Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 23

Growing up as a care-home kid, I got used to being alone very early on in life.

Although I'd had some wonderful years with my pretend-dad, I never once lost connection with the orphan child that I had once been, the one that I became again after he died. Wind me up and I would have started singing Hard-Knock Life as if the lyrics were second nature to me. It didn't matter where I ended up, which care home, which foster family, I had always felt endlessly alone.

Ever since I had fallen into the proverbial rabbit hole and had discovered that my story was not your typical care-home kid tale, I'd wanted answers. Most nights, when the voices that whispered to me from beyond the Gates made room in my head for something other than their plaintive cries and twisted screams, what filled that space was questions, questions, and more agonising, unanswered bloody questions.

And now, I was close. So close. Closer than I ever imagined I would get. One step closer to the being that had created me. One step nearer to the being I thought had abandoned me to this Hell of never-knowing. Closer to the one person who could give me the answers I so desperately sought; who could maybe stop me from feeling so alone.

So, why did I suddenly wish I could run away? Leave the nun to her tiny room, her tiny bed and tiny armchair. Speak not one word more with her and just flee this place with its whitewashed walls and wooden Messiah's.

Sister Agnes, with tired eyes that still harnessed enough energy to spot what I wished to remain hidden, sat back, her body so small and frail that even the small armchair looked like it could easily swallow her whole.

"I knew a child like you once," she said, a small smile puckering the already-wrinkled skin around her mouth.

"Not quite like me, I'm sure." I raised a brow and ran my tongue over one withdrawn incisor.

"One or two notable differences, of course," she replied. "But she had that same look in her eyes. That same air of doubt and fear. She was a foster-child, passed from one family to the next and then, at the age of twelve, she had the chance to be adopted by a wonderful couple, to have that loving home she always wanted and yet the very notion of it filled her with fear. To spend your whole life wondering what if, to build that idea into an unattainable fantasy, well, I should imagine that to finally get it must seem like a daunting prospect?"

"Sister Agnes, with respect, if I find Michael, he's not going to suddenly adopt me, he's not going to be the family I always wanted. I've already found my family now."

The Sister made a dismissive gesture, waving her hand like she was swatting away a fly that had ventured too close. "They are not your family, child. To be with them is not why you are here."

"So why am I here exactly?" I retorted, feeling the anger scald like a cigarette burn to the skin. "To defeat Lucifer? To stop him from opening those Gates? To do Michael's job?"

"Whether you like it or not, you were created for a single purpose: to act in his stead should he be prevented from carrying out his duties."

"So I'm some kind of fail-safe device that kicks in if something happens to Michael?" I gripped a handful of blanket in my fists then felt ashamed I had crumpled the pristinely made bed and quickly smoothed over it. "Look," I sighed. "I can get my head around this crazy notion that Michael somehow made me what I am and that I can harness his powers in Purgatory to help those waiting Judgement. I can understand that he did all this just in case something ever happened to him. But what I don't get is, how did he know? You said yourself Lucifer tried to persuade you not to follow the path that Michael had put in place for you. So how did Michael know that you and I would eventually meet? Because that would mean he must have known that something would happen to him. Surely an Archangel of all beings, should be able to prevent something he knows might happen to him in the future?"