Hollowpox The Hunt for Morrigan Crow - Jessica Townsend Page 0,46
wet clothes, and cry. A small, sensible voice in her head told her that would be highly impractical and wouldn’t get her any closer to home. But the small, sensible voice sounded very far away, and frankly Morrigan just wanted it to shut up.
She closed her eyes, leaning back against the brick wall. Her breaths came in short, shallow bursts. She was so tired.
She just wanted to sleep. Just for a minute.
Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again.
The night grew dim and silent.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Visitors
Morrigan was at the bottom of a deep, tranquil ocean, and everything was fine. She could have stayed there forever, and perhaps she would have, but her quiet peace was interrupted.
A voice dropped into the stillness, like a pebble breaking the surface far above.
Get up, it said. There’s nobody coming to help you.
Was someone there, or had the voice come from inside Morrigan’s own head? Either way, she wasn’t interested. A dark, warm blanket of nothingness had enveloped her, and she only wanted to burrow deeper into its folds.
Get up, the voice said again. Unless you want to die here.
‘Go away,’ she whispered croakily.
Silent moments passed. Morrigan slowly became aware of the steady, rhythmic sound of her own breathing, still warm in the cocoon of half-sleep.
Suit yourself, said the voice.
The sound of footsteps faded into the distance, while Morrigan floated gently up, up, up into consciousness.
Her eyes fluttered open. She was alone.
One deep, shuddery breath, and then another. Clenching her jaw as tight as she could, Morrigan began to pull herself up the alley wall, sliding bit by bit and trying to put her weight on her good leg. She’d almost made it to a standing position when her good leg gave out beneath her and, slipping sideways, she landed heavily against the cobblestones.
Morrigan cried out at the flash of pain that radiated down her leg and stayed statue-still for a long time until it diminished to a dull throb. She listened hard for any sound – footsteps, a distant voice – and again contemplated staying put until help magically arrived.
But the streets were still. The voice in her head was right. Nobody was coming.
‘Get up,’ she told herself through gritted teeth. ‘GET. UP.’
It took her ten minutes, a lot of groaning and shivering and a very stern self-talking-to, but she made it to her feet and began her slow, squelching journey, keeping her eyes open for a street sign or landmark she recognised. Once she knew where she was, she was certain she could figure out a way home. That’s what she was good at.
She pictured a map of Nevermoor inside her head. Usually it gave her a strange sort of comfort. She liked the way it was disorderly and chaotic, and yet it could be memorised and mastered. The monster could be tamed.
But something was wrong now. The streets in her head were jumbled, and she couldn’t quite keep the map in focus.
She’d barely made it half a block from the alley when a manhole in the middle of the street flew open.
‘What now?’ she groaned, swaying on the spot. Had she wandered into a red zone, right in the middle of Scaly Sewer Beast territory? Was this yet another thing that wanted to kill her tonight?
But up from the sewers came half a dozen black-clothed, sweaty-faced Society members, dropping their equipment right in the middle of the street to high-five each other, chug bottles of water and drop to the ground from exhaustion.
‘Morrigan?’ said a familiar voice, and Thaddea’s wild ginger head came into view. Her horrified expression suggested that Morrigan must look about as terrible as she felt. ‘Morrigan, what’s – your leg – you’re bleeding! What happened?’
‘S’just a scratch.’ Morrigan had always wanted to say that about an injury that was demonstrably not a scratch. She felt quite pleased with herself for having sufficient wits about her when the opportunity arose. But even as she shot Thaddea a proud grin, she felt it sliding woozily off her face.
‘Whoa, whoa – easy now,’ said Gavin Squires, and Morrigan felt a pair of muscular arms grab her around the waist as the ground came suddenly closer. He had a strong whiff of the sewer about him.
‘You smell … terrbel.’
‘Right, she needs a hospital. Macleod, send up a flare, let’s get a medic down here.’
‘No,’ said Morrigan, while the street tilted nauseatingly around her. ‘Hotel.’
‘She’s delirious,’ said a third voice, a woman. ‘We’re getting you to the hospital, dearie. The hospital. Don’t worry—’