EAOLIN

EAOLIN
John Laurel
 Independently published in 2016, via Amazon
Copyright © John Laurel 2016

John Laurel has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of the
Work in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights are reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
prior permission of the copyright owner.

Editor : J.H (Well, he claimed to have read a chapter.)

 For the originals, wherever you all are.
The summer of 2010 shall always be one of my happiest.
 PROLOGUE

Mischa examined the black entourage beyond the frosted window of the old cabin, in a pensive silence.
Dark fascinations gripped her, feet tip-toes upon the floorboards, straining to keep her head above the sill.
She knew it was wrong to stare and far worse to disrespect the dead. With her fifteen years, she should
have known far better. But she looked on. The meagre huddle of mourners bore their lost ones on their backs
as best they could. Others struggled, dragging the coffins on ropes across the thick snow. Along they
trudged, shuffling down the winding track where the cemetery waited for its newest inhabitants.
There was little weeping from the group, few tears and scarcer wailing. The people of Mischa's village
lived alongside Death. Unwelcome but familiar, he was their ever-present neighbour. This was the time
where he made himself known. Months earlier, when the ground was soft and the harvest plentiful, the
Gravekeeper had been hard at work, preparing the plots faster and in larger quantities than anyone had seen
before. This would be an unforgiving winter, the worst so far.
Tsar Mikhail, the Prime Minister and his cabinet, holed up and safe in the Winter Palace, had demanded
an even greater share of the harvest this year. Food for the troops on the front line, fuel in the war against the
American Imperialists. An army marched on its stomach. Safeguarding the Russian Kingdoms was
tantamount to life or death. The enemy would show them no mercy.
So the troops and officials came with iron determination and little pity, spiriting away any food and
supplies that hadn't been hidden, stolen or hastily consumed. They packed it away on their carriages,
destined for the mouths of others. They were not swayed by the villagers' empty bellies or the pleas for
compassion. Their sacrifices were noted, their braveries commended, their weeping dismissed. They were
all part of the nation's struggles, aiding the White Army and winning the War together.
All the Motherland suffered, they were told sternly, for the safety of the Kingdoms, from the nobility
down to the peasantry. Mischa had seen Tsar Mikhail only once and not even in person, in a travelling
picture show that visited the previous summer. The grainy browned images that flickered and danced out
from the magic box carried by the showman fascinated her but infuriated in equal measure. A different
world had come to life in front of her eyes, but it was nothing more than shadows and light, falsities
bouncing off a great sheet, woven out of old, rotted flour sacks. She'd tried to reach out and grasp the strange
world in front of her, but snatched only air, casting shadows over the room to the annoyance of the audience.
In the show, the Tsar was a stout man, all smiles and waving, as he travelled in his coach, past adoring
crowds in the heart of Petrograd. The narrator, standing to the left of the film, had boasted to all of them of
the coronation of this great new Tsar, how it was a decidedly modest affair. The pomp and circumstance of
the last eschewed in favour of a simple ceremony to save funds for the war effort.
Mischa wondered about this great sacrifice, how it compared to the loss of their food. In Petrograd, far
from her home, this tiny farming village would never cross a Tsar's mind. Even as his officials held their
lives in their hands, the certainty of survival to their whim.
Mischa was one of the fortunate ones, selfishly, guiltily so. Her Papa was a mere carpenter by trade, but a
shrewd man, with sensibilities that betrayed his profession. Covertly, secretly, he safeguarded what he could
as the winter approached - not much, but something to last the coming months, perhaps not enough, but
more than most. Three barrels of wheat and another of lingonberries, buried in the browned ice behind the
back of the old privy.
They both drank the broth supplied to them with the rest of their comrades. A thin, watery foul gruel,
made from the rotting remains of what the government's men couldn't fit onto their wagons, handed out by
the officials and priests from the old church at the village's edge.
 At night, when all was quiet, Mischa and her Papa would creep down silently to the latrine and take what
they needed, digging up the stash, feeding themselves quietly but cruelly. When done, they returned the food
to the ice, for the next time.
Her stomach still ached, and her bones felt the chill, yet she had the strength - not much, but just enough.
While familiar faces vanished with each passing day, Mischa and her father remained. This food was for
them, and no one else, Papa told her fiercely, no one was to know it existed. Others in the village would
have scavenged, scrounged and hidden as much as they had, no more generous with their supplies. Hunger
made monsters of all men. Mischa and her father were no better than anyone else, but certainly no worse.
And they still had their sanity. Mischa had heard the local boys telling stories of the cannibals that
roamed the Capital during the Great Siege. Ordinary folk, once kind-hearted people, were driven out of
hunger and madness to consume the wretched, the dead and even their own children, boiling them alive,
baking them into pies. While others succumbed and waned, resolute in their starvation, the cannibals feasted
and flourished, healthy, full faced and loathed.
After the city fell, they had been identified, rounded up and shot, to cheers. When Mischa walked alone
about the village, she kept the smallest of Papa's fletching knives in the lining of her dress, to ease her
anxieties, should a cannibal ever turn his attention to her.
The hunger tore at her, racking her within, turning her inside out. She came to despise berries and wheat
in equal measure as the weeks went on, yearned for cheese, bread or even a little pork. Prayed to the
Almighty for air and lies.
Sometimes, Papa would catch rats in the cellar with traps he built, using crumbs as bait. They provided
some welcome variation, despite the paltry amount of meat on them. She would imagine it was pork, but her
tongue told the truth. She could just about keep it down.
"Think of spring", Papa coaxed, as they went to bed after taking their rations from storage, each night
feeling weaker than the last.
"Think of spring, the New Year and the harvest and the crops. Keep it in your mind and this winter will
be a short one."
Falling asleep on an empty stomach was as difficult as waking to one. When she was at her most
despairing, Mischa would think of her Mother. She had died as she gave Mischa life, and though her father
did not talk about it, she always dreaded the stony silences that marked the day of her birth. Mischa had
never known the woman who looked tenderly out at her from the old pictogram on the dresser, but imagined
her up in Heaven with God, protecting her, telling her to be strong and to look after Papa, to be a good
daughter.
But winter showed no sign of passing and her mother was no more help than she ever, rotting deep in that
same cemetery with the rest of them. She was the extra, empty chair at the table, that old pictogram and the
quiet sadness in Papa's eyes, unseen, unheard.
Weeks passed as winter's grip tightened, but Mischa and Papa were still there, hungry, weak, cold - alive.
Death strode through the village time and time again, the sickness and the starvation coming to claim the
poor and unfortunate, yet still Mischa outwitted him, hid herself away with Papa where he could not find
her.
In the cruellest twist so far, the Gravekeeper had become the latest of his trophies. He had worked
himself too hard before winter arrived, her father mused, offered up too much for the Reaper's hand, until it
could not resist him. Mischa had watched him, boxed up in the same rickety coffins, ill fitting and nailed
together with all the spare wood and timber that could be found, creaking, straining at the seams.
She imagined being inside, dark and still and alone. It was a release; she had been taught. The cold and
hunger got inside of you, Papa warned, gnawed away at your bones and life until you were more than happy
to pass on, to be silent, still and free. Up to heaven with Mother.
 The coffined entourage departed past her window, vanishing out of sight and soon of mind. Up to bury
flesh and bone in the shallow holes carved into the frozen ground, shovelling ash and dry soil from the
barrels the dead Gravekeeper meticulously stored for the winter.
Time passed strangely in the village, the hunger played tricks with your mind, warped the senses and
fooled your eyes. One morning, the sun was still in the sky, a weak, watery glow on the horizon and the
Gravekeeper was digging the pits at the top of the village, the fading light at his back.
The next day, he was dead, buried and the blizzards were the harshest in memory, the nights long and the
days invisible, the cold grip of winter tighter than ever before, the village wrapped in a blanket of darkness.
There was no night or day; time itself froze in the chill.
But hunger's end came; three days by her count after the latest batch of the dead were carried down her
street, followed by a slew of other unfortunates.
It was the day that the Demon's men marched down the hill.

That fateful day started so excruciatingly, despairingly like any other.

Mischa awoke in her cramped, mildewed bedroom that smelled of wood rot, half grateful, part regretful
that the hunger hadn't claimed her in the night.
Her stomach tore itself in knots, insides screaming for sustenance, a thick, inconsolable ache as if she had
swallowed one of Papa's fletching knives.
She went to dress herself in the mirror, brush her hair and to wash her face and teeth. Mischa liked to
keep up the old rituals, even as her curls came away in chunks with her comb. Her dress struggled to cling to
her body, and her face seemed to shrink further into a skeletal mask, rotten teeth now too big for her mouth,
leering back at her. A pattern of brown and black in the cavern of her parched throat.
Bones creaking, rubbing against her pale skin, paper thin against her ribs, she went to rekindle the fire, to
warm up and try to get the sensation back into her legs, which had numbed and deadened overnight.
Papa greeted her with his usual, solemn silence. He had once been a heavyset man, thick in stomach and
face though the hunger had stripped all that from him. He was a skeleton now, loose skin sagging about an
emaciated face and bony skull as if he had deflated, some human balloon ripped apart. When Mischa looked
at him, she saw only what had once been there.
Mumbling "good morning" to him, she boiled fresh snow, scooped from the outside path, in a cooking
pot, bubbling away in the red-hot cinders. Steam rose into the air, unwelcome on her skin and clothes.
