by LJ Rivers
“Hello, Jeannine,” shouted Mum. “Are you all right?”
Jen frowned slightly. “Yes … shouldn’t I be?”
“I just thought—Ruby said—”
“Charlie said you might be here, and I was worried,” I said.
“The digiwitch is tracking me, is she? Figures, since I’m sort of part of the political landscape.”
That might be a stretch, but I wasn’t going to argue.
“—unbelievable. I have no words.” Colburn’s voice had a new trait, a tremble that I for once believed he hadn’t rehearsed.
“He didn’t know,” I said. “He honestly didn’t know.”
“I will treasure this moment for the rest of my life,” Colburn continued, putting on his ‘Sermon on the Mount’ voice, as the media called it. “And I’m so proud to share it with my family and with all of you!”
As had become a regular part of his rallies, another storm of elated shouts and applause filled the area, bouncing off the buildings on both sides of the Thames.
Colburn grabbed a microphone off its stand and went to the edge of the stage. He sat on one of the monitors, and although he had been caught off guard by his press officer, he had regained control. This was one of his pre-rehearsed numbers, where he made every single person in the crowd in front of him feel as if he was talking only to them.
“Listen, friends. Shocked as I am by the honour—and don’t for a second think I do not appreciate it—this is really not about me.“ He glanced to the side of the stage. “The next band is getting ready, and I’ll get off the stage in a minute, but I just wanted to say one more thing.” He held his finger to his lips and did his standard secretive glances from side to side. “If you all promise not to tell on me to the mayor, I’ll say a couple of words about the current situation. Are we good?”
The laughter spread like wildfire.
“Great. I trust you. And trust is the key. I need you to trust in me come August. Let me and my colleagues help Britain get on her feet again. She’s hurt, we all know that. She’s got a terrible virus—and I’m not talking about the Mag-flu, we got rid of that.”
“Maggers out!” someone shouted.
“We’ll get to that, mate,” Colburn responded, as if he were a comedian dealing with a heckler. “Just give me your vote, and we have a deal, OK?”
“Deal!”
This earned JC another round of laughter.
“This is surreal,” Mum said. “I knew he was good, but to see him live is rather fascinating.”
“Yeah, like a car crash,” Jen muttered. “You don’t want to look, but can’t help yourself.”
“—virus are these Magical terrorists. And if it’s one thing we all know, it’s that Britain has never bowed for terrorists. We have been attacked before, and we have always stood shoulder to shoulder in the face of our enemies. There have been threats to my own life, too, as you may have heard. I will not—we will not—yield to such acts of terror. That’s not in our blood. Our human blood.”
As the audience once again gave him his dose of appraisal, another sound issued from behind us. A steady rhythm of a bass drum drew closer. At first I thought the next band was getting ready, and that the sound was just bouncing off the big hotel next to the London Eye. A young man in front of me had the event programme in his back pocket, and it seemed Colburn was about to announce Target Practice. On any other occasion I would be happy to see them live, as I quite liked them.
“No more! No more! No more!” shouted a familiar voice, amplified through a megaphone.
The beating drum was not the drummer of Target Practice warming up. Parading up Belvedere Road came a chanting mob. They entered the Jubilee Gardens only fifty yards from where Mum, Jen, and I stood, on the southeast corner. Gemma strode in front, wearing—as was ninety-five per cent of her followers—all black. Many of the people behind her wore hoodies, which made the whole mob look scary enough. The scariest part, however, was that about twenty of them had shifted into their animal forms. At least I figured they were, since few people had lynxes and bears as pets. There were a couple of coyotes and a silver fox, and one tall man in the middle had an eagle on his shoulder.
“Erica!” Jen yelped.
“And Clint,” I said. “I recognise quite a few from The Forge.”
“This will be a bloodbath if we can’t stop it.”
I turned to Mum. “Get out of here. If you go down to the ticket offices,” I pointed at the foot of the Eye, “and follow the walkway along the Thames, you can—”
“Forget it. I’m not leaving you alone here.”
