‘No,’ he said, waiting for the fear, for the anger, for anything. But his stomach was empty, his head was empty. That was even worse than the ice which crept slowly up over his ribs, which stretched down from his fingertips like an infection, turning his hands to stone, because he didn’t care about his body, not really. He’d never liked it, too tall, his face too blunt. But his anger, that was who he was, that’s what made him Brick. Take that away and what was left?
‘Just let it happen,’ said Daisy, taking a step towards him. ‘I know it’s scary, but they’re here to help. They’ll look after you, keep you safe.’
‘Like they did with Schiller?’ he snapped, his lips too cold to shape the words properly. It felt as though he’d been out in a blizzard, his skin frozen, as rigid as plastic. He staggered, stumbling into a tree, trying to lift his hands to his face, to turn his head. The others were growing faint, the world turning grey. Why was it happening like this? Didn’t you have to be injured first? Like Schiller, like Howie?
Things are speeding up, said Daisy, her voice in the very centre of his brain. Because there isn’t much time. Don’t be frightened, Brick, I’m here.
He felt himself fall, no pain as he landed in the needled undergrowth of the forest. He couldn’t even be sure if he was facing up or down. A bolt of panic thudded into his heart, the briefest flare of dull anger quickly swallowed up by the same overwhelming calm.
Don’t fight it, said Daisy.
He fought it, trying to ignite his rage, like a pilot in free fall trying to fire up a stalled engine. Another dull explosion, too soft, too short to fight the paralysis. He tried again, and this time he managed to wrench open his eyes. He struggled to his feet, stumbling towards the light, not caring where he was going, just wanting to move, to get away. He made it three paces before he noticed he wasn’t in the forest any more. He made it another two before noticing that he didn’t even have feet to pace with. He hung inside a palace of ice, the walls constantly shifting and full of other people’s lives. It was the same place he’d visited in his dreams, when he’d fallen asleep in the church.
He spun round, searching for a way out, finding himself face to face with Daisy. She was engulfed in fire, her body a shimmering web of light, her face something from a dream, not quite real, not quite able to hold its form. Her wings arced over her head, towering up like a fountain of flame, spitting molten sparks of blue and red and gold. She reached out to him with a hand that was not really a hand, cold against his cheek.
Do you trust me, Brick?
He didn’t reply, just stared at her, at the creature that had possessed her. Everything about it screamed power – pure, unpolluted, undiluted energy. If it wanted, it could tear this world to ribbons of dust and blood, and yet there was nothing in it that spoke of violence, of anger, of hatred.
It’s because they’re good, Daisy said.
No, they weren’t good. There was nothing in them at all, the same way there was no emotion in a gun, or a bomb, just a collection of moving parts that does whatever it’s told. Schiller had proved that when he’d destroyed Hemmingway, when he’d killed those cops. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, then, to be powerful, to have control. If his angel had been the first to hatch, if it had happened back in Hemmingway, then he’d never have let Rilke down into the cellar, and Lisa would still be alive.
The thought of Rilke made his stomach churn, even though he was pretty sure he didn’t have a stomach here, wherever this place was. Something was starting to burn in him, as if a taper had been lit. This thing, this creature – not an angel, it’s the wrong word, this thing is older than the Bible, older than religion, older than the stars – was trying to smother the fear and the anger. That was part of the deal, he realised; in exchange for fire, you had to trade in a little piece of you, the emotions that might lead you to use those powers for something else. Even now the flickering heat in his gut was drenched.
Just let it happen, please, Daisy said. It needs your help.
It needed him, and he needed it too. He relaxed, taking a deep breath of air that didn’t really exist, trying to switch off the rage. For now, at least. This creature, it didn’t know him, didn’t understand that he was made of anger. Nothing could extinguish it. He would just pretend to be calm, he would go along with it, but his fury would still be there. It would always be there. Even with a being like this inside him, he would be able to find it.
And when he did, Rilke was going to pay.
‘Okay,’ he said to Daisy, smiling at her with his non-existent lips. ‘I’m ready.’
