“Lucis Lator. Bringer of Light. Sunwalker. His line is Nocturni royalty. Every London potentate traces their blood back to him. Where he was from, and what he once was, we do not know. Some claim he was a Roman general, others a wandering soldier, or a Celtic peasant from some unnamed land. Even when he was with us, he refused to say. What is known is that when the Predecessors ruled this land they coveted him like no other, for he was the mightiest Veneficii to have ever un-lived.
True Immortality. That was his power. His skin rang like metal when struck. Arrows could not pierce him, and swords could not cut. When he burst from his chains, the Predecessors tried with poison and acid and so many spells, but still he destroyed them. If the rumours are to be believed, even his name is not hearsay. He alone, among all Nocturni, could walk in daylight.
Sunwalker is gone. Lost to the madness of millennia, he gave himself freely to the Wilds. But his get yet rule, with minds sharp as iron, and bodies nearly impervious to all the world may throw at them. But it must be said; with each new generation of vampires, the Lightbringer’s power wanes. I do not know if the New Sun herself can step outside for a noon-time stroll.
But I’ll wager she isn’t willing to test it.”
On the Origins of Nocturnal Lineages, by Court Inquisitor Aisha Lakhani, October 1991.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
Bethnal Green
“My girl’s a liar, but I’ll stand beside her.
She’s all I’ve got, and I don’t wanna be alone…”
Finnerty half-sings, half-hums to the music, shoving her hand through a backpack filled with pill bottles, stray feathers, and dysfunctional laptop cords.
“No, ‘ere is no ovver one… No, ‘ere is no ovver one… I can’t-”
“Aisling?” A flimsy voice cuts her off. “What are you doing?”
She scowls. “Listenin’ to fookin’ music, Andrzej, what it look like!?” She pries the corn-filled Tupperware free from her bag. “You ever heard?”
He’s squinting at her accent. “Heard what?”
“Music. ‘At collection a’ beats, rhyvvms an’ sounds designed to evoke emotions. Issat a concept of which you’re aware?”
“Y-yes-”
“Yes. ‘Cuz you was born in 1988, not fifteen-oh-fookin’-two, so stop pissin’ on me iPod like some fookin’ geezer.”
“I-I’m sorry, Aisling." His voice grows small. "I’m sorry.”
She sighs. The boy looks ready to cry. Too hard, Aisling. Jayden always says you’re going too hard. These kids, they’re… so soft. “Go on, ‘en.”
“Huh?”
“Who’s your favourite?”
"Y-you really care?"
Finnerty shrugs. Better than watching the poor boy sweat and shake in his shoes.
“To bezcelowe.” His accent gets thicker with his nerves. “You would not know them.”
“Ah, you dunno! I’m a woman a’ culture.”
“Republika? Raz Dwa Trzy?”
He looks up at her, aether glowing against his acne, his smile revealing a bit of hope. Briefly, she can only manage a blank, slightly harried look. But quickly, she matches him. “Of fookin’ course I know Raz Vat Shit! No shock 'at you're a fan."
O-oh, good. He's smiling, she reassured him, yes!
"But ah… you ever wanna fix ‘at…” She swipes her hand over her mouth. “Voice o' yours... Prolly best to start listenin’ to some English."
She walks ahead, tossing her new tupperware to the top of Andrzej’s stack, until they reach the spot. A small metal shed in the middle of the park. With wire fencing, slanted windows, and the caws and coos of more than thirty large birds.
She hears the Tupperware rattle in Andrzej’s hands. “Nervous?”
“Y-Yes. I-In Katowice, we-”
“You’re not actually s’posed to say you're nervous." She scowls. "You’re a vampire. ‘Ey’re birds.”
“J-J-Jayden says that your birds attack people-”
“Cuz Jayden’s a fookin’ nonce!”
“I'm sorry.”
Her eye twitches at that. If he says ‘sorry’ another fucking time… “‘Ow’s ‘at goin’, anyhow? Jayden figure out your powers yet?”
“N-no.”
A pause. “‘Ave you… tried to-”
“I do not want to. I hate them. They hurt people. S-Sorry!” His throat clenches up, and holds himself, shaking. “And… a-a-and my Keeper… before she...”
He starts babbling on, but she doesn’t hear, her eyes glazed over in frustration. These fucking kids and their fucking little stories! ‘My Keeper’ this, and ‘My Keeper’ that. As if anyone wants to hear these shits whine, whine, WHINE! Your Keeper hit you? So what? Your Keeper touched you? Join the crowd! When she was a Kept, did she sit and pout and hold hands with a bunch of mewling shits in a fucking sob circle? No. So why do they think she wants to join them!?
If only she could beat him. But she can’t beat him! That just makes the crying worse! “Andrzej, look. I’m’a be real wiff you-”
“You think I’m weak.” Her mouth hangs open for a minute. He sniffles. “You don’t want me in your crew.”