“Mum, please! I can take care of myself. Just get out of here before it’s too late.”
“I think it already is,” she said.
The roaring crowd in front of the stage had noticed the protesters, and although most of them seemed to try to get away, hundreds turned to face the Mags. The young man in front of me looked desperately from side to side before deciding to flee.
Good for you! I thought.
“—down, people. Calm down!” Colburn got back to his feet. He raised the microphone to his lips again, but shook his head and dropped it. Instead, he ran to his wife and children and started ushering them off the stage. They were surrounded by JC’s security team, one of whom picked up JC’s teenage daughter and ran.
The angry Mag mob and Colburn’s audience were only thirty yards away from each other, lined up like two armies on the battlefield. Gemma was still in front, shouting even louder than before.
“You have failed to obey our demands, humans. This is your final warning. Get out of here now, while you still can. We are taking over!”
Her mob raised their fists and gave a simultaneous “Woo!”
Sadly, the response from the humans was an uncoordinated war cry, and they started running towards the Mags, waving their posters and flags as weapons. A man in a ‘JC Saves Britain’ T-shirt held a piece of wood like a baseball bat. One of the coyotes bounded towards him, jumping when it was five yards away. Its fangs glimmered in the floodlights as it homed in on the man’s neck. T-shirt-man swung his makeshift bat and connected with the coyote’s skull. It let out a howl of pain, but its momentum was unfazed by the blow. Its paws dug into the man’s chest, causing him to tumble backwards. He lost his weapon, and although he had struck the coyote hard, it wasn’t hard enough. As blood trickled from a deep cut on the side of its head, the coyote sunk its long, white fangs in the poor man’s neck.
A girl sprinted towards me, screaming and waving her arms to fight off the eagle that had its claws deep in her shoulder. It bit off a large piece of her left ear and kept pecking on the open wound as the girl collapsed in front of me. A growl sounded and a big, white wolf attacked the eagle. A pile of clothes lay near my feet. Jen buried her teeth in the eagle’s neck and gave a quick twist. Blood gushed from the headless bird and flowed over the injured girl. The wolf ditched the eagle’s head like a rotten apple, before leaping further into the battleground.
Mum fell to her knees, her hands already loaded with glowing healing magic. In seconds, the only thing wrong with the young girl was the bird’s blood on her summer dress. She ran away, still screaming and probably too shocked to understand what had happened.
A gunshot boomed over the area. People threw themselves to the grass, howling. A bulky man, at least six-foot-five, rushed out of the crowd of Mags. He took three steps and hurled himself forward. Before his feet—now paws—touched the ground, he exploded out of his black clothes and took on the shape of a black panther. The panther kept its stride and ran straight into the humans. The gun, if it was the same, boomed again. The black monster didn’t flinch, even as a pink fountain erupted on its left shoulder. A second later it swung its giant paw at the middle-aged man with the gun. Three red gashes appeared instantly on the man’s face, one of them cutting straight across his eye. Blinded, he dropped the gun and tried to stand. The panther made quick work of finishing him off, slashing his throat with another swing of
its razor-sharp claws.
Mum was moving from victim to victim, crawling on the grass inside a force field. It was a near repeat of yesterday’s brawl in Leicester Square, only there were a lot more Magicals and people involved. I hoped she wouldn’t run out of energy. A scream from the stage made me turn. Two girls were standing on the side of it, mouths open. In front of them was Steven Butcher. The man who had only minutes ago burst with pride at his boss’ MBE award, stood on one knee, holding his hands over his ears. As the girls kept screaming, Butcher began shaking forcefully.
I sucked in a breath and sprinted towards the stage. There were still seventy or eighty yards to go, and there was no way I would make it in time to stop the Banshees from ripping Butcher to shreds. I hurled a force field at Butcher. It enveloped him just as he collapsed on the stage floor. It might not have blocked the screams, but at least it made the Banshees turn their attention to me.
Nicely done, Ru.
They were identical twins, no more than twelve. Their long, blonde hair was lit by a giant stage light behind them as they drew their breaths to send a hypersonic scream of death at me.
