Each Separate Dying Ember

By Tatiana A.S. Webb

In a world where humanity bear wings and racial tension divides a city, things are... Complicated. Daneel just wants her family safe but was never meant to be the one protecting them; Jedekiah is busy trying to burn out the voices in his head while his home is falling apart; and North isn't even sure what's happening, but he's pretty certain it won't end in diplomacy. But after an unfortunate "accident" throws these three unlikely - and unwilling - allies out of their comfort zones and into each others' worlds, they are going to have to learn very quickly the meaning of teamwork and cooperation, to ensure their survival through the city's notorious Disciplines, a (usually) optional gladatorial tournament. Victory will involve breaking boundaries, breaking bones, and occasionally breaking North's glasses - but the stakes might be higher than any of them realise. It's more than just their wings that they're fighting for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781326936020

Book preview

Each Separate Dying Ember

Each Separate Dying Ember

Tatiana A.S. Webb

Ember Fell Publications

2017

Copyright © 2017 by Tatiana AS Webb

The author asserts their right to this work

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, including taping, photocopying and recording, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

By the Public Lending Right 1979 Chapter 10, this book should be made available for public lending in UK libraries.

First Printing: 2015

This edition: 2017

ISBN 978-1-326-93602-0

Ember Fell Publications

Praise for Seeking:

A mind-grabbing read that takes you in fast and doesn’t let go … A must-read.

Maia Carlson, author of Wounds All Heals

Thoughtful, gritty, and full of drama

Geoff Webb

A first stunning novel. Well-written and delivered with a passion.

Amazon user

This book will take you to places you wouldn’t expect. Let it. It will break your heart. Let it do that, too.

Sinéad Foley

LOVE

IS LOVE

IS LOVE

IS LOVE

IS LOVE

IS LOVE

IS LOVE

IS LOVE

CANNOT BE KILLED

OR SWEPT ASIDE

LIN-MANUEL MIRANDA

EACH SEPARATE DYING EMBER

Daneel

I see the boy that I shot a week later.

He's standing, leaning casually against the sheer grey stone wall of a building, and he doesn't see me - or if he does, he doesn't recognise me.

He's talking to someone, another boy, grinning - a wicked slash of the lips with a little too much sharp teeth. My body presses against Kamar's automatically - he glances down at me, but he doesn't seem to realise why I'm doing it. He thinks I'm just afraid of the Short-Wings; as my hand goes to find his, he puts his arm around my shoulder and laughs. The sound is short and low.

Naw, Dany, don't tell me you still afraid of them? You already been through the Prelim - my li'l sister as can shoot a guy don't need to be afraid of no Shorts.

But I don't look at him - I can't take my eyes off the face of the boy. I can't stop picturing those sharp, grinning teeth turned pink by the blood bubbling up through his lips, can't get rid of the image of his bare chest, short but stocky, shattered splinters of bone and blood in the ragged red hole in his chest. Can't make myself stop seeing the look - somewhere between shock, sudden fear, and something like laughter - as he raised his eyes to mine, and bit his tongue at me as he died. You're not supposed to see anyone after that - or at least, there's not much of a chance of it. Hundreds of people can be in a Prelim at any one time, and it's a big city - and I guess if people do pass each other, they don't really think about it, don't really recognise the person they just killed or were killed by.

But I recognise him, recognise his butchered mess of dark hair and his dangerously bright eyes and his grinning teeth. His feathers, ruffled and battered and some of them broken, seem lighter in the daylight - more of the dusty fawn of his child's markings than the slate grey they'll be after the next moult.

He shifts where he stands, reaching into his pocket to retrieve something, and his wings shift in balance, one of them stretching out; beneath them, inside the middle covert, the feathers are thick and pale - unclipped. Almost subconsciously, I feel my shoulders stirring, whole body tensing as if in response to seeing the unclipped Short-Wing on the other side of the street - but Kamar's hand tightens a little on my shoulder when he senses the shifting under his arm, and I look down and away almost guiltily.

I don't tell him why I can't stop staring at the boy.

The Prelim doesn't matter. Nothing you do ever makes it out. Whatever happens, it isn't... It isn't real.

But as I think again of the blood bubbling up from his lips, my eyes are going to the boy again, and I can't look away except to stare at my feet and try to get rid of the image.

Jedekiah

Ezekiel is talking, but I ain't really listening. It's automatic to nod and grunt, and when he gives a little laugh I snort, but I'm thinking about the Prelim and the thought won't go away.

She couldn't have been more than maybe sixteen, and that's pushing it because she looked younger, and all the skin I could see was bare - unclipped, and no tattoos. I'd guess she'd never been in a Prelim before, either - she was scared. Sure, I was trying to slash her throat open, but that's what the Prelim's for and you don't go there unless you're ready for it - but I didn't think I'd ever get beat by a Long in her first Prelim, and not a kid one. All right, Longs can be fierce and they're fast, but they've no stamina and they think too hard - but I guess for her that kind of worked out all right. Still, the look in her eyes when she fired a bullet straight into my chest, I guess she won't be going back any time soon.

