Extraits

CHaPteR ONe

‘But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.’

Robert Frost my sweater was coated in a layer of mist – again – a byproduct of life in London. I barely noticed the constant drizzle any more. It’s not as if the cold bothered me. Not when I was the very definition of cold.

What was bothering me was the smell. There is something rank about a meat market at night. Especially when you’re wedged into the eaves wondering what, over the years, has been sprayed about and never cleaned away. I shuddered.

The Smithfield Market was currently in vogue, but a gritty sense of history thickened the air, giving it a density that made me sure this wasn’t the first time the site had been used for wicked intent. And right now, it was hunting hour.

At least I was the hunter.

I watched quietly as the exiles came into the centre of the massive terminal-style space, vaguely interested to note that there were six of them, instead of the four I’d expected. No bother, I suppose. I still had the element of surprise on my side.

The past two years had taught me not to let the everyday hiccups get to me. Sure, the additional muscle would hurt, but only in the physical sense and I could cope with that. Rolling with the punches is necessary when you are a Grigori – a human–angel hybrid – a weapon against the ever-increasing numbers of exiled angels on earth. For me, even more so since they gave me such a colourful nickname. I’m the Keshet – the rainbow. I didn’t ask to be, but I made my choices and I stand by them.

So, there I was. Although I was still trying to figure out exactly what being the rainbow meant, mostly I found that the desire to know conflicted with my continuing need not to think about it at all. One thing I did know was that somehow I could create space with the angels – an unknown place where we were able to take form and communicate. My angel maker – whose name I still didn’t know – said it was a place of new possibilities. For what, I was not sure.

But I know this is what I am. It is what I will be.

The final two exiles sauntered up to the four already waiting. It used to be impossible for me to be this close to exiles without them going into a frenzy, sensing my presence. But I’d learned many lessons over the past year, the most useful of which had been how to keep my guards up and locked so tight that even exiles couldn’t sense me when I was truly concentrating.

Which – judging by the thin film of sweat on my forehead – is now.

The exiles dumped the huge calico sack they had been dragging along the floor and pulled it open, revealing three mutilated bodies to join the two maimed ones already on display.

From my position it was difficult to tell how old the corpses were, and if the smell was able to give a clue, I wouldn’t have known, the stink of death and flesh being an overall theme of the place.

It was no wonder the exiles liked it so much.

Normally, exiles wouldn’t bother with the clean-up – leaving evidence was of no concern. Normally, the exiles enjoyed the mess and despair they left behind. But not these ones. These dark exiles were working for someone else. They’d been following a plan, using a hit list, and it was all too well-constructed for any one of them to mastermind. Our intel told us they’d been hired. Such behaviour would usually be considered beneath them, but apparently this group of exiles had decided the job was thrilling enough to suffer the humiliation of working for the highest bidder – even if that was a human.

As for the billionaire businessman, well, that’s not my department, but someone will pay him a visit. Right after all the evidence of his wrongdoing – minus the exile activity – is handed over to the authorities and his bank accounts are heavily syphoned to pay for the futures of his victims’ families. And our fee, of course.

Which, thanks to certain people, is exorbitant.

Two of the exiles were dressed impeccably: one in a steel-grey suit and sporting villain-typical slicked-back hair; the other wore a slim-collared black suit that hugged his tall figure and set off his of-the-moment tousled light brown hair. The remaining four were less striking in casual wear, though nonetheless picture perfect. All six looked over the bodies like fishermen comparing the size and quality of their haul. My hand grazed my dagger, the blade that had been given to me after I first embraced my powers and became a Grigori warrior three years ago. I was never without it. I even had a sheath attached to my bed for a quick draw if needed.

I’d learned the hard way – through the death and suffering of people I loved and, strangely enough, through my own death and suffering – exiles stop at nothing. Their insanity and misguided missions know no bounds and they take pleasure in causing great pain and suffering to humankind.