The Risen World Box-Set: Risen World

By Andy Graham

The worst monsters are the ones you never suspect.

 

An angel. A crow. A demon. A wolf.

 

Four creatures. Four books. Four twists.

 

An Angel Fallen

 

When an angel falls from the heavens, a young man faces a choice - risk everything and help, or stick with the devil he knows.

 

A Crow's Game

 

What would you do if someone's life depended on the roll of a dice? Would you roll? What if that person meant the world to you? What then?

 

A Demon Risen

 

When Jaimie Fletcher's twin girls are snatched from under her nose, she faces a race against time to save them from a deadly fate.



 

A Wolf Stalking

 

Joe Urban has a choice: save his daughter or the world. He can't do both and he's running out of time.

 

Pick up the Risen World box-set now and experience four thrilling supernatural tales with a twist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Graham
• Release date: Apr 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393509325

Book preview

The Risen World

THE RISEN WORLD

BOOKS 1 - 4

ANDY GRAHAM

CONTENTS

Stay up to date

AN ANGEL FALLEN

An Angel Fallen

The Risen World: Book Two

A CROW’S GAME

Intro

A LOST BOOK

Bridge One

THE DREAMER’S TRIANGLE

Bridge Two

TURN THE DARK ON

Bridge Three

THE VAMPIRE’S CELLAR

Bridge Four

A BESPOKE KIDNAPPING

Bridge Five

THE LAST KING

Bridge Six

THE GAME

Outro

The Risen World: Book Three

A DEMON RISEN

On the Nature of Fear

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

The Risen World: Book Four

A WOLF STALKING

The Tallest Man

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Copyright & Disclaimer

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AN ANGEL FALLEN

A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER

AN ANGEL FALLEN

Falling. Fighting. Screaming.

With feathers burnt.

Fighting. Spinning. Turning.

Wings torn.

Spinning. Burning. Swearing.

In pink flames lined with red.

Burning. Cursing. Flailing.

Through nine levels.

Cursed.

Fallen.

He couldn’t hit the ground, couldn’t hit the ground, couldn’t hit the⁠—

Mike lurched awake, beating at invisible flames on his sleeves. Blood hammered in his ears. His blood. That noise! It was in the roots of his teeth, rattling his skull.

Fallen.

Sense snaked through the half-conscious dream fear. He wasn’t on fire. The noise was his phone rattling on the table. It turned in slow circles. He counted nine and reached for it. Raph, he read. His thumb hovered over the green icon.

You gonna pick that up, Mikey? his mother yelled from the hall. I got one of my heads again. Feels like someone’s scratching my eyeballs out.

Damn it, he muttered and thumbed the phone awake.

You coming? The voice was disembodied and tinny.

Not sure I should.

You wussing out on me, Mikey?

Mike glanced towards the door. His mouth tasted of sulphur. Nah, just that⁠—

You’re wussing out on me.

We almost got caught last time.

Almost isn’t the same as got. It was only a dog, not like it was a person. Anyways, your old man could’ve made it go away, like with the drunk-driving charge. You coming?

Mike reached for the remote. The drone of old blues tunes was drowned out as the TV wailed into life. A giant of a man, all beard, muscle, and vengeance, hurled a hammer at his foes. A splatter of cartoon blood dripped down the inside of the glass. Dunno, he said.

Wuss.

It’s getting out of hand, Raph. Squirrels were bad enough, but Uri’s cat and that stray?

I’m bored. You’re a wuss. It’ll be fun.

I had to throw my jacket away. Ariel couldn’t clean it.

The line crackled.

Who? Raph asked.

Ariel, the maid.

The foreigner? The chick who used to be a doctor? The contempt in Raph’s voice was obvious.

Who else? We only have one maid.

And one cleaner.

She quit.

Another one? Raph sniggered. Your dad had a pop at her as well?

Why had the cleaner quit? Mike had stopped asking why none of the help lasted more than a few months. Except Ariel. Mike squeezed his eyes shut. Ariel’s olive-skinned face floated in the pink light behind his eyelids; kind, handsome, and youthful despite being in her forties and — he thought with a grimace — working for his parents for eighteen years.

Bloody foreigners, Raph said.

Ariel’s been in this country longer than you have.

She’s still foreign. And foreign doctors can’t be up to much if all they can do over here is chop, cook, and clean. Send them back or turn them into slaves, that’s what I’d do.

In a lull of animated violence on the screen, Mike could hear his own breath hissing in the phone. Ariel doesn’t deserve that, he wanted to say. What came out was, She said Mum would be furious about the blood on my jacket.

Wuss.

Leave it. I’m not coming. I’ll call you tom⁠—

Click. The line went dead. On the TV, the bearded giant laughed, a huge belly laugh with hands on hips and quivering whiskers, as his mortal enemy tried to pick up a hammer that seemed fixed to the ground.

The phone buzzed into life.

Raph.

The letters seemed bigger this time. Mike’s finger twitched. Then, with a sigh, he dropped the phone on the table. I’m not playing your games no more.

The phone clattered on the glass, buzzing in angry circles. Mike reached for the remote and turned up the TV.

Michael!

The door slammed open. Light flooded the room. Flashes of animated colours strobed across the walls, framing Mike’s mother in flickering shadows. She was wrapped in a towel. The gold stitching along one edge was frayed. One eye was lined with mascara. She was clutching an eyeliner pencil in a jewellery-encrusted hand.

Cheap. My mother looks cheap.

I said pick up the phone, not turn up the TV as well as that bloody morose stereo of yours.

Didn’t hear you.

She stamped over to the TV. The picture disappeared into a tiny white dot. You going to behave like this when my guests get here?

You going to be drunk when your guests get here? My mistake, you’re awake, that means you’re drunk. He gestured to the eyeliner pencil. Where’s the gin, Mum? What did you promise it so it’d let you put it down long enough for you to put your make-up on?

He reached for the remote. She snatched it out of his hand and hurled it across the room. I’m warning you, young man.

Or what? You’re gonna get hammered again like you did last night, and the night before, and the night before that, and the night⁠—

How dare you talk to me like this?

Why not? You won’t remember in the morning.

Just you wait till⁠—

Your father gets home. Yeah, whatever. He’ll be late tonight. It’s gym night. He goes after he’s finished screwing his mistress so he can wash her sweat-stench off.

