Schiller began walking – floating – towards the sea, plant-like tendrils of light curling up from the ground as if to touch his feet. The water retreated from him like a wild cat, lurching back in desperate movements, hissing and steaming. His fire was cold, but it was something else he was trying, something new. What is it like, little brother, she thought, to wish the world apart and watch it obey; to peek inside the very centre of things, the spinning orbits that make us all, and to pull them inside out?
Schiller opened his mouth, spoke something wordless and world ending. She didn’t see it, but she heard it – or rather felt it, because the sound of his voice was so alien that her ears almost couldn’t register it, like when a church organ plays a subsonic note. But it raged inside her head, inside her stomach, inside every single cell, forcing her to her knees.
The sea rose up, a wall of water as thick as rock, so immense and so sudden that Rilke screamed. Vertigo hit her like a punch to the gut – the sight of the ocean there, upended, the unbearable groan of a billion gallons of water held against its will, just too much. She had to look away, curl into herself, unable to stop the cries that spilled from her lips. The ground was trembling, and she expected it to split open, to disintegrate at Schiller’s touch and plunge them all into darkness.
The wall of water made a noise like a million peals of thunder resounding at once, the sand so agitated that it leapt two foot into the air. Not seeing was worse than seeing, and Rilke peered through half-shut eyes to glimpse Schiller, her burning boy, standing before the wave. It towered above him – fifty metres, a hundred, she couldn’t tell. Probing fingers of sunlight sluiced through it, turning the water a colour she had never before seen in her life, a deep, angry green filled with flecks that could have been fish or boats or rocks or people. It churned and raged and howled with anger at the way he was treating it, but it could not refuse him.
Schiller turned, his mouth still open, still speaking in that voiceless, deafening, unbearable whisper. Then he raised his hands towards the town, and let his new pet off its leash. The water surged past her, around her, over her, a tunnel of noise and movement that seemed as if it would never end.
But it did, the rush and thunder gradually fading, leaving only the ringing in her ears. She looked up to see the ruined beach, stripped of its sand to the bone-white stone beneath, and beyond that a roiling black line as the ocean did its work, a giant eraser scrubbing the horizon clean in frantic, desperate motions, leaving trails of white foam that reached for the sky. There was another sound behind her, the sonic boom of the displaced ocean as it filled the space Schiller had created. It thrashed and spat towards them as if seeking revenge, but crashed to a halt against the invisible bubble of energy that surrounded them.
It felt like a thousand years before the sea grew quiet again, its outrage turning to a stunned, silent disbelief. Rilke tried to get to her feet, the unsettled ground spreading out beneath her, making her lose her footing. Schiller showed no sign of turning back into the boy, hovering before her, those twin portals watching the last of the tidal wave as it soaked back into the earth.
‘Well done, Schiller,’ she said, and before she even knew it was coming a giggle tumbled out of her mouth. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the others were still there. Marcus and Jade looked back, moon-eyed, and she wondered how much of them remained intact; whether there would be anything left inside their heads for their angels to possess. ‘Are you ready to move?’
Marcus nodded, slowly, as if each movement of his head required every ounce of his intelligence. Jade didn’t reply at all.
‘Let’s get away from here,’ she said, finally managing to stand. ‘Find somewhere to rest. I think you deserve it, Schill.’
He cocked his head, his molten eyes fixed on her. And she wondered just how much control he had. Not over the earth – that much was clear in what had just happened – but over her. She had trained him well over the years, the way you train a dog to know who is in charge. But how many dogs, if they knew they were faster, stronger, deadlier than their masters, would continue to tread by their heels? Come on, she thought, willing the message deep inside her, to whatever part of her soul her angel occupied. You need to hurry up, because we can’t control him forever. And what would happen then? What would her fate be if Schiller turned against her?
She watched him float away, and once again she wondered who he had been talking to – burn them – and, more importantly, who he had been talking about. And in doing so she realised, for the first time in her life, that she was scared of her brother.
Brick
East Walsham, 9.03 a.m.
