The Storm (11 page)

They woke as one, Rilke swimming up from sleep in time to see Schiller’s watery eyes open, Jade groan and sit up, Marcus hunch against the wall as if he knew what was coming. Rilke wiped a hand across her dry lips, thinking about the dream she had just shared.

Daisy was becoming a problem. She just refused to acknowledge the reality of the situation. Rilke was so disappointed, but it wasn’t the little girl's fault. It was the others, Cal and Brick.
Boys,
she thought,
so weak, so convinced of their own authority
. She should have killed them back in Hemmingway, should have turned Schiller on them, or just done it herself the way she’d done with the girl in the basement. How easy it had been, to take a life, how without consequence.
Squeeze, bang, dead, squeeze bang dead
, and then maybe Daisy would have listened to her, maybe she’d be here right now.

There would be time for that, though. As soon as her angel woke she would find Cal and Brick and she would put them out of their misery. This would all be so much easier without them.
Unless they wake first,
she thought, shivering, suddenly uncomfortable in her own skin. How she longed to slough it all off, the flesh and the bone and the gristle and the stink of human, to be a pure thing of fire.

Please,
she said to the thing in her heart.
Please don’t take too long. I need you
.

The words made her feel unbearably weak, and she stood to make her blush less obvious. She wasn’t sure how long she had slept for –
too long
– but they needed to get moving. What she had said in the dream-that-wasn’t-really-a-dream was true. There was only one way they would know for sure what the truth was. They had to find the man in the storm and listen to what he had to say. The thought was like a fist clenched tight in her stomach, but fear was just another reminder of her weakness, her despicable humanity, so she ignored it. She had seen the man in the storm, in her mind, she had seen how similar he was to Schiller, to what was inside them all. He was one of them, an angel, tasked with culling this pathetic species and herding what was left back into the stable. There simply was no other explanation.

But how to get to him?

‘I’m still tired, Rilke,’ said Schiller in that infuriating puppy whine of his. He pushed himself up with his elbows, everything about him loose and soft and disgusting. ‘We hardly got any sleep at all.’

‘Shut up, Schiller,’ she said. ‘All you ever do is moan and sleep. Get up.’

‘But—’

‘I said
get up
, brother.’ She stepped forwards, hand raised, ready to beat the seriousness of her command into him. He flinched, scrabbling until he found his feet, standing stooped and frightened in the fingers of sticky light from the boarded window. She stared at Marcus and Jade, and they obeyed without her having to ask.

‘I’m hungry,’ mumbled Jade. With her filthy face and hair she looked like an urchin, and this just angered Rilke further. Food was unnecessary now that they were made of fire.

She walked to the door, opening it a crack and peering out into the blazing heat of the day. The only blemish on the huge blue canvas of the sky was a dull haze over the town they had annihilated, a faint black cloud that reminded her of a funeral veil. Helixes of seagulls swooped through it, feasting on whatever was left. It looked so far away. How were they going to get all the way to London, to where the man hung in his storm? They couldn’t walk there, certainly not while carrying the new boy. Rilke didn’t know how to drive, and it wasn’t as though they could just get on a train. Frustration boiled in her head and she wished she could scream away the world, just howl out across the land and bring the city and the storm to her. She had got as far as opening her mouth before she realised that any sound she might make would be pitiful. She clenched her teeth together, her fists, nails chiselled into her palms. They would just have to set off on foot, and see what luck brought them.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. She stepped out into the day, its warmth making her feel even more uncomfortable in her own flesh. She wanted to burn as fiercely as the sun, not feel its condescending touch on her. There was the scuffle of movement behind her and a moment later Jade edged from the door with the new boy’s arm over her shoulder, Marcus propping up his other side. Schiller was the last, looking three foot tall as he stooped from the windmill. ‘You’re all stronger than you think now,’ she told them. ‘You have angels inside you, they will keep you safe. The weakness is just a memory from your old life, ignore it and it will go away.’

