Icefall (2 page)

She glanced back at the cave that was no more than a smear of shadow against the cliff. There was deeper shadow inside, darkness that the sun would never touch.

Finn shook off the memory of it. If she waited for the sun to penetrate as deep as the cold had gone, she'd never get home. And she had to go back.

Soon.

Sea-light caught dunlin-wings as a flock of them skittered onto the wet sand on the shoreline. Above the deeper, bluer sea, a gull rode the air current.

This isn't fair on the others.

There were birds here, and sky, and sunlit waves warming the skin of her feet. There was more to this world than the darkness in the caves.

I have to go back to the otherworld soon. But I'll tell the clann what's here.

Not everything. She couldn't tell everything about what she'd seen and what she'd done. Not ever.

But I'll tell Seth about the watergate
.
Maybe. At the right moment.

The sun beat warm on the nape of her neck, and the breeze smelt of salt and summer grasses. Above her the eagle circled higher into the shimmering blue, scanning a moor that she knew was empty for miles. She had time. Five minutes more, letting the horror drain from her bones, and she'd go back. And then she'd pick her moment to tell Seth. Tell him what she'd found, and perhaps half of what she'd done.

Soon.

*   *   *

The winter sun hadn't yet risen, but there was a paleness to the edge of the world that hinted at dawn. Carraig jerked the shabby hotel's door shut behind him and sidestepped the vomit of last night, then paused on the pavement, playing his car keys through his fingers.

On the brink of day it wasn't so bad, not if he closed his eyes. Even the city was freshened by the chill of the night just gone, and the hour before morning was sharp with smoky frost. The street lights were dimming as the strip of daylight pearl widened between the buildings.

Remembering his promise to himself, his gut twisted with longing and nerves. One last job, then, and after that: north. The roof and windscreen of his car were patterned thickly with ice but it was fine, he had time to warm it up and listen to the morning news as he waited.

The streets lay in such calm stillness, Carraig was almost reluctant to turn the key in the ignition. And it took him three tries before the engine coughed, and purred into life. He turned on the Today programme, the volume low, and sat back in the driver's seat, his breath clouding the inside of the windows.

One of the presenters laughed at a comment from the sports reporter. He'd missed it. Carraig leaned forward, turned up the volume. He glanced at his watch, impatient. He rubbed his palm across the condensation on the window. The sooner he got going, the sooner he fixed the wiring in that bloody Merrydale place, the sooner he'd be driving towards his clann.

He sighed, shook his head, and pressed his foot on the accelerator.

Carraig knew electricity. He had time to sense it now, and somewhere in his blood and bones he understood the gentle movement of the tilt switch, the moment of completion as the current closed.

He understood, he had time for that, but there was no time even to take a breath to scream. The fireball exploded with the speed of thought. Carraig's last moment was light and heat and a crushing blast wave, and a crystal rainstorm of shattered glass.

 

PART ONE

 

Hannah

The sound was so soft, I'd never have heard it if a breeze had stirred. The faintest whisper, like leaf against leaf, or steel against leather.

I hesitated, glancing behind me, hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder. I was probably imagining it. I had things to do, books to read, prospectuses to study. This was my final school year and I was impatient to know where my life was going. I didn't have time for getting spooked by shadows.

All the same.

Turning, I scanned the street. Broad autumn daylight. Cool and overcast, it was true, but weak shafts of sun filtered through onto cracked concrete and corrugated iron. This was the dingy end of town, the deserted end. No reason that alley between the warehouses should look so dark. No reason, except my imagination.

Except I was fairly sure that was a footstep.

Nothing moved. Shadow leaked out of the alleyway, pooled between a parked car and a lorry: so very dark, when there wasn't much sun. I couldn't even hear a gull. Late afternoon and even the shabby corner pubs were quiet. Weird. Like being sealed in a capsule of stillness and fear.

I shrugged. Sniffed. Walked on. Stopped again.

The silence wasn't empty. There was something inside it, something that could think and hate, something that could move. Something that
would
move, when it chose to.

