She remembered him from when they were younger and tried to imagine what he might be capable of now.
Her eyes drooped. When she jerked in her sleep and looked again, one of the rooks had come closer, standing motionless on a low coffee table not six feet from her. She stared, it stared back. She lifted one foot quickly, as if to kick out, but the bird did not move. He's watching me, she thought.
The sofa was deep and soft. From the kitchen, she heard the dull rasp of a tin being opened, and then something wet being spooned into a bowl.
Between blinks the bird vanished from sight and the room lit up, suddenly bright and airy and filled with life once more.
Rook is there before her, sitting in a chair and drinking from a steaming mug. He's smiling, and there is no mockery in that expression now, no superiority. He starts to stand and—
Music is playing through the room's stereo system. It's something soft and gentle, lulling. Rook sits on the sofa beside her, and though they do not live here, she feels very much at home. She glances at the window, where net curtains are hung to conceal the view outside. She leans sideways, because between curtains and window there is a chink of bare glass, and she thinks perhaps she has seen an eye—
She is lying on the sofa and Rook is sitting by her side. She's all but naked. Rook's smile is both alluring and comforting, as if this has all happened before. She glances at the window, but the curtains have been drawn tightly closed.
The toy car is no longer beneath the table. The book has been closed and re-shelved. The coat over the back of the sofa is now Rook's, and the wallet hanging from the inside pocket is spilling ink-black feathers.
She opens her mouth, but Rook kisses her—
Rook is lying on her, and when she looks past him the room is filled with rooks, perching on the picture rail, the bookshelves, the table and the backs of chairs. As she opens her mouth to cry out they beat her to it, caw-cawing as one, flapping their wings and suddenly filling the space with frantic movement.
Lucy-Anne shouted herself awake, sitting up on the sofa, waving her hands around her head to ward off the birds and push Rook away. But she was alone in the room once more, and any watching birds had gone.
Rook rushed into the room, looking around for any threat. “What?” he asked.
Lucy-Anne pressed one had to her chest. Her heart was beating hard. She shook her head.
“Dream?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She did not elaborate. How could she?
“Was this one about me, too?” he asked, smiling. Then he held up one finger and turned, leaving the room and calling back, “Food in one minute!”
Lucy-Anne stood and paced the room. She stood by the window and moved the closed curtains aside, revealing bare glass and no net curtains. Outside, the street was silent and motionless. There was no sense of being watched.
“What the bloody hell?” she muttered. Whether the dream was prophecy or desire, there was no way to know. But for a moment it had all felt so real.
Drawn like a searcher to a beacon in the dark, Nomad drifted through the streets of London.
I have felt this before, and touched him, and now Jack is just beginning to understand his potential. But this…
Nomad usually wandered, yet now she moved with unaccustomed purpose. She sensed other people seeing her and moving out of the way. Eyes followed her progress, and whispers sounded behind her, wrapping her in myth and legend.
As she approached her target, she probed with inhuman senses, constructing a picture of what she would see and why she was being impelled this way. She paused by a knot of crashed and burned vehicles.
I have felt this before, but this time is different.