5
Ever since Jerusalem Children’s Home spat me out at sixteen, I’d expected to end up stumbling home with some bloke bleeding out from a gunshot wound.
What I’d never expected...?
Home to be a witches’ house. The bloke to be an angel. And to have just discovered my own angelic heritage.
When Rebel shivered, I held him tight, yet I was frozen too. His feet dragged, tripping against mine.
The House of Rose, Wolf, and Fox rose out of the damp fog beside the silver snake of the Thames. Ancient woodland glowered behind the stone and blackened diagonal timbered mansion. Smoke snorted in furious bursts from the high spiralled chimneys.
I shuddered.
Did you know spell lobbers were real, J?
There isn’t space on earth for what I know. But right now? You need to dump the punk, turn your hoochie ass around, and use your brain, rather than the sweet tingles between your legs.
I jolted to a stop.
Rebel groaned, grasping the stone sundial that marked the centre of the sweeping drive. ‘Princess?’
‘We’ll be at your yard any moment, bro.’
He shivered again. But this time, I didn’t reckon it was with cold.
Was Rebel frightened because he’d defied the witches to help me? How big a risk had he taken?
Yet how dangerous was the world Rebel had fled, if a witches’ house still meant safety?
I’m done with being afraid. So, no arse turning.
You’re playing with fire. If you go inside, the witches will kill you for breaking their toy.
They can try.
And there’s the Feathers-bitch I love.
I could hear J’s smile. For once, it disturbed me, although I didn’t know why.
I unfurled Rebel’s hand, finger by finger from its death grip on the sundial, and then dragged him crunching over the gravel to the rounded arch of the pillared porch.
Rebel had sneaked me out of a side door in the early hours, when the house had still been veiled in black. Now I saw the red daubed symbols around the high oak door and wicker angel effigies swinging in the porch like they’d been hung.
Hell, the Blair Witch had nothing on Evie, Louisa, and Richard Deadman: witches, angel tamers, and my true captors.
Strange, since Rebel’s kiss and his exchange of blood, this truth was clearer. I could read his feelings, spiderwebs at the corners of my mind, but only fleeting sensations.
Before I could knock, the door was wrenched open — creak — and a bearded bloke loomed over us. He held himself motionless, yet every giant inch of him radiated fury.
Rebel shrank back.
Da, in slim russet wool suit and waistcoat, his white shirt matching his perfect teeth, asked crisply, ‘Where have you been, Zach?’
‘Zach?’ I mouthed at Rebel, but he didn’t hear me; his gaze was fixed on Da.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s like this, see,’ Rebel faltered, ‘I made a deal—’
‘Do you get to decide on what’s best? To make deals, boy?’
When Rebel shook his head, I grasped his hand in my pocket. He winced, expecting me to hurt him like I had earlier, and that flushed me with unexpected shame. But I only held his hand lightly in mine.
‘And why is that?’
‘Because you’re in charge, Da.’
I’d faced the disappointment of agency staff each time I’d swaggered back in the early hours to Jerusalem.
Curfews were for geeks and losers. The kids who took the beatings and ended up at the end of a shank.
So, if you didn’t want to get dashed, you broke the rules.
This? Returning to face the music of a parent who actually gave a damn? If it hadn’t been for the danger in Da’s steel eyes and his headmaster sadist vibe, I’d have found reassuring.
Maybe I had daddy issues.
Da rubbed at his grey beard, which was as regimented as his hair.
‘I believe we shall have to reinforce that lesson.’ Stanbury had been the wannabe, but here was the true Christian Grey, only all grownup. But Rebel was such an innocent, I don’t think he even understood what they were playing. ‘Inside.’
Rebel flinched.
I’d only glimpsed a grand oak galley running above the wooden entryway and gold threaded tapestries, as we reluctantly stepped past Da, before Rebel dropped to his knees. I fell next to him. His eyes were screwed shut, and it was only me stopping him from collapsing.
