They were looking for him. He’d spotted them a couple of times from his perch high above the theatre. He’d seen Luke once, and now Bayleigh was racing down the street, looking this way and that as she checked the alleyways. Dave snorted. They were looking for one, lone, person in a city filled with zombies.

They would never find him. They could look all their lives, however long they might last, and they’d still never find him. He wanted to think it was because London was very big and he was very small. But the truth was, they didn’t want to find him.

Who could blame them? He’d killed one of the ladies. In the last few days it had come back to him, piece by piece. The expression was oddly apt. It was like putting pieces into a jigsaw, flashes of something that made no sense until they all came together. At first he’d felt her eyes popping beneath his thumbs. It kept him awake like the zombie animals lurching about below his box could never do.

After that it had come in fits and starts. He remembered how hard he’d been and the sweat pooling on his chest. He remembered the feel of her breasts beneath his hands. He remembered the way she whimpered when he’d grabbed her neck. He blinked. When had Bayleigh been able to run that fast?

She was well past the theatre and down onto The Strand, almost out of sight. She moved like a long distance runner, graceful and effortless. But her limbs moved faster than they should, like something was shoving each leg and powering her onwards.

Perhaps his memories were mixed up. When he strangled her, she had different coloured eyes to those he put his thumbs through. Had he killed two people? He crouched on the roof and wrapped his arms tight around himself. What would they do if they did find him? Would they take him back so he could be stared at by all those women?

They had hate in their eyes. He didn’t know what hate was, not anymore, but he recognised it in them. He saw it in the turn of their bodies and the sneers on their faces. And their eyes. Their eyes burnt holes in him. He’d been happy to leave. He was broken and there was no one to fix him.

He leant back against the tiles, the view over London replaced by the peaks of the theatre and the cloudy skies above. There was a storm on the way. He felt it. It was the only thing he did feel. His bones ached and his back was sweaty even though it was chilly out here.

Winter was coming.

He remembered something then, some TV show, or book maybe. He was getting flickers all the time, snippets of the life he’d lived before this one. Winter was coming. It meant something. He shivered. The clouds had been gathering for four days and every day they were a little blacker and thicker and the pressure rose higher.

It would break today. He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the blank screen. He opened the messages, even though he knew there was nothing in there. Where was Az? Three days and twelve messages and nothing in return. Had he left? Was he gone from Earth?

He couldn’t be, though. Wasn’t that what Luke said? The angel could come and go as he pleased, but Luke and Az were trapped here. So where was he? And why wasn’t he responding to his texts? He sighed, a long, sorrow-filled sound, and eyed the clouds again. Would the rain wash him clean?

He scrambled back up to the peak, staring frantically around for Bayleigh. She was long gone. He needed to speak to her, urgently, desperately. The front he’d held together for the last four days was gone in an instant.

He was lonely.

He’d been lying to himself. He had feelings. They’d crept in unannounced while he lay up here and listened to the zombies. With every flash of his past, a little more of himself had returned. And he remembered something now. He remembered an empty London. He remembered wandering while death collected in his lungs, screaming names in the hope that someone would answer.

If he did that now, he’d have plenty of answers. They would come with teeth and claws and he wouldn’t scream for long. So he screamed inside until it filled his body and took over his mind, until all his logic fled and he shook and shook. He needed her. He needed someone, anyone, to talk to.

But she was gone.

Everyone was gone.

He could go back to the hospital. But the ladies were there.

It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter anymore.

He scrambled down to the skylight and slid through. He gripped the edge of the window and hung in space. Then he dropped, landing in a crouch among the dust that lay like fog across the floor of the loft.

He felt like the Phantom of the Opera in here. He knew the theatre like the back of his hand. He knew the safe places to go and he knew its denizens just as well. He knew the other giraffe, who still tried to get around using the leg extensions and spent most of its day smacking hard onto its face.

He knew the lionesses. They had become a real pack and were hunting down the band members one by one, who for the most part sat idly in the pit, now and then beating at their instruments in a sad mockery of past skill. Just as when they were alive, the zombies craved routine. And he knew every one of them.

He crept across the loft and shimmied down the ladder. It was easier now. His legs were stronger, just like his arms, and he’d lost the band from around his stomach. He was fitter than he’d ever been, despite his diet of tinned beans and soft bananas.

The apples were still okay, but he was saving them until all the bananas were completely gone. He reached his box and grabbed a jumper. The rest he would leave here. He might be back. He got as far as the door when his phone buzzed. He jumped and clapped his hand to it, eyes darting.

He was in his box, he was safe.

He pulled it out, cradling it like a long-awaited Christmas present. He lifted it to his eyes and it buzzed again. The screen lit up long enough for him to read.

