Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Roland Thudberry was getting the sense that Jenneke wasn’t quite used to all the singing.

Not that you’d know by looking at her, of course. Her fuzzy white ears, comically large for her head despite how used she was now to the form of a lamb, twitched along to every key change, as the family of six came together in the final resounding chorus of He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands. If somehow the Lord of the Sunset Dawn couldn’t hear them singing their praises – which was impossible, because the Lord was surely always listening – Jenneke definitely could. Roland only hoped that the discomfort she was trying to hide was more of a personal issue with the noise than any divine symbol. Her hearing was probably much more sensitive than theirs.

He glanced over at her as the song ended. They’d both offered to have Jenneke sit on the floor; there was enough room. Roland’s parents wouldn’t hear of it. Being Roland’s divine companion, a pure white lamb delivered unto him by the Lord Himself, she needed to be comfortable. As such, Jenneke was buckled in the middle-back seat of the family car, the seatbelt bulging awkwardly over her legs. Roland sat on her left, listening to the drizzle patter against the window as they sped past the endless green blur of the English countryside.

On Jenneke’s right side sat his brother, Rudy. In front of them were the two oldest Thudberry brothers, Rupert and Roger. And at the very front of the car, voices rolling through the spaces between the seats as they called to their youngest son, were the shepherds of their little flock: Richard and Rebecca Thudberry.

‘Everything okay back there?’ Rebecca called.

Roland sat up straight. ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Does Jenneke need anything?’

‘We’re fine, thank you.’

‘Is she hungry? Does she want her seat heating up?’ Rebecca asked. In the drivers’ seat, Richard’s fingers hovered over the dashboard and its various blinking buttons. 

Jenneke perked up at the sound of her name. She tilted her head at Roland, asking permission to speak. He nodded.

‘I really am fine,’ Jenneke said. ‘But thank you.’

At the sound of her voice, Rudy Thudberry eyed her warily. On the cusp of fourteen, he was teetering on the verge of his cynical phase, a period in which he took the teachings of the Sunset Dawn he’d never previously had a problem with – and anything any adult told him, really – with a gratuitous pinch of salt. The two older Thudberry boys had gone through this phase and thankfully emerged with their faith in the Lord unscathed. Rudy, sensible boy as he was, would surely manage the same. It was an uneasy time for his parents nonetheless, Roland imagined, unable to do anything about Rudy’s change in attitude except hope it would blow over soon. And hope that in the meantime, he didn’t say anything too dangerous.

‘I’m hungry,’ Rudy complained. 

There was a rustling by their mother’s feet, giving away the location of the snack bag. ‘Now, Rudy, we packed these snacks for Jenneke,’ she said firmly.

‘She doesn’t want them. She said so.’

Their parents shared a look. As Rebecca shifted in her seat, her knee came into view, obscuring the bag from the eyes of those at the back of the car.

‘Give it a bit longer, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘then we’ll see.’

Rudy sat up, chest straining against his seatbelt. ‘How do you know she even needs to eat?’

‘Rudy—’

‘She’s not even a real animal. She’s just a daemon.’

Roland flinched. His head accidentally knocked into the car window, a sharp pain suddenly clawing at the back of his skull. At his side Jenneke shuffled as close to him as her seatbelt would allow. Her ears flattened, nostrils flaring. Roland blinked hard, trying to focus beyond the pain in his head, and rested a hand on the back of her neck. There was a tug of something in his chest, something shoving at his soul. He gritted his teeth and swallowed it down.

Silence had crashed down upon the rest of the car. Rebecca had a hand over her mouth. Outside, raindrops hammered the windows, sticking for only a moment before being dragged off into a howling wind. Rudy, arms crossed, was making an effort to maintain his sullen, uncaring demeanour. Sitting much closer to him than he or Jenneke would have liked, Roland could see the almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders, that moment of drawing into himself that was both instinctive and conscious.

‘Rudy Thudberry. We do not use that word in this family.’

All three on the back seat snapped to attention at the sharpness in Richard’s voice. He hadn’t turned around, being focused on the road, but his eyes glimpsed through the rear-view mirror were cold and bright with righteousness.

Rudy looked at his lap. ‘Sorry, Father.’

The two elder Thudberry boys had turned in their seats to stare. From where he was sitting, Roland couldn’t see Rupert’s face, but Roger’s lips were pressed into a tight, thin line. He locked gazes with his youngest brother – eyes darting briefly to Jenneke first – brow furrowed in concern. Smiling weakly, Roland nodded that he was fine. They were fine. Him and his…companion.

A fresh wave of pain crashed against his head. It bloomed from the place he had hit it moments ago, but spread further, bright and hot behind his eyes, digging into his mind, making his brother’s face blur. Someone said his name. That voice faded. Every sound faded: the rain, the whirr of the windscreen wipers, the dull roar of the engine, as the overwhelming presence of something Else took over.

My, my, Roland, it said, quite the pipes on thee.

