The sky was alive, a storm in the shape of a man. He thrashed inside a roiling ocean of dark cloud, almost as though he was drowning up there. Something about him was familiar, but Rilke didn’t know what. The wind here was incredible, a hurricane that did its best to suck her up. It looked like a vast field, one that had just been ploughed. In the distance was a hole in the world, as if something huge had burrowed up from the centre of the earth and crawled out of it. She stretched out her wings, locking herself in place, scouring the land to try and find him.
A gunshot, overhead. Was that a shotgun? No, it was too loud. A million shotguns couldn’t make a sound like that. She glanced up, into the upturned ocean, seeing a speck of flame against the spiralling dark. It’s him! She knew it, the boy made of fire. He was disappearing into the smoke, trying to hide from her.
Don’t let him go, her brain said. He broke you, he broke you. She wouldn’t let him hide, not now, not ever. She pushed herself up from the ground, pumping her wings, ascending towards the fire. The tall boy was struggling, tongues of black light wrapping themselves around him. One of them punched through his wings, ripping one away, and she could hear his scream over the ear-pounding clatter of the moving sky. He vanished into the spinning vortex of cloud and she increased her speed. More of those forks of black lightning snapped past her but she weaved through them, focusing on the only thing that mattered.
Come out come out wherever you are, she said again, giggling as she followed the burning boy into the darkness.
Daisy
Manang, Nepal, 3.25 p.m.
You ready?
Cal asked the question, staring at her with his angel’s eyes. All five of them stood in a circle, drenched in fire. The noise of their hearts was almost liquid, filling her ears, making her head feel funny. She was finding it hard to move, as well, as though they were all magnets pushing against each other. She wondered what would happen if they all touched, whether it would be too much for this little world. She had a feeling they might just burn a hole clean through it.
Daisy?
She nodded, but it was a lie. She didn’t feel ready at all. How could you ever be ready for something like this?
Cal turned to the others. You guys?
Marcus shrugged. Not like I got anything else I need to be doing right now.
Daisy reached out to Adam, her fingers throwing off bursts of static where they touched his face. He didn’t seem to mind, smiling at her. His eyes seemed bottomless. She felt as if she could tumble into those twin pits of fire and never get out again.
He doesn’t have to come, said Cal. I mean, it might be safer if he stays here, waits for us.
You’ll be okay, won’t you, Adam? Daisy asked. It would be more dangerous for him to be by himself. What if he was attacked by the Fury, or if the man in the storm decided to move again, went after Adam? We’ll keep you safe. But you don’t have to fight. As soon as we land just stay hidden. Okay?
What do we do about Brick? Cal asked.
He’ll be waiting for us, she said. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she could almost see him there, drowning in darkness. He’d changed his mind, come back to help them, and now he was fighting the beast on his own. She took a deep breath of air she didn’t really need, felt both her heartbeats drumming. The angel was doing a good job of keeping her calm, but she was still scared, she could feel it tickling her tummy. It made her feel weak, uncertain, and that made her wonder something else.
I think . . . she started, then stopped, trying to make sense of her thoughts.
What? asked Cal.
She chewed on it a moment more, then spat it out. I think we’re supposed to be calm, she said.
Oh, sure, said Howie. I always feel calm when I’m about to pick a fight with a creature that’s trying to eat the world.
No, Daisy said. I’m serious. It’s like what you were saying, about the chill pills. The angels keep us calm, stop the emotions getting in. That’s how they fight, maybe. They can only do it if our emotions don’t get in the way.
Yeah? said Cal. When he shrugged his wings bobbed up and down. I guess that makes sense.
Daisy shook her head. All she had was her instinct, and what she’d just said felt right.
So keep the emotions under control, said Marcus. Cool, check.
Any other bits of advice? Cal said.
She wished she had, but there was nothing. Only Howie’s Don’t die. That was just about all they had. She shook her head, saying sorry.
Cal blew out a spluttered breath that made the air tremble.