Under the layers of rouge, pink roses of embarrassment and shame bloomed in his mother’s cheeks. Your father is going away for a few days on a business trip.

Mike snorted. Business?

He is an important man, a respected member of the community. He deserves your respect, as do I. Her voice was a knife edge away from breaking into a scream.

Who do you deserve respect from? Me or the man who married you and promised to be faithful to you?

With a visible effort, she controlled herself and smoothed her towel down over her belly. Men stray sometimes. You’ll understand that when you’re a man⁠—

I’m eighteen.

And it’s up to us women to try harder.

Why did you bother making a promise not to sleep around when you got married? A promise made in front of God. I thought folk like you believed in that over the law? Or is that only when Dad’s up for re-election?

Michael!

Or using his morals as a stick to beat his opponent?

Her mouth flapped open and closed. He bought you a car for your birthday.

Yeah, and it made all the front pages. Funny that.

With a sniff and a tilt of her head, she said, You’re too young to be cynical.

You’re too old not to be.

Now you listen here, young man.

No! You listen! I’d rather have a dad than a car. All this rubbish about working hard to provide for a family is an excuse not to be with his family, an excuse not to put in the real work of being a parent.

His mother went pale. Mike snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t realised he was shouting.

The eyeliner pencil was twitching in her right hand. Mike called it her drunk hand; the left was her sober hand. When she started drinking (around 11 a.m.), she used her sober hand to hold the glass. At some point during the day (usually by 6 p.m.), she’d switch to her drunk hand. (His mum was right-handed; she kept control of that hand for longer.) It was the point when he knew that, though outwardly tipsy but harmless, inside she was a reeling mess of self-loathing. When she needed both hands to hold the gin (usually midnight, or 8 p.m. on his dad’s ‘gym nights’), Mike would end up peeling her off the floor, put her to bed, take her heels off, wash off as much of her make-up as he could, and give her a goodnight kiss.

The phone buzzed into life again, shattering the silence. His mother yelped. She looked on the verge of tears, though he couldn’t remember the last time she had cried. Maybe the alcohol had dried up all the tears?

He thumbed the phone to speaker setting.

You coming? asked Raph’s voice.

The shock faded from his mother’s face to be replaced by something halfway between fear and hate.

Don’t you even think it! she whispered.

Mike stared, unflinching, into his mother’s blue eyes. I’m coming.

Cool, Raph said. I’ll bring the hammer.

Mike’s feet were damp. His toes rubbed, wetly, against each other as he walked. He fancied he could hear them squeaking. He left Raph rummaging through a hedgerow and found a rock to sit on. It was cold and greasy with moss.

Fucking nothing, Raph muttered and lashed out at a branch with his hammer. And we got to walk back ’cos you didn’t drive.

Car’s out of fuel. And it still smells of weed and perfume after my dad used it to ‘nip to the shops’ last week.

Raph slumped down next to him. He didn’t seem to notice, or at least be bothered by, the slimy wet moss staining the rock. Seriously, what’s that all about? I’d kill for a car like yours.

You’d kill for less than that.

Yeah, you know what I mean. And you’re being a wuss again.

Pack it in, already.

A wuss with no wheels. That’s way worse.

Mike checked his watch. After the argument he’d had at home, he reckoned his mum would be well past needing two hands for her drink. Let’s go. We found a hedgehog. Wasn’t that enough?

Raph held up the hammer. A patch of red darkened the metal face. Just a hedgehog, man. Where’s the fun in that? Didn’t know they could squeal like that, though. That was kind of cool. If you’d brought your four by four, we could have driven over to Uri’s farm. He’ll be asleep by now. We could’ve . . .

A breeze hissed through the leaves. Mike stopped listening. Would his mum have passed out on the sofa? What of her friends, would they be talking over her in loud whispers as they plundered her spirits cabinet? Or would they already be leaving, wrapped in titters, smirks, and pitying glances? What about Dad? Was he really on a business trip? If not, would he be back yet?

Dad usually timed it to perfection when Mum had friends round. He’d sweep into the room, his mouth leaking apologies for his tardiness, spouting platitudes of how much his wife sacrificed for the country’s benefit, and how much she kept him on the straight and narrow. Then, in a feast of flesh-pressing toothy smiles, devilish good looks, pecks on cheeks (and slaps on the other cheeks when he thought no one was looking), he’d disappear to his office to do what had to be done for the greater good.

Mike’s sigh was whipped away by a gust of wind. The hissing leaves became a creak of branches. The clouds were ripped away from the moon. It bathed the boys in a baleful light.

Raph nudged him in the ribs. What do you reckon? That would be good, wouldn’t it?

What would?

Uri’s farm. We’d have to do his dog first, stop it from barking. Maybe we could poison it. He paused, his hand tightening on the hammer. You weren’t listening, were you?

Mike ran a hand through his hair; it snagged on one of the unbrushed curls. He yanked it free with a tug that brought tears to his eyes. Yeah, I was, but . . . He squinted up at the moon. Amongst the shadows and craters was a pinprick of pink light.

Cool, once we poison Uri’s dog, you break its legs.

Me? Mike asked.

Yeah, man. You can’t just watch all the time, it’s not like we’re killing them.

You broke the last dog’s legs, cut its ears off, and buried it alive! I don’t know if I feel more guilty for not stopping you or not killing that thing.

Raph’s face contorted into a grimace. Fuck you, Mike. Run with me, or you go back to that silicon-infused peroxide drunk that thinks she’s your mother.

Back off. Mike met Raph’s gaze. His reflection stared back at him - hair as dark as eyes that sat like drops of oil in night-darkened skin.

Or what? Raph’s finger caressed the claw end of his hammer.

The wind burst through the hedgerow with a keening wail. It brought with it the taste of burning hair.

Mike’s head dropped. Just leave my mum out of this, OK?

Raph flicked his fringe across his forehead. His eyes sparkled like icicles in the moonlight. Yeah, sure. She’s cute, your mum. Got blue eyes, that’s important in a person, you know, shows good breeding. Not your fault you take after your dad.

Mike sniffed and wiped his nose. Leaves and dust swirled at their feet.

Hey, you’re not crying, are you? Raph asked.

‘Course not. It’s just that smell, makes me wanna puke, you know?