Jenneke, of course, had only been half of the life-changing developments Roland had undergone in the past few months. If his parents, proud pillars of faith in their small village of Lower Eastcombe, had been delighted when their son had woken on his tenth birthday to a beautiful white lamb that could only have been a gift from the Lord of the Sunset Dawn Himself, they had been beside themselves with vindication when later that morning the Lord had spoken to Roland. He remembered sitting at the end of his bed on that day, still in his pyjamas, Jenneke – as his parents would later decide to name her – beside him on the carpet, fortunately well-behaved. How he’d been talking to her, still trying to get his head around the fact that she could talk, as well as a lot of other things like where she came from, and how she got into his room, and why when she had stumbled and caught her side on the corner of his bed, Roland had also felt the pain. A few weeks later, after much time being examined and talked about over his head by priests and doctors alike, a letter would arrive from St Churnley’s School for Cursed Boys, accompanied by a piece of literature with information on creatures known as daemons. Roland was grateful for the answers it provided to the questions he’d been pondering, but was similarly grateful for his parents’ decision to throw the pamphlet away afterwards, conscious of having such a word in their home, associated with their family, with a creature like Jenneke, the Lord’s gift. And why would they need any instructions or explanation from an institution they’d never heard of, when Roland had ready access to the Lord in his own mind?

Roland had been lucky he’d been sitting on his bed when the Lord first made contact, as the suddenness of it made him topple backwards. He remembered the sound of hooves on the carpet, as Jenneke had felt it too. The voice had frightened him at first, but the fear had melted away when the Lord confirmed His presence, and that Roland had been chosen as a new prophet of the Sunset Dawn. A beacon of hope.

My dear Roland, the Lord had said, you and I are going to do such wonderful things together.

And this creature, He had continued after Roland asked about her, was certainly no ‘demon’. The furthest from it, in fact. She was a symbol. A companion and friend to guide Roland to his destiny, just like Him. Together, they must carry their Lord with them in everything, projecting always outward.

His parents liked to remind him of that last part. Whenever Roland found himself in doubt, whenever he’d followed the Lord’s orders and still left people unhappy, whenever he’d felt that weight inside his chest that made Jenneke shift uncomfortably on her too-long legs, they sat him down and spoke of his duty. Now they were on their way to St Churnley’s and the first time Roland would ever stay away from his family and Lower Eastcombe, this responsibility was more important than ever. Roland and Jenneke were representatives of the Sunset Dawn. That was never to be forgotten.

And of course, even in the middle of the English countryside, miles from home, there was no place the Lord could not reach.

Thy voice honours the Lord greatly, Roland, He said. T’were only so that I might say the same of your brother, Rudy.

‘Rudy?’ echoed Roland. If anyone in the car could hear him, or if this was simply in his head, he had no sign. ‘I mean, I agree, my Lord. He shouldn’t say such dangerous things, especially not about Jenneke, but–’

Her? No, no, Roland. Your family’s praises are fervent and righteous, but Rudy…he sings with such a sour, flat air.

‘Rudy’s…singing?’

For a moment, Roland felt Jenneke’s soft wool underneath his fingers. The sensation was wrested away from him a second later as the Lord’s voice muscled back in.

Such disharmony dishonours the Lord, methinks. Only the silence of a smiting seems so succinctly apt to be the solution, does it not?

Pressure built up inside his chest, a fist around his heart. Again, Roland felt that shove, made even stronger by the voice’s stirring words. In the corner of his mind, he felt a dull note of alarm, of caution, but the noble light that momentarily eclipsed his vision burned it away. Under his hand, before he could fully register it happening, coarse wool turned to smooth fur.

Roland snapped out of the trance just in time to see Jenneke change into a cat and launch herself at Rudy with a yowl.

Thankfully, she pulled back before she could do too much damage. That didn’t stop Rudy crying out in shock and pain, eyes widening as he touched a finger to the bloody claw mark on his cheek.

Jenneke backed up in her seat, her white cat form fitting much more comfortably in the seatbelt. Her tail was up and her teeth were bared. Roland gasped, head suddenly clear again. Before he could say anything, he was knocked back against the car window for a second time. Rudy hit Jenneke across the face.

It was a reflexive strike, and didn’t even really hurt. Even so, Jenneke yelped. At her surprise, feeling the shock and the blow himself, like he himself had been hit, Roland felt a lurching in his stomach. Jenneke shrank into the form of a mouse and, squeaking, escaped her seatbelt and scrambled up to safety on Roland’s shoulder.

Silence again. Rudy’s hand was still half-clenched into a fist. Anger quickly drained from his face, replaced by tears due to the pain. Blood dripped down his cheek, staining the leather seat where Jenneke had been sitting moments ago. Fortunately, she’d left no claw marks on the leather of his father’s car, though Roland felt terrible for even thinking about that now.

‘Rudy, I’m so sorry!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Lord was upset by your singing.’

His parents exchanged a look. Their smiles, flashed briefly at him through the rear-view mirror, were just a little too tight to be comforting. His two eldest brothers stoically faced forward.

Jenneke’s nose twitched anxiously. Roland felt her mouse whiskers brushing against his cheek. His eyes suddenly fixed on the empty seatbelt, still buckled, where she was supposed to be sitting.

‘Change back, Jenneke,’ he hissed at her. ‘Now. Go on.’

His companion hesitated only for a moment before scurrying back down to her seat and turning into a lamb once more. She was a sudden bloom of white, her legs filling the space between Roland and his injured brother. She bowed her head, ears drooping, and Roland found it ever so slightly easier to breathe.

