The Girl Who Fell (The Chess Raven Chronicles)

by Violet Grace

  One of the guards eyes me tentatively, and a realisation pulls me back from the precipice. The stiff posture. The twitching hand hovering above his weapon. The uneasy glances.

  He’s scared of me. They’re all scared of me.

  They’re waiting for me to strike. Despite the handcuffs and the difference in our body sizes, all four of my captors seem just as terrified of me as I am of them. I can’t imagine what they think I’m going to do, but their reticence calms me a little. Reality is often overrated. What matters more is perception. And the perception that I’m a threat may be something I can work with, even though it makes no sense.

  Eventually we approach the end of the corridor. There’s a single door painted in the same sad grey colour.

  The guards draw their weapons. Westerfield grips the top of my arm with a vice-like pincer and pushes me towards the door. I can sense the gun barrels aiming at the back of my head. Weekes unlocks the handcuffs before opening the door.

  I’m shoved into the room, the door slamming shut behind me. Plunged into complete darkness, I stumble to the floor.

  Except, it’s not a floor. It’s bars. Cold, hard, metal bars, crisscrossing beneath me.

  I frantically scramble around in the darkness trying to orientate myself or find a doorway or even something to use as a weapon. All I find are more bars.

  My breath turns to rapid panting. There’s a thrumming in my ears. The dark emptiness closes in, crushing me, penetrating what defences I have left. I resist the overwhelming urge to curl up in a ball, and force myself to stand. But as soon as I’m on my feet the darkness disorients me and I lose my balance and collapse again, the bars digging into my knees.

  A moment passes in the dark.

  Banks of huge lights pop to life, blinding me again. I squint as my eyes adjust to the brightness.

  A cage. I’m in a cage.

  My mind fills with memories of the weeks I spent in custody waiting for my trial for stealing Gladys’s meds: the oppressiveness of the space, the hopelessness in the air, not knowing how long I’d be stuck there for. I push the memories down. If I’m going to survive this, I need to stay in the present.

  As far as I can make out, the cage is at one end of what looks like a huge abandoned warehouse. Or hangar. The place could fit a commercial jet – or three. There’s polished concrete and nothing much else, except for a solitary folding chair placed in front of the cage. Behind me is another grey, featureless concrete wall and the door I came through.

  I spot small black bubbles along the ceiling, the telltale sign of security cameras. I’d be willing to bet that they’re all pointed straight at me.

  And dust. The air is so thick with dust I can taste it.

  I hear the creaking of a door opening, followed by a crisp clicking sound echoing around the hangar. I make out a compact woman at the far end. She doesn’t look at me as she strides in her killer heels, all business-like, towards the chair. As she nears I notice a grey bob and an unhealthy relationship with hairspray. She’s carrying a bright red folder with the word ‘Sealed’ stamped across it.

  Her manner is as severe as her posture. Not the sort of person I should mess with. If I were going to stereotype I’d say she’s one of those overachievers who has six degrees, speaks four languages fluently and practises martial arts in her spare time. She could bash the life out of me without chipping one of her manicured talons.

  She sits on the solitary chair and slides the folder under it. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she finally looks up at me.

  ‘Francesca Raven. Haven’t you grown?’ she sneers.

  I wrap my trembling fingers around the bars, levering myself into a standing position. My legs are unsteady but I try not to show it. With as much dignity as I can muster, I match her stare defiantly. She doesn’t flinch or blink as her eyes bore into mine. I’m the first to break our eye lock as I lose my nerve and my eyes start to water.

  She rises from the chair and walks towards me, a lion stalking its prey.

  ‘You can call me Agent Eight. We’ve met before but you probably don’t remember.’

  I don’t. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Irrelevant,’ she declares, like a computer I’ve entered the wrong command into.

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’ I blurt.

  Her mouth twists at the corner and then straightens into a thin line again, as if she’s about to laugh but then can’t be bothered.

  ‘You are more valuable to us alive. Killing you now would be a waste of a lengthy investment.’ She removes a speck of lint from the shoulder of her suit jacket. ‘No matter how much I’d like to,’ she adds with disdain.

