She needed to know. That was the problem. And to know, she had to deal with this creature and to let her do what she would to Jinx. And to her too.
What was this world making of her?
‘We have an accord,’ Izzy said, aware of the tightening of the air around her, the working of old magic. Magic to bind, magic to compel. ‘This book, where is it?’
‘Eager now? I like that. Grim, bring it in.’
Grim appeared as if from nowhere, followed by three smaller figures, each with a shock of red hair. One of them was Cudgel. They busied themselves setting up a table and chairs, paying no heed to the three pairs of eyes watching them.
Cudgel produced some grey foam triangles, which he arranged with great care on the table, a curiously practical and unromantic design.
‘They came from the Bodleian Library,’ he said, puffing his chest out as he admired his work. ‘In Oxford.’ When neither of them reacted, he pouted. He seemed to be waiting for something else and, a little belatedly, Izzy realised he wanted her to sit down. She slipped into the chair and the Storyteller placed a book in front of her, nestling it carefully, like a mother settling a baby.
Waves of cold emanated from the tome. It was over a foot long and half a foot wide. The cover was nondescript beige leather and something in her recoiled from it. There was a dark circle in one corner, like a mole.
It was human skin. She knew it was.
She didn’t want to touch it, but she was going to have to.
‘Who was it?’ she asked, her voice emerging as a faint whisper.
The Storyteller gave her a look both puzzled and irritated. ‘Who?’
‘The cover. Whose skin is it?’
‘Skin?’ asked Jinx.
Izzy spared him a glance. He looked concerned now. ‘It’s human skin,’ she told him. He curled his upper lip in distaste, but didn’t otherwise react. He was probably relieved it wasn’t fae. Just a human. Disposable.
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve been working with Dad. Studying. Learning. I know all sorts of things.’ His frown deepened as he considered her. Well, she wasn’t about to enlighten him any further. ‘What? Did you think I just sat around moping in my room for weeks on end because you buggered off?’
Jinx turned his death-glare on the Storyteller. ‘Whose skin was it?’
‘I don’t know his name. No one does. All magic has a price, and great magic comes with a great price. I’m sure he knew that.’
Jinx circled the table, staring at the book. Maybe he’d wanted to go first. Maybe he didn’t like what he was hearing.
Tough shit, Cú Sídhe, Izzy thought. Learn to use a freaking telephone and make some plans with people once in a while.
‘The book will show you all you need to know,’ said the Storyteller, clearly bored of their personal drama. ‘And it will take the agreed payment.’
‘My father—’
‘Didn’t do this. Not to worry. Your father knows all about the book. Didn’t he bring you here? Don’t be afraid.’
Afraid? She bristled. The fact that she was indeed suddenly afraid just made it worse.
‘It will work for you,’ said the Storyteller, her voice strangely hypnotic. ‘Magic reacts to your mixed blood. Stirs it up, feeds on it and feeds it. It likes you, Isabel Gregory. And prices, memories or whatever, have to be paid.’
She understood that. She’d learned it well in the past few months.
The information she needed was so important, what was one memory? Dad hadn’t told her enough. God, did Dad even know? He must have.
So why hadn’t he done it himself?
What was one memory?
She fixed her gaze on the Storyteller. ‘I understand. How do I begin?’
‘Just open the book and find the page. Think of your question. An answer will come.’
Izzy closed her eyes, trying to centre herself. This kind of thing was what being Grigori was all about. She knew that now. She’d had enough long, serious conversations with Dad and Gran to know that now, to understand the implications. She wasn’t a child anymore. She had responsibilities in the wider world. And if she wouldn’t do it, who would?
Well, Jinx for one.
It wasn’t like she could pick up the book and run. Jinx would probably stop her if she tried, especially if he was here for it as well. Why had Silver sent him? What questions did she have to which Jinx could find the answers? Was he really trying to find out the same things as she was?
