Blood and Feathers (8 page)

“Thanks.” She gulped it down, and promptly fought back a wash of nausea. “Ugh.”

“You cracked your head pretty hard on that stone. Probably should be in hospital.”

“I should?”

“It’d be sensible. But luckily, you’ve got me, haven’t you?” Mallory took off his jacket and tossed it onto the table, rolling up his sleeves and crouching in front of her. “Let’s get you back on your feet, shall we?” He cricked his neck and held out his hands, palm up. Alice stared at him.

“Your hands, Alice. Give me your hands.”

“Why?”

“Remember what I told you. Have a little faith.”

Alice laid her hands on his; they felt warm. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Maybe she was imagining it, but his hands were starting to feel warmer, and warmer still. Her fingers began to tingle, and the sensation spread to her wrists, her elbows, her shoulders and neck... and finally her head, growing stronger all the time, like a thousand tiny pins were jabbing at her. More: a hundred thousand, a million. Her body began to shake and she was sure she would scream – and then it stopped. Just like that. She snatched her hands back from Mallory, who sagged a little, rocking on his heels. “My head...” she said, blinking.

“Mallory’s gift is to heal.” Gwyn’s voice came from behind her. “But he pays a price for it.”

Alice looked back at Mallory, who was still on the floor. He looked pale, his skin shining with sweat. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he muttered as he pulled himself to his feet and staggered to the sink, where he proceeded to throw up copiously and noisily. Alice stared at him, and Gwyn spoke again, opening the door.

“I didn’t think it could possibly smell any worse in here. Apparently I was wrong. You see, Alice, Mallory can heal anyone, anything, but only if he takes on their pain. Clearly, the worse the injury, the worse the pain and the harder it is for him. But that’s his purpose.”

“His purpose is to get hurt? That’s not exactly fair, is it?”

“That depends on your point of view. After all, you feel better, don’t you?”

“Well, yes...”

“And Mallory acted of his own free will to heal you, did he not?”

“I guess...”

“Then how, precisely, can you say that it isn’t fair?”

“I just...” She stopped as Mallory let out another loud retch, his head buried in the sink. He looked utterly pathetic. It was very difficult to hold any kind of conversation with someone throwing up, so she gave up and instead decided to test her legs. Half-expecting to land straight back on the sofa, she stood up. She felt fine, better than fine, better than she remembered feeling, well,
ever
.

Gwyn nodded. “It’s quite a gift. You might want to thank him later. But possibly not now.”

As he spoke, there was another groan from the sink. “Oww. My
head
. You could have warned me about the headache.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah. Because that helps.” Another groan.

Vin stuck his head around the door. “It’s all clear, nothing else for miles,”

“You’re sure?” Gwyn tapped his foot thoughtfully.

“Absolutely. I... oh, I see he fixed you, then? Maybe it’ll do him good, get all that shit out of his system.”

He mimed taking a drink. Mallory made an obscene gesture towards the door, not raising his head from the sink.

“That must’ve been some head bump you got,” Vin continued. “I’ve not...” he tailed off, his eyes widening. Alice looked behind her, but there was nothing there besides the piles of books and rubbish. She turned back to Vin, who was definitely still staring. Without taking his eyes off her, he edged towards Gwyn and tapped him on the arm.

“What?” Gwyn glanced up in irritation, then followed his gaze towards Alice. “Well, well.” He folded his arms. “Mallory?”

“A little busy here.”

“Mallory, get your head out of the sink.”

“Piss off.”

“Mallory –
look at her
.”

M
ALLORY HALF-TURNED AND
peered under his arm at her. “What the...?”

“What?” said Alice, not quite sure whether to be afraid or annoyed. And then she looked down, and saw what they were staring at.

She was standing in a pool of fire.

She leapt backwards, but the fire followed. Flames shivered across her feet, snaking up towards her knees, but no higher. And she couldn’t feel them, not at all. She swatted at them with her hand, but nothing happened, other than the flames wrapping themselves around her fingers. Should she be screaming, she wondered... and then that little voice at the back of her mind was speaking again, echoing Mallory:
Have faith
.

She swallowed the panic and shakily lifted her hand. Fire danced across her palm and wove between her fingers. There was no pain. Her skin didn’t blister, it didn’t even feel hot. She looked up, and saw the three of them staring at her – Vin open-mouthed, Mallory still slightly grey, and Gwyn with the strangest expression on his face.

And just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

Mallory rubbed his face, clearly feeling a little more like himself. Vin nudged him and held out his hand. Mallory pressed his hipflask into it and Vin drained it in one, edging around Alice and slumping down on the sofa. “I didn’t just imagine that, did I?”

“No,” said Gwyn. “You didn’t. And you know what that means.”

“But fire?” said Mallory, stretching. “
Fire?
That can’t be. It just... can’t. Was....?”

