5,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
Something is stirring beneath Dubh Linn. When an ancient and forbidden power is unleashed, Izzy, who is still coming to terms with her newfound powers, must prevent a war from engulfing Dublin and the fae realm of Dubh Linn. But by refusing to sacrifice Jinx – fae warrior and her 'not-really-ex' – Izzy sets in motion a chain of events which will see them hunted across the city and into the hills where she'll face the greatest challenge of all. In the deepest and darkest Hollow, an angel of death is waiting … and the price he asks for his help might be too high … 'an excellent fantasy, with strange but memorable characters set in believable settings. The storyline all through is tense and exciting with a somewhat surprise ending.' Irish Examiner on A Crack in Everything 'Delicious and wonderfully romantic…Lyrical prose, along with highly imaginative and descriptive phrasing, makes the forest setting–and its creatures and people–immediately present and sparked with magic.' Booklist on The Treachery of Beautiful Things
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
Reviews
Praise for A Crack in Everything
‘If you enjoyed Fallen by Lauren Kate, Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor or The Alchemyst by Michael Scott then this book should be added to your shelves immediately!’ Irish Examiner
‘Ruth Frances Long’s writing is haunting, lyrical and above all skilful.’ Sarah Rees Brennan, author of the Demon’s Lexicon trilogy, the Lynburn Legacy trilogy and co-author of The Bane Chronicles with Cassandra Clare and Maureen Johnson
Praise for A Hollow in the Hills
‘I’m genuinely hungry for the next book.’ Celine Kiernan, author of The Moorehawke Trilogy, Into the Grey and Resonance
‘I love the complexity of the world, the fact that I can breathe it in and hear the music and recognise her characters, as if I’ve spent time with them in real life.’
Liz de Jager, author of The Blackhart Legacy series
To Pat, Diarmuid and Emily
Contents
Prologue
Blasphemous Work
T he angel stumbled and fell, unable to save himself with bound arms in front of him and pinioned wings behind. He hit the stony ground hard, unaccustomed pain biting through his skin. For a moment he could only lie there, breathing hard. It shouldn’t be like this. He was one of the Host of Heaven, an angel, the Joy of the Lord.
No joy remained. She had beaten every last scrap of it out of him. And now she brought him here, to this place of wind and dark clouds, to a gorse-covered hilltop where the earth itself writhed and screamed as if fighting against what lay beneath. The sea crawled and crashed against rocks, squirming away from the headland. Even the water couldn’t bear to touch these stones. He could feel it deep inside his broken body.
There had once been a cairn raised here, an ancient seal to guard against what had been buried long ago. Not anymore. Mankind hadrazed it to the ground. They named it and renamed it, making up stories about kings buried beneath piles of stones and then forgot even those tales. They used this place to walk their dogs, or exercise away the excesses in which they indulged. Sometimes they climbed here just to look at the view or to instinctively add another rock to the piles scattered around. They couldn’t say why, just an urge. They knew nothing, let alone what they had done by destroying it in the first place. The arrogance of mankind.
The kick took him in the ribs, lifted him from the ground and drove his breath out of him. With a burst of red agony, he crashed into a heap of stones behind him. Something made a dreadful breaking sound. Ribs cracked, fractured ends stabbing into him. He slid down into the depression below it, amid crushed beer cans and ashes.
‘Did I say you could rest?’ his captor asked, her voice as smooth as a hot blade. ‘We have mighty work to do, angel. Mighty work indeed.’
‘Why do this? You were one of us.’
She smiled, an expression with no warmth, no joy. ‘And I was cast out. For doing nothing.’
He couldn’t argue with that. She was one of those who had indeed done nothing. While other angels had fought and died and fallen in flames.
‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘You were one of the Didanum. You stood in the ranks of light.’
‘Nothing is forgotten. Only we call ourselves Dé Dannan now. And it doesn’t mean what you think it means.’
‘You were chosen.’
‘We were accursed. We questioned Heaven’s actions. Imagine, beingcast out for asking questions. Does that seem fair to you, angel? Does that seem just? We took no side. We merely asked why conflict was necessary.’
‘Cuileann.’ He had to try, one last attempt to reach her, using her now forbidden name. The one she had borne so long ago. She had to answer to that. She had to recognise their kindred spirit.
Instead she seized him by the back of his neck and slammed him back down against the stones. He slumped across them, broken.
‘Cuileann is gone,’ she said in a voice as cold as the void itself. ‘I’m Holly. Now, we ought to begin – Heaven forbid we should drag this out.’
Sunlight glinted off the razor-sharp edge of her knife.
‘You know why knives are so dear to my kind?’ She cocked her head to one side as if waiting for an answer. ‘They’re personal. You have to get up close. Or have a spectacular aim.’
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, wishing he hadn’t. He didn’t want the answer.
‘You know what I’m doing. You know this place and what lies hidden beneath it. Locked away for so long. You can thank Sorath. She gave me the idea, cunning little bitch that she was.’
‘Sorath?’ He stared at her. ‘Sorath fell. Sorath’s gone. That girl …’
‘Oh yes,’ Holly’s smile widened like the maw of a beast. ‘That girl. I’m going to deal with her as well. But first you.’
