London sped by in a furious blur. High-rise apartment blocks merged with single-storey shops. Double-decker buses blended with black Hackney cabs and motorbikes. Dirty grey slush surged like a flood in the gutters, engulfing the kerb and concealing the border between pavement and road. Faces, one after one, melted together like candle wax, distorting features, turning each and every person into a twisted tapestry of city life.
Whispers filtered through the haze but I could barely hear them over the pounding bass of my head rush.
Kale was dead!
The words just kept repeating themselves over and over again, the noise scratching painfully like a needle slipping on a vinyl record. Scratch, repeat, scratch, repeat.
"Paige, get Lucius and wait for Megan. Head to Silvertown."
I blinked, hearing my name.
"Fucking hell Paige, yes I said Silvertown. But you wait for Megan, okay? We're dropping her off in twenty minutes, don't you dare bloody leave without her." He hit the end-call button and cursed some more, slamming his fist against the door.
"Why am I not coming with you?" I said. Harper, who was driving, glanced at me in the rear-view mirror and I quickly averted my gaze, leaning forward to speak to Garrick who sat in the front passenger seat.
"It's too dangerous Megan. I can't risk you getting attacked," Garrick said, twisting to look back at me. "Blaine said that Old Street is crawling with Varúlfur. They could be hoping we turn up en-masse, draw us all into the open so they can get to you. Paige and Sergio will wait for you at the asylum. Any problems, and I mean any at all, and you head for the old Millennium Mills in Silvertown. Don't wait for us, okay? We'll meet you there as soon as we can."
He was angry; so furious that little spots of scarlet pock-marked the hollows of his cheeks yet his eyes were laced with panic. He hadn't expected this to happen. He hadn't expected that he was sending his friends into an ambush. He hadn't expected he was sending Kale to his death. I felt a stain of guilt spreading through me, knowing that he was with me, helping me, when he should have been with them. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but I was cut off by the shrill ring tone of his phone again.
"Edward?" Silence. A long pause that hung in the air and I knew. I just knew it was something bad. "What?" he whispered. "Fuck." He clutched at his hair and I thought he might pull it clean from the roots. "Okay.....yeah.....call me when you get there."
He hit end again and lobbed the phone onto the dashboard with an enraged snarl.
"There's been another attack," he grimaced. "Over by Beckton Gasworks. Two dead. One injured. Edward is taking his cell over there."
Harper's head whipped around to glance briefly at him. "I told you it had all been too civilised, didn't I? This was bound to happen." His grip tightened on the wheel as he looked back at the road ahead. "Meetings, negotiations. It's not how they do things, Garrick. I told you."
"Yes. Thank you very fucking much, Harper, that's so helpful of you to remind me," Garrick hissed.
"Well what the Hell did you expect?" Harper snapped back, a cold laugh escaping his lips. "We fucking goaded them. Challenged them. Did you expect to throw down the gauntlet and have them just walk away?"
"Of course I didn't, I always knew there would be casualties. It doesn't mean I have to like it."
"You might not like it, but you're going to have to accept it. Something tells me that there will be more casualties before this night is done."
Scratch, repeat, scratch, repeat.
I stared out of the window and wrapped my arms tightly around my body.
The snow was falling again.
************
It seemed a lifetime ago when Garrick first brought me to these Whitechapel streets.
I had been reeling from dirty revelation after dirty revelation; each one layered upon the last until I felt smothered under the weight of how much of my life had been a lie. I was smothered again now. Smothered by Josiah's demands. Smothered by Kale's death. The only thing I could do was focus on getting back to the asylum. Getting Lucius and getting out.
The car pulled up to the kerb. The wipers were now battling against the snowfall, screeching painfully against the glass like nails on a blackboard and I winced every time they juddered across the windscreen.
"Get Paige to call me as soon as you reach the Mills, okay?"
I nodded silently to Garrick.
"Megan, if anything goes wrong, head there by yourself," Harper said, his brows furrowed deeply. "Don't wait for us here; don't wait for anyone, just go."
The snow was settling on the ground, blanketing the pavement in pure white but I knew it could never conceal the filth and grime that lay underneath. I stared at it and found myself lost in Josiah's blank gaze.
"Megan," Harper snapped and reluctantly I turned my attention upon him, noting that familiar scowl, the way his hair always fell across his eyes and the small tattoos inked on his neck just above the collar of his jacket. "Did you hear what I said?" he said. "You promise me that you will run at any sign of trouble? Please."