It's a little close to the Flats here - still in the middle-ground, but I wouldn't walk here in the dark. Or I would, but I'd keep my hand on my knife the whole time. Ezek's clearly thinking the same; he glances over his shoulder, at the tall Long and his little sister passing on the other side of the street, and shifts uneasily on his feet. He's all right, is Ezek, as long as he's on the pouncing side - but he doesn't like to get jumped. Good job for him we're near Short-Wing territory, and there's still a few hours of daylight left.

Up for a cast? I grin, my smile a slash of the lips filled with too much tooth and smirk, and I light up as he deliberates - but I know what his answer will be.

Like I say, Ezek's good when he's pouncing. And if you're doing the pouncing, then it's less likely that you're going to get pounced.

So he nods, and after just a few breaths I crush the light under my heel, and shrug off the wall.

We could cast off right here, but I can't be arsed with the effort of a standing start, so with a tilt of my head down the street I set off, me and him striding almost side by side. He falls behind me automatically; the buildings on either side are tall and the darkness reaches down to us. I click my tongue twice, and he offers back one and pulls up closer next to me. As we move along the street, two Shorts with our wings just raised, mostly curled with the primaries touched by the ever so slightest breeze, the few people remaining on the street fade, almost imperceptibly, away.

But the end of the street isn't our goal; after just a few moments, we step sideways, as one, into a shallow alleyway hidden in the dank darkness of the grey buildings. As we turn, my hands flick up and toss the hood over my head, and in a moment Ezek has done the same. Then, with dark wings and dark jackets, we are the shadows - only visible from the slight movements occasionally perceived flickering in the depths of the shadow.

Like I say, we're not far from Short-Wing turf, so it's hardly ten minutes of quick walking before we're nearer familiar ground - the Steppes.

My gaze turns up to the myriad of buildings staggered above us. Hardly any two are the same height, and each is a slightly different shade of dusky grey or dusty charcoal or off-brown - they could be mountains if the tops weren't all flat and the sides all rigid. That's what we call them: the Steppes. Or the Steps, if you can't spell, but seeing as the Broad-Wings have their own Steps, we try not to get them confused. We have the Steppes, they have the Steps - and the Long-Wings got the Flats.

Each one suits each of us perfectly; they can have them. Our short, strong wings wouldn't be able to handle a gliding flight over those empty plains, and their long, pointy feathers would get stuck in the tightly-packed Steppes - yeah, we stick where we belong. But even though we're in familiar ground now, I don't relax - not a bit. Ezek seems a little relieved just to be out of the way of the Longs, but he knows well enough that we're a hazard to each other as much as we are to them. So we carry on, strides long and intentional, eyes on the ground, faces concealed by hoods and hands in pockets. And our wings, just like everyone else's, remain just out enough to show that we're unclipped - except the people who aren't. They walk with their wings folded tight against their backs, scowling at the ground, not even bothering to try their swag until they get their coverts back.

But even though we can cast off easier now, we don't - not yet. Instead, the two of us keep straight on, passing under the depths of shadow between the buildings until we come to Flixton. Outside the door, Gad is leant back, smoking - easily casual, but with his eyes watching every person who goes past. When he sees us he nods and flicks the ash off the end of his light; Ezek ducks past him and into the door, but I stop, leaning opposite for a moment, sniffing and rolling one shoulder.

I don't even have to ask, but then I already knew the answer. He's on stand, so he'll stay here for the rest of the night - but he'll tell the others where we are. So, with a little click, I duck into the doorway after Ezek, into the warm gloom.

Ezek's already got them riled; within the minute most of the crew have stubbed out their lights, grabbed any kit they need, and trampled toward the stairs. As one laughing, shoving rush we move up; I slip in amongst them, snapping and clicking and hollering, batting Ben on the back of the head and tripping up Micah. With a shout, he grabs at my leg as he falls, and I kick him away with a laugh, bating to keep my balance on one leg. Someone yells as they get a mouthful of feather, and a couple more of the crew have to catch themselves on the walls of the narrow staircase or bate, hard, as everyone falls and pushes and kicks around.

Somehow, we make it to the stop of the stairs - and that's when it really starts.

With the time it took to get up here, the sky's already turned to a deep, infinite cobalt above us. No stars yet, just endless blue.

East and north we turn, a dark mass of feather and limb, more to the centre, where he buildings get thick and the Steppes start to turn into the CBD - still pushing and shouting and laughing, we cast off from the edge of the low building, erupting into the red and gold sky.

On the edge of the horizon the sun's still glowing, just about - you can hardly see it from this angle, with all the Steppes blocking out the light, but it definitely is. All those bright, glimmering rays dance and lance around and highlight rough, tousled feathers and bare shoulders and dark, glossy hair. Kicking off hard, with an eruption of beating wings we launch into the sky. The calls echo across the streets.

This is it: a cast. That's what we prefer to call it, because this - the beginning, the cast itself - is the best bit. The eagerness; the laughing and the clapping and the clicking; the companionship and expectation and challenge.

And as we go we'll toss around and kick about a bit, but as we rise into the sky and leap from building to building we'll start to go silent. Our eyes will glow in the gloom from the edge of rooftops, and our rustling feathers will be heard as we pass, unbidden, overhead, and our gestures will go seen only be each other around the ranks. We will be focused - intent.

Because that's what this is: a cast. A hunt. And that's what we are: hunters. Predators.

And someone's probably going to die tonight.