Good, good, said the Lord of the Sunset Dawn. The light of the dawn and the sunset shine down on you, child.

‘Thank you,’ Roland replied immediately. His attention darted between Rudy and Jenneke, as blurry as their figures were becoming as the Lord took over. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know that we need to change the sinners’ ways, but surely we can do it peacefully, rather than through all this…violence?’

Violence? Roland, your hands are clean. It is that creature, whom I sent to you, who commits such acts so that you do not have to.

Heat rolled off the voice’s words, soothing the pain that came from Rudy’s strike. Roland swallowed. ‘Of course, my Lord.’

Good. I am your guardian and friend, Roland. Whatever you do, you must remember that.

When he came out of his reverie again, his mother had craned around in the front seat.

‘This place is for you, Roland,’ she said. ‘You will find your purpose there. And perhaps you and Jenneke will return to us as new leaders. Paragons of the Sunset Dawn!’

Sitting up straight, Roland nodded. The pain would all be worth it in the end. It was through suffering, after all, that one grew closer to the light.

And besides, with Jenneke, and with his faith, he would never be alone.

---

Kevin Creeley buried his fingers in Adelaide’s fur while his parents discussed going to Disneyland without him.

He was still getting used to feeling her pain. The deeper he dug his nails into her back, the sharper the scratches he felt against his own skin, somewhere beneath his Incredibles T-shirt. Not sharp enough to draw blood, luckily. That was probably helped by Kevin’s habit of biting his nails. And if he and Adelaide really were one like that brochure said they were, she’d know that he really needed something to hold right now. Rabbit wasn’t her preferred form, but it fit comfortably in his lap.

Whenever Kevin looked up, he wondered how his mother Elizabeth was able to see where she was driving at all. Between the two front seats of the family hatchback, over a dozen Disney princess plushies stared back through faded, almost haunted-looking eyes. They were just one feature of the collection of Disney merchandise decorating the Creeley family car – which included various peeling Lion King-themed bumper stickers and an air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror in the shape of Stitch – and even now Kevin felt a bit creeped out by them. Not that he’d ever admit that to his parents, of course. They’d be mortified.

In the front passenger seat, his father Simon took out his phone and held it at arms’ length in a way that clearly signalled he in fact wasn’t fine without his glasses. His Goofy phone case caught Kevin’s eye; he craned his neck to try and see what his father was looking at. In his lap Adelaide perked up. With a nod from her boy, she changed into a cardinal and perched on the back of Simon’s car seat. Kevin grinned slightly as she peered over his dad’s shoulder.

Simon didn’t even notice her there, rambling already about the dreaded prospect of school.

‘Yes, I think St Churnley’s will be a great spot for the boy! What’s more, it’s fully catered and apparently there’s a huge playground. You’ll be home for the summer, Kevin, but it looks like you’ll get to spend the rest of the year there! Are you excited?’

‘I don’t see why I have to go,’ Kevin replied with a shrug. ‘Like, as long as I hold it in, it’s not a problem.’

‘Kevin,’ said Simon, in a slightly sing-songy tone that his son loathed. ‘I know your new condition can make you feel self-conscious. But at St Churnley’s, you don’t have to worry about sticking out! You’ll be a freak like all the other boys!’

‘...I don’t want to be a freak!’

Adelaide chirped in agreement, ruffling her feathers. Simon jumped, startled. 

Kevin felt a pang of pride. It soothed the sting of his father’s words just a little.

Whatever upper hand Kevin had in that moment disappeared as quickly as it came. Taking their attention away from their son entirely, Simon and Elizabeth resumed their conversation about all the Disneyland trips they were planning this year that Kevin wouldn’t be a part of.

It was a relatively small car, and even more cramped by all the merchandise, so Adelaide turned into a butterfly and fluttered over to land on Kevin’s shoulder. Her voice was tiny as she whispered into his ear.

‘Nothing interesting,’ she reported, having had a proper look at Simon’s phone. ‘Just coordinates. For the school, I think.’

The school. Kevin sighed. ‘Do you think we really have to go?’

‘If the government sent that email, then yeah. Maybe it’s the law.’

‘Maybe they’d get a fine or something,’ Kevin whispered, ‘if we didn’t go.’

‘Maybe they’d go to prison.’

Despite himself, Kevin snickered. Then he heard his mother say his name. She wasn’t talking to him. Just about him, unnecessarily loudly.

‘If Kevin’s going to be at school, I bet we’ll be able to fit in another trip to Orlando over Christmas. What do you think?’

‘Of course.’ Simon nodded in agreement. ‘And besides, it’d be a bit pointless to have Kevin along, wouldn’t it? Especially since they don’t allow pets.’

‘Addie’s not a pet,’ Kevin snapped. ‘She’s my daemon. It’s different.’

‘Kevin,’ Elizabeth chimed in, voice firm. ‘Pascal and Scuttle and Flounder are great companions for their princesses, but at the end of the day they are just pets.’

‘It’s not like that. She’s not just some…thing. She’s important. She’s a part of me, Mum! We’re the same! We’re–’

‘Yes, we all read the brochure, Kevin.’

‘I’m not…’ Kevin’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to find the words. Nothing came up. Nothing his parents would actually listen to, anyway. He sighed. ‘Whatever.’