‘Up.’ Da barked. ‘You shan’t think kneeling will reduce—’
‘Back off, Sir Canesalot. Your boy here’s been shot. Bang, bang?’ I mimicked a shooter at Rebel’s back.
Da’s face drained to chalk.
After that? Everything blurred into a burst of frenetic commotion.
Da patted Rebel down for the key to the handcuffs, before releasing him.
I tried to pull away, but Da snapped the handcuffs back over both my wrists, before tenderly scooping Rebel up into his arms, as if he was a kid.
I tagged behind Da, the sudden outsider, as he marched into a vast kitchen of inky-black cabinets and exotic marbles. My eyes watered from the smoke that wafted out of the open inglenook fireplace, which was large enough to spit an angel.
Ma and Evie glanced up from sorting through a sea of washed underwear — lace bras, cotton boxers, and silk corsets — on the central counter.
The glow from the chandelier and the vibrant modern punk of Slaves’ “Cheer up London” (no way that wasn’t Rebel’s iPod hooked up to the speakers), shocked me like a bullet to the head.
And in the one second before the everyday transformed to horror — when I glimpsed beneath the labels and the drama — I got it.
This was what Rebel loved. Why, after everything, he came back.
A home.
Rebel had known this family (when I’d only ever struggled to make my own), for decades. How could I compete with that? And why the hell did I crave to?
Then Evie exploded.
With a shriek, she swept the neat piles of bras flying across the kitchen. An ivory and rose underwire landed in the hearth with a bright flare and then sizzle.
Evie vaulted the kitchen counter, thrusting me aside to stroke Rebel’s hair.
I lounged against the stone wall.
Ma merely pursed her lips, as Da laid Rebel on the long oak table. ‘Be still, Evie.’ When Ma turned to scrutinise me, I gagged, overwhelmed by the memory of her papery dry hand clamped over my nose and mouth. ‘Why is our angel bleeding?’
I didn’t mean to say it. I don’t even know where it came from. But it still slipped out. ‘He was trying to save me. He was being a hero.’
Evie snorted, but Da’s shock melted to pride, before he smiled.
I smiled too, until Da shucked his jacket and undid his cufflinks. Then with an alpha display that made me even more definite he was never going anywhere near my arse with his large hands, he folded back his shirtsleeves to the elbow.
I launched myself between the witch headmaster and his whipping boy. No way was Da laying a hand on Rebel, when I’d just hauled him across London.
The new, possessive part of me stirred. But there was something else as well, even darker and deeper. It snarled just as loudly that Rebel — and his blood —was mine.
Da’s thin lips twitched. ‘Zach has a bullet lodged in his bad wing. He’ll heal but only once the bullet’s taken out. I don’t imagine you know how to remove it, but please do enlighten me.’
I gestured go ahead with my handcuffed hands.
When Da massaged his thumb into Rebel’s bent wing, Rebel’s eyes shot open. He stared up at me like he was drowning. Then his eyelids fluttered, whilst Da massaged across his back, working into the feathers.
I examined the folded wings, as Da stretched out each one, working his fingers into the layers of soft feathers, skirting the gunshot wound.
Did all angels have bent wings, or only the bad ones?
When Rebel purred deep in this throat — a thrilling, growly purr that called to me — I grinned. Hell, I itched to wring that sound from him. To ease the pain in his wing and coax that purr out of his soul.
It was unsettling, this new closeness to Rebel. Yet just as I’d experience the urge to sooth his pain, I’d be blasted with the impulse to hurt him. Like the two powers inside me were warring.
The way Rebel relaxed under Da’s touch, I realised he must’ve been in agony with his wing, even before he was shot.
Rebel was good at hiding pain.
And the truth.
I reached out to stroke the tip of Rebel’s wing, as he’d stroked my bare arm; I was desperate suddenly to see if it was silky soft.