Emptiness opened up under him, another place of nothingness and loss. A thousand voices called out, voices lost and damned.
A burst of agony engulfed him as she drove the knife into his stomach, deep, hard. The angel screamed, his body twisting as he triedto escape. Holly drew out the knife and watched his blood spill onto the dirt and stones.
Then she stabbed again.
Darkness rose like a wave, winnowing its way through his veins, thrusting tiny barbs through his body. His spark burst from his chest, blinding him, wrenched out of him. He wept hot tears, cried out for his Lord, but no one answered. He was lost, he was falling. Holly pulled the spark from him and threaded it through her fingers, crushing it in her fist. She pulled at it, refining it to a long line that shone like silver.
The last thing he saw before the light burned out inside him, was her smile.
The smile of a predator. The smile of a killer.
Chapter One
A Tell-tale Strangeness
The ground shuddered, sending books and trinkets tumbling off the shelves. Izzy rolled out of bed onto the floor before she was even fully awake, her body trying to get itself into the best position for defence before her mind even knew what was happening. Just as abruptly as it started, everything went still.
She crouched on all fours, the sheet still half twisted around her, breathing hard, looking for something – anything – to explain what had just happened.
The tattoo on the back of her neck felt so cold she could sense each line in all its intricacy, like someone had sketched the design on her skin in acid. The door crashed open and Dad stood there, looking like he’d tear something limb from limb if he could just find something to tear.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I think so. Dad? Was that an earthquake?’
‘I don’t know.’ Izzy checked the clock – three in the morning. Great. Shaken awake at three am. That was no way to start any day, not even the last day of school before half term. Izzy scrambled to her feet.
‘If it wasn’t an earthquake, what was it?’
‘An explosion? Maybe. Gas or something.’ He sagged a little, looking more like her dad again and less like some sort of mortifying superhero rushing to her defence. ‘An earthquake’s more likely.’
He rubbed the back of his neck as if it hurt. She often wondered if his tattoo warned her in the same way hers did. She’d asked him, once or twice, but never got a straight answer. He wouldn’t admit it, or didn’t really understand it and wouldn’t admit that. She wasn’t sure. They didn’t talk like they used to, even though she knew many of the secrets he had kept from her. Somehow it changed everything. Not knowing had been easier than knowing.
‘An earthquake here? In Dublin?’
He shrugged. ‘We get them. Usually off the coast and never as strong as that before. And sometimes “earthquake” is a good explanation for something else. Maybe you should go back to bed.’
As if she could sleep after that; she felt energised, wide awake, but she knew it wouldn’t last. It was just a case of her other nature kicking in, expecting danger and preparing to fight it. Being a Grigori, she had discovered since the summer, was more than just a surname and a funky tattoo. It was a hell of a lot of work without any recognition or gratitude. She didn’t even get a fancy hat.
Dad looked tired, like he had when he woke up from the coma three months ago. She’d healed him then, but the ability to do anything spectacular like that had faded. The last vestiges of the angel’s spark for which she’d been a vessel had let her do that one thing, the thing she needed most.
Strange, the hole that had left within her. Unexpected, and unwelcome. As a fallen angel, Sorath had slipped under Izzy’s skin and changed her, making her capable of a magic she would never have believed possible. Brí called her a grail, her birth mother never one to speak plainly, but Izzy hadn’t appreciated what that meant until she had the power to save lives. She had used it, even in the most desperate straits, and she’d won. She’d saved Jinx, and Dad. And now? Without the powers Sorath had given her, what was she? A Grigori? But one too young to be of any use, to be trusted with the responsibilities it entailed. She hated the angel. She missed her as well. The psychotic, dangerous, glorious fires that Sorath, the angel of the dawn, had brought with her, which had almost consumed Izzy without any resistance, were gone now. She was bereft, like a ship without wind for its sail. And her life was her own once more.
Well, apart from all the extra studying that Dad and Gran felt she needed to put in, self-defence classes and dusty old tomes she couldn’t even get digitally. She’d suggested scanning them. Gran had told her to go home. Her anger was more painful than a fencing lesson from Dad.
A knack with fire had joined her knack of destroying electronics. If she concentrated really hard she could still conjure up a little flame. No more than the flare of a match-strike, really. It wasn’t much use for anything. Plus, it drove Dad up the wall. Another reminder.
‘Should we check with Brí? Make sure everything is okay on that side?’
Dad winced. Mention of Izzy’s birth mother, the Matriarch of the South Dublin Sídhe, usually caused that expression. He didn’t have good memories of her. And even the vaguest reference to Dubh Linn, the shadowy Sídhe world that coexisted beside the human one, tended to close him down these days. He only told Izzy what he needed to, she realised that. He still didn’t want to put her in danger perhaps, or didn’t want her learning too much about it too quickly. But it was driving her crazy.
‘I’ll see to it. You go back to bed. School’s in a few hours.’
‘But we’ll be doing next to nothing. Halloween break’s starting. It isn’t even a full day.’
Dad had already closed the door. Izzy dug out her phone and put in her earbuds, flicking through the tracks she had on it. The phone had been a present from Mum to replace the one that she’d lost to the creepy Sídhe tramp, Mistle. When she’d first met Jinx. She remembered his long, elegant hands helping her pick up the broken pieces in the alley that led her into Dubh Linn. That first day. Before she knew anything about the Grigori and the fae, the supernatural world that lay alongside her own. Before angels and demons had become a part of her everyday life.
