++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  She unfurls her mat across the dusty wood floor, mites springing to the air with its impact. The Nocturni watches them, her lips curling at the streak of Sunlight that pierces the apartment’s cheap blinds. For most of her kind, this would be no trouble. They remove such risks by sleeping in closets or bathrooms. But Aisha Lakhani has never been most of her kind.

  12:45. The Sun reaches its height.

  Aisha closes her eyes and tries to calm her hurried thoughts. This is always the hardest part, matching her heart to niyyah. She’s been taught this prayer a thousand times, from Karachi and Abu Dhabi to Izmir and Riyadh. Practiced all the days she breathed and all the days since she stopped breathing, and still, she struggles to think as He thinks. To let her mind become air, and her thoughts flow like water.

  Eventually, she whispers his name.

  “Allāhu ?Akbar.”

  +++++

  It’s a rather small pen, she’s been given. A structure of metal grates and B&Q wood, made in a rush by young Nocts who did not know its purpose. She can hear the creatures already. The chickens and ducks. The goats. Her cow.

  The moon shines over her face, and across her feet, remnants of past rains.

  ++++

  “Subhanaka Allahumma wa bihamdika..."

  Aisha bows her head, following rak’ah. Speaking the divine work in its divine tongue.

  “[In the Name of God, Most Compassionate, Most Merciful…]”

  +++++

  She opens the grated door and steps inside. The animals bleat and caw and stir. Knowing what her arrival brings.

  +++++

  “[... All praise is for God - Lord of all Universes, Master of the Day of Judgement. Thee alone we worship, and thee alone we ask for help.]” She swallows, adding her own verse. “[O Prophet, I seek protection from the Lord of Day. From the harm of what is created; from the harm of darkness when it falls.]”

  +++++

  Her hand slides across each fence, the cold steel, the splinters of wood. She grabs feed from a sack, its texture rough and dry on her fingers before she throws. The animals swarm. Greedy. Grateful.

  +++++

  “[And Prophet, I seek refuge in the Lord of Man. That he might save me from the evil who lurks and whispers in the hearts of al-Jin and mankind.]"

  +++++

  Smiling, Aisha spoils herself. Leaves the chickens for the goats, dipping her hand in a tray of sunflower seeds, and giggling as their graze tickles her fingers. The youngest of them steps forward, his limp always breaking Aisha’s heart. No matter what care or succour is offered, his leg is still twisted. His body still broken. She knows it wasn’t born right. She knows it will never grow.

  +++++

  She bows, at a full right angle. Her feet and shoulders even. Staring at the space where her toes are kept apart, before falling to her knees.

  “Subhan Allah. Subhan Allah. Subhan Allah.”

  She lies prostrate on the mat, her fingers deep in the carpet's curls, and says His name a dozen times, a hundred times, until the weight on her knees makes her weary. Only then does she rise, sitting on her legs, her hands on her thighs and her eyes on the wall.

  “[God...]” She whispers. “[... The hunger tears at me like evil. I hear the voice of al-Jin. It is coming. I cannot stop it.]”

  +++++

  She scratches the goat’s ear, and he leans into her. Relaxed. Joyful.

  Never seeing the knife on her hip.

  +++++

  “[I must feed from another.]”

  +++++

  She takes him out to a second structure, even smaller than the first. The walk is hard and painful on him, but she keeps her hand close by. Helping him up, scratching his ear, whispering all the words she knows will calm him.

  It's this or His own, she tells herself. It's this or man.

  She closes the door as he enters. Untangling the knots in his coat.

  +++++

  “[God, you who are Lord of Everything, you who gave me two bloods…]” Aisha closes her eyes, the words growing pained. “[... aid me. Aid me in knowing my purpose. Aid me in understanding this second life. Why must they die to sustain me? Why am I banished from your Sun? Why is my flesh set aflame? Why can't I feel your warmth? Am I being tested, like Yunus and Ayyub? But what crime did I commit? For what sin do I suffer?]”

  Her hands tremble as her breath shakes, grief fills her voice.

  “Sa’adani! Sa’adani, sa’adani!”