She ought to ask him, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She had other matters to attend to, and couldn’t let an ex-not-really-boyfriend get in her way.
Grigori watched the borders of the worlds, keeping the peace and solving the problems that arose. Problems like a missing angel. She needed to find out about Haniel, what had become of him. The angels were watching Dad too closely.
They couldn’t afford the angels finding out about this book. That much Dad had made perfectly clear.
‘Izzy?’ Jinx’s voice was low and gentle. It made a shiver snake its way up her spine, every hair on her skin prickling in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. It was warm, soft, like half melted chocolate. There might even have been a hint of affection in the word and that … that was dangerous.
She opened her eyes and fixed him with the hardest glare imaginable.
‘What?’
‘You don’t have to do this. You shouldn’t be doing this.’
So why was he here? If he had been prepared to do it, why shouldn’t she? His double standards were infuriating.
‘Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Jinx. It never ends well.’
To her surprised annoyance, he grinned, that unexpected, fascinating grin that always left her disarmed. The words he said next sounded like an admonishment or even an admission.
‘What are you trying to prove?’
She bristled. ‘Do I need to prove something now?’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Why are you here? What are you after?’
She relented, just a little. ‘There’s a missing angel. Haniel, remember him?’
To her surprise, Jinx flinched; she didn’t blame him, though. Haniel had not been kind to him.
‘How long has he been missing?’
‘A couple of days. A week? Who knows? The angels told us sweet eff all.’
‘Then they’re more forthcoming with you than anyone else.’
‘With my dad, anyway. They seem to think I’m unclean, as if something I’ve come into contact with has tainted me.’
A shadow passed over his eyes and he looked hurriedly away. Izzy cursed herself. That hadn’t been what she meant. Not him, not what they had once had. The angels might think that, but she didn’t. She never managed to say the right thing with him. For a moment it had been fine, almost pleasant to talk to him. Then she just had to mess it all up again.
He cleared his throat. ‘So you think the book will tell you where the angel is?’
‘That’s what Dad thinks, but he didn’t want the angels to know about this, about the book.’
The book was a thing of Jinx’s world, his people. Not angels or demons, not even humans, though it wore the skin of the human who’d made it. Or who it had been made out of.
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Me? Oh, I just came in to pick something up for Silver.’
He lied so very easily. She almost believed him, except she had sworn never to trust him again. But she saw the way he looked at the book, as if he wanted it just as badly as she did.
‘So why are you still here?’
She meant it to hurt, and it did. He covered it well, but she saw the barb strike him. Revelled in it a little, even though her heart twisted at the flash of pain on his face.
‘Izzy, I—’ For a moment she thought he might break down, confess his transgressions and beg her forgiveness. She’d hear the perfect reason why he’d abandoned her, and he’d be so sorry.
It had been such a mistake, and he didn’t deserve—
She shook off the fae glamour before it could seize her rational mind and make her believe things that weren’t true. How dare he? How could he?
The Storyteller spoke again, interrupting them before Izzy could tell Jinx in no uncertain terms what she thought of him, her tone sharp with impatience. ‘Just concentrate on your question.’
‘And how will I know what memory the book will take?’
The old fae grinned. ‘Oh, you won’t. But don’t worry about it. You won’t miss it.’
That was kind of what she was afraid of, though she would never admit it in front of Jinx.
Izzy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She fixed thoughts of the angel Haniel and the anger of the other angels, of the idea that he was missing or lost, of all the terrible things that could have happened to him, of all the things she could imagine. And she looked down at the book, opening it randomly on a page and spreading it wide on the foam supports.
The pages crackled and sparked beneath her fingers. They were blank, entirely blank. She bit back a curse and blinked, trying to hold on to her question while at the same moment she saw …
Her silver necklace arching out over the water, flashing as it caught the sunlight, like a lure for a fish. And the merrows, their hungry mouths and cunning eyes, darted after it, tearing at each other in their efforts to reach it first.