Most folk in the village didn't bother with such rituals, but Papa always warned her that there was
sickness and death to be found in un-boiled water, even in the new snow. That was the paranoid wisdom in
him talking, but he spoke sense. Those who had drunk from the well were passed and buried, all while
Mischa obediently caught the steam with an old, cracked looking glass, letting it drip slowly into the dusty
china jug next to her. Papa was an educated man, more intelligent than he would ever care for anyone to
know - particularly the officials, who viewed a learned peasant with a lot of suspicions. A lifetime ago, he
had learned to read and write from his aunt, an old scullery maid at one of the noble homes to the west.
He always promised to teach Mischa to read books one day and though she was eager to learn, the famine
drove any urges to decipher the strange patterns on the tattered pages that gathered dust on the mantelpiece
by the window. For now, she contented herself with Papa reading to her, while she gazed at the pictures and
the worlds and places they detailed, achingly distant from her reality.
It was midday, or perhaps later. Earlier, while the rest of the village slept, in their beds or the ground,
Papa had snuck down to the houses of the most recently departed, silently, discreetly taking whatever he
could find.
 It would not be long before others did the same. There was no food to be found of course, but he returned
with pockets full of leather - some strips from a belt, cupboard upholstery and a yellowing pair of boots. It
was these boots that Mischa now turned her attention to, boiling them slowly in a rusted stove pot that knew
more years than she. There was a little nutrition in leather, she knew, not a lot, but more than nothing. The
rats were scarce of late, whether they had gotten better at hiding or were dead, Mischa could not say. She
suspected it was the latter. As she watched the pot bubble, she took care under the weary eyes of her father
that she didn't let it boil over.
Then there was the commotion. Distant at first, barely discernible about the shrieks of the blizzard. It
grew closer, greater. Wind and the cold soon struggled to make itself heard. As the noise approached, their
ears made out the details with greater clarity, a symphony of sounds, yells and shouts and mutters, boots,
crushed snow, the clanking of metal and the howling of dogs. After such an extended, excruciating
condemnation of Winter’s silence, the noise came as such a shock to the pair of them that they stood,
transfixed, listening in silence to the sound as it passed by the walls of the cabin. Mischa could make out
dark shapes, shadows in the wind, passing the dusty panes. There was a glimpse of a flag fluttering in the
blizzard, carried across the street a dash of gold and red, the two-headed eagle of their once-proud nation.
Then, minutes in its wake came the knock on the door, the frozen, rotting wood groaning with each
impact, icicles crashing to the ground from the frozen roof. The knocks continued, raining down on the
wood so hard that Mischa feared it might shatter as the doorframe shook from top to bottom. Each impact let
loose clouds of dust from the frame. Broken from his silent stupor, Papa rose from his chair.
"Who is it? Who's there?"
Mischa hadn't heard him speak in so long that the sound was almost alien to her. The gruff, deep voice
that she was so accustomed to was nowhere, his question no more than a reedy, quavering whine.
"Army! Open up!"
Mischa's thoughts scattered to the wheat and berries under the latrine. More soldiers. Now? Did they
know about the stocks they had?
"Hold on! Hold on I'm coming!"
Papa crossed the room to the quaking door, wood axe in hand, unbolting it frantically with trembling,
stick-thin fingers.
The face that glared back at them from the gap in the door was fierce, old. Grizzled white hair was
tumbling down the skull, covering scarred pocked skin, turned deathly white in the cold. He was tall, taller
than Papa, towering in the leathers and skins that wrapped around him. Topped with an old wolf skin coat
that surely could tell countless stories of blood and battle, he pulled the scarf around his mouth away. It
concealed his hard features, the face that seemed to be chiselled in wrinkled stone.
As Mischa looked on, she felt the shock at seeing an old man, the lines etched into every inch of his
frozen, puckered skin. It had been a long time since she had seen anyone with white hair. Papa, axe handle
still firm in his grip, warily pried the door open a little further.
"What do you want?"
The man gestured behind him, gloved hands pointing back at the cold.
"Shelter for a while, peasant. We've been marching for two days straight."
Papa stood firm even as his ankles quaked, hand gripping the door edge tightly.
"What about the rest of you? Where are they going?"
"The church. We're setting up camp there till morning."
"Then I suggest you join your comrades with the Lord."
The man snorted.
"Why do I want to sit on my old arse in some freezing fucking prayer house? I need some warmth in my
bones, peasant. That fire of yours looks mighty appealing."
 "We have no food", Papa informed him as fiercely as he could through his diminished tones.
"That's no problem for me, peasant. I have my own, here in this bag."
The old man patted a large satchel strapped to his back guardedly.
"Even share some of it...from the looks of the pair of you, you'd be grateful for some scoff."
Papa paused for a moment and opened the door, stepping aside to let the man stoop down into the house.
"Very well. Come inside then."
"I am very much obliged."
He started dusting off the layers of snow from his furs, wiping the ice from his bedraggled beard. Silent
in the corner, Mischa was in awe of the man's height and the large rifle strapped to his back. He stripped the
sodden furs off, dumping them in a limp pile on the floor.
"Pick those up, girl. Dry them by that fire of yours."
Mischa nodded silently, dragging the furs closer to the glow of the flames. Her pot of boots bubbled
away quietly; she snatched it from the fire before it could boil over.
"Mischa, fetch our guest a chair."
Papa's voice was quiet, hushed as he kept his eyes fixed on the old man. She obeyed, grabbing one of the
rickety stools over to the fire.
He grinned, easing his heavyweight down onto it as it protested with a wooden squeal.
"Very much obliged to you, young miss. If you could spare some water for a tired old soldier, I would be
most grateful."
He cast an eye at the pot, nose wrinkling.
"Think I'll pass on your boot soup though."
Mischa glanced over at Papa, who nodded. She dashed to fetch the jug of precious water that she had
boiled that morning, pouring it carefully into a cracked old cup. The old man gulped it down, wrinkled
throat straining; he spluttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"My thanks."
He reached for his bag.
"In return-"
The old man pulled out a rough, poorly wrapped parcel in brown paper from one of the pockets, placing
it gently on the table.
"Here. Help yourselves."
Papa unwrapped it as Mischa looked on curiously. A great slab of chocolate, glistening from the cold.
Coated in a sickly white sheen of mould, yet dark underneath, tantalising. Her mouth was watering, Mischa
wanted to swoop down and gorge herself on the lot. But as she took a step forward to get a closer look, Papa
wrapped it back up in its crumpled brown papers and placed it in his pocket.
"Thank you."
The old man shrugged.
"Don't thank me. Wasn't mine. Just what was left from some poor dead sod's rations."
"Rations?"
"That's got your attention, hasn't it peasant...oh that's beautiful.."
The old soldier leaned into the fire, leathery, pocked hands floating mere inches away from the flames.
"Lord knows it's been too long since I could feel my fingers."
"You have more food?"
"Plenty at camp. Though if you were thinking of nicking anything up there, I wouldn't bother. Some other
villagers over the mountain tried that. Didn't get them anything but a bullet in the brain. Army only, strict
orders from His Highness. There's a war on, peasant."
 Mischa stirred the pot again, acrid smell from the yellowing, waterlogged boots stinging her eyes. Papa
sized up the old soldier with a stare.
"May I ask your name, Comrade?"
Their guest laughed, a wracking, joyous wheeze.
"And who are you to ask my name, peasant?"
"Pavel, the village carpenter, son of Yuri, the carpenter past. This is my daughter, Mischa."
The old man shrugged.
"Aye, that's enough for me. Tomek. Tomek Czerwinski."
"Polish."
"No need to sound so suspicious. I speak Tsar's Russian just as well as you - ah!"
A knock on the door, quieter and politer than before. Papa’s wrinkled eyes narrowed. Czerwinski cracked
a weary smile.
"Not a moment's peace it seems. Child. What was your name..Masha, wasn't it?
Mischa swallowed, trying to hold the man's sharp gaze.
"Mischa."
"Go fetch the door. I expect that's some of my comrades now."
Papa took a step forward.
"And how did they know you were here?"
Czerwinski smiled wryly.
"Because I told them. I said 'I'm not sitting in this church listening to these priests drone on a minute
longer. I'm going to find shelter in that rickety old carpenter's house with the fire in the window.'"
Papa's voice, reedy and strained as it was, took a note of anger.
"Can I expect your whole unit to traipse in here demanding shelter? You are a guest in my home, Pole."
"I'd shut up and open that door if I were you, peasant. My comrades out there are frozen to the bone.
They're likely to be more generous with their rations than I am. You could make a small fortune in food if
you play your cards right. Or you can get them angry and keep them waiting. I am a tolerant man at heart,
but I can't vouch for the others outside that door. Might be you upset them. There's not a lot of need for
carpenters right now. Best know your place in front of my men."
Papa paused, before relenting.
"Get the door, child."
Stepping warily over to the threshold, Mischa hoisted up the heavy latch, only to stagger backwards in
alarm as a cold gust of wind struck at her from behind the door. She was blinded, reeling from the shock of
the freezing air, as four dark figures elbowed their way past her. She found her senses and shoved the door
shut as hard as she could. Thrown aside, Mischa coughed, wheezing the chill out of her aching lungs,
blinking flakes of snow out of her eyes as she raised her head to see these strange new guests. Strong, warm
hands yanked her to her feet, powerful fingers clasped around her wrists lifting her up from the blackened,
mildewed floorboards. The room swam back into view; Papa said her name reproachfully, scorning her
clumsiness. She managed a weak “thank you", stomach spinning in time with her head.