  +++++

  In front of the goat, she sprinkles more seeds. Happily, he eats, ignoring the way she sets down a large bowl before his face. Then she returns, rubbing his ear, just the way he likes. Waiting for the moment he turns east.

  Tears swelling in her eyes.

  +++++

  A pause. Aisha laughs to herself.

  “[Perhaps it is because I break rak’ah, and ask for your help like the Christians do. But I admire their small efforts at direct connection, and if it displeases You, I have merely failed salah and talk to the wall like I'm mad. There are worse fates. You've taught me that."

  +++++

  The goat’s head turns towards the rain, and Aisha slowly unsheathes.

  Aisha exhales. Opens her eyes.

  “[God… why have you sent Raven?]”

  +++++

  Forcing a smile, even as the blade shakes in her hand.

  +++++

  “[When You brought me her name, I thought I knew why. I thought she had suffered our pain. That she knew our struggle. That she was as certain as Dawud, as strong as Sulayman. But God… she is godless. Proud in her decadence, joyous in her bloodshed! Satan has gripped her heart, and like all who have their hearts gripped, she mocks and fears those who’d leave him. How do I help such a woman, God? How do I show her what's her righteous? How do I free a people that proudly wears their chains]?”

  +++

  Slowly, the dagger nears the goat’s throat. And Aisha whispers, “Allah.”

  +++

  “[Show me a sign.]” Aisha’s face sharpens, as she studies the patterns on the wall. “[Remove my doubts. Show to me, as You showed then, that the Tower shakes, that al-Jin can still rise, that in the heart of our enslavers, Your heart will be seen.]”

  +++

  “Allah.” The whispers continue, a steady drone. “Allah. Allah.”

  +++

  “[Bless her, my God, that her iron may be steel, and bless me, as well, for the acts I must do. For the sins I must make."

  +++

  “Allah.”

  +++

  “[May the creatures I kill die with love.]"

  +++

  “Allah.”

  +++

  “[May the debt of their blood soon be filled.]"

  +++

  “Allah.”

  +++

  “[May my heart stay pure. May my gift be used.]” Aisha breathes in, emotion thick in her voice. “[May I hurt today for the day that NONE ARE HURT!]"

  +++

  “Allah!”

  The movement is swift, frictionless, and clean. With the practice of decades, her knife severs the young goat’s neck. The trachea, carotids, and jugular veins, all gone before the creature can react. Death usurps it. Its life spills. The red liquid comes first as a wave, then in a hundred sputters, filling Aisha’s bowl to the brim. She holds the animal's face up when its leg turns weak. Sets it down gently, a final dignity.

  Then she kneels before the bowl, hissing with disgust at the spirits within her that rise. She holds it up with both hands...

  “[Thank you, little one.]”

  ... and drinks.

  +++

  Tears drip down Aisha's cheeks as she turns to the right and whispers.

  “As-salamu alaikum.”

  Turns to the left.

  “[Peace be upon you.]”

  Then bows her head and stands.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “I don’t regret it at all!” Aisha smiles. “The perspectives, the cultures, all fascinating! Like watching two-hundred years of history play out in a single room!”

  They’re in the middle of the Spitalfields markets, still not open for an hour, but already the place buzzes with grocers and sellers, the setting of price tags, the building of stalls. Finnerty sighs, quite loudly, but the Poisoned One doesn’t seem to take the hint.

  “I don’t wish ill on the Israeli, or any of them, really. Their stances are wrong, of course, but so often the truths that come easily to one only arrive with difficulty to another.” She sidesteps past a farmworker, his arms full of fruit crates. “You and I knew colonialism. To us, it appears naked. But to the girl, Rina, whose known war and terror? Whose stories of her people are filled with bigotry and genocide? Inshallah, I fear I would be hateful, too. What room would there be for other thoughts? I won't blame any person for that; the responsibility on their governments, to challenge those ideas-"

  “Aisha?”

  “Yes, Aisling?”

  Finnerty faces her. “Do you ever shut the fook up?”