Evie batted me away. ‘No touching, my lovely. You’re not invited to the party.’
Ma selected a bundle of dried herbs, which hung from an oak beam on the ceiling, but Da waved her away. ‘Boys who disobey do not warrant spells of healing. I’ll dig out the bullet the old-fashioned way.’
Evie sidled to Pa, winding a curl around her little finger. ‘Uncle Richard, at least allow me to whip up a Rose Anti-Pain. When I broke my arm—’
‘And if the other angels had located Zach? He didn’t take an effigy. If we’d lost him again?’ Da’s hard gaze had found out Ma’s.
Ma hurled the dried herbs onto the hearth next to the ivory and rose bra. The fire sprang up — bang — like a fountain of blood. ‘That’s it, for real. He’s grounded.’
‘You’re grounding an angel?’ I stared from one witch to the other, with Rebel stretched out on the oak table between them, bleeding from his wing.
The crazy bastards kept Rebel safe by stealing his freedom. Yet their fear of these other angels was real.
What the hell was an angelic top boy like?
When Ma pressed the blade into Da’s hand, and he burrowed it into Rebel’s wing, I winced on the angel’s holler.
The shadow of his emotions tugged on me. His pain… It crawled across my own skin like claws screeching down slate.
Hell, if they wouldn’t heal him, then I would.
I leant down and snogged Rebel.
The angel kiss wasn’t a revelation. It was comfort.
I might only be half angel, but spell casters weren’t the only ones with magic.
I nipped at Rebel’s lip, swiping at the sweet copper in case that was the key, losing myself in the gentle intimacy. In the blood.
Until a long-nailed hand wound round my hair, wrenching back my head. My wet lips kissed the air.
‘Gatecrashers,’ Evie spat out each word, like I’d maimed her favourite Ken doll. ‘Will. Be. Turned. Into. Gargoyles.’
‘An angel kiss to heal him,’ I panted.
‘And where would you acquire such a silly,’ Da twisted the knife, and Rebel whimpered, ‘conceit?’
‘Yeah, about that,’ Rebel blushed, ‘I lied.’
For something that wasn’t a surprise, it still hurt.
Just like Evie’s kick to the back of my knees and her vicious whisper, ‘Even special ones have to drink. And when you do, it’ll be the most scintillating surprise to discover what a changed woman you become.’ Her chuckle was low, like water over crystals in an underground cavern.
Instantly, Rebel had risen off the oak table, his wings glowing and glorious, as they beat — beat — beat the wind against our faces. He was the ancient angel of my apartment, not Da’s boy. There was not one submissive atom in him; the spiked collar around his neck was armour.
I quaked, as Rebel towered over me, but he only held out his hand, pulling me to my feet.
Slam.
Sugary copper zinged through me, lighting up my shoulder blades.
Rebel rocked, righteousness alone holding him on his feet. His wings wrapped around, hugging me to his body like I was a part of him.
I’d never felt closer to anyone.
And that terrified me.
I didn’t know if I wanted to escape or surrender.
His tone was hard, ‘No one harms Violet. If anyone tries, then I’ll bolt. And this time, I’ll never come back.’
Ma gasped. Then one-by-one Rebel’s family crowded around us, stroking, soothing, and promising.
Who was in charge now?
Yet as Evie butterflied reverential kisses along Rebel’s feathers, she cast me looks laced with venom.
The Deadmans’ promises were as empty as the ones adults had thrown at me all my life. They were no more than gags to shut you up and shape you into their good little soldier.
J had been right: The witches would kill me, one way or another.
Because I’d stolen their angel.
Every bitch had to drink. And I couldn’t forget the stone wolves, with their fangs bared in pain, trapped in the corners of my new bedroom.
Gargoyles.
How many toys had Rebel dragged home as guests to that room before me?
And how many had ever been allowed to leave?
The flickering light from the beeswax candles caught the snout of the stone wolf in the corner of my bedroom; shadows danced across its sneer.
