Blood and Feathers

by Lou Morgan

  Praise for Lou Morgan

  “A hell of a ride, but heaven to read: eerie, compelling and very funny.”

  Michael Marshall Smith

  “Dark, surreal and wickedly funny, Lou Morgan’s reimagining of the war between Heaven and Hell mixes angels, alcohol and ammunition to serve up a joy of a read.”

  Tom Pollock

  “It’s a challenge to take concepts older than the calendar and make them seem new. Louise Morgan has done just that. How to describe this, her debut novel? Bloody Heavenly!”

  Guy Adams

  “Dark, enticing and so sharp the pages could cut you, Blood and Feathers is a must-read for any fan of the genre.”

  Sarah Pinborough

  “A storming debut! Lou Morgan writes with confidence, style and verve. Who would have thought that going to Hell could be so much fun? A must-read.”

  Mike Shevdon

  First published 2012 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-436-3

  ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-437-0

  Copyright © Lou Morgan 2012

  Cover Art by Pye Parr

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  For James.

  Upside down, on fire, and always.

  “Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.”

  – Paradise Lost

  “Therefore Hell hath enlarged herself,

  and opened her mouth without measure...”

  – Isaiah 5:14

  CHAPTER ONE

  Teeth

  “MUM! MUM!”

  “What?” Iris stuck her head around the shower curtain, listening.

  “The toast’s jammed again – it’s getting all burnt! And there’s teeth on the lawn.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Unplug it, then see if you can jimmy it out with a wooden spoon. A wooden one!” She stepped back under the running water. “Give me strength... Wait – teeth?”

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, Iris was wrapping a towel around her head and standing in a puddle in the kitchen, peering out at the lawn. “Teeth?”

  “Look.” Jack pointed, scattering crumbs on the draining board. Sure enough, there they were – right in the middle of the lawn, a ring of sharp white points that had most definitely not been there the night before. They towered over the shrubs, standing at least as high as a man. Iris stared at them for a moment, then turned and fixed her teenage son with a frown. “Is this anything to do with you, Jack?”

  “’snot me,” he said through a mouthful of toast. “Ask Addy.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Your sister’s eight years old – and use a plate, would you? You’re getting bits everywhere.”

  “So what if she’s eight? Addy was the one with the cling film last year. You blamed that on me, too.”

  “That isn’t the point. Clean up that mess, please. And don’t go anywhere near that... that thing.” Iris tugged at the edge of her makeshift turban. She left Jack eating his toast, and went back upstairs.

  SHE WAS JUST picking up the hairdryer when Jack’s voice drifted up the stairs again. “Mum?”

  “What is it this time?”

  “You’d better come see.” Something about his tone made her heart jump, and she dropped the dryer.

  When she got to the kitchen, the back door was open, and through it she could see him standing beside the ring of... whatever they were. He looked back over his shoulder at her, and even from this distance she could see how pale his face was.

  It was beginning to rain, and the water was soaking into his school shirt, but he did not move.

  “Jack? Jack! Whatever’s the matter? What are...”

  Iris did not finish her sentence. The ground beneath her shifted and lurched, pitching her sideways. “Jack!”

  And when she looked up, he wasn’t there. There was nothing there except for the rain, and those strange white things.

  And where was Addy? Jack had called her downstairs, hadn’t he, said she had better come into the garden. What had he wanted her to see?

  Still off-balance, she half-walked, half-scrambled closer... and all at once she realised why he had been so pale, just why he had been staring back at her.

  THEY WERE TEETH. You could see it, up close. They looked larger now than they had from the window. Had they grown? A little voice in her head told her that was impossible; how could they have grown? She chose to ignore it, just as carefully as she chose to ignore the other little voice – the one that was telling her there were teeth in the middle of the lawn, and that in itself was pretty bloody impossible, particularly on a Tuesday.

  The jagged points, the smoothness of the sides, the ridges of earth below them, like gums. They towered over her, so much taller than she had first thought. And between them, where there had been grass and moss and flowers only yesterday, was a gaping hole leading down into... a mouth.

  A throat.

  “Jack?” Her voice sounded weak against the rain.

  She crept closer to the edge of the mouth that had opened in the middle of their dull, ordinary, suburban garden.

  “Jack? Addy?”

  The ground shook again, this time knocking her flat on her face and then rolling her sideways, dangerously close to the edge. She slowly, carefully, dragged herself closer and stared down into the dark, calling her children. Not a sound came back – not even an echo. There was only the darkness within, and the noise of the rain on the grass. She leaned as far out as she dared, throwing an arm around the base of a tooth for support. It was cold, slippery to the touch, but she hung on as the world around her tilted again. She might have screamed; she didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure.

