“I’ll tell you this, Moon. If there is a God, then He, is a She. Hell, some days I wake up in the morning and I get a feeling maybe I’m God.”

“Jesus. That’s taking things a little too far, don’t you think?”

Bea smiles. “No such thing as too far,” she says.

Stars blink at us. My head spins. I get a feeling of vertigo, as if the world has flipped and we’re the ones looking down and the stars are below, looking up.

23

The red ash of Ares lies undisturbed ahead of us. We leave our footprints marching behind and stick to the shadows, making our way west through the city. Even under the cover of predawn darkness, I can see how London is transformed again. From a bright chill to a breathless bone-cold. From a spectacle of steel and glass and towers that climbed out of sight, to the tumbling hulks of hollowed-out stone structures reduced to rubble, and always the floating ash, red as blood—Ares is no Lūna.

“Hey, Malik,” I say, breath steaming, trampling after him.

“Yup?” he says, leaping over a pile of rubble.

“Where exactly is this place we’re going?”

“The Collective Council Meeting.”

“I know, you said. But where?”

“Not far,” he says. “West. A Haven near Kensington Park.”

“And why?”

“Because Gabe’s there. All the clans of the Collective report to him. He’ll be able to fill in the gaps.”

“Kensington Park,” I say, taking in the devastation all around us. “I assume, it won’t look the same way it did in Sol.”

Malik smiles. “It’s basically a wasteland, crawling with psychos.” He looks at the blade at my hip. “Best keep that new sword of yours close.”

“How did you find me back there?” I ask him, as we pass under the eaves of a shattered building.

“We’re Pathfinders,” Malik says. “It’s what we do.”

Above us, I see a zeppelin shooting streaks of orange gunfire at some hidden foe. The cold is brutal. It turns everything numb. My fingers. My toes.

“Drink this,” Malik says, as if he can hear my thoughts (and hell, maybe he can, which is worrying, to say the least). He produces a canteen from his backpack and hands it to me. The surface is freezing to the touch and covered in ice-scales.

Too tired to argue, I tip back my head and take a long slug. Fire snakes down my throat. I try to take a breath, but all I can manage is a tight gasp.

Malik laughs. “Ares Firewater,” he says, taking the canteen. “It’ll regulate your temperature.” He takes a sip and grimaces. “Just gotta block the taste.”

I cough and spit and we carry on. Crimson ash feathers down. The light is eerie. In the distance, I hear a thunder crack of cannons.