Finnerty blinks a few times. “I never said that.”
“You said it yesterday. And the day before. You said I was going to die.”
Fuck. Finnerty exhales and lifts her arms. “Look, kid. Everyone dies someday-”
“But you said I'd die faster-"
“Cuz youse Nocturni, not some squeaky-arse.” She scoffs. “Immortality, ‘ey say, but nine times outta ten? Woulda lasted decades longer if we simply was never Lighted.
Oh no. Hearing that just made him clutch himself even tighter.
Finnerty bites her lip and slowly, cautiously, saunters up to him. She waits until the flinching’s gone to pull him close. “Hey. Woźniak. You here?"
He looks at her uncertainly.
" The girls are scary, I get it! ‘Ey’re big, an’ got claws, an’ scream loud-”
“And bite hard.”
“- an’ bite pretty fookin’ ‘ard.”
Maybe if you’re two years old, she thinks to herself, but shhhhh!
“But lissen. ‘Ese tings? Chum change compared to what’s out there. Fings be quiet ‘ese months you been wiff us, but I’ll tell you, Andrzej, shit can hit pretty fookin’ fast. And you’re Shorn now, you know? A wanted man!”
“But my Keeper is dead.”
“‘At don’t matter, Andrzej.” Her eyes briefly flick to her own mark, half-covered by a sock. “‘... At don’t fookin’ matter.”
A loud caw. Fezziwig flies from the coop, spotting the corn, then twists back to inform the others. Soon, the whole shed becomes a wild chorus of delight. Andrzej’s shaking gets worse, so Finnerty holds him tight.
“A’ight, a’ight. ‘Ere’s ‘ow we do.” She brings his face to her level, points at the big metal door. “The moment you step inside, ‘ose birds are lookin’ at one fookin’ fing. Guessit?”
“The corn?”
“‘At’s right! ‘At’s so fookin’ right!” She slaps Andrzej’s back and sees a hint of that dopey grin. “But you can’t just spill ‘at shit on the floor an’ sprint out! You gotta spread it. Make sure each girl get ‘er share.”
“But… h-how do I-”
“You know shawks, Andrzej?”
He squints. “Shocks?”
“Nah, like…” Her fangs file out, and she bites at the air. “In the sea, right?”
“Oh. Sharks!”
“Simple as!” She grins. “An’ what do shawks always do? What’s the fing ‘ey doin’?”
“Uh, eating small fish?”
God-fucking… grrrrrrr. “Swimmin’!” She practically hops. “‘Ey swim, and ‘ey keep swimmin’, cuz if ‘ey don’t ‘ey fookin’ die!”
“Oh, but that is not true,” Andrzej butts in. “Most species-”
“I’ve got the uni degree, Andrzej. I’m’s the smarty one!” She presses the Tupperwares back into his chest, nodding towards the door. “So you’re gonna go in, you’re gonna spread the corn, an’ you’re gonna walk calm, while I stand guard outside.”
“Wha-! Outside!?”
“You know, it’s a learnin’ experience.”
“Aisling-”
“Uni degree, Andrzej! Uni degree!”
She hustles them both towards the shed, her fingers perilously close to the handle. Andrzej’s stamping his feet, staring at the corn, muttering.
“Masz to, Andrzej. Masz to. Everything will be alright. It’s just a couple crows-
“Ravens.”
Andrzej looks at her. “Co?”
She thrusts the door open and shoves Andrzej in, shouting as she slams the metal back. “‘EY’RE FOOKIN’ RAVENS!”
There’s a flurry of feathers, the tearing of clothes, and soon Andrzej’s pained screams join the melody of the hungry birds. Finnerty walks away, smiling to herself. Didn’t exactly follow the move forward rule, but hey! The boy’s giving effort.
She flops onto an old park bench, staring up at the moon. She can't deliver the Tupperware anymore; the little golden nuggets make her mouth water. Not fucking fair that they get to eat corn. Lucky shits! What she would kill to eat mountains of it and know it would always come out the right end!
Not that it’s ever stopped her from trying.
She should stop, though. Finnerty knows that, in some distant, ‘uni degree’ sense. Same with taking pills, and snorting crack, and a myriad of other... hobbies. But she won’t, and doesn’t want to. What could happen? She’s already dead! And it turns out that Speeding up and reviewing thousands of hours of illicit surveillance footage on all of her neighbours to add clips to the Floppy Disk Nest is just her ideal way of spending an after-moon.
Harriet says she has an ‘addictive personality’, and, yeah. Her personality is pretty fucking addictive.
Ah. Harriet. That's right! Tonight's Movie Night, the best night! And Finnerty’s extra sure that Harriet will come, because she’s ‘borrowed’ the keyring to all of her gun caches around the city. It’s not really stealing when Finnerty intends to give it back after a movie or two.