I stood quite still. I could feel the cold fear in my spine, now, trying to make me run. I mustn't run.

Too late to call Rory.
And anyway, did I want to? If this was anything more sinister than some suicidally ill-judged piss-take from cousin Lauren and her pals, I might only draw him into a trap. He was the one they mustn't have. I was dispensable. In the long run.

Not that I thought much of that idea. In the short run.

I showed my teeth. There was still the chance this was only Lauren, and I didn't want to make a fool of myself. Didn't want to overreact or anything.

I didn't think it was Lauren.

‘Come on, then.'

My words echoed off blank walls.

‘I said come
on
. If you're hard enough.'

That was fine. That was fine, my voice had come out steady. It wouldn't do that again, not now that a figure had stepped out of the alleyway. A woman, I guessed from the silhouette moving forward: tall, and kind of elegant. Yes, a woman: pale hair twisted into a braid, mouth curved in an apologetic smile. Sword held lightly, almost casually, and now she flipped its hilt so that the blade was held high, and drew it to her face in salute.

Lovely, I thought. Honestly, very graceful. With luck she'd do the whole thing as beautifully as that. Fast and painless.

Of course, I'd rather she didn't do it at all. Letting my backpack slip from my shoulder, I swung it in a threatening arc.

‘Hannah Falconer McConnell.' It wasn't a question.

‘Yeah? And?'

‘Come along, now,' said the pale-haired woman. ‘Don't make a fuss.'

‘I will, though.'

‘Please don't make this any harder.'

‘Uh-huh. Right.' I lashed the backpack at her.

Pathetic. The bag was heavy, the movement clumsy. Stepping neatly back, the woman swung her sword, severing the strap. Lunging, I snatched it as it fell and raised it like a shield. Even more pathetic, but I'd like to have heard a better suggestion.

‘You're being very silly,' the woman told me.

I didn't dignify that with a reply. Anyway, I only had time to thrust the bag forward to catch the swinging blade. It thunked through canvas and into textbooks and notepads and glossy university brochures.

Homework has always had its uses.

Sucking her teeth in exasperation, the woman tugged her sword loose as she grabbed the backpack with her free hand and wrenched it from my grip.

‘Now, shush. Let's get it done. Quickly, I promise.'

I stumbled back as my bag was flung to the ground. I don't know what was stronger, the disbelief or the terror. This had happened so fast. I'd been walking home, pissed off at the thought of having to study at the local redbrick next year because
you can't leave here, not on your own, you're not going out of our sight
. And now I was never going to take a degree anywhere, because I was going to die.

This was not how I'd planned my life or my evening. I'd have liked to run, but there didn't seem any point.

‘Shush,' soothed the woman again, and drew back her blade on a line with my neck.

At the furthest point of her lazy backswing, she hesitated, and frowned, and glanced down.

My breathing was high-pitched, and my whole body was shaking, but I looked too. A sharp point of steel had appeared between the woman's ribs, just to the left of her sternum, and as she growled in astonishment, a sinewy arm went round her neck and jolted her backwards. The blade tip poked further out of her chest; I watched it, mesmerised.

Her shock had turned to rage, too late. As she tried to turn, the silver light in her eyes faded. She dropped to her knees, her sword scraped and then clanged on the pavement. With a last irritated look at me, she pitched forward onto her face and died.

The man who stood over the corpse tugged at his sword. It wouldn't come loose, and he had to put his foot on the woman's back and jerk it hard out of her ribs. It came out with a horrible sucking
thwick
that made me want to be sick. Nothing altruistic. I was thinking it would have made the same noise coming out of me.

My saviour raised an eyebrow.

~
That'll teach her to keep an open mind.

Someone was breathing hard and very fast. It wasn't the newcomer, the man with the neat goatee, the unruly black hair and the brutal facial scars. Presumably it wasn't the dead tart. Must be me, then.

Taking a deep breath, I smiled.

‘Sionnach,' I said. ‘Have you got nothing better to do than be my bodyguard?'

He shrugged, glanced down at the corpse. ~
No.

He frowned again.

~
You okay?