  Aisha puffs at that. The early morning has brought a thick fog, that seems to accent her glowing eyes. “You accepted my invitation to walk. I assumed that meant you’d want my opinions.”

  "I do." Finnerty holds her hands far apart, then brings them together. “But in York Notes.”

  Aisha's eyes slit. “... right.”

  They walk on. It’s a strange feeling, at least for Finnerty. Once, this market would have already been packed, coins flying around, ears pierced with the shouting of hagglers and street guards and horses. Now, she can already feel the art students seep in, like a virus. Band t-shirts, beanies, five-quid organic, artisanal, get-reamed-by-your-wife-and-her-boyfriend lattes! This used to be a spot for easy lifts, where she only had to avoid the stalls that nailed a failed pick's fingers to their signs. Now… well, honestly, it’s even easier to rob people now, but they’ll just wax on about wealth redistribution or the sublime while you do it, and that takes all the fucking sport out!

  “Well, ‘ere’s a fookin’ riddle.” Finnerty sours. “‘Ow do I visit fifteen Freeholds, three NGOs, and still only end up wiff meself, nineteen birds, a pack of teenages, a washed-up cowboy, and a goddamn Striga who can’t kill shit wiffout crying.”

  “I don’t-” Aisha stops herself when she sees Finnerty’s glare. “... I only cry a little. And Red’s visiting Texas soon, isn’t he? He said he’d bring people.”

  “Oh, grand. Trailer hicks and PTSD Gulf vets! Sounds like me problems are all 'bout to fookin' end!"

  “I think I have more reason to fear the ‘Gulf vets’ than you…” Aisha bites her lip. “... as you like to constantly remind me.”

  “‘Cause it’s nice, not being the number one Terror Target!” Finnerty hops a little. “I ‘aven’t been frisked in five months. Used to keep every Irish name in a bag!"

  She laughs, but the smile quickly fades. The thoughts about Harriet are still constant. Red hair. Freckled face. Questions and visions and-

  “The Americans aren’t all bad, Aisling.”

  That snaps her out. “Are you fookin’-” Finnerty double-takes. “First the Israeli, now dem? Do you’se offer a hug to every fook ‘at wants to kill you’se?”

  “I’ll offer a hug to any ‘fook’ that asks.” Aisha shrugs. “The Americans will have experience. They can train us, the Lost Boys, make this a more proper operation-”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “Heh, yeah, an' you know what ‘ey’ll throw at us, if we make dis a ‘proper operation’?” Finnerty gets in her face. “Tanks. APCs. Bomber jets an’ every fookin’ cop ‘at likes to tear gas college girls to get a fookin' hard-on. Not sure we want a proper operation.

  “Well, how else will we get Fireside?"

  “I’m workin’ on ‘at.”

  Aisha makes a face. “Aisling, at least Red's plan is a plan! It's been a month-"”

  “Yeah, it ‘as!" Finnerty scowls. "And you’re ‘ere chittin’ when ‘ose fookin’ runes are still up, innit!? So try not to throw too many fookin’ stones around!

  “You’ve done nothing but throw stones at me since I’ve joined!"

  “I throw ‘em better.” She replies.

  Aisha sighs. Finnerty catches something in the corner of her eye, and bobs to it. A big tub of sweetened popcorn, being tied into small bags. She watches with sparkling eyes.

  “I told you that Avery’s runes would be difficult," Aisha explains. "His magic is strong, older than mine, and he’s a data black hole. If you want to help me speed that process, you need to break into the Heraldry. Collect my work-”

  “And get every fookin’ Reeve to swarm us like locusts?” Finnerty looks at her. “For records I’m not even ‘lowed to fookin’ see?”

  “For good reason. It would be dangerous to more people than Avery if it got leaked!"

  “How?”

  “I can’t say. It's just-"

  “It would contain his genetic markers.” A new voice elaborates.

  Finnerty and Aisha both turn to the source, then leap back. “Fookin’ Christ!!”

