Read Online A Madness of Angels: Or the Resurrection of Matthew Swift by Kate Griffin - Free Book Online Page A

went or how I got there. Is that satisfactory?”
     
“No.”
     
“Well, shucks.”
     
“Can you prove you’re who you say?”
     
I thought about this. “No.”
     
“No,” she repeated with a nasty twist to her lip. “Of course you can’t.”
     
“I can’t prove it,” I growled through my teeth, “because I own nothing that was my own. Everything that I thought I had, everyone I knew… no, I can’t prove anything.” I added, “You are a terrible prophet.”
     
“My opinion of you is hardly in the stratosphere,” she retorted. “Why did you want to see Khan?”
     
“That’s my business.”
     
“You… wanted his help?”
     
“That’s not important.”
     
“Then what do you want ?”
     
When we answered, we spoke without my noticing, with a word that slipped out as naturally as breath.
     
“Revenge.” Once spoken, it seemed so right, so honest and comforting, that I was amazed I hadn’t said it before. “I want revenge.”
     
“Against…?”
     
“The one who attacked me. Who left me to die. And… And against the one who brought us back.”
     
She hesitated, her narrow eyes flicking to and fro, her fingers dancing a tiny rhythm at her side, their jewellery jangling like wind chimes. “Where have you been?” she murmured. I had the feeling it wasn’t a question intended for me. Then, clearer, “Do you have a plan?”
     
“Not yet.”
     
“Does anyone know that you’re… that you claim to be Swift?”
     
“No. And if you tell anyone…”
     
“If I tell?” she snapped, defiant.
     
“We will kill you,” we said gently. “You are nothing before us. We can stamp you out like a whisper of static in the wire. We will kill you. I’m sorry about it, but that’s just how it is.”
     
She didn’t seem frightened by this, more curious. She put her head on one side and breathed, “Interesting.”
     
“Really?”
     
“You keep on saying ‘we’.”
     
I shrugged.
     
“I may be able to help you, possibly – Matthew Swift.”
     
“How?”
     
“I have… friends. People who share a common interest.”
     
“Why would you help me?”
     
She smiled. “Even if you aren’t Matthew Swift, you could be of use.”
     
“I thought you were helping me.”
     
“There could be mutual benefits.”
     
“I’m not really interested.” I turned to go, seizing the curtain. She reached out and grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. Instinctively we shied back, flexing our fingers for the feel of the power, ready to strike; but, sensing our fear, she snatched her hand back. “Matthew Swift and Alfred Khan are not the only ones who died these last years. Do you know that? Have you asked? If you want to know who else is dead, and why, go to the Eye tonight, at nine. Things have changed; perhaps you do not know. There are new rules, new… dangers.”
     
“I’ll work it out.”
     
“Do you know Robert James Bakker?” I was halfway out of the door and her words stopped me dead. “I think you do.”
     
“What is your interest in Bakker?”
     
“If you want to know more about Bakker, what he has done, what he has become, we are the ones to talk to. We can be of great use to you.”
     
I forced a smile. “And I to you, yes?” Her cold expression was answer enough. I said, “I’ll think about it. Good afternoon, miss. Remember what we said.”
     
And walked away.
     
     
Whether or not I had any interest in the fortune-teller’s proposition, a few things she said had got my thoughts moving.
     
Without really knowing why, I found myself going towards the river. I walked through Middle Temple Inn, a place of old trees, high brick buildings, sash windows, cobbled streets, enclosed courtyards, lawyers, and film actors, in costumes from roughly 1580 to the present day, at work on some new historical drama (usually Dickens). I made my way towards Blackfriars Bridge, and into the gloomy concrete zone of wiggling, covered alleys, traffic-filled streets, tunnels and pedestrian walkways that link Blackfriars and London Bridges on the north side of the river. I wandered under