Something dropped onto the paper. A teardrop. Another splashed down from Izzy’s wide eyes and spread out, turning the page black as she watched it.
She watched as the inky tendrils rushed out, filling the space with the blackest of night, with the stars overhead cold and uncaring. A fierce wind blew in from the sea, from the cold and endless sea. Izzy staggered back, but kept her mind fixed on the missing angel. She had to find him. That was all that mattered. She had to find him.
With a sob, Izzy fell to her knees. Stones bit into her knees but it didn’t matter. Not now. She knew this place. She was sure of it. She had walked these paths with Dad, during their many Sunday afternoon rambles. Here and all the hills on the edges of the city. Never at night, perhaps, but she knew where she was.
The lights of Dublin, like the stars overhead, blazed too bright in the night, as cold as the wind. She could make out the chimneys of the Pigeon House, the broad sweep of Sandymount and the spindly fingers of Dun Laoghaire harbour stretching out towards her. Dalkey Island was a black void in the sea, and behind it the hill rose lightless and dark, Brí’s home hidden and silent. In the far-off distance, Bray Head lifted like a leviathan from the sea, black and terrible, the Sugarloaf its dorsal fin. The boundaries of her world, all she knew. The lights and the darkness, gorse and heather, stone upon stone, the arctic wind and the sobbing cries of a lost angel.
The angel lay in the remains of the ruined cairn that covered the summit of Shielmartin Hill, sprawled helpless like a turtle on its back, his wings broken.
Holly gutted him, her blows swift and savage, her mind absorbed in her work, heedless of the blood that soaked her clothes. As Izzy looked on in horror, Holly ripped something out of him, something bright and glowing, a ball of white fire. She lifted it to the sky with her blood-drenched hand and then flung it down, plunging it into the earth beneath them.
She looked up, teeth bared, her eyes fixed on the hills and mountains to the south, across the bay. She was smiling. Even as blood splattered her face, she was smiling.
The ground shook, trembled, and roared, the rocks and stones grinding against each other, crying out in rage.
And a light, bright and terrible, broke free, engulfing Holly in blinding flames. She spread her arms wide, gathering the light into her hands, forcing it into a concentrated space, and stretching it out like a glowing wire that wriggled between her fingers until she brought it under control. Light reflected up into her face, made her eyes glow. Izzy screamed and hands seized her, strong, warm and wonderfully real hands.
‘Talk to me. Izzy, are you okay? Izzy?’
It was Jinx. Her Jinx. He held her against his chest and she burrowed her hands into his clothes, tried to pull him even closer though that was impossible.
‘It was Holly.’ She finally managed to force the words from her mouth and Jinx froze, every muscle tightening beneath his taut skin. ‘It was Holly. Oh my God … she … she … she’s back. Somehow. Holly did it. She killed him. And she … she did something with his spark. I think it was his spark. She woke something up, something terrible. She made a thing … like a … a wire that glowed. And moved.’
He stiffened, but he didn’t let go.
‘Izzy, are you okay? Do you know your name?’
She shook him off and instantly regretted it as she wobbled on her feet. She felt cold. So desperately cold, as if she could never be warm again now she had made him let her go, as if he was the only source of warmth left in the world.
‘Of course I know my name, and yours, Jinx.’ She drew in a deep breath, which turned ragged and uncomfortable. The memory of the sea lingered, the rocks near Sandycove and the Forty Foot, a flash of silver sailing out over the waves. Then it was gone.
The angel’s despair filled her, his impotent rage. His terror.
Holly was back.
‘The Fear aren’t the only thing Holly let out,’ she whispered. ‘I think … I think … there’s more.’
Jinx’s hand closed on her arm, under her elbow. ‘We should leave,’ he said. ‘Find your father and tell him.’
‘It looked like Howth, I think. I could see the bay. And Bray Head. Up on Shielmartin Hill, I think. There’s an old cairn. Dad said most of the summit was made up of an old cairn. Do you know what’s buried up there, Jinx?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘But we’ll find out.’ That was what she was afraid of – that they’d find out far too soon, and in far too visceral a way.