  Janet Lavender stands a few feet away, in a shop full of black lace, heart designs, and heavy rock droning through old, grimy speakers. The oldest living Unbound wears knee-high black boots, a black denim skirt, and a concert t-shirt for a band Finnerty’s never heard of. ‘mY cheM-’... oh, fuck that font, she's not reading that.

  A single glowing eyes glares at them through the white, kabuki-like mask that Janet wears over her face. “Good evening, Raven.”

  Finnerty blinks. Looks around, only to find that all the early-morning workers that had surrounded them are all mysteriously gone. And probably not for coffee. “Are you’se fookin’ serious?” She nods at the mask. “Where’d you fookin’ lift ‘at? Joel fookin’ Schumacher?”

  It’s hard to read Janet’s face, but thankfully, her body betrays her displeasure. “It was necessary to stay incognito.”

  “Incognito?” Aisha looks bewildered, but then Finnerty remembers that she hasn’t met Blackbird before. Hasn't realised that the woman's only half-sane. "How is that-"

  “The veneficii’s powers are tied to genetic markers the aether attaches to,” Janet continues from before. “With enough DNA samples, one can surmise their magic’s structure, create a more tailored counterspell. It's fairly basic knowledge if one wants to kill a veneficii.

  "How do you know this?" Aisha asks, concerned.

  Janet looks at her. “I was the New Sun’s heir apparent for fifty years.”

  “We never told the New Sun.”

  "Oh." Janet’s chuckle is muffled by the mask. “Do you think that woman is trying so desperately to kill me merely to sate her jealously?"

  "Yes?"

  Blackbird pauses at that. Starts saying one word. Then another.

  Finnerty sighs. “Janet-”

  “Blackbird, Raven. It’s dangerous to not use code-names.”

  Finnerty is suddenly very tired. “Blackbird. You shouldn't follow us. Last I saw, you’se couldn’t even fookin’ hear!”

  “I can hear through one, now. And I wanted to introduce myself to your Poisoned One.” She turns back to Aisha. “It’s good to meet you at last. I’ve read your dossier on how to neutralise me.”

  Aisha’s eyes widen. “Oh! U-uh-”

  “It was decent. A good, light read. But you would do well to review for errors. My father's estate is spelled with two 'Ms'." Janet lifts her finger, like she’s tutting a student. “How was the talk with JCL?”

  “Aisling-”

  “Raven.” Janet corrects, her finger lifting even higher.

  Aisha blinks. “'Raven' cursed at them and swore her unwavering support for Palestine.”

  “Ah! As expected!” Janet folds her arms. “You were wasting your time. The Israelis will be skittish about any action that could jeopardise Blair’s support for an invasion of Lebanon. I would have told you this, if I was included. Thankfully, now that I’ve joined your Freehold, this won't be a future issue.”

  The other two pale. “You’ve joined what?”

  Finnerty growls. “I wasn’t asked!"

  “Yes, well, it’s not really a matter that concerns you.” Janet walks to one of the clothing racks, her boots thumping, and inspects the contents. “There was no need to maintain formal independence. Fireside is vital to my plans, and you are organizing her rescue.”

  “Red’s in charge, not me."

  “Not for long.” Finnerty thinks Janet meant to smile, but it’s hidden completely by the mask. “Unless you’re planning a frontal assault, Polyphron will be quite similar to lifting contraband. You’ve been doing that since you were five.”

  “What if I was plannin’ a frontal assault?” Finnerty asks.

  “Then you'll die. Though I might still approve. I'm quite fascinated by deaths of dramatic fashion.” Janet pulls a few shirts from the rack and hangs them over her arm. “I have two conditions. The first, that you share all information gathered on this case with me freely. I will get it, either way, but asking takes less time.”

  “Done,” Finnerty says, ignoring Aisha’s horrified glare.

  “Second, I want to continue working down my list.” Janet pauses, noting Finnerty's scowl. “Again, this will happen regardless of your input, but I would like it to not cause discord."

  “Wait, what list?” Aisha asks.

  Finnerty glares at her. Oh no-

  “The list of every Courtmen that’s belittled, demeaned, or otherwise peeved me? The list of enemies I must see destroyed? The list I've been working on for the past hundred and thirty-four years? Was this not made apparent to you when you wrote my dossier!?"