It all seemed so simple, back in Fursville, he said. By comparison, I mean. All we had to do there was survive.
It seemed like months ago, years even, that they’d been inside the theme park. But they had left Hemmingway that morning, less than twelve hours ago. It didn’t make any sense to Daisy, except she understood that somehow time was different for the angels, different for them now too. For what seemed like forever they all stood in silence, and she could see their thoughts as if they floated right in front of her: Fursville, riding the horses of the carousel, playing football – that was Cal, he always thought about football – running down a pitch with the wind in his ears, a pretty girl watching from the stands, a picnic in a forest with a big, bushy dog who kept trying to eat the sandwiches, another boy there who looked just like Marcus, his brother maybe. They were the memories they wanted to take with them, she realised, and she pictured her own – sitting in her back garden in a puddle of sun, smelling the lavender, her dad bringing out a tray of Chinese takeaway and a bottle of alcohol-free sparkling wine which they drank to celebrate her mum’s good news, that the cancer had gone away, all of them alive with laughter, chasing each other between the bushes then lying in the long grass, side by side, breathing in the smell of it as they stared up through the branches. If, when she died, she could live inside any memory of her life, this would be the one she’d choose.
The tickle of fear had become something else, a wedge of rock in her throat. Even past the dam the angel had built inside her she could feel the tears about to break. Nice one, Daisy, way to forget about your emotions, she said to herself, hoping the others wouldn’t hear her. They must have done, though, because Cal laughed.
Come on, he said. Before we all start bawling like babies.
Speak for yourself, said Howie. He spread his wings, flexing them in front of the sun and turning its light into twists of amber.
You doing the honours? Cal asked. Daisy nodded, taking Adam’s hand, the air between their fingers crackling like a bonfire. She closed her eyes and opened up the world, a big enough hole to pull everyone through.
Good luck, she said. Then they were gone.
Cal
San Francisco, 3.32 p.m.
In the split second they were moving he tried to prepare himself, tried to steady his nerves. Then they were there, reality clamping shut around him like a bear trap, sinking its jaws into him to try to lock him in place. They were back where they’d been before, the vast, empty canyon which had once been a city off to his left, the ocean still thundering into it. The whole sky seemed to vibrate for a moment, a crack of thunder echoing across the land as physics adjusted to fit them in. The noise didn’t last for long, though, swallowed up by the storm that raged overhead.
The beast sat there in a throne of smoke, his wings stretching from horizon to horizon, his mouth resembling some immense, diseased moon that hung over the world. There was almost nothing else left of him, just strands of loose, dead flesh stretched impossibly long, fluttering out to his side like torn flags. His eyes were pockets of night.
Those inverse searchlights scoured the ground, finding them in seconds. As soon as that sickly not-light washed over him Cal felt as if he’d been punched in his stomach, in his soul, as if the impact had knocked every last drop of life out of him. He groaned at the horror of it, the complete and utter emptiness, knowing that this is what he would feel forever if the man in the storm swall
owed him up.
Cal felt a sudden gust of wind take hold of him, pulling him up, the beast’s mouth like a vacuum cleaner. He spread his wings, trying to clamp down on the emotions, shouting for his angel to fight back. He didn’t need to tell it what to do, a sound barrelling up his throat, fired from his mouth like a mortar shell. It ripped upwards, scorching a path through the angry clouds until it exploded against the creature’s face.
More shouts followed his own. Daisy hung in the air to his side, screaming in her voice and the angel’s. Marcus and Howie were to his right, their heads recoiling like pistol barrels every time they barked out a shot. The air between them and the storm turned to liquid fire, boiling and hissing like a living thing. The beast unleashed another cry, this one like some deep-sea leviathan.
It’s working! Even though Daisy’s voice was in his head he still had trouble hearing it. Keep shooting him!