 As the figures lowered their furs and shook off the snow, she saw that they were younger than this
'Czerwinski' but no less intimidating, scarred, bearded, faces crusted with frost. One of them was familiar in
the face, with the same, pale Slavic features, light haired, short and thickset, but his comrades were clearly -
Mischa saw with a mix of horror and fascination - foreign! Two were dark of skin, tall, imposing, stooping
as they examined the room around them, shaking the melted snow from their hair. One was so dark that he
was sometimes a silhouette in the dim view of the flames, with a lanky, towering figure, a bulbous nose and
large, brown eyes. Mischa had never seen such skin, she was acutely aware that she was staring as she knew
not to, but as she looked at Papa guiltily, she saw that he too was thrown, mouth agape, his eyes drawn to
them. Their colour painted the entire room, rich tan dancing with the flicker of the flames. They came from
beyond the place she knew. Far away.
Mischa had never really considered that there were people that looked like that in real life; they had been
confined to stories and picture books that Papa had read to her. The princes of the Arabian Nights and the
exotic dancing girls in the moving pictures. They lived thousands of miles and a lifetime away, yet
impossibly they were standing in front of her.
The skinnier, younger one, with lighter skin and a wolfish smile looked at her, his eyes warm and
inviting, but Mischa could only turn her face away, gripped with an inexplicable fright that made her feel
childish. The third man behind them was smaller in stature, with hooded, stern eyes and cropped black hair.
Years earlier, Mischa had seen an old news report on the war with the Chinese. As she looked at this man;
she was reminded of the hordes of prisoners that glared sullenly out of the canvas at her as they were
shepherded over to the Gulag. He was from the Orient, she decided, which made him at least a subject of the
Chinese Kingdom.
Perhaps the Tsar would knock on the door in a few moments, with a feast for them all. Were any more
surprise visitors in store?
The Oriental man glared at her as she examined him, fascinated. She couldn't quite shake off the eyes of
the men; they seemed to follow her as they edged towards the warmth of the fire. Papa's voice cut into the
space of the room, rasping.
"I don't like so many strangers in my home. Foreigners at that."
Czerwinski stepped forward, gesturing to the Slavic blonde man.
"This is Barshai. One of your own, if it pleases you."
Barshai cleared his throat grumpily.
"Shut up you old Polish bastard. Aye, I am of the Motherland, but from the South. It is warmer by the sea
than at these dead lands."
He shivered humorously, dangling his hands over the fire. Mischa couldn't prevent herself from staring at
them; three fingers and thumb remained amid the blackened stumps. She couldn’t stifle her gasp and
blushed, embarrased.
Barshai glanced at her apologetically.
"The cold, I'm afraid. My gloves were torn and by the time I realised there wasn't much I could do."
Czerwinski laughed dismissively, a wracking, coughing jeer.
"It's your fucking fault, lad. You think you know the Northern wastes, believe you know the cold. Up
here, winter is a vicious bitch. Give her any part of you bare and she'll turn it black and bite it off."
The straw-haired man threw him a sullen look.
"Haven't I suffered enough?"
"Oh, we've all suffered, having to hear you moan about it. Just be grateful it wasn't your cock. Lady Frost
gives a mean blowjob. I heard a story of some poor bastard taking a piss in a blizzard one night-"
Papa cleared his throat loudly.
"Apologies peasant, I forget myself. This march has been too long, and my niceties have been lost."
 The old man winked at Mischa.
"We soldiers have our language, one that should never fall on the ears of lovely young maidens like this."
Lovely.
Mischa wasn't sure if she'd ever been called that before. She tried her best to smile without opening her
mouth. Papa gestured at the other men.
"And these lot?"
Czerwinski glanced at them.
"Hell, if I know. Special relegations to our unit, from our allied nations. Pah! That we’ve stooped so low
to accept these niggers among our ranks! None of them speaks a word of Tsar's Russian. A little Dutch, so
Barshai here can just about translate. What are their names again, lad? To me, they're just Slant-Eyes,
Aladdin and Darkie."
Barshai gave a disparaging roll of the eyes, stepping forward, talking in hushed tones, foreign words
running out of his mouth, little more than strange sounds. She couldn't understand a word of Dutch, but she
knew they all spoke it in the American Empire. The enemy. This absolute fact made her uneasy; she edged
closer to Papa. Barshai turned back to them, gesturing at the youngest of the dark pair, who continued to grin
at her.
"Ramirez, from the Portuguese Empire."
His counterpart was introduced as "Tafan, from the Persian Federation” and the Oriental as "Koga, from
the Nihon Colonies of the Chinese Kingdom." Tafan, the Persian, took a step forward suddenly, startling
Mischa as he took her hand in his own, whispering in the gibberish speak, the big brown eyes devouring.
Behind her, Papa bristled, while Barshai laughed.
"He says you are a very quiet girl. He is not used to silent women."
Mischa forced herself to smile, not let her unease show.
"I...see. Tell him..thank you."
The names and languages were alien to her; she wished she spent more time with Papa's books, learning
about these strange places and their people.
Seeking attention, her stomach cried, scrunching itself tight into a ball, she tended to the boiling boots,
trying to shrug off the puzzled looks of these strangers as she doubled over.
"It's very unusual", Papa said pointing in their direction,"...three foreigners here and this a time of war
abroad in Europe. Why are you not at the front?"
"It is not your place to ask questions."
Barshai's tone was level, pleasant enough - but there was a glint in his eye that made Mischa tense. He
smiled past her at Papa. “We’re just here for a few hours shelter, peasant. Be a good comrade and let us be."
Papa brushed off the condescension and met his request with another.
"You have food. Give use some of your supplies or you can leave. My fire is not free. Nor my water or
my chair."
The silence was thick in the room, the foreigners shuffled, looking down at their feet.
Barshai took a step forward, using all of his extra height as his hands balled into fists.
"You going to make me?"
Czerwinski stood up abruptly from the warmth of the fire.
"Let the peasant have his way, Barshai. There is enough food at the camp."
Barshai took notice of the old man's dangerous tone but kept his eyes fixed on Papa, hungry for a fight.
"What rights does some half-dead peasant have here?"
Another step closer, his words taunting.
"It'd be a mercy to turf them out into the cold. Just look at them, Czerwinski."
 Papa tried to keep his resolve, but shrank back in an instant, flinching as Barshai grabbed his lapel, thin
neck thrown back and forth.
"You lower classes should know your place. There's a war on like you said. Do you refuse to aid your
Motherland's men, traitor?"
Mischa felt a lump in her throat. She might have cried, but there were no tears to spare. Her throat was
parched, eyes dry, straining. Papa's strength abandoned him.
"N-no."
The soldier laughed.
"Perhaps you are traitors. Spies."
"And perhaps you should take your grievances up with the Demon."
Mischa felt the strong, wrinkled hand of Czerwinski on her shoulder.
"He'd be very interested to hear all about your ideas, Barshai. How these starved peasants are American
spies. I'm sure he'd care very much. Now do as this man asked and give him some damned food for his
kindness."
The words, whatever they might have meant, did their work. Letting go of Papa, Barshai slunk back into
the corner, reaching resentfully into his pack.
"Here."
He tossed three strange objects in their direction. As they fell, Mischa realised they were metal cylinders,
clanking together on the old faded wood. They rolled across the floorboard, coming to a halt at Papa's feet.
He looked at them, confusedly.
"What is this? I want food, not some ornament."
Barshai leered at him.
"Oh, you peasant! Break those tins open and you'll find beetroot soup inside. You people are so
backwards; you make me laugh."
Mischa looked at the strange cylinders, peculiar words and characters scribbled over them. Papa looked
at them disdainfully.
"These are foreign."
"From the Hungarian regiment. Swapped a bag of them in the camp for half a dozen of my mother's
pelmeni. There's no need to look so disgusted, that food will stay fresh in that tin for a thousand years. Not
like the pelmeni."
Papa pointed at the other men standing idly by the fire.
"Them too."
Barshai barked out some commands to the foreign men again, gabbling and pointing. There were some
grumbling and filthy looks but by the time they were finished, the old table was creaking under the weight of
the cylinders, two loaves of bread, a mound of sweet, strange dumplings from the Oriental, a bag of red rosy
apples, frozen to the core and half a roast ham, wrapped in yellowing, months-old newspaper. Papa
inspected the haul silently for a few moments, before carrying it to the pantry.
"Mischa. Make our guests at home."
So she did. Czerwinski, on top of the chocolate, donated a small flask of vodka from his coat, which he
passed around with them all. Mischa worked hard to keep the fire roaring, using more firewood and kindling
then she would have ever dared. She stole glances for Papa's approval from the pantry; he kept nodding in
return. She knew to keep them happy. The thought of the food kept her going. The thought of the men,
marching on, leaving them alone with it. She revelled in their tales; refilling their glasses with the bitter, dry
vodka.
 They had fought bandits on the road, gotten hammered in the town and hunted rabbits that morning.