That seemed to be a good enough signal for his parents that the conversation was over. The one between them and Kevin, at least. Turning away from the back seat, Simon fell back into excited chatter with his wife, tone unchanged from mere moments ago, like Kevin hadn’t joined in at all. He’d stopped being upset about it long ago. Or rather, he’d stopped letting it upset him when it happened. As he’d gotten older, Kevin’s natural emotional state felt like it was resentment: towards the world, his parents, and most recently, this stupid curse.

The worst thing was, Kevin liked school. He liked his old school: his old classes, his old friends, even his old teacher, Mrs Bennett, because despite the fact she always assumed he’d been a part of it somehow whenever his friends had gotten into trouble, she was mostly all right. It had been her who’d encouraged him to join the school band, helped him find something he was finally good at. So, in some way, it was her fault that he’d been centre stage at that recital. It was her fault that, towards the end, when something in his life had finally been going well, his dumb musical farts curse had decided to introduce itself to the world.

It was only a little comfort to remember that his violin and harmonica were packed in the boot, that he’d been assured St Churnley’s had an extensive music department. But still, it wasn’t the same. He had no idea how things might work there, or whether the other kids would be miles better than him, and he’d only embarrass himself. He’d heard that about the move up to secondary school: however big you think you are in Year 6 – and Kevin had never felt that ‘big’ to begin with – once you make the leap to big school, you’re just little again. When he thought about it like that, the whole curse part of it was the least of his problems.

He knew he shouldn’t blame Mrs Bennett. She probably had no idea about curses in the first place. He needed someone to blame, though, someone to be angry at. Why not her, who he’d probably never see again in his life and who’d never know? Better her, than his parents, who’d eventually find out and weren’t likely to react well. It wasn’t technically Madonna’s fault, either, that his curse chose Like A Virgin for its first ever performance, but he’d never meet her and he’d never be able to listen to her music again, anyway, so he might as well blame her too.

Outside, the drizzle was beginning to ease off. The car rolled clear of hedges and shrubbery, on to a vast expanse of empty fields on either side, stretching as far as the eye could see. Kevin peered out of the window, feeling the first rays of sunlight on his face. At home, in Bristol, buildings and tower blocks often eclipsed any sun the city might be graced with. He’d never seen so much green before.

Adelaide had settled on the back seat. As her delicate butterfly feet touched the scratched leather, she changed form again. Kevin watched her body stretch and sprout fur. She looked up at him with glassy ferret eyes. Usually, she preferred taking the form of small, quick animals. Things with wings, mostly, that could perch on things and keep out of the way. This was probably born from when she had first come to the Creeley household and Elizabeth had spent most days following her around with a broom, wearing a look of thinly-veiled disgust. Even remembering that now boiled his ten-year-old blood. How his parents, especially his Disney princess-loving mother, couldn’t see that a talking, shapeshifting animal companion was the coolest thing that had ever happened to Kevin in his life made no sense to him whatsoever.

Adelaide, in her ferret form, crawled over the seat and curled up in Kevin’s lap. He glanced down at the handle of the car door. A peeling sticker of Pascal from Tangled stared up at him with a vacant expression. His mum didn’t know anything. Addie was miles better than any stupid chameleon. 

‘Don’t listen to them, Addie,’ he told her firmly, stroking her fur. ‘Don’t let them get to you.’

‘I don’t,’ his daemon said. ‘Your opinion is the only one that matters to me.’

‘I wish I could take you to Disneyland.’

‘You could. I could hide in your bag, like I had to at our old school.’ Adelaide raised her head. ‘Or I could pretend to be a stuffed animal.’

‘Come on, you could never stay still for that long.’

‘I could practise. I would, if it meant you could go to Disneyland.’

Drawn into the conversation at the front of the car yet again, Kevin wondered if his parents had ever in their lives had a conversation about anything else. He imagined them thirty years ago, drunk, both sporting terrible haircuts, leering up to each other in a bar and getting all hot and bothered at the prospect of having someone to go Disneyland with. 

He voiced such a thought to Adelaide, who laughed and said, ‘Gross.’

‘Of course,’ Elizabeth said to Simon, ‘if Kevin’s going to be at school for the rest of the year, he won’t want to go to Disneyland.’

Sullenly, Kevin crossed his arms. ‘I want to go to Disneyland,’ he muttered.

‘So tell them,’ Adelaide said.

Kevin spoke up. ‘I want to go to Disneyland.’

‘He won’t want to go to Disneyland if he’s going to be at school.’

‘I do want to go to Disneyland!’ Kevin shouted, pounding his fist against the car window. ‘I don’t want to go to school!’

At his outburst, Adelaide leapt out of his arms and on to the centre console, between the two front seats. Both Simon and Elizabeth visibly flinched as Kevin’s daemon changed into a cat with thick rust-coloured fur, teeth bared in a menacing hiss. 

Kevin took a breath. He clenched his fists in his lap. His mother’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead of her, focusing on the road. His father, frozen in his seat, stared at Adelaide with wide, frightened eyes. 

For a moment, no-one moved.

Kevin felt a tightness in his chest and a voice in his mind yelling at him to not back down, not relent, they were finally listening to him now, weren’t they? His cheeks flushed and he slumped in his seat, folding his arms again. Looking back at him, Adelaide lowered her tail and turned back into a ferret.

