‘You were drunk?’ asked Daisy. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen,’ he said. ‘Plenty old enough.’
‘You still drunk?’ said Cal.
Howie smiled. ‘No, unfortunately. Think a bottle of rum might make all this a bit easier to cope with.’
‘Ew,’ said Daisy. They were silent for a while, and she turned inward, speaking to her angel. Is he right? Are you good? Have you been here before? It gave no answer, sitting there like a statue in her soul. She thought about what she’d seen earlier, the place they came from, a cold, dead place where nothing happened. It made her shudder, the idea that when this was over – whether they won or lost – her angel would have to return. It would be locked back in its cell until the next time it was needed.
‘So, how do we do it?’ Marcus asked. ‘Might take days for my angel to wake up. By then there won’t be anything left to save.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Cal. ‘There’s a way of . . . of motivating them.’
‘Yeah?’
Cal nodded, but instead of speaking he seemed to beam out an image of it. Daisy saw him standing on the edge of a cliff, then tumbling over it. If his angel hadn’t woken then it would have died, Cal too. That had been a huge gamble.
‘Whoa, dude, no way!’ Marcus said. ‘You’re insane. No way I’m making a leap of faith like that.’
‘Just an idea,’ Cal said. ‘Got a better one?’
‘I might,’ said Daisy.
She smiled at Marcus, firing up her angel, looking at the blue flame in his chest, the way it strained out, trying to reach her. He backed off, squinting against the brightness of her eyes, muttering, ‘Why do I think I might not like this?’
Cal
Manang, Nepal, 3.15 p.m.
Trust me, Daisy said. It doesn’t hurt.
Cal watched as she floated towards Marcus, her fire blazing but giving off no heat. Fingers of light reached up from the snow, crumbling away almost instantly. The air drummed with the strength of her, sounding like a dozen guitar amps racked up to full volume. Her eyes were like pools of liquid sunlight and Cal still felt the fear tickle his spine, the unreality of it.
‘Yeah?’ Marcus replied, taking an uncertain step back. ‘I gotta take your word for that?’
Daisy didn’t answer, just stretched out her hand and reached towards Marcus’s chest. Cal couldn’t see anything there until he flicked the psychic switch and fired up his angel. Suddenly Marcus was an engine of parts, his chest filled with blue fire. Those flames seemed to stretch out towards Daisy, reaching for her. Her fingers were pure fire, ghosting through Marcus’s shirt and into his skin.
‘Whoa whoa whoa!’ Marcus yelled, stepping back, his path blocked by Howie. ‘That’s not cool, Daisy, just—’
It will be okay, she said, persisting. The blade of her flattened hand sliced into him like a surgeon’s scalpel, her fingertips touching the fire that burned in his chest. As soon as she made contact there was a sharp crack, and Daisy flew back, as though she’d had an electric shock. She was grinning, though, because Marcus’s fire was spreading out from his chest, through his veins and out of his pores. He fought it, slapping his skin, dancing on the spot, yelping out swear words, cursing Daisy with every breath.
Don’t fight it, she said. See, it doesn’t hurt, does it?
He didn’t answer, just pranced about kicking up drifts of snow. Those cold, blue flames flickered up and down, trying to find purchase, until suddenly they roared to life, red and orange and gold. Marcus screamed into the air, the noise echoing off the distant mountains. His eyes filled with firelight, spitting out sparks. He dropped on to all fours as a wing broke free of his back, sweeping down, pulling him up at an angle. He turned awkwardly in mid-air, crashing back down amongst them. Cal had to launch himself out of the way as Marcus squirmed on the ground, ripping out chunks of rock with his new hands.
Only when his other wing slid free did he seem to calm down, hovering a metre or so off the ground. His chest was heaving, even though Cal was pretty sure they didn’t actually need to breathe when they were this way. Marcus spun upright and lifted his hands to his face, studying his new skin.
‘Coo—’ The syllable ricocheted between them and Marcus clamped a hand to his mouth.
Indoor voice, said Daisy.