No, I'm about to fall over and I think I want to cry. ‘I'm fine. Fine.' I let out a shuddering breath.

‘You shouldn't walk home alone,' he said aloud. ‘Where's Rory?'

‘In the library. He's still got loads of catching up to do.'

‘Well, we need him. Call him.'

Seeing as I'd been dying to, I did what I was told. Of course, Sionnach didn't give me time to catch my breath or rearrange my hair. When the love of my life appeared, running to my rescue, I was grunting and sweating from the effort of helping drag a corpse into a handy doorway. Sionnach let go of the woman's limp arm and straightened, eyeing Rory accusingly as he skidded to a halt.

‘Sionnach.' He was out of breath.

Sionnach shook his head. ‘Hannah was alone. Not again, hear?'

‘No. Right. I know. God, Hannah, I'm sorry.'

I pushed a damp rat-tail of hair behind my ear and smiled, trying to look cool, so glad to see him the fear of death was already slipping off me like snakeskin. I liked that tight knot of love in my gut. It let me know I was still a human being, and being hunted down in an alleyway wasn't all there was to it.

Rory's face split in a grin. It was pretty funny that he still got bossed around by Sionnach, now that he was an inch taller than him. Tall, feral, and full of mischief: an overgrown Lost Boy. His bright hair had darkened in the last couple of years, his face had grown thinner and harder, and his grey eyes had the shadowy glint of his father's. But he still had the elfish beauty I'd fallen for on the most chaotic day of my life. Best of all, he still loved me. I hoped he always would. My Rory Bhan. My one-time lover. My cousin.

Sionnach coughed. ‘When you're quite ready.'

Rory looked abruptly away, and I forced a pout to stop myself laughing too. I liked to hear Sionnach being sarcastic. There hadn't been much of the old Sionnach in the last three years. Not since he lost the other half of himself, not since Alasdair Kilrevin put a sword blade through his twin.

He went still, raising his head. ‘Someone's coming. Do it now.'

Shocked, Rory said, ‘What?'

~
Do it.

Obediently Rory reached for thin air and the fragile thing that was hidden in it. Sionnach's nerves were contagious. My own heart, which I reckoned had stopped five minutes ago when it got stuck in my throat, crashed back into my chest and into overdrive. Delayed shock, maybe, but it made my head spin. The fear was becoming panic, because I knew Sionnach was right—he always was—but Rory was struggling with the Veil. Beyond the defences of a Sithe fortress, that was unheard of.

‘Rory. What's wrong?'

Rory's fingertips scrabbled, like he was trying to grab glass. He swore. I could feel his panic growing.

‘I thought it was thinning,' I hissed.

‘It is. It was!'

‘Come
on.
Veil or no Veil, somebody's going to notice a
corpse
.'

‘Yeah, no
kidding
.'

Sionnach said nothing, only stared into the shadows.

This was stupid. It was meant to be withering, but the Veil had picked a fine time to get its strength back. Rory was getting no grip on it at all. For an instant he looked completely bewildered, but he clenched his fists, and his face darkened.

He had that cold look of his father's now. Flattening his fingers he thrust them forward like a blade, snatching hold of something I couldn't see.

Sionnach took a step towards the alleyway. ~
Whoever it is, they're close.

With a growl, Rory hauled on his handful of Veil, and it began to give: like tearing oilcloth. He put his other hand to the rip, dragged it remorselessly wider. The sinews stood out on his wrist with the effort.

He grunted as the gash widened at last. Let go, and stood up. He froze.

Then he stumbled back, and would have fallen on his backside if he hadn't crashed into me.

‘Rory…' I began.

A tremor ran through his skin, and he'd gone very cold. I looked up and past him, towards the tear in the Veil. Something oozed from the gash, all chill and black fear. Instinctively I shuffled backwards away from it, dragging Rory.

For a moment he let himself be tugged away, then his muscles hardened and he wriggled out of my grip. On all fours he crawled back towards the hole, then clambered to his feet and seized the Veil's torn edges in both hands. Even Sionnach was staring at Rory now, the intruder forgotten.