Fury m-4 Read online

  Bianca hurries across the hall into the room with the telephone. I hear her speaking in fluent, harried Italian. ‘Send the car around now,’ she insists, ‘to the dépendance. They need to leave now. Yes, I know it’s too early, but they can wait at the hangar. Get all the men and their families into the great house. The lake looks like it may … rise. And call Villa Cavallino and Villa Pironi. Then make an anonymous call to the emergency services. Untraceable. Same information. The lake may rise, something looks like it’s happening, get away from the water’s edge … I don’t know … Yes, I understand it sounds crazy. Just do it. Okay?’

  She reappears in the hallway, saying distractedly, ‘Excuse me, while I change, pack a few things.’

  She doesn’t bother to shut her bedroom door, and I hear wardrobe doors being opened and closed hurriedly, the sound of a zipper being pulled. She emerges about five minutes later with a small holdall, dressed in the same grey sweater and black jeans we first saw her wearing, her hair bound back in a low ponytail, feet in heavy black boots, a bunch of keys dangling from the fingers of one hand.

  ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ Ryan says with concern, as Bianca switches lights off all around us, then presses numbers into a glowing keypad by the front door before ushering us outside. As she closes the heavy, wooden door behind us, I hear the security system emitting a rhythmic beep, beep.

  Bianca shakes her head at Ryan’s question. ‘There’s nowhere safe from the Devil, is there? Some of my men are the great-grandsons of the people who originally worked here; this is all they know. They’ll want to stay and defend their homes — if it comes to that — as do I. Leave that part to me, as I leave the liberation of … of … archangels to the two of you.’ She gazes at my blurring, shifting outline with that expression of fearful wonder on her face.

  I detect the faint purr of a car engine, the crunch and squeal of tyres sliding slowly across stone. I put a hand on Ryan’s arm as headlights swing into view high above us, and he nods to indicate he’s seen them. We watch the car slowly descend before the driveway switches back again and the vehicle is momentarily lost to sight.

  ‘Ryan,’ I say hurriedly, ‘while you’re in the car, you’re not going to see me or hear me. But I’ll be with you, I’ll be near. You won’t see me board the plane either, but I’ll join you when I can. Okay?’

  I see uncertainty leap in his eyes, and place the back of one hand against his face. ‘I’ll be with you. It’s no trick. You and me, me and you. That’s the deal.’

  Bianca places a hand tentatively on my arm at last, the way I know she’s been dying to. ‘You feel so …’

  ‘Real?’ I reply with a crooked smile, which is echoed by Ryan’s. ‘That’s what people keep telling me.’

  ‘And warm,’ she adds, a small frown pleating her forehead. ‘I hadn’t expected that. You look so, so … flawless that I’d imagined you’d feel cold, like marble.’ She drops her hand. ‘I’m sounding crazy.’

  I say quietly, ‘Not to me.’

  ‘I don’t know how to wish you luck,’ Bianca mutters, ‘but I know that you’ll need it.’

  ‘As will you,’ I tell her. She seems too slight, too frail, to withstand what is headed her way, but courage comes in many forms. It’s something I’ve witnessed firsthand. ‘Bona fortuna,’ I say formally. ‘Godspeed.’

  ‘And to you,’ she whispers.

  I bow my head in thanks, in admiration of her strength. Then I let it all go; hear Ryan gasp, see Bianca’s face go pale. I let my outline shred into a pale mist before dispersing silently; just lean into the atmosphere and somehow become of it until I’m weightless again, I’m air.

  By the time Tomaso steps out of the wide, black, low-slung luxury sedan with its heavily tinted windows, its high beams on to ward off the pre-dawn darkness, I’m nowhere to be seen. Only Ryan is standing there, the pack slung across one broad shoulder, wearing his faux glasses, his peaked cap jammed down low over his face, Bianca at his side.

  ‘Where is the girl?’ I hear Tomaso ask his employer sharply.

  ‘She could not wait,’ Bianca responds, meeting his gaze steadily. ‘She went on ahead.’

  Tomaso’s reply is faintly derisive. ‘Then she is either very mad or very brave.’ He holds the door open for Ryan, indicating he should get in.