“Her mother? Not that I knew, but it seems there’s more to this than I was aware of. She’s not just another half-breed. She’s... something else.” Gwyn narrowed his eyes. “I must report this. I’ll be back soon.” As he spoke, a wind picked up, swirling papers and rustling the pages of books. A bright light filled the room, and then he was gone.

“Would someone,” Alice said as calmly as she could, “please tell me what just happened?”

“Fire.” Vin was still on the sofa, his head in his hands, muttering to himself. “No wonder they want her.”

“Mallory?” She could hear her voice cracking. Mallory picked up his jacket and pulled it on. “All angels have gifts, Alice. We just found yours. And it means that you’re more important than we thought. A
lot
more important.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Puddlejumping

H
OUSES FEEL SMALLER
when it’s raining. They might keep you dry, but they close you inside them, wrap you up in suffocating air. After a while, the locks on the doors seem like they’re not so much to keep others out as they are to keep you in.

That’s why Annabel went for a walk.

She corralled them all in the kitchen: Holly, who put up such a fight that it looked like she might only leave the house if she were allowed to wear her sandals; Rush, determined (as always) to fit both feet into one Wellington boot; Floss, the dog, who didn’t mind missing out on a walk if it meant she got to stay dry – thanks all the same. Annabel fought with boots, with hats and waterproof trousers, and wondered whether it might not be more practical to put the lead on the toddlers and the waterproofs on the dog, but sooner than she had expected, they were ready.

A
NNABEL USED TO
love walking in the rain. She would fold her umbrella, throw back her hood and turn her face upwards until the water ran down her cheeks like tears. Even the hardest rain, the kind that sent everyone else scurrying for shelter, didn’t stop her from running out and opening her arms to greet it. Now, it was different. Now, she spent the rainy days tripping over the dog lead and trying to keep hold of both children. Holly would think nothing of breaking away and jumping into the road if there was a particularly promising puddle, and Rush was prone to falling over every time he tried to turn left, as though his feet couldn’t quite work out how to avoid each other. The rain that had once been a friend was now a hindrance, streaming into her eyes and pasting her hair to her skin.

No-one had told her how frightening the rain could be.

They inched their way along the pavement – every broken paving slab suddenly a lake, an ocean, a river to be explored. Rush found a cluster of snails hidden beneath a branch and set about flattening them under his boots. He toppled sideways, of course, and landed on the pavement with a flat splash, but this did little to deter him and instead he began to squash them with the back of his hand. Annabel’s heart sank and she hauled him to his feet. She wondered whether fifteen months was too young to be a sociopath, and wiped his hands.

Holly was never one to wait for her brother and was ploughing through the puddles up ahead. Or rather, not so much ploughing as kicking, splashing, slicing and jumping – often all at once – up the road. Puddles were drained in her wake, and Annabel smiled despite herself. Moses had nothing on her daughter. She tugged on the lead and on Rush’s hand, leading them after Holly and catching her wrist as they reached the end of the pavement. The street was quiet: even cars were few and far between in this kind of weather.

They crossed the road and headed for the alleyway: a narrow cut-through laid with uneven gravel which hid some of the best puddles in the neighbourhood. She had no idea how many hours she’d spent there since Holly could first walk, wasn’t sure she could bear to count them. The last year seemed to have been
very
rainy, but perhaps that was her imagination. She didn’t like the alley – its sides were too high, its lighting too bleak, but at least it was a change of scene, a different kind of prison.

Holly flung herself at the first puddle, splashing water, scooping it with great sideways kicks that flicked mud and grit onto the walls and the lamppost. She was giggling. An urgent tug on Annabel’s hand made her look down at Rush, who was straining towards his sister. “You’re right, don’t let her have all the fun. But do me a favour and try not to fall over, okay?” Annabel reached down over his shoulder and zipped his jacket up to his neck, letting him toddle unsteadily to the water. For once, Holly was in the mood to share and took her brother’s hand, helping him to balance as he hopped about.

There was another tug on Annabel’s hand, this time from the dog lead. She had more or less forgotten Floss, and was surprised to see her pressed against the wall of the alley at the extent of her lead, her ears back and teeth bared. She was staring at the children. Annabel’s heart leapt. Would Floss ever...? She wouldn’t; of course not. But she tightened her grip on the lead and stepped slowly in between the dog and the children. Floss suddenly snarled, barked and then lay down on her stomach, inching backwards.

The alley felt cold. Colder than it should in the rain, colder than it had done in all the times Annabel had walked here. Her breath rattled as she turned her head back to look at Holly and Rush, but there was nothing wrong. They were both still jumping, holding hands, laughing. Relief settled over her. It was just one of those days, the kind where low cloud and a twitchy dog could convince you the world was about to end. There had been more of them, lately, than she was used to. Perhaps it was time to do something about it.

She gathered the lead into her pocket, trying to coax Floss – whose snarling had faded to an unsettled whimper – away from the wall.

She looked back at her children just in time to see the puddle close over their heads, its surface smooth as glass.