Chapter 5

Freya

The air was stuffy on the evening of August 04. It felt like a thick porridge, so viscous in its consistency that you could only get it down your throat with a lot of liquid and by gagging, hoping not to choke. Freya, Viktor and Lavendia's second-born, didn't care. As always, she circled above St. Paul's Cathedral. The Grimm clan had made the church one of their safe-havens. Beneath the cathedral, the Grimm had established a base for themselves, one of many. The Grimm could boast more locations than their enemies, but they lacked manning. Many of these Gargoyles had died fighting the Pearce, for they had the better warriors. Freya was not a Guard, nor did she serve on the Council. Her heart was free, as was her mind, and she knew no fear. Freya knew the risks of her nocturnal forays and that she could run into an enemy at any time. But for some unspecified reason, she seemed invisible to the Pearce's Guards. In the past, she had always managed to fly from point to point without being seen by observers or even falling into a trap. Either it had always been just outrageous luck, or she had a qualified guardian angel at her side. Tonight, the dark-haired beauty was hovering over one of her favorite places. She liked St. Paul's Cathedral more than Westminster Abbey. If she had her way, she would prefer to dwell there from now on. On the one hand, because the design of the building appealed to her more, on the other hand, she would finally be free from the annoying protection of her father. Viktor did not like it when Freya sneaked out and explored the city independently. He found her behavior grossly negligent and had already punished her dozens of times for her misdeeds. But no punishment in this world could stop Freya from her urge for freedom. That others unnecessarily put themselves in danger for her had never occurred to her. As the youngest of three children and thus corresponding to the lowest rank, Ash had to fly out regularly to take his sister back on the leash like an escaped dog. The last time he had encountered an enemy guard, it had come to a fight. Ash had won, but the other must have just started his training and had been no match for his opponent. Ash had regretted killing the boy and leaving his body among the trash cans in a narrow side alley. He had yelled at Freya, whom he had found at the All Hollows by the Tower Church, showing her his bloody hands and asking her if it was worth it? That it was necessary to put oneself in danger for her sake, just because her ass was itching for adventure in London's streets? She had smiled furtively, stayed underneath Westminster Abbey for two weeks before she had sought refuge again.

Now she danced a final round above the rooftops of St. Paul's Cathedral, while above her, the pale blue stars gazed down at her like glittering stones on a velvet curtain. Gracefully, she spun high in the air like a gracious dancer in a ballet performance. Her black curls followed the gentle movements of her circles. She wore her pearly white lace dress, which parted at the hips in a bell shape and stopped just below her knees. Freya enjoyed the cool night air on her porcelain skin. She didn't freeze, generally, her species didn't. Viktor's daughter loved the way her wings pushed the air aside, allowing her to drop, and at the last moment, deploy her reserve parachute, letting her glide like a feather in the wind. Freya's wings were as misshapen as those of the other Gargoyles. Leathery, pitted at the corners as if a rodent had chewed on them, and a scarlet network of tiny veins stretched between them. It ruined the overall look every time. And if she had not been blessed with flawless beauty, she would indeed have been mistaken for an angel sent by God. Unlike Ash, Freya felt no repulsion at the sight of her demon-like wings. She was who she was, there was nothing she could do about that. Nor could a ridiculous prophecy change that. And Freya had no time to chase a meaningless legend or worry about her most significant flaw. She ignored the devil's hand drawing that was joined to her back like Siamese twins. Instead, she sought the freedom her father tried to deny her. Periodically, she disobeyed Viktor. She was as safe at St. Paul's Cathedral as at Westminster Abbey. Viktor, however, preferred to have her close to him. Freya recognized it not as paternal care but as a kind of compulsion to control. She was not to blame for the misery, but Viktor was, and he, in turn, made Ash pay for it. Something about Westminster bothered her. She didn't know if it was the smell, the people who passed by there and whom she had sometimes observed. Or the many graves of famous people like Henry the Third, Charles Dickens, George Frideric Handel, not to mention the monument to William Shakespeare. The sight of the burial sites and even the thought of them gave her chills. So one of her favorite places of refuge has always been the same. Freya retracted her wings and swooped down like an eagle in a dive. Like a sail parachute, her leathery wings, which looked like a dragon's, dyed red and black, opened and caught her at the last second. She landed on the dome-shaped roof of the cathedral, folded her rescue parachute, and descended the stairs into the church.