by Rosie Best
Fran didn’t answer. Then there was a sudden movement and Blackwell let out a gurgling gasp. He staggered against Fran. Her hand pulled away, wet with blood. A blade flashed, twice more, deep into Blackwell’s belly. I tensed and breathed in, but I was too late to spring or cry out. Mo’s hands were on my shoulder, gripping on tight. His breath stirred my hair, shallow and shocked.
Fran stepped back from Blackwell and let him drop to his knees. Blood dripped from her hand like glittering jewels and splashed on the pavement.
“You will give it to me,” she said, in a normal speaking volume.
I frowned. There was something off about the way she’d said it – not, “give it to me”, but “give it to me”.
Blackwell shuddered. She reached over and knocked the Warder’s cap from his head.
“I’m ready,” said Fran. She knelt down. She peeled off her coat and cast it aside, and she raised the knife again and...
I twitched, nausea rising in my throat. She was cutting herself, somewhere around her stomach, around the same place she’d stabbed Blackwell. She let the pain out in a long hiss between her teeth.
“Come on,” she said. “Just stop fighting. Don’t make me cut your throat, too. Come to me.”
I leaned forward a little, my whole body shaking. Fran seemed to be waiting for something. Blackwell stared over her shoulder, towards us, his eyes heavy-lidded. Something changed. His eyes widened and he refocused on Fran.
“Why?” he muttered, his throat rattling with fluid. “Why now? You have Phillips, you have the Tower. And you already... have... the shift...”
“I’m destined for bigger, better things.”
“You think... oh, you think this will make you a metashifter?” He coughed and doubled up, clutching at the blood welling out of his stomach. “You have no idea. The leodweard is... nature, part of the design. You can’t make one.”
“Nobody as powerful as Victoria has ever tried it,” Fran smirked. “And she’s only using a fraction of the power we’ll have when we’ve gathered all the stones.”
Blackwell shook his head.
“Come... closer...” he dragged in a breath, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. Fran hesitated, and then leaned a little closer. “There’s... no such thing as enough power. They will write that... on your tombstone.”
“Oh, hurry up and die,” said Fran, her voice suddenly much less smooth, reaching for the knife again. She raised it to Blackwell’s throat and sliced across, hard and violent. A little spurt of blood splattered against the wall and then the flood cascaded down and soaked his uniform.
“Now, give it to me.” Fran sat back, her shoulders rising and falling as she took a series of deep breaths. My hands crawled to my mouth and I chewed on my index finger. What if Blackwell was wrong, and the metashifter was made? Was she going to turn into a raven? Could she already be a spider, or a rat?
Blackwell’s corpse fell sideways. I stifled a moan in my sleeve.
“OK.” She rolled her shoulders and clicked her neck from side to side. She leaned forwards, the growing pool of Blackwell’s blood lapping at her knees. “OK, let’s go, raven.”
She hunched over. I held my breath, until my throat stung with the tension, straining my eyes in the dim light to make out the first sign of the change. Her arms might shrink back and burst out in feathers, or her hair could slick back and turn iridescent-black. Perhaps her nose and mouth were growing long and sharp and hard. Maybe her eyes were turning into tiny onyx gems in the side of her face.
But none of those things seemed to happen.
“Raven!” Fran growled, through gritted teeth.
Nothing happened.
Fran’s shoulders sagged and she threw the knife to the floor. It clattered and skidded in the pool of blood. “Fuck,” said Fran.
“Is someone back there?” A man’s voice. Fran looked up, her chestnut hair bouncing around her face, and then shrank into herself. She was just a thrashing pile of fabric for a few seconds, then she burst out of her shirt in fox form. For a terrifying second she looked like she was considering running right past us. I reached blindly behind me and found Mo’s hand clutching for mine. But then Fran turned again and vanished into the shadows on the other side of the ticket booths.