  Ryan and Bianca exchange glances, then he extends a hand politely, awkwardly, and she takes it, gripping it briefly with both hands before letting go.

  As Ryan ducks his head to enter the vehicle, I flow up and across the back of the car, a pocket of turbulence, indistinguishable from the metallic black of the paintwork. I crouch weightlessly upon the roof like a runner, giving myself perfectly uninterrupted 360-degree views in every direction. By the time the driver enters the deserted street that runs along the lake’s shore, the gates are already closing against us and Bianca and Tomaso are quickly lost to sight.

  As the car picks up speed, it becomes obvious that a thick and unnatural fog is building slowly but steadily over the lake, rolling outwards towards the banks on both sides as if it would swallow the world.

  Bona fortuna, I whisper again, my thoughts flying up to that household of brave souls upon the hill. Godspeed.

  11

  The fog brings the dead to the lake’s shore.

  I see them in the faint blush of light that signals daybreak as our car sweeps down the deserted, winding road that runs right beside the water, the wind soughing eerily through the pines that line it. There are scores of them. They drift along the road, down through the terraced gardens, anguished and confused, responding in some speechless, primal way to something in the water.

  As we pass, every wraith lifts its head as if it can scent me, turns to follow my progress though I am nothing to the human eye, just a patch of turbulence, a cloud of energy, surfing by on top of a sleek and anonymous European car. But, still, they seek me out, and I feel a ripple, a chill, move across my soul at the sight of them all gathering.

  Our driver does not see what I see; has no clue of what surrounds us. He ploughs the car straight through the grieving figure of an old man drifting in the centre of the road, dressed in the same shapeless cardigan, button-down shirt and suit pants he was last wearing in life. The car shreds him to pieces. When I look behind me, the apparition has already re-formed: his ashen face and eyes trained on our disappearing taillights, arms outstretched as if pleading, before recommencing his mindless passage down to the water.

  The fog builds and builds upon the lake beneath a heavy sky brimming with leaden, menacing clouds that the sun cannot break through. We travel through a weird, yellow-grey half-light, as if traversing some scenic boulevard of the underworld. After a time, there are no more dead lining the road, which tells me we have left Moltrasio and its new-minted spirits behind.

  As we fly down a road that suddenly turns inland, away from the water, there’s a vast, rending sound, a giant crack — like sustained thunder — and the ground ripples beneath the wheels of the pitching car like fabric, before steadying. The streetscape we move through — wealthy compounds hidden behind high, vine-covered fences and massive iron gates; the pastel walls of two-or three-storey dwellings built right up against the edges of the road; neat rows of compact cars parked nose to tail; the branches of spreading chestnut trees — seems to shimmer for a moment, to tremble.

  In response, the driver floors the accelerator. I feel his fear in the way he’s handling the powerful car beneath me, feel his panic in the way we almost fishtail around the bends though the road here is dry and in near perfect condition.

  I hear car alarms go off, see lights flare into life in the windows of some of the buildings we flash past. But the booming sound does not recur, and, mile after mile, we leave its unseen source behind us.

  We cross a bridge at a punishing, rattling pace, and the lake once more swings into view. We hug its mighty contours for a stretch before turning inland again and losing sight of it altogether. But that last, quick glimpse fills me with a
greater apprehension — nothing can be seen of the water’s surface, save that rolling white fog.

  For a moment, I imagine I hear a high, whining sound in my inner ear. A questing sound, the kind that might herald the sort of intense pain Luc caused me only hours ago, when he was trying to get inside my head and I didn’t want him there. My reaction is fierce and immediate. I imagine myself as a closed box, a walled compound, smooth on all sides, impervious to attack from any direction — and the sound is cut off, does not recur. Even though I know I’m kidding myself, concentrating hard on shutting Luc out gives me an excuse not to dwell on what lies ahead for me, in Paris.

  We head further downhill, further inland, and I begin to see headlights winding up through the foothills in the far distance.