  “How many names are on that list?”

  “Four-thousand, two-hundred and forty-one! Why?” Janet seems confused by the expression Aisha makes. “Is any part of that controversial?”

  Aisha opens her mouth, then closes it when she sees Finnerty shake her head. “... Nope! Actually, not at all!”

  Janet finally cools. “Capital.”

  “You wanna kill? Fine. But don't be seen.” Finnerty still frowns. “I don’t fook wiff the Court.”

  “You don’t want to fuck with the Court,” Janet corrects. “You can fuck with the Court, and you’ll probably have to, once the Court realises what they have in Fireside. Mercifully, the Court is full of imbeciles, so this will take some time, but given that it was never hidden that you two were - what were you? Lovers? Partners?”

  Finnerty sours. Wow, another gay joke? Holy fucking shit! That's so fucking funny! She’s slapping her FUCKING KNEE! “Mates.”

  “They'll know her ‘mate’ is their greatest threat to losing her.” Janet uses ‘mate’ wrong. Like she’s talking about animals. “So, really, my operations just ease their attention from you, yes?”

  Finnerty puts a hand on her hip. “It sounds like you’se just wanna do whatever-the-fook, fook what I say, but you also want all the benefits of joinin' me, while payin' none of the fookin' costs."

  “That’s entirely what I am saying, yes.” Janet tilts her head. "Is it a deal?"

  "Fook it. Yeah, it's a fookin' deal. Now go! Piss off! 'Ave a holiday! See if I fookin' care."

  Janet nods and gathers her things. She's walking past Finnerty when she speaks. “I’ll let you know when I have information about Fireside’s-”

  “Waaaiit.” Finnerty reaches out, grabbing Janet's sleeve and pulling her back in. She gives a baleful look. “... ‘At Soteris boy. You were the one ‘at looked into ‘im, right?”

  It’s hard to make out Janet’s face. “Yes. Of course. Like I do with all my jobs. But I underestimated-”

  “The Janet Lavender I know…” Finnerty smirks, revelling in the twitch Janet gives from the use of her full name. “... don’t underestimate shite.”

  Janet’s sole eye flares. “Are you implying I had a hand in this?”

  “It’s not like you’se an’ her were friends.”

  “Because friendship is a human construct I’ve discarded to further my mission. It’s not an outcome I desired-”

  “Can I be real wiff you?” Finnerty leans close. “You mighta impressed Rowe an' Keaton wiff ‘at fookin’ stunt in Whitehall, an’ you mighta impressed the New Sun by ‘avin’ a fully functional cortex. But you’se were born wiff a noble name, a silver spoon, an’ forty-thousand fookin' acres, right? So maybe I’s don’t like ‘at. Maybe I’s don’t trust what fookin’ outcomes you’se fookin’ desire.”

  Janet’s bearing down on her. Smouldering. “Do you need a reason for why I'm helping you?"

  “I'm askin' for whatever real answer you'll-

  “Do you know the average number of names Fireside strikes from my list each year?” Janet grabs Finnerty’s trackie. Pulling her close. Smelling her breath. She pries off the mask and keeps speaking. “Thirty-one. Do you know how many are removed by all my other operatives? Twenty-five! Do you understand the difficulty this puts me in!? It means my list will not be empty until 2172, at which point the sea will have risen four metres, London will be uninhabitable, and the Court will scatter!”

  “If the Court scatters,” Aisha starts, “how much would it matter that-”

  Janet swivels, and Aisha looks like she'll be sick. Her face is still split, her hair half-burned, and bits of bone-white are still visible on her chin, to say nothing of what was once her nose. “I will not be outdone by the FUCKING WEATHER!”

  Realising the sight this creates, Janet quickly slides the mask back over her face, releases her grip on Finnerty, and begins walking into the street.

  “Again…” She says without turning. “... I’ll contact you.”

  Aisha waits a long time before she speaks. “I don’t think I like her.”

  “Yeah?” Finnerty beckons her to walk the other way. “‘At makes all of us.”

