Blue Angel

by Phil Williams

  “There’s a panel,” Barton said. “Near the window. Throw all the switches up.” He paused and warned, “We’ve never had to do this before. Never tried it.”

  “Right,” said Holly, determined. “All the switches are going up.”

  Pax crept quickly through the burnt-out building. Letty’s assurances hadn’t made the place feel safe, given the sharp edges of its scorched fixtures and the lack of clear light. Had the Blue Angel chosen this place for a drop-off after learning about the fire, or had it started the fire to create a drop-off point?

  Was this her over-thinking, like Letty said?

  Entering the kitchen, Pax was drawn to dim green light. The cylinder sat in the middle of the room like a fluorescent camping lantern, the love child of a masonry jar and a nuclear reactor. Behind it, the remnants of the outer wall stood two feet high; chipboard and tarp covered the space above. To the right, a charred star emanated from the skeleton of cabinets and hinges. The source of the fire. At least Pax had solved one mystery: some prat had failed to use an oven properly.

  Pax moved closer. No sign of hideous clawing in the walls. No electric squid limbs. Didn’t look like the ash-dusted tiles were going to break apart and reveal a pit of teeth.

  Pocketing the phone, she approached the jar. She scooped it up. Just as she turned to leave, crack – the floor broke apart around her boots. She shrieked as she dropped, plunging into something. She heaved at her legs but both feet were stuck. Regaining her balance, clutching the glo, she looked down and swore.

  Not teeth, but scarcely better: where there’d been tiles before, there was a dark, pulsating mass. Like the acid slug from the chapel, it moved fluidly, bulging undulations illuminated by the liquid’s light. It was wrapped around her boots, up to her ankles, and tightening. Pax heaved at her left leg, leaning into it, but it wouldn’t move.

  “Get the fuck off me!” she yelled, but it closed tighter and sucked down. She was being dragged into it. Pax shifted the jar under one arm and threw the other out, looking for something to grab hold of. She twisted, clawing at the tarp and boarding of the broken wall. The thing sucked at her calves like living mud. She swore again, getting a fistful of tarp, but the material ripped, high up, and fell on her like a drape. She flapped it frantically out of her face and grabbed out again, but her fingers scraped against the boards, nothing to hold onto.

  It had pulled her down to her knees, enveloping her. She planted her free hand on the floor, pushing back against it. Barely slowing it. It kept sucking, pulling her further – into what? An expanding, moving, squeezing mud.

  Should’ve seen this coming, she told herself. Did see this coming. Stupid, stupid.

  She checked the doorway, the shadows. The living mud squelched up around her thighs. No one was saving her this time; no fairy entourage, no Casaria with a miracle weapon. She took deep breaths, gritting her teeth and pushing harder against the floor.

  And all for this dumb fucking liquid.

  She looked at the jar. They’d said ridiculous things about it, hadn’t they? It helped Apothel’s fight. It brought Barton back from the brink. It gave them eyes in the Sunken City. Pax gave a last frantic look around the room. No other options.

  She twisted off the cap and lifted the jar to her lips. The vile sludge gave another hard tug, swarming up to her waist. She gulped down a mouthful of the glowing liquid and gagged noiselessly as it burned its way down. The warmth spread through her as if it was whisky, but bolder, surging into her limbs. Filling every vein. Right to her fingertips. Her vision blurred and pulsed in a kaleidoscope of colours.

  For a moment, time stopped. The sludge wasn’t pulling. She wasn’t breathing. The air was still. In that frozen second she placed the jar slowly, calmly aside, and blinked heavily, once, twice. The room twisted then came back into focus with clear grey lines, the shadows gone. She could make out everything.

  She looked down, to where her lower half was being consumed by darkness, and it sucked at her again, wrapping around her hips. She raised both fists in a defiant cry but held them there as she saw the sludge for what it really was.

  Under its thick black skin a network of arteries was moving, manoeuvring the creature in multiple directions at once, twisting around her legs. They lit up like a purple X-ray image. The arteries fed back, in a complicated, vascular pattern, to low-down masses of light: throbbing internal organs.