That’s country smell for you, that is. Damp fields, cheap spirits, and cow shit. Makes you grow big and strong. Raph stood, stretched his arms out wide, and inhaled deeply. A drop of blood slid out from the knuckles clamped around the hammer shaft. Get a mouthful of — Man! He hawked and spat a gob of phlegm into the hedgerow. "That is rank. It’s like something burning or rotting. How come I only just smelt that now?"

Wind changed, or maybe I got a more sensitive nose? Mike suggested.

Nah, maybe it’s because . . .

Because I can smell how many gins my mum’s had. Because I can tell the difference between the perfumes my dad comes home dressed in, despite his attempts to sweat and shower them off in the gym. Or maybe because I’m thinking about more than the next kill.

Because what? Mike asked, his eyes fixed on the red stains on Raph’s hammer.

Raph didn’t finish his sentence. He pointed upwards. What’s that?

The pink pinprick of light on the moon was larger. Shapeless but moving. The clouds around it stretched out in ragged, thinning lines.

Reckon it’s a comet?

No, it’s— A flash of light exploded in Mike’s head.

"Falling.

"Fighting.

"Screaming.

"Turning.

"Tearing.

"Burning.

Flailing.

The words, as formless as the fleeing clouds, melted into a drawn-out wail that felt like razor blades sliding into his ears. He clamped his hands to his head and bent double. Make it stop! Make it stop!

What?

The words. Noises. That voice!

I can’t hear any voices, Raph said. You got super-sensitive ears to go with that bloodhound nose of yours?

Mike dropped to his knees. Please, he moaned.

I can’t hear any— Raph’s head whipped round to stare at the heavens. Fuck.

The falling dot was closer. A spinning mass of vicious colours: red and crimson and pink and gold split by ugly black lines. The scream in Mike’s head was overlaid by the sound of rushing air, as if all the air in the world was being sucked through the eye of a needle.

Raph’s fringe whipped at his face, a blonde cat-o’-nine-tails. The wind slammed into him, sent him spinning into the hedge. A gust of air caught Mike’s jacket and flipped him onto his back. His head and ears were full of screams and yells. A storm of lightning and thunder crackled behind his eyes.

There!

Mike heard a voice that was everything and nothing at once: a choir of children and the bass rumble of men, the wail of babies and the wordless croon of their mothers. It threatened, soothed, reprimanded, encouraged, praised, and begged for mercy in one word: there.

Mike, his face being lashed by twigs, dust, and dirt, staggered to his feet. Where? he yelled.

There! This time the voice was unmistakably Raph’s. He pointed. Trails of red streaked off the hammer handle onto Raph’s pale skin, like storm rain on a windshield. Look!

The kaleidoscope of falling colours streaked out of a midnight sky that seemed to be recoiling from the comet. Mike caught a brief, impossible glimpse of wings, sparks, and then, bleeding screams, something hit the ground.

The midnight sky turned the colour of summer, laced with the smell of roses and dew; tidal waves of earth rolled through the hills around the boys; the maniacal babble in Mike’s head threatened to split his skull in two; and, as reality screamed at itself, something popped. The sky flashed from a boiling pinky-red back to midnight blue.

It left complete and utter silence.

What in the holy fuck was that? Raph, wide eyed and delirious, collapsed next to Mike. It was like every orgasm everyone has ever had. All at the same time! In-fuckin-credible. He glanced down at his trousers and a stain of red coloured his cheeks. Might have to go home soon, though, he added, as he untucked his shirt. He leapt to his feet. Not too soon, though. He pointed — somehow he had managed to hang onto his hammer — and said, First, we go check out what that was.

I—I think we should go home.

No way, man. Look. Raph pointed again, his face joyous. It’s between us and Uri’s farm. One klick, tops.

An uncontrollable shudder ran through Mike’s body. His fingers gripped the earth. Dirt and mud scratched at the soft flesh under his nails as he tried to stop the world from bucking him off.

I think we should go, Mike said. Behind him, about fifteen minutes’ tramp across fields and through copses of trees, was the edge of his parents’ garden. About that distance in front of him was Uri’s farm. It was far enough away for his mother to claim all the benefits of rustic living without having to deal with the smell. And on the days the wind shifted? Mother closed the windows. Or drank more. Usually both.

Raph dragged Mike to his feet. Under the shock of electric-blonde hair, the older boy’s ice-blue eyes were filled with a red lust. I told you earlier. You run with me or you run home to mummy.

I dunno, Raph.

I do, Raph replied. "We, that means both of us, are going there."

The two boys crested the top of a small hill not far from where the wind had upended them.

Looks like waterfall made of stars, Mike murmured as he gazed across the fields.

Just under half a kilometre away, a streak of white-and-black specks trailed from the sky down to the ground. The star fall ended at a mound of colours and silence that throbbed in time with the pulse in his head. Each swell brought a distant cacophony of voices in languages that were living, dead, killed, and as yet unborn. A rash of gooseflesh erupted across Mike’s arms as he somehow knew this to be the unutterable truth.

It’s incredible! Raph said.

It’s foul. I’m not going near that thing.

You want me to come round and tell your mum what you’ve been up to?

What’s to stop me telling yours?

Raph flicked his hair out of his eyes and stared, transfixed, at the blob. My mum doesn’t care. She’s not married to a local congressman with international aspirations, neither. He grabbed Mike’s arm. C’mon. You keep telling me how bored you are, we’ve gotta go check this out. We could make the national paper this time.

We made the national paper last time, at least the remains of the stray dog you smashed to bits did. We were lucky to get away with that.

I reckon your dad had a word with the local editor.

Still don’t like it. C’mon, let’s go.

Raph ignored his friend’s protestations. We could have our pictures in the paper this time if we found something cool, like a foreign spy-satellite. That’d be awesome. It’d probably get me laid too. He punched Mike on the arm in a manner that was barely on the side of friendly.

Raph set off at a fast walk. The hammer was gripped in his left hand, hanging heavy and still, despite Raph’s agitated gait. As the gloom gathered around his disappearing friend, Mike shivered and pulled his jacket tighter. Now what? he muttered. Don’t wanna go see this thing. Don’t fancy walking home on my own either.

Tendrils of mist snaked out from under the hedges. They probed at the ground, recoiled, and twisted their way over to Mike’s feet. They wrapped around his ankles in grey lassos. He kicked one off. A second wound its way up his trouser leg, cold and clinging. The wind kicked up. Dust pitter-pattered against his shoes. The mist, untouched by the moving air, slid forwards like mercury.