  As our driver brakes on approach towards the same police roadblock we encountered yesterday, there’s consternation amongst the gathered officers when they catch sight of our numberplate. A lone officer is sent striding our way, and I hear the hiss and glide of the driver’s side window, then the window on Ryan’s side of the car slides down. The grim-faced officer bends and glances swiftly around the interior of the vehicle, beckons for identity documentation, scans it, returns it, and raises a hand sharply. Moments later, two helmeted Polizia di Stato motorcyclists roar up on either side of our vehicle and we resume our journey southward, one motorbike ahead, the other falling in behind.

  Four lanes of normal-looking traffic build up around us as we make a turn to the northwest, and the landscape grows more heavily industrialised. The presence of the two police outriders smooths our passage enormously: gaps in the traffic continually appear, as if by magic, and our driver makes the most of every one. I catch the curious glances directed towards our little convoy from the cabs of other vehicles that pass by, but the thing that draws my attention most is the sky. It’s a normal winter sky out here: steel blue with just a scattering of cloud; a normal morning for this time of year: cold and clear, with only a light breeze riffling through and around me. The contrast to the lake country is startling.

  There’s one more major turn-off before the roar of jet turbines fills the sky above. The air grows heavy with the scent of burning aviation fuel and, in no time at all, we’re on the tarmac of a busy airport, with cargo planes and private jets taking off and landing all around us. The noise is immense.

  Before our car comes to a stop inside a canyon formed by shipping containers and private hangars, I’ve already vaulted off the roof. I hit the ground silently and upright, nothing more than a vaguely humanoid shimmer of energy, a heat haze. I make my way directly towards a large hangar where a sleek, silver, twin-engine jet with tip-tilted wings, six porthole windows and StA Global Logistics stencilled on it is parked. On the jet’s tail, which is shaped a little like a swallow’s tail, there’s a logo of a galleon in full sail centred above a pair of crossed keys.

  The police motorcyclists roar away in formation, back in the direction we came from, as I drift up the collapsible staircase towards the Gulfstream’s open doorway. I enter a cabin that smells of leather, coffee and attar of roses, and see that there are two pilots and a single female crew member already on board.

  And the fallen archangel enters the belly of the mechanical bird, I think bleakly, bound for Paris to wreak vengeance on her enemies in the company of the man she loves.

  There are so many things wrong with that picture that I don’t even know where to begin.

  Ryan’s ‘VIP meet and greet’ takes almost an hour. I spend the time roaming the plane, taking in the exits, the tiger-striped carpet in two shades of cinnamon, the flame-walnut inlay and gold fittings in the spacious washroom, the two coffee makers Ryan was so excited about, and the layout of the seating. There’s enough room to fit twelve passengers comfortably. Up near the cockpit there’s a built-in kitchenette area, then two groupings of two chairs with the aisle running between them. Each pair of facing seats has a small, blond-wood table between them, and a small plasma-screen TV set above each table. Midway back, there’s a grouping of four chairs around a central table positioned across the aisle from a wooden storage unit with a larger plasma-screen TV fixed over it. And at the rear of the plane, two long couches face each other across the central aisle, before there’s another smaller kitchenette area and the OTT washroom.

  I watch the short, curvy female crew member in her smart, dark grey suit, filmy white blouse, bright red shoes and coordinating lipstick, her smooth, brown hair pinned in a low chignon, move around the cabin, plumping pillows and moving floral arrangements and in-flight reading material from one surface to another.

  When Ryan finally gets onboard — his daypack slung over one shoulder — I see her eyes light up with interest. When he removes his cap and glasses, shoving them carelessly into a pocket of his leather jacket, then running a hand across the severe buzz cut Tommy gave him, I feel her interest intensify, even from where I’m drifting, weightless, at the back of the plane.

  I forget, sometimes, how breathtaking he is with his warm, dark eyes and downy skin, the ready smile that lights up the incredible bones of his face, his tall and rangy athlete’s frame. Gia reacted the same way the first time she saw his face on the screen of her tiny mobile phone. It’s funny how true beauty can be immobilising when you come across it. Luc had been like that for me: he’d pulled my focus immediately in that crowd of beautiful creatures the first time I saw him. And he’d inhabited the absolute centre of my world from then on, until he’d casually torn it apart when he decided he was done with me.