Izzy lay back on her bed and closed her eyes, listening to the soft, lyrical strains of a song she shouldn’t play, a song that always made her think of him. Jinx had been heartless and cruel, flippant and obnoxious. He moved like a hunting animal, his silver eyes seeing everything, especially her mistakes. Tattoos and piercings covered his lean, pale body, contrasting with his long, jet-black hair. He thought he knew everything!
But … he’d helped her time and again. She’d never meant to fall for him. She’d never dreamed he could feel the same, but he had. She knew he had. He’d kissed her, shed tears of grief when he thought he’d lost her, begged her forgiveness – impossible for one of the fae – and saved her life.
And then he’d completely vanished from it.
Izzy wasn’t sure if she slept or not. Her thoughts kept turning back to Jinx and that whole tangle of misery no matter what she tried. She kept telling herself that she should forget him, that she shouldn’t dwell on it, that he wasn’t worth it. But sometimes, late at night, she couldn’t help it.
The sun glowed red and gold around the corners of the blinds, but she didn’t welcome the sunrise anymore.
Besides, morning meant getting up and plastering on a brave face, getting on with things. Morning meant school, even if it was just one more half day before the half-term break. It wasn’t like there was going to be much to do. But still, she wished she didn’t have to go.
Mum called her from downstairs. Already up and making coffee, no doubt, the early bird, always brightest in the morning. Infuriatingly chirpy. Not like Izzy and Dad, who were better off not talking to anyone for at least two hours after waking up. But of course, Izzy now knew her mum wasn’t her real mum, not her birth mother. She wondered what Sídhe matriarchs like Brí did in the early morning; she’d bet they didn’t make coffee and sing along with the radio.
Murder, torture, general sadism – or did that wait until after brunch?
Dad drove her to school, blissfully silent the whole way. A stream of uniformed girls flowed towards the gates, a strangely hypnotic sight. She saw Clodagh, surrounded as usual by a host of friends. She turned and waved at Izzy, hanging back waiting for her while the others went on.
‘Don’t be late back tonight,’ said Dad. ‘We have training.’
They were the first words he’d said to her since the earthquake. The radio had been filled with chatter about it. They couldn’t pinpoint the epicentre, which was unusual, but it had been one of the strongest ever felt on the island. Dad had huffed, clearly finding that dubious. She didn’t want to ask why.
‘Training?’ She sighed. ‘Again?’
‘You know why. It has to be done, Izzy.’
And here she thought being the latest descendent of the line of Grigori would be glamorous and exciting once the turmoil of last summer had passed. With Dad recovered from the accident that had sent him into a coma, she’d also thought her life might at least return to some semblance of normality, but she was wrong on both counts. Dad, and Gran, had decided on extracurricular activities – fitness training, fencing, martial arts, endless myths and legends, secret histories – to prepare her for the inheritance they’d so far hidden from her. Mum agreed with them. There was no escape.
‘It’s half term, Dad. I was going to meet Clodagh and—’
‘Straight home. We have to go through the annals and you need to—’
‘I know, I know. Fine. I’ll be back home straight after school. It’s not like I need a life or anything.’
‘Izzy.’ He sighed as he said her name and looked out of the window. Was this how he had spent his teenage years, she wondered? He never spoke of it. ‘It’s important. Besides, there are those who would use you against us. Think about it.’
She could think of any number who would try. For a while. And then they’d learn. She’d make sure of it. She wouldn’t let herself be used again. Dad ought to know that, but he didn’t believe it. Not really.
‘Fine.’
It wasn’t, but what else could she say? She got out of the car and slammed the door behind her.
‘You okay?’ asked Clodagh as Izzy joined her.
‘No.’ It wasn’t worth more than a one-word answer. Clodagh got it immediately.
‘Parentals?’
‘Fun times.’
Another girl was standing by the entrance to the school, watching them with overly curious eyes. There was something about her that caught Izzy’s attention, held it in an unnerving way that was seldom good news. Izzy frowned, trying to make out the tell-tale strangeness that marked the Sídhe when they walked among humankind. But there was nothing. No metallic glint to the eye, no instant attraction and desire to please. She was just a girl, very pretty, with jet black hair and olive skin. And the most startling hazel eyes Izzy had ever seen.
‘Who’s that?’
‘The Newbie,’ said Clodagh. ‘She’s been in our class since September. Her name’s Ash. Haven’t you been paying attention?’
Not much. Not really. Now that she thought about it, there had been a new student in the class since the start of term. Izzy just hadn’t taken any notice.
‘Um … maybe. I don’t know. How do you even know these things?’
Clodagh shook back her long golden locks and tapped her nose with a perfectly manicured finger. ‘I have my sources. They include talking to people and being sociable. You should try it. Did you do the maths homework? I completely fecked it up. Can I cog yours?’