Hold up! he yelled, and hurried into the night.

Where the trail of fallen stars finished, the two boys found the blob that had transfixed Raph. It was a sucking, pulsing mess of the senses, as if part of reality had been vivisected. It hurt to look at. Heat and cold were coming off it in waves. As they watched, the blob shrank from the size of a barn to the size of a shed, and then a large box. Or a coffin for two, Mike thought.

It’s beautiful, Raph whispered, as he hunkered down in front of it. Colours oozed over the surface, like a stained-glass window melting. It smells like heaven.

Mike’s stomach convulsed. What the hell does that mean? It smells like burnt hair to me.

Raph’s answer was to stretch out a hand. A palm print appeared in the mass of swirling colours. The closer Raph got, the deeper the print went.

Raph, Mike said. His voice cracked. He stared around. The lights of Uri’s farm blazed in the distance. Dogs were howling, men shouting, animals lowing. We need to go.

Go then.

I . . . He was trapped between the urge to flee and the paralysis of fear.

Watch then. The words appeared in Mike’s head. The hairs on his body stood erect like needles. He jumped, looked around, but saw no one. Raph shuffled forwards on his knees, a rapturous expression on his face.

Raph’s mirror-image handprint was arm deep now. The tunnel it left in the bubble was lined with swirling rainbows streaked with midnight.

This is everything, Raph whispered.

Don’t do it!

I have to.

Mike fumbled in his pocket. I’m going to get help. My phone— His words were lost in a groan of pain. His head was filled with screams and laughter. His legs buckled. He crashed to the ground, and rolled on to his back. The streak of fallen stars was gone. There was a hole in the sky where the night was missing.

Everything, Raph repeated.

Mike scrambled to his knees to see his friend’s hand touch the bubble. It imploded with the hiss of a scythe slicing through wind.

In front of the boys, lying in a pool of slime, in a shredded white dress, was a figure that could have been made of porcelain. It was curled in a fetal position, its fingers interlaced as if it was begging or praying. Wrapped around the body were two giant wings. There were holes in the wings, blackened rents amongst the feathers. Some of the feathers were still smouldering. Black smoke sank to the ground off crystal-white wing tips.

What in hell? Mike whispered.

Is it dead?

No.

How do you know?

A wing twitched.

It moved! Raph pointed.

Told you it was alive.

There was a creak. The boys shuffled closer to each other. They grasped at each other’s clothes, pulling themselves closer. The thing turned, slowly, agonisingly, until it was lying on its back.

It’s beautiful.

It’s repulsive.

Blonde hair, slick with mud and blood, was plastered across a face that glittered like diamond. Spidering across the skin was a cobweb of red cracks that hissed steam.

What happened to it? Mike asked.

The eyes snapped open, eyes that held boiling blue fire. A voice resonated in Mike’s mind. Each syllable flared in time with the pulsing fire in the cracked alabaster face.

I fell.

The boys fled.

Mike sat bolt upright in his bed, hugging himself. His room was in semi-darkness.

What happened? He was fully clothed. "Why’ve I got my shoes on? And what is that smell? Is Mum trying to make toast again? His face twisted into a sour smile. ‘I burn it to add flavour, dear,’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘Can’t be bothered with all that fancy stuff. If it takes longer to cook than to eat, then it’s not worth the bother, especially when I can pay someone to do it for me.’"

He threw his silk sheets onto the floor, tugged his sneakers off, and, with a shrug that combined a cocktail of emotions — glee, guilt, apathy, and attitude — only an eighteen-year-old could manage, hurled them onto his bed.

It’s what the maid’s paid for, he muttered. We’re giving her a job, that’s what Dad says: ‘Dr Ariel will fix your beds and fix mum’s heads’. His dad meant headaches, but Mike wondered if it was a subtle dig at her mental health, too.

Dr Ariel’s situation in this country had never made sense to Mike. She didn’t have the right visa (or surname: Lopez), so she had to make ends meet by changing sheets and cleaning someone else’s toilets while the local hospital closed because of a staff shortage.

He picked out a lump of mud from under his nails. Where did I get all this mud? And — he gagged — seriously, is Mum drunk already? What is she burning⁠—

"Tearing.

"Turning.

"Screaming.

"Fighting.

Falling.

A face the colour of moonlit snow whispered words in his mind.

Mike leapt to his feet. I fell! he shouted, tripped over his own feet, stumbled, and crashed to the floor with a thud that whiplashed through his body. He was up in an instant, barrelling through the door, and taking the stairs three at a time.

Mum! Mum! Are you OK?

He barged into the kitchen. It was empty. His reflection was scattered across the stainless steel surfaces.

Mum?

Silence.

Mum? he called again, quieter this time.

Nothing. Not even the tick-tock of the cuckoo clock his dad had got from one of his constituents. The green flashing display of the microwave was dead. The mindless hum of the radio that had been on since they’d moved in was silent.

(The radio’s my second best friend, dearest, his mother had said. After Mr Juniper.)

Power cut. A woman’s voice.

Mike yelped, jumped, and fell to the floor. His feet slipped on the tiles as he scrabbled backwards.

Power cut, Ariel said again. Her thick black braid twisted around her head in an intricate serpentine pattern. I’ve changed the fuses, but it didn’t work. I can’t wake your mother⁠—

Is she?

Drunk. I put her in the recovery position with the pink bucket by her head. The one with a sunflower⁠—

That’s her favourite. Mike forced a smile and dusted himself off. It belonged to her nephew before he disappeared.

Your mother needs help.

Is she OK?

She’ll have a hangover that would make the devil teetotal.

Mum could outdrink Lucifer.

Ariel crossed herself.

I didn’t think you doctors were superstitious, Mike said, a teenage sneer rearing up on his face.

We’re not; we’re not stupid, either.

Mike slumped. Ariel’s hands rested on his shoulders and gently pulled him upright.

Stand tall, always. Ariel had taught him that since he was a baby. He pulled some milk out of the fridge. Sorry. I had an odd night. Weird dreams. Dreamt I was-

Falling.

Fighting.

Screaming.

With feathers burnt.

He knuckled his forehead. Heard from Dad?

Not back yet. His bed hasn’t been slept in. His bathroom is unused as well. A grimace flitted across her face.

When did the power go out? Mike asked.

Before I got here. I guessed you were sleeping. Were these weird dreams bad?

Not really sure.