Or a dozen.
Or three dozen.
Look. One has to understand. If she didn’t steal the keys, Harriet could forget. She hasn’t, mind. Not once. But…
... It’s hard for Finnerty to… vocalise her own feelings about this. Sure, the movies are nice, and it’s honestly healthy that Harriet remembers every once in a while that they don’t live in 1895! But that’s not really why Finnerty does it. She’s not watching the films so much as she’s watching her. Checking that she laughs at each joke and gasps at each scary bit. But she’s not sure why. Her feathers just get ruffly and -
Wait. Wait! She has it! This feeling, it’s…
... it's...
She wants to put a big pile of bottle caps at the foot of Harriet’s door.
…
... Or maybe that’s just the corvid in her talking.
Suddenly, an all too familiar ringtone cuts through her thoughts. “Ah what the fuck, man? We can’t stay bruk, man. We never stuck, man, we never-”
God. Fucking. “JAYDEN!?”
“Bird, we need-”
She squeezes her mobile. “I made me instructions supah fookin’ clear!”
“We’s gotta distress call from Blackbird! In Court Town!”
"Court Town?" Shit. Her face falls. “What it say?”
“Nut’tin’! Just frizz! But get dis: moment our box picks it up, Hiu runs in, says he’s ‘earin’ a fahkin’ ‘splosion!”
She lowers her phone, looking at the clouds. Aether starts to course its way into her face, and sure enough, it’s there. Caught by her instincts, a thick plume of smoke.
Triple shit.
“House.” She tells the phone. “Find the safe.”
“What safe?”
“Code’s One-One-One-Four.”
“Bird, whatchu-”
She hangs up before she can hear him. Just as she does, the shed door swings open, and Andrzej hurries out with a dozen cuts and two torn-apart Tupperwares. “A-Aisling!” He scurries and shuts the door. “I-I think I got-”
“Open the door.”
“What?”
“Open the FOOKING DOOR!” She slides her shoes off and stamps in place. Little feet stained by dewey grass.
“Jesteś szalony!” He looks back at the shed, still rattling from the birds’ excitement. “Aisling, you can’t! Those ravens are feral.”
“Good.” Her hackles rise. “‘Ey fookin’ better be.”
“Co robisz, Aisling? At least tell me what’s-”
“SHIT HIT, ANDRZEJ! SHIT FOOKIN’ HIT! NOW OPEN THE FOOKIN’ DOOR, BEFORE I THROW YOUR ARSE BACK TO KRAKÓW!”
There’s a lurch. Finnerty gives out a shrill cry. She hears the sounds of the boy straining, the ravens gathering, but doesn’t turn. She already knows what it looks like. Just waits for...
The door opens. The smallest hair.
And every raven flings out like a super awesome bullet tsunami.
Andrzej jumps back, hands over his head, barely given the time to duck. Through his elbows, he can see Finnerty’s tiny frame, running after her birds. Her pale skin starts to glow, her feathers sprout, her claws extend. Until she leaps, truly leaps, a good five metres into the air. There’s a flash, a blinding ball of light.
And then she’s gone.
Replaced by a raven even larger than the others.
Andrzej slowly scrambles up, his hands pulled away, staring at the lively black cloud. “Aisling...”
He hears a loud caw.
The birds start falling into place. First in a swirling circle, but quickly after a v-shape. They dip, then rise, then dive and surge upward. Another call rings out, and they shoot for the distant skylights.
Finnerty doesn’t look back at the shed. Or the awed boy, getting smaller and smaller. She follows the plume of smoke, in her eyes, in her blood, in her nostrils. A single thought trapped inside as they sail over chimneys and park trees and streetlights.
What if the keys didn’t keep her?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It’s hard to describe the feeling of bird-ing, of flight. When her body changes, so do her thoughts, and they escape any words that speech and writing can capture. She sees more. Feels more. Everything more in tune to some base part of herself, some instinct. She needs food. Wants wind. Seeks shelter. And then the human thoughts, the Aisling thoughts, drag her back, to the line of smoke and the steel towers.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Her senses are sharp. Di talant fun di shtshur, Harav called it. The Gift of the Rat. She was used to knowing much, through whispers and screens and birdsong. But now every detail is heard and tasted and smelt for miles. So much, she could drown in them.
Sweat down the neck
“Five-hundred pounds-”
Squirrel plodding on branch
“An own goal from Manchester!”
She looks to her right, her left. On all sides, her lovely daughters. She doesn’t know how the human mandem truly sees her. Is she hip? A fossil? A tyrant they fear, or a friend they trust? So many questions. Too many. But she asks none of them to Pumblechook and Stryver and Bardell and Sampson Brass. She already knows.