Where are you?

Then it went dark and with a scowl he unlocked it and went into his messages.

Where are you? I have a job for you.

That was it. He wasn’t sure what the feeling was, though he had a suspicion it was disappointment. Four days without a word and that was all Az could manage.

It didn’t matter, it wasn’t relevant.

But still.

He stared at the phone for a minute and thumbed back through all the messages he’d sent.

He sounded pathetic. The words ‘broken’ and ‘lost’ came up again and again. No wonder Az hadn’t bothered to reply, what was he supposed to say? Maybe he didn’t understand what Dave meant, not really. They could talk.

‘I’m at the Lyceum Theatre. I’ll be on the roof.’

He waited, staring at the screen. No response. His hands shook. Why should he respond? He’d told him where he’d be. Dave jogged down the corridor, through the service door, and scrambled back up the ladder. He jumped, grabbed the edge of the window, and was back on the roof, heart beating madly.

He stared about, revolving in a circle as though Az was going to appear at any moment. He settled against the slant of the roof, staring in the direction of St Paul’s. And waited. The light went quickly, his watch saying six when darkness fell. Lights appeared, though less than last night.

The big buildings still had them. He could see the Shard and Canary Wharf lit up, welcoming the night. There was something in the air, a closeness that stole his breath. The clouds felt close enough to touch. He slept, fitful and broken. He was woken by rain.

The first drop struck his face and his eyes flashed open. Another drop, large and heavy, splashed off his forehead. He put his hands up to shelter him before spreading them wide to welcome the rain. There were another couple of drops, then the sky erupted. A clap of thunder bounced across the rooftop followed by a downpour that soaked him in moments.

He opened his mouth and tipped his head back. It was cold and clean. He scrambled up the peak and scoured the streets. The street lights struggled to compete with the rain but he could see zombies, stumbling this way and that. They seemed not the least bit bothered by the deluge.

He sniffed and slid back down to his nook. The rain sounded like a drum being beaten in a constant pattern against the tiles. Then another sound intruded. It was like someone shaking a huge piece of card, and he knew at once what it was.

Az appeared above him, wings beating furiously against the downpour. The demon dropped onto the roof of the theatre, tearing out tiles with his hooves as he slammed down. His face was twisted in a snarl and Dave shrunk back, pushing himself across the tiles.

Az put his hands on his hips and glared at Dave. His eyes were aflame, flaring with an anger Dave wished wasn’t directed at him. Az raised a fist and he pushed harder, sliding across the slick tiles. Then the demon lowered his hand and let out a long breath. He turned away and Dave stared at his back.

One of his wings had blood on it. Dave could see it bubbling out from where it joined the demon’s back. He was wounded. Dave cleared his throat and the demon spun back around. The snarl was gone from his face but he looked no less pissed.

‘You have a question?’

‘Um, what happened to your wing?’

‘Your friend, Jackson. That’s what happened. Bloody painful it is, too.’ Az lowered himself to sit against the slant opposite and his wings moved gently from side to side. ‘Bastard got a good crack at me. Quite impressive, actually.’

His voice changed while he spoke, the growl leaving it until he sounded contemplative.

‘I might have killed him, which seems a shame now I think about it. We’ll see. If he lives, he’ll deserve to and if he doesn’t, well, your job just got easier.’

‘My job?’

‘How are you, Dave?’

‘I’m…’ He was desperate to answer honestly but the look on Az’s face stopped him. ‘I’m alright. What did you do to me?’

‘I told you. I took away all the pesky feelings that got in the way and made you broken.’

‘
Was
I broken, before?’

‘Yeah, well and truly. Luke screwed you good and left you to go mad. All I did was take away the things that made you mad.’

‘So,’ Dave took a deep breath. ‘Did you take them away or just bury them?’ He hurried on as Az’s brows beetled together. ‘It’s only because some of it’s coming back. I keep remembering things. And I’m sad.’ There were better ways he could have said it, but at least he’d said something.

Az nodded. ‘You’re right. I can’t take it away. It’s not in my power. But I buried it deep. You shouldn’t be able to access it. Not now, not ever.’

‘Well I can. And I killed someone.’

‘Yeah, I felt that. Good, wasn’t it?’

Dave went white and shook his head. ‘It wasn’t good. I think I shoved my thumbs into her brain.’

‘Well, I had to use something to bury all the bad stuff.’

‘So you made me a killer?’

‘Not exactly. I just gave you a bit of me. Most humans would be thrilled to be part-demon.’

‘Unless they got the homicidal killer part.’

BOOK: Thirteen Roses Book Five: Home: A Paranormal Zombie Saga

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