I noticed that he said me, not us. And the please was softer, pleading, imploring. I couldn't bear it.
"Okay," I agreed, opening the car door and stepping out, glad to be free of him and his probing stare.
As I began to walk away, my boots crunching in the snow that lay thicker on these quiet back streets, I glanced back and saw that he was still looking at me, his emerald eyes never wavering, even as I rounded the corner. Out of sight, I heard the rumble of the engine as the car sped away and I exhaled deeply. I was two streets away from reaching the network of alleys that led back to the asylum and I picked up my pace, keen to get back to the others and get Lucius over to Silvertown. How strange it seemed that I could still feel frightened of what the boy could show me and yet weirdly comforted by the thought of seeing him again.
It will do you no good to go down this route, Megan.
Josiah's voice seemed to carry in the air, hitching a ride on the snowflakes that grew denser by the second, settling on my hair and clothes.
"Fuck you, Josiah," I whispered.
One street closer. My feet slipped a couple of times, the snow hiding the death-trap of uneven cobbles that threatened to send me plummeting to the wet ground. The street was empty which was no surprise really, considering it was mostly just old deserted lock-ups, the few still in use decorated by lurid graffiti and large battered padlocks and the others boarded up or burnt out. Traffic was rare. Pedestrians even rarer. At the junction, I smiled when I saw the entrance to the first alley on the other side and headed directly for it, before stopping dead in the middle of the road.
The wind whipped down the street, causing the snowflakes to whirl and eddy around me and I remained frozen to the spot, caught in the eye of the storm as the distinct foul stench of Varúlfur assaulted my senses.
Hitching a breath, I forced myself to scan the street, my wide-eyed gaze darting all around and daring to penetrate the shadows, terrified of what I might see. But here on the narrow street, there really was no place for them to hide. I was alone; all alone apart from the smell of them that pervaded the night air, igniting that familiar fear in my veins. The odour could have just been carried on the breeze but it still meant they were close.
My panic levels were raging, threatening to burst out of control as I struggled to decide what to do. Entering the alleyways was potentially suicidal. Once in the maze, I could only go forwards or backwards and I would easily get cornered in there, but it was also the only way to reach the asylum. The only way to reach Lucius. Suicidal or not, I wasn't about to go to Silvertown without him. I just couldn't.
Breaking into a run, I pelted across the street and plunged into the first alleyway, letting my fear spur me on as Harper had taught me, trying to focus on nothing but my destination, however much to my dismay, I soon realised the stench of the beasts was stronger here. In fact, the further I went into the network of tunnels, the stronger the smell became, and I was breathing in the pungent acrid odour and gagging as I ran. Although I knew the likelihood of them transforming in the open was unlikely, I couldn't help but imagine them all here, their huge bulks almost too big for some of the enclosed alleys, brushing the sides of the narrow walkways as they crashed through the maze, leaving some beastly residue from their putrid fur and skin on the brickwork.
I was running, mindlessly running, hearing the echoes of my footsteps as I clattered through the alleys and tripped on slick cobblestones. And all the time, the stench grew stronger and stronger until I felt it must be engrained in my clothes, my skin, my hair. And all the time, I knew. I knew that the asylum had been discovered and yet still I headed towards it, gripped with terror by the thought of Lucius being captured. I was so tortured by my need to find him that I barrelled forward regardless, fighting against my natural instincts to take flight in the opposite direction. It almost hurt to keep going, as if my blood was screaming at me in terror, resounding a warning so loud and so powerful that it took all my energy to keep my legs pumping.
Soon I reached the small courtyard entrance and I stopped, collapsing against the broken wall. A moan escaped my trembling lips, the sound like the pitiful cry of a wounded animal rising in the air and disappearing into the starless night sky.
There, lying just outside the door, that was buckled and wide open, was Sergio, face down, his short stocky body broken and twisted, entrails spilling out from underneath him. The open courtyard was blanketed in a layer of white that was now patterned with many bloodied footprints, and I watched numbly as snowflakes drifted down and melted into the thick pool of his blood, settling on the surface and sinking quickly into the red.