As she backed off to sit closer to her boy, Kevin’s father cleared his throat. He arranged his face, smoothing out all the fear he knew they’d seen.

‘Kevin,’ he said, ‘that is enough.’

‘I was just–’

‘I mean it, young man. I don’t want you raising your voice like that. Not at school.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Kevin folded his arms, cheeks still burning. ‘You’re not gonna be there anyway. It won’t even matter. It’s gonna be the loudest voice at school, and all it’s gonna be saying is: my dad is stupid and he hates me!’

Adelaide tensed beside him. He could feel it somewhere in his heart, his soul. A pressure, threatening to boil over. Kevin kept his eyes fixed on his lap. It was stupid and cowardly, but he didn’t want to see the thunder gathering on his father’s face. He did, however, reach out and gently rest a hand on Adelaide’s back.

‘Right,’ said Simon eventually, his voice clipped. ‘This is going to be a quiet car journey from here, isn’t it?’

And that was it. He turned his back on Kevin, who sniffed. That worked for him just fine.

His daemon lay her head against his chest, over the Incredibles logo on his red T-shirt. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ she whispered.

Kevin shook his head.

‘No, Addie,’ he whispered back, ‘you didn’t. Not at all.’

---

Edgar Allan’s chest hurt.

Until now, he’d been attributing it to anxiety. Not only was Edgar a generally anxious person to begin with, but as each hour had passed upon the road, the reality of the situation was becoming more and more…well, real. He’d known for years that at the age of ten, this was where his future would begin. Today he would finally step through those gates and embark on his education at St Churnley’s School for Cursed Boys. 

He hadn’t expected the beginning of this chapter to look quite like this.

He was lucky, in a way, that he was already so desensitised to his grandfather’s utter lack of consideration for basic road safety. The engine roared as their arrangement of a motorbike and two sidecars, not either side of the bike itself but jutting out from one another in a row, rattled down the country road. He should take it as a small mercy, Edgar supposed, that looking up to see old Elias steering the bike one-handed and choosing to look at the atlas in his lap rather than where he was going had no great effect on his nerves. 

Between them in the first sidecar was Edgar’s father. Elliott Allan had his nose buried in a collection of Robert Frost poetry, his body still and hunched over. Edgar’s long, thin legs and bony elbows had never quite agreed with the jostle of motorcycling life, but he had managed over the years to find a way of sitting that didn’t leave him with too many bruises. He had enough to be worried about already.

Elias’s voice thundered over the bike’s racket. ‘Are you excited for your studies, Edgar?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Edgar called, trying to smile. ‘Very excited. I’m looking forward to getting some more reading in!’

A sharp, throaty caw echoed over their heads. Pain spiked again in Edgar’s chest.

‘As long as Poe lets me, I suppose.’

Poe was the cause of his discomfort. He always was. Even the fresh country air hitting him on all sides couldn’t combat the burning in Edgar’s cheeks as he looked up at the wretched crow circling overhead. Poe was a mass of black feathers, swooping across Edgar’s vision for a moment before disappearing again. Each time he fell behind the tug at his heart worsened, like his wayward daemon was trying to get far enough away so he could rip it out of the boy’s chest. 

Poe liked to do that – put as much distance between them as possible. Edgar’s father had done his best to assuage his concerns, telling him that it was more normal than you’d think, that it was good, even. This way, they’d have a head start at St Churnley’s when it came to learning the gift of range: the stretching of the ‘soul tie’ between human and daemon that allowed them to be far apart without pain. It was something all people with daemons who settled as birds were encouraged to work on, since what was the point of having a daemon that could fly if you didn’t make proper use of it? It was a skill that required a strong body and robust mind, the latter of which Edgar liked to think he had and the former he could absolutely work on, if he really had to.

For now, the tether was irritatingly short. It must have been hurting Poe too, surely, being so far from him? Not that it likely mattered, Edgar thought bitterly. And it wasn’t like he’d ever be able to ask him, because if having a daemon who refused to listen to him or be near him wasn’t bad enough, Poe didn’t speak. Whether he couldn’t or simply wouldn’t was anyone’s guess. Edgar, by this point, genuinely wasn’t sure which he would prefer.

A dark, distinctly bird-shaped shadow suddenly settled over the sidecar, and for one hopeful moment he thought Poe had finally seen sense. He quickly covered up his disappointment when instead his grandfather’s daemon, a sleek raven named Thaddeus, fell into line at Edgar’s shoulder.

‘Just don’t be late to class,’ he said. His voice was distinguished but hoarse, affected in the same way Elias’s was by age. ‘In the seventies, we once saw Mr Rambley eat a boy’s spinal column for being late!’

Edgar blinked. ‘I…I don’t think you did!’ 

He glanced at his grandfather, who nodded. 

‘I–Spinal column?’

The confusion was undercut by a spike of envy, as Edgar always experienced when interacting with his family’s daemons. Unlike Poe, they were being perfectly well-behaved. For most of the journey, Thaddeus had been perched atop Elias’s helmet, tapping the side with his beak whenever they approached a turn in the road so he didn’t have to look up – a service he had currently stopped providing, much to Elias’s irritation. Elliott’s daemon Persimmon, another raven with thicker, longer feathers, was showing remarkable balance on the front of the sidecar, helping Edgar’s father turn the pages of his poetry collection. 