  A few minutes pass, and the stream of workers only grows stronger. They arrive in trucks and bikes, stocking shelves, colouring signs. There’s more Polish spoken than English here, and a green park can be seen beyond, its bins overturned, its benches filled with those bums that can sleep through the commotion. Finnerty’s eyes lift to the clouds, the rooftops, looking for black masses even as Aisha blathers on.

  “I also had a security matter I wanted to discuss.”

  “Oh, really?” Finnerty closes her eyes. “I feel like the manager at Sainsbury's."

  “It’s about your neighbours.” Aisha pulls her jilbaab close, blocking the wind. “They're… well… there’s no soft way to put it. They stare. They pull their children away. If I’m walking down the street towards them, they’ll cross, or turn around!"

  “Issat new?"

  “It's new for other Muslims."

  “Well, ‘eir Bengals, right? Maybe ‘ey can smell your Pakistani.”

  “It’s not because I’m Pakistani. It’s because I’m with you.” She rushes up, speaking closer to Finnerty’s ear. “Aisling, they don’t trust you. They don’t trust your men. And given the way some of those men trample around, I find it hard to blame them!”

  “An’ ‘is is my problem, because…?”

  “You don’t care?” Aisha flourishes. “Do you want them to be afraid?”

  "Why fookin' not!?" Finnerty turns, glowering at her. “Fear works.”

  Aisha looks like she’s been struck. “Aisling-”

  “Aisha.” She mimics the girl’s tone. “You’ve been ‘ere what, three weeks? I’ve been doin’ ‘is for a fookin’ century! Don’t need advice.”

  “So if the cops come while we’re rescuing Fireside-”

  “I’ve bought the cops,” Finnerty hisses. “An’ the unions, an’ the firemen, an’ the gangs an’ teachers an’ every ovver fook I can fink to fookin’ buy! An’ if ‘ey won’t be bought I smash ‘eir legs in! An' I keep smashin' ‘till ‘eir replaced wiff someone who's fookin' buyable! ‘Cause ‘at’s how the Freeholds work. ‘At’s how ‘ey’ve always worked, an’ you’se a complete fookin’ dummkopf if you’se don’t fink the Court does the fookin’ same!"

  “We don’t have to be like the Court."

  “I don’t fookin’ care!”

  “Aisling!” Aisha gets close. “You know that dossier I wrote about Janet? I wrote them for everyone. Every Freeholder we know of. And you know what separates the ones we knew from the ones that died before we could hear of them? Loyalty.”

  "Oy vey." Finnerty rolls her eyes. “You-shit.” Her eyes spark. “Nance!”

  She watches the bird circle around them, half-listening as she shoves her hand into a large leather glove. Pulls up her sleeve. “You’ve seen what your Lost Boys will do! If the mortals in Bethnal Green supported you the same way, it wouldn’t matter what the Court tries! We’d have a home base-”

  “You’re just squeamish ‘bout our work!” Finnerty shouts.

  “Of course I am! You're all committing crimes! And being a criminal is fun, I’m sure, but we can be different. We need to be different.”

  “If I consider it, will you shut up?”

  Aisha smiles and nods quickly.

  “Cool. I’ve considered it." Finnerty looks back up at the sky. "The answer’s no.”

  “Wha-” Aisha pouts as Finnerty turns around. “Consider it again!”

  “Still no!”

  “Consider it thirty more times!”

  Finnerty holds out her arm. “Aisha, I’m talking to my birds.”

  The girl pouts. "... look, if this is about Ratcatcher-"

  “BRAP BRAP BRAP!” Finnerty makes a hand-gesture of a flapping mouth. “I can’t hear you! 'Eir squawkin'!"

  Aisha puffs up. Turns, scanning the stalls and shops for something of interest, and settling on a Nike reseller.

  She breathes through her nose. "Allah gave us patience..."

  With a flourish, she’s gone. Leaving Finnerty alone with her sons and daughters.