  There was something Pax could grip onto.

  It sucked at her again, and she screamed as she punched a hand into the writhing mass, aiming for a gap in the arteries. Her fist went straight through, all the way down, and the sludge separated around her as she bent into it, driving her hand in. Her scream turned to an animal yell. She flexed her fingers as she continued, parting the mucky flesh, stretching, finally, to the nearest of the bulging organs. Her fingers closed around it, texture like liver. And she pulled back.

  The arteries lit up red as she squeezed, and the whole shape pulsed outward, stricken. Her legs were released and she fell back, lower back hitting the edge of the hole in the floor but her hand still squeezing. The mass of sludge throbbed up, out, bulging in all directions as she twisted her hand and kept pulling, putting every ounce of her strength into shifting this thing. She kicked at the same time, getting a foothold in the struggling monster and pushing herself out of the hole. Another kick, another push, the thing in her hand all the time. She heaved herself away and rolled off, through the ash, finally letting go of the creature’s organ.

  Gasping, her back muscles burning, Pax rolled over and looked back as the creature released a piercing hiss. The parts of its sludgy mass that had spread out into the room flopped to the floor, and the whole thing slowly slid back into the hole like a deflated balloon. The crack in the tiles steamed like a geyser. Light bounced off the gas, the red of the arteries turning purple again, then dimming. Pax blinked, not sure what was real, what was the effects of the drink.

  She raised her hands in front of her face, and saw the light there, too.

  Her own veins, glowing through the flesh. Electric blue.

  Pax fell back with another small shriek and shook her hands to get it off.

  No no no, fuck that.

  She scrambled to her feet, swept up the jar and ran.

  Pax slowed down as she reached Casaria, skipping on the uneven kilter of having only one boot. Someone was silhouetted in the window of a house opposite, watching. Pax pulled her hood up and ducked. A neighbour shouted, uncertainly, “I’m calling the police!”

  She ignored the threat, hoping that’s all it was.

  Casaria stared at her warily, still leaning against the tree with his hand pressed into his wound. As she crouched and opened the jar, he tried to speak, “Pax...what are you...”

  His eyes ran to her clothes, her trousers sodden with slime. No sense trying to explain. She tilted the glo towards his lips. “Drink this.”

  Casaria’s eyes shot open and he jerked his head away with a curse. He struck the tree behind him, and Pax thrust her other hand out to hold him still. He was weak, thankfully, and only half awake; she held his neck firmly and rammed the jar into his mouth. He tried to spit the liquid out but she clamped her hand over his mouth and hissed, “After what I just went through, fucking drink it.”

  In his struggle, Casaria gulped, swallowed. Pax saw the change come over him in an instant, recognising what she’d felt herself. He had to blink a few times, and as his eyes got wider his pupils narrowed. His mouth dropped open as he focused horrified eyes on her.

  He was seeing what she’d seen, wasn’t he?

  Pax slowly removed her hand from Casaria’s mouth, ignoring the blue light under her flesh. There was no similar glowing under his skin. She stood, uneasily. It was bad. This liquid’s power was starting to fade, already, her vision going back to dreary normal, the blue in her veins dimming, but it was too late to ignore it. Casaria clearly saw it too.

  His face relaxed, somewhat; his jaw unclenched, like the pain was lifti
ng. His hand holding the wound slackened. But he was staring at her with a knotted brow.

  She’d taken more from the minotaur than psychic fits. Something was inside her. She didn’t want to know what.

  “Get up,” Pax said, breaking Casaria’s gaze. “We’ve got to go.”

  Casaria said nothing, still staring, transfixed by what he was seeing. But he stood.

  27

  “We’re getting close to something,” Sam told Landon. “I know it.”

  As they sped through the suburb of Long Culdon, Sam scanned the changing scenery. The houses were small, cheap and quiet. A retirement community, if there was any community at all. It had been one of her options when she moved into the suburbs last year, but she’d opted for Geeside in the east; slightly younger, if further afield. Seeing how quickly Landon had got them here, she wondered if it had been the right choice.