It wasn’t the explosions that stirred him, but the softer sound of movement from inside the church. Brick shook the grogginess from his head, realising that he had almost drifted off to sleep in the unnatural stillness of the vestibule. His tiredness was like wearing a lead suit, pushing everything down, making each movement a hundred times harder than it should have been.
The noise came again, short, echoing taps that could have been footsteps. He braced a hand on the wall and struggled to his feet, rubbing his eyes until spots of light danced in front of him. There was another door opposite the one they had entered through, this one just as old and just as solid. It stood an inch or two ajar, a current of cool air seeping through the crack.
A distant explosion rumbled through the ancient stone. What the hell was it? It sounded like someone was dropping bombs on the town. It’s Cal, he thought. It’s the noise of him dying. But he hadn’t felt the boy’s death, not like he’d felt Chris’s, back in the field beside Fursville – that sudden tearing inside him, like a piece of him had been wrenched loose. Maybe he was still alive, then – please, please, please – maybe Brick wouldn’t be on his own.
He thought for a moment about leaving Daisy where she lay, in a heap against the door, but then decided not to. There was a chance he might have to make a quick getaway. He steeled himself for the cold, then squatted down and fumbled her into his arms. She looked so dead. Adam sat beside her, staring at Brick with an expression that was part fear and part hate. Well, the hell with him, it wasn’t his job to make the little kid happy. It wasn’t like Adam had helped carry Daisy. He hadn’t done much of anything.
He walked to the inner door, peering into the gloom beyond. He could make out some stone columns, and the back row of wooden pews, but that was about it. There were huge stained-glass windows in there, but if anything they seemed to keep the day outside, only a trickle of sickly light making it through. The glass saints, or whatever they were, stared at Brick with lead eyes, and he half expected them to start hollering a warning, Someone’s here, someone’s here! He used a knee to ease open the door, entering the church.
It was bigger than it looked from the outside, way bigger. There must have been fifteen rows of pews, leading up to an altar. It stank of the cold in here, of stone and damp and endless centuries. He wrinkled his nose, waiting to hear the screams, waiting for something to charge down the aisle baying for his blood. Or maybe things would be different here. It was a church, after all. Brick wasn’t exactly a believer, but he’d always had an open mind. Seemed a bit stupid to assume anything when there was no way anyone could possibly know, not until you were dead, anyway. So maybe Cal was right, and this is where they’d find the answers.
Something moved up ahead, a dark shape in the space behind the altar. It lumbered to one side with the sound of feet sliding over stone, and Brick’s stomach almost shot right up his throat and out of his mouth. It reminded him of Lisa – don’t think it, don’t think about her – stuck in the basement, just a bag of broken bones on the floor, still trying to get to him, to hurt him. The shape coughed, then, to Brick’s utter relief, spoke.
‘Hello?’ The voice sounded as old as the church. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Don’t come any closer,’ Brick said. ‘Just stay where you are.’
‘Excuse me?’ The shape stepped up to the altar, into a sha
ft of murky, multi-coloured light, revealing a vicar’s black suit and white collar. He was a plump, elderly man with a completely bald head and glasses, which he removed, wiped on his sleeve, then replaced.
‘I mean it,’ Brick said. ‘Stay there.’
‘I don’t know who you think you are, young man, but I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that.’ The vicar took a defiant step from the raised platform, and Brick hoisted Daisy against his chest.
‘Take one more step and I swear to God I’ll hurt her,’ he said, not sure what else to do. ‘Go on, test me, but it’ll be on you if anything happens.’
He could hear the trembling desperation in his voice, and the vicar must have too because he held up his hands, retreating up the steps to the altar. There was a good twenty-five, thirty metres between them. So long as neither of them crossed the invisible line of the Fury, they should get on just fine.
‘Sit down,’ Brick said.
The man wheezed as he lowered himself on to the top step. ‘Easier said than done for me these days,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘But it’s getting up that’s the real problem.’
‘Then don’t get up,’ Brick snapped. ‘Is there anyone else here?’
