“Are we really ready for this?” Jack said, and foolish as the question sounded to him, nobody treated it as such.
“I think so,” Sparky said.
Emily nodded.
“I am,” Lucy-Anne said.
“Good luck,” Jenna said. “Really, all of you. I should leave.”
“No!” Jack said. “You didn't lose anyone on Doomsday, but you're part of our gang.”
“Right!” Lucy-Anne said.
“Yeah.” Sparky nodded, then prodded the knife at his left thumb. He hissed, then stared at the dribble of blood that bloomed and then flowed down his hand and onto his wrist.
Gordon leaned forward, hand held out. “May I?”
Sparky offered this stranger, this Irregular, his shaking hand.
Gordon touched the wound on Sparky's thumb with his index finger, just enough to pick up a smear of blood. Then he went to the huge window and pulled on a cord, opening five fanlights at ceiling level. A breath of fresh air and the cooing of pigeons came in, and Gordon put the bloodied finger into his mouth.
They all watched him, and he must have sensed it because he lowered his head as he withdrew his finger. Jack edged to one side, trying to see the man's expression, and then he wished he'd remained where he was.
Gordon was cringing, almost gagging, as though he'd put something rotten and rank onto his tongue, rather than a droplet of a living person's blood. A tear squeezed from his eyes and spotted the expensive carpet at his feet.
Jack saw Rosemary's face drop, and she looked down at her feet. He knows, he thought. She's seen this reaction before.
“His name's Stephen,” Sparky said. “He lived in Peckham, last I heard. Taller than me.” Gordon did not react to his voice, and Jack could see desperation creeping over his friend. “Tattoo on his arm. His name.” He stood and approached the man, reaching out but pausing just before he touched the Irregular's shoulder.
“I'm sorry,” Gordon said, “but your brother's dead.”
Jack expected shouting and raving, denial and fury, and for a second he saw that and more behind Sparky's eyes. All that, and the temporary madness of grief.
But then Sparky stepped away from Gordon and slumped back down onto the floor cushions, holding his head in his hands and trying to cover his eyes, his ears, trying to shut himself off from the cruel world that had destroyed his family and left him like this.
Jack wanted to go to him. He saw Jenna take a step forward as well. But Emily grasped his hand, and Jenna looked at Lucy-Anne, then across at him. Being the one out of all of them who had not had family in London, she was aware that there could be more grief to come.
“Me next,” Lucy-Anne said. Her voice was gruff. She jumped down beside Sparky, snatched the knife from his hand and drew the blade harshly across her palm. She hissed and grimaced, and blood spattered the cushions and carpet as she strode to Gordon.
“I only need a speck,” Gordon said.
“Take as much as you want.”
She held out her hand.
There are wolves howling in the distance…
Her hand was shaking, she couldn't help that. Part of it was the pain of the cut, but most of it was because of what this man could do. What he was going to do. He moved closer and dabbed a finger in her blood, and Lucy-Anne squeezed her eyes shut.
Closer by, between clumps of exotic plants, a more level spread of ground…
“I've dreamed this,” she whispered, and if any of the others heard her, they said nothing.
She watched Gordon turn and approach the window again. He stepped so close that she saw his breath condensing on the glass. Then he took a deep breath and touched Lucy-Anne's blood to his tongue.
…and deep down, the faces of the dead she still loves.
“No,” Lucy-Anne moaned, and she knew that nightmare at last.