At the elder raven’s words, Persimmon clicked disapprovingly. ‘Oh, come now. I think young Edgar’s heard enough of your war stories.’

Thaddeus made a croaking sound that somehow carried a fatherly air, and flew back to his original perch. Elias, somewhat relievedly, took his eyes off the road and went back to the atlas. 

‘The important thing to remember,’ Persimmon continued, ‘is that St Churnley’s isn’t simply a place to study. It’s an institution that will equip you with everything you and Poe need to be adults.’

Adults. Edgar swallowed. By some standards, he already was an adult. All Allans were, the day they got their daemon, as theirs came already settled. Edgar hadn’t thought about this in too much depth before, but it suddenly occurred to him that, based on everything he’d been taught about daemons, he’d be the only one. He hoped it wouldn’t make him stand out for the wrong reasons.

But why should it? If anything, it proved that he was already more mature than they were.

‘The important thing,’ interjected Edgar’s father, finally looking up from his book, ‘is that St Churnley’s is the only place that’ll be able to explain why you got a crow instead of a raven.’

And there was the crux of the matter, Edgar thought grimly. Maturity meant nothing at all, really, when everything else about the daemon he’d waited so long for was fundamentally wrong. Allans were considered a special case, as the mysterious shift that brought about a daemon affected every male in their family when they came of age. Furthermore, unlike other St Churnley’s attendees, an Allan’s daemon did not come with an additional curse. An Allan’s only reason to attend St Churnley’s was to nurture the bond with their daemon up to adulthood. The lessons in the arcane and the gift of range with their daemon, as far as Edgar understood it, were an added bonus.

But Edgar Allan was cursed: he’d somehow received a broken daemon. It felt like an insult, one he didn’t deserve after an entire childhood learning what a privilege it was to be an Allan. Most of it had been spent on the road, drifting from place to place, one hotel to another, sitting with his nose buried in a book while his father and grandfather traversed the local bookshops like explorers looking for treasure. From the time he learned to walk, Edgar had spent the days chasing after Thaddeus and Persimmon, delighting in the secrets and stories they told him. He’d witnessed the sacred bond that human and daemon shared firsthand, the one that could never be broken. He’d been taught the range of ways in which his daemon would help him throughout his life, from fetching items to finding out information to simply turning the pages of his book for him. He’d carried the knowledge that, thanks to his family and to this rare, beautiful gift, Edgar Allan – who was a timid, bookish child even then and had never been much for making friends – would never truly be alone.

He’d barely slept the night before his tenth birthday. His father had put him to bed at nine o’clock sharp, and by eleven Edgar had propped himself up with pillows so that he was staring straight at his bedroom window. Elias had suggested putting the boy next to the motorbike, as when Edgar was a baby the engine had always lulled him to sleep. The hours had passed in short bursts, Edgar’s body betraying him and making him drift off for minutes at a time before adrenaline jolted him awake.

The knocking at the window, finally, came around one in the morning. Edgar had all but tumbled out of bed, almost knocking his glasses off the nightstand as he fumbled for them in his excitement. He remembered the pitch black of the night as he stared out, the thrill of knowing that somewhere before his eyes, blending in, were the pitch-black feathers of his new daemon. Then there had come a great stirring in his chest, the feeling of something fundamental to his being splitting in two. It would have been terrifying for any child who wasn’t Edgar Allan, who didn’t know what was about to happen. Edgar Allan was ten, he remembered thinking with glee. Edgar Allan was a man now.

The first thing Poe did was vomit straight into his face.

Edgar didn’t know daemons could vomit.

The following months had been as painful and embarrassing for Edgar as they would have been for his family. After all, there wasn’t exactly a doctor they could go to that would explain why his daemon was broken. St Churnley’s, as Elliott had said, was the only place that could give them answers. The wait for September had felt very long indeed.

His father’s eyes were on him now. Edgar bowed his head.  ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, no,’ Elliott said quickly. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘No?’

‘No. It’s the crow’s fault.’

Persimmon and Thaddeus clicked in agreement. Edgar sighed. No change there, then.

Suddenly another hoarse cry came from above their heads. The ravens punched out their wings in surprise. Edgar didn’t even get the chance to look up before his daemon, less a crow than an inky black missile, dive-bombed towards his face. With reflexes that stunned even him, he caught the bird in both hands.

‘I’m getting better!’ he called out to his father, trying to hold Poe’s pecking beak at arms’ length. ‘I’m getting better at dealing with him!’

Poe was squawking, writhing furiously in his grasp, all sharp edges and hollow bones. The pain in Edgar’s chest had vanished now they were close together again, but of course, Poe wouldn’t give up so easily. He seemed to give up on attempting to escape for a moment, and instead started snapping his beak towards Edgar’s face.

Watching this display, Persimmon flapped his wings and cried, ‘Poe Allan, you stop that this instant!’

Poe was not like Edgar. He didn’t go still and shrink into himself when his father raised his voice. Quite the opposite. It was like he inflated, his own feathers puffing out wide, legs kicking furiously, like the hands of his boy were a trap that would kill him if he didn’t escape.

‘Edgar!’ called Elliott. ‘Put him down!’