North

I am going to kill Clay when this is over. I am going to go up to him and take hold of his throat and shake it from side to side until he is dead. No - I'm being foolish.

I can't strangle him. A knife will be quicker.

Save it for the Prelim, Pike rumbles, and with a nervous sound that isn't really a laugh I push my glasses up my nose. They slip back down almost immediately. I do not have a nose that works with my glasses.

I would save my violent feelings toward Clay for the Prelim, if a) I took part in the Prelim; b) I could actually ever beat Clay in a fair fight like the Prelim; or c) we wouldn't come out of the Prelim in exactly the same scenario as before, except that I had killed him (or, more likely, been killed). Excellent moral dilemma, the Prelim, always a popular with the school debating teams - thank goodness it's less popular around here than down in the other parts of the city. The school I went to was mostly Broad-Wings, and we all kept the same safe and promised opinion about the Prelim. Brutal. Not good. Encourages violence. But well, half of those kids went home and dreamt about their first Prelim anyway, just because... You know. Childhood hypocrisy and the innocence of the given opinion.

Very interesting moral dilemma. Excellent stance for debate on both sides. Unlike this. This is not an interesting dilemma, or indeed much of a debate. Any debate has a very strong opinion on this.

Bad. Baddy bad. Badder than a bad badman with a bad fashion-sense in Badville.

Bad. Adjective. Not good in any manner or degree; having a wicked character or moral; inadequate, incorrect or faulty.

Very clear. People are very clear about bad and this is very very very bad.

Shut up, North.

D-didn't say a- a word, Pike.

You were thinking far too much. It was annoying me.

I open my mouth to try and reply, decide it isn't worth the effort, and push my glasses up again with a sigh. Pike looks up and down the darkened street, each way, then shifts a little uncomfortably, though his wings remain pressed against his sides.

It's mid-June, so his coverts will be growing back soon - but it's clear to see for anyone who knows what a clipped wing looks like, and he still can't fly properly. His plumage is the dark outside and dappled white inside of rough-legged buzzard - common enough that he could get the primaries splinted easily.

Bad? Technically bad, but... It's not as if getting splinted after being clipped has a high rate of moral deviation compared to, say, what we’re doing right now.

Pike, I know, would also feel safer with the full function of all his capacities - but at least there's a fair few of us. Clay got the message a few days ago, and Pike and Bay weren't happy. Pike still isn't, but in the end Bay caved so... Here we are. Except Clay. Pike said it's unsecured, public, and suspicious. And he's clipped. And Clay is otherwise engaged. All in all, not ideal.

But it's not like we're really deep into Short territory or anything. Really, we're still in our land. Just a little near the border. Just really near the CBD and all the trouble and it's getting really dark really quickly and why are we still stood around here we should be going really quickly and oh God oh God oh God—

"Shut up, North."

S-sorry, P-Pike, but- but-- why d-do I have to c- to carry the p-package, any- anyway?

Normally I'm not this bad, but tonight...

Oh, he says blackly, turning to me with a heavy scowl. Would you rather carry this?

And he pushes the pistol into my stomach, grip-first, so the barrel's in his palm. I flinch, staring down at the black plastic – it drains the warmth from my stomach through my coat, I swear - and with a grunt Pike takes it back and pushes it back into his belt.

Yes, I would very much rather not be holding a gun - a very illegal, very dangerous, very shoot-y kill-y gun - however I would also rather not be holding... This. In fact, scrap that; I would rather not be here at all. I would like to be back at 31 Hazelcrest Road, finishing my Edgar Allen Poe collection, or even helping Clay to plan something else though really even that isn't looking so great right now. Although compared to here... So I would rather not be carrying the package, close to the border of Short-Wing territory, waiting for someone to turn up who isn't appearing and should have done quite a while ago, on a dark and cold and moonless night way more ominous than it should be in June. But, on the other hand, I would also not rather be holding the gun, or have my wings clipped, or be in the middle of Short-Wing territory, or, I don't know, be in the Disciplines, so really it's not looking that bad although we're all probably still going to die oh God—

Pike tenses, his shoulders tightening in the corner of my vision, and I spin the way he's looking as my feet pull me back against the wall. The others have all turned into the darkness, and several hands move surreptitiously toward their belts. For several seconds, there is silence. Then:

"Be at peace, fratres. If this is a fair deal then you have nothing to fear."

It is a fair deal, Bay calls from further down the darkness next to me. His voice rings down the street where the other sounds whisper from between buildings.

Then you have nothing to fear.

Smiling, the figure steps forward and from the shadows across the street emerge six or seven dark-clad figures. They step toward our men, shoulders tense and eyes wary, but the man at the front is still smiling broadly. He shakes hands first with Bay, then Pike, who moves to meet him. Then, he nods to me. I tense, going very still except for a series of rapid hitching of breaths, and Pike gestures me forward - though Bay holds out his hand to stop me after just a few steps. Uncertain, I glance between them; Pike does not override him.

The man raises his eyebrows, and Bay nods first to me, then him. Money for gear. Nice, equal, and easy.

But of course, smiles the stranger. He's wearing a suit, black and grey. It looks a bit out of place in the dank streets of the CBD, even in the dark. I wonder if I might see him around our territory proper.

I really don't want to.

