Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 43

A loud electronic whirring buzzed furiously and a shrill alarm resounded as the huge shutter doors began to open, stark grey giving way to a sliver of dark indigo. A rush of cool air hit my face.

Beside me, Brandon exhaled a small gasp and behind us the Varúlfur emitted a strange keening sound, almost melodic in tone, and it wasn't long before I realised why.

Seeming closer than usual, the moon shone big and bright, so full and round in a perfectly clear night sky. Under normal circumstances I would have gasped too, enraptured by its beauty, instead I silently cursed it for what it was; a blue moon, not because of its colour, but because of its rare occurrence, the second full moon in a calendar month and the only night upon which The Lost's blood could be used to open the Gates of Hell.

I'd always wondered how I would feel seeing the Blue Moon for the first time, ever since I'd found out that it was on this night that Lucius could be killed. I'd fretted over its power and whether or not the angel inside would force my hand and make me commit the vile act that Michael had created me to do. But standing here now, looking up at its pale luminosity, I felt nothing but coldness, one that ran its icy touch along my veins, leaving me feeling numb and lost.

I felt Brandon shudder beside me as he stared up into the skies, with a look that bordered on ecstasy, his lips parted slightly, a small smile tugging on one corner of his widened mouth.

"God, that's beautiful," he murmured. "Isn't it beautiful, Megs?"

But I was no longer looking at the moon.

Directly outside the now fully-open shutters, a large expanse of scrubland, probably once the landing strip, stretched out into the distance. Hardy tufts of grass had invaded cracks in the tarmac, vicious-looking nettle bushes flourished and the open space was flanked on both sides by thick gnarled woodland.

And there, not more than about fifty metres ahead, was Lucius, ankles and wrists bound, lying trussed up on the ground, like he was nothing more than a pig destined for the slaughterhouse. Drachmann stood over him, but it was me he was looking at, an exultant smile on his cruel thin lips.

"Come on, let's get this over with," said Brandon, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me forwards. Like it was trivial. Like it was nothing. 

Behind us, the rest of the clan began to emerge from the hangar, some stumbling along on their hind legs, their stuttering gait looking ghastly in the moonlight, others running on all fours, streaming out in their droves. They crowded around like ghouls awaiting the execution, saliva dribbling from their mouths, the light giving their greasy coats an oil slick sheen. All of them seemed slightly stunned by the sight of the moon and kept casting their eyes skywards, looking almost dazed as they looked up.

Lucius lay still on the ground, his big solemn eyes fixed on me as we approached, Brandon bringing me to a halt just a few metres away. Dirt smudged the little boy's cheekbone and the dust from the ground covered his clothes in patches of fine grey powder. The fear he'd shown before seemed to have gone, replaced by that stoic acceptance that always had me in awe. Lucius possessed courage like no one I knew, constantly managing to conjure up more no matter how the odds were stacked against him. Sometimes I wondered whether he did it for me. His way of saying hey, I'm fine and I'm a kid, so you shouldn't be scared. But it wasn't going to work this time. I was scared, probably more than I'd ever been in my whole life.

A flash of steel glinted in Drachmann's hand and I dropped to my knees when I saw it, as if someone had punched me square in the gut, knocking the air from my lungs in one fell swoop.

It was that blade. That terrifying hand-scythe that had been used to gouge Harper's stomach.

Tears pricked my eyes, my face hot with such unfathomable panic that I could barely breathe.