  As they climbed the hill, a bigger question occupied her mind. Would Landon be able to handle what they found here? The decision hadn’t come easily for him, ignoring the duty of cordoning off another accident in favour of a fugitive chase. She hoped his uncertainty about helping her came from his reluctance to break the rules, not because he was afraid. Pax Kuranes was an enigma and Darren Barton was known to be dangerous, if he was with her. To say nothing of hired thugs and Fae. Landon carried a gun, but how well could he use it?

  Either way, in a few turns they’d reach the approach to Dr Rimes’ shack, alone.

  “Gonna be interesting,” Landon said, so dry she doubted he meant it. “They don’t like us coming up here. Never been myself.”

  “Another problem we’ve been avoiding,” Ward said. “I understand them letting Dr Rimes continue her work, but didn’t she warrant close scrutiny, rather than being kept at arm’s length? Did Devlin and Farnham even search the place this morning?”

  “Easy to say after the fact,” Landon replied. “She’s not an effective asset.”

  Sam didn’t reply. She’d complained about the Ministry’s sponsorship of this unregulated civilian before and been ignored. As usual.

  Landon turned another corner and pulled up at the end of a long, tree-lined road. Skeletal branches reached overhead, with no sign of houses either side. Sam said, “This is it?”

  “No,” Landon said. “Short walk. Better they don’t hear the car coming.”

  Sam got out. “Do you think they’re still here?”

  Landon gave her a lazy look over the top of the car. He offered his slow, professional opinion: “No. Apothel’s whole crowd were always good at hiding.”

  He started walking. The incline got steeper before the peak of the hill, and his breathing grew deeper. Sam fell back, contemplating that the one thing a field agent should possess, at the least, was a moderate level of fitness. But she scolded herself; that wasn’t fair. He was all she had. And he’d been doing a good job today.

  They turned another corner, and there was the doctor’s shack, down the end of a dirt track. It looked like a scout camp or a hostel, forgotten in the wilderness. One small square window was lit from the inside.

  Landon drew his pistol, checking the trees left and right, as though he could see anything in the dense shadows. He pointed at the cracked paving under the dirt. “Road surface hasn’t been repaired in decades.”

  Sam looked. Was it important?

  Landon stopped walking and lowered his pistol to his side. He let out a relieved breath as Sam saw the object in the undergrowth. A car – hidden by leaves and a tarp, but still recognisable. It had to be the Cavalier that Pax’s group had stolen after Friday’s debacle in the tunnels. The Ministry might pat them on the back for recovering that, at least. And make an example of Farnham: how the hell had he not checked that? But Landon’s shoulders tightened with apparent realisation. Of course, the car meant Pax was here, and so too might be her criminal friends or the violent Fae.

  “Stay behind me,” Landon said. He continued towards the shack, crunching over brittle leaves with no care for subtlety.

  Despite the light in the window, the building looked empty. Sam wanted it to be empty. She didn’t want to test Landon, or to have to make decisions resulting in violence.

  They reached the porch and Landon gave her a look, deferring for instructions. She stared at the door, a flimsy wooden thing. They didn’t have a search warrant, but in the course of Ministry duties that wasn’t necessary. The presence of the Cavalier gave them all the right they needed for Landon to break in, and more, and his eyes said he was prepared to do whatever she said. Sam hesitated. She took out her phone and whispered, “I’m calling it in.”

  As she dialled, Landon narrowed his eyes. Concentrating on something she hadn’t noticed. He raised a finger to stop Ward making a sound. Scanning the trees, he shifted forward. His foot snapped a twig, loud enough to make Sam cringe.

  The snap was answered by shaking branches.

  Their eyes shot to the noise, and Sam saw the outline of the squat dark creature, just inside the treeline, a moment before it growled. The drawn-out rumble of a furious dog. Another rustle as it moved a paw closer.

  “On my mark.” Landon straightened up, fingers teasing his pistol grip. “You run back the way we came. Don’t stop. Could be more of them.”

  “What...” Sam said, barely able to form the word. The growl revved like an engine.

  “Get to the car.” Landon rested onto his back foot, raising the gun, and broke another twig. The dog darted forward. “Go!”