He waves forward one of his men, who carries a box, broad and flat but covered with the same black cloth as mine. Bay obviously trusts him because he doesn't ask for it to be opened before they're swapped, and the same for the man - or maybe they both just want to get the hell out of here. I do too. Thank heavens for trust and open honesty. Clay will roll his eyes and tell Pike there was nothing to worry about and everything will be fine.

The man with the box passes it to the man in the suit, who holds it out not quite enough for Bay to reach it.

He drops as a black weight throws itself down upon him.

There is a single moment of shock because it's kind of like, Excuse me, but what the hell just happened? - and then the black mass rises and becomes a dark-skinned boy with shifting, unclipped dark-feathered wings, grinning and holding the knife dripping with the man in the suit's blood.

Which is when the rest of them leap down, not as silent as him because they're all laughing and whooping and jeering and shouting and clicking their tongues, and the men opposite shout out and run and our men start to yell and try to reach for their guns and a few shots echo, almost indistinguishable from the cacophony of yells and cries and the laughs of the Short-Wings that split through the quiet early summer air with that odd chill in it not quite right for this time of year...

Short-Wings. We're Broad-Wings and our business partners are - were - Broad-Wings, so these must be Shorts.

And only Shorts bound from the sky with knives flying and laughter echoing and feet hitting pavement and feathers splattered with scarlet blood black in the darkness.

My fingers fumble on the package. I turn but it's everywhere and there's a sick thundering in my ears. It's so dark and everyone is so indistinguishable from each other that all I can see is a series of writhing masses - men standing around a body kicking and jumping, someone pressing someone with a knife against the edge of a building, a gun being kicked out of its hand and across the street, blood bubbling up between Pike's teeth as his gun goes off, the shot echoing into the sky.

It seems to go on forever.

Bang.

The Short-Wing steps away from him. His chest is bare - stocky, muscled, ink scrawling lazily across abdomen, arms, collar. Around us is screaming and death and blood. Death.

My eyes focus on the calm unfurling of a black fern that wraps itself in a careful dance up his left arm, from his wrist to his shoulder and around to his elbow. It's pretty. There's an arrow on the point of his keel that makes a sharp line up to his throat. Further down, a jagged sun glares out across the desert of his ribs and stomach. There are more - he has taken part in many Disciplines. I want to focus on them but I can't make my eyes keep looking when he starts to move.

He's only carrying a knife - no gun. He doesn't even pick up Pike's when his foot bumps against it. He grins at me, a cheeky, boyish slash of teeth and glittering eyes that shine out in the dark in the way you imagine an animal's eyes must when you point a torch into the darkness and find it staring back at you.

The ringing has quieted. I don't think I can hear anything, actually: everything is quiet. He makes as if to turn away - as if killing me would be so easy it wouldn't even be worth the fun. But then his eyes catch sight of the package I'm still clinging onto as if it might act as a shield, as if it will keep out the screams, and suddenly his gaze is brighter and his smile is fiercer and something like a cackling laugh is bubbling up between his lips.

White noise explodes.

Oh God.

Jedekiah

There's a certain silence to the moments after a cast - the actual attack, not the casting bit itself. When we're getting ready we jump around and whoop and caterwaul and click our tongues, and as we approach our quarry we grow quiet and intense as instinct takes over and the predator in all of us crawls along the rooftops, but it's afterward, as running footsteps against tarmac fade away into the night, and the last bloodied knives slip from shaking hands, that really seems to absorb the night.

The time always comes, at some point or another. Sometimes it's almost immediately; if ten of us jump a single Long-Wing kid, he's going to get the shit kicked out of him, and if he's unlucky and someone has blood in their heart, he'll get his throat cut as well. Then, as his twitching fingers grow still and the blood finishes trickling down his chin, it hits straight away - the night is silent.

Curtains are drawn and the screams have stopped, and the streets are empty because no-one wants to see or be seen - and that's when it comes, right then, and suddenly the bloodlust fades a little because someone's standing there holding a scarlet wet knife, and dark eyes are flickering around a circle of hunters.

Sometimes, it comes later, when we're on the way out - if it's a bigger group or there's more than we expected or maybe if we just fancied the challenge, it's a proper fight. Everyone has knives. Everyone gets cut. Some of them don't make it - Short-Wings, Broad-Wings, it's all the same when you're jumping in the dark. You only know that they're not Longs because they're travelling in a pack, like you.

And then, when some of us are on the ground and not getting up, and some of them are on the ground, and maybe we're running away or maybe we're just standing in the carnage, there's no time for silence because the blood is still thundering in your ears and maybe someone gives a yell and you know more of them's coming, so you leg it, straight from the ground or onto a low roof and then away, and there's kicking and yelling and it's only as we vanish in a scattered group that it suddenly starts to hit, and everyone goes silent, and bloodied feathers fall slowly from the sky looking like they've just come out of the flames.

And sometimes it doesn't hit for a long time. If there's been a big rumble, and you're all there, and there's a cut down your chest or you've just pulled a knife from your wing, and you all run and shout and are exultant in victory, and when you get back to the den you share out what you've found, and there's laughter and boasting and smoke coils thick into the air - that's when it's slowest.

That's when the silence leeches in like a dense fog that chokes all of you until no-one can speak, and you can't look at anyone because you're holding your spliff next to your face and staring at your knees and it feels like the silence is holding you by the throat the same as that kid you just killed when he was trying to throttle you on the ground.