Barshai had a baby daughter, who had been teething when he left, an infernal racket he’d been glad to
escape. Ramirez had once met the Portuguese Emperor. Koga was a Nihonese slave who won his freedom in
the Manchurian fighting pits and Tafan had danced with the most beautiful woman in the Sultan's court and
bedded many more…
She knew the drink would soften their hearts, dumb their senses and loosen their tongues. She tried some
vodka herself when she was offered and joined in with the laughter as her face betrayed the grown-up
sensibilities she attempted to display, the bitter, dry drink burning her lips and tongue. The men roared with
laughter as the fire danced. Mischa learned more about them, but as her understanding grew, her curiosities
multiplied. Vodka made the men less imposing, less terrifying.
"Where do you march to?” she finally asked Czerwinski as she filled up his cup with the last dregs of the
bottle. The men exchanged glances.
"North."
"Over the border? Where North?"
There was a pause.
Czerwinski and the other men seemed thrown by the question, as simple as it was to her. They looked
among each other for the answer, each unwilling to offer their own. Finally, it was Barshai that spoke.
"We're heading North. All the signs seem to point to that. Yes. North."
His words were self-comforting but useless to Mischa's unfathomable curiosity. She saw through that
quickly enough.
"You mean you don't know?"
She looked at these men, hardened, sculpted by war and frost, beards stiff from the ice, all who towered
feet above her and yet could not answer her question, childish, impertinent as it was. It had been met with
such confusion, so many furrowed brows and blank stares, that a thousand more questions welled up inside
her. A growl from Barshai silenced them before she could let loose.
"We follow orders, girl. Soldiers like us, we're not trained about the whys or where's. We take the money,
and we shut our mouths. Understand?"
Mischa nodded meekly, but Czerwinski's heavy hand was on her shoulder again.
"Leave her alone, Barshai. She's a right to be curious. Perhaps we should be a little more inquisitive as
well"
"She might have a right to be. We're not so lucky."
Tafan, the Persian one started his gibberish again, in that strange tongue, pointing and waving his hands
urgently. It took a few moments of translating the different words until it was clear what he wanted. Barshai
gave a weary sigh.
"He's shitting himself again. Worried the Demon will notice we're gone. He doesn't like us going far, you
know that."
Czerwinski spat on the ground, before throwing a wary glance at Mischa. Papa, thankfully, was in the
back.
"Apologies."
He turned to Barshai.
"Tell Aladdin the Demon can wait, far as I'm concerned. This cold isn't worth what he's paying us."
Mischa turned to him.
"Demon?"
Just the word made the men on edge; they looked at each other as if the name hung heavy in the air
around them. The foreigners whispered it in their strange tongues, unified in their dread.
"Demonio..de Demon..Daemon."
 The room seemed colder, the fire dulled. Mischa pulled her furs closer, shivering. When Czerwinski
spoke, his voice was hoarse, eyes wide beneath his wrinkles.
"The leader of this fool's expedition. Top brass commander, child of the old Yusupov line or so they say,
though if he’s a Yusupov, I’m a Jew. He's the one marching us up North. Mark my words, child, there is
something about that one. Something that doesn't sit well with any of us."
She sidled closer to the fire, warming her numb hands.
"Why do you call him the Demon?"
The flames cast dull flickers of light about the room.
"Because he's wrong. Different. How, we can't explain."
He saw her puzzled look and chuckled darkly.
"Oh, he might look like any one of us on the outside, but you can't deny, there's something evil in him.
My grandmother used to tell me stories of monsters disguised as men. I took it as fool's talk. Might be he's
one of them."
Barshai rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, but Mischa was enthralled, horrified by this old man's tale. Her
eyes widened.
"You mean..he's not Human?"
The men exchanged glances, as Czerwinski spoke, unperturbed by Barshai's withering looks.
"When other men die of the cold and shiver in their sleep, he walks through this blizzard with no care or
concern. No furs. We survive on rations; consume whatever we can to keep us going. We have yet to see
this man eat a morsel. He carries a sword..can you imagine such a thing? We all laughed when we saw it.
Any cack-handed bastard can fire a gun nowadays; I don't think I've seen blades for forty years, not since
my father's lifetime at least. Yet he has killed more than any of us, cutting down all the enemies we have
faced on this road. He has no fear of them, and they never get close. Their bullets don't touch him, he moves
like lightning. Like no man I've seen. You blink and then he's gone, that sword making mincemeat of
whoever gets in his way. Believe this old soldier, child. He is a devil in a man's skin- and if you want proof
above all else, you just have to look in his eyes, whenever foolishness or bravery inspire you to."
Barshai, looked down at the dusty floorboards, muttering under his breath.
"You are no good for the morale old man.”
"I am an old man, boy. You speak the truth. In all my years, long years at that, I've seen nothing like him.
There's evil in that one. As God is my witness."
She felt the chill about the room, ever intense, circling the warm glow of the fire and the stove. Gripped
the edge of her chair, aghast of the stories of this man.
"But what will you do? If he is..a..a Demon?"
Czerwinski laughed. It surprised her, stripping the solemnness out of the air. Even Barshai joined in,
babbling nervously to the other men, who followed suit.
"Nothing, child."
In the weak light, his face was a mass of wrinkles, beard and frost, though the drink had brought some
colour back to his face.
"Absolutely nothing at all."
"But you said-"
Mischa struggled to speak, thinking back to the picture books on Papa's shelf, of the changelings and
imps that led innocents to their deaths and stole children away. Of Baba Yaga, the witch with her house that
ran on legs across the forest. Could there truly be such things, lurking silently out there?
She was not a child, not anymore..and yet..These men were scared; she knew instinctively. She knew
fear, saw it on Papa's face every morning, as they met every dark day. The very mention of this Demon was
enough to direct worrisome glances to the frosted windows.
 Mischa coughed. Her chest was tight, chill rising in her throat. Colder. She hurried to the fire, dumping
more of the knobbly, gnarled old logs onto the starving flames. Czerwinski belched loudly, wiping his
mouth on his sleeve.
"The money is good enough. I have mouths to feed back home. Three sons, two daughters and too many
grandchildren."
He chuckled softly.
"The Demon pays us well indeed. He frightens the living daylights out of us - including Barshai, though
he's got too large a stick up his arse to admit it- but that man could walk around with a tail and horns and I
wouldn't complain, providing he keeps the money coming in."
Barshai snorted.
"Spoken like the traitor Pole you are. Maybe you'll change your tune once we find out what his word is
worth."
Czerwinski leant back in his chair, pondering, his beefy hands playing with the empty cup, passing it
between his fingers.
"This girl doesn't want to hear the squabbling of soldiers, nor of the Demon's promises."
"What is it?" Mischa asked eagerly, stepping forward, "What has the Demon promised you?"
"Shh", said Czerwinski tersely. “His ears are everywhere-"
"Oh shut up you old fool." Barshai snapped at the pair of them. "You're deluded."
He looked at Mischa, his yellowed crooked teeth in his frozen beard pulled into a condescending snarl.
She found the courage to speak.
"What did he offer you-”?
She just managed to get the words out before the great gust of ice and wind, a cold, shapeless presence,
burst through the door.
Screaming on its dying hinges, it flapped helplessly against the wall. The fire vanished in the grip of
freezing air; stove toppling, scattering embers, fading from dull orange to pitch black, on the floor. Darkness
clouded them all; she heard Papa calling her name, asking what was going on.
There was the hissing of the men, bellowing at each other in hushed tones as she cradled her hands,
pressing them against her mouth, breathing, trying to feel the warmth under her skin, breathe life back into
her bone-dead fingers.
The moon's sickly glow upon the snow crept into the room, casting a dim view of her surroundings as
Mischa looked out through stinging eyes, freezing gusts of air attacking her with shrill, piercing screams that
ripped through her head.
It had gotten so late. Beyond the doorframe, she could make out a figure amid the moon and snow. A
silhouette that danced in and out of her vision, flickering with the wind. It spoke. A voice, just, strangely,
queerly high-pitched, girlish, but devoid of kindness or warmth.
Every syllable, every sound seemed to claw at her ears. It was foreign, yet familiar; the Dutch tongue as
the other men has spoken before. The language of the Americas. There was barely any emotion in it, but she
recognised a tone of command.
About the darkness, she felt the men filing past her, brushing by as they stepped away from the room and
out into the blizzard, past the doorframe. She was forgotten. Czerwinski was the last to pass by, whispering
to her as he did so.
"We are moving on, child."
She glanced at the being, outside, waiting for the old man.
"Is that? -"
"We are wanted at the church."
 The tone was odd, dismissively so. There were none of the tenderness’s she had come to know, albeit so
briefly. Sadness welled up in her, childish, irrational and peculiar.
"Stay", she said thickly.
That seemed to get through. He looked at her; the old warmth returned as fleetingly as it had vanished.
He chuckled.
"That if I could. Be safe child. You and your father."
The voice sounded again, sharper, more urgent. Mischa turned away from it, something strange repulsed
her.
Hurriedly, the old man moved, stepping out of the doorframe and into the cold.
"Goodbye, child."
And he was gone, borne into the black night. The footsteps were fading into nothing upon the bleak
moonlit glow of the virgin snow. Mischa waited for a few more seconds, listening until only the shriek of
the wind outside of the threshold remained. Then she turned, back into the relative warmth of her old,
familiar home, shutting the door behind her and busying herself with the fire and stove. She relit each of the
lamps and rekindled the fireplace until pleasant warmth crept back into the four walls of her home. The
familiar footsteps of Papa trod quietly from the staircase.