  +++++

  Cratchett lands first, the greedy prick, chittering on her glove with pride as he squawks in their hidden tongue. Reporting all the chipmunks and field mice he saw when he was supposed to be watching the building.

  He asks Finnerty if she wants some.

  She tells him not now.

  Nancy follows, elegant, ignoring the glove to settle painfully on her mother’s shoulder. The two strut about, chirping, hungry, as Finnerty knicks herself with a nail, offers their bills the delicious scent of aether. She winces at their pecks. Moans at their eating. Slowly, careful to not frighten either, her fingers lift again to the very tip of Nancy’s wing.

  She pierces. Nancy bleeds. And she's gone. Vanished to all but Pickwick and Quilp, still soaring the skies above her.

  +++++

  Aisha walks with flowing steps. To her right, a tent rises; to her left, a kebab stand wafts with the delicious smell of doner meat. She breathes in the morning air, thick and wet, and studies the sounds of London near-dawn. Heavy feet. Open windows. Cigarettes. Steve Allen. The city sweepers head home, the city binmen head out. As she holds up each shoe, and pulls her dress back to inspect them, she can sense it all. Fathers and mothers. Sons and daughters. People.

  Warm flesh, and blood whose scent, with every year, only seems to grow sweeter.

  +++++

  When the aether hits her brain, Finnerty nearly screams.

  Her feathers unfurl, and her eyes burst with light. Sweat on her brow. Heaving breaths. Through it all, Nancy stays in her perch, her eyes the same as her master’s.

  She isn’t here. She’s ten miles away, 300 metres from the ground, and twelve hours in the past. She hears a hundred cars, the rush of storm winds. Coldness seeps on her feathers, and across her eyes, a static, an unease. The runes of Randall Avery glow, the symbols old, the lights a bright blue. She glides up and dives down, listening to the whispers of the thousands who leave the front door.

  “- game last night?”

  “-crazy conference-”

  “-workers in Glasgow-”

  Nothing new. Nothing solid. Hours pass in seconds, and minutes last for days. Her mind turns sharp, papercut thin, as the sheer force of mixed aethers batters her mind. Eventually, the pain turns vice-like, the Wilds gripping her chest for relief, and she prepares to part, failed as always, when...

  …when…

  Red hair.

  Freckled face.

  A bizarre, feathered headdress running against the glass window. She's heading west. In a run-down old car. The dhaoine rosín bitch. Passenger seat.

  Her.

  Nancy swivels, flying towards them, against the rain.

  Finnerty doesn’t feel the blood that drips from her nose. Even as it slides into her lips.

  +++++

  “Thirty quid.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Yute, dese are quality creps, straight from the store.”

  “Then you should probably sell them in the store. Twenty.”

  The reseller huffs, a hand reaching into his oversized coat. “Twenty-five?”

  Aisha smiles, calmly holds up the bills. “Deal.”

  As the shopkeeper bags them, she curls her nose. The kebab stand's smell still reaches, tickling her tongue with what memories of taste remain. She knows the Lost Boys like to eat despite their curse; a taboo in any corner of the Court, but... maybe for her, it might be-

  Her ears shake. Someone's screamed.

  Aisha blinks, and turns to the shopkeeper, to find he’s blinking too. It sounded so close that it could have come from their own throats, but there’s no obvious source, no indication of any distress. The kebab stall owner walks out from his stall. All around, workers pause their work, confused, ready to help.

  That’s when she sees the crumbs falling from a nearby wall. Something chipping at the bricks and mortar. With indents like fingers.

  “Aisling?”

  +++++

  “RAAAARRRRGGHHH!”

  Hands on her head. Nails in her skull. The blood flows from both nostrils, more than her lips can hold. She twitches, and blinks, desperate to get out, lacking an escape. Cratchett's long since fled, but Nancy remains. Silent. Trembling.

  Screaming. Shouting. Pulling her down.

  “Eight strikes.”

  Bronze mask. Brass rod. Bright wings.

  “Eight strikes.”

  Her nose fills with dust. Her nails break against brick. The bitch grabs the rod. "The marks should be seen."

  “Eight strikes.”

  Screaming screaming

  “Eight strikes.”