Chapter Two
Emissary
Jinx came up snarling, the taste of blood in his mouth and a white fire blazing in his head. The bodach reared over him, arms thick as tree trunks, a body like rock. Another blow like that would crush him. His head still ringing, he rolled and the giant creature slammed a foot down where his chest had been a second earlier. It laughed at him, stupid and conceited, but Jinx kept rolling and came up onto his feet, crouching low, ready. The bodach lunged again but Jinx twisted aside, just in time, and brought both fists down on the back of its thick red neck, ramming it face first into the floor. It went down in a heap, with little more than a grunt and a crash of flesh on flagstones. Jinx leaped on its back and slammed its head down again and again until it wasn’t fighting any more. It slumped there, its chest heaving up and down.
Jinx straightened, wiping his face with his hand, and glared at the crowd surrounding him. Some grinned, others muttered curses, but they still waited, mostly in silence. The bodach didn’t move.
‘A winner!’ The voice bounced off the copper dome of the Market’s ceiling and money slapped from hand to hand.
In most hollows, the homes of the Sídhe, there were strict rules to be obeyed, and a matriarch to follow. Once they had been places of hiding, of safety, of absolute Sídhe power, places closed to all who did not belong there. Not here in the Market. Accessed from the gate in Smithfield, the Market was open to all, and money talked. All kinds of currency really, from euros to … well, anything … And anything could be bought. That was how Holly had liked it and even with her gone, the Market continued on its well-worn path unchecked.
‘Too quick, Jinxy-boy,’ said a drawling voice behind him. The Magpies stood there, pristine in their black and white, beady eyes fixed on him. ‘Not exactly entertaining when you finish them in a couple of heartbeats, is it?’
Jinx lifted his head and fixed them with his most intimidating stare. Mags looked away, but Pie held out.
‘What do you want?’ Jinx asked.
‘Just watching the fight. You’re making quite a name for yourself. Or don’t you care?’
‘Silver isn’t going to like it, is she?’ Mags said, his tone darker. ‘She’s not going to like it at all.’
‘So?’ Silver was going to flip. He knew that. Because she already had several times. Silver didn’t like this and made her feelings abundantly clear on the subject. And now more than ever she was someone whose word he ought to heed; she had bested Holly and driven her from the Market. There were rules about that sort of thing, old laws, older than anything. It meant Silver should take charge and be matriarch. No one had the power she had. No one had imagined Holly could be beaten, and yet Silver had done the impossible. He was her emissary now and that ought to mean he didn’t go around fighting for money. An emissary was a peace-bringer, she had told him in those measured, musical tones. The role protected him, and he could walk in the shadows, in the light, in the halls of her enemies. He really should take it more seriously.
He didn’t like to fight, but he needed to. Little else made him feel alive. Silver couldn’t, and wouldn’t, stop him; she knew it wouldn’t do much good to try. Jinx just didn’t care anymore.
Broken inside. That’s what he was. Completely and totally broken inside.
He only had to look at those around him to see what they thought – that long-ingrained suspicion. He’d been Holly’s to the core, once. Not through choice, but who understood that? He was Cú Sídhe. They all looked down on him, despising him. By-blow, son of a traitor and an assassin, Holly’s dog.
Holly was gone, slunk away from the Market in the chaos that followed Silver’s victory, and her people were only just beginning to actually believe they were free. Which meant their need for revenge where they could get it was beginning to bubble up from wherever they had hidden it long ago. They couldn’t get Holly, not now, but Jinx was still there. As good as having a target painted on his back, that was. He couldn’t afford to be complacent. Fights like this just showed them it wasn’t worth the risk. Not yet.
The Magpies were looking at him like he was the next course in their dinner. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘The boss asked us to fetch you to see him. To extend his invitation, as it were. As an emissary, naturally.’ Pie sketched an overly formal bow and grinned his filthiest grin. ‘He’d like a word.’
‘I’ll give him a word.’ Jinx grabbed a towel from the pile by the edge of the makeshift ring and looked around for Art. The lep owed him his cut. You couldn’t trust the little bastards.
‘The boss doesn’t like words like that, Jinx.’
Another Suibhne Sídhe, a bird man like the Magpies, shouldered his way through the milling crowd. Smaller and slighter by far, he cast furtive glances at them and at Jinx before thrusting a grubby pile of banknotes at Mags and fleeing.
Mags grinned broadly and began to sort them, flattening each one out and forming a fan worth several hundred euro, which he waved at his brother.
‘Who said we didn’t have a dog in this fight?’ He laughed.
Jinx stalked away from them, aware that they were following, silent and malignant as ever. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t dare to do anything here in the Market. They were irritating, that was all.
Art sat on top of a barrel, his legs crossed, counting out his own pile of notes. ‘Ah there you are, Jinx, my boy. Come for your share, eh? You did well out there. You did—’ The words dried up as he saw the Magpies behind Jinx. Very little could silence the leprechaun, but the Magpies had a fearsome reputation.
‘Here,’ said Art, shoving all the cash towards Jinx. ‘Here, take whatever you want.’
Jinx rolled his eyes, and stepped up to the trembling leprechaun. He didn’t speak – might as well make use of the intimidation, even if it wasn’t his doing – but carefully counted out what he was due and no more. No doubt Art would have tried to fiddle him. That was in his nature. Leps couldn’t be trusted, especially when it came to money. Lucky for him most Cú Sídhe were inherently trustworthy so Jinx only took as much as he should have earned in that fight.
