
d from the beast’s mouth, heading for a distant flame that had to be Howie. He was still shouting, still fighting.
Come on, she called to Schiller. He appeared next to her, weaving in and out of the storm, his eyes like lighthouse beams searing into the gloom. The beast was up ahead, his mouth the biggest thing Daisy had ever seen, a mountain-sized hole in the sky. She screamed at him, a shockwave of sound that vaporised a path through the chaos, striking him between the eyes. Beside her, Schiller called out, his voice a canon shot. Daisy ducked and weaved until she hung beside Howie, the three of them punching out word after word, until the man’s face was a nest of burning black worms.
Is it working? Schiller asked. The thunder of the storm was so loud that Daisy had trouble hearing his words even though they were inside her head.
Is he dying?
I think so, she replied, firing another word, pulling apart even more of the storm. She felt like a summer wind, clearing the clouds from the sky with her breath. Keep going!
The beast shook its giant head, so big that it looked as though it was moving in slow motion. A noise like machine-gun fire rose up from inside him, followed by a bolt of black lightning, so dark that it burned its shape into Daisy’s eyes. It grazed her, knocking her back, but it was Schiller who took the brunt of it. The light hit his face with a whipcrack, another one snaking up and punching through his torso like a harpoon, gone as quickly as it appeared. The boy’s fire flickered off and he began to fall.
‘No!’ Daisy cried, the word twinned with one of the angel’s, burning from her lips, hitting the beast like a huge invisible hammer. Howie screamed as well, his cry detonating in the middle of the storm. Daisy tucked in her wings, diving after Schiller, seeing him slam into a chunk of something big, his body spinning like a ragdoll. She reached out to him with her mind, wrapping phantom hands around him, using the same thought to shield him from the flying rubble. She reeled him in, holding him next to her as another fork of lightless lightning lashed across the sky, close enough that she could feel its icy touch on her skin. Schiller wasn’t moving. She couldn’t even be sure he was breathing, and when she peered into his skull she could see none of the little flickering thoughts there.
The Storm Page 16