  Blood dripping.

  The Wilds crawl into her, fast as the pain. Tightness in her chest. Pulsing in her brain. She falls to her knees. Can’t LOOK AWAY

  KILL THEM

  Striking and striking and

  KILL THEM

  Chimney smoke and teeth in her neck

  KILL THEM

  Her skin turns bright. She feels it, in her heart. Coldness and blackness. Darkness and r???i???g???h???t???n???e???s???s???. Her nose is bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, betraying g???o???l???d???.

  K???I???????L?????L???? ????T???H????E???????M??????

  They strip off Harriet’s choker.

  Finnerty reads the words.

  +++++

  Aisha takes a few careful steps. Brows up, eyes searching. Doing her best to hold up her hands, keep some distance between the mortals and the ever-crumbling brick. “Aisling?”

  She winces at an ear-piercing caw. The largest of Finnerty’s ravens bursts from nothing, screeching as it takes the sky. Aisha watches it, twists to follow it, aware that dozens of eyes do the same. Now entire bricks fall out in chunks.

  “... You’re here…” Already, Aisha's fingers glow. “... you’re safe.”

  Aether sparks around her eyes.

  “You’re right here, Aisling. You’re with me. No one’s hurting you.”

  She’s almost touched the wall.

  “No one’s hurt-"

  One moment, Aisha feels a hint of fabric. Then her senses flood with dust. Her skull surges with pain. She collapses, dazed, blood trickling from her brow, and by the time she looks up, the world’s lost another human

  It’s a bizarre sight. The kebab stand owner; he looks like he's fighting nothing. Pinned only by the air. But then his neck gets pierced. There's a geyser of blood. His throat stretches and stretches until the muscles snap. Then his chest turns to mincemeat in front of them. Finnerty eating as much as she drinks, the stand buckling beneath her weight. Another man rushes to the stall, cricket bat in his hands. Ignoring Aisha’s plea.

  “NO!”

  His swing stops mid-way. The bat explodes into halves. One piece shreds through his heart, and his eyes float out of his body shortly after.

  “FINNERTY!”

  At that point, they’re all running. The re-seller and workers, the binmen and joggers. Through it all, she's still invisible. Aisha readies herself, hands pulsing, when she hears footfalls against the cobbles. Claws nearing a binman. “HYA!”

  The binman's foot is pierced just as there's a swish. A rush in the air. Her flames snake through the street, quick and thin, pulling back just as the victim lands on his hands.

  "GET OUT!" Aisha screams, gesturing. "Go! GO! I've-"

  She stumbles to the ground. The creature's running. Snarling. Climbing the walls. Aisha feels the pressure in her whip, then grunts. Pulls on it. Another screech. Aisling's back down.

  This time, her spell breaks. This time, Aisha can see her. Hissing and biting and clawing, screaming at the fire. Taut face. Grey skin. Feathers and claws. Sharp fangs.

  Aisha's breath hitches, and she throws out another whip. More screaming, more pain, the fire licking greedily at flesh that supernaturally refuses it. She can hear the anguish in the creature's voice as it's tied down.

  “I’m sorry.” A tear slides down her cheek, lit by the flickers of orange light

  Aisha would say the girl's name, if she thought the girl was there. But she's seen this too many times. She knows Aisling's gone.

  And the Wilds didn't follow her.

  salah accurate, a lot of elements - most notably the second rak'ah that ought to be performed, was cut for the sake of brevity. This includes some of the direct quotes/translations I've taken from the Qur'an. As Aisha mentions herself in that section, Muslim prayers (or at least the five obligatory ones) typically only contain specific phrases or quotes from the Qur'an, which was a very unfortunate thing to learn as I was writing the scene! I still opted to keep the personal segment, both because it's useful for giving some clarity on Aisha's goals, and because - despite her obvious devotion - I don't really think Aisha is all that concerned about maintaining faith orthodoxy. She's a bit of a 'wokie', as you might have caught on.

  Chapter 23: The Monster that Swallowed the World, where they will at last find the help they seek… but from an ally none expected.