"They are away?"
"Yes, Papa."
He glanced around, leaning in closer.
"The food they gave us. You must tell no one. You understand?"
She nodded, familiarly.
"I know, Papa. Where is the food now?"
"Locked up. Safe."
She felt the pains in her stomach creeping back up her throat. The men's drink and the sweets were some
reprieve, but the taste of such things only made her crave more.
"May I have some?” she asked hopefully, though she knew what the answer would be.
"Not tonight. We must preserve it. If we are careful, cruel and selfish with this food, we may live to see
spring yet."
Mischa thought of all that the soldiers left behind, in exchange for a few hours company and a warm
escape from the Demon. Papa was a practical man, clear-headed and sharp-witted. She knew he could make
that stash last for months. That evening, she would feast on a leather soup. Tomorrow, perhaps the smallest
slice of the pie the Portuguese Ramirez had handed over so sullenly, or a piece of the browning apples. Her
mouth watered.

That evening, she lay awake, the hunger pangs still there, somewhat satiated by a leathery, foul broth and
the promise of real food to come. Mischa prayed to her mother again, and to the Almighty Father, to beg
forgiveness for her doubt and to thank her for the food. But as she clasped the splintered cross around her
neck and whispered hollow words to the dead, she realised with a stab of horror and guilt that she had not
thanked Barshai, Czerwinski or any of the other men who had shared her home and their food.
Mischa glanced at her window, pulling the thin covers from her bed as she pulled on her shoes and shawl.
The sun was rising, dark red and golden orange. Careful not to disturb Papa, passing his rattling, emaciated
snores, she descended, tiptoeing silently into the outside, lifting the latch quietly, and lowering it slowly
behind her as she went.
 Though the storm had subsided, the chill lingered in the air; she pulled the shawl tight around her bony
shoulders as she ran down to the church.
"We march at dawn", Czerwinski had promised and though the sun was higher in the sky than she would
have liked, Mischa knew that the hordes of soldiers that had marched past her window could easily be
followed.
As she reached the church, she found the remnants of their stay, burned out fires, hastily dug graves for
the frozen unfortunates, pits of rubbish, discarded cigarette ends and the lingering scent of shit and piss
further past the trees. The tracks she found marched to the North as expected, trailing through the white
plains, winding over the hill, far into the distance.
She followed the footsteps, her feet sodden in the in the melting snow, the rim of her frock growing
muddy as it trailed past the thawing ground. By the first mile, Mischa was still positive that the men would
be up ahead, just past the next clump of trees or bend on the path.
By the second, she was beginning to lose faith, the numbness spreading from her toes up to her ankles,
No sign of the soldiers in sight. As the third mile approached, she was ready to turn back and run home as
fast as she could, lie in front of the fire and forget her debts. That was, at least until she heard the scream.
It was faint at first, whipped up and drowned by the shrill hiss of the dying wind, but as Mischa stopped
in her tracks, heart beating furiously in her mouth, it sounded again, louder, more heartfelt. Filled with
anguish, pain. A man's cry, certainly. Her mind raced to old Czerwinski. That terrible old man would never
scream.
As the cry sounded a third and final time, she was running in its direction, the dull pain in her feet a
distant memory, darting through the thick, snow-drenched undergrowth, glancing down at the floor to make
sure the trail of steps was still in front of her.
Her breath made high wisps of steam in the air as she stumbled in the direction of the noise. The
footsteps ended. She came to a halt, heaving, great gasps of air into her lungs as she stared down at the forest
floor, scanning desperately for the tracks. It was a clearing now; thick pine trees circled her. The snow was
thinner on the ground here, where the branches weathered the clearing from the blizzards.
Hundreds of muddled footsteps had turned the snow brown and black, trailed their way into the clearing
and stopped as if wiped from living memory. She reeled; confused, trying to understand where the trail
vanished to. As she made sense of her surroundings, she saw the rock. It was black, darker than night itself.
No light seemed to touch it; the sheen of the sunrise and lush forest pines was not even reflected on its
sleek surface. She had played in these woods for years when there was food and living friends. How had she
never seen it before? It was about twice her size, cylindrical, though rough, uneven in its shape, carved
thickly and ungracefully. There were peculiar markings about the surface, etchings, foreign shapes that
made no sense to her. Though, of course, she could not read.
It was ideally positioned in the centre of the clearing, a marker sculpted in shadow. About the base of the
rock, moss and ice had recently been scraped away to reveal the black, stone surface underneath. It
transfixed Mischa. Yes, indeed, living in the village, playing outside with the other children, she had never
seen it before. A new, unusual part of her world. Gazing at the rock, she was found herself approaching,
drawn to it as if by some strange force.
It was so perfect. God didn't make rocks so smooth and symmetrical. Czerwinski and the missing men
were momentarily forgotten as the black, empty skin of the rock guided her eyes.
As she grew nearer, she could make out a fine slit in the centre of the top surface, rectangular, burrowing
deep down into the core. Reaching out unconsciously, her fingers unwittingly brushed the stone face.
Mischa expected the rock to be freezing to the touch but yanked her hand back in alarm as her skin
bristled. No, it was warm.
 She hesitated, before reaching again, running her hands down the dark surface, exploring the centre
etching with her fingers, feeling a deep passage right into the rock's core. The heat came from inside; she
realised pulling her frozen fingers away as they protested.
Her palms came back dripping red. At first she thought she had somehow cut herself on the stone, she
examined her hands fervently, seeking out any cuts or wounds. There was no pain and her hands, though
raw from the cold, were unharmed.
She saw for the first time in the light of the rising dawn, the blood that stained the edges, trickling down
the sides, almost invisible to the naked eye, dancing in the impenetrable darkness.
Life was returning to her deadened fingers, and as it did, she could feel the sticky, dark red warmth on
her skin. Taking a step backwards, she could see the blood, seeping gently from the centre of the rock,
cascading onto the snow, staining it crimson.
It was a stream now, a scarlet, bubbling fountain. Mischa ran, shrieking. Ran far away. Back to the safety
of her warm home and her fire, back to the scolding of her father and the promises of food. She never spoke
of it, lest the Demon would find her, cleaning herself of the blood in the snow, drenching her clothes and
earning her a spanking and a month in bed.
The blizzards soon returned, hiding the tracks and stone from view. Mischa would attempt to find the
forest and the rock over the years when she was feeling brave, but never could, retracing her steps but never
returning to that clearing. Almost as if it didn't wish to be found.
For years after, survivors in her village wondered what had happened to that army regiment, who
vanished so suddenly that fateful evening, never to be seen, nor heard from again. Mischa knew. The men
were taken, spirited away by the Demon. Only the black rock could be proof though she would never set
eyes on it again. It was all that could have been left of those men and the memory of their visit, where they
fed a starving peasant girl and told her their stories.
Mischa would always wonder where they had gone and of what she had witnessed. Of the soldiers and
Czerwinski, held by this Demon in Baba Yaga's house, forevermore.
 CHAPTER ONE

SEVENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER

Even with her history, Shani Smith had never considered herself to be anything other than perfectly
unremarkable. Not physically, of course, for to be a short black woman in Dorset was almost akin to being a
unicorn.
But mentally, she didn't see herself as unique. Unfortunately, the rest of the world disagreed with her.
Hence the mandatory therapy sessions, in their taxpayer-funded, EHS bottom-of-the-barrel manner, with
Doctor Jennifer Hopkins whom, Shani had wryly noted, shared a surname with that actor from The Silence
Of The Lambs. Associate of psychopaths indeed.
But the novelty of the name had worn off just a tad in the last nine years as the quiet, slim, reserved
eighteen year old had transformed into the silent, dumpy, withdrawn young woman for whom the best years
of her life - both socially and professionally, had prematurely abandoned her.
Time had shed itself from her, over and over again, peeled back like layers of skin. Something ugly and
unthinkable undoubtedly lay at the heart of it all. Predictably, Doctor Hopkins, PhD, who lived in a beautiful
house in a lovely town, still looked the fucking same. Perhaps she only survived on her shitty white tea.
The good doctor was, as usual, more preoccupied with her notepad than Shani herself, peering down
through thick, unflattering spectacles.
She paused from her writing only to look up every so often, presumably, Shani thought, to check that her
patient hadn't slit her wrists or leapt out of the window, just to try and make conversation.
"How many entries have you made in your thought journal, Shani?" Hopkins enquired, wrinkled mouth
and browning teeth munching absent-minded, on an HB pencil.
Shani swallowed.
The book lay abandoned, unloved as usual though she was sure Hopkins knew that, discarded in the
depths of her rucksack. She was meant to express all her feelings outwardly, log any particularly strong
emotions in the course of her day, with the time and date that they had materialised.
"None."
The response from Hopkins was professionally irritated, of course, a raise of the eyebrows, and a shake
of the head.
"Shani, the journal is meant to help you."
"I'm sorry. I just have so little time, with the new work placement and all."
Hopkins looked like she was ready to challenge Shani's lame excuse further, but the reassuring, dull
neutrality of low-risk criminal psychotherapy kicked in.
"Very well. I understand work is very time-consuming, but do try to use your spare time wherever you
can."
"Yes, I will."
"If you can, of course", Hopkins added hastily, layering on the same soft reassurances that Shani loathed.