This one? he replied, his words in Cal’s head, weak but growing stronger. Whoa, I . . . This . . . It’s insane, man. It’s got to be a dream.
If it is, we’re all having it, said Cal. You okay?
Yeah, I’m cool. It’s . . . It’s like being on Valium or something, it makes you feel… I don’t know, calm.
What’s Valium? Daisy asked.
Chill pills, said Howie.
I thought it would be different, though, Marcus went on, his wings outstretched above his head, filtering the cold sunlight into filaments of gold. I figured I’d feel it in there, you know? Like I was possessed or something. But . . . but it’s not like that at all. It’s like I’m Superman.
You’re too skinny to be Superman, said Cal. He turned to Daisy. How did you know how to do that?
I just did, she replied. I think the angel showed me.
I wish he’d showed you before I jumped off a bloody cliff, Cal said. That would have been helpful.
Daisy laughed, the sound rising up over the beating of their hearts like birdsong after a storm.
Sorry, she said. Cal laughed too, and God it was good, it made him feel about ten tonnes lighter. Daisy knelt down beside Adam, her burning hand resting on his shoulder. The little boy didn’t look scared, didn’t look much of anything, really. But his big eyes were full of trust as he gazed at her.
Will you be okay? she asked him. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. But it’s not scary, Adam; they’re here to look after us.
Just leave him, said Howie. He’s a kid, he won’t be any good in a fight anyway.
That was probably true, but even if he didn’t fight at least the angel would keep him safe. The little flame in his chest was straining out towards Daisy, and she gently pushed her hand towards it.
I’m here for you, okay? Don’t be scared, don’t be scared.
She made contact, releasing another supernova of light and sound. Cal had to turn away this time, and when he looked back he saw Daisy and Adam in the air, leaving a trail of billowing flame in their wake. The little boy was struggling – Cal didn’t so much see this as feel it – but Daisy held on to him, refusing to let go. Thunder ripped across the sky, then a flash of lightning as Adam turned. After a minute or two, both angels descended, not quite touching down on the snow.
You okay? Cal asked. Adam nodded, his eyes two pools of molten ore, unblinking.
He was such a brave boy, said Daisy. I knew he would be.
Adam smiled up at her, his wings twitching above his head. Cal waited, wondering if he would speak now that he didn’t have to open his mouth. There was no sign of him, though, in the jumble of voices in his head. Whatever the boy had been through when the Fury began, it had broken more than just his voice.
Give him a chance, Daisy said, collecting Cal’s thoughts like butterflies in a net. He’ll speak soon, I know he will.
Cal nodded, and for a moment they hung there, all five of them, their wings arcing up into the fading day, the tips almost touching. Their angels scattered light and sound across the snow, making everything appear to be dancing. Even the mountains rumbled against the horizon, trembling as though they were afraid. And they should be, Cal thought. Because we’re ready now.
Almost, said Daisy.
Yeah, we need a plan or something, don’t we? asked Marcus. Some tactics and stuff.
I’ve got a plan, said Howie.
Yeah? Marcus turned his blazing eyes to the new boy. Cool. What?
Don’t die.
That’s great, mate, said Cal. But he was laughing again, the sound rushing up from inside him, warm against the chill of the angel. Don’t die, that’s a plan?
Y
eah, said Howie, laughing too. Whatever happens, however bad it gets, don’t die.
They laughed, as quietly as they could, the air between them shuddering and shimmering with the force of it. Even Adam had joined in. Cal wondered what people would think, if they could see them here – five creatures carved from cold fire, giggling and snorting, their wings wobbling overhead. That image made him laugh even harder, and he had to turn away, stare at the mountains, to try to rein it in.
You guys are nuts, said Howie. Completely and utterly off your damn heads, you know that?
Yeah, said Marcus. I think we’ve known that for a while, mate.
You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps, added Daisy, and it set off a fresh peal. What? My mum used to have a sticker that said that. I didn’t really understand it until now.
