Blood and Feathers

by Lou Morgan

  They had. All part of the patented Mallory crash-course: How To Stop Being On Fire. Yes. Alice closed her eyes and tried to concentrate – which was, admittedly, hard, given the fire skipping up and down her arms – and breathe. Breathing helped.

  Ten minutes later, she was dressed again, and standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at Mallory, who was slouched on his sofa, reading one of his notebooks filled with scrawled symbols.

  “You want to explain what that was?” she asked, tapping her foot in irritation.

  He didn’t look up. “Not really.”

  “Where did that come from? There’s no-one here; no-one in pain...”

  “There’s you.”

  “Fair enough, but I’ve been aching like this for...”

  “There’s more than one kind of pain, Alice.”

  “What?” She stared at him. “Do you talk like this just to drive me crazy?”

  “Your gift. What triggers it?”

  “Pain. What am I missing, or am I just being thick? No, wait. Don’t answer that.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” he said, trying to hide his smirk behind the notebook. He glanced over at her and coughed, dropping the book and swinging around to look at her properly. “And you think pain’s only a physical thing, right?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe?”

  “It’s alright, Alice. It means we’ve done it.”

  “We’ve done what?”

  “We’ve got you to a point where you stand a chance. You’ve got control. Not just the part of you that’s governed by your empathy. You own it. All of it.”

  “Yay?”

  “And just listen to you. You’re giving me attitude. You weren’t a couple of days ago, were you?”

  “No, but...”

  “No. And you know why? It’s because you’re not afraid any more, isn’t it?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her, and she opened her mouth to reply... but stopped. He was right. She wasn’t. The fear that had crawled inside her was gone. Almost like it had been... burned away.

  Mallory nodded. “You took it all – the fear, the pain, all of it: all the things you’ve been carrying round your whole life – and you turned it into fuel. You let it in, and you let it feed you... and you beat it.” He was up from the sofa, dropping the book on the floor and pacing up and down the small room. “All you have to remember to do is to let it in, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Let what in, exactly?”

  “Everything.”

  “Oh, that’s helpful.” Alice turned on her heel and disappeared back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. From the other side, she heard Mallory say, “You’re welcome.”

  THE LIGHT WAS fading as they left. Someone had scraped the snow off the path from the church, and it occurred to Alice that although there were footprints, clear signs of life coming and going, she had never seen anyone other than the angels – or the Fallen – around it.

  Mallory simply shrugged. “Just because you don’t see something, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, does it?”

  “That’s what Gwyn said. About your wings.”

  “We have a script.”

  “Funny.”

  He had given her a coat. It was long, and it was red and warm: warmer than anything else she owned. He had passed it to her across the table, wrapped in dark tissue paper. “You’ll need it. You’ve heard the phrase: ‘when hell freezes over’? Well, it already did.”

  “A snowball’s chance in hell?”

  “No-one said the Fallen didn’t appreciate irony.”

  The door closing behind them made an awful, final sound.

  THE HOUSE WAS small, neat, suburban. Not unlike the house Alice used to live in; the street almost identical even down to the boxy front gardens and the makes of the cars parked along the kerb. There was little to mark this house out as different, except for the blankness of the windows. It wasn’t just that the house was empty: it was soulless. This was a house that knew it had been abandoned, and it wore that knowledge like a shroud.

  Mallory pushed his way past an overgrown shrub to a gate standing shoulder-high at the side of the house. He reached over it and unbolted it, raising an eyebrow at Alice. “What?”

  “Well, you’ve got wings. You could, you know... fly.”

  “There are some things, Alice, which need to be done right. You’ll see.”

  He lifted the latch and the gate swung open. It led to a wide passage that ran alongside the garage. There were pots here, the plants in them long since dead, and weeds had pushed their way between the paving stones. A tangle of bindweed slumped out of what once must have been a child’s sandpit, now filled with muddied slush and snow. Ahead of her, Alice spotted a half-rotten football in a border and her stomach heaved. This was the house that had once belonged to Iris: most likely, it still did, provided Iris and her family were still alive. This was the first of the hellmouths.

  They rounded the corner of the garage and there, ahead of them on the lawn, she saw it. She couldn’t stop herself. “Jesus wept.”

  “Most probably. I know I did.” Mallory’s voice, behind her, was gruff.

  “It’s not what I was expecting.”

  “Why ever not? Hell. Mouth. Description’s pretty accurate.”

  It was. Terrifyingly accurate. Up ahead, only just visible in the near-dark, a circle of enormous teeth had forced its way up through the ground. They loomed over the figures waiting for her, their wings whispering in the breeze. Gwyn was the first to step forward, looking over her shoulder and nodding a greeting to Mallory. “You’re ready.”

  “I guess so...”

  “It wasn’t a question.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m proud of you, Alice. You have done well.”

  “Thanks?”

  She shuffled from one foot to the other. If she was entirely honest, she was hoping she wouldn’t have to see Gwyn here – although, if she really was being honest, she knew it was unavoidable. She could never quite put her finger on it, but there was still something about him she couldn’t trust. Maybe it was just his distance. Maybe it was something else... like the fact he’d let the Fallen break her father’s neck. Yes. That would probably do it. He was looking her up and down thoughtfully. “You know, I was almost afraid, when we met.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “That you would be a disappointment. After your mother... well. You can’t blame me for thinking it, can you?”