The front door thudded. The bottle slipped out of Mike’s hands and shattered in a milky-white puddle. He wrenched the cutlery door open, scrabbling for a knife. Make it go away! he yelled.

A hand covered his. It was warm and soft, gently wrinkled, not cold and hard with cracks of fire. What happened, Mike? Is it Raph again?

No . . . Tears welled up in his eyes. I . . . He rubbed his knees. A pain that he had known was there but had been ignoring was creeping through the skin.

Ariel’s eyes widened. You’ve cut yourself. She pointed at the red blotches seeping through the denim. Take your trousers off. I’ll wash them and check out the cuts. I’m sure they’re fine, but it pays to be safe. The smallest cut can bring down the largest man if not treated right. She was talking in that friendly matter-of-fact doctor’s voice that always brought a smug proprietorial look to his mother’s face. What happened?

I fell. The words slipped out of Mike’s mouth. They tasted of ash and burnt feathers. They sounded like the crash of thunder and the hiss of a snake in the grass. He grabbed his throat with a hand. My voice!

You sound a little hoarse, that’s all, Ariel said. She laid a hand on his arm. "We all fall, it’s part of life. Some adults seem to forget that and behave as if they are beyond mistakes. The trick isn’t not falling, it’s getting up again. She gave him a conspiratorial wink. And then knocking over whoever pushed you over. Now strip off your jeans and I’ll wash them."

No. I didn’t fall. I did. On my knees. But. I didn’t. It fell. As he spoke, he let Ariel take his trousers off.

What did you fall on? Ariel probed his flesh with her fingertips. Spreading out from a tiny graze of each kneecap was a series of red lines. I’ve never seen that before. It looks like a stone hit a windshield.

I fell. I fell, Mike repeated.

Rap rap rap.

Hullo? Everything OK? a voice asked from the door. A man in mud-spotted cords, flat cap, and thick woollen jumper was standing just inside the kitchen. I’m from Uri’s farm. He sent me with this. He held up a couple of porcelain jugs covered in film. It’s milk. I let myself in, I hope you don’t mind. I took my boots off. A thick yellow toenail stuck through a hole in socks that had once been white. I could hear people screaming. He gestured to Ariel on her knees in front of Mike. If this is a bad time . . . He seemed caught between embarrassment and a need to wink.

Ariel calmly folded Mike’s jeans and stood. You’re not disturbing anything. And there’s no need for the introduction, I know who you are, Jeg.

I fell, Mike said.

Oh, I see. The thick-set farmer glanced over his shoulder.

Good. This time, Ariel’s voice had that other tone doctors used, the one that cut more cleanly than their scalpels. You heard screaming?

Men, women, children, animals. He set the milk jug down on the counter with elaborate care and took his cap off. I’m tired, that’s all. We’ve had a rough night. Nigh on all our lambs and calves died. Just keeled over as if they’d been shot. None of the goats, though. They’re all fine.

He rang the cap between his hands, eyes unfocused and haunted. I’ve never seen anything like it. Dad, Old Uri, said he’s never heard the like either, and he’s older than old. Jeg gestured around the kitchen with his cap. Looks like all your power’s down too. That’s why I brought the milk. No point wasting it, at least this way you can drink it before it goes off. A smile spread across his weathered face. This is proper milk, so creamy you need a knife and fork. Not that pale piss most people pass off as milk. All this stuff about milk being bad for you is crap."

Only humans drink milk from another animal, Mike said. It sounded petulant, even to his ears.

We’re the only species with opposable thumbs; most other animals struggle to get the tops off the bottles. The smile on Jeg’s face went a little way to taking the sting out of his words. Milk’s only bad for you ’cos the big companies sterilise the shit out of it and pump it full of chemicals. The faint tinge of embarrassment that had been flirting with his cheeks when he had entered the room was now a crimson sunset. Beg your pardon, ma’am. Didn’t mean to swear.

Ariel rolled her eyes. Bloody men. Did you call the vet? she asked in a louder voice.

Answerphone only. Not like her. His eyes darted towards the door. I should be going. We’ve got loads to do. I’ll show myself out. Enjoy the— He wrinkled his nose. What’s that smell?

Cold sweat trickled down from Mike’s armpits, tickling its way across his ribs. He stepped around Ariel and peeled the film off the milk jugs. Thick green-black lumps floated in milk that was curdling as they watched.

The farmer grimaced. The milk was fine when I brought it, promise!

Mike yanked the fridge door open. He grabbed an egg and cracked it on the counter. A twisted black yolk slid onto the granite surface. Ariel gagged, her hand covering her mouth. Without a word, Mike grabbed his trousers and sped out of the house.

Mike hammered on his friend’s front door until his knuckles hurt. Raph! No answer. The family dog barked. Claws scratched on the wood. Raph! Mike yelled again through the letter box. His voice echoed back at him. Raph, where are you? Goddamn it⁠—

There was a rushing noise, as if the house was sighing disapprovingly. The rustle of the leaves in the trees died. Mike spun and pressed himself against the front door. The driveway swept away from him, an expanse of gravel flecked with brown twigs.

Who’s there? He fumbled for the handle behind him in the vain hope that the door had suddenly unlocked itself. Trees loomed high above him. Their branches spread — Like wings! — and blocked out the grey daylight.

Raph!, he yelled. Where⁠—

With a creak of tearing wood, one of the branches split from the tree. It crashed into the driveway in an explosion of grit and dust.

"I fell.

"Falling.

"Turning.

Tearing.

Who was that? Mike pressed his hands over this ears. Get away from me.

The dust cloud settled, and a figure materialised in the drive. Shoulders hunched, head bowed and hooded. A hammer hung loosely from one hand.

Raph? Mike sprinted towards him. What’s going on?

We’re going back. His lips barely moved as he spoke.

Mike’s mouth flooded with spit. Man, no. Seriously? Uh uh. No way.

We’re going back.

No.

Raph grabbed Mike’s arm. Yes!

Dude, seriously. You’re freezing! Mike shook himself free. And what’s that noise? Sounds like white noise or hissing or— He jabbed his fingers in his ears and wiggled them around. Puts my teeth on edge.

We’re going back.

No. Things are proper weird. Something brushed against the inside of Mike’s thigh. He scraped it off with his foot. There was nothing there but sticks and stones.

I wanna see that thing again. Raph’s hand tightened on the hammer.