  I see the young woman struggle to put words of greeting together, the colour rising in her face as she gazes at Ryan with shining eyes, and feel something ugly move within me. They only talk about inconsequential things, like whether he wants his jacket stored, how the plasma touchscreens operate, how he takes his coffee, but it’s all taking way too long for my liking, and she keeps finding excuses to touch him.

  By the time Ryan extricates himself from her and takes a seat at that table for four, halfway down the plane, I’m seething with a possessive emotion that is completely unwarranted but that I can’t help feeling. Love has treacherous faces, too, I’ve learnt. As do I.

  And it hits me then, the resemblance. She reminds me of Luc’s Gudrun, with her blood-red lips and nails, her impeccable grooming and curvy, flirtatious ways, her chatty, overly familiar demeanour.

  When I slide, still just a heat haze, a faint shimmer in the atmosphere, into the seat opposite Ryan’s, my words emerge from the thin air before his face quickly, acidly. ‘Tell her to keep away from you for the duration of the flight — make up any old excuse. Unless you prefer her company to mine, that is. Then by all means flirt away, buddy. Knock yourself out.’

  Ryan gives a startled yelp that brings the stewardess hurrying back down the aisle towards him. She places a hand on his shoulder and I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from her blood-red nails where they curve down across the leather of his jacket.

  ‘What is it, Ryan?’ she says in her melodious Italian accent, because, of course, Ryan’s insisted she use his first name. ‘Is there anything I can help you with before take-off?’

  Just try it, I think nastily, as Ryan shakes his head, staring with wild eyes at the space where he thinks I am.

  ‘Could you just, um, keep back as much as possible, Rosa? I think I’m coming down with something … uh, something viral and really disgusting.’

  He coughs loudly and stagily for emphasis, and I see Rosa step back a little, removing her hand from his shoulder with unflattering speed.

  ‘I think I’ll just lie down on one of the couches back there and sleep it off,’ he adds. ‘Just get the captain to, um, wake me when we’re about to land. No need to check up on me, I won’t be needing anything during the flight.’

  She nods, backing away with a weird mix of relief and disappointment on her pretty face. ‘Wait until after take-off, Ryan, then by all means sleep. I shall not disturb you.’

  ‘Happy?’ Ryan whis
pers as the plane begins to taxi towards the runway, Rosa safely buckled up in her crew seat near the cockpit. ‘You just dudded me out of the freshly brewed coffee I was really looking forward to. But if you join me on the couch after take-off, I might let you make it up to me. Maybe.’

  I do growl, then. Low and menacing, like a wolf.

  Ryan just chuckles, putting his hands behind his head in an attitude of complete relaxation as I flow huffily away from him down the plane.

  The group seating for four effectively hides the occupant of the couch behind it from sight if said occupant is lying down.

  I hear Ryan stand up, hear him unzip his leather jacket before taking it off and dumping it across the table in front of him. Then he makes his way around to where I’m stretched out. He stands there looking down at me for a moment, and there’s a weird expression on his face again. I know it’s because I’m in the human form I first gave myself at the Duomo, with its black, curly hair, dark green eyes and skin of near perfect, unshiny humanness.

  ‘We’re not amongst friends now,’ I murmur apologetically, ‘people who understand what I am. This will have to do. In case I’m seen.’

  He eases himself down beside me, places his head on the wide armrest beside mine and turns to face me. ‘It still feels like I’m lying next to a stranger,’ he complains quietly.

  ‘I am a stranger,’ I reply, inexplicably wounded by his words. ‘In some way I’ll always be a stranger because I can’t get close to you. It was written, remember? We’re just finding out about it now, that’s all.’

  Ryan’s dark gaze softens and he reaches up and brushes a long, dark curl back from my face before grinning. ‘You could get closer,’ he murmurs, ‘if you’d take off that stupid black puffer jacket you keep insisting on wearing. We might even gain a couple of inches of togetherness …’

  He startles a laugh out of me that sounds almost tearful. ‘Better?’ I reply, shifting so quickly and imperceptibly that I’m wearing just the simple black turtleneck and jeans before he’s even registered the jacket is gone.