“Oh my God.” The man’s voice sounded again. A deeper shadow fell across Blackwell’s body, and then a circle of light so bright I blinked and looked away. It made him seem like an impressionist version of a corpse – patches of deeply lined white skin, a golden halo of hair, a splash of red-black at his throat. “999, request immediate assistance. I’m opposite the Tower – there’s been a murder. Oh yeah, he’s dead all right. Multiple stab wounds.” The man leaned down. I caught a glimpse of dark skin and short black beard against a neat black uniform. Not a Warder – an ordinary security guard.
A thrill of anger shivered through me. Where were you ten minutes ago?
Then I softened. Where were you, Meg? You were right here. Could you have stopped it?
I didn’t know.
Mo tugged at my elbow. I looked back at him. He looked like he might be about to be sick, but he made a little gesture – he pointed towards the security guard, and then flapped his hands at his sides.
My eyes widened. He was right – if the shift passed to the nearest human, if it wouldn’t go to Fran or me or Mo, then that security guard had just inherited Blackwell’s shift. He was the new raven in the Conspiracy.
I ached to give him something, a clue about what was going to happen to him, to tell him that it was going to be OK – but that he should run, far from the Conspiracy, and not let them find him.
But Mo whispered to me, so close I could feel his lips moving. “We have to get back to the others.”
I nodded and climbed to my feet, as silently as I could, trying to ignore the fact that my stomach had turned into a writhing mass of hot snakes at the touch of his lips on my ear.
I’d always wanted to know what it was like to actually fancy someone. But if I ever ran into Cupid I’d strangle him with his own bow string for choosing to give me a practical demonstration at a time like this.
109 Hendon Road was a large semi-detached house on a main road near Finchley. The lights were on, like a beacon drawing us along the street. It looked warm in there, inviting. I visualised a sofa as welcoming as Susanne’s, maybe a cup of tea, and then... the bad news. I shivered. The night chill was starting to get to me and I wished I’d thought to buy a coat as well as a hoodie. But I wasn’t nervous. I suppose because I knew exactly what I was going to say. “Fran is working with Victoria, I saw her kill a man.” There was really nothing else to say.
I rang the bell and after a few minutes, Don opened the door.
I was as certain that this was him as I had been that the woman at the Tower was Fran. Where she was sleek, he was solidly built. His skin was a dark reddish brown in the soft light of his hallway and he was standing tall and tense in his doorway, like a warder in his own little suburban tower.
But he was younger than I expected. I’d seen him as a middle-aged bloke, a patriarch in his home life like he was trying to be with the Skulk. I’d thought he must be some kind of successful businessman and family man, used to getting his own way.
He was about twenty-one, maybe twenty-five at a stretch. He was dressed like an older man – a shirt, shiny shoes, like he was auditioning for The Apprentice. Who arrived home at 1am with a pack of foxes in tow, and immediately put on a shirt? I remembered his posturing, his hostility, and I got it. And at the same time, the little store of respect and tolerance I’d been carrying for him was melting away. He didn’t have the excuse of being a middle-aged man, set in his ways, used to control. He was just a bit of a dick.
Also, he was scowling at me.
“You,” he said. “What have you done?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Are you some kind of spy?” he hissed. “How did you do this?”
“Don, what the hell? I’ve got something I have to tell
you, can we–?”
“Damn right you have,” Don growled. “Why did you tell us he was dead?”
“Who?” I racked my brain. Aaron? Blackwell? Angel?
“Me,” said a voice from the hall behind Don. A white man, in his thirties, quite short, with brown curls and glasses. I had never seen him before in my life.
“I have no idea who this is! Come on, Don, let me in, we have some really important–”
“This is Ben Cohen.”
My train of thought ran smack into a brick wall and I reeled. Don was staring at me, expectant and angry.
“No, he’s not.” My voice sounded far off and small.
“Excuse me,” Ben said, “I think I know my own name.”
“But that’s not him,” I babbled. “That’s not the man who was a fox. It’s not him.” I blinked at the man he’d called Ben. I couldn’t doubt myself – the sight of the man who’d given me the shift had been burned into my memory like a brand on my soul. He didn’t look like Ben. But he’d been a fox, so he had to be one of the Skulk. Didn’t he?