  “I’m not sure I see your point.”

  Alice clenched her fists, trying to ignore the flash of sensation in her palms. Gwyn shook his head. “So many thought you would turn to the Fallen. So many. They thought you would let us down; that you couldn’t help it.” He smiled. “I told them, ‘Have faith.’ And here you are.” He spread his hands beatifically.

  “Bullshit.”

  It was thinly disguised as a cough, and it came from the shadows to Gwyn’s left. Gwyn’s head whipped round, and Alice followed the line of his gaze. There, half-hidden beside a tree, was Vin – and a few steps behind him was Jester. He waved. Alice stared at him open-mouthed. “How... I thought...?”

  “Yeah. Me too,” said Vin. “Turns out he finally got the hang of his gift and managed to give Purson the slip. Of course, he left me behind to get tortured, and to then spend two days tearing my hair out trying to find him... but what can I say? I’m obviously a natural teacher.”

  “More like I’m a natural talent,” Jester said with a smile. “Apparently, I can make you see whatever I want. Who knew?”

  “So when he didn’t want to be found... Well. I tell you, this kid is going to be golden.” Vin patted him on the shoulder, and pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket, pausing with them halfway to his face. “Toast a few Fallen for me.”

  “Vin. It’s dark. You can leave the sunglasses.”

  “It’s a look. Shut up.” He sniffed, and Alice laughed. There was no sign of Florence, and no-one mentioned her. Alice considered asking, but thoug
ht better of it.

  She caught the scent of woodsmoke and spun round. In the shadows beside the house, she could just make out three figures talking: Mallory, Gwyn and... someone else. Mallory’s head was lowered and he looked uncomfortable, fidgeting as he spoke. No, not uncomfortable: uncertain. She breathed in the scent on the air, trying to remember it. It was familiar, she knew that much. It was safety. It was A’albiel, the Descended who had rescued her from Xaphan. No wonder Mallory was uncomfortable – hadn’t he said he’d never met one of Michael’s choir before? Still, there was a first time for everything.

  Alice peered at the hellmouth. It didn’t help. It still looked just as ugly, and just as scary. Nor was the farewell party helping. It all seemed a little final – like the thud of Mallory’s door closing behind them, this was a little too much. She scuffed at one of the teeth with her shoe. It felt solid enough, and the bloody great hole that dropped away into the earth behind it looked deep enough. She stared down into the dark.

  It really was dark.

  Something across the hellmouth caught her eye and she dropped to a crouch, slinging an arm around the closest tooth for balance and leaning out a little. As she’d thought: stairs. Someone had carved a staircase into the hellmouth – into what looked exactly like the flesh of a throat. Fighting back a shudder, Alice wondered what you had to do to get that particular duty on hell’s rota. It can’t have been good. But still, stairs?

  She stood up, wiping her hands and turned to face the others. Gwyn was right behind her, making her jump. “You should go.”

  “I thought I was going to have to jump or something. You didn’t tell me there were stairs! And there I was, worrying about how I’d get out...”

  “The steps won’t bring you back up,” Gwyn said with a calm smile. “They will only take you down.”

  “One-way stairs? That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s the Fallen.”

  “No, really. That’s impossible. Stairs can’t only work one way. They’re... stairs.”

  “Try it. When you reach the third step, try to turn back. But I warn you, Alice: you won’t be able to.” His expression was carefully, infuriatingly blank.

  She sighed. “You know something? You guys are weird.”

  Mallory snorted, and Gwyn shot him a look of disapproval before placing his palms flat on Alice’s shoulders. “I have to ask you, Alice: do you enter of your own free will?”

  “What?”

  “You’re supposed to say yes,” hissed Vin from under the tree, and it was his turn to get a dirty look from Gwyn.

  Alice rolled her eyes. “Haven’t we already done this?”

  Gwyn’s chilly ozone-scent filled her mind. “And you understand the consequences, should you fail?”

  “Oh, god, no. Don’t want to think about it. Don’t need to. I won’t fail.”

  Gwyn opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again. Apparently there wasn’t an answer to that. And that was good enough for her. Taking a deep breath, she walked around the circle of teeth, around the mouth, and stopped at the top of the steps. There she was, standing at the jaws of hell and hoping that no-one could see her shaking.

  She stepped down.

  They were all watching her.

  She stepped down again, and again.

  Out of curiosity, on the third step she turned and stepped back up... and found herself standing on the third step again. She tried again, and once more she realised she was stepping back onto the third step. “Wow. That’s a headfuck.”

  A’albiel was at the edge, looking down. “We will not abandon you, Alice.”

  She turned her face away from the sky, away from the angels, and began the walk down into darkness. The last thing she heard from above her was a warm, familiar voice saying, “Have faith.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Down the Rabbithole

  THE FURTHER SHE walked, the darker it got, and soon she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. While this didn’t exactly make her happy, given the stairs she was climbing down opened on one side to a bottomless pit, she had no choice but to keep going. Fun as the only-forward stairs were, Alice was sure the novelty would wear off pretty quickly. She kept one hand on the wall, allowing it to guide her round and ignoring just how sticky it felt. It gave her something to concentrate on; something – anything – other than where she was going.