  Sam sprinted as Landon stepped in front of it, raising the pistol and spreading his legs, making himself a target. She shot a glance sideways and saw the animal moving her way. After her, not him, peeling to the side with a – there was light around it. An orange mist, caught on wisps of smoke streaming from its flesh. Not a dog.

  Sam yelled, sprinting for all she was worth, but it kept pace, flanking her. Landon shouted, “Dive left!”

  She did so without thinking, throwing herself to the side as the thumping paws drew level with her and crashed through the trees. She sensed it rising from her side, the ferocious dark shape of a predator in flight.

  Its snarl was cut off by a gunshot – an explosion a split second later.

  Sam rode a wave of fire, into the trees.

  The Bartons and Rimes were on the river when the blast shook them. The ten-foot boat listed, from the tremor and their collectively turning towards the sound, and they braced themselves against the light vessel and each other. With a steep tree-dotted hill rising behind the mouth of the cavern they’d exited, there was no way of seeing what had happened, but the sound was tremendous. Rimes made an upset noise, and Holly felt a pang of guilt. Had the booby-trap she’d activated destroyed this hapless woman’s home?

  “Damned fools must’ve shot a dog,” Darren said.

  Holly eyed him. “Those dogs explode?”

  “Very volatile,” Rimes said, voice cracking. Something twigged in her mind, and she darted a look to the sky. “Now we’ll see the blinding water. The ether bats.”

  They stared at the opaque clouds.

  Nothing happened.

  Rimes’ expression shifted, a little confused.

  “We never tested those things...”

  “Great,” Holly said. She looked from the nothingness above the hill to the water around them. The boat sat low in the stream, an aluminium basin surely unfit to carry this many people. It could have been paired with the scooter in some kind of art collection. Derelict Vehicles of the Impoverished. The engine at the back was pocked with green mould, almost certainly useless, though they had agreed not to use it for subtlety’s sake. Her hulking husband heaved on two rotten oars, with the scientist twitching in the corner and Grace shivering with nerves; hardly a romantic trip.

  “Where does this take us?” Holly asked.

  “Down the River Drum,” Darren said, citing the city’s second large tributary, which ran through the slums of Nothicker before joining the River Gader. Decidedly not romantic. Did junkies mug
people on boats? “If we get off in Nothicker, we can cut through to our nearest hideout.”

  “The Den?” Rimes replied with surprise. “Oh no. That’s no good. The Ministry found the Den shortly after Apothel...you know.”

  “They knew about the Den?” Darren eyed her.

  Rimes looked away. Her gaze settled on Grace, apparently the least threatening audience member. “They knew most of our locations. I didn’t tell them. Well. Except about the pack of ravishers near the room on Mercer Street.”

  “You told them about Mercer Street?” Darren slowed his rowing.

  Much as Holly liked the idea of this odd woman being tossed in the river, it was hardly the time for Darren to start questioning her. She said, “Presumably, then, you can tell us which hideouts they didn’t touch?”

  “That I know of,” Rimes replied quietly, “the game room in West Farling. Maybe the apartment in East Farling.”

  “On the other side of the fucking city,” Darren scoffed.

  “Diz!” Holly hissed. “In front of your daughter?”

  “It’s fine, Mum,” Grace said.

  “It’s not fine, Grace. Your father –”

  “That apartment’s not gonna have stood idle for ten years,” Darren continued, seeming not to have heard the interruption. “The game room, maybe. But we’d have to use the Tube.” He said it with a distaste that Holly realised, now, was not entirely caused by his affinity for cars over public transport.

  A voice came from the gunwhale: “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Seeing Letty perched near her hand, Holly jumped off the bench, rocking the boat and drawing a squeal from Grace. “Heaven and hell – how did you get here?”

  “Helicopter, what the fuck do you think?”

  “I don’t think –”

  “Alright, shut up.” Letty flew to head height. Darren tensed, squeezing his fingers into the oars. “Pax sent me to get you lummoxes. You’re gonna come with me to our hideout, in Broadplain.”

  “I’m not putting my family in the care of fairies,” Darren said, without hesitation.