Mike’s eyes followed the movement. Why do you need the hammer?

What hammer?

The one you smashed the hedgehog’s skull in with not twelve hours ago, the one you’ve been terrorising Uri’s livestock with, the one in your hand!

Raph blinked, twice, a muscle flicked in his cheek, and for the first time that morning, his face looked like a face, rather than a flesh-coloured mask. Mike, he said, with a broad grin.

Mike shifted his weight from foot to foot. Something crunched under his sneakers. You OK?

A flash of movement. Mike’s head snapped around to see only gravel, twigs, and deathly-still trees.

Sure, Raph replied. C’mon, wuss. Let’s go have some fun.

What do you mean?

That thing we found.

With that? Mike gestured to the hammer.

Course not. The hammer disappeared under the back of Raph’s hoodie.

But if that thing’s what I think it is⁠—

What do you think it is? Raph’s eyes flashed from under the lank strands of blonde hair plastered across his forehead.

An a— Mike’s tongue refused to finish the word.

Raph snorted. Don’t be a dick.

What if it needs help? The hissing surrounding them was louder now. Mike could feel it sliding through his bladder, his bowels. What if its . . . friends . . . come to help it?

Then we’d better be quick.

But—

You running with me or not?

Yes, Raph, but this is dangerous.

Wuss.

I—

Something moved to Mike’s left. Nothing there. To his right, something twitched. D’you see that?

No.

Again.

One of those twigs moved. Mike pointed. There. And that one. A sliver of brown flipped, landed, and was still again. And there. At Mike’s feet, a bunch of twigs shivered and unfurled what looked like wings. The spit drained from Mike’s mouth. They’re not twigs.

Raph backed down the driveway. A wave of movement rippled across the gravel. The sticks jumped, first one, then a second, then a host of them. The hissing white noise ratcheted up in volume. A layer of browns and yellows rose up off the ground. Eyes, tentacles, and spines swarmed into a whirlwind of angular movement.

They’re locusts.

A crack of lightning flashed behind the clouds. As the rapid crunch of Raph’s feet faded down the drive, the locusts swarmed over the front door. The animals battered against the glass panes. Mouth wide, Mike backed up, not daring to run in case he was seen. A window shattered. The dog’s panicked barking became snarls, howls, and whimpers.

Then, in a split second that seemed to last for eternity, one locust broke off from the swarm and flew in front of Mike’s face. He swatted it out of the air, and it fell - "Burning, cursing, turning." - to the ground.

Mike crushed it underfoot.

The hissing of the swarm paused as if it was taking a collective breath in. A second insect landed in front of the remains of the first. It was joined by a third, then another. Piece by piece, the swarm detached itself from the house, and swirled in lazy circles towards the smudge of blood and legs on the gravel.

The remaining colour drained from Mike’s face. That’s impossible.

The insects spread up and around Mike, a curtain of wings and eyes. He fled down the drive. His breath catching in his throat. He stumbled, fell, tore a hole in his jeans, and ripped the skin off his knees. Fresh blood, warm and sticky, coated the old. He pushed himself up onto his hands. One insect bounced off his backside. A second landed on his head. Before he could get his legs underneath him, the weight of countless locusts crushed him to the ground. He couldn’t see for bulbous red eyes. Couldn’t hear for the infernal chirping. Couldn’t feel for the razor sharp pinpricks clawing at his skin.

No. No. No. Shouldn’t have fallen.

Fallen. Fallen. Fallen.

He screamed. There was a massive splintering of wood. Thunder crashed across the sky. The swarm fled, screaming with human voices. Bugs, charred and steaming, littered the gravel drive, as many as there were stones. The clouds boiled red and crimson and scarlet. Golden splinters of light skewered the ground, turning trees into torches. Mike scrabbled to his feet and sprinted away from the house. His shoes sent up spits of gravel and bits of locust as he ran and ran and⁠—

—ran, numb from the head down. Couldn’t hear, could barely see.

Run. Just run. Don’t fall.

His breath wheezed in his throat. Every muscle in his body was drowning in its own acid. He collapsed onto all fours, coughing up strings of silver spittle and black phlegm.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, forehead buried in the ground. He wasn’t even sure which of Farmer Uri’s fields he had followed Raph to. The muscles in his belly and chest were starting to spasm with the need to drive the waste out of his blood and suck the oxygen in. The old brain, the lizard brain, was ruling now.

Mike. The voice called again, louder. Mike!

He raised his head. The world was a blur of green and black, filled with the sound of giant teeth cracking. Raph?

Over here. Raph waved from under the cover of a tree. Quick. You got to take cover. There was an edge of desperation in his voice.

Crack.

Something thudded into the ground between Mike’s hands. Mud that smelt of rotting leaves and sulphur splattered across his face.

Run! Raph screamed.

Crack.

Shards of ice scraped across Mike’s skin.

Crack.

Mike pushed himself to his feet. His legs were trembling.

Crack.

That sound again! Like teeth breaking.

Crack.

A hailstone the size of a head thudded into the ground in front of him and burst.

Run, you fucking idiot!

A whistling noise. Pain exploded in Mike’s shoulder. He howled. A fresh surge of fear and adrenaline kicked through his veins. He stumbled towards Raph and the shelter of the branches. Hail slammed in the earth. Gouts of mud exploded around him. Air spat past his face. A hailstone thumped into his back, driving the wind out of him and knocking him to the floor.

I fell, I fell, I fell. He didn’t know if he was speaking, hearing, or thinking the words.

He rolled onto his back. His lungs full of fire. The sky was thick with hail, chunks of it that tore lumps out of trees and stone walls. It left craters in the ground. The sky flashed gold and silver as lightning cracked behind the clouds.

Weak. Too weak.

Hands grabbed him, dragged him, wrestled him across the pock-marked ground. A plume of soil erupted from the earth where Mike’s head had just been lying. A voice was swearing — "cursing!" — and Mike was manhandled up against the tree. The bark bit into his skin as his lungs sucked in scorched air. Raph was shaking him, shouting something, his face drawn and ghost-pale. Mike couldn’t hear his friend’s voice, but through the exaggerated lip movements, made out the words: What the hell is that?

Above the lashing tree branches, a vortex of fire swirled in the sky. Pink flames lined with red corkscrewed through the clouds. Burning raindrops of blue and green and crimson fell amongst the hail.

Mike fainted.

