Sarwat Chadda: Devil’s Kiss

‘I did it for you, Billi!’ Tears swelled, but they were thick scarlet. He saw the horror on her face, and suddenly awoke to where he’d almost taken her. ‘Jesus, Billi. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.’ He took a step forward. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you.’

‘Get away from me!’ The Silver Sword was in her hand, tip pointed directly at Kay’s heart. ‘Why?’

He stepped back. ‘Oh, did you think he’d just give it to me? D’you think I’d have just chosen this if it hadn’t been for you? I did it for you!’ His eyes blazed, like two gems caught in a furnace. He watched the deadly blade hovering between them. ‘Now you’re going to kill me?’

She wanted to say no, but the word caught in her throat. A flicker of – what? Fear? Doubt? Sorrow? – crossed his face.

‘He saved me, Billi. Saved me. You left me there, dying in the flames. I saw you run, you, your dad and Elaine. You left me.’ Kay spread out his arms. ‘But… I forgive you. I do. Look, Billi, it’s me. It’s Kay.’ But all Billi could stare at was the blood in his mouth, and the wild hunger in his eyes.

No, this wasn’t Kay.

Not any more.

‘Let me help you,’ she said, stepping closer.

‘How? Ease my suffering?’ He thrust out an accusing finger at the Silver Sword. ‘With that? I’ve given you everything, Billi. Everything.’ He was backing away, fading as though the darkness was sucking him in. He halted, his body blending with the shadows. He stretched out his hand, reaching for her, but Billi didn’t move. The hand recoiled and Kay stared at her with his white face stretched into a bestial snarl. ‘You treacherous bitch.’

Then he ran into the night. It was a long time before his screams faded away.

Five in the morning and the streets were packed. Dawn was less than an hour away. Billi had the Silver Sword wrapped in a sheet, tied across her back in what the squires called ‘ninja-style’. She had truly lost Kay now. There was only one place to go – one thing to do. She gazed up into the rain-filled sky and saw it above her, not far now.

Elysium Heights.

A woman sat on the edge of the kerb, rocking back and forth, slapping her head. Her face was frozen in a silent, endless scream, her eyes screwed tight, but void of tears.

She looked mad, with that dumb, repetitive rhythm. It was only when Billi passed in front of her that she understood.

Cradled in her lap, still dressed in a pair of Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas, lay a pale, limp baby. Dead or alive, Billi didn’t know. She pushed herself back into the crowds, away.

Billi walked through the people, the abandoned cars, the screaming children and hysterical parents. Headlights illuminated the bedlam as thousands took to the streets. Horns beeped endlessly, ignored sirens wailed and the hundreds upon hundreds of despairing mothers and fathers cried, yelled and fought for some little help, some little hope.

The roads to St Paul ’s Cathedral were gridlocked. People climbed over the cars, abandoned in the middle of the road when they couldn’t get any closer, carrying semi-conscious children in their arms. The entrance was under siege, hundreds of people all crowded around and trying to clamber over hastily erected barricades, exhausted priests and policemen trying to hold them back. Above them the skies echoed with church bells and thunder.

Billi stared around, bewildered.

Michael’s masterpiece.

The gates into the building site lay crumpled in the mud. The van had been driven through them and was abandoned a dozen metres further, engine still running and its front driven into the side of a Portakabin.

The rain and wind attacked her with greater ferocity; the elements seemed determined to keep her from entering. The heavens roared with thunder, but above the screaming gales she heard cries and the clashing of steel.

She threw the wrapping off the Silver Sword and entered.

Billi’s heart pounded. The sprawling site, dominated by the immense black tower, was dark and full of cold, fathomless shadows, any one hiding a murderous angel. The huge diggers, the countless cabins and storage containers seemed to have no logical order, creating a maze. The mud squelched and sucked at her boots. Deep puddles had formed in the troughs caused by the tractors that sat empty across the site, forcing her to drag herself, foot by foot. She tightened her grip on the hilt as she turned a corner into a small opening.

Father Balin sat leaning against the wall. Rain dripped off his white hair and his chin was resting on his chest. His clothes were filthy with blood and mud. She knelt down beside him and touched the wide gash across his chest. The mace lay on his lap and his crucifix was dangling in his right hand.

He hadn’t been much of a fighter. She looked at the kind wrinkled face; his eyes were closed and a faint smile remained. It wasn’t tears running down her face – it was only rain. Only rain. She kissed his forehead and left.

The clouds above boiled and spat down lightning, momentarily filling the sky with shocking white. The rain came at her like a solid sheet of icy water, but ahead Billi could just make out figures moving through the half-assembled tower, encircling a band of men.

This was it, then. For nine hundred years the Templars had kept the darkness at bay. They had fought, they had died, and it had come down to this: a fight to save London ’s firstborn from Michael, fallen archangel of the Lord.

This was their last stand. Their last hour.

And their finest.

Gareth, atop a lorry, calmly notching his bow and launching arrow after arrow, black-fletched death unerringly seeking out hearts and necks and eyes among the bright and shining and howling angels.

Bors, wild and savage, using his pair of short swords like a butcher’s chopper, and Pelleas, almost submerged beneath white bodies and claw-like hands that fought back with tooth and red nail.

Gwaine stood bloody, battered and defiant to the last. His left arm dangled uselessly, ripped open to the bone, but he fought on, waving his axe in wide circles over his head.

And Arthur.

They said Arthur brought nightmares to the monsters, and now Billi saw how.

He stood on top of a large steel storage crate, the size of a double garage. His heavy jacket was torn and the steel mail beneath tattered. Blood ran from a dozen cuts across his arms, chest and legs, but his face was a mask of berserk fury, his lips torn into a snarl as he raised his sword and howled.

‘C’mon!’ he cried. About him lay the dead, and around him circled the living. Two Watchers, each armed with machetes, leapt a dozen metres across the air. The first didn’t even land, his torso sliced by Arthur’s sword in mid-air so each half tumbled either side into the blood-drenched mud beneath. The second faltered, stunned by Arthur’s savagery, and that hesitation cost her everything. Arthur swept his weapon across hers, knocking the machete away. The angel turned to flee, but Arthur grabbed her flowing golden hair and snapped her back. She didn’t even have time to scream as he drove his blade through her.

Still weak, having just entered the Material Realm after centuries of imprisonment, the Watchers didn’t yet have Michael’s supernatural ability to survive the blow of a mortal weapon. The knights were drawing a dreadful slaughter, but the Watchers had numbers on their side. They just needed to hold the Templars at bay for a short while longer. Dawn was coming and then all the firstborn infected by the plague would die.

Billi stood, frozen. The noise, the terror and the chaos of the battle was overwhelming. She didn’t know what to do. Should she help her dad, or protect Gareth? Or aid Bors? Each moment could be their last, could be her last, and panic and uncertainty gripped her.