  Mallory hadn’t helped, standing on the other side of the table and staring at her with his sad eyes, saying, “There will be people you know, Alice. People you trusted. Remember how I told you that we have always been watching you? Well, so have the Fallen. And just as we had you surrounded, so did they.”

  “You had to tell me that now?”

  “I thought you should be prepared.”

  Like anyone could be prepared for this. She misjudged her footing and tripped, grabbing at the wall to help regain her balance. Her fingers sank into the wall up to the knuckle.

  “Alright,” she said to no-one in particular, pulling her hand free with a revolting squelch, “That? That’s just about the worst thing ever.”

  The whole thing was impossible. She had caught herself that time, but she had no idea how much further there was to go, and it was inevitable she would slip again in this darkness.

  She closed her eyes, not that it made much of a difference, and listened to the panicked pounding of her heart... and suddenly there was light. She held her hand ahead of her and the flame in her palm was barely the size of a tennis ball, but it gave her a chance to look around. It wouldn’t take long to burn itself out. She had come to realise that using her own emotions was a little like running on reserve power – just enough to get out of trouble, but never enough to do anything constructive – so she tried to commit as much as she could to memory.

  The stairs kept on sweeping round and down, always down, further than she could see. That was either extremely encouraging or incredibly depressing; she wasn’t sure which. Nor could she stop herself from looking at the wall her hand rested against. She wished she hadn’t. It was definitely not earth, although she’d known that. It was softer. And were those made by... fingernails? Three long parallel gouges that swept past her at shoulder height, then abruptly cut off.

  The fire burned out.

  On the plus side, it had burned up the jolt of fear she felt, and she was calm again as she set off into the blackness.

  HER LEGS WERE aching by the time she realised she could see again – not clearly, but there was definitely a faint light coming from somewhere, edging her world with a sickly blue sheen. At this point, though, she’d take grey over pitch black. She peered down the central pit. It certainly looked like it was lighter down there, but whether that was a good thing remained to be seen. What it did mean was that she could pick up the pace a little, and despite her protesting muscles, she skipped down the stairs two at a time.

  “You’d think I was in a hurry to get into hell. That’s my life now.”

  There was no answer. There was no-one to answer her. She missed Mallory.

  THE FLOOR, WHEN it came, was stone, for which she was grateful. After the teeth and the suspiciously fleshy wall, she’d had a horrible feeling that she was going to find herself in the middle of a medieval painting, all flying livers and god only knows what else. But no, it was stone. Boring, grey stone. Still, it was hell, and her feet didn’t seem to want to move from that last step. Her breath billowed out of her, thick as an ash-cloud. It was cold down here. Really cold.

  “Your guide will meet you at the gate,” Mallory had said. So where was he? Was this it, and Mallory was just being poetic, or should she be looking for an actual gate? And what, Alice wondered, would it look like? Her stomach flipped quietly and she decided it was safer not to give that too much consideration. She stepped down.

  The floor made an alarming cracking sound and she threw out her arms for balance, half-expecting to be tipped sideways, but nothing happened and, feeling slightly foolish, she adjusted her coat and drew i
t closer around her. At least there hadn’t been anyone to see that. First impressions and everything. The stairs were at the end of a corridor hollowed through the same bland grey stone, which swept away around a tight bend. The pale blue light that had seeped up the steps was stronger here; it seemed to be coming from somewhere further along the passageway. There was something about it that made her uncomfortable, as though her eyes were constantly being pushed sideways. Huddled into her coat, she started around the corridor.

  It curled around itself, dropping away more steeply the further she went. The blue light grew brighter as she turned a corner and spotted a large sconce bolted to the wall. It burned with a chilly blue flame; dark drips ran down the wall beneath it and there was a sticky black puddle on the floor. Alice had never seen anything like it. She lifted her hand, wanting to see if the flame was as cold as it looked, but as her fingers drew close, it shivered and drew away. The fire flattened against the wall, smearing itself across the stone, then pulled back to its original shape as she lowered her arm. She tried again, and exactly the same thing happened. The flame was avoiding her. And it cast no shadows.

  “Well, that’s just odd.”

  There was a sound from down the corridor and Alice froze. Just because she hadn’t seen anyone so far didn’t mean that she was alone. On the other hand, it could well be that her guide was waiting for her. She walked towards the noise.

  The passageway ended, opening up into an enormous cavern: the roof soared up and away, arching further than she could see. And towering over her, their tops lost in the height above, were the gates of hell. Alice’s eyes still felt like they were being squeezed inside out by the peculiar light, but she stared anyway, panning down the front of the gates. Higher than a cathedral, broader than an ocean liner... they were vast.

  Between her and the gates, there was a man. He had his back to her, the collar of his jacket turned up. There was something horribly familiar about the way he was standing; the way he held his shoulders, his hands jammed into his coat pockets. She took a step back, suddenly uncertain, but as she did so he turned his head slightly, and sniffed.