  The throat had stairs.

  Sweeping around it was a narrow staircase; beginning behind the tooth to her left and ending... who knew where?

  Iris lay back on the wet grass, feeling the rain on her neck, and she made a choice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Meet the Family

  THE FRONT PORCH smelled like burning ice.

  Alice opened the door and squelched her way into the hall, wondering why she’d worn canvas trainers in what was clearly a monsoon – and more importantly, why only one of her socks was wet. Dr Grove would doubtless tell her this was ‘A Negative Thought,’ and instead she should be concentrating on appreciating that one of her socks was dry. Alice mentally told Dr Grove where he could stick his positive attitude. It’s hard to be appreciative when you’ve got one wet foot.

  The smell was stronger in the hall: cold and sharp, it reminded her of cigar smoke, if the cigar was made of glass. An odd sort of smell that was somehow familiar. She dropped her keys on the table and switched on the light. Thanks to the rain, it was darker than three o’clock had any right to be, but it was nothing a few lamps couldn’t fix. As Alice wriggled her soggy shoe off, she heard voices coming from the back room: some of her father’s cronies swung by for a drink, perhaps. It had been a long time since any of his old friends had come to the house, and she had been a little worried about him, but this was promising. Maybe he was finally going to get out again, get a life
– get a job. That explained the smell, too: it must be aftershave. Expensive aftershave. There was hope yet.

  The voices suddenly stopped, then started up again, their pitch lower and more urgent.

  “Ali?” Her father’s voice.

  “Hi, Dad. D’you want some tea? I was going to put the kettle on.”

  “We’ve got guests...”

  “Then I’ll make a pot.”

  “Alice...”

  “Give me a minute, I’ve only just got through the door, and it’s tipping it down out there.” Her words came out sharper than she had intended. That was the sock talking. Rolling her eyes, she pushed open the door to the back room and stepped inside.

  IT WASN’T A big room, not even by the standards of all the other houses in the street. Alice had always thought it was rather poky, and her father had often talked about knocking down the dividing wall between the back and front rooms... at least, he used to talk about it. That was back in the days when he worked in an office, washed the car on Sunday mornings, mowed the lawn, watched the football with friends and was generally just like everyone else’s dad. That was a long time ago.

  Despite the gloom, and the fact he had company, he hadn’t turned on any of the lights; all Alice could see was her father’s silhouette hunched in his chair by the window and the outline of a man standing beside him. She made out the vague suggestion of someone else sitting on the sofa.

  “Hey, Dad,” she said as brightly as she could, pushing her hair back from her face. “How about some light in here? It’s absolutely chucking it down.”

  She didn’t wait for a response, and flicked on the nearest lamp. The bulb flared bright white before going out with a soft pop.

  “Oops,” said a man’s voice.

  “Sorry. Hang on, let me try this...” She reached for a lamp on the table. It flared and died. “That’s weird. Maybe the fuses have tripped. I’ll just go and...”

  Her father said nothing; he didn’t even seem to have noticed that she was in the room. And when someone answered her, it was the stranger again.

  “Not to worry, Alice. A little dark doesn’t bother us. It’s probably just the weather making the power surge, or something. It is still raining, isn’t it?” His voice was deep, clear, with a faint accent she couldn’t quite place. If anyone could sound like they wore expensive aftershave, it was him. Alice gave a nervous half-smile and headed back out to the hall. Her father still said nothing.

  The fuse switches were just as they ought to be. She poked at the cover of the box; clicked the kitchen light on and off, on and off. Fine. As for the tea... the mugs weren’t exactly clean, but they’d do. And if they weren’t clean... she opened the fridge with a sinking feeling, picked up the half-full milk carton and shook it gently. The milk inside didn’t move. She dropped the whole thing into the bin without even bothering to smell it. Lemon it was.

  However much she tried, she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying in the room next door. She could hear their voices alright, but somehow the actual words seemed to skitter away from her when she tried to tune in to them.

  Five minutes later, she was shouldering her way back through the door, carrying a tray laden with mugs, a teapot, a plate of lemon slices (hacked out of the sad little thing she found at the back of the fridge), a sugar bowl and – miraculously – three clean teaspoons. Balanced on the end of the tray were three lightbulbs, still tucked in their boxes and dug out from the depths of the undersink cupboard. But as she walked into the room, she realised that it was bright and warm.

  The lights were on, glowing gently in the corners.

  “Can I help you with the tray?”

  She realised she was standing in the middle of the room with her mouth open, and it was one of her father’s friends – the man sitting on the sofa – who was speaking. Not the same voice as before, which meant it had been the man standing beside her father who had called her by name, asked if it was still raining.