They love her.
Finnerty flaps her wings, gaining height as the city itself grows taller. At this hour, it’s still living. Men in pubs, drivers in cabs, so many rich and desperate working until they drop. The smoke is thick on her tongue, the acridness poison to her throat, the imposing steel structure piercing the clouds, then-
Her breathing stops. She sees it.
A white van, with nondescript plates, and few windows to let in the Sun. The back’s blown out, doors missing, its metal dark and twisted by flame. The glass lies in shattered heaps, crunched by the boots of the Met. They’ve quartered off the block, vests wet in the rain, their scowls deep as they shove off the buzzing reporters. Film crews and newsboys already flock here like flies, terror on their lips. Taliban. Hezbollah. IRA. Al-Qaeda.
Empty. Empty empty empty. That’s all she cares about. Melted plastic, broken monitors, but no bodies and no people. She starts searching for scents. Bloodstains and tire marks. But the cop cars ruin it, the scent of their petrol fresh. But what about sounds? There must be cues. The roar of an engine. Tires squealing on concrete. Or softer cries, human cries. Burns and tears and sizzling skin. If she…
A cry cuts her off. Sharp, shrill, and avian. Finnerty looks ahead, screeches, and pulls her wings back. Her daughter’s falling, feathers shooting in the air. Others follow, five in all. With each, there’s a flash. A bolt of glowing blue light. Finnerty studies as her other birds filter around.
Runes. Sigils in an alien tongue, beaming into existence wherever wings near them, before vanishing again. Her human brain knows what made them, but her raven brain just panics at the sparks.
They seem to follow the tower. All the way up, and all the way down.
She launches away from the building, her girls still circling, still searching. But there’s nothing to be found. Wizard trap. She… a scream. A scream of steel and roaring oil. It’s louder than the others, heavier, joined by a chorus of rubber on stone. Finnerty dives for it, fast as the wind. There’s a pick-up swerving past red lights and stopped cars, pedestrians running, horns blazing. She gets down, down, to eye level, barely missing a stunned double-decker.
Her wings beat. The wind sings. She’s behind the car, then against it. Her daughters fall behind, unable to match. But she goes faster and faster and faster. Ready, ready, ready…
There’s a flash. Breaking glass. Finnerty falls into the truck's passenger seat, a human again, only to feel the cold barrel of a revolver press against her head.
“Red…”
“Get out.”
“Red.”
“I SAID GET OUT!”
Finnerty stands still, but firm. She knew the moment she saw his car.
Who else would drive a Ford Ranger in Central London?
Her ears prick. She hears a faint, wispy breath behind. Tries to turn, rubs against the same barrel. “Red, what the fook are you doin’!?”
“Ain’t yer goddamn concern, Finnerty.”
“We got a fookin’ call!”
“Aghh…” Another faint sound. Finnerty grabs the gun, calling his bluff, and thrusts it straight into the dashboard. Then she looks behind, and her skin immediately pales.
Janet Lavender stares at nothing, through her good eye. The other has melted, bits of blood and aether and brain juice bubbling in the burned-out, hollow socket. Her skin has vanished over the left half of her face, either crisp and black or clean white bone. Bits of it still cling to a soot-ridden black dress. Her remaining ear bleeds, and one can see the sinews holding together her jaw. Through the burst veins, the missing nose, Finnerty can still hear that faint sizzle and overcharged glow. Scrambling, desperate aether.
“Holy fook.”
“Comments ain’t appreciated right now-”
“What the fook did you two do!?”
“I am DRIVING!” Red’s breaths are ragged. “Jes'… gimme a minute ta think…”
Finnerty looks out the window. At the Sainsbury’s, Maccies, street signs. “Left.” She snaps, points. “Left gets you on Shoreditch.”
“No. We’re goin’ down Prince-”
“Bethnal Green’s closer, Red.”
“Not ta people I trust-”
“In five minutes she is FOOKIN' DEAD!”
A screech. Red slams on the brakes, and pulls. Finnerty nearly flies from her seat as he careens to the left. “Fuck!”
She looks into his face, sees the horror wreathed on his brow. “Was she in the truck?”
His breathing’s intense. He nods.
“Any idea what?”
“No. No bombs, no casin’s…”
“Runes on the buildin’, ‘ough.”
“Shit. Shit shit SHIT!” He slams the wheel with his fist. Then squeezes it, knuckles white.
Finnerty bites her lip. “Red, I know ‘is ain’t a good time, but you ‘ave very few friends in me fam. I’m gonna need a really good fookin’ reason-”
“It was a trap!” Red snaps, stepping on the gas. “A trap we shoulda seen.”
“Thought Keaton was smarter than attackin’ Court Town-”
“Keaton had nothin’ to do with it! It was me. Me an’ my stupid…” His eyes flare, and he slams on the horn, screaming at the running pedestrians. “GET OUTTA THE WAY! FUCKING MOVE!”
He’s driving wherever there's room, whizzing past houses, skirting along sidewalks. Finnerty clings to her seatbelt as Red’s voice grows more manic.
“They played us. The little shits fuckin’ played us. An’ now Janet’s half a pile a’ ash, an’ I-”
“Where’s Harriet?”
Silence. Silence except the sounds of the road. Finnerty feels her heart freeze.
“Red...”
“Not now, Aislin’.”
“She’s your fookin' daughter, Red!”
“NOT FUCKIN’ NOW!”
She turns, and so does he. His face is a wreck. Flush and taut and harried. His fangs are out, seeping well past his lips. There’s terror in his eyes, grief that can’t grieve. She sees the tears starting to form.
And feels like her soul has left her.
Suddenly, the brakes slam. Red shifts it to park, and Finnerty collides the dashboard. They’re at her house, her driveway. Red’s climbing out as someone kicks open the front door. Jayden, with Andrzej behind. Her lieutenant found the safe. He's fondling two Desert Eagles.
“OUT!” Jayden walks forward, the guns shaking in his hand. “Get back in dat car!”
“Stand down, boy!”
“Dese are our ends, Eddards!”
“Only thing yer gonna do is blow yer own fuckin’ arms off!”
A loud roar interrupts their shouting. Red turns to see the Ranger’s tire scream along the pavement. Finnerty’s in the seat, nearly standing to fit, pressing on the pedal and cursing that she never learned to drive. Aether sparks across her arm. Tears well in her eyes.
“Aislin’!” Red ignores Jayden’s threats, pulls back towards the truck. “Aislin', goddammit-”
“WE ‘AVE TO GO BACK!”
“It’s suicide!”
A snap. Her powers pull so hard on the shift, it smashes the plastic and slams into 5. Red leaps out of the way as the Ranger careens with her garage door. Still doesn’t stop her. She looks, jerks the wheel. Presses down and down and down. Until it's sliding free of the wood, smashing through foundation bricks, tearing down the street and grass. As it takes off, she screams.
“Jesus Christ!"
"RAAAAHHHH!"
The truck’s too large, too fast. She turns sharp and merely spins. Spins, spins, spins. Colliding with a tree, rattling against the seat as the windshield starts to crack.
She breathes. Slow, painful breaths. The front door is thrust open, a thick hand grabs her shirt, and soon she’s kicking and thrashing, claws out, tearing skin. “NO! NO! I’LL FOOK YOU A NEW FOOKIN’ ARSE!”
“We don’t have time!”
“YOU’RE LEAVING HER!!!”
She’s thrown from the seat, falling back-first on the grass. But Finnerty leaps up, charges again, fists pounding against a broad and massive chest.
“I’LL MURDER YOU!” She shouts. “SHOOT YOU, STAB YOU, SPIT ON YOUR CORPSE! Slamfaidh mé do cloigeann ar an gcosán, tan your skin into hides! And when I’m THROUGH WIFF YOU, IKH KOB GEFITERT MENTSHN!” She stops to breathe. The tears can’t stop falling. “GEFITERT MENTSHN TSU ROYBN MEYNE!”
“Aislin’!” Red lunges for her shoulders, jostles her to look up. “Do ya think I wouldn’t die fer her!? That I wouldn’t storm in, right now, if I thought we had half a FUCKIN’ CHANCE!?”
"YOU LEFT HER!"
"I KNOW!"
“YOU LEFT HER TO DIE!”
“I FUCKIN’ KNOW!”
"SHE WAS MINE, YOU YANKEE FAHK!" She's struggling. "MINE! AND YOU... you... you fookin'..."
“Aislin'. Aislin'." He jostles her again, his voice heavy. "She's dead."
“Dead?” Jayden asks, eying both of them. “Who’s fahkin’ dead?”
Finnerty can’t reply. The word has pierced her like a bullet train. When Red lets go, she can barely stand. Everything distant, like shrinking stars.
“Harriet.” Red lowers his head, fists clenched. “My… my little baby girl.”
She falls. Her eyes glaze over. Cold skin on wet grass. Thousands of memories rush forth. Video games. Sheaves of corn. Movies and gun shops and dances to old records. The flask they shared in Belfast. The bunker they hid in the Blitz. That fiery hair, that freckled smile. Gone. All of it, gone.
She wants to scream. Cry out to all her children, so that they might perch with her and sob.
As she dissociates, Red moves for the car, pulling free a woman missing an arm and both legs. Her face is only worse after the car crash.
She hears Jayden tense. “Issat Blackbird?”
“Yeah. But she won’t be anythin’ soon if we don’t get her half a gallon of aether.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The mobile sits in her palm, its ring echoing through the sitting room. Finnerty stares at the furniture beyond it, a decades-old couch and Broken Bottle Nest. She’s been here since Andrzej let them in, and the men rushed towards the cellar. She hadn’t cried or curled up or done much of anything. Just called.
Listening for the third time to that stupid, chipper voicemail from the front business of Aubrey Keaton.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye! Welcome to Fightin’ Fionn’s! Unfortunately, reservations are closed at this time o’ night, but we’re open Monday to Saturday, with events every eve, so leave a-”
She disconnects and throws her phone into the scattering nest. She wants to threaten him. Who cares what Red says, she'll rip him apart. Feed his eyes to the birds. She wants to be angry. But she isn’t. Can’t be. Not to Red or the Court or him.
Weak. Weak, weak. A little voice scurries in the back of her mind, pulling her in two. You were weak, and so was she. She deserved it. She hated your guts.
And she never, ever, fucking mattered.
“Aisling?” Andrzej catches her attention, peering from the hall. “Uh… B-Blackbird-”
She rises without fuss, brushing past him. The hallway already feels less clean, the house itself more lonely.
“Can she talk?”
“We don’t know. Uszy. Th-there was explosion. Her ears-”
Finnerty cuts into the living room. Red paces around the kitchen. Jayden explores the shelves. Nobody’s willing to look at Janet, and Finnerty can clearly see why. The oldest living Shorn sits on the couch with her remaining hand folded gently over her leg stumps. Staring at the dark glass of the telly. Her own reflection, the face half-blown off.
Finnerty starts settling down. Flinching at the pops and fizzles she hears from Janet’s aether. IT's working, slowly, piece by piece. She's grown back most of her jawline. "Janet..."
Blackbird's mouth cracks when she sees her, words bursting from her mouth. “Raven, I didn’t kill her!"
“Janet…”
“It was a mistake! Fireside is my greatest asset, our strongest weapon. If I had known the true risks-”
“JANET!” Finnerty grabs her shoulder. “I get it!”
It’s only the touch that makes Janet go quiet. Finnerty scowls, trying to push the rage and fear and clawing sorrow far from her head. She points at her mouth, looks Janet in her good eye, and says:
“Read - my - lips.”
Janet studies her mouth, and slowly nods. Andrzej ducks by the telly, fidgeting with his hands, eyes flitting around.
“What - happened?”
Several seconds pass before Blackbird answers.
“Veneficii.”
Finnerty feels the whole room tense. She looks at Red, sees the rage, the disappointment, the overwhelming sense of... futility.
“He runed in my van. Got into the computers like malware. How, I have no idea. Never heard of Poisoned Ones being able to digitise-”
“Who - owns - him?” Finnerty asks.
“Caedmon.” Janet lets the word hang. “From Harriet’s account, his Keeper is Caedmon.”
Finnerty takes slow breaths. But Jayden can only scoff. “Caedmon? You fahkin’ claps went ‘gainst Caedmon?”
“‘Someone had ta, boy,” Red growls.
“You’d ‘ave an easier time killin’ the Queen or the fahkin’ Ripper!”
“Bruv.” Finnerty cuts him off with a look. Jayden huffs and goes back to the shelves, while Janet, only now, seems to notice Red.
“Josiah. Call Keaton!” She starts squirming on the couch, trying to push forward. “Polyphron’s developed more-”
“‘Old on, ‘old on!”
“If they finish those projects, we’re-”
“JANET!” Finnerty reaches out, keeping the Shorn from falling off the couch. Janet stares at the ground, clearly trying to process her own lack of limbs.
“Right - now…” Finnerty pulls her back up. “You - can’t - do - anything.”
Janet almost seems ready to cry. But it quickly twists back into anger. “It was a trap. A well-laid trap. We didn’t see the springs until we got to the eighteenth floor.”
“Eighteen floors is a long way up,” Andrzej looks at the ceiling.
“Didn’t - see - the - runes?”
“Never. He must have installed them after.” She starts at Finnerty’s scowl. “Raven, you don’t understand! We’ve killed hundreds of vampires, we’re not outwitted so easily! They gave me access to their network. Let Fireside read compromised files. If they’re plan hadn’t worked, or the whistleblowers published, or someone merely stumbled in… the risks are incalculable!”
“Which is why they were calculated,” Red replies.
“Eighteen floors is a long way down,” Andrzej looks at his shoes.
Finnerty squints. “What kinda businessman sets ‘eir company alight just to choke out one Unbound?”
“I dunno. You?” Jayden turns again, swiping an envelope from the shelf, and tearing it open with his fingers. “Or him, or her, or any one of us? It’s Fireside, Bird. The killer of a Reeve, the only freak in dis circus any of us is fahkin’ scared of. You bag ‘er, an’ you bag bags.”