‘Jinx by Jasper …’ The Storyteller sang his name in a teasing, musical way that couldn’t mean anything good. ‘You had questions too.’
‘They don’t matter.’ He all but snarled the words.
‘Oh, but I think they do.’ She smiled, her eyes as hard as the stones scattered around them. ‘As that was so entertaining, I’ll give you some advice for free. That thing, around your neck? That’s a noose. And it’s going to tighten. Two more times.’
‘And then what?’ Jinx couldn’t hide the shake in his voice. Izzy closed her hand against his, where it still held her arm gently. He felt so cold.
The Storyteller shrugged. ‘Well that’s a story for another time. Isn’t it?’
Jinx turned away abruptly.
‘Farewell, little Grigori,’ said the Storyteller. ‘You have been most entertaining. Both of you.’ She was smiling now, her eyes glittering with power. With Izzy’s memory no doubt and those of everyone else she’d fed off. The book was her touchstone. It had to be. Izzy heaved in a breath, suddenly afraid she had done something really stupid. What would Dad say? Had he actually intended to let her do that? Oh God, she should have checked first. Somehow.
The Storyteller took Grim’s arm while the others reverently carried the book back into the darkness of her hollow, and tidied away the table and chairs. But the Storyteller stayed, her eyes lingering on Jinx in a far from comforting way.
‘Remarkable creatures, Cú Sídhe,’ she murmured. ‘They’re about the only fae who mate for life, did you know that? But not our only shape-shifters. And the rest of them are not so faithful.’
Jinx said nothing as he followed Izzy down the long, dark corridor, lit from below, which cast eerie shadows up onto the bronzed walls and roof. She wasn’t talking and neither was he, although he was aware from the tightness across her shoulders and the way she held her arms that she was barely keeping it together now. Only the thought of finding her father again was keeping her going. Jinx hoped David Gregory was indeed waiting for them at the door back to the human world, or at least just beyond it. Not that he relished the thought of seeing her father again. It was a
ll just too complicated.
And Izzy would never understand.
A noose around his neck, the glowing ember deep inside … What had Osprey done to him? And at Holly’s command. Holly, who was killing angels on hilltops, in sacred, forbidden places. Of course, she had always killed angels. It was her favourite pastime, her hobby, but she’d never done more with their sparks than feed her touchstone, increase her own magic. She hadn’t changed that much, so what was she doing now? What was she doing to him? He didn’t know what was buried under any of Howth’s hills, but he felt certain something was. Something terrible. And if what Izzy said was right, Holly had used Haniel’s death to make the thing around his neck. His first noose. The first of three.
Holly was back. And he was lost.
‘Which way?’ Izzy asked, her voice wavering a little.
‘Straight on,’ he said and reached out. He didn’t make contact, no matter how much he wanted to, but his hand barely brushed the material of her shirt. He didn’t think she even noticed. It was enough. It had to be. He had to focus on here and now, on getting out. ‘The tunnel bends a bit, but we don’t turn off this path.’
To do so would mean being lost in the Storyteller’s domain and that wouldn’t be wise.
She set off again, without so much as a glance back at him. If Silver knew she was here, he’d be in so much trouble. If she knew he was anywhere near Izzy …
Everyone said he and Izzy should keep away from each other. Fate seemed to have other ideas.
Light seeped through the edges of the door that came into view. Izzy stopped, staring at it as if in accusation, but she didn’t turn the handle.
‘What is it?’ he asked, coming to a halt behind her, as close as he dared.
‘I … I don’t know what memory I lost. It could be something important. What if it’s my mum’s face or something about Mari? What if …’
Then she did look at him and it was so much worse. Her eyes seemed huge in the darkness, pleading. Jinx took her hands in his without thinking and pulled her into his embrace.