Some live in it. You know someone's a real hunter when they revel in that silence - tilt their head back and roll their shoulders and grin with teeth that are pink with blood, and take deep breaths of the smell of hot tarmac and fear.

Some think of it as their retribution, their time of repentance. They'll never do this again. Maybe it's their first cast, or maybe they're still new, and you can see that they're just trying not to cry as, whimpering, they scratch the invisible blood off their hands.

Some fold so deep into the silence that they don't seem to feel it at all - like Ezek. After a cast he goes real quiet. There's a long line around his throat, nearly a whole circle, from the knife; some of people have them, but he touches his after a cast. Sits there staring straight ahead, eyes completely empty, touching his neck - and you're glad that you can't see inside his head.

I hate the silence. It's not what we hunt for. We're Shorts: we're loud, noisy, we yell and push each other up the stairs and leap, whooping and jeering, from rooftop to rooftop.

We weren't made for silence.

It's silent now. There's two clouds in the air of the den: one from the weed, the other from the silence. I hate it but I can't break it - it's choking me so bad that if I opened my mouth all the air would be snatched from my throat and I'd be sat there, gasping as my eyes bulge from my head, clawing at my airways to try and breathe.

But there's something different about this silence, this intense moment of retrospect. For one, they're all facing me - but not looking at me. Either looking at the ground or, if they dare, staring at the package in my lap.

I took it off the pale little kid during the fight. We didn't know what was going on then - and we didn't expect them to have guns. That should've been a sign, when there were twice the amount of Broad-Wings we were expecting and some of them were in tight black suits and most of them had compact little pistols in their belts - but we don't think when we're like that. It's impossible: all you can feel is that primal lust, that burning, fizzing desire deep in your bones that makes your muscles quake with anticipation and your eyes shine bright and black with keen desperation. The Longs and the Broads don't get like that, I know it - they've had it bred out of them.

Finally, I dare to break the silence. It will choke me whether I speak into it or not.

This is big shit, I say. The point is kind of self-evident, but I say it anyway, just to say anything at all. The breath is squeezed out of me until someone else replies

No shit, Kiah, Matt drawls, rolling his eyes, and I bite my tongue at him. But neither of our hearts are in it, and we don't look at each other. We can't breathe for listening.

Asher waves his hand, coughing to draw attention as he takes a drag from his light, exhales the smoke through his nose, and kicks back in his seat. Just sell it like we normally would. We snatch all the time - dicks with gear are easy targets.

But Ezekiel is shaking his head, almost desperately. He hardly ever speaks in front of everyone - he hasn't talked to more than three people in years. So it takes him a while but no-one else can talk so we wait.

Th-they'll be on the look- on the look for something- something- something like tha-at. W-we can't sell without tellin' them- without tellin' 'em that we was the ones as st-stole it.

Asher snorts loudly and throws his arms in the air. An' what? We're shittin' ourselves at the sight of a couple of Broads now?

"Them weren't a couple of Broads, I snap. Din't you even look? Those ones with the suits, they looked official - almost Reg. If they was sellin' or buyin', it's big. An' we don't even know who the other guys were - Broad groups en't Short gangs. They have leaders an' organisations an' power - if they had guns, what's that tell you about them?"

How d'we even know it's gear!? Micah cries suddenly. He's agitated, twitching and breathing too rapidly. He smokes too much for someone so small - and it gets worse after a cast. We haven't even opened the damn thing yet!

He lunges at the package suddenly, and I'm on my feet as the snarl tears free. My wings open in warning, the feathers lifting like hackles, and one foot slams out; Micah's weight hits my foot and I swing to get my balance. He bates hard as he hits the ground and rolls away.

Tensions are already high; with a sudden seething snarl he's scrambling for his knife, and with a yell Ben and Matt grab an arm and a wing each, pinning him to the ground. Ben stamps on his hand and kicks the knife away. I pick up my chair and sit down again. I would scowl but my head is still spinning and there's something sick high up in my throat that might not all be from the silence. It's too late. I haven't slept in about two days, and dawn's nearly here - in as little as an hour people are going to be walking along that street, and they can't pretend to ignore the carnage when it's outside their front door in the daylight. And anyone who survived is going to be telling the Reg about a group of rabid Hajis who jumped them from the rooftops. We can get away with what we do because usually when you pounce Shorts or Longs the Reg doesn't care, and because there's so many of us that the best description any half-delirious witness can give could apply to any one of a few thousand Shorts. You're pushing it with Broads because most of the Reg are Broad-Wings and they look after their own - and something about the guns and suits and cool, organised, formal atmosphere is screaming at me that this is a jump we should be wishing we had never done.

We don't open it, I snap, pulling the package a little closer to my chest, and we already know what it is. Just sniff the damn thing. Stinks of gear.

There's a general nod of agreement. Micah's gone still, and Ben and Matt let him go. Sniffing, he stands up and wipes his nose on his arm; it's running thickly and his eyes are wet. Ben nudges him and punches his arm in a gentle, casual gesture. This isn't exactly out of the ordinary for us: you're always going to have to hold someone back from a fight at some point or another. For a second things are calm, but I can feel Asher stirring opposite me. Maybe he was hoping it wouldn't calm down so easy - I don’t normally agree with Asher, but it would’ve kept the silence away, at least.