And he had earned it. He could already feel the aches and bruises working their way through him. He was going to suffer tomorrow. But what else was new? He always suffered. It was his lot in life.
‘So you’ll come with us now?’ Pie sounded bored.
‘Why on earth would I do that?’ Jinx asked.
‘Because we asked nice-like. The Old Man said to ask nice. And to tell you something. What were we to tell him, Mags?’
Mags grinned, showing all his teeth. ‘That if you don’t want to come, we’ll have to ask the girl.’
Izzy? Hell no, he didn’t want them even thinking about Izzy.
‘I don’t have anything to do with her. Not anymore.’
‘Aww,’ Pie said. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’
Jinx curled his lip in a snarl that would terrify more than half the Market, but only made the Magpies grin even more.
‘But you did,’ said Mags. ‘We all know you did. And still would. Isn’t that true? Don’t lie now. It’s you the Old Man wants to talk to though, not her really. She’s tricky, that one.’
‘I’ll need to talk to Silver first.’
‘Sure. Get her permission.’ Mags sneered at him. ‘Wouldn’t want to annoy her any more, would you?’
Silver was surrounded, as always. With her head bent over her work, her long white-blonde hair fell forward to shield her face. Slender and delicate, she didn’t look strong enough to rule the whole Market, but she did. Or at least, she should. Silver was more than just fae. She was Leanán Sídhe, muse and inspiration and one of the most powerful Aes Sídhe alive. She sifted through a pile of petitions while those filing them with her gathered around, waiting. As Jinx approached, she looked up, aware that the murmuring fell silent, that they were all staring at his dishevelled form, at the cuts and bruises, at the evidence of his fight. Then they saw the Magpies behind him, which just made it worse. He could almost sense them thinking out loud.
He can’t be trusted. He’s still Holly’s. She’s marked and boundhim. Just look at him.
Silver’s eyes fell on him and narrowed. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked quietly.
‘Um …’ What could he tell her? She already knew anyway.
‘I hope it was worth it.’
He thought of the money in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Yeah. Kind of. The Magpies request that I go with them on your behalf. They say Amadán wants to talk to me.’ He stepped closer, close enough to hear her breathe, and continued in a whisper. ‘Or he’ll go and talk to Izzy.’
Silver winced, though only he would have seen it. ‘Are you okay with this?’
‘What choice do I have? You made me your emissary. I’ve got to do your running around, don’t I?’
Just as she used to do it for Holly. The echoes of their former matriarch still surrounded them. They’d never shake them off.
But Holly had been defeated. Silver had shattered her touchstone and driven her out. They really didn’t need to worry about her anymore, did they?
She frowned, but then nodded. ‘Very well then. Come back right away. Don’t let him get you to agree to anything until you check with me first. Understand?’
Jinx glared at her. Check with her? ‘Emissary’ must mean different things to them. She didn’t have to treat him like some kind of child. But Silver could do that without even thinking about it. She probably still saw the little feral boy she’d collected from Brí’s hollow a lifetime ago. And now, though she didn’t have to check her every action with Holly, she just treated him like she always had. It grated against his senses, but he didn’t know what to say. What she told him wasn’t wrong, that was the problem. But he already knew it.
Instead of arguing, he quelled rebellious thoughts and nodded to her. ‘Yes, Matriarch.’
Silver narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘You’re going to have to accept it sooner or later. You’re the matriarch here now.’
And without a matriarch, the Market was spiralling into chaos. He knew it better than anyone. Thinking of the money he’d just won blatantly disregarding her instructions, Jinx’s stomach tightened unexpectedly. The Market out of control was becoming a dangerous place. And Silver did nothing to rein it in. Not yet. He wasn’t sure she would. And then what?
‘So,’ he turned to the Magpies. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Underground,’ said Pie with a smirk. ‘We’re going underground.’
Chapter Three
Music and Memory
Dylan woke with a cry on his lips, though he hadn’t been aware that he’d been dreaming. He struggled out of the tangle of sheets and tried to force himself to breathe evenly. His pounding heart made his chest ache, but he couldn’t remember a nightmare. He couldn’t remember anything at all. Only falling into bed the night before, exhausted and longing for the oblivion of sleep. The moment his head hit the pillow, everything was blank.
Except for the music. Oh yes, he could remember the music. So clear it drowned out everything else. Every single thing.
But something had happened. He knew that. Paper littered the floor, notes scrawled on lines, pages and pages of sheet music. The recording equipment was all on, the computer showing .wav files from the middle of the night.
Again.
Dylan shook his head and gathered the papers up into a pile, putting them together as he did so, scanning the music with a practised eye.
It was beautiful. It always was. So very beautiful, this music that came from somewhere else, somewhere far beyond him. But it came through him, igniting the magic that welled up inside him. He couldn’t help himself.
It just scared the hell out of everyone else.
Mum looked up bleary-eyed from her coffee when he entered the kitchen. Dad had already gone.
‘Sorry,’ Dylan mumbled.
She shrugged. ‘It’s okay, love. Remember what the psychiatrist said.’