Andrzej's shaking. “Eighteen floors is a long way up.”
Red frowns. “Except everyone in the circus knows they let in a feral lion.
“Didn’t stop Glenmore," Jayden starts. "And it would’t stop-”
“Eighteen floors is a-”
“Will you shut the fahk up, Man?!” Jayden sputters.
“- long way down.” Andrzej’s eyes flare, and he looks around, meeting everyone’s gaze. “You are wrong. You are all wrong. This is not about bags and lions. Fireside is alive.”
“What?” Finnerty scowls.
“Eighteen floors. Eighteen floors.” Andrzej points at Janet, speaking more confidently than Finnerty's ever heard. “You let Harriet read records, when you can place bomb in car? You summon veneficii to fight her, but do not tell cops or Reeve? No. Eighteen floors is a long way up, when you can shoot her on first! But if you do not want to shoot her… if you want her alive...”
Finnerty’s jaw hangs open as she realises his words.
“... then eighteen floors is a very..." He points. "... very long way down.
Silence. Jayden squints. “But why would…”
He doesn’t need to finish.
Everyone knows the answer.
Red moves first. Unholstering his gun. Tightening his grip. And storming towards the front door.
“RED!?” Finnerty races after him. “Where the fook are you going!?”
He gives an animal growl. “Gettin’ her out.”
“Wiff what!?”
“With myself, an’ my contacts, an’ enough ordinance to blow the Court an’ half this city back to the fuckin’ Romans!”
“‘Ey ‘ave a Poisoned One, Red! We need to plan!”
“We?” Red turns. “What ‘we’?”
Finnerty glares. “If you’re gonna rescue Harriet, Eddards, I’m comin’ wiff.”
He considers it for the briefest of moments, before opening the door.
"No."
“Bitch!?”
He slams it in her face.
"I ain't invitin'."
For a second she just gawks. But then she bursts back onto the lawn and screams.
“I'm a goddamn Freeholder! The fook you wan’ me to do? Sit around!?"
“Yes.” Red turns. “Keep yer boys outta trouble. Keep Blackbird alive. An’ let the Unbound deal with this like we know how! This ain’t yer scene.”
“I’ve done more heists than you, Red!”
“An’ how many ended with fuckin’ corpses?”
She seethes. Red steps into the truck they’ve dragged back to the front porch. She hears the clink of keys, the wounded engine sputter to life. She's gripping the doorframe so tightly that the wood starts to crack.
“Ain’t worff it, Bird!” Jayden reaches her, pulling her back. “Just lettim’ go!”
“NO!” She breaks from his grip, bouncing on one foot to pry off her shoe. She launches it at the car, hand glowing with aether. It’s soon followed by the other. “YOU LISTEN TO ME!”
Red tries reeling back in reverse, but he can hear his Ranger get pelted with all manner of knickknacks and small stones. She’s emptying her pockets, picking things off the front porch. Jim and Darla’s 35th Anniversary golf ball is the first to smash the glass. Then she lunges at Jayden, his bling, trying to pry it off his hands. Only then does Red crawl back out.
“Jesus, Aislin’! Will ya jes’ stop!?”
“FOOK YOU! You ‘ave NO RIGHT!” She shoves Jayden into the house, walks forward, pointing wildly. “She lives in MY HOUSE. She is MY FRIEND! An’-”
“An’ yer gonna go ta war with the Court ta get her?”
Finnerty freezes, her finger still in mid-air. Something glazes over her eyes. Muscles stiffen. She can hear the hurried beat of her own, panicked heart.
Red frowns. “Wanna know why I ain’t wantin' ya, Aislin’? Why no one will, an’ no one does? Empathy. You are utterly incapable of carin’ fer anyone that isn’t yerself!”
Finnerty looks frantic as he approaches her.
“Remember Rowe?” Red shrugs, his smile mirthless. “Christian, quiet. Gave him a tour a’ yer lot of the East End. There was a girl there, he told me. Irish, maybe twelve, bein’ raped by three men. But did ya stop ‘em? Did ya save her? Did ya even feel bad? No. You told Rowe that they paid ya five shillin’s each fer the fuckin’ privilege! And ya said it like ya were proud!"
Finnerty’s mind shrinks. Like clay squeezed by a potter's hands. Every choice and thought strangled out except mindless, twitching rage.
“You told him that she wanted it, Aislin’. Told him she coulda run if she cared. A twelve-year-old girl, and ya were obsessed with tellin’ him that it’s what she fuckin’ deserved!”
She snaps. "AND SHE PROBABLY FUCKING DID!”
“Ya think I’d let the woman who tells me that within a fuckin’ mile a’ my daughter?” Red seethes. “It’s coward’s talk, because that’s what ya are! Ya spit on the weak, stomp on the helpless, but the moment somethin’ tough comes along, ya run an’ ya hide!”