Even as she spoke she felt the blood drain from her head, the world spin like a giddy fool around her. She took a step to re-establish her equilibrium, heading around the side of the windmill. There was a farmhouse fifty metres away, and beyond that nothing but fields until a line of distant trees. If they walked west for long enough they would surely find a road, though, wouldn’t they? It just looked so
far
.

‘Please Rilke,’ said Jade. ‘There’s a house there, can’t we just ask them for some food or something?’

Rilke looked at the house and saw it, a flash of black behind one of the whitewashed walls. It vanished before she could make proper sense of it, but it was enough, she knew what it was. Her blood seemed to freeze inside her.

‘Schiller!’ she yelled, turning to her brother, seeing more black shapes rise from the crops, wearing helmets and holding rifles. There were too many to count, all advancing on them. How had they found them?

‘Don’t move!’ someone shouted. ‘We
will
open fire!’

They were approaching from all angles, streaming from behind the farmhouse, from the fields in both directions. She ran to Schiller, grabbing the collar of his shirt, shaking him so hard that more of his hair fell loose.

‘Kill them!’ she ordered, willing him to change. ‘Do it, little brother,
now
!’

‘Stay where you are,’ the voice barked again.

Schiller wailed, no sign of the fire in those big, wet, blinking blue eyes.

‘I can’t, I’m too ti—’

She slapped him, then slapped him again, harder, until he was looking at her.

‘I need you, little brother,’ she said. In a few seconds somebody was going to start shooting, or they would step over that line and turn into savages. Either way, if Schiller didn’t find his own fury they were dead. ‘I need you to change, right now, I need you to do what you do.’

The soldiers charged, sunlight glinting from their visors, from their weapons. Jade was on her knees, screaming, Marcus was crawling back towards the windmill on his hands and knees. There was only Schiller; poor, frightened, wretched, human Schiller.

‘
Don’t fail me
,’ she said, clutching his shirt tighter, squeezing the skin underneath until he winced.

‘On the floor, now!’ yelled the voice. ‘All of you!’

‘Don’t you
dare
fail me,’ her voice a scream as she shook him. He exploded into light, a second skin of blue flame rippling across his body, a concussive thump blasting her backwards, sending her tumbling head over feet. The air ruptured into that mind-numbing hum, so loud and so deep that it blotted out every other sound. Schiller hovered off the ground, the fire working its way up his neck, over his face, one wing pushing out of his back.

Something cracked. It’s gunfire, she realised with a laugh,
you’re too late, you can’t hurt him now
. But Schiller’s head jerked back, as though he had been hit by an invisible sledgehammer. The flame flickered off and he dropped to the ground, shrieking, clutching his face.

‘No!’ Rilke screamed, clawing her way back over the ground. ‘Schiller!’

He looked at her, the flame erupting again, so fierce now that she had to bury her head in her arms. She kept moving, reaching out for him, hearing another crack of gunfire, calling his name with everything she had. They couldn’t take him from her, not now, not ever. The world went dark and she looked again, saw him lying on his side, a gaping wound in his left temple.

It’s okay, Schiller, you’re going to be okay, I promise you, just kill them, please, kill them
, and she couldn’t be sure if she had spoken the words or just thought them.

A bullet kicked up the dirt inches from her brother, then something thudded into his chest, bursting from his back in a fan of brilliant red, so bright that it didn’t seem real. Rilke screamed again, throwing herself over the last few feet, colliding with him, wrapping her hands around him, willing the creature inside to find its strength, to fight. And it did, Schiller once again detonating into cold fire. This time she clung on, holding him tight, trying to feed herself into him, to pass him every last ounce of strength she possessed.

He spoke, the word a sonic pulse that tore outwards, turning the windmill to a storm of dust, mixing men with mud until the field looked like an artist’s palette. But the cry faltered after a second, stuttering back into her brother’s soft voice. He whined, blood pumping from his head, dripping on her, like boiling water after the chill of the fire. The flames rippled back and forth over his skin, unable to catch hold, his eyes blazing then black, blazing then black, a stalling jet engine.