So, said Cal, feeling the tears in his eyes freeze, dropping to the snow beneath him like diamonds. No plan, no idea what’s going on. What’s left to do?
Just one thing, she replied, staring past Cal, past the mountains, over continents and oceans. We need to find Brick. Rilke too.
He’s isn’t coming back, said Cal. I know you have faith in him, Dais, but trust me, right now Brick is about as far away from the man in the storm as it’s possible to get, and we’re the last people he wants to see.
Brick
San Francisco, 3.18 p.m.
They had to still be there, they had to help him.
Brick followed the path he’d made just minutes before, on autopilot, letting his angel guide him through the space behind the universe. When he was spat back into the real world, though, it was night instead of day, and where the forest had once stood was now a featureless expanse of dirt that stretched all the way to the broken horizon. Wind thumped against him as he tried to land, like fists; the hum of his angel’s heart so loud that it took him a moment to notice the rumble of thunder overhead.
The man in the storm hung in the sky, looking like a giant crow in a nest of darkness. His wings towered out to either side of him, made of a fire the colour of smoke and oil. Between them was a gyre that turned and turned, a tornado that sucked up everything in sight. Brick felt its cold touch on his skin, wrenching him up along with the fracturing rock of the hillside. He tumbled in mid-air, calling out with his mind and his voice together, barely able to hear himself. It was like he was a flea being sucked into a jet engine.
There was no sign of the others.
Where the hell were they? They’d flown away, left him. The selfish bastards. They’d left him to die. He fought to control his wings, beating them to try to pull free of the current. It was too strong, its pull relentless, dragging Brick up into the man’s mouth. He swore, the word breaking free of his lips like a cannonball of light, slicing across the land in completely the wrong direction.
‘Help!’ he screamed, trying to burn himself away as he had with Rilke. Rilke – she’d been a puppy compared to this. ‘Somebody, please, help me!’
He tried to hear Daisy’s voice, Cal’s, anyone’s, but it was as though his ears had been pummelled into mash. The entire universe turned around him, growing darker and colder, closing around his head. He was spinning too fast to even see where he was going, the man’s vast, grinding maw appearing then disappearing with impossible speed.
He unfurled his wings to steady himself, swiping a hand through the air and lobbing a gout of energy at the thing above him. He opened his mouth and cursed it, howling his fury at the beast. The man in the storm didn’t even seem to feel it, that relentless turbine breath still sucking him upwards. Brick cartwheeled, the earth so far beneath him now he could see the curve of the horizon. He pumped his wings, his legs, his hands, as though he was swimming, desperately trying to get purchase. But the current of air was merciless.
‘No! I won’t let you!’ he screamed. The world was growing dark as he was pulled into the storm clouds, the noise of the man’s mouth like metal fists pummelling his brain. ‘I won’t!’
He felt like a screaming child, picked up and dragged away by a parent. He felt so small, so powerless, so pathetic, so angry. All his life he’d been furious with the world. He’d carried that anger around with him everywhere he went, never able to let it go. His anger was the reason he’d been where he was when the Fury struck. It’s why all this had happened to him. And now it was going to kill him.
No. It didn’t have to be that way. He didn’t have to be angry. Maybe that’s how they functioned, the angels, maybe that’s why they tried to numb everything in your head. Maybe they only worked if you weren’t angry – weren’t sad, weren’t happy, weren’t afraid. Emotions, they were so human, they just got in the way. How many times had he told himself that to just calm down, to try and let the anger fizzle away?
Do it now, Brick, do it now or you’re a dead man.
He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the rush of wind in his ears, the cold, damp air that clung to his body like soil, like he was in a grave. Be calm, he said. His heart didn’t obey, drumming a frantic rhythm in his chest, feeling as if it was about to pop under the pressure. Let it go. He forced himself to think about the beach back at Hemmingway, the beautiful ocean, as flat and brilliant as tin foil, nothing there but warmth and silence and stillness.
Sure enough the boiling rage in his gut began to ease, the flare in the centre of his brain fizzling out. In its absence he could sense the angel there, occupying every cell of his body, waiting for him to understand, to do the right thing. There was still something unpleasant coiled around his gut, but he figured this was as close as he was going to get.