So what do we do with it? he snaps, scowling as he lights up again, flicking the old dog-end onto the floor. I still say we sell - that's gotta' be worth some serious lick, an' there's plenty of gear gets tossed around all the time.

I shake my head again. Not this much, an' not by people like that. There's a moment of thought. I glance at Ezek, but he gives his head a little shake; even if he has an idea, he's not up to talking again for a while. He's still shaking from what just happened.

I take a breath, and stare at the package for a moment. A neat, round-edged grey brick, surprisingly heavy for its size, wrapped around with brown packing tape. Inconspicuous, if you don't know what packed-up gear looks like - and if you have no sense of smell at all. What if they use dogs to track it down? They can't follow it through the air, and our sense of smell isn't good enough to follow a day-old trail across the rooftops, but we aren't all that far away from the jump-site.

It needs to go.

We bury it, I declare, raising my eyes from the plain grey edges of the package. Hide it away 'til we know what's goin' on, or 'till this dies down.

Bury it where? Amos asks. I glance at Ezek again then let my eyes move around the room. People make a face like they're tryna' think hard, but no-one puts anything forward.

Then Ezek catches my eye.

One person does it, I say. No-one else knows.

North

What's he saying? He's saying something!

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping..."

Poetry. He's bloody well reciting poetry!

I'm not entirely sure why I recited the poem. Clay certainly doesn't seem to be happy about it.

Clay.

Wearily, I open one eye. I try to open both, but only one opens. Everything is blurred; I haven't got my glasses on.

Get me a knife, I manage to croak. My voice sounds terrible.

Clay's blurred face moves into view.

"What?"

Get me a knife. Long sharp one. Preferably rusty.

North?

I said that when this was over I would kill you. I assume that I am currently not in a position to get my own knife, so you will have to take on that responsibility for me. I start to sit up, then stop half-way with a quiet gasp. Grimacing, I shift my hands underneath me; half of me has the vague idea of pain, and the other half is completely numb. The door clicks shut as someone leaves.

Clay gives a nervous, relieved laugh, and I open my mouth to continue, a little more seriously this time.

I don't even know what in the Lord's good name happened, but I blame this fitfully and entirely on you and your bad planning. Next time you need someone to deliver your elicit go--

He puts his finger on my lips, and I go very still; it feels as though he's snatched the breath right out of my throat. I swallow slightly, and he removes his finger - but his face is close to mine now, so that I can see it more clearly. His expression is half-warning, half-concern.

You were attacked when you and the others were walking back from the library, he says, a little slower than a normal tempo of speech, and winks. At least, I think he winks. It's hard to tell with one eye and no glasses. He carries on before I can protest. Glenn managed to get away and phoned me, and I called the Enforcement. Your attackers had gone by that point - I arrived just before the Enforcement did and... Started to clean up a little. He is still looking at me very earnestly, unblinking, grey eyes holding mine with an acute intensity I cannot quite place.

Clean up. He had called the Enforcement, but he had waited until he could be sure that there was nothing to incriminate us on the scene before he did.

No incriminating evidence like guns. Or the package.

Oh God.

My heart skitters in my throat, and next to me - on my blind side - a machine starts up a frantic series of beeps.

Clay - they took-- they stole-- there was a boy and he took the--

I know. I know. It's fine. Very gently, with one hand on my chest and the other on my shoulder, he pushes me back down. A steel-grey feather brushes my arm; his wings matle us both. They took your laptop - but it's fine; we're going to get it back, and we'll find out who did this.

A nurse bursts through the door, her feathers ruffled and hair out of its dark, greying bun, and pauses when she sees Clay leant over me, his wings surrounding the bed, and me breathing heavily beneath the hand on my chest. The heart-rate monitor next to the bed is still bleeping warningly, but not as much as it was before.

Uncertainly, I look back up at Clay. He's watching the nurse, his grey eyes now cool and unyielding - devoid of the light with which he told me everything was going to be okay. My cheeks are flushed and red, and I stare down at my own blanketed chest, as the woman taps the machine. The alarm turns off, though my heart is still beating hard and scary. Mr. York is not to be exerted for several days until his condition improves, she scolds darkly, her eyes shooting both of us a terribly cold glare. Clay nods, but his lips remain hard and set and his eyes are icy as they follow her out of the room. His hand, until the door closes, feels almost possessive over my chest. It's right over my heart. It feels as if he's actually holding my heart. It makes me breathless.

He shifts, sitting back upright and straight on his chair.

I try to think of something to say as I lay back and stare at the ceiling. How can I phrase it? 'Laptop' must be code for the package that was stolen - but what else can I say? Clay is careful and clever: even if we're completely alone and there's no kind of bug in the room, he won't risk it.

I'm not good at this. What have I gotten myself into? It was only supposed to be this one time, just because Clay couldn't do it himself, and then-

Pike. The breath stumbles out of my mouth in a sound like a gasp - my throat fills in a jerk so hard I can't breathe.

The ground was covered in bloody feathers, all colours turned to the same wet dark mess. I only saw that after because Pike's throat splattered down in front of...

Clay's hand is on the side of my face. It's warm. His brow furrows and his eyes find mine; his palm is rough and it holds my cheek and his fingers play against the skin above my eye. Half my body is still numb but I can feel his fingers. It takes a little while but my breathing slows down again.