So he had done it again. It didn’t happen all the time. There was that, at least. But every so often it just spilled out of him, all at once. And he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t remember it. The music just rose up and swallowed him whole. The psychiatrist said he had to get it out, that it was a way of coping with Marianne’s death. And what could he say? No, actually, I was kissed by Silver, who’s a Leanán Sídhe, and accidentally became a touchstone. I’m now the source of her magic and its main conduit. Eventually it’s going to kill me, but if I’m lucky it won’t turn me into a raving madman first. Yes, psychiatrists loved that sort of thing. So it was easier to nod and agree and promise to work with headphones as much as possible.
Which was kind of an impossible promise to keep when you were sleep-composing and had no memory of what you were doing. His subconscious didn’t seem to be particularly mindful of others.
He hadn’t wanted to go to see Dr Patterson, but Mum had insisted. It was family therapy and Dylan had to make sure he watched every single word. What was normal to him – the Sídhe, Grigori, angels and demons – might see him committed if he described his experiences to the wrong person. He was still coming to terms with them himself.
It had to be hidden. But the magic wouldn’t be contained. It was bleeding out in his dreams, making him compose in his sleep.
But the music was incredible. More than incredible.
Transcendent.
‘Are you going to college today?’ his mother asked.
‘Sure.’ He hadn’t explained how he’d managed to get himself transferred to a pure music degree course. It wasn’t law, which was what they’d wanted. They knew that much and he felt their displeasure keenly. They didn’t know what he did in college and didn’t ask. Sometimes he wondered if they even cared now. The summer had changed everything.
The first month of his first year in Trinity College had saved his sanity. He slotted into the department of music from the moment he had that late interview.
A gift from Silver. Someone owed her a favour, she’d said. And the three staff members assessing him sat open-mouthed as he played.
That, at least, had made him feel real.
‘Good,’ said Mum, and went back to bed, leaving him feeling more guilty than ever before.
As he packed up all the musical creations of the night before and headed for the train, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something, that he was overlooking a crucial fact – something dangerous and desperately important. Checking online he glanced over the reports of a mysterious earthquake, without taking it in, and wondered about ringing Izzy. But she’d be in school and answering the phone would only get her into trouble. Fifth year offered more freedom to go with the pressures of the senior exam cycle, but that only went so far. She still had to obey some of the rules. Not that she bothered much about that these days. She didn’t seem to care anymore.
He wasn’t the only one to have changed.
When he got off the train, making his way down the slope to the street level amid a horde of students and other travellers, heading for the gates into the academic island of Trinity in the heart of Dublin, he saw a familiar figure waiting for him.
Because she had to be waiting for him. What else could she possibly be doing there, standing by the gate, looking right at him, smiling that infuriating, knowing smile?
Mari.
But Mari was dead.
Chapter Four
In The Mist
Since the summer, the notice board outside the Maths room had turned into the most uncomfortable place in the entire school. They meant well. Izzy knew that.
The photograph of Mari dominated it. One of those perfectly posed school photos that Mari had excelled at sitting for. She looked like a model. Once, she’d said that was what she wanted to do for a living. Dylan had laughed at her and she hadn’t spoken to him for days.
But she had been so very beautiful.
Smiling, her eyes bright, eternally alive, eternally beautiful and unchanged.
There were notes pinned to the board, fluttering coloured pieces of paper, upon which most of the girls in the school had written some lines of farewell. Or good wishes. Or something anyway. Izzy hadn’t. Neither had Clodagh. Neither of them knew what to say.
Marianne had been their friend and now she was gone. There were no two ways about it. She’d died because of Izzy.
No, she had been killed, had been murdered, to send a message to Izzy. But it amounted to the same thing.
Holly had a lot to answer for.
Izzy frowned at the picture and the notes. A breeze made them flutter like pastel petals, drawing her attention from the photo. Irritated, she forced her gaze back to Mari’s perfect smile. She was glad she hadn’t seen Mari’s corpse. She could still remember her like this.
Vain, shallow, callous, laughing, human Mari.
‘Did you know her?’ asked an unknown voice. Izzy turned to see the new girl, Ash, standing beside her.
Izzy scowled. ‘Of course I did. We all did.’
‘Izzy and Mari were friends,’ said Clodagh, coming up on the other side of her. ‘Izzy, you remember Aisling?’
‘Ash,’ the girl said in a flat tone, as if she had to do it all the time. ‘Not Aisling. I’m not actually Irish at all.’
‘Where are you from then?’ asked Clodagh.
The girl waved her hand dismissively. ‘All over. My family moves around.’ She had that look – London or New York, more than sleek and polished, slightly unreal, and her accent carried whispers of other places. Lots of them. Her dark skin tone didn’t come from a bottle or a sunbed. It was all natural. Izzy had just assumed her name was ‘Aisling’, like everyone else, and hadn’t noticed her cosmopolitan looks. She could come from anywhere. She studied Izzy with hazel eyes framed by thick lashes, so dark she’d never need mascara. The heavy plait reached the small of her back and little butterfly clips held back any strands from her face.
Some of the transition year students went by, talking loudly about a party or something for Halloween – who was dressing up as what, who was going to be there, how late they’d be and how they’d get the alcohol inside – and one peeled off, heading for the loo.
As the girl opened the door, Izzy felt a chill between her shoulder blades, a shiver from the tattoo at the top of her spine that snaked all the way down. It appeared the moment the door opened and vanished the moment it closed. But it was there. Distinctly there.