‘Just me,’ the vicar replied, shaking his head. ‘Margaret has Mondays off, she goes into Norwich to see our daughter and our grandchildren. And—’
‘Better not be lying to me,’ Brick said.
‘I’m not.’
The back row of pews was right in front of him, and Brick laid Daisy down there. In here, surrounded by stone, she seemed even colder than before.
‘Sit there,’ he said to Adam, pointing to the space beside her. ‘Don’t say anything.’ The little boy obeyed, and Brick wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold in the shivers. If the old vicar was telling the truth then at least they were safe in here, for the moment anyway.
‘Is she okay?’ the man asked. ‘The girl? She looks sick. If you like, I could take a look at her. I was a medic, many years ago, before I found the faith. In the army.’
He spoke this last sentence with what felt like a warning, but Brick ignored it. He paced back and forth behind the pews, trying to work out a plan. If Cal was dead, then it was up to him to work out what to do about Daisy and Adam, about Rilke and her brother, and about the man in the storm too. The thought of it all resting on his shoulders was enough to make his heart shrink to a raisin and plop into the stew of his stomach. He slapped his forehead with the heels of his palms.
‘Whatever the problem is,’ the vicar said. ‘Let me help you.’
‘Shut up,’ Brick said, pointing to the decorative curtain that hung behind the altar, rope tassels dangling from either side. ‘I need you to tie yourself up. Use them.’
‘Please, son—’
‘Do it, before I lose my temper.’ The vicar started to rise, and Brick almost shrieked at him. ‘I didn’t say get up!’
Calm down, for God’s sake, he’s an old man, he’s not going to hurt you. Unless he got too close, of course; then he’d be clawing at Brick with those wrinkled hands and gnawing at his throat with his dentures. Yes, he was being more of an arsehole than ever, but he couldn’t take any chances. He watched the vicar lean back and pull the ropes free, struggling to bind his wrists.
‘Wait,’ Brick said. ‘Tie the rope to the altar first. To the bannister there. Just one wrist will do, don’t worry about the other one.’
The man did as he was told, looping the rope around the wooden pole of the bannister before knotting it tight around his left wrist. He gave it a tug, to show it was secure, then shrugged at Brick.
‘Knot it again.’
‘If you’re in trouble, there is always a way out,’ the vicar said as he followed orders. ‘Please, son, let me help you, help her, before things get out of hand.’
‘Out of hand?’ Brick said, laughing bitterly. ‘Just shut up a minute, I need to think.’
‘Is this to do with the attack? The one in London?’
‘Attack?’ Brick asked. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You haven’t heard? It’s been on the news all morning. There has been a terrorist attack in north London, some kind of bomb. A big one. They’re still trying to figure out what it is. We’re all frightened, but we’ll get through this together.’
It took Brick a second to understand. Not a bomb, a storm, and a man inside it who wanted to devour the world. He didn’t reply, just waved the vicar’s words away as he would chase off a bluebottle. Priorities. The first thing he needed to do was eat something. Once he had some food in his belly, some water too, he’d be able to think straight.
‘At least tell me your name,’ the vicar said. ‘And the names of your friends. I’m Douglas, Doug.’
‘Got any food, Doug?’ he said.
‘Not in the church, no, Margaret doesn’t allow it. But there is plenty in the vicarage, just over the yard. If you let me go, I’d be happy to show you.’
‘You stay put,’ Brick said, grabbing the back of Adam’s T-shirt and hoisting him to his feet. ‘I’m taking him, and if I come back and find you’ve moved I swear to God I’ll do something bad. You understand me?’
He felt like a bank robber, holding hostages, and he hated himself for it, but what choice did he have? He was taking a huge risk anyway, leaving Daisy, because if the priest did free himself, and tried to help her, he’d end up tearing the girl to ribbons.
‘I said do you understand me?’
‘I understand,’ Doug said, nodding. ‘I won’t move. I’m on your side, son, whatever you’re trying to do. It’s all in the kitchen, the front door’s open, we never lock it.’