Where are the others? I ask when I can.

Code for: Who's dead?

But this isn't a secret code - it's just a superstitious one. If we don't say it then it might not be true.

Bay, Wolfe and Aspen are all in this ward. Glenn and Flint needed some patching-up but they've been discharged. Leif is in intensive care. Pike's gone.

His hand leaves my face and my head drops onto the pillow - my cheek is cold.

I lift my head and try to look; my eyes itch.

All I can see of Clay is the top of his head, bowed, hands wrapped around the back of his neck. With some difficulty, I turn onto my side. When I speak next, I know it sounds selfish - but I just want to take his mind off what just happened. It was bad, and now it's worse.

How bad am I? I ask, voice almost a whisper now it's so hushed. Clay sighs as he sits upright. He reaches across to the table next to the bed - leaning over me so that his pressed white shirt hangs down in front of my face, close enough to breathe in the smell - and picks up something, then hands it to me. My glasses. I struggle to get them over my face, and I don't realise why until he brings a mirror close.

White-blonde hair hangs down over one side of my face, unwashed and slightly dirty, though they've cleaned out the blood; the other half of my head is shaved. There's a line of stitches that runs from my temple to my eye; the eye itself, from eyebrow to cheekbone, is covered with an oval of gauze selotaped to my skin. That's why it's so hard to get my glasses on; they'll have to sit over the patch. Once this is managed, I sit upright - the painkillers must be fading now because there's less numbness and less suggestion of pain and much more actual and very real painy pain, though my mind is clearer. Half from lifting up the hospital robe and checking myself out, and half from Clay's careful holding of the mirror, I take in the damage.

Given that I expected to be dead, I really have come out lucky. There are a few more deep-ish cuts over my chest, shoulders and arms - all of the Shorts had knives - and one other shallow one through my abdomen.

My left hand looks as though it's been stamped on, and it hurts to breathe deeply; the skin of my chest is puckered and an ugly, bruised shade of puce. When I run my fingers over the bandage that holds the left side of my chest, Clay says that they think I was kicked repeatedly in the side; a few ribs are broken or fractured.

Any cut deeper than a skin wound is bandaged or plastered, and my hand looks like something that should come out of a grave in a zombie film.

Hesitantly, dread beating in my heart, I extend one wing to the side of the bed, trying not to knock anything off the cabinet, and check everything. The feathers haven't been very well cleaned, but again there's no blood - though some of them have been ripped out and have plasters over the weeping holes where the stalk sat in the flesh, and many of the primaries are broken. The worst have been splinted and glued; it's efficient and well-done, but they obviously had a short supply of Ferruginous feathers, because the replacements are the dark brown of a common buzzard or Harris' hawk. The difference isn't noticeable when my wings are folded and only the backs can be seen; the outside of my wings look like the average Broad-Wing's buzzard colouring. But the inside of the primaries are naturally an almost falcon-like cream, and the dark buzzard feathers really don't cut the mustard on that front.

I make a note to donate next time they have an out-of-moult feather drive at the hospitals - when the summer starts proper and everyone drops their feathers, most people donate and there's a good supply if any replacement needs to be done. But they run out quickly, and most people, if they lose a feather at any other time of year, just throw it out the same way they would a clipped toenail or stray eyelash. But I might add that no-one has ever had to go home with their eyelashes half-ginger.

With a small sigh I roll back, pushing my glasses up my nose again. Clay is silent, watching me with grey eyes low. He's quiet.

I can't think of anything to say, so I just take his hand under the white hospital blanket. He seems surprised, and looks down at the shape of our hands under the cover - but then he gives a small, tight, sad smile, and gives a small squeeze.

It's fine, I murmur. The drugs are starting to kick back in a little now, and my eyelids are fluttering as I drop down into a laying position once more. If he's about to open his mouth to respond, I cut him off before he does. The moult's coming soon. They'll drop out and... Grow back nice... Anyway...

The last thing I hear in consciousness is his quiet laugh. The last thing I feel is the fingers of his other hand taking off my glasses.

Daneel

"An' then, she shot him right t'rough the chest - one bullet, straight in, bam. Din'ya, Dany? Din'ya shoot him straight off - no hesitation, no thinkin' 'bout it, just bam right there, right once, right t'rough the chest. Din'ya, Dany?"

Aiee! Kamar, leave your sister be! Can't this family sit at the table quiet for just a few minutes?

Ta-ta, Mma, you act like you not proud of li'l Dany for winnin' her first Prelim! Ain't you proud, Mma?

Daneel knows I am proud. She does not need the story told again and again just to remind he'.

Kamar, you just don't want us to remember your first Prelim. You get your shit kicked!

Ta-ta, Nnamdi, you will not use that language at our family's table! You have no respect, eit'er of you! Now close both you mouths or I will give your hides a walloping you will no forget in a hurry!

Kamar and Nnamdi both shut up, but they make faces at each other, and when Mma isn't looking Nnamdi bites his tongue at Kamar. Kamar is the man of the family because we have no Pa, and no-one else would be allowed to cheek him like Nnamdi does - but Nnamdi don't care, because he knows that Kamar would never wallop him for it like he would anyone else. We look after family.