Gingerly stepping over his body, I edged inside the doorway, bracing my arms against the frame to stop myself from dropping to the floor. A wide smear of blood pooled at my feet like some kind of macabre welcome mat. Dark splashes now decorated the institutional grey walls as if someone had just gone crazy with the paintbrush. There were more footprints here and I recognised the unmistakable enlarged animal prints of the Varúlfur, spreading the blood along the corridor. Here they had transformed into their true selves, safe within the confines of the asylum, slashing and slaughtering their way through.
With everything I had, I threw myself down the corridor, turning right at the end and heading towards Garrick's room. It was completely dark down here. One of the strip-lights had been ripped from the ceiling and was now hanging precariously, the wires dangling down like exposed veins from an amputated limb. It seemed strange not to hear that annoying buzzing sound the lights usually made and the silence of the asylum seemed all the more ominous because of it. All I could hear was my rasping breath and the sound of my boots on the tiles.
As I turned the next corner, my feet slipped out from underneath me, sliding in something wet and I plunged to the floor, landing hard on my hip with sodden slap. I knew immediately that it wasn't water that I had fallen in. There was so much blood that it seemed to carpet the width of the corridor. Lying there prostrate, my clothes drenched, I couldn't stop the tortured shriek breaking free as I looked up and my eyes fell upon the source. Panicking, I tried to scramble backwards, unable to get a footing as my body slid in the sticky slickness until eventually I just shunted myself against the wall, clapping a blood-saturated hand over my mouth and staring horrified at Paige's body.
He had been ripped open from his throat down to his navel, the flesh peeled back from the great gaping hole revealing rib, muscle and now-defunct organs that hung loose from his body. His head was slumped on his chest, his dreadlocks now matted with blood and hanging over his forehead. He was propped up in an awkward sitting position, as if he had been ripped open against the wall and just dropped there, his body sliding down the cracked plaster, his legs splayed out in front of him.
Frantically I tried to wipe his blood off my chin with the sleeve of my jacket but that too was saturated and I only succeeded in smearing it across my face. Stifling a sob, I managed to climb to my feet and stumbled away from him, somehow making it to Garrick's room barely registering the disarray all around me before charging down the staircase to Lucius' room, two steps at a time.
"No," I whispered out a moan. "No."
The room was destroyed. The bookcases that housed Lucius' precious book collection were in pieces, splintered wood strewn across the floor. The books themselves were ripped apart, covers battered and pages torn cleaned from the spines. The lampshade had been ripped from the light-fitting. Toys were crushed, his little brick town in bits. The bed was buckled in two as if it had been pounded by some great force, busting the base apart and in the centre of the crumpled and torn duvet was a large spray of blood.
I felt as if I stared at that blood for what seemed like hours. I didn't want to see it but couldn't drag my eyes from the pattern it made on the bed linen. Dropping to my knees amongst the destruction, I crawled across the bedroom floor, sobbing hard as I reached the broken bedstead and reached out to touch the blood. Gasping, I pulled my hand back quickly, noting the strange odour on my fingertips.
It was Varúlfur blood.
With that, I fled from the room, half-crawling up the stairs and stumbling out of Garrick's room and back into the passageway.
"Lucius!" I cried out, my voice bouncing off the walls and from somewhere further down the corridor I was answered by a small pin-prick of noise. A faint vestige of hope sparked in my veins, mixed with undiluted fear that if Lucius was still here, then he was in terrible danger. "Lucius!" I screamed and began to run in the direction of the sound, skidding through the aftermath of Paige's slaughter and leaving bloodied footprints in my wake as I sped towards Benjamin's old room.
Bursting through the doorway, I cried out in terror when I saw the Varúlfur standing in front of the grand fireplace.
Now in human form, he was discarding his once-crisp white shirt that was drenched in blood and tugging on one of Garrick's T-shirts, the casual, crumpled garment looking very out-of-sorts with his usually well-groomed style.
Glancing over at me, he smiled. It was a broad, warm grin; the same one he used to wear whenever he greeted me home after our day at work; the same one he used to wear whenever I would stumble downstairs on a Saturday morning and find him cooking me breakfast, the same one he wore on our wedding day.
"Megs!" Brandon said. "Hello, darling."
I turned to run, but a hard blow to the side of my head sent shards of sharp intense pain splintering through my skull and I stumbled across the room, hitting Garrick's table and trying to clutch onto the side as I fell, but to no avail. I was falling and fading, the darkness shrouding my vision at the outer edges and the last thing I saw before I slipped under was Brandon's face so close to mine, his eyes glinting amber and his hand reaching out, fingertips gently caressing my cheek.