Crap!
The sound pummelled me like a charging bull. I lost my footing and fell backwards on the grass. The twins kept screaming as they jumped off the stage and ran towards me. I conjured a force field around myself, but it had no effect. The sound waves cut into my ears like knives. The girls were only ten yards away now, and the pain in my head was unbearable. I hated that I had no other choice than to defend myself.
The monitor that had served as Colburn’s chair came flying on my command and hit the Banshee twins from behind. The one on the left took the bulk of it and fell face first on the ground. She rolled four or five times, her body limp as I had knocked her out cold. Her sister crashed into a woman who was trying to crawl away from two foxes that were scratching at her legs.
I got to my feet and continued towards the stage, jumping over the unconscious Banshee and passed the screaming fox lady. If Butcher was still alive, maybe I could heal him. To my right, a fireball flew towards one of Colburn’s followers. It hit him straight in the chest and set his Arsenal shirt ablaze. He cried out and tried to rip it off, but the fabric had melted into his skin. As he rolled on the grass, howling in agony, another man was standing behind him, burying the remains of a flag stick into the chest of a Mag. The man cracked his neck and kicked the dead Mag, the Lionhearts flag waving morbidly over the body.
Colburn was still on the stage, sitting with Butcher’s head resting in his lap. Blood seeped from both of the press officer’s ears. I climbed onto the stage and sat next to Colburn.
“He’s gone,” Colburn sobbed. “The bastards killed him.”
I checked the pulse of his press officer. It was too late.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Are you?” The hatred in Colburn’s eyes drilled into mine.
Before I could reply, a roar ensued behind me. Colburn’s eyes turned from hatred to terror as a shadow sailed over us. A grey and black wolf alighted next to him and bit into his left arm. The wolf started to drag him away.
“No!” I shouted.
The wolf ignored me. Colburn turned and tried to punch it, but his fist was like mosquito bites to the wolf. I called upon my fire power, very much aware that I was about to hurt a Mag to save a human. A human who hated Mags at that. But this wasn’t right, no matter what.
As I raised my hands to throw the fireballs at the wolf, a snarl from behind made me hesitate. A white wall of fur appeared between me and the wolf.
“Move away, Jen!” I called.
She didn’t move. Instead, she let out a bone chilling howl. I moved to the side to get a better shot at the grey and black wolf, but it had let go of Colburn. He lay on the stage floor, not moving, while the grey wolf bowed its head. Jen padded forward and loomed over the submissive wolf.
“Erica?” I said.
The strange wolf gave me a quick glance, but returned its gaze to the white leader of its pack. Jen moved to the back of the stage, and Erica followed, her tail hanging low to the ground. I tore my attention away from the otherwise fascinating scene and slid over to Colburn.
“Is he dead?” Mum came running up the stairs by the side of the stage.
I cleared my throat. “I—I think so.”
Chapter Nineteen
Colburn lay on his right side, his left arm turned one hundred and eighty degrees in its shoulder socket. The front of his shirt was no longer the bright white that had reflected in the sun, but dyed crimson from the multiple rips and tears from Erica’s teeth and claws. Mum lifted his chin to check for a pulse.
“It’s weak,” she said. “I don’t think I have enough healing left, Ruby.”
Her green summer dress was smudged, the hem soaked in blood. Her eyes, however, shimmered with tears for a man that had wanted to sell her daughter at an auction. I knew the feeling; the Fae instinct was to help anyone who needed our magic, even a Mag hater like Jarl Colburn.
“I do. But we have to get him backstage. It’s not safe here.”
As if on cue, a fireball hit the microphone stand five feet away, showering us with sparks.
“He won’t last much longer,” Mum said. She slid her hands under his arms and started dragging him across the stage. A screech filled my right ear, followed by the heavy gusts of wind from an eagle’s flapping wings. It landed next to Colburn and started pecking on his limp left arm.
“Go away,” I yelled, and lashed out at it. My fist caught the white-feathered head just behind its eye. The eagle toppled over, and its head changed into that of a platinum blonde woman. She opened her mouth and let out a shriek, which turned into an eagle’s screech as she shifted back again.