  I try to soothe myself by slowing down my breathing, closing my eyes and silently chanting, She’s not going to kill me, she’s not going to kill me.

  ‘You can try that all you like but those bars are graphite so you won’t be able to do any of your little tricks in there.’

  What tricks does she think I’m doing? What have I got myself mixed up in here? Somewhere along the line, somebody stuffed up big time. The Chancellor thinks I’m a superhero and the Agency seems to be worried I’m some kind of supervillain.

  Still, mistaken identity or not, it’s the only thing I have to work with at the moment, so I use it. I open my eyes and look pointedly around the cage.

  ‘If you want to persuade me to help you, you should work on your hospitality.’

  ‘I have no intention of being hospitable,’ she snaps, spit flying out of her thin-lipped mouth. ‘I have run out a patience for indulging you and asking nicely.’

  She takes a step closer to the cage. I’m tempted to retreat to the far side but I hold my ground.

  ‘If you harm me you’ll jeopardise inter-realm relations,’ I say too quickly. I’m clutching at straws, hoping this might mean something to her, but my bluff backfires spectacularly.

  She leans in towards the cage, angling her head to hide her mouth from the overhead cameras, and hisses through her teeth, ‘I don’t give a shit about the politics. Or you.’

  Chills run through me. It’s not so much what she said, but the fact that she meant those words for me, and me alone. Whatever this is, it’s personal for her. She hates me. She really hates me.

  Stepping back and resuming her normal voice, she says, ‘Let’s talk about the chalice. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give me the location of the key.’

  ‘Now I’m supposed to know something about a chalice and a key?’ I say, exasperated.

  ‘Enough!’ she yells. ‘You’ve tested my patience quite enough. I will not ask you for it again.’

  Again?

  As I watch her face turn an alarming shade of crimson, it suddenly all falls into place. She means the cup in the V&A. Marshall’s family’s old cup.

  More memories escape from the vault. A long-forgotten door in my mind has been prised opened and is refusing to close. Childhood trips to the V&A. The black car with the cream leather seats. The woman with the click-clack shoes.

  The same woman who’s standing in front of me now. Her hair used to be brown and her face smoother, but those fierce eyes, which stare sharp enough to slice your skin, haven’t changed a bit. She’s been hounding me, monitoring me, occasionally pretending to be concerned with my welfare, for years.

  ‘You’ve remembered,’ she says, registering my realisation. ‘Now here’s what you’re going to do. Tell me where the key is or you’re going to disappear for a long time.’

  ‘What? In some Black Ops site like Guantanamo?’ I ask, trying to keep the fear from my voice as I’m overwhelmed by memories. The time I spent staring at the cup. The expectant looks from men and women in suits, waiting for me to do something. The air of disappointment when I failed.

  How far will these people go?

  ‘Oh, we don’t need to be so dramatic. Just one of England’s best correctional facilities. Maximum security, of course, but otherwise just a regular lock-up for regular scum.’

  ‘You c
an’t just fling people into prison for nothing,’ I say, but as the words leave my mouth, I hear their naivety.

  ‘I think you’ll find that most magistrates don’t view murder as “nothing”,’ Agent Eight says, inspecting her fingernails. ‘But don’t worry, your boyfriend will be incarcerated too.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend and I definitely haven’t killed anyone. And I don’t know how else to tell you people this: you’ve got the wrong person.’

  Slowly she turns and walks back to the chair. She picks up the folder from under the seat.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ she asks, waving it at me as she returns to the cage. ‘A police file. From a murder investigation. The victim is one Larry Goldsworthy. Remember Larry? Sure you do. Hard to forget, I imagine,’ she says under her breath, a tight little grimace cutting across her face. ‘He was your foster father, after all.’

  I don’t want to think about him, speak about him or know any other details about him, but I force myself to look at his file.

  ‘I didn’t kill Larry,’ I say. ‘Death by misadventure is what the cops called it.’