Bad sign. Really bad sign.
But here in school? They wouldn’t. They couldn’t!
She sucked in a breath and caught Clodagh’s eye. ‘I’ll just be a second.’
Clodagh’s face turned pale, her eyes hardening. Izzy wasn’t entirely sure what Clo knew and didn’t know and she didn’t dare ask. Especially since Clo and Dylan were the only close friends she had left. Clodagh, however, was no fool, despite the outward façade she sometimes projected. She gave a brief nod and stepped closer to Ash, starting a long and detailed story about Marianne and that time in Dundrum when she’d argued with the security guard and ended up getting complimentary shopping vouchers for all of them, while Izzy stepped away. She laid the flat of her hand on the bathroom door and the shiver came back.
Definitely something going on. And she didn’t like it.
She stepped inside, letting the door swing closed behind her.
Mist filled the room, mist so thick and heavy she could barely see anything. The utilitarian green and white tiles looked washed out and the fluorescent bulbs overhead hummed, feebly illuminating the room. Not enough to see further than a couple of feet though. Her breath misted in front of her face as the temperature around her plummeted, joining the mist, becoming part of it, enforcing and empowering it.
‘Hello?’
The air crackled, charged, the smell of ozone hanging heavy.
There was no answer. The world was curiously still and quiet, as if something beyond the door muffled or smothered all sound. Izzy swallowed hard, aware that her heart was suddenly the loudest thing in the room. A hum like electricity, bright and sharp, trembled through the air. The mist swirled around her, curling where she moved, folding back from her as if to avoid her touch. Or maybe it was playing with her. It seemed too aware, almost alive.
Something shifted inside her. She had the uncomfortable feeling of being a target. It wasn’t avoiding her, but circling her. This was a game and she didn’t want to play.
‘Hello? Anyone in here?’ The other girl had to be in here. She hadn’t left. There hadn’t been time. Izzy could see only whiteness, mist everywhere, like someone had left a shower on with the boiler overheating. But there were no showers here. Not to mention the arctic temperature. And in the mist … movement, shapes, forms half made.
A small whimper came from the left, in one of the cubicles. Izzy turned towards it, but she still couldn’t see anything. This was impossible.
She conjured a small flame, a flicker no larger than her fingernail – about all she could manage – even though Dad and Gran had been absolutely specific on the restrictions about doing so. Not in school, not in public – never, if she could avoid it. But magic drew on magic. It needed something to feed on and she had no doubt that what was happening here was magic. It had to be. Might as well take advantage of it.
Though all she could manage was a tiny flame, golden light filled the room, tempering the whiteness, and with a violent hiss, shadows moved, shadows made of mist instead of darkness. Figures stretched too far, too long, wisps of smoke and tangles of fog.
Izzy swallowed down a cry of alarm. They peeled away from her, writhing back like ghostly vines from the flames, like living things, revealing the girl. She slumped against the cubicle wall opposite, her eyes vacant, staring at the ceiling, and her mouth stretched wide in fear. She’d scratched her face, blood dark under her broken fingernails, gashes on her cheeks, but all the fight was gone from her now. Mist trailed over her skin, curling from her mouth and nostrils like cigarette smoke. Her skin looked pale and puffy, her lips blue as if she was suffering from hypothermia. For a moment, Izzy couldn’t breathe. Was she dead? Jesus Christ, had she left it too long?
The girl whimpered again, a sad mewling sound, but she didn’t blink or otherwise move. She just slumped there, eyes too wide, her arms and legs twisted at odd angles. Her breath sawed in and out of her chest, too fast, too desperate.
Izzy edged towards her, trying to keep an eye on those misty shadows. The cold was growing again and her heart was beating louder and louder, as if it was calling them. She’d thought to use their magic to strengthen hers, but that wasn’t the case anymore. Who was taking advantage of whom here? She cursed silently, words she couldn’t quite force out. She hadn’t thought that her magic might make them stronger too. And there were more of them …
They whispered now, following her every move. The humming in the lights overhead was becoming painful, like a wasp loose inside her skull. The fire in Izzy’s palm was dwindling as her own fear paralysed her. She reached out, touched the girl on the floor. Her skin felt like ice and she breathed shallowly. She needed help and fast.
The creatures laughed and whispered and pressed closer. Tendrils of icy mist drifted towards her, floating on the chill air. Only a foot away from her. And Izzy couldn’t quite catch her own breath. She couldn’t force words from her mouth, couldn’t stop her heart from racing, thundering against the inside of her ribs. The mist swirled, drifted together, apart, together again. A hand formed – too smooth and lacking in any actual features, just a hand formed of mist. It reached out to brush icy fingers down Izzy’s cheek. Like a lover. An unwanted, terrifying lover. Energy crackled on her skin. Static lifted her hair, sent shivers down her spine.
‘Daughter of Míl,’ whispered a sibilant voice. ‘How long I have waited to see you? How long I have waited … Will you come to me, Grigori? Will you come?’
Then a face – an impression of a face – born out of nightmares, thin, too thin, blue-grey and lined like old sea-washed oak. His eyes gleamed like stars in the night’s sky of his sockets. His mouth drew up into a cruel smile.