Daisy
San Francisco, 1.38 p.m.
Daisy slipped back into the real world in time to see Brick’s angel hatch. Fire burned through the eggshell thin fabric of his skin, starting in his chest and quickly spreading. He opened his mouth to scream, white light blazing up his throat, his eyes erupting into twin supernovas. His back split, wings unfurling with enough strength to crack the trunk of the tree behind him, filling the forest with gunshots and groans as it fell. He struggled against the transformation, launching himself off the ground and into the branches overhead, his cry shooting out of his mouth, loud enough to make the ground tremble. Birds scattered from the trees, so many that they darkened the sky.
Be calm, she told him as he crashed back through the foliage, thudding into the ground. He squirmed there, as if somebody had covered him in petrol and set him on fire, those huge wings flickering until they were almost invisible, then flaring up again. No heat came off him, just a tremendous chill, one that turned the dirt to ice. Fingers of light curled up from the frost, reaching for Brick then crumbling away into nothing. And that same mind-numbing hum shook the air, making Daisy’s ears hurt. It’s okay, she said. That noise. It’s the sound your new heart makes.
Brick launched himself again, this time sideways, straight through a tree, blasting the trunk to splinters. He rolled, writhing in a puddle of flame, screaming upwards with such strength that Daisy saw some of the birds up there drop out of the sky, falling back to earth like stones, dozens of them.
Brick, that’s enough! she said. He must have heard her, because he stopped squirming, just lay there – hovered, really, as he was a foot or so off the ground, his wings folded beneath him like they were a flying carpet. He lifted a hand to his face, feeling it, running his fingers over his chest and stomach.
‘You okay, mate?’ asked Cal from Daisy’s side. ‘Brick?’
‘He’ll be all right,’ Daisy replied. Brick? she said with her other voice, the one in her mind. Talk to me. She waited for a response, but all she could feel was something coming out of the boy, something that burned more fiercely than the fire. She couldn’t make it out with her human eyes, so she let her angel take over, the world once again breaking up into clouds of dancing atoms. It was clearer now, the thing inside Brick. He was angry. Don’t be. That’s why they numb you, because it’s easier when you aren’t angry or scared. Honestly, Brick, you have to believe me.
Brick turned to her, the infernos of his eyes meeting hers. He was fighting it, trying to hang on to his rage. But that was a bad thing. It wasn’t what the angels wanted.
It’s what I want, he said. With a twitch of his wings he stood up, hanging there, the ground beneath him like a frozen lake, those same weird tendrils of light rising from it before fading. She could almost see what was happening inside him – Brick trying to force himself to be angry, the angel resisting. He started to float through the trees, his new body sucking the heat from the air, from the branches, covering everything in a film of ice. He carried on speaking as he went, although Daisy couldn’t be sure if everyone could hear him, or just her.
I didn’t ask for this, didn’t have a choice. So if I’m going to do it, then this angel – whatever you want to call it – needs to do something for me too.
What? But she had a feeling she already knew. Brick’s girlfriend, Lisa, trapped in the basement at Fursville, cornered like a rat by Rilke, then shot in cold blood. Daisy
turned to the others, seeing Rilke still crouched on the ground, glaring up at Brick with cold, dark, frightened eyes.
Don’t, Daisy said. Brick, please, she didn’t know what she was doing.
Yes. She did.
Brick sailed into the clearing like a man-of-war, his wings full, twice as tall as he was. That sound radiated from him, from her too, churning up the ground, making pebbles dance and shaking pinecones from the trees. He stopped beside them, his eyes burning across the clearing, never leaving Rilke. She must have understood, because she scrabbled unsteadily to her feet, backing off. The girl glanced at Daisy, and there didn’t have to be a telepathic bond between them for her to understand she was saying Help me.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Cal, the others bunched around him, as if they could sense something bad was coming.
‘Keep him away from me,’ said Rilke, her voice almost lost beneath the shuddering thrum. She was hunched over, looking so weak, so human. She backed away until she hit the low branches of a conifer, almost sinking into them, as if she could hide. ‘I swear . . .’