The throbbing in his back woke him first. Probably a broken rib. His leg was sore, too. That was going to be a decent bruise.

Chicks dig scars, Raph always said. A well-placed one will help get you laid.

What about bruises? What were they worth?

The rest of his senses staggered into focus. Someone was breathing, slow, measured breaths that reminded him of when his mother used to lie next to him to put him down. It was now the breathing he listened for when he put her to bed. He opened his eyes.

The sky was empty, no flames, no torrents of fire, no hailstones, just empty. A vast, flat expanse of grey. He lifted his head.

The ground looked like a war zone. Trees were splintered. The stone walls that snaked across the fields were punctured with holes. Rips of brown sliced through the green grass.

Raph was sitting next to him, rocking gently back and forth. You talk in your sleep, he said without looking round. He was shivering. Weird stuff, like some kind of teenage poem that has to rhyme. Everything ends in -ing.

You’re freezing.

I’m fine, Raph replied.

What happened to your hoodie?

Gave it to you. Reckoned you needed it more.

Mike sat up. Raph’s top fell from his shoulders. Thanks.

No problem. You run with me. We look after each other. That’s the way it works. He bit his teeth together to stop them chattering.

Mike held the hoodie out. Here.

Raph looked at it as if unsure what it was for.

You need it now.

Raph took it, flipped it, twisted it, trying to get it over his head one-handed. He glanced down at his other hand. His face tightened, and, with a struggle, let go of the hammer to pull the top on.

You still wanna go see this thing? Mike asked.

Raph was clutching the hammer to his chest. His lips moved silently.

Raph?

What?

You wanna go see this thing we found?

Raph’s answer was to stand and point.

OK. Guess we should. Maybe it can explain what’s going on. Mike rolled to his knees and pushed into the earth. Ow.

Red pinpricks dotted the palm of his hand. What’s this? He picked up a leaf, green and shiny and pointed.

A holly leaf.

He stared up at the branches. But this is a hawthorn tree. There aren’t any holly trees around here. He scrambled to his feet. The ground was littered with glistening leaves and polka-dotted with red berries. Mike picked one up.

Just don’t pop any of the berries, OK? Raph said.

Mike squeezed. A deep, deep red liquid burst across his fingers. A metallic scent filled his nose. That’s blood!

I warned you.

They walked through a countryside that was struggling to stay sane. The air was too thick; the light too thin. In the aftermath of the firestorm, most of the walls were more hole than stone. At one point the boys passed a tree that looked like it was upside down; its roots whipped at the air while its branches were buried in the soil. Neither of them said a word until they reached a dusty crossroads at the edge of Uri’s land.

Mike grabbed Raph’s sleeve just before he stepped off the path. You sure about this?

Raph’s face was flushed and sweaty. Yeah. You gonna wuss on me again?

I just wanna go check on my mum.

Raph glanced at his watch. Mid-afternoon. She’ll be hammered by now. Doubt she’ll have noticed anything.

How do you know she’ll be drunk?

I’ve been round enough times.

When?

When you’re at college.

What are you doing coming round when I’m out? Mike asked.

Looking for you. Your mum’s always pleased to see me. Says she likes my eyes. Said once when she was really hammered that she prefers blue to brown. He winked. What colour are your dad’s eyes?

You know what colour they are, you’ve met him.

I don’t look at your dad.

There was a stress on the last two words of that sentence that Mike wasn’t sure he had heard. He rammed his hands into his pockets. You’re having a laugh right? About my mum.

Raph was looking over the fields, towards the place where they had found that thing last night. He took in a lungful of air. Smell that?

Don’t change the conversation. You’re joking, right, about my mum?

Smells like wet dog or bonfires. Raph’s face split into a grin. A burst of nicotine-yellow light flickered under the clouds and glinted off his teeth. That’s an idea!

No way. I’m having no part of that.

I was joking.

About what?

About the bitch.

Mike grabbed a fistful of Raph’s hoodie. You take that back!

Easy, Mikey-boy. He held his hands up either side of his head. I was talking about combining a wet dog and a bonfire. I’ve not been round that many times when you’ve not been home. Your mum did say that about blue eyes, though. She was out of her skull at the time, so I’m not sure if she meant it or not.

Mike released his grip. Quit messing with me.

Sure thing, boss. Raph’s nose wrinkled. Smells like a pool party at a kennels.

Smells like burnt hair to me. Feels like I’ve got most of those hairs stuffed down my throat, too. Mike grimaced. Hey! Where you going?

With one hand, Raph crooked a finger at Mike over his shoulder. With the other, he groped under the hoodie in the small of his back. His fingers closed around the shape of the hammer head. As if reassured it was still there, he loped across the field, his feet squelching in the earth.

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.

C’mon, Wuss-boy, Raph called back.

Mike took a step towards his friend. There was no real edge to the road. The border between the dusty tarmac and the grass field was patchy. One became the other without any clear transition point. But, as the trail of bent grass left by Raph’s feet slowly straightened, it seemed to Mike that there was an unseen line a handspan from his sneakers, a boundary that was as definite as it was invisible.

Dust swirled in spirals over the crossroads. Mike unclenched his fingers. You’re being a fool, he whispered to himself. Spent too much time listening to old blues records. There’s no such thing as a devil, so there’s no way you can make a deal with him.

The devil doesn’t exist but angels do? How does that work?

Raph? Mike’s head snapped up.

Raph was stomping across Uri’s field, head bowed. His shadow stretched back towards Mike, distorted, with angles where there should be curves and spikes where there should be lines. Feeling that he had lead in his veins, Mike stepped across the invisible boundary to Uri’s field.

The clouds were pink. Red shadows danced around them as they approached . . .

What? What are we approaching?

Mike knew what he thought it was: exactly what he didn’t want it to be. That raised too many awkward questions. A life of devout atheism was weighing on celestial scales that now seemed to have been rigged. But by who? Wait up, he called. Maybe we should⁠—

Raph scrambled over a mound of earth thrown up by the impact yesterday.

Call the police, Mike finished.

No answer. He was alone. The cuts on his hands and knees stung. His ragged breathing was the only sound in the entire world at that moment. The countryside around him was utterly still. Not a single leaf moved on the hedges, nor a branch on the trees. A dot, immobile and feathered, was stuck in the air under the boiling clouds. It looked like a bird had been pinned to the sky and left there.

Damn it. Mike followed Raph over the mound.

