“I've been waiting for you ever since David died.”
“And Reaper? The Superiors?”
Rook smiled, a terrible expression. “What I do serves them, and they can sometimes help me.”
“You feel nothing for those Choppers you killed?”
“They're not people anymore,” he said. “They're from outside. Another world.”
“So am I.”
“Yes. But you belong here.” He turned away from her and started walking again, and just for a moment Lucy-Anne felt under intense scrutiny. She looked up and saw several rooks sitting on window sills, a few more circling gently above, and every single one of them was gazing down at her. Their eyes, black and lifeless. Then they took flight to follow Rook, like dregs of his own psyche blown apart by Doomsday. Perhaps everything he did was an attempt to hold himself together.
Later that afternoon Rook suggested that they rest in a house for a while. He said that moving farther north during the day was dangerous, and that entering the wilder parts of London would be better achieved under cover of darkness.
“Isn't that when whatever's there comes out?” Lucy-Anne asked.
“What, like vampires?” Rook was mocking her, but she would not rise to his bait.
“It's just that night always feels more dangerous. And don't birds sleep at night?”
“Not mine,” he said. “They do what I ask of them, whenever I ask. They'll guide us in, and we'll be shadows. Darkness will hide us.”
The house Rook broke into had probably once been worth a million pounds, but now its fine furnishings and tasteful decor held no value when it came to survival. They tramped dirty shoes across cream carpet, and he told her to wait in the living room while he checked the rest of the house.
Several rooks had entered the house with them, and one perched on the back of an easy chair, watching Lucy-Anne. She hoped she was being protected, but suspected it was more likely that she was being guarded.
Trying not to look at the bird—it was unnaturally motionless, eyes reflecting nothing—she glanced around at the room, attempting to connect with the family that had once owned this place. She skimmed over the furniture, the paintings, the ornaments and photographs, because they were more a part of the house than whoever had used to live here. The objects that did affect her were those that spoke of a human touch. On the bookshelf, an open book lay face-down, never to be finished. On the floor beneath a small table, a children's toy car gathered dust, its brash redness subdued by time. A sheaf of papers sat on the table. A coat was draped across the back of the sofa, and a wallet hung half-out of the inner pocket. Half-finished things that would never be taken up by their owners again. They made her sad.
Rook reappeared in the doorway, and the watching bird fluttered past him and from the room with hardly a sound.
“Family's upstairs,” he said, glancing around the room. “We'll stay down here. Two sofas. I'll check the kitchen, see if any canned food's still edible.”
Lucy-Anne only nodded, and as he left again she leaned across so that she could see the staircase outside. She felt no temptation to go up.
As she heard Rook rooting through the kitchen cupboards she sat back in the sofa and breathed in deeply. She'd had one night's disturbed sleep since leaving her friends, and exhaustion was creeping in. Sleep lured her down, yet Andrew urged her on.
“I will find you,” she whispered, and the room seemed to be listening. But what would she find? In the north of London, where even people like Rook chose not to tread and there were bad people, hungry and cruel, would the Andrew she might find be one that she wanted?
A flutter, and three rooks entered the room. They perched in high corners and became as motionless as shadows.