Swear what? Brick didn’t speak the words aloud – he couldn’t, not without tearing a hole in the world – but his voice seemed to echo through the trees, bouncing around inside Daisy’s skull. The others could hear it too, this time, because they all slammed their hands to their ears. What are you going to do to me, Rilke? Shoot me?
That’s enough! Daisy yelled, beaming the words out to him. We can’t fight each other, we can’t!
Shut up, Daisy, Brick said. This is none of your business. This has nothing to do with any of you. It’s between me and her.
‘Brick, that’s enough, mate, just leave it, yeah?’ Cal took a step towards Brick, but the bigger boy simply held up a hand and flexed his fingers. It was as if a strong wind had stopped Cal in his tracks, knocking him on to his backside and pushing him through the dirt.
No! Daisy screamed. Brick, don’t hurt him, please!
She stretched out her own wings, feeling the power inside her, as if her body was full of a million wasps. Across the clearing Howie transformed, bursting into flames, his eyes like molten lead but still full of uncertainty as he looked back and forth between them.
I don’t want him, Brick said as Cal got to his feet. I just want her. I just want to show her what it’s like. How’d you like that, eh, you psycho bitch.
He half spoke the last word, the sound of it making the trees shake, raining down needles. Rilke uttered a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a squeak, a mouse backed against the wall. She kept thumping her fist against her chest, and it took Daisy a moment to understand she was trying to wake her angel, trying to change.
Not so much fun now, is it? Brick went on, moving slowly towards Rilke. Not so great when I’ve got the weapons and you’re helpless. I told you I’d kill you for that. Remember?
He stretched out his hand again and, even though he didn’t touch her, Rilke’s head snapped back. She screamed, her fingers clawing at her forehead.
Please! Daisy yelled. She looked at Cal, at the others, but nobody moved. Even Howie, bathed in flame, was rooted to the spot. Why wasn’t anybody doing anything?
‘She was one of them!’ Rilke said, choking on her own words. ‘She was one of the ferals, she had to die.’
Brick moved closer, his fingers playing with the air. Even through the shimmering haze that covered him it was obvious that he was grinning. He held out a finger, pointing it right at Rilke’s face.
She didn’t have to die. She wasn’t hurting anyone down there. You should have left her alone, she’d have got better. But you killed her, you shot her in the head.
‘She would have hurt us,’ Rilke said. ‘I had to . . .’
How does it feel, huh?
He twitched his fingers and Rilke lurched into the air. She squirmed against his invisible grip but there was nothing she could do.
That’s enough! Daisy reached out with her mind, her thoughts becoming a physical force that slammed into Brick, knocking him away. He spun, two, three times, his wings tangling in each other, kicking up a whirlwind of dust. Only for a moment, though, then he fired them out again, turning to face Daisy. The smile was gone, his eyes two blazing pits of fury.
Stay out of this, Daisy, he said, the words somehow carried inside the thrum of his angel’s heart, halfway between spoken and thought. I don’t want to hurt you too.
He wouldn’t would he?
I said how does it feel, Rilke?
He jabbed his finger forward. Half a dozen metres away Rilke’s head snapped back, her skull splitting. Blood gushed out of her wounded forehead, running over her nose and into her mouth, turning her screams into wretched, awful gargles.
Brick, no! Daisy shouted. Brick hung there, drenched in flame, his finger still out. It was hard to make out the expression on his face. He dropped his hand, turned to Daisy.
I . . . I didn’t mean to . . .
Rilke was staggering away, blinded by blood. Her foot hit a tree root and she went down, her head thudding against the dirt so hard that it splashed a crimson halo in the soil. The girl groaned, trying to crawl forwards.
Rilke? said Daisy, moving after her.
I was just trying to scare her, said Brick, his voice a little boy’s inside her head. I’m sorry.