The voice echoed on and on, repeating the phrases like they were malformed or mangled poetry. Others joined it, over and over, and in her mind’s eye Izzy saw something, an image that shouldn’t be there. A cross on a headland above the sea, stark against the sky. She knew it, but couldn’t quite grasp it, not now. She choked on the next breath and the image blurred and twisted, changing to become a bleak grey ruin on a hilltop, lit by a bonfire, with stars exploding in the air overhead. Just for a moment, as if the creatures from the mist had pushed it into her head with their clammy insubstantial fingers.
She couldn’t help it; she screamed, the noise loud and shattering, breaking off the ceiling and the mirrors, thundering around the cubicles to fill the room with echo on echo. The guttering fire in her hand flared up in a column of incandescent light and the mist shadows flung themselves away from her, sliding through the cracks in the tiles, under the skirting boards and away. Light drained from the room with them, and the cracks all glowed for another moment and went dark.
An alarm screamed, louder than anything she’d ever heard, a long wail that went on and on.
The flames she had called snuffed themselves out, burnt away in panic. But the fire alarm went on and on.
The door behind her was flung open; Ash entered first, closely followed by Clodagh and half a dozen girls who had been in the hall when Izzy came in. And then all the noise of the world burst upon her. Voices babbling, calling for help, someone shouting that they had to get a teacher, someone else yelling the name of the girl on the floor.
Ash caught Izzy’s shoulders and pulled her back gently. ‘Are you okay? What happened?’
‘I just … I just found her like this.’ It was sort of true. She had to keep her head now. No one would believe in shadows from the mist and blinding fear.
‘We have to get out of here,’ said Clodagh. ‘The fire alarm—’
But Ash wasn’t listening. ‘Izzy, are you sure she—?’
‘Of course she’s sure,’ Clodagh interrupted, her voice uncharacteristically harsh. She linked her arm with Izzy’s, pulling her away. Ash let them go, watching like a hawk. ‘C’mon, evacuation time. You look like you’ll either puke or pass out. Hell of a time for a fire drill.’
Grateful that Clodagh had come to her rescue, Izzy didn’t argue. Her stomach knotted in on itself and she couldn’t stop shivering. The thought of that thing touching her, of the image in her mind … ‘Thanks, Clo.’
The alarm went on and on, everyone heading for the exits in a stream.
‘Just keep walking. They’re going to be all over you when the panic’s died down. What happened in there?’ said Clodagh.
‘I just found her. Passed out.’
‘Do you think she was on something? Do you think she took something?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe?’
The poor kid was going to be grilled. Izzy didn’t envy her. But while she saw supernatural activity, probably fae in nature, she knew the human world would see drug abuse or psychiatric disorders. She only hoped someone would help the girl – indeed, that she could be helped.
At least she was alive. Or at least, Izzy hoped she was still alive. Oh God, what if she wasn’t alive, if Izzy had been too late?
‘Did you set off the fire alarm?’ asked Clodagh.
‘Er …’ There wasn’t an alarm in the bathroom, was there? Or maybe there was. A sensor. There’d been that time one of the fifth years was smoking and the fire brigade turned up. At least once. A sensor then, but not a way to trigger it. So how could she explain setting it off? ‘Um … maybe?’
Clodagh sighed, the heaviest world-weary sigh she could manage.
‘Only you! All that shit during the summer …’ Clodagh said cautiously, glancing around to make sure no one was near enough to overhear. ‘That crazy club and Mari …’
To be honest, Izzy was surprised Clodagh even remembered it. She’d missed most of it and she’d got pretty much wasted on her one trip to Silver’s hollow. They reached the hockey pitch, standing a little bit away from the main huddle of their class who were all talking animatedly, like birds after worms.
Clodagh’s tone was unusually firm. ‘She told me everything, Mari did.’
But Mari knew bugger all as well. Right up until it cost her life. Izzy took a deep breath. ‘Clodagh, I know you think you’ve got some sort of handle on this, but really—’
‘I’m not an idiot, Izzy. I’ve been watching you ever since the summer. It’s all different. And I’ve talked to Dylan. You don’t have a monopoly on him.’
No, she had to be bluffing. Dylan wouldn’t tell her anything. He wouldn’t! A surge of jealousy rushed through Izzy. Which was unfair because Clodagh was right – she didn’t have a monopoly on Dylan.
‘Dylan doesn’t—’
But Clodagh interrupted her impatiently. ‘I just need to know if it’s starting again. Because if it is, if you’ve brought it here, to school, of all places, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.’
Izzy wanted to say it wasn’t fair, that she hadn’t asked for any of this, but that wasn’t entirely true, was it? She hadn’t asked for it, sure. Nevertheless it was her fault. It followed her. There was no denying it. She let the moment of silence drag on too long and Clo’s eyes narrowed, her gaze hardening.
‘Isabel Gregory!’ It was Miss Collins’ voice, their maths teacher marching on to the pitch in pursuit of them. ‘I’d like a word with you.’ But then she took one look at Izzy’s face and her expression softened. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you all right? We need to know what happened in the toilets. Charlotte’s barely conscious. Did you see or hear anything that can help?’
Izzy shook her head. ‘I just found her like that. I went in and she was lying there. Then the alarm went off. I don’t know what happened.’