Mum had yanked Colburn almost all the way to the small slit in the back curtain, the stage floor lubricated by the man’s blood. I stood and kicked at the eagle, but didn’t connect. Still, it took off to find an easier victim.
When I got behind the curtain, my heart sank. What I had hoped was a secluded area, away from the riot, was just the rest of the lawn. Two of Colburn’s security guards were fighting a wolverine, or maybe it was a small bear, I had no way to be sure in all the chaos. Another huge, black-clad man was running towards an equally black SUV, holding Colburn’s wife by the hand, and pulling their two children along with the other.
Thank Nimue!
At least a dozen other Mags had found their way back here, and it would only be a matter of seconds before they spotted Colburn. If I tried to heal him, the light of my magic would be their beacon, instantly sealing his fate.
“I have to get him out of here.”
Mum turned from side to side. “There’s nowhere to go.”
“There might be,” I said, and squatted behind Colburn, wrapping my arms around his upper body.
A low, almost inaudible moan escaped his lips, a sound I had heard from dead or dying people before, when the lungs released air through the windpipe.
Heavy steel frames, five feet tall, supported the stage floor, which, besides providing a platform for Colburn’s political rants, might also be his salvation. The reddening evening sun hung above the arched roof of Charing Cross station, but its rays didn’t reach underneath the stage.
I dug my heels in the grass and pushed backwards, dragging Colburn’s slumped body with me.
“Over there,” a voice shouted. “It’s Colburn!”
“Use your force fields, Ruby!” Mum said, and held her hands up to produce one herself. A translucent sphere appeared, but never grew past a foot in diameter.
A lanky boy with wild, red hair and a round, freckled face came jogging towards Mum. “Move away, lady,” he said. It was Clint, the Fae who had healed me after the cage fight in The Forge.
Mum’s force field had no effect on him as he pushed her aside and raised his arms in front of him. He was only three feet away from me.
“Let me have him, Ruby. You know what he wants to—”
> “No!” Mum jumped on his back and forced him down. They rolled twice before Clint’s head hit one of the steel bars. Mum’s eyes found mine just as I eased into the chilly tendrils of darkness.
“Meet me by the foot of the Eye,” I said.
“Ruby!” Mum’s voice faded as I entered the shadows. The familiar prisms of black and grey criss-crossing into kaleidoscopic patterns surrounded me. I kept my grip around Jarl Colburn’s chest, recalling Auberon’s words. “I don’t think a human would survive the transition.” I had no choice but to try.
I pulled him with me through the darkness, silhouettes of fighting Mags and humans flashing by behind the veil of shadows. My ears picked up muffled screams and howls. A piece of metal, maybe a knife, came flying in our direction. Before I had a chance to react, not that I would have had the strength to turn Colburn’s body away from it, the blade passed straight through him. Not piercing his clothes and skin or anything. Just through him, as if he were made of air.
Or shadows.
At the south end of Jubilee Gardens was a tiny playground, surrounded by a small grove of trees. It would have to do for shelter. I exited the shadows and dropped to the ground, leaning on one of the trunks. Around me, the shrubbery kept us shielded from prying eyes, although I couldn’t know for how long.
I let go of Colburn, supporting him as he slid off my lap and onto the grass. There was no time to check for a pulse. If it was there, I might have a chance. If not, searching for it would make no difference.
For the second time in less than half a year, I chose to use my most precious form of magic on the man who had described me as a commodity. The man whose whole life and wealth was centred around harvesting the blood of my kind. I shook my head as I released the heat that burned inside my veins.
I normally loved the feeling of my healing power beaming out of my palms, but this time it gave me no joy. Besides, Colburn was already dead. After a few seconds, I figured it was no use wasting any more of my magical energy. Only a few yards away, on the other side of the trees, lay dozens who needed my help. I called on the strands of healing that stretched into Colburn’s chest, like a general ordering his troops to retreat from a lost battle.