“There cannot be seven in the Skulk. It’s impossible. There are only six. Me, Randhir, Francesca, James, Adeola, and Ben.” Don counted off, each name like a nail being driven into a coffin. “So where did you come from?” Don snarled.
Six in the Skulk. Seven fox shifters.
“It’s one of us.” Don and Ben gave me identical blank stares. “The metashifter. The person who can be any one of the weards. It’s got to be one of us!”
“What are you talking about?” Ben muttered.
“When the wizard’s apprentice split up the weapon and made the different shifters she gave herself the power to become any one of them,” I said, impatiently, and with a hint of duh. Then I paused. “That’s what Blackwell told me. He told me it was called the leodweard and there should still be one. Seven shifters in six places, that means one of us isn’t really in the Skulk.”
“We know who’s not really in the Skulk,” growled Don.
“No. It’s not me, it’s one of you, it’s got to be. Maybe Randhir, or – or Ben, or you.”
But Don wasn’t listening.
“No, all this trouble started when you arrived, didn’t it? You’re the one who stopped the ritual from working.”
“What? How do you figure that?” I couldn’t keep up with this – I just wanted to address the last thing he’d said but he carried on talking, getting more and more worked up, his face getting redder and more puffed-up. “It all makes sense now. You summoned the pigeons. All that rubbish about your parents, you made it all up and convinced poor Addie to go along with your lies–”
“What? No, it’s not Meg who’s the traitor, it’s Fran,” Mo snapped.
Don gave him a look so contemptuous it was almost pity. “You must think I’m a total moron. Fran? Fran’s been part of the Skulk for years. She’s been nothing but loyal.”
“That’s exactly what she wants you to think,” I said, more than half to myself. As soon as the words had tumbled over my tongue I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell Don would ever believe me. “She murdered Blackwell, we were just there. She wanted to absorb his powers and become the metashifter but it didn’t work – if course it wouldn’t, the metashifter is here.”
My head was spinning. I raised my hands to run them through my hair, as if the solution to all this weirdness was in there somewhere.
Mo stepped up close behind me. “She said she was with Victoria. We heard her. She said it!”
Don shook his head. “Why would she say that if there was nobody but a corpse there?”
I rolled my eyes. “He wasn’t dead yet, he...” I stopped. He asked her. He must have seen me. He asked her so she’d tell us. Thank you, Blackwell.
“You’re just picking on her for your scapegoat because she’s not here to defend herself. Just like Ben. How long did you think you could get away with pretending to take his place before he came back?” Don reached for the door and started to shut it. “Get out, whatever you are. The Skulk doesn’t need you.”
“Wait,” I shoved my foot in the door just as Don tried to slam it, and let out a yelp of pain. “It’s not me, it’s got to be one of the others. You’ve got to make them tell you who they are. They’re supposed to be the one in charge of fixing all of this.”
“I won’t spread any more of your nonsense,” Don snarled.
“I’m not leaving. I want to talk to Addie, where is she?”
“She’s sleeping,” Don hissed, “And you’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you disturb her. Get out.” He gave a great heave and I had to move my foot to avoid being crushed as he slammed the door in our faces.
“You’d better watch out!” I yelled, hammering on the door with both fists. “You can’t trust Fran. Addie, please, don’t let them trust her!”
“Oi!”
I looked up. Don’s neighbours’ windows were open. A man was leaning out, shirtless, his hair sticking up at all angles.
“Keep it down. It’s gone midnight!”
“Sorry,” said Mo, taking my arm. “Wrong house.” He pulled me away.
“She killed someone, don’t trust her!” I yelled, one more time, before Mo steered me off down the street, one arm around my shoulders. I shook him off and stumbled to a halt, burying my face in my hands. “I don’t believe – I can’t believe they won’t even listen.”
“Well, I’m listening,” he said. “We’ll work this out.”
I nodded, miserably. “Maybe.” I took a long deep breath and let it out slowly.
“You know what, vandalising my school seemed like such a good idea at the time,” I said. “I sort of wish I’d just stayed at home.”
Mo laughed. It was a brief, throaty sort of chuckle.
I stared into the middle distance, my shoulders hunched. “I’ve got to get into the Shard and get those stones back. I’m not going to get anything from the Skulk, or the metashifter. Blackwell’s dead. The Cluster stone is gone.” My voice was low and cold. “I’ve got to just do it. I don’t know why I thought I could get this bunch of idiots to help me. I have nothing now I didn’t have two days ago. Actually I have less.”
Mo didn’t even hesitate. “You have me.”
My heart melted so fast I could practically feel it dribbling out of my chest cavity and pooling in my shoes. I looked up at him. “You shouldn’t come. It’s dangerous, I’ll probably die. I don’t want you to die. I mean, think about the loss to the art world. You’re E3. I can’t–”
“Bollocks to that. All great artists die tragically young, right?” He smiled. “We can go together. Come on, let’s get warm and come up with a plan.”
He turned and strode off down the road, without waiting for me, and sure enough I ran to keep up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Finchley Road all-night McDonalds was warm and welcoming, once Mo had found enough loose change in his pockets to buy a small cup of coffee. The manager didn’t seem to mind that we made it last nearly five hours. I guessed she was pleased to have someone in who wasn’t falling-down pissed or liable to try and strangle the staff.
Mo called Susanne.
“This is all screwed up now, Mum,” he said softly. “One of the Skulk has betrayed them, it was the one called Fran.” I heard the tinny echo of a raised, angry voice. “She’s killed Meg’s Conspiracy friend. We’re fine! We’re in a McDonalds. Yeah, is he… oh? Oh, good. OK.” He moved the phone a little away from his mouth and looked up at me. “Marcus thinks he’s found the new shifter. He’s not sure yet though. Him and Mum are going to stake them out.” He put the phone back. “Yeah, it’s fine – we can wait here till the first Tube. I think so. I think… we’ve got to go up there, Mum. There’s nothing else we can do, the Skulk are being useless. And Meg’s pretty sure one of them is the metashifter and just hasn’t told us. Yeah, I know. Yeah, we’ll be OK. Honestly.” He glanced at me and I wondered if that was as much for my benefit as Susanne’s. “I know.” He turned his
face to the window. I watched the reflection of his eyes squeeze shut and then open and look out, deep and serious. A small, private smile crossed his lips. I looked away, feeling like I was intruding. “I know. They would. Anyway, I’ll call you as soon as we get home, if you’re not there.” He swallowed. “Love you too.”
He put the phone down on the plastic table and pushed it around with one finger for a while, the slight squeak only making the awkward silence more awkward.
I don’t remember the last time I told my parents I loved them.
I don’t know if I do love them.
You’re supposed to love your parents, aren’t you? Almost no matter what they do to you. It’s supposed to be built in, like breathing. You only get a pass if you’re a psychopath or they’ve abused you, or both. My parents could’ve been a lot, lot worse. So I was meant to feel something right?
Susanne wasn’t even Mo’s mother – not his biological mother, not the woman who was supposed to have the natural imperative to love him and teach him to be good and prepare him for whatever the world could throw at him – and he probably had a better relationship with her than I’d ever had with any adult, ever.
I dropped my head into my hands and stared at the speckled pattern in the plastic. Was that by design, or was it just corrosion from decades of bleach and salt and grease?
In my mind’s eye, Dad’s beak snapped down on Aaron’s defenceless, furry body.
Dad was never violent. He wasn’t like Mum. He didn’t have a furious bone in his body. In comparison, he was the sane one. But he was useless at everything but making money: whatever skills he had in the office did not transfer to parenting. I think he saw me as Mum’s problem, like a dog he hadn’t really wanted. Nice to have around the place in a very vague sort of way, but not something he ever had to deal with – that was what staff were for.
Was there anything left of that man, now? The worst thing was obviously the fact that he’d been turned into an evil pigeon who had tried to kill me, but the second worst thing was not knowing if he could ever come back. Not knowing if I could fix it.
The truth coiled in my stomach, like a venomous snake.