Brick took one last look at Daisy, then set off, pulling Adam along beside him by the scruff of his neck. The little boy was trying half-heartedly to wriggle free, making so much noise that Brick didn’t hear footsteps until the outer door of the church started to swing inwards. He fell back, almost tripping over Adam. Sunlight streamed past a figure there, gleaming off the blood on his clothes and skin, turning him into yet another stained glass saint with pockets of lead for eyes. The figure lurched into the church, dragging in the stench of smoke.
‘Cal?’
The boy stumbled, started to fall, and Brick caught him clumsily beneath the arms. He dragged him into the body of the church, lowering him gently to a sitting position against the back wall. Scratch marks covered his face and neck and arms like veins, and his trainers were black and misshapen, as if they’d been burned.
‘Cal? Jesus, are you okay?’
It was a stupid question, but after a few seconds Cal’s roving eyes finally landed on Brick and he nodded. He opened his mouth, uttering a percussion of dry, clacking notes from deep inside his throat.
‘Okay . . . I’m okay. Cold?’
‘Huh?’
‘Am I cold?’ Cal asked, his eyes dark with fear.
Brick understood what he was asking, laying his hand on Cal’s forehead. The skin was hot.
‘No, you’re burning up.’
Cal breathed a sigh of relief, bubbles of blood bursting on his chapped lips.
‘Could do with . . . some water, mate.’
‘Yeah, sure. Is it safe out there?’
Cal nodded.
‘It better be,’ was all he could think of to say. He straightened, wondered if maybe he should just scoop a handful of water out of the font or something before deciding that was probably bad luck. And bad luck was the last thing he needed right now. He headed for the vestibule, pointing at the vicar.
‘I’ll be back in a second. If you try to escape, he’ll hurt you, understand?’ Cal didn’t look in a state to hurt anything, but the old man seemed to have resigned himself to the fact he was here for the long haul. ‘Adam, sit down and don’t move.’
Brick walked to the outer door, peering through it. Sunlight poured through the swaying trees, forming golden disco lights on the grass and graves there, but the cemetery was deserted. There was nothing ahead but the str
eet, so he set off to his right, hugging the lichen-slicked wall of the church, turning the corner to see another building a spitting distance away. It was made of stone too, with leaded windows and a thatched roof. It could have been something from a fairy tale.
Once again checking that the coast was clear, he dashed across the graveyard, turned the handle, and let himself in. It was almost as cold in here as in the church, but there was a smell in the air, some kind of soap. It made him think of his mum, long dead, buried in a church just like this out near King’s Lynn where her folks had lived. It was too painful to think about, so he shut the thoughts out of his mind, using anger to batten down the hatches the way he always did.
The kitchen was small, but easy to find. There was a bread bin on the table and he pulled a loaf out from inside, white and fluffy. While he chewed he opened the fridge, taking out a packet of ham and a hunk of cheddar. He guzzled it all, washing it down with a swig of milk. There was a bottle of Golden Badger ale knocking around at the back of the fridge and he swiped it, popping the cap on the edge of the counter. He’d never really been a big drinker – he’d seen what lager and cheap whisky had done to his dad – but there were certain occasions that demanded alcohol. Birthdays, weddings, and being possessed by angels who want you to save the world from a force of pure evil.
He took two deep, long pulls, letting his mind grow still and quiet. Christ, how long had it been since he’d done that? The silence was so immense that it was unnerving, threatening even, and he straightened up, clearing his throat, taking another swig of sweet, frothy ale. He needed water.
He walked to the sink, noticing the portable television on the countertop. Maybe he should check the news. If this thing, this man in a storm, really was in London and they thought it was a terrorist attack then it would be all over the news, on every channel. He reached for the on button but froze halfway. Did he really want to see it? Did he really want to see this thing that they were supposed to find, to fight? Because up to now the man in the storm – Daisy’s words, he knew, even though she had never spoken them – had just been in his head. Seeing it on screen would make it real.