She wanted Hopkins to raise her voice, scream even - show something other than the mildest of
disappointments. Nine years and counting. No breakdowns yet. Shani supposed the good doctor wasn't
destined to start handling any high profile cases anytime soon. Imagine how she'd deal with a serial killer.
Try not to abduct any young women before our next session. If you can, of course.
Hopkins pulled her out of the daydream.
"How are you using your spare time, Shani? It's been a while since we last spoke about that. Remember it
was one of your five-"
 Five areas of fucking improvement. Shani had yet to get a handle on one, in the year or so since this latest
task had started. It was the most recent instalment in a long line of unfinished challenges, to do's and
checklists.
Did Hopkins just get her exercises from back catalogues of Psychology Weekly? Shani liked to think
sometimes that Hopkins had made her the pet project, the greatest obstacle in her career. To crack the
biggest mystery of the universe- the mind of Shani Smith. That would be her crowning glory.
She knew better of course. There would be other patients under her care, exciting, violent, manipulative
and all more challenging than her, requiring more from the security staff outside the door other than the
cursory nod and wave on entry and departure.
Some people got to know their shopkeepers or their barmen; Shani was all about the orderlies at her local
EHS Mental Health Clinic.
No, Shani was not on Hopkins’ radar, not really.
She was not the exciting sort of patient that she imagined Hopkins might break her Hippocratic oath over
to brag about, after a few glasses of wine at one of the depressingly middle-class dinner parties that Shani
could only imagine she attended. She was unremarkable, even among a canon of mental health patients. In
fact, Hopkins probably thought of her as a rather boring blip.
Her hand- She turned over her palm. The old burn mark was hot, itchy. Strange. She scratched it absent-
mindedly. Usually, it gave her no trouble. None at all.
The law said they had to meet and meet they did, ever since Shani had become a legal adult, and the
foster care system had gladly taken her off its books.
She'd only had one foster family before Aberdeen, a white family, a dad and two older siblings who had
been kind. Caring, not like the biological drug addicts she'd been taken from. Though she couldn't remember
much about anyone. She'd been very young.
Funny, she barely thought about them but today-
She scratched her palm again.
Hopkins sipped her tea, still not looking up from her notes. Trying to feign interest. Another patient
might have taken that cup and smashed it, held it up to that wrinkly old throat.
Shani's fists balled, heart pounding.
The shame came, prickling, rising through her, rage subsiding, hands returning to her lap, moment gone
as quickly as it had arrived. Stupid, stupid thoughts. If Hopkins had noticed, she did not react, instead
gesturing at Shani's mug.
"Would you like another tea?"
There was a high squeal from the corridor outside, faint in the distance. Some patient shrieking about
their demons. Shani smiled, shaking her head. Hopkins' hand lingered, disappointed at the lost excuse to
refill her own cup.
"OK then. Well, you must have made some progress in three weeks. What's happening with personal
relationships? Friends? Do you remember what we talked about?"
"Uhh-"
Shani paused. She scrambled for something other than the usual disappointments. And Benny. Hopkins
couldn't know about Benny.
"There's a new girl in the office. She's having a housewarming party, and she asked me to come."
A lie of course. Shani hadn't been asked per se; the whole office had been promptly invited after the
morning briefing when some joker had slipped details of the Facebook event into the minutes email.
"Good. That's progress. And how are Peter and Katie?"
Shani felt less tense.
"They're fine."
 Shani's flat mates were the same as ever - friendly, a laugh at times but completely mystified by her.
Hopkins pushed up her glasses.
"You said you were hoping to go with them to the cinema. Did that happen?"
It had been talked about, of course, dates and times thrown about whenever they chatted, but the whole
idea had been hanging, eventually left to die. That had been two months ago.
"Yes."
"What did you see?"
Shani scrambled for the title of some fantasy action film she'd seen a poster for at the bus stop.
"Did you like it, Shani?"
"Yes."
Hopkins flashed the old, tired smile.
"Good. What made you like it?"
She scrambled for an answer.
"The story."
She had no idea what it was about.
Hopkins wrote something down in her notebook, looking up at the clock. Shani guessed she'd finished
the necessary paperwork for the day to at least make it look like she'd tried.
"Well, the session seems to be coming to a close. Is there anything else you want to talk to me about?"
"No."
"And you're still taking your medication?"
"Yes."
"And you've booked your next appointment?"
"Yes."
Possibly the most truthful thing she'd said all day.
There was that wrinkled smile again, as insincere as the faux bust of Venus that sat in the grim reception
area downstairs.
"Then I'll see you next month. Don't forget to fill in all the paperwork downstairs."
Shani did.
Then she took the bus home, ate a disappointing microwave dinner from Aldi, touched herself while
thinking of Benny as much as she tried to think of something else, caught up on Netflix and went to bed.
Rinse, repeat, and die.

"Shit....! W-wait...! St-stop!!!"

The young man tried not to look down at the streets of London, a fifteen-storey drop from which he
dangled, toes dragging down into infinity..
His brain panicked, legs flailing, willing himself to remain calm. Sweat poured from every orifice,
staining his loose shirt and bandana.
He knew that all chances of survival now lay with the large, angry Northerner, whose hand held a firm,
painful grip around his arm, holding him over the ledge, toying with him like a cat with a mouse.
The man he had just tried to kill. His dagger lay, poisoned and pointless, in the corner of the room, easily
batted aside. Useless.
 Eyes stinging, he tried to breathe, willing himself to calm, looking up, into the piercing dark eyes of the
man above, trying to speak through a broken nose and a handful of teeth. The arm protested, bones popping
in their joints as gravity beckoned, taunting.
"Look, c'mon please. Let's talk about this, OK?"
"What's to talk about? Why not enjoy the view?"
The words were cold, mocking.
"I swear, I won't tell them. You won't hear from me again, I swear-"
"You've got shit for brains, you know that? Don't think you're the first they've sent, mate."
A finger loosened. The man swallowed.
"I'm begging you here..."
"How much?"
"Wha-"
"How much do you want to live??"
"I-"
A large gust of wind bellowed through the street.
The panes rattled.
His grip slacked. He choked the tears back.
"I'm begging you!"
"Where's your associate?!"
"I don't-"
The hands loosened further, two fingers dangling between the man and oblivion.
"Don't take me for a fucking idiot. I saw you check in together."
The man was sobbing now, his speech thick with heaving breaths.
"OK! OK! Third floor. He's..he's waiting for me."
"What room?"
"341. The keys..key's in my jacket."
The free hand slid nimbly into the assassin's jacket breast pocket, returning with a key card clenched
firmly between two fingers.
"That's all I needed to know."
"Please-"
"I said that's all I needed."
"NO!"
"Cheers."
The man dropped his would-be assassin, dashing his brains on the pavement below. No coming back for
that one, not from that height - not even for once such as him. A shame it had to have ended the way it did.
But in the world of the Eaolin, it was kill or be killed. Turning quickly away from the ledge, he made his
way back towards the balcony door.
Five minutes later, the concierge saw a man in a dark coat leave the lobby, turn the corner and disappear
into the hubbub of London, a massive guitar case at his side. No not a guitar. What was it called..a cello?
Double bass? Something like that.
He barely gave him a second glance.
Thickset, tall, but gone to seed, a beer gut lurking beneath a grungy shirt, mass of thinning long, sandy
blonde hair, retreating up a high forehead, crowning a broken nose. With the case in hand and the clothes to
boot, he could have been any of the plethora of washed up rock musicians who so paradoxically seemed to
inhabit their esteemed establishment of marble floors, old oak and Baroque paintings.
 He did not give the man another thought, far too preoccupied with the shouts and screams from the street
outside, the flash of lights and sirens. Another bloody jumper. Drugs, that was the problem. Made you do
crazy things.
An hour later, a maid found their other dead guest, bathed in fear and scarlet.
 CHAPTER TWO

IN ANOTHER WORLD

The Disciple called Crow had always despised these missions of Lord Father's. Not that they could even
be called such.
There was only one true mission that the Disciples served. That was coming. This, this was a distraction.
No, a demonstration.
Tempers were high as the news of Tha'en's death reached the Old Keep and the territories around it. The
war might have been declared over less than two days earlier, but as the five Disciples rode their horses
across the scorched meadow, Crow could see it, painted over everything, staining the land.
Wolff and Emese galloped past him, close as ever; he cursed inwardly, wanting to pull forward. They
were inseparable. He'd always been jealous of that. But leaving Bezek behind, the slowest in wits and body
of the five, would be bad news.
Malkyn, leading the pack, dug her heels into her mare, light hair whipping behind her. It was no friend to
her face, with the customary scars and disfigurations that had earned the Disciples the moniker of the
Burned Children.
Crow was always grateful for his faces. Malkyn's thin, wispy hair was a sickly, straw colour that clung to
her red-skinned skull, square jaw pulled into a look of displeasure.
She turned, yelling back at her brothers and sister.
"Speed up! We cannot lose them!"
By them, she meant the bandits.
The war had brought disarray in its path. Opportunities for theft and murder. Crow viewed combatting
these as the work of soldiers, not Lord Father's elite guard.
But with General Gyre and most of the armies stationed down South of the Yhaer at the front, defence of
the lands around the Old Keep fell to them. They had cornered them on the road, but they had turned round
and fled on horseback. And the Disciples had followed.