Hell, the wolves were mocking me. I didn’t blame them. I was a wallad for sitting my arse on the soft fur of its slain brother and forgetting my lesson.
Since I’d been old enough to toddle, I’d been taught the harsh lesson to look out for number one alone. Why? Because no one else would.
And certainly not some bloke.
Rebel held out the goblet to me again, ‘Will you have a drink?’ I turned away, pressing my chin to my raised knees as I hunched on the bed. He sighed. ‘I made it myself.’
‘Flashing wings and threats were all for show then? You don’t trust your family either?’
Rebel slammed down the goblet onto the oak chest of drawers. When water spilt down the rim, pooling onto the wood, he smeared at it frantically with the sleeve of his leathers.
His fear of punishment itched at my mind.
I shuffled off the bed, swiping my arm to absorb the spill with my jacket.
He smiled shyly. ‘I broke one of the rules. Da would call it a loss of control. Or sometimes just a tantrum.’
‘How about this rule?’ I shoved Rebel back against the drawers. ‘You shouldn’t have rules.’
He didn’t try to escape but his expression was troubled. ‘That’s still a rule. And you’re wrong.’
‘And you’re all healed up. So, does that mean angel kisses work? Or want to tell me about the miracle juice, Zach?’
‘Don’t be after calling me that.’ He pushed me back, but his arms strained with the effort. So, not all healed up after all. ‘It’s not my name. Not now.’
‘I hear you. But what’s with the chores when you should be resting? And how do anarchists rock grounded?’
Rebel pulled a face. ‘I took the risk for you.’ My cheeks pinked. ‘And I’m here to protect you.’ Suddenly he grinned, grabbing my hand and pressing it to his back. I jumped at the feel of his left wing lifting and then settling. ‘We angels heal fast.’
We angels? No one had said it out loud before. Somehow it made it too real.
He must’ve read the doubt on my face because he rocked on his heels. ‘Before, you just hadn’t grown into your powers yet. I know you haven’t wings and…you’re not the same as…anyone. But it’ll be brilliant. You have no idea. The problem is both sides—’
‘Allow it.’
A migraine throbbed behind my left eye; flashes of purple stars haloed Rebel.
The world faded, unreal and distant. Suddenly everything shrank Alice in Wonderland small.
If I hurled, I’d hit Rebel’s red leather trousers.
Yeah, launder that, Evie.
‘You look awful shattered,’ he leaned closer.
‘What I am, is pissed off,’ I snarled. ‘I’ve discovered I’m a supernatural creature dragged up by humans. And now I’m a prisoner of spell lobbers who’ve threatened to turn me to stone. What I want, is for you to set me free.’
Rebel gently brushed the hair back from my forehead, before feathering a kiss there again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not.’
Crack — I nutted Rebel. His nose broke with a splatter of scarlet.
In a street fight you have a split second of surprise, so you fight vicious. Even if inside you’re bawling.
So, I kneed him in the bollocks.
When he doubled up with a squeal, I shoved him to the floorboards, stamping on his hands with the heel of my boots.
Snap — snap —snap.
His fingers crunched like winter twigs.
My throat burned with vomit, but I booted the left-hand side of Rebel’s back before he could struggle up again, pummeling his bad wing.
He howled.
Then I legged it, out into the wide oak galley that overhung the hallway with its gilt framed portraits of generations of dark witches in ruffs and starched collars. As I hammered down the twisty staircase, my boots clop clopping an alarm to the Deadmans, the adrenaline rush had me soaring.
Utopia’s Bitch was back in control. Nobody’s toy. This was the tip of the shank sinking into flesh.
The moment of god-like power.
If I was part angel — and the fever, tingles, and rages were my growing pains — then I’d unleash my powers.
I wouldn’t be tamed by witches.
When Evie blocked the front door, I was too high to hear her words, or even hesitate.