  ‘You can stop with the lies!’ she screeches. ‘Remember who you’re talking to. We know you killed him because we were the ones who covered it up for you and your boyfriend. We made sure the investigation never went any further.’ She holds the file up to the cage. ‘I can see you inherited your sense of morality from your mother’s side of the family. Monsters, the lot of you.’

  I peer down at her folder and see my name and other details about me: my address, date of birth, foster care number and another ID number I don’t recognise. There’s even a photo of me. I look about ten years old, with dirty hair and a look of hunger in my eyes. And there’s another photo in the folder.

  A boy.

  I’ve seen him before. It’s the same boy from those strange memories I had in the hospital. He was a friend when I had nothing and no one. We spent hours together, roaming. Free.

  Or was it only a dream? Just a desperate wish to not be so alone?

  I crane my neck to get a better look at the photo, but Agent Eight slams the folder shut. ‘He thought he could outrun us with his little disappearing act, but that only works for a while,’ she says. ‘When I started monitoring you all those years ago I had no idea you’d hold out on me for so long. But your little games need to end. We know the Fae have made contact with you. And that can only mean one thing – that after all this time, you’ve finally decided to reveal the location of the key. So, where is it?’

  I stare at her. ‘You were watching me in foster care all that time?’

  ‘I was kept appraised of your situation, yes,’ she says officiously, but I detect a slight quiver of her lips. Her voice softens. ‘We all want the same thing. It’s what’s best for everyone. You tell us about the key so we can all make this unpleasantness’ – she nods at the file – ‘go away.’

  Anger wells within me. ‘You knew what was happening to me but you left me there? You actually made the choice to leave me there and you question my morality?’

  ‘My job was to get the key. Anything else was outside my brief. I’m not your mother, after all.’

  Something snaps. An inferno erupts inside me as if molten lava is flowing through my veins. Fear and light-headedness are replaced by an all-consuming fury that is both foreign and welcome. I still have no idea what she’s talking about or what any of this has to do with Larry’s death. But none of that matters right now. All I can think about is how much I hate her. Raw, animal hate. Intensely satisfying and liberating.

  I’m up against the bars, clenching them in my hands, screaming with unrestrained rage. ‘You made my life hell and now you want me to help you? I’d rather die than do anything for you!’

  My skin burns, my teeth grind; energy builds inside me. Then I’m moving. There’s a force under my feet, propelling me upwards, fast. With a violent explosion, the cage rips apart as I catapult into the air like I’ve just been shot from a cannon. I hurtle past the jagged bars towards the warehouse ceiling. I close my eyes and cover my head with my hands in an attempt to protect myself from the impact.

  When the impact doesn’t come, I open my eyes and look down.

  Air. Cool night air against my skin.

  Below, I see light streaming out of the warehouse and a huge hole crowned by thorns of twisted metal and debris.

  And then I’m falling back to earth, plummeting from the sky.

  chapter 10

  My eyes flood with tears as the cool air lashes my face.

  My back itches like crazy as a tightness and burning sensation rushes between my shoulder blades. Burns or cuts – I can’t tell which – lace my body. Probably from being thrown through the ceiling.

  The ground below races to meet me and I close my eyes again, twisting and clawing at the air to slow my fall and stop the burning in my back. A thousand thoughts rush through me. For the briefest moment I consider the possibility of there being a soft landing place – water or shrubbery – to break my fall, like in a cartoon.

  But then I know with finality and certainty: I’m going to die.

  I’ve spent a lot of my life wishing I was dead but now, faced with it actually happening, I want more than anything to live.

  I hear fabric tearing and then a little popping noise and I’m no longer falling. I’m rising, sucked back up into the night sky. Opening my eyes again, I see the concrete below me retreating.

  I’m hovering.

  The itchiness and burning have gone. I gulp the cool night air down, confused.

