Fury

smooth on all sides, impervious to attack from any direction — and the sound is cut off, does not recur. Even though I know I’m kidding myself, concentrating hard on shutting Luc out gives me an excuse not to dwell on what lies ahead for me, in Paris.

We head further downhill, further inland, and I begin to see headlights winding up through the foothills in the far distance.

As our driver brakes on approach towards the same police roadblock we encountered yesterday, there’s consternation amongst the gathered officers when they catch sight of our numberplate. A lone officer is sent striding our way, and I hear the hiss and glide of the driver’s side window, then the window on Ryan’s side of the car slides down. The grim-faced officer bends and glances swiftly around the interior of the vehicle, beckons for identity documentation, scans it, returns it, and raises a hand sharply. Moments later, two helmeted Polizia di Stato motorcyclists roar up on either side of our vehicle and we resume our journey southward, one motorbike ahead, the other falling in behind.

Four lanes of normal-looking traffic build up around us as we make a turn to the northwest, and the landscape grows more heavily industrialised. The presence of the two police outriders smooths our passage enormously: gaps in the traffic continually appear, as if by magic, and our driver makes the most of every one. I catch the curious glances directed towards our little convoy from the cabs of other vehicles that pass by, but the thing that draws my attention most is the sky. It’s a normal winter sky out here: steel blue with just a scattering of cloud; a normal morning for this time of year: cold and clear, with only a light breeze riffling through and around me. The contrast to the lake country is startling.

There’s one more major turn-off before the roar of jet turbines fills the sky above. The air grows heavy with the scent of burning aviation fuel and, in no time at all, we’re on the tarmac of a busy airport, with cargo planes and private jets taking off and landing all around us. The noise is immense.

Before our car comes to a stop inside a canyon formed by shipping containers and private hangars, I’ve already vaulted off the roof. I hit the ground silently and upright, nothing more than a vaguely humanoid shimmer of energy, a heat haze. I make my way directly towards a large hangar where a sleek, silver, twin-engine jet with tip-tilted wings, six porthole windows and StA Global Logistics stencilled on it is parked. On the jet’s tail, which is shaped a little like a swallow’s tail, there’s a logo of a galleon in full sail centred above a pair of crossed keys.

The police motorcyclists roar away in formation, back in the direction we came from, as I drift up the collapsible staircase towards the Gulfstream’s open doorway. I enter a cabin that smells of leather, coffee and attar of roses, and see that there are two pilots and a single female crew member already on board.

And the fallen archangel enters the belly of the mechanical bird, I think bleakly, bound for Paris to wreak vengeance on her enemies in the company of the man she loves.

There are so many things wrong with that picture that I don’t even know where to begin.

Ryan’s ‘VIP meet and greet’ takes almost an hour. I spend the time roaming the plane, taking in the exits, the tiger-striped carpet in two shades of cinnamon, the flame-walnut inlay and gold fittings in the spacious washroom, the two coffee makers Ryan was so excited about, and the layout of the seating. There’s enough room to fit twelve passengers comfortably. Up near the cockpit there’s a built-in kitchenette area, then two groupings of two chairs with the aisle running between them. Each pair of facing seats has a small, blond-wood table between them, and a small plasma-screen TV set above each table. Midway back, there’s a grouping of four chairs around a central table positioned across the aisle from a wooden storage unit with a larger plasma-screen TV fixed over it. And at the rear of the plane, two long couches face each other across the central aisle, before there’s another smaller kitchenette area and the OTT washroom.

I watch the short, curvy female crew member in her smart, dark grey suit, filmy white blouse, bright red shoes and coordinating lipstick, her smooth, brown hair pinned in a low chignon, move around the cabin, plumping pillows and moving floral arrangements and in-flight reading material from one surface to another.