Cal beat his wings, rising up through the boiling skies. He opened his mouth, letting his angel hurl out another word. This one slammed into the beast’s swirling face, tearing out a chunk of smoke and dark matter the size of an office block. It was instantly sucked into the spinning void, like the creature was eating itself. The motion of its mouth stuttered and slowed, the bone-shaking rumble dimming for a second before powering up again.
Something whipped out of the darkness, a barbed flail of black lightning which cracked the air right in front of Cal’s face. He tumbled down, blinded by the black scar it left on his retinas. He heard another pistol shot, twisting his body to avoid it, blinking the world back into view.
Daisy and the others were above him, darting back and forth like fireflies as they unleashed blow after blow. They were aiming for the beast’s eyes, a barrage of explosions tearing at those searchlights. The man squirmed in his storm, that inward breath guttering out and restarting, again and again. He was panicking, Cal realised. He was afraid.
He pumped his wings, tearing up towards Daisy. They were so tiny compared to the man in the storm, but that was working in their favour. Every time he snapped out a fork of lightning they would dart out of the way, his attacks too slow, too clumsy. Cal swept his arms forward, punching out with invisible fists; hammer blows that thudded into the beast. It was like watching a battleship fire off every single weapon in its arsenal.
The sky moved, the whole thing falling earthwards, the impossibility of it making Cal scream. He threw his hands up in front of his face as a shockwave of energy smacked into him, spinning him away like a cricket ball. He hit the ground, ploughing through tree roots and rocks, exploding everything into dust until he came to a halt.
Even past the angel he could feel the pain. He sat up, seeing the man in the storm against the horizon, so far away. The sky was still falling, only it wasn’t the sky, it was the creature’s wings. Those enormous plumes of rancid fire swept down, unleashing a hurricane. He couldn’t see Daisy anywhere, or the others. Everyone had been blown away.
He sat up, giving his angel a moment to find its strength. Then he pushed himself off the ground, throwing himself back into the melee.
It was too late. Those wings rushed down a third time and the man in the storm vanished in a blizzard of black embers.
Brick
San Francisco, 3.40 p.m.
It was like being inside a washing machine at full spin, and he had nothing left to fight with.
His angel was dying, it had been too badly injured. Brick tried to stretch out his wings but one was missing, the other hanging down, torn and useless. Fortunately his armoured skin still burned, although the fire was weaker now, barely strong enough to illuminate the funnel of smoke and cloud around him. Even if he’d still had his wings they wouldn’t have done him any good. He could no longer see where he’d come from, or where he was going.
Something loomed up in the darkness, too fast to avoid. He curled up, punching through it, seeing chunks of masonry shatter into dust. There were other things here, caught like scraps of food in the man’s gullet. People too, or what was left of them, pieces of gristle that still had human faces, snagged on the edge of the throat. They flashed past him, hundreds of them, thousands maybe. These were just the dregs. How many millions more had been swallowed?
And he was one of them. Stupid, angry, pathetic Brick. It wasn’t like anyone would miss him anyway. No, he was already a ghost, already forgotten.
Don’t think it, he told himself, feeling his emotions cut through the heart of the angel. It’ll make you weak. You have to fight.
He flailed, thumping through a vast, floating mountain of rock. On the other side of it he suddenly saw where the tunnel narrowed, ending in a point that radiated utter darkness. Clouds of smoke and atomised matter spiralled around it, sparking off bolts of lightning. The roar of the storm was fading, the silence that pulsed from the hole the most terrifying thing Brick had ever heard. Everything was wrong here, time seemed to be breaking, everything slowing down as it circled the drain.
It wasn’t death in there, it could never be anything so simple. It was eternity, infinity, an ageless gulf of nothing that he would never, ever be able to escape. It was a black hole, a pinprick in reality that would devour everything, that would eat and eat and eat until there was nothing left.