She held him to her as the soldiers advanced. The ones at the front were already turning, dropping their guns and reaching out for them, their faces slack, their minds broken by the Fury. Others were still shooting, the air alive with burning lead.
Oh God we’re dead, we’re dead, we’re dead
, and she hated them so much, hated the humans, hated herself for being so weak. It couldn’t end like this, not now, not when they had so much to do.
Why won’t you wake up!
she howled at the angel inside her.
Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?

Another bullet hit Schiller, taking a chunk from his shoulder. This time he screamed with pain, the fire blazing back on. His wings punched from his back, sweeping down and lifting him up inside a tornado of dust. He spoke again, the word-but-not-a-word a tsunami of sound that tore across the field, unknitting the soldiers into clouds of ash that held their shapes for a moment, as if not quite understanding what had happened, before fading. But still they came, from every direction, shouting, shooting, too many to fight, just too many of them.

Like at the rave,
she thought, remembering the first night that the Fury had almost taken them. A field just like this, only at night, an army of people trying to pull her to pieces, the man with the orange gloves, his fingers tight around Schiller’s throat. They had survived then, they had
escaped
, they had somehow moved themselves.

But how? How had they done it?

Our fingers touched and we knocked loose the stars
.

She looked at Schiller, and he seemed to know what she was thinking. The fire paled and he slumped back, falling out of life, but she held him to her, saw Jade next to them, reaching out, saw Marcus running back, the knowledge of what they were about to do somehow in his eyes –
don’t leave me
. He skidded into them, one hand on Rilke, one hand on the boy who burned, one hand on the frozen kid beside him; Jade clutched her arm; Schiller roared, engulfed them all in cold fire, and the world came apart.

This time she knew what to expect, the sensation that life was a rug that had been pulled from under her feet. She gritted her teeth against the sudden rush and lurch of it, managing to keep her eyes open. A shockwave of energy blasted outwards from where they were standing, then the field was ripped away with such force that Rilke’s scream didn’t have a chance to leave her lungs.

An instant later, life found them again, wrapped them in its fist as if furious that they had found a way loose. The world reformed with the sound of a million prison doors shutting at once, locking them back inside. Rilke leant forward, a stream of milk-white vomit blasting from her mouth, jetting over tarmac. She wiped away the tears with a trembling hand, seeing that they were on a narrow country road. Woodland shielded them on one side, a high, grassy bank on the other, but she could hear the soft pop of distant gunfire. A rain of embers drifted down around them, dancing on the breeze.

She turned at the sound of retching, seeing Jade and Marcus spray puke over the road. Only Schiller was motionless, once again just a boy, just her brother. Blood pooled beneath him, looking black against the grey. She pressed her hand against the wound in his chest and it spilled through her fingers. It was his
blood
. They’d shared the same womb, and that made it her blood too, one and the same. She pushed down with her other hand, trying to clamp the wound shut. He didn’t respond, he lay there and stared at the great big blue sky overhead, his pale eyes darting back and forth as if he read a truth there.

‘What the hell just happened?’ said Marcus, trying to get to his feet and falling on his rump. ‘Where are we?’

‘Schiller?’ said Rilke, ignoring the other boy. ‘Can you hear me?’

If he could, he showed no sign of it. His breaths were shallow, gulping, and pink bubbles popped on his lips when he exhaled. His body juddered, stalling, and the sobs escaped Rilke before she could stop them. Her tears were so warm that she thought she might be crying blood, but when they splashed on her brother’s face they were just tears.

‘Little brother,’ she said, smoothing down his hair, ignoring the clumps that came away on her sticky red fingers. ‘I know you must feel like you’re going to die. But you’re not. I want you to listen to me, listen well. I know how to save you.’ That was a lie, of course; she didn’t know anything. ‘I need you to take us somewhere, like you just did. I need you to take us to the man in the storm. I think he can fix you.’

Schiller’s body shook again, a soft tremor deep inside him like an earthquake beneath the ocean. He rolled his eyes towards her, their colour almost totally drained, and his lips twitched into an almost word.

‘What?’ she asked, running her finger down his cheek.

‘I . . . can’t . . .’