He reached out, sensing the seven Auras, tinged with fear, retreating from them, speeding through the
forest. Still on their horses.
The five blazed past a village, sullen starved faces glaring back at them, children with distended
stomachs standing vacantly, staring at the white cloaks and the scarred faces under them as they galloped
past.
Well, all scarred save for his own. Crow had no need to show his burns. He had chosen a plain face
today. Easily forgettable, a bland, thin mouth, high forehead and short black hair.
Crow glanced back at the village children, one pair yanked inside by the bony arms of their mother with a
stern cry. His skin crawled. The Rebellion had damaged their trade routes. Spies had put crops to the torch.
Tha'en wanted to take as many people as he could, through blade or famine. Bastard.
They reached the edge of the forest; Malkyn yanked her reigns, relishing the chase.
"We'll lose them on horseback. Use the trees."
They agreed silently, dismounting. All except Bezek, the last to ride up behind them, who sat, transfixed,
shifting his enormous weight from side to side. Lord Father had scoured the lands for the biggest steed that
could suit him; the winning candidate alone stood a head higher than the other horses, making the effect
almost comical.
Malkyn's nostrils flared, exacerbated by her lack of a nose.
“Halfwit! Off your horse, Bezek! Stupid!"
 Malkyn may have acted the leader, but Lord Father had never said who was in charge.
Crow felt prickly heat rise up his neck.
"Shut your damn mouth Malkyn, leave him be!"
"Mind your fucking tongue, pretty boy or I'll give you a face to really be ashamed of."
She drew her dagger just as he loaded an arrow into the string of his bow.
What he wouldn't give to silence that sneering bitch mouth-
Wolff and Emese were between them in an instant, blades drawn.
"Cease this", Wolff growled, pushing his finger hard against Crow's throat even as Emese gingerly placed
a hand on Malkyn's shoulder.
Malkyn did not take well to that, catching the other girl across the forearm with the edge of her blade.
"Don't FUCKING touch me, you bitch."
Emese didn't make a sound; the wound had vanished almost as instantly as it had been cast, the cut
closing itself up in a moment. She had some skill.
"Please, Malkyn, I just-"
Wolff bellowed at her.
"Touch her again Malkyn and I'll-"
"-You'll fucking what? Go to Lord Father? You seem awfully protective, Wolff - she your whore now?"
Wolff snorted.
"Fuck you."
"No, thanks. I swore an oath."
"No one'd want to fuck you anyways."
She hissed, brandishing the blade.
"I'll cut your tongue out bastard, and eat it right here."
Crow pulled himself free from Wolff's grip. Wolff. Lord Father's favourite. Always acting the hero. What
did Emese see-?
Dammit. Bezek. The giant looked close to tears at the squabble. Not good. Crow went over to him,
speaking gently.
"Hush, Bezek. None of us means it."
The big brown eyes met his gaze. Even without any hair and under all the scars, he seemed so fragile.
The eyes. Yes, that was it. He was the only one in the group who'd managed to keep both of them from the
flames.
Malkyn scoffed.
"What's the halfwit want now?"
"Hold your tongue, Malkyn. Be quiet, all of you. You're going to upset him."
The threat was softly worded but taken seriously. Wolff and Emese sheathed their blades, Malkyn
lowering her own, turning to kick at a bush in frustration.
"Tell the retard to fucking get off the horse. We're going to lose them."
Crow grimaced. Malkyn hated to be denied any opportunity to spill blood. He did as she asked, coaxing
Bezek off the humongous steed. He stammered, clumsily stumbling off, the horse retreating backwards, glad
of losing the burden, joining the others.
Those wide eyes of Bezek's were fearful. Crow knew the mood. One wrong word, or sound and things
could turn ugly.
He filled his speech with Aura, softening and soothing as best he could.
"There now. Follow me, brother."
"-C-c-c-Crow. Wh-w-w-where we go?"
"Follow me. No questions now."
 Crow knew Bezek best, knew how he had to be treated. If he was allowed, then he might have called him
a friend. Though not the same friend he had once known. Wolff gestured at the forest.
"Trees?"
Malkyn nodded wordlessly; Crow felt the Aura flare about her feet as she leapt high into the branches of
a tall oak, calling down at them.
"Get up here! The only way we'll catch them. Horses in this forest, big mistake."
She'd lost her temper, and now she was trying to find it again. Crow sighed. This was why he hated these
missions. It was always best to avoid the company of his fellow Disciples altogether, except when
necessary.
They all followed her example, springing up into the treetops, letting their Aura govern their movements,
swinging, leaping from branch to branch.
Bezek lagged behind, more cautious. Emese stayed close by, holding back, a watchful eye on him. She
was too kind for this life.
They kept on pushing through the forest, cutting down the leaves and branches to the side as they ran,
following the Auras. The bandits hadn't tried to shield themselves. Perhaps they were tired. Making
mistakes.
Near now. Very close - yes, they were below, Crow sensed they hadn't left their horses.
Deadly mistake, this forest was too dense.
They'd slowed them down-
"HOLD!"
He obliged, heaving himself onto a thick branch.
The others stopped too, perched around, scanning for the voice.
Bezek teetered precariously between two groaning branches. Emese's face was ashen. So, she was the
one who had shouted.
"Hold. Something's wrong. Can't you feel it-”?
She was the most sensitive of them all to Aura, and her warnings didn't go unheeded. Bezek focused and
sensed it. They all did. More Auras. Far more of them, concealing themselves.
All around them, behind the rocks and trees on the forest floor. They'd been following those seven like
moths to a flame and hadn't noticed-
"FOR THA'EN! KILL THE BURNED FREAKS!"
Crow cursed, drawing his bow and leaping off the tree branch. He needed the distance, but the first one
saw him, jumping after him through the ceiling of branches into the open sky, hoping to catch him in the air.
The attacker leered through red eyes, rotted teeth and a bearded, flabby face, the short sword he pulled
from his side a blur of silver. Crow let loose the arrow, but too late, the sword carved it in two, coming back
around to catch him-
But Wolff was faster, fucking Wolff, with that smug look on his face, blocking the blow, silencing the
man with a swift carve across the chest, blood on the treetops. The body slid back out of view, with a wet
thump as it hit the soft earth below.
Crow tried to get a grip on his surroundings, reading the Auras, peering between the gaps in the leaves
and twigs. They were all swarming around them, reluctant to rise up and attack, goading each other on with
battle cries. The Disciples were more than happy to fight back, Malkyn was screaming with bloodlust, Crow
caught a glimpse of her dagger at work, another attacker shouting as she carved flesh and bone below them.
Of course, Wolff took command.
"Don't let your guard down! MOVE TO THE FLOOR!"
"Bezek!” Crow called urgently as he leapt down, he caught a glimpse of the hulking figure amid the
trees, hands bloodied. “Here, come here!"
 They met the ground, bringing themselves together, seeking each other out as they had practiced so many
times. Crow understood why Wolff had brought them back to the ground, where they could see their
attackers easier from below the trees.
The long hours of drills kicked in; they landed their first formation as they had practiced. Even Bezek,
finally this was something he could do without question or Malkyn's scorn. The giant took the rear, shielding
them from the back, Emese in the centre, ready to tend the wounded, Crow next to her, bow prepared and
Malkyn and Wolff at the front, blades out. As one, as practiced.
They carved out the space of the forest, more attackers falling, pushed back warily into the cramped
confines. Scanned with their eyes and Aura, breathing, whispering their counts to each other. They were
coming to a consensus; Crow made fifty..six.. fifty..seven. Ambush. Redcloaks, almost certainly. Stragglers.
Deserters from the last battle perhaps.
Well, perhaps this wasn't set to be as uneventful as he'd thought-
One broke cover from behind a large tree with a hearty roar, mop of golden hair and an axe raised. Idiot.
He fired, felt a stab of satisfaction as the gold turned red, the man staggered, clutching at the shaft where his
right eye had once been, crashing against the bark. Bravado, lost forever.
The Rebels were circling again, using the woods as cover. Wolff pursued them, breaking the formation,
blocking their blows as they retreated in fear; he forced forward, drawing more blood. Malkyn was laughing,
that high, mocking screech, she drew her dagger across the throats of two, spinning away, a dance of death.
They didn't even have to bring out the tough stuff here. These were the leftovers, the grunts and amateurs
with blades and a misplaced sense of valour. No one to lead them. Easy prey.
Bezek had two of them by the head, broad hands carrying them effortlessly, smashing their skulls
together until they cracked, and the screaming stopped.
Crow let loose some more arrows at the retreating ones before cursing as his hand grasped air from his
quiver. Not enough for this many. Wolff saw him pause.
"Crow! Get in there and root them out!"
Crow wanted to argue but thought better of it. Much as he hated to admit, he liked the idea of putting his
skills to work. Lord Father would praise him. He chose a face, one of the corpses whose death might have
been missed by his comrades. Short, wiry stature. A hooked nose, thick eyebrows. Small mole on the right
cheek.
Crow had an eye for detail; it was what made him such a crack shot and what made him so good at the
skinchanging Lord Father had taught him. He held the man's face in his mind and channelled the thought
with his Aura across his own features.
The skin rippled, grew hot, steam rising, he brought the face to the surface, bones popping painfully, new
hairs pushing their way through, itching his forehead. Perfect. It took a few moments for him to fasten on his
new face's scarlet cloak, the red colours of the Rebellion, shielded by Bezek and Wolff from the view of
their enemies.
With a terse nod at Wolff, he ran forward past them, making his way through the undergrowth. In thirty
steps, he met the first one, a pair of eyes from under a bush, fear turning to relief, pulling himself out from
cover. Young, redheaded freckled man, the same red crest of the rebellion on his cloak.
"Thank One! Draolm, I thought-"
Crow beckoned, leaning in as if to whisper something.
 The man took a step forward, inquisitive, creeping, cautious. Crow could count the freckles. When he got
close enough, he whipped the knife from his sleeve and dragged it from one freckled ear to the other. The
man didn't even have time to look shocked, head flopping backwards onto Crow's shoulder, burbling under
his palm as Crow clamped a red hand over the mouth to stem any sound, stowing him in his last moments
back under the bush. He took the man's face a few seconds later, counting the freckles on his arms, before
pushing on ahead.
More of them, crouching in a ditch to the side, eyes frantic, looking for the Disciples. The man in the
centre, bald, heavyset and unshaven growled at him.
"Get back to the fucking position."
Guess he thought he was in charge. Crow swallowed. He couldn't do voices or conversation in general.
Disciples were not taught the niceties of small talk. The man's eyes narrowed.
"What the fuck did I just say?"
Crow went for the blade, but the man was faster, a hasty hand axe glancing his side. Roaring through the
pain, Crow span on the back foot, putting the momentum into the knife throw, silencing the bastard.
"SKINCHANGER!"
But not his associates, the cry went up before Crow could reach them, they drew their blades, taking
advantage of his disorientation, he felt the axe wound spilling onto his shoes, warm and wet.
"Disciple scum!"
"Crow! Fall back! BEZEK STOP IT!"
Wolff, screaming at him from behind the trees. Scared.
He understood, sidestepping the men as best he could, throwing himself up into the tree behind him as
the first impact roared across the forest.
Bezek was angry. Crow kicked himself. He'd let his pain from the axe blow show in his Aura, let Bezek
sense it. Worried him. Bad mistake.
The tree started to shake, swaying, uprooted. Bezek was getting started; Crow looked for a safe place to
fling himself to-
Was briefly aware of the tree falling before the rest of the world went with it. Heard Bezek, bawling like
an infant.
"CROW!"
The ground was writhing, rippling, soil making waves across the forest floor, as the shaking threw the
men surrounding him to their feet, shrieking.
None of them could move, pinned in place by the force, the earth falling away into an abyss, swallowing
them up, cries as the ground started to consume them.
Bezek was ripping the world apart trying to find him.
He didn't know his own strength-
More trees were falling. Crow leapt and dodged, heart pounding, trying to find his foothold, scrambling
from top to top as the branches behind him toppled into the large crater that was ripping itself into existence
in the heart of the woods behind him.
He had to make it clear. The birds were whirling, screaming as they flapped high into the air into safety.
Crow saw the Rebels clawing, wordless fear as the sea of dirt and trees consumed them, trying to keep their
heads above the onslaught, before submerging, attempts to pull themselves free thwarted.
More great thuds just paces from him as Bezek's blows blasted the land away, Wolff yelling at him to
stop over the roar of the earthquake.
"ENOUGH! BEZEK, YOU'LL KILL US ALL!"
Bezek was in tears, voice petulant. This was a tantrum, and you couldn't stop a tantrum by shouting.
Crow didn't need to be a genius to know that.
 "NO- CROW - CROW! CROW!"
With a final leap, Crow found solid ground and ran in their direction, fighting the shock waves,
determined to stay on his feet.
Stupid, stupid Wolff. He didn't know how to treat Bezek, not at all-
A tree branch struck him across the face, pulled down next to him, throwing him several paces back and
drawing blood.
He'd lost so much already, he gritted his teeth, hands pulling him forward through the stream of the earth.
Needed to get to Emese. She could heal these wounds.
He was staying on top, but for how long was anyone's guess. There were great cracks splitting open
through the ground under his feet.
He could sense the Disciples retreating, caught in the centre of Bezek's rage and strength. Crow honed in
on Bezek as he tried to find them through the trees, touching his mind with his Aura and felt a chill in his
stomach. So much white rage.
A movement in the corner of his eye. One of the escaping Rebels made a clumsy lunge at him in all the
chaos, dagger raised. But before he could get close to Crow, with an agonising scream, he was thrown to the
side by a massive tree trunk, disappeared from view with a red flash, crushed underneath, Aura dissipating.
Crow shook his head, trying to focus.
Had to stay calm. He could feel their enemies’ Auras extinguishing around him, the falling trees and
crumbling earth taking them to their graves. Bezek was getting more het-up, trying to level the forest to find
him.
"CROW - WHERE YOU CROW?"
There were great groans as more old trees uprooted themselves, falling, adding to the landslide. He had to
keep moving. Couldn't stay still, being crushed was looking increasingly likely-
Crow tried to call back, but the roar of the crumbling earth and the trees as they fell made it impossible
for the words to leave his throat. Found their Auras in the maze of falling trees. Ran. As fast as he could.
Yes!
He caught a glimpse of Bezek's massive frame amid the chaos, Wolff and Emese trying to restrain him,
even as Malkyn screamed at them, holding off the last few of the Rebels.
Crow felt the ground cease shaking beneath his feet, felt the pull of the abyss behind him quell.
The trees swayed dangerously, but did not fall. Bezek’s strength was beginning to fail him. Crow ran to
the Disciples, opening one of the Rebel's throats while his back was turned with the edge of the dagger in his
earthy grip. They were surrounding Bezek, screaming at him to stop, trying to calm him.
"Bezek! Brother! Listen to me!"
Anger turned to delight. The giant stopped pounding the forest floor with his bloodied, dirtied fists, the
monstrous rage in his Aura evaporating.
"CROW!"
"Stop Brother! Stop!"
The beefy hands were so bloodied from kneading the earth with those powerful strikes; the giant hadn't
noticed in all his rage and tears. Crow had his hands up, welcoming.
"Brother. Time to sleep now. Time to rest."
He brought his hand across his face slowly, the big eyes watching them as he brought them back and
forth, slowly swaying.
"Crow look out!"
He didn't budge, letting Wolff deal with the man with the axe behind him who howled as Wolff cleaved
off his hands before his head parted his shoulders, and he held his tongue forever. Bezek didn't notice, still
transfixed. His eyelids were starting to droop-
 "Yes. Sleep, Brother. Sleep."
With a small, squeaking yawn like a kitten, the Disciples fell to the ground in a crumpled, white heap
with a dull thud. Crow toppled backwards from the impact, falling on his arse. He breathed a sigh of relief
and pulled himself to his feet, scanning.
Just the Aura of the Disciples was left in the air. Fifty-seven less than five minutes ago. If he wasn't so
exhausted, he might have felt a sense of pride. This could be their personal best.
He looked at the carnage all around him. Bezek's strength. He felt sick. A good chunk of the world
around them had simply toppled in on itself, a miniature canyon filled with earth and torn trees and
branches, with the occasional body of some Rebel visible in the mix.
All of it had started a few feet away from the sleeping Disciple, branching outwards in all directions, a
shockwave of destruction.
His blood ran colder. Bezek was strong yes, but this...this was impossible. Lord Father..what in One’s
name had he taught him? He had all given them all their individual gifts through learning. Crow had the
skinchanging. Emese the Ilenir, her healing.
But Bezek..such power for one such as him? He felt the unease of his fellow Disciples though they knew
better than to say anything. Malkyn and Wolff were sprayed with red, wiping their blades best they could
with the leaves and branches they could find. Emese, flecked and slightly shaken, made her way over, light
steps, lighter hands brushing the cut across Crow's side, where the axe had glanced it.
"Crow, hold still."
The touch became hot, and the pain was gone. The wound too. Wolff looked at him.
"Fix your face. We need to get back soon; we could draw attention."
Crow snorted.
"Yeah. Not much chance of that is there?"
Of course, he still had the freckles and ginger hair, he cast it off, relishing as his features waxed and
shifted back to his face for the day. The face of victory.
Bezek was fast asleep, curled up and snoring about the bodies that hadn't succumbed to his depths of the
land around them. He deserved a rest. Yes, you certainly didn't want to piss off Bezek. A lot of Rebels and
plenty more trees had died today to prove that point.
They let him sleep for fifteen more minutes before calling their horses for the journey back to the Old
Keep. Lord Father would be pleased, Crow knew. It wasn’t often that the Disciples were sent outside the
Old Keep, let alone for something trivial like this. The army could easily have routed the Redcloaks.
Crow knew. This was all a test. The real mission, the mission they'd spent their lives preparing for. The
reason of their burning - it was coming. Had to be. He took a side-glance at Wolff, looking straight ahead as
they galloped through the plains. He'd been even more eager to take control than usual. Perhaps he knew
already. He was always Lord Father's favourite. Perhaps he’d been whispering in his ear.
As they started past the hills, Crow thought he heard something. Felt someone. Another Aura..but weak.
Watching them. He reached out to touch it, and it vanished.
It was strange. Uncertain. Mindless. And gone so quickly. He caught a glimpse at Emese. Her head was
perked up, scanning. She'd felt it too. He rode over to her, pulling alongside.
"