And it's true that Kamar did get beat on his first Prelim - and anyone who brought it up would get a smack for it too, if it wasn't Nnamdi. But Nnamdi knows he can get away with it. I could if I wanted, but I don't. I don't like Kamar even pretending to be angry. Nnamdi makes him on purpose.

The table gets quiet after that, because even Kamar shuts his mouth when Mma tells him to. Kamar doesn't listen to anyone except Mma - no-one tells Kamar what to do.

He's an Elder: he gets to boss about the Youngers, and he's got more cred than a Face.

And he's important; half of the deals that go down wouldn't go down without him. He worked hard to get where he is, and lots of people would like to see him out - but Kamar won't go easy. He's hard. He isn't afraid of Shorts, and no-one's ever tried to jump him, not recently. Nnamdi acts like a Younger sometimes, all cocky - but never around Mma, not when she gets serious angry on him - though he don't have to run jobs like the Youngers have to. If we didn't have Kamar, he'd be out on the street selling, and he'd have to take part in the Disciplines for his cred. But he doesn't have to.

We look after family.

Jala walks in without knocking, calling out as she sticks her head through the dangling beads covering the door to our living room. Her hair is long and braided, and it falls down on either side of her face; there are beads tied onto the ends, and they jangle like the beads in the doorway when she turns her head. Jala's real smart - and beautiful, with her feathers all a dusky brown. She's a proper girl for Kamar; he wouldn't have anyone less. Long-Wing men, they like to have smart girls. Anyone can make themselves beautiful, but it takes a lot for a girl to be smart like Jala.

Mma clicks her tongue with a sharp Ta-ta! and throws her arms in the air as Kamar puts down his fork and stands up. Can't this family have one meal toget'er? she cries, but Kamar waves her away.

Ta-ta, Mma, I have impo'tant business t'is morning.

I look at Jala. She's usually smiling, and she always gives me this little grin with her eyes all bright and dark - but today her face is set, and her gaze flicks nervously to Kamar as she gestures out of the doorway.

He walks through immediately, the jangling of the beads disguising his footsteps, but Jala glances at us before she follows him.

I go back to staring at my plate, pushing a baked bean around with my fork, as she talks in her low, husky voice to him, whispering quick enough that I think she might be talking Somali - there's so many languages spoken around here that nearly everyone can at least pick up nearly everything, but usually we talk in English unless it's something really urgent.

After several seconds, I sense movement as Kamar grabs her arm, muttering something in a worried question. Jala responds, and there's a loud curse from the corridor. A moment later the front door slams shut.

Mma stands up after a few seconds. She's got her eyes focused on the ground as she picks up her plate, and then mine and Nnamdi's, even though we haven't finished yet, and hurries over to the sink. She turns on the tap and starts scrubbing, hard, without putting in any detergent. I glance at Nnamdi. He's looking at the doorway Kamar left by, shoulders tense, feathers quivering as if with static.

He pushes his chair back, and leaves the table without asking - but Mma isn't paying any attention. She's scrubbing, feverishly, distractedly, and she doesn't even look around when he leaves through the beads in the doorway.

After a second I slip out after him, feet light on the threadbare carpet, wings lifted a little. He's stood in the corridor, staring at the coat-rack next to the door - a line of nails Kamar hammered in a few years ago to get rid of the clutter on the bannister. My jacket's up there, and Mma's big waterproof coat, and Nnamdi's jacket, and Kamar's as well - he's left it behind. I glance out the frosted glass on the front door; it's overcast and grey and ominous. He likes that coat. He wouldn't want to, for instance, get blood on it.

I stand next to Nnamdi's shoulder as he turns out the pockets of Kamar's coat. They're empty. He glances at me, jaw set.

Kamar's taken his blackjack as well as his knife.

North

I know that most people would be restless if they had to stay in bed for three days, but I don't really mind it. The smell of bleach is a little sharp, and the sounds of the hospital carry on constantly all day and night, but Clay brought my books in the morning, and I can at least sit up to read and work. I asked him for my laptop when he came without it, but he just stared at me and said, in a very slow and clear voice, that it had been stolen when we were attacked last night. I'd forgotten; 'laptop' was code for 'the package', which meant that for the sake of candor I couldn't then have my laptop ten minutes later. After a moment of thought, I asked Clay if I could borrow his laptop, but he just glared at me. We never share our computers, he pointed out, which just made me sigh. I was trying to use 'Clay's laptop' as code for 'North's laptop', but that clearly wasn't happening - and there was a doctor in the room at the time, so I didn't correct him. It gave me a good excuse to finally finish my Edgar Allan Poe collection, anyway, without any technological distractions.

In fact, I read an incredible amount in that time.

Every time I stop, I think of Pike and I can't breathe.

I'm just finishing A Dream Within a Dream when the Enforcement officer enters.

The door opens with a sharp sound and gunshots are echoing around the room and my heart thunders like it's going to explode - the nurse tried to turn the lights off on the first night and I had to beg her to put them back on because the darkness brings…

I sit up, pushing my glasses up my nose where they had slipped while I was reading. It's just a Broad man. Uniformed Enforcement, except that his coverts are shaved: this man does not work in the field. An officer who patrols the streets has to be able to fly well: if he's shaved, then he doesn't leave his office very often. Which means he's important.

Where's Clay? I've never had to