‘No!’ he shouted, the angel’s voice swallowed up without so much as a tremor, as if he had been muted. Brick shrieked, his arms cartwheeling, his stunted wing flapping. He managed to flip himself over, looking back the way he’d come, the walls of the tunnel corkscrewing relentlessly, dragging more and more of the world towards its end. There was something else up there, a flicker of fire against the madness. Oh God please please please, Brick said. The shape grew closer, exploding through chunks of floating debris. It had to be Daisy, or Cal, it has to be, please God.
Come out come out wherever you are, said Rilke, and Brick felt his heart sink into his feet. She swept towards him, her wings opening at the last second, like a dragon’s. She gazed at him with the molten pools of her eyes, grinning. That third eye still blazed in her forehead, the one he’d made, gunks of fire dropping from it as if her brain was melting.
There you are, she said. I found you.
Please, Rilke, Brick said. The contrast of silence in one ear and thunder in the other was making him feel sick. Please, help me, pull me free.
Rilke cocked her head, her grid sliding away, slack and loose.
Help you? she said, her voice scratching across the surface of his brain. Why?
Because I’m dying! he yelled, clawing at the air, trying to reach her. It’s going to kill me!
But you killed me, she said, beating her wings to fight the current of air. You snapped me in half, now Mother will be furious.
I’m sorry, he said. She was mad, she was broken. I’m sorry, Rilke, I didn’t mean to.
And Schiller, you broke him too.
No, I didn’t! he said, feeling himself slip closer to the hole. He felt as if he was being stretched, as if he would be pulled into ribbons. I didn’t, it was him, the man in the storm. You have to believe me.
No, it was you, the boy with wings, she said, studying him with those blazing orbs.
No, I . . . I don’t have wings, he shouted, trying to twist around, to show her his back. It wasn’t me, look. How could it be me?
She frowned, the hum of their angels making the whole tunnel shake.
He broke me too, Brick stuttered. The man with wings, with huge wings. He’s broken me, and now he wants to kill me. We have to fight him, Rilke, together, please.
Where is he? Rilke said, flying closer, almost close enough for him to touch. He reached out, not with his arms but with his mind, trying to latch on to her, to anchor himself, but he couldn’t work out how.
We’re inside him, he said. He’s trying to eat us.
Don’t be silly, Schill, she said, giggling. He can’t eat us.
He will, Brick said. Bolts of white light were detonating in his vision, fireworks. His fire was fading, fast. His angel was
dying. He hates us, he’s going to break us all, unless we fight back. Please, Rilke, don’t let me die. I’m . . . I’m your brother.
Schiller? she said. Is that you? I can’t see so well.
Brick felt something curl around his waist, an invisible tentacle that reeled him towards the burning girl. The black hole didn’t want to let him go, clinging on to every cell in his body. It was as if he was coming undone, a piece of paper in water, dissolving. Rilke hauled him in, back into the roar and thunder of the storm, and he fell against her, holding her as a child clings to a parent. She hugged him for a moment, then recoiled.
You’re not my brother, she said, her voice as cold as the inferno around her. You lied to me.
I am, he said, praying she was crazy enough to believe him. Don’t you recognise me, sister?
She looked lost, the fire of her eyes flickering as the busted gears of her mind clanked and shook and tried to turn. The storm trembled, clouds of debris spilling from the walls of the tunnel. An almighty groan rose up all around them, then another explosion, as though somebody was lobbing artillery shells at them. What the hell was going on out there?
Rilke, please, you have to get us out of here, before it’s too late.
Her whole body trembled, as if she was having a fit, great waves of energy pulsing from her. When it was over she grabbed him with the fingers of her mind, towing him along beside her as she pumped her wings and pulled away. The current attempted to suck them back but she was too strong, cutting a path upriver. All around them the storm shook, rocked by thunder. He could sense something, voices in his head – Daisy, Cal, the others too. Was it them? Were they attacking the storm? Please please be true, he thought as the clouds parted ahead, a shaft of weak, murky sunlight trickling through.
That’s it, sis, you’re beating him.
The Storm Page 25
