Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 39

Author's Note: Greetings dear Chapelites. Now I know I'm running fast and loose with these author's notes lately, but bear with me as there's always a reason for these introductory ramblings. When you finish reading this chapter, a multitude of things might be running through your beautiful minds, but the one thing I'll guarantee (apart from the usual - damn you, Cinnamon, not another bloody cliffie!) is that you'll most likely say the chapter was too short. And you'll be right, it is. But... in truth, there was actually meant to be a second part to this chapter but it's been a particularly dark and depressing end to the week here in the UK and after watching my future husband, Chris Martin dance disco with Barry Gibb tonight on stage at Glasto and now feeling super happy, I decided - most out of character, I know - to end the chapter on a slightly lighter note. So please forgive me for the length, but as we all know, SIZE ISN'T EVERYTHING, RIGHT?? Thank you, as always, you're gorgeous (yes! you!) and I adore you.

Linz xxx

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Lucifer, Father of Lies, is also, in fact, a great teller of truths.

It's probably quite a conundrum for many, trying to pick apart the falsehood from truth, the fiction from fact, and I have no doubt there are some who steadfastly refuse to believe that any words that drip like poisoned honey from his beautiful mouth could be anything but lies. But, when you refuse to let yourself be blinded by myth, scripture and centuries of engrained education, when you look at Lucifer and really see the creature that he is behind the hooves and horns, behind the serpent scales and dragon wings, you will know that a grain of truth always runs through every discourse.

Now, of course, what is true and what is not is the real puzzle, and while I could not possibly claim to know the full extent of his lies and his truths, there was one thing he had told me that I knew to be unquestionable fact and that was that I could access the realms within Purgatory. Just as he did. Just as Michael did.

And it was to one such realm I returned, just as I had done before, only this time without the clumsy blundering way I had on my previous visits. This time, I went with the precision and guile of angels. This time, I went with the authority and power that bristled within me. My physical body might have been bound by the Chains of the Abyss, but here, there were no chains and in my realms, in the realms of the Archangels, I was free to go wherever I pleased.

At least, as long as I managed to avoid the demons, and naturally, Lucifer himself.

The trick to it all would be cunning and speed. Not only because I wasn't sure how long it would take them to search me out, but because back in the conscious world, the clock was most definitely ticking and it wouldn't be long before the Varúlfur guard decided our time was up. I needed to move fast, which wasn't the easiest of tasks when travelling through a world you should be familiar with, but had never really seen before. Not with these eyes, anyway.

When I appeared in the library, it was empty and eerily quiet, save for – ironically enough - the ticking of a clock that I didn't recall from my previous times here. It was a tall, rich mahogany grandfather clock, standing not far from the fireplace and looking strangely out-of-place amidst the Moroccan-style decor. I took a step towards it, the marble figures carved into the mantelpiece moving in unison, shifting and undulating together to look in my direction. I know you, I thought, as I stared at the clock and when the hand hit the hour and it began to chime with a deep and resonant tolling that sounded slightly out of tune, it occurred to me where I had seen the clock before.

Brandon's compound. The clock in the hallway outside the bedroom. 

I couldn't even begin to fathom why it would be here, of all places, but it's presence unnerved me, jarring the steely determination I'd been building in my veins to see this through. I blinked when it chimed for the last time. Thirteen chimes. How could it chime thirteen times? As the sound of the bell faded away, a faint scratching noise echoed down from above, coming from one of the endless towering bookcases that stretched up into the open skies that were ominously devoid of stars. It was whisper of a noise, barely audible and yet I had heard it. I glanced up, scanning as far as my sight would allow and seeing nothing but pure indigo darkness shrouding the tops of the bookcases. Another scratch. A hiss maybe. And the shadows moved far above me, stretching, swelling, spreading downwards.