Edgar let go. Poe darted over his shoulder and slammed face-first into a tree. Pain hit Edgar at the impact, making him grimace. He and Poe did have some kind of conventional bond, at least. Surely this was a foundation they could build on.

Somewhere behind him came a faint caw! muffled by the wind. Edgar took a deep breath and straightened the collar of his biker jacket.

‘He’s alive!’ He felt the need to confirm, whether it would be a relief to anyone or not. ‘I’ll be seeing him tonight, I suppose.’

No-one answered him. Elliott watched as Persimmon settled himself, then went back to his book. Edgar fixed his gaze on the road ahead. The sky had been dull for most of the journey, but on the horizon the grey clouds were just beginning to clear. 

A pit formed in the bottom of Edgar’s stomach. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He shouldn’t be feeling so much dread. This was supposed to be easy.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder to see Poe trailing behind. The motorbike coughed and spluttered as Elias revved the engine. And as he watched his daemon, the other half of his soul, turn into a black speck in the distance, Edgar Allan’s chest began to hurt again.

---

Montague Finch had the urge to pet Coco, but he kept his hands to himself.

The windscreen wipers were the only sound. Monty couldn’t tear his eyes away from them. They swept rhythmically from one side to the other, back and forth and back and forth, the raindrops that landed on the glass only getting a second to rest before being swept away. The rubber blades groaned each time they went over. In the centre they always paused, only for a split-second, and each time he wondered whether they were finally too exhausted to make it. Luckily, they always powered through. Hopefully the rain might stop soon, and they could have a rest.

Coco was curled up on the seat beside him. She was currently in the form of a small brown mouse. This wasn’t only her favourite form as it let her sit comfortably in Monty’s breast pocket, but they’d both promised Monty’s grandmother before they left that she would stay still and small and well-behaved for Oleksandr. Monty wanted to stroke her, to let her know how good she was being, but after the silent hours that had already passed he couldn’t help but feel like any movement now would disrupt some agreement he and Oleksandr had never verbally made.

The interior of the taxi was boring. Monty’s dad had owned a car, a bright blue one with a personalised number plate and a bumper sticker of the Manchester City crest. He’d spent a lot of time looking for a black one rather than the traditional blue one, so it could actually be seen. It had mainly been used for taking family trips or chauffeuring Monty’s brothers to football, as living in the city centre meant most places like Monty’s old school were within walking distance and getting the car out into rush-hour traffic was often more trouble than it was worth. Oleksandr’s taxi was bare – no stickers, no colours other than black or brown, nothing that suggested anything about the man who owned it at all. That was probably for professional reasons, Monty gathered. Still, if he were a regular user of taxi services, he thought, he would quite like the car to have a bit of personality.

He was pulled from his thoughts suddenly as Oleksandr cleared his throat. His brown eyes were watching Monty through the rear-view mirror. 

‘Okay, big man,’ he said. His voice, deep and with a thick accent, seemed to echo off the walls. ‘We’re almost there. Sat Nav says there’s nothing ahead, but your nana was very clear about these co-ordinates.’

‘Where are you from?’

Monty had been wondering this for a while, ever since Oleksandr had sat on the sofa in their flat drinking his grandmother’s tea. He remembered seeing him a few times around the block, but they’d never properly spoken until after Christmas. His grandma had talked a lot to Oleksandr over the past year, more often than not behind a closed door, while Monty sat with Coco in his room and tried to guess what they might be talking about. The answer, apparently, was this: a taxi ride to Monty’s new school.

‘I live in your block,’ Oleksandr said. ‘Y’know. Manchester Forest Heights.’

Monty nodded. ‘You live there.’

‘Yes.’

‘But…where…?’

A sigh. ‘If you want to know, I am Ukrainian.’

‘Oh. Okay.'

‘Okay.’

‘Okay. No more talking, please.’

The indicator ticked as the taxi turned on to another identical country road, as if to fill the silence Monty had enforced upon the car once again. Oleksandr shifted only slightly in his seat. He didn’t complain, which surprised Monty but he appreciated it nonetheless.

‘Okay,’ was what he said. ‘You sure you don’t want any more Pepsi Max, or…?’

‘No.’

‘...KitKat? King size?’

‘What? Oh.’ Monty wrinkled his nose. ‘All right. Go on.’

His eyes widened as Oleksandr opened the glove box to reveal a whole row of KitKats, arranged neatly in a rack that looked like it had been made just for them. Peering over from the back seat, Monty could see a stash of Pepsi Max cans, a tube of Salt and Vinegar Pringles and a white plastic bag stuffed at the side, presumably for the rubbish. Did all taxi drivers have so many snacks in their cars? Was it part of the experience?

Maybe Oleksandr was just giving him special treatment, both because he was a kind man and also potentially because his grandma had told him to make sure he and Coco were comfortable. Regardless, Monty thanked him as he awkwardly passed one of the KitKats back from the front seat.

At the sound of the rustling wrapper, Coco finally perked up. She raised her head, her glassy black eyes seeming too big for her tiny face. Monty snapped off one of the chocolate fingers and held it out for her to sniff.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Coco replied. Her voice was as small as her form suggested.

Nodding, Monty started to eat a bit of KitKat himself. ‘You probably can’t eat chocolate, anyway. I don’t think normal mice can.’

‘I’m not a mouse. I’m a daemon.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

He looked up as Oleksandr asked, ‘And how’s the little lady doing?’