A choir of overlapping voices whispered in his head.

Falling.

Fighting.

Screaming.

Fighting.

Spinning.

Turning.

Spinning.

Burning.

Swearing.

Burning.

Cursing.

Flailing.

Raph was squatting next to the figure they had seen yesterday.

What is it? Mike asked.

It was curled on one side, arms hugging legs that were drawn up to its belly. The alabaster skin was still cracked, but the fire in those cracks no longer swirled; it throbbed in time with the pulse in Mike’s head. That, as odd as it was, wasn’t what drew his eyes. It was the wings.

He’d convinced himself that he’d imagined seeing wings on this thing. The chaos of the day had done nothing to help his memory. But now, they were the most vivid thing he’d ever seen. One was furled around its body, the feathers blackened and muddy. The other stretched out across the ground. The ridge at the top was twisted at an eye-wrenching angle. Feathers lay scattered across the ground, matted and dirty.

It’s hurt. Mike pointed to the wing. Should we call a vet? Or a priest? he added in a quiet voice.

Raph didn’t answer. Still squatting, he shuffled closer. The wing tip was centimetres from his boots.

Yesterday evening, this thing had looked different — darker, bloodier, dangerous. Now it just looked broken. The voices in Mike’s head faded, taking with them the feeling of nauseous panic. He felt awkward, wrong, as if . . . as if . . . as if he’d gone to school wearing his mum’s knickers on gym day.

He barked a laugh, loud and too obvious.

Raph’s eyes flicked up to him.

Nothing. Just weird thoughts. Must be this thing. You getting them?

Nope. Head’s as clear as ice.

Mike nodded at the fallen figure. It looks like a child sleeping. Looks like it’s been a child forever. Looks like everyone’s child and parent at the same time.

You know you’re talking aloud, right?

Mike, wringing his hands together, opened his mouth to reply and stopped. He examined one palm, stroking it with the pads of his fingers. The scratches from the holly leaf, they’re gone. My ribs don’t hurt, and— He fumbled for his belt and dropped his trousers.

Dude, seriously! What are you doing? You’re not my type, you’re a guy, remember?

Under the mud and dried blood, the skin across Mike’s knees was pink and glowing, unbroken. How did that happen?

Raph’s eyes slid back to the figure.

Do you think it’s a miracle? Mike asked.

Nope. Reckon you imagined those cuts and scratches.

You saw them, Raph.

Maybe they weren’t that bad. He shrugged and picked up a feather. As he twisted it between finger and thumb, it glittered, sending out rainbows of starlight and moon shine.

It’s beautiful, Mike whispered.

You were scared shitless of this thing yesterday.

Don’t swear, OK?

Why the fuck not?

Just doesn’t seem right, anymore.

OK. With a meaningless smile, Raph snapped the feather.

A sighing noise hissed through the field. The grass buckled and waved in an unseen wind.

I don’t think you should have done that.

Wuss. Raph’s hand hovered over the wing tip in front of his feet.

What are you doing?

The older boy lay his hand on the feathers. His eyes closed. An expression of tranquillity settled on Raph’s hard features. Mike held his breath, waiting for the snide comment.

It’s warm, Raph said at last.

Warm?

Like your mother’s embrace.

Mine? Mike wanted to feel annoyed, he did, but from a distance, as if he was watching someone acting at being annoyed.

Your mum’s hugged me more than mine has, even when we were both little kids.

I said leave her out of this.

Chill, dude. All platonic. All normal. All good. I’m just stating a fact. It’s— Raph’s eyes were still closed, his eyeballs darting all directions under the closed lids.

You OK? Mike asked.

As warm as the crisp light of sun on fresh snow.

Raph?

Warm and comforting. Like my bed. Or the heat of blankets fresh from the tumble dryer. Or a long piss after hours in a car. His voice got quieter and quieter, whispering things that only he could hear, until his lips were moving soundlessly, as if he were praying.

Colour and movement had returned to the countryside. The dot that had been stuck to the sky flapped away. The clouds had stopped bubbling and were moving in ranks across the sky.

You OK? Mike repeated.

Eyes still closed, Raph lay another hand on the wing tip. Perfect.

Just you don’t normally talk like that.

Doesn’t mean I don’t think like that.

But—

I talk like this to your mother, sometimes, Raph said.

What is it with you and my mum?

The twitching of Raph’s eyes under his eyelids was frantic. His fingers, buried in feathers the size of his forearm, were quivering.

To the sober one.

What? I’ve only got the one mother, and she’s not been sober since before I was a toddler.

Exactly.

I thought you were thinking clearly?

Raph’s eyes snapped open. Clear as. He teased one feather from its companions, and pinched it.

What are you doing? Mike asked.

Playing.

A shudder ran through the wing.

I’m not sure⁠—

Shut up, then. I am.

The voices were back in Mike’s head, chittering at him. "Falling, burning, screaming."

I think that thing’s talking to me.

Don’t be stupid. The tips of Raph’s fingers went white as he squeezed harder. He pulled. His hand slipped off the feather. A low moan rolled around the earthy hollow.

Tell me you heard that! Mike said.

Yup. At least we know it’s alive.

Can something like this be alive?

If we hurt it, we’ll find out. Raph grabbed the feather in his fist and tugged. The broken wing flapped. It sent up a rain of stones and dirt. The feather didn’t move. Raph wiped his hands on his hoodie, braced his feet, grit his teeth, and yanked.

The feather popped out of the wing with a sound like a leg breaking: a wet, fleshy crack. A scream split Mike’s head from the inside out. The furled wing lashed out. It caught Mike in the midriff and sent him sprawling in the earth. He couldn’t breath. Every organ and muscle from his mouth to his balls clenched in a spasm of pain.

Raph, sharp teeth sticking into his bottom lip, crawled back from where he had tumbled, braced his legs again, and⁠—

Dude, stop! You’re hurting it.

That’s the idea.

—pulled.

The scream in Mike’s head sent him spinning, turning, twisting to the ground. He plugged his ears with his fingers. They slipped out, stained red. Something warm and sticky was running down his neck. The wings were beating on the ground, invisible in a cloud of dust. Raph was laughing. Mike was choking. He couldn’t see. He rammed his fists into his eyes and ran, blind, until he retched.

Something warm and gentle lay on his forehead. It squeezed, lightly, on his temples.

Mum?

"She’s fine. Worried sick and passed