  Out of the corner of my eyes I spy movement. I flick my head to the side for a closer look, and I see … iridescent light shimmering from the tips of huge wings. Lustrous colours ripple down the wings as they scoop the night air. Golden capillaries form intricate swirling patterns, making me think of a giant butterfly. The top of the wings arch up to points and the bottoms finish with delicate coils.

  They’re flapping steadily, keeping me suspended above the tree line. The cool breeze tickles my face as I hover in the air, free and at peace. It reminds me of my favourite childhood dream, the one where I’m riding bareback on a flying horse over London, racing with owls, peering into birds’ nests and looking down at the rooftops.

  I reach around to touch the wings; they’re silky, strong and about two metres in width. And they’re connected to me. They’re part of me. It’s like I’ve suddenly sprouted new limbs.

  And then it hits me.

  I can fly.

  I am Fae.

  The sense of wonder is broken by a sharp pain that ricochets through my body. It’s like barbed wire, stabbing me from the inside. I cry out in agony and terror. Blustering winds swirl around me. I’m spiralling madly downwards, past the treetops, past the tree trunks. My wings flail in the wind like sheets on a washing line during a cyclone. They slow my descent, but not enough to stop me entirely. I’m losing altitude too fast.

  For a moment there’s no sound. I land with a thud, my wings breaking the worst of the fall as I manage a commando roll onto the rough ground, rocks and debris digging into my hands and knees. Razor-sharp pains shoot along my shins and a sick feeling lodges itself in the pit of my stomach as the air rushes out of my lungs.

  Gasping for breath, I stare up at the stars. I’m drenched with sweat and shaking uncontrollably. The breeze licks sweat off my shivering skin. I can’t focus. A daisy sprouting through the rocks, cold and wet with night air, tickles my nose.

  With great difficulty, I roll onto my side and somehow scuff the side of my face on gravel. It takes all my strength to reach an arm around to my back to feel my wings. But they’re gone. I feel nothing but smooth skin. No open wound, nor, so far as I can tell, even a scratch between my shoulder blades. But the tear in the back of my dress is all the proof I need to know that the wings – my wings – were real.

  In the distance, men’s angry shouts mix with the menacing how
ls of dogs readying for a hunt. They’re joined by engines revving and the wail of sirens.

  I need to get away. Far away.

  I struggle up onto all fours and try to stand. My body aches, paralysed by exhaustion, but my mind races.

  I am who they want. I am Francesca of House Raven.

  The Agency wants me to give them a key to unlock something. The Luck of Edenhall? How do you unlock a cup? And what could possibly be inside an empty glass cup? What’s the point of finding a key for something that doesn’t even have a lock? It makes no sense, yet they seem to want it badly. They’ve been after it ever since I was a kid.

  And they think I murdered Larry.

  I hated my foster father and I didn’t shed a single tear when he died. But kill him? I think I’d remember something like that. Wouldn’t I? Or is this just one more crucial piece of my life that I repressed? I wished him dead countless times. But wishes can’t kill a person.

  Or can they? I don’t want to believe that I’m capable of murder, no matter what the circumstances. But I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore. I’m not even sure who I am.

  Perhaps I really am the monster Agent Eight thinks that I am.

  I didn’t feel like a monster when I was fluttering above the tree line with my wings unfurled. I felt love.

  No, that’s not it. It’s more like I was love, as if I were connected to everything and restrained by nothing, all at once.

  Whatever the case, I need to get away from here. If Agent Eight meant what she said – and she doesn’t strike me as the type to muck around with idle threats – the file for Larry’s murder investigation is open and I’m the number-one suspect. There goes my Second Chance – and every chance after that.

  The barking dogs are nearer now. They’re coming for me, I know it. I stagger to my feet, but my legs buckle. As I crumple back onto my knees I hear a swishing sound in the sky. It’s like a huge propeller, but not as loud as a helicopter. A drone?

  There’s a flicker of movement above me. I squint my eyes at the sky, but all I see is shimmering white. Steady gusts of air lick at my clammy skin. Whatever it is, it’s found me, circling above as if I’m its prey. I start manically scrambling in the opposite direction, searching for somewhere to hide.