  He had told her they weren’t afraid of the dark, hadn’t he? What an odd sort of thing to say. And remembering where she was, Alice closed her mouth, smiled and handed a cup to her still-silent father before turning to look at their visitors.

  They were an unlikely pair. Her eyes settled first on the man beside her father’s chair. This was the guy with the money. Money in the sound of his voice, money in the smell of his aftershave. Money in the cut of his suit, the cut of his blond hair. He had a narrow face, and although he was smiling, there was something cool and distant in his eyes. He took a mug from the tray as she held it out to him.

  The other, she reflected as she slid the tray onto the table, couldn’t be more different. While blondie by the window gave the distinct impression of being uptight, his friend was perched on the sofa, watching her with wide brown eyes.

  “You alright with that?” he asked, nodding at the tray.

  Alice smiled back. “It’s fine, really. Thanks.”

  Her voice sounded squeakier than she would have liked, and her father laughed quietly. It was the first sign of life he’d shown since he called her into the room. Sofa-Man leaned back against the cushions again, and tucked his boots as far under the sofa as he could. “Fair enough.”

  What kind of people, wondered Alice as she busied herself with the teapot, traveled in pairs like this? Two suits, she might have understood. Two scruffy looking guys with torn jeans and hoodies under their jackets, well, that was certainly much more her dad’s style. But one of each? Something wasn’t right.

  The blond peered at the plate of lemon slices like she’d just offered him a severed finger, but he eventually took one and dropped it neatly into his mug. The hoodie shook his head at his friend and scooped up three slices, then shoveled seven spoons of sugar into his cup.

  “So, Dad....” She sat down on the chair closest to her father, hoping for some kind of response, but all he did was curl his hands around his drink and blow into the mug.

  Finally, blondie cleared his throat. “You’re Alice. We’re... friends of your mother’s. My name is Gwyn, and that” – he gestured to the hoodie-wearer on the sofa, who half-raised a hand in greeting – “is Mallory. We came to meet you.”

  “Oh.” Alice wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that, but was still getting no help from her dad. “You knew Mum?”

  “We did. A long time ago.”

  “That’s nice. I don’t remember seeing you before. What brings you round this way?”

  “I told you. You did. We came to meet you.”

  “Oh.” The conversation wasn’t going quite the way Alice had hoped. She felt stupid, and the blond – Gwyn – was frowning at her. Obviously, she wasn’t the only one who thought she was being slow. She was rescued by Mallory, who leaned forward and set his mug down on the table.

  “What my friend over there is trying to say, Alice, is that we used to know your mother before she met your dad, before you were born. We’re not from round here, like you said, but we were in the area and thought it was time to look you up, see how you’re doing.” He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

  “How did you know Mum?”

  “Worked with her. Sort of. It’s complicated. You really do look like her. You have her eyes.”

  “Thanks. I don’t really remember that much about her, you know? I was only six.”

  “It must’ve been hard. I’m sorry, if it’s worth anything. She was a good friend.”

  “You’ve done well, Richard.’ Gwyn said to her father. “Not everyone thought you would.”

  “I did my best.” His voice was strained, as though he was holding something back, as though he was afraid. Alice felt her heart rate increase. Something was very wrong here and she had no idea what. Her grip on her mug tightened.

  Gwyn laid a hand on her dad’s shoulder and continued. “There were some who thought your best would be far from satisfactory. But no matter. They are coming. They’re coming now. And you appear to have fulfilled your side of the bargain, so now it
’s time for us to fulfill ours.”

  Alice met her father’s eyes. He was smiling, but tears rolled down his face. He was still looking at her like that when the hands came through the ceiling. The paint bubbled and cracked, and a pair of arms pushed through the ceiling directly above her father’s head; the fingers flexing, stretching, reaching for him. They came closer and closer until they were almost level with his shoulders. And no-one but Alice had noticed. Not until they followed her terrified stare. Her father glanced up then and cried out. Mallory swore and leapt to his feet. Gwyn... did nothing. He did nothing, and Alice watched in frozen horror as those hands clamped around her father’s head and, with a sudden wrench, snapped his neck.

  SHE WAS DIMLY aware of her scream filling the room; vaguely conscious that the mug had slipped from her fingers. She stumbled backwards with the sound of breaking bone echoing in her ears and her father’s sightless eyes filling her mind; her hands beating at empty air. She saw Mallory start forward, heard Gwyn’s voice as though from far away – but the words were lost, just pieces of noise.

  And then hands were holding her, pulling her into focus. “Wake her up,” he said, “Wake her up.”

  Mallory’s face filled her vision, leaning over her, and he pressed a cool hand to her forehead.

  “Sorry, kid,” he muttered, closing his eyes, “This is going to hurt.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE