Seven was drowning.

Again the familiar burning in his lungs, the insane urge to breath. The panic as he kicked for the tiny circle of light above.

He clawed his way to the surface, and suddenly he was standing in a river no more than three feet deep, trouser legs dry above the knees.

Sorrow stood next to him. She was bent double and panting. Her wings were no longer metaphorical but as real and vital as the rest of her. They quivered as she struggled to control her breathing.

On his other side Jude had staggered to the river bank and was on his knees wheezing and trying not to throw up.

'Someone really doesn’t want us here,' said Sorrow.

'So it’s not usually this hard?' said Jude, between coughs.

'As Eve said to Adam,' said Sorrow.

'I’ll do the jokes,' said Seven, 'you do the violence.'

'I am offended,' said Sorrow, straightening up.

'He’s got a point,' said Jude, getting to his feet with his back still toward Sorrow. 'You need to focus. She’s not going to be a pushover.'

Seven joined Jude on the bank. Waiting for him to turn around and see Sorrow in all her splendour.

'So what’s the…' said Jude and turned around, just as Sorrow arched her back and shrugged her shoulders and flicked out her wings and his voice tailed off as if he’d forgotten what speech was.

The wings were even bigger than Seven had visualised and just as black as he remembered. The feathers caught the light from the stars above and gave it back as a film of iridescence that shimmered as the wings moved. The whole effect was only slightly spoiled by the shower of loosened feathers dropping.

'What?' said Sorrow.

'Plan,' said Jude, as if he’d just been switched back on. 'What’s the plan?'

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

'We head for the Grove of the Morrigan,' said Sorrow.

'So just follow the smell of blood then?' said Jude. He turned on the spot, sniffing the air, and then headed off between the trees.

'What’s wrong with him?' said Sorrow.

'I don’t think he was ready for the sight of your wings,' said Seven.

Sorrow walked by him to follow Jude and just for a moment she was close enough for their fingertips to brush. But in that moment the words of Cutty’s text swam before his eyes again. The more you cling to a person, the more danger they are in.

#

In the Grove of the Morrigan Number Five walked a few steps away from the others. He could feel a deep and terrible chill in the pit of his stomach. The poison working on him. He couldn’t have long now.

He looked around, desperate for something to focus on. The Grove was a wide clearing menaced by huge twisted yew trees. On one side of the clearing was a pond fed by a waterfall. There was a huge throne by the pond and a tall dark woman sitting on it but Five’s eyes were drawn beyond her, to a large stone vessel half covered in black cloth. The cauldron, it had to be the cauldron, Sgàthach had said it would be close but he hadn’t expected it to be right here. It was in the shadow of the throne but the tall dark woman who was surely the Morrigan seemed uninterested in it.

Was it a trap? It felt like a trap. But even if it was a trap how much could it hurt? He was dead without the cauldron and probably worse than dead too. His hands itched, the way they always did when he tried to deny his instincts.

Fuck it.

He ran. It was almost as much of a surprise to him as it clearly was to Number Six. He could hear Six behind him shouting 'Hey…' and then tailing off because he hadn’t thought out the rest of the sentence.

Five made it halfway to the cauldron before it happened. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. It seemed like the woman on the throne had gestured at him but he had no time to work out what she was doing because something invisible caught him across the midsection and flung him back the way he had come.

There was a horrible moment of anticipation as his body arced through the air. He was bound to hit something hard and it was bound to hurt. He only hoped that it wouldn’t be one of the others.

Then he stopped, almost dead. It wasn’t like hitting something. It was being caught.He was in someone’s arms. Someone who smelled of honey and woodsmoke and metal and charcoal. Hands set him down on his feet and he turned to see Sgàthach scowling at him.

'Don’t do that again. Next time my Mother won’t just throw you to me. Next time she will cast you right out of the grove,' she said.

'I can’t just stand here looking at it,' he said.

Her expression softened. 'You feel the cold hand on you. I can see it in your eyes. There is still time for stealth. Wait until her attention is elsewhere. Once the battle begins, she will have her mind on other things. I will let you know when. And try to be a little more circumspect.'