Adjusting his wings, he turned to face the storm, battening down the hatches against the swell of emotion. He could feel something else burning up from inside him, from inside the angel, a surge of cold heat. It sliced up his windpipe and detonated from his lips, so powerful that it set fire to the air. The word carved a path of flame, leaving a trail like a missile as it vanished into the smoke. He waited for the explosion, for the man’s face to melt, for him to bellow out a cry of defeat.
Nothing happened.
Brick opened his mouth, waiting for his angel to reload. That tickle of fear was still there, the growing rage. He panicked, fighting the pull of the man’s breath, his wings beating like a swan’s.
A barb of black lightning flashed from the vortex, so dark that it was like a tear in reality. It snapped down towards Brick, too fast for him to avoid, cracking as it impacted with his wing. The pain was so severe, so unlike anything he had ever felt, that at first it didn’t even register. Then it hit him, an agony that rocked him to his very core, which seemed to emanate not from his body but from the angel’s.
They screamed together as another whipcrack snaked down, punching through his back. Brick looked over his shoulder, saw a darkness latched on to his other wing, gripping it like a kid with a mayfly. He reached behind him, trying to grab hold of it, but he was spinning too fast, rising up and up and up towards the tornado. There was a tearing sound, another bolt of white-hot pain, and when he looked again he saw his wing flutter past him, a sheet of pale fire that bucked and curled on the wind, fading.
His angel screamed again, no power in its voice this time. And, wingless, Brick tumbled up into the storm.
Rilke
Rio de Janeiro, 3.22 p.m.
Come out, come out wherever you are.
Rilke peeked behind the skin of the world, trying to find the boy with wings. Was that what she was doing now? Playing hide and seek with Schiller?
No, he’s dead, remember? something told her. She reached up with a hand made from glowing ether and touched her forehead. There was a hole there, like a third eye, about the size of her finger. She couldn’t for the life of her remember how she’d got it. A boy with wings, a boy with fire for hair, the same boy who killed your brother.
And she almost saw him in the confusion of her thoughts, a tall boy called Brick. But why was she playing hide and seek with him? It didn’t make any sense, and when she tried t
o think about it her head pulsed with waves of discomfort, her thoughts jamming as though a stick had been thrust between two cogs. She let it go. It would come back to her soon enough, she was probably just tired, and . . . and . . .
She looked around, seeing a desert, almost like a beach only the sand beneath her was all different colours – gold and white and grey and red. Little coils of firelight snaked up towards her feet, like fingers reaching for her, only to collapse again after a second or two. She could see every single grain there, and inside them all were little cities of light and matter. It was mesmerising.
Focus, Rilke, she told herself. Find the boy. Don’t you remember? He broke you.
That was it! He’d broken her, like she was a doll. And he’d broken Schiller too. That should have made her angry, but there was nothing inside her but an infuriating numbness, like being packed head to toe with cotton wool. That was what happened to broken dolls though, wasn’t it? Packed up and boxed away, or thrown in the bin.
Something buzzed overhead, a fly, and she reached out with a hand that wasn’t really her hand, her invisible fingers plucking the object out of the sky and crushing it. The fly fell to the ground, hitting the sand with a mechanical crash and bursting into flames. There were more of them up there now, hovering overhead making a dull thud-thud-thud sound, and she swatted at them, bringing down two more before the rest hovered away. Great, now she’d totally forgotten what she was supposed to be doing.
She peeled open the world again, just like opening a door. Something had disturbed the air here, leaving a kind of golden ripple, almost like the wake a boat makes in water. The tall boy obviously wasn’t very good at hiding, he’d left a trail for her to follow.
Got you! she said, grinning as she stepped through the door. Her body blasted into atoms, a sudden rush like going over the top of a waterfall, then she was whole again, the world locking back into place around her. She swiped a hand through the air to clear away the embers, trying to make sense of the chaos around her.