I elbowed her aside and reached for the doorknob…
Then I screamed.
Blinding electric crimson and gold sparks. Guy Fawkes Night in my head, and I was the Guy, writhing in agony on the bonfire.
I juddered, falling back, as the current coursed through me in punishing waves. The scent of my own singed hair curled up my nostrils.
Rebel caught me.
‘I warned you,’ Evie’s sulky smirk, ‘Rebel’s grounded. The spell works to keep all angels out. And in.’
An invisible electric fence to trap us like animals…?
Or criminals.
Rebel had called himself bad. But why were these witches his gaolers? And what could a pretty boy like Rebel have done to need a witches’ prison?
No way was I doing time because some punk had fallen onto my lap.
I twisted to escape the cool band of Rebel’s arms. Instead he turned me, and I found myself staring into his sad gaze.
Anger, disappointment, hate…they were old friends. I could’ve coped with them. But not the wounded hurt in Rebel’s gaze.
Slap — I wiped off that look.
I raised my hand again, but this time he snatched my wrist to stop the blow.
Now there was a glare I recognised: cold, serious, and determined.
‘I’m telling Uncle Richard,’ Evie pouted, ‘that your precious here tried to escape—’
Rebel curled his arm tighter around me, ‘I’ll deal with her.’
I’d busted the bastard’s nose, fingers, and balls…
Deal with? I’d heard that before. It always meant screwed.
‘Angel mine, what will you do for me if I keep yet more of your secrets?’ Evie flitted around Rebel like a scarlet butterfly, kissing his shoulders and the tip of his broken nose. As she lisped secrets, she licked at a dribble of Rebel’s blood, and I struggled not to rip out her tongue for tasting what was mine.
Maybe Rebel’s blood was addictive?
He dropped his gaze. ‘Anything that pleases you, Evie. I’m yours.’
The world lurched, as I was tipped over Rebel’s good shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
My migraine shrieked to an inferno. I snatched at my glasses to stop them from falling as I dangled upside down. Each step up the staircase jolted me; I hung, staring at Rebel’s tight arse.
He didn’t say a word as he carried me into my wolf stone bedroom. Nor as he dumped me amidst the rose pillows. Instead, he studiously undid my handcuffs, before dragging my hands above my head, rechaining me.
I figured protesting was taking the piss, especially as my slap had shadowed to a bruise along his cheekbone.
I fidgeted.
Guilt? It was for losers who looked back, rather than living in each danger-tainted moment. And if you did that, you missed the acid spraying at your face.
Yet why did an ice-cold ball chill my gut when Rebel drew the wolf fur throw one-handed over me because his right hand was swollen with shattered fingers?
There wasn’t room for guilt; fear melted it.
I was chained, alone, with a killer angel.
When Rebel lay next to me on the bed, tucking the throw over himself with gentle strokes of the soft strands, as if the wolf was still alive, his studs nipping into my side like pinprick reminders of my stupidity, I shrank away.
Not this, hell, please, not this…
But this was what happened if you disrespected anyone on the Estate. Pain and sex. Despite everything, we were still enemies.
Yet all I heard in the dark was Rebel’s quiet distress, ‘We had a deal. I help with your sister, and you don’t try to escape. I’m a muppet for trusting you.’
It shanked — his simple, honest words — sharper than any rant.
How had I become the untrustworthy one in this world of child-like angel crims and skank witch gaolers?
When Rebel didn’t touch me but only turned over, gasping with pain when his reinjured wing jostled, that ball of ice in my gut grew.
After everything, he was guarding me.
Rebel wasn’t the man I’d expected.
Yet here was the screwed truth: I wasn’t the woman I’d reckoned either.
I’d become the worst monster in this witches’ house because I’d hurt an angel.
J had warned I’d die in the House of Rose, Wolf, and Fox. Now I feared that by trapping us together, the witches had condemned us all to die.
And I’d be the killer.