‘She’s fine,’ Monty said.

‘Thank you for asking,’ Coco added.

Watching the back of his head, Monty saw Oleksandr jump slightly at the sound of Coco’s voice. Dread surfaced for a moment in the back of his mind, but another part of him quickly reasoned that Oleksandr wasn’t really afraid. This was just strange to him, a talking animal in the back of his taxi. It would just take some getting used to, which Monty understood. Nine months later, he was still getting used to Coco himself.

‘Do you, er…’ Oleksandr cleared his throat. ‘Do you want a tissue for her, or anything?’

‘A tissue?’

‘Yeah, you know.’ He hesitated. ‘Just in case.’

‘Just in case of what?’

‘I mean, it’s been a long drive. I just wondered if she needs to—’

‘Oh. No, she doesn’t. Do you, Coco?’

Coco offered an affirming squeak. ‘No. But thank you.’

‘I don’t understand much about daemons, Oleksandr,’ Monty said, ‘but from what Grandma told me, they definitely don’t need to shit.’

He felt a prod in his arm. It came from a tiny mouse foot. Inhaling sharply, Monty jerked his arm away from Coco, who flinched slightly at the sudden movement. The look on her face made his heart beat faster. Just before fear could overtake him, however, Coco shuffled back across the seat, putting distance between them again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Monty whispered, the words catching in his throat. ‘I’m sorry. What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Coco said. ‘It’s okay. I was just going to remind you to watch your language.’

Shit. Monty hadn’t even realised. He glanced briefly at Oleksandr, but the taxi driver was focusing on the road and didn’t seem too bothered by the swear word. That was lucky. 

But it could be much worse, Monty thought, gritting his teeth as he remembered Coco getting close enough to touch him. He had to be careful. He had to control himself.

The clouds were finally beginning to clear, the first rays of sunlight breaking through up ahead. Again, Monty took a breath. 

In. Out. 

On the seat beside him Coco curled up, her little nose still twitching. He wondered if she’d want to sit in his pocket when they arrived, or whether she’d be okay to walk around and explore by herself. From what his grandma had told him about having a daemon – something she knew things about already, somehow, as well as reading the information that came with the letter – they could only go so far away from their human before it started to hurt. Monty didn’t know how big the distance was for the two of them. Honestly, he’d been too scared to find out. What if he did something wrong, went too far, split them apart completely? So much had changed since Monty’s birthday, since Christmas Day, since all the terror and the blood and the way his claws had skidded on the dining room floor and the smells that the bath couldn’t wash out, but through all that, through everything, he’d had Coco. His daemon. And if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up doing something that made him lose her too.

She’d liked being carried, especially in the beginning. And Monty had loved to carry her – it was nice having something to hold, something soft and furry he could cuddle in bed. Of course, it didn’t stop the nightmares, but her presence always helped. Before, Coco would curl up in his hands in her mouse form, or turn into a red panda and let Monty cradle her in his arms like a huge, warm teddy bear. She’d sit across his lap in the evenings while Monty did his homework or they watched TV on the sofa, or flutter around the heads of him and his grandma as a robin when they played board games. Monty’s chances of winning Scrabble or Crazy Eights had increased dramatically since Coco showed up. 

They were never apart, and his grandma had said on several occasions how grateful she was that despite this whole ordeal, the two of them had each other. It made her feel better, she said, about Monty going to this new school. Despite it all, Monty had a friend. Someone he could always reach for, to ground him when he needed to stop certain thoughts from creeping in. Someone who, no matter the pain and destruction Monty caused or the blood he found himself covered in, would always be happy to see him emerge from the other side. 

Coco was still all that, of course. But things were different, no matter how much either of them might try to ignore it, since that night four months ago.

Monty wrapped his arms around himself. The green fabric of his shirt sleeve was thin, and as he ran his fingertips over his shoulder he could feel the rough edge of a scar. A shiver ran down his spine, remembering the stitches he’d had to have and how Coco had been zipped up in the pitch-black of his bag for hours so the doctors wouldn’t see her. He’d wanted nothing more in that moment, and on the taxi ride afterwards, sitting with his grandma on the back seat, to pick up his daemon and hug her tight. But that night, the night when in the depths of the forest Montague Finch had cut himself open in a frenzy of claws and teeth without even touching his own skin, had been when he’d made the decision. Distance was good, wherever they could help it. It kept her safe.

Luckily for them both, daemons didn’t scar.

He looked down at Coco. She was lying on her side with her eyes closed, her pink feet tucked into her chest and her tail wrapped around her like a shield. At least she looked peaceful.

The click of a button on the dashboard grabbed his attention. Oleksandr had turned off the windscreen wipers.

‘Looks like this is it,’ he said. His eyes locked with Monty’s through the rear-view mirror once again. 

Through the window, the hedgerows had finally fallen away to reveal what looked like little more than a rough, grey car park. Gravel and parked cars and the coloured stick figures of people milling around came into view as they got closer, all scattered around a huge oak tree in the centre.

Coco lifted herself up onto her hind legs. She tilted her head at her boy.

‘What do you think, big man?’ Oleksandr asked. ‘Ready to do this?’

Taking a deep breath, Montague Finch sat up a little straighter. 

They’d soon find out.