He reached out again and the world lurched, scattering Cal and the others like skittles. The air trembled, a shockwave that pushed Daisy back so hard that she had to stretch out her wings to root herself in place. Thunder ripped across the clearing, not just in the sky but from the ground too, as if an explosion had been set off down there. Even Brick was rattled by it, his flames flickering off for an instant, his eyes wide and fearful for a moment before the inferno erupted again. He stared at his hands, as if he couldn’t believe what he had done.
Daisy almost didn’t dare look at Rilke. Yet when she turned she saw that the girl was still alive, writhing on the floor, her hands over her face. Daisy looked back at Brick, asking, What did you—
Another roar, everything moving, as if the forest was a vast creature that had decided to pick itself up and walk away with them on its back. The ground tilted, Cal and Adam rolling between the trees in each other’s arms, Rilke sliding underneath the tail of the conifer.
It wasn’t me! Brick shouted, his mind-voice stripped of anger, full of terror. It wasn’t me, I swear.
That same awful, endless groan rose up, the howling roar of a billion trumpets in the sky, a noise that seemed as if it could shake the universe to pieces. Daisy flexed her wings, propelling herself out of the forest, rising once again above the shuddering trees. In the distance was the same city she’d seen before, now being shaken into dust by the force of the tremors. Beyond it the ocean was white, worked into a frenzy.
It wasn’t me, she heard Brick say again, fainter now. Of course it wasn’t. This was something so much worse.
It was the man in the storm.
Brick
San Francisco, 1.51 p.m.
Brick followed Daisy, using his wings to propel himself out of the forest. He studied his hands as he went, expecting to see blood there, as if he had crushed Rilke’s head with his own fingers. The anger was gone, submerged inside a sea of calm, but it had left a bitter taste in his mouth, like vomit. He hadn’t meant to hurt her like that. He’d almost killed her.
He burst from the canopy, the sky opening up around him, vertigo gripping his stomach in an iron fist. He’d never been fond of heights, and now here he was hovering a hundred metres up with nothing to stop him falling except a pair of flaming wings. The thought was so absurd, so terrifying, that he laughed – an insane, screeching giggle that lasted less than a second before he looked to the horizon and saw the city disappear.
It came apart like a sandcastle, the tower blocks vanishing first, then the hills – solid mounds of rock – dissolving into puddles. The ground had become an ocean, a vast whirlpool that churned in a slow circle. The actual ocean was so white that it
could have been made of snow, groaning as it was sucked into the vortex. Brick saw a bridge – a huge, great red thing – snap apart as if it was made of matchsticks, pulled into the flow. The edge of the whirlpool was spreading out from the city with unbearable speed, everything crumbling into dust and smoke. The earth seemed to cry out, a scream of pure anguish that made Brick’s ears hurt.
It’s him, said Daisy from his side, her voice full of grief. Oh, Brick, he’s killed them all.
How many people? A hundred thousand? A million? They wouldn’t have even known about it, sucked into his gullet so fast they’d have been dead before they could draw breath. It can’t be real, can’t be real, and yet it was, he could smell the stench of atomised concrete and spilt blood and smoke, so much smoke; could feel the force of the wind that rushed in towards the abyss, trying to pull him along with it.
We have to fight him, Daisy went on. Howie had risen to her side, his angel form so similar to hers that they could have been twins. Where is he? I don’t understand.
It was different from London. There was no storm, for one. Back there he had hung in the air, sucking everything into that pit of a mouth, the skies full of darkness. Here there was no sign of him, just the drowning city.
He’s underground, he said, suddenly comprehending.
The epicentre of the destruction was now nothing but a gaping hole, a mile wide and growing fast. Land and sea alike poured into the pit, throwing rainbows against the cloudless sky, the effect dizzying. Something else was happening, too, vast, snaking cracks radiating out from the destruction, pulling the earth to pieces. One was making its way up towards the wooded hill beneath them, carving a trench through the streets, through houses. Everything was falling apart.
Wait, Brick said. Where are we? Didn’t that man say it had reappeared in San Francisco?
The Storm Page 19