When Ryan finally gets onboard — his daypack slung over one shoulder — I see her eyes light up with interest. When he removes his cap and glasses, shoving them carelessly into a pocket of his leather jacket, then running a hand across the severe buzz cut Tommy gave him, I feel her interest intensify, even from where I’m drifting, weightless, at the back of the plane.

I forget, sometimes, how breathtaking he is with his warm, dark eyes and downy skin, the ready smile that lights up the incredible bones of his face, his tall and rangy athlete’s frame. Gia reacted the same way the first time she saw his face on the screen of her tiny mobile phone. It’s funny how true beauty can be immobilising when you come across it. Luc had been like that for me: he’d pulled my focus immediately in that crowd of beautiful creatures the first time I saw him. And he’d inhabited the absolute centre of my world from then on, until he’d casually torn it apart when he decided he was done with me.

I see the young woman struggle to put words of greeting together, the colour rising in her face as she gazes at Ryan with shining eyes, and feel something ugly move within me. They only talk about inconsequential things, like whether he wants his jacket stored, how the plasma touchscreens operate, how he takes his coffee, but it’s all taking way too long for my liking, and she keeps finding excuses to touch him.

By the time Ryan extricates himself from her and takes a seat at that table for four, halfway down the plane, I’m seething with a possessive emotion that is completely unwarranted but that I can’t help feeling. Love has treacherous faces, too, I’ve learnt. As do I.

And it hits me then, the resemblance. She reminds me of Luc’s Gudrun, with her blood-red lips and nails, her impeccable grooming and curvy, flirtatious ways, her chatty, overly familiar demeanour.

When I slide, still just a heat haze, a faint shimmer in the atmosphere, into the seat opposite Ryan’s, my words emerge from the thin air before his face quickly, acidly. ‘Tell her to keep away from you for the duration of the flight — make up any old excuse. Unless you prefer her company to mine, that is. Then by all means flirt away, buddy. Knock yourself out.’

Ryan gives a startled yelp that brings the stewardess hurrying back down the aisle towards him. She places a hand on his shoulder and I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from her blood-red nails where they curve down across the leather of his jacket.

‘What is it, Ryan?’ she says in her melodious Italian accent, because, of course, Ryan’s insisted she use his first name. ‘Is there anything I can help you with before take-off?’

Just try it, I think nastily, as Ryan shakes his head, staring with wild eyes at the space where he thinks I am.

‘Could you just, um, keep back as much as possible, Rosa? I think I’m coming down with something … uh, something viral and really disgusting.’

He coughs loudly and stagily for emphasis, and I see Rosa step back a little, removing her hand from his shoulder with unflattering speed.

‘I think I’ll just lie down on one of the couches back there and sleep it off,’ he adds. ‘Just get the captain to, um, wake me when we’re about to land. No need to check up on me, I won’t be needing anything during the flight.’

She nods, backing away with a weird mix of relief and disappointment on her pretty face. ‘Wait until after take-off, Ryan, then by all means sleep. I shall not disturb you.’

‘Happy?’ Ryan whispers as the plane begins to taxi towards the runway, Rosa safely buckled up in her crew seat near the cockpit. ‘You just dudded me out of the freshly brewed coffee I was really looking forward to. But if you join me on the couch after take-off, I might let you make it up to me. Maybe.’

I do growl, then. Low and menacing, like a wolf.

Ryan just chuckles, putting his hands behind his head in an attitude of complete relaxation as I flow huffily away from him down the plane.

The group seating for four effectively hides the occupant of the couch behind it from sight if said occupant is lying down.

I hear Ryan stand up, hear him unzip his leather jacket before taking it off and dumping it across the table in front of him. Then he makes his way around to where I’m stretched out. He stands there looking down at me for a moment, and there’s a weird expression on his face again. I know it’s because I’m in the human form I first gave myself at the Duomo, with its black, curly hair, dark green eyes and skin of near perfect, unshiny humanness.

‘We’re not amongst friends now,’ I murmur apologetically, ‘people who understand what I am. This will