The daylamp was like a thousand furious Whities, battering on the glass. The lamppost jerked again, as though in the grip of a fit, and she flared off another distress call. Useless , she cursed herself; her sisters would be blind too. She could feel the tremors of the thing, whatever it was, dragging itself up the lamppost towards her. She shrank into the back of her shelter; wires pricked her skin.
A black shape smacked hard against the glass: a long, thin shadow studded with thorns. The whole bulb shuddered. The thing receded, moving nightmarishly slowly, vanishing into the blur of light like ink being sucked out of water …
—and smacked in again …
Voltaia tumbled backwards at the impact. The thin barbed shape vanished behind cracked glass and she braced herself, her lungs burning as she held her breath.
The thing struck again, and the lamp shattered.
Voltaia leapt from her home, falling for an instant, surrounded by a glittering rain of glass. Concrete drove the breath from her. She shoved herself to her feet, shaking off the impact and casting about. Everything was indistinct dark lines, swamped by the glaring sun; everything looked like a monster, reaching for her. She fled to herleft, towards Galvanica’s lamp, probing through her fields, but she couldn’t feel them. She couldn’t feel them .
Calm down , she told herself, calm down. Her heart was beating so fast she was scared it might start to smoke.
Galva! Faradi! She knew they wouldn’t see her cries in the light, but she couldn’t stop herself calling for them. She reached into the space where Galvanica’s post should have been and her fingertips groped empty air. She stumbled and fell onto something metal. Her hands trembled as she felt her way along it. It was twisted, pockmarked with dozens of tiny holes.
A cloud passed in front of the daylamp and suddenly she could see : she was holding Galvanica’s post. It had been torn from the ground, leaving just a stump. The broken-off end was jagged and sharp. A glass girl was lying halfunfolded from the broken bulb, her light extinguished. Her nose and kneecaps were shattered and her skin was frosted with tiny cracks.
Voltaia stumbled towards her, barely noticing the pain as the shards of metal and broken bulb cut her feet. Her powdered blood spilled on the ground.
Galv—
As Voltaia approached, her sister’s hair started to sway in the magnetic breeze she carried. It was a mean mockery of life.
Through her fields, she felt the metal of the thing behind her brush her field and she turned. Its coils flew in fast, extinguishing the light.
CHAPTER 14
I want to help you – I want to help you do more than just run.
Her words are like river silt, clogging up my ears. I look back at her arm, at the mark I gave her. City dirt has entered it; it will be a scar – it was meant to be a scare , but though she swore fancily at my clumsiness as I swabbed it with disinfectant and stitched it with a splinter of railway sleeper, she wears it patiently enough.
We weave through the crowds on Church Street. I’m ostentatiously invisible: people take pains not to look at me, I suppose because I look so much like the figures huddled in sleepingbags in doorways that they are also careful to ignore.
Is that how you’re going to live up your mother’s legacy? Run?
It was an idiotic question, frankly. I can no more live up to my mother’s legacy than I can wear her estuary-water skirts, or match her cruelty, or fill her Docklands throne with my bony arse. I’d be a laughing-stock before I died.
Except now there are two of us laughing-stocks: me, and my idiotic, brave, scarred girl with a conscience. And thatmakes the odds against us half as bad. So here we are, entering the gates of a graveyard in Stoke Newington: a graveyard left to become a wilderness, and the last gathering-ground for my mother’s damned priesthood.
It was Beth’s idea. ‘You’re the son of a Goddess, aren’t you?’ she said.
A black shape smacked hard against the glass: a long, thin shadow studded with thorns. The whole bulb shuddered. The thing receded, moving nightmarishly slowly, vanishing into the blur of light like ink being sucked out of water …
—and smacked in again …
Voltaia tumbled backwards at the impact. The thin barbed shape vanished behind cracked glass and she braced herself, her lungs burning as she held her breath.
The thing struck again, and the lamp shattered.
Voltaia leapt from her home, falling for an instant, surrounded by a glittering rain of glass. Concrete drove the breath from her. She shoved herself to her feet, shaking off the impact and casting about. Everything was indistinct dark lines, swamped by the glaring sun; everything looked like a monster, reaching for her. She fled to herleft, towards Galvanica’s lamp, probing through her fields, but she couldn’t feel them. She couldn’t feel them .
Calm down , she told herself, calm down. Her heart was beating so fast she was scared it might start to smoke.
Galva! Faradi! She knew they wouldn’t see her cries in the light, but she couldn’t stop herself calling for them. She reached into the space where Galvanica’s post should have been and her fingertips groped empty air. She stumbled and fell onto something metal. Her hands trembled as she felt her way along it. It was twisted, pockmarked with dozens of tiny holes.
A cloud passed in front of the daylamp and suddenly she could see : she was holding Galvanica’s post. It had been torn from the ground, leaving just a stump. The broken-off end was jagged and sharp. A glass girl was lying halfunfolded from the broken bulb, her light extinguished. Her nose and kneecaps were shattered and her skin was frosted with tiny cracks.
Voltaia stumbled towards her, barely noticing the pain as the shards of metal and broken bulb cut her feet. Her powdered blood spilled on the ground.
Galv—
As Voltaia approached, her sister’s hair started to sway in the magnetic breeze she carried. It was a mean mockery of life.
Through her fields, she felt the metal of the thing behind her brush her field and she turned. Its coils flew in fast, extinguishing the light.
CHAPTER 14
I want to help you – I want to help you do more than just run.
Her words are like river silt, clogging up my ears. I look back at her arm, at the mark I gave her. City dirt has entered it; it will be a scar – it was meant to be a scare , but though she swore fancily at my clumsiness as I swabbed it with disinfectant and stitched it with a splinter of railway sleeper, she wears it patiently enough.
We weave through the crowds on Church Street. I’m ostentatiously invisible: people take pains not to look at me, I suppose because I look so much like the figures huddled in sleepingbags in doorways that they are also careful to ignore.
Is that how you’re going to live up your mother’s legacy? Run?
It was an idiotic question, frankly. I can no more live up to my mother’s legacy than I can wear her estuary-water skirts, or match her cruelty, or fill her Docklands throne with my bony arse. I’d be a laughing-stock before I died.
Except now there are two of us laughing-stocks: me, and my idiotic, brave, scarred girl with a conscience. And thatmakes the odds against us half as bad. So here we are, entering the gates of a graveyard in Stoke Newington: a graveyard left to become a wilderness, and the last gathering-ground for my mother’s damned priesthood.
It was Beth’s idea. ‘You’re the son of a Goddess, aren’t you?’ she said.
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