Reaper's Legacy: Book Two (Toxic City)(3)

The light from outside suddenly faded, and even beneath the staccato gunfire she could hear the descent of birds.

Rook laughed out loud, revelling in what he was doing. “Come and see!” he said, grabbing Lucy-Anne's hand and pulling her to the window on her knees. Broken glass cut their legs, but neither of them took any notice. The scene outside was so amazing that it eased away the pain.

Rooks filled the street, shadowing her view of anything beyond the window, fragmenting it so that she only caught brief, fleeting glimpses of what was happening—the Choppers shooting, their hands waving, the guns dropped, arms flapping, bodies falling beneath the onslaught of birds. The Land Rover started reversing along the street, engine protesting, and then it impacted a BMW that had not moved in two years. Its windows starred, then broke. Its insides turned black, and then red.

“What about him?” she said, leaning left and right as she tried to spot the man the Choppers had brought here for whatever reason. “Where is he? Rook?” She glanced at Rook, then back down to the street.

“He needs to keep still,” Rook said. He was concentrating. “Sometimes the birds…” He shrugged, unconcerned.

“You're as bad as Reaper,” she said.

“I'm nothing like Reaper,” Rook said. “I'm on my own. Come on. There'll be more arriving soon.”

“But…” The noise outside was already decreasing, and the air seemed to be thinning and growing lighter as the rooks spiralled up and out of view over the rooftops. Left behind, evidence of the terrible deaths they had brought down with them, at the behest of the young man in whose hands she had placed herself. The two Choppers were tattered remnants of humanity. The Land Rover's engine had died, windscreen splashed red from the inside. And as she watched, the terrified Irregular slowly raised his head and looked around, struggled to his feet, and hobbled away down the street.

We should help him, she thought. He was trailing blood. Perhaps a Chopper had got a lucky shot off before the birds descended. But even as she had the thought, she realised that he would slow them down. He would be an encumbrance, and Rook was right—more Choppers would soon arrive.

“We've really gotta go,” Rook said.

Lucy-Anne looked back at the slaughtered Choppers. One of them was scratching slowly at the rough road surface, but his eyes stared sightless into the gutter. Last breaths. “I'm staying here.”

“Fair enough.” He left the room, and the sudden stillness and silence were startling. Lucy-Anne held her breath.

It was thirty seconds before Rook reappeared, his smile tensed with frustration.

“I'll come if you tell me why you've got so much hate,” she said. “You smile, but…”

“Yeah,” Rook said, looking down at his feet. It was the first time he'd allowed her to see him sad. She supposed it was a start.

They were walking along a narrow pathway between high-walled gardens, pushing through rose and clematis bushes that had run rampant in the two years since Doomsday. It surprised Lucy-Anne just how much things had grown in such a short time, almost as if nature had been waiting for humanity to lose its grip and was revelling in newfound freedom.

Rook had not spoken for half an hour. The silence suited her, but it also made her memories of the deaths she had witnessed more vivid. There was such coldness in the boy that she could almost feel it emanating from him in waves. He made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

Each time she blinked she saw the dying Chopper scratching at the road, and wondered what last thought had been going through his or her mind.

Lucy-Anne maintained the silence, hoping that he would start telling her about himself without prompting. But every moment that passed increased the pressure of the quietness between them, until it became so great that she thought the air might break.

“Tell me why all the hate,” she said at last.

Rook stopped and turned, pushing her back against a wall. For a moment she thought he was going to attack her, and she was aware of his birds shadowing the air around them, like black bags carried on the breeze. His eyes glimmered dark. His lips were pressed tight, pale. But then he sighed, relaxed his grip on her throat, and stepped back. His fingers lingered against her skin, a silent apology.

“I hate them because they killed my brother.” He was looking at her shoulder, unable to meet her eyes. “They dragged him away soon after Doomsday, cut him up…” He waved away whatever images the recollection invoked.

“Go on,” Lucy-Anne said. Rook veered from anger to confusion, not used to exposing himself so much. But then he seemed to settle and started speaking.

“David. He was my twin but so much more…special. He could speak to the birds. All of them, from the smallest wren to the biggest buzzard. They'd drift down and perch so close to him that he could touch them. It was amazing, and he kept it from everyone but me.”

“Why keep it from people?” she asked, confused. Wasn't everyone in London special nowadays?

“Because he was like that when we were little kids together, then older kids, then all through our teens. And it was only after Doomsday that it troubled him enough to get caught.”

She frowned, confused.

“He was like you,” Rook said. “Special all on his own, before all this.”

“Like me?”

“I dreamed of you because you dreamed of me,” Rook said softly, and it was the most emotion she'd heard him convey. He was opening himself to her, and at the same time his doubt about doing so was obvious. He'd been closed up tight for so long that this was hurting.