“IT’S CALLED SURVIVAL, DUMBARSE!”
“An ya’ll survive great without her.”
Finnerty wants to tear him in half. Rip out his tongue. Smash those stupid fangs to bits. But her arms won't move, and her lungs won't breathe. Her brain won't let her move forward, or back. She... she can't...
“Jes’ run, Aislin’.” Red softens with the words. “I’ll have more respect if ya do. Before lives are at stake. Before someone gets killed. Be the adult ya wanna be, an’ run.”
She doesn’t respond to him. The words rattle in her thoughts, with the grief and rage and fear. The image of the Court, that building, threatening to crush her ribs. Her lips tremble. Tears build in her eyes. Red starts getting smaller in her sight, walking back to the car. But-
“Run like you did?”
Red stops.
Finnerty blinks, her face resetting. A sudden calm has fallen over her, one she can't describe.
“‘At’s the problem, innit? 'At's what ‘is is all about.”
He doesn’t speak. Or turn back.
But he doesn’t keep walking, either.
“Where ‘ave you been, Red, ‘ese past twenty years? At her side, defendin’ yer girl? Or were you waxin’ nostalgic wiff Erika an’ the union boys an' Aubrey fookin’ Keaton?” She exhales. “While youse were pinin’ for welfare states and workers' strikes, she was out there! Riskin’ her life! Makin’ real the fantasies you fooks yap about in your book clubs! She was your tool!”
“Aislin’-”
“‘At’s how she saw herself, Red! A fookin’ weapon! For you an’ Rowe an’ Blackbird to use!”
Finnerty grits her teeth, closes her eyes.
“An’ I tried to change ‘at, Red! Tried to pull her out, give her somefing ovver then an impossible war. But then you, and Janet, and all you Unbound shits just walked right back in, undid all ‘at work! Gave her anovver chance to die for your stupid politics and your faded dreams! Heh." She sniffles. "You really surprised she fookin’ took it?"
Red’s shoulders grow weak. His head low, hat high in the air.
“But 'at's always been the Unbound, right? Stop the Keepings, still own slaves? You can call me a shitty person, Red, and you’d be right.” Finnerty spits. “But don’t fookin’ strut about and act like you ever earned her.”
She turns around and leaves him there. Never bothering to see the pain on his face.
The shame.
She tries to recompose before stepping back into the foyer, to Jayden and Andrzej, armed and waiting. “So,” Andrzej asks. “Are we getting Fireside?”
She nods.
Immediately, Jayden’s face warps. She can see the contempt on his lips, and cuts him off before he gets the chance. “Don’t.”
“She brought ‘is on ‘erself-”
“I said don’t.”
“The fahk we doin’, Bird? For years, youse sayin’ don’t fahk wit the Court, stay low, stick to plan! But the second its your friend-”
“You realise ‘ow fooked we are wiffout ‘er guns!?” Finnerty gestures. “Or ‘ow royally reamed we’s all gonna be if ‘ey actually manage to Keep ‘er?”
Jayden inhales, squeezes his gun. But nothing more.
“Good. Cuz it’s gonna be a busy few nights, lads, and I's too tired for the lip. We need guns. We need men. An' I need lots an’ lots of fookin’ footage. But none of ‘at matters right now if we can’t even get through the goddamn door. So ‘ave eivver of youse Keepers ever talked ‘bout Venefici? ‘Ow to break ‘eir runes? ‘Ow to kill ‘em?”
For a while, everyone’s silent. But both boys leap back as a shadow envelops Finnerty. Her feathers rattle against a booming voice.
“Only one way,” Red scowls. “Ya get another one.”
Finnerty turns and looks him in the eye. He follows suit. Yet there’s nothing between them that hasn’t been said, so she merely throws up her arms. “Oh! Lovely. Guess I’ll just pick one up at the fookin’ store! Maybe 'ey 'ave a discount-"
“Well, there is dat one Arab girl hopin’ ta hook up wit you,” Jayden shrugs.
“‘Ere is ‘at one… wait.” She springs up. “What Arab?”
Jayden flashes the envelope in his hand. “Dis one? From the letter? Say's 'Raven's Eyes Only'?”
Holy shit. It’s the one that nearly blew up Harriet.
Jayden gives her a suspicious look. "Do you not read your mail?"
Finnerty snatches it from his hand. Starts scrolling through, but she can’t read shit fast enough. “What’s it say?”
“Dat dere’s a striga, fresh busted out the Archives, who wants to make a deal wit you over Keaton’s crusty arse.”
A deal? Too good to be true. But… but the letter came before…
“Jayden, does this, ah…” Red clears his throat. “Moslem woman have a name?”
“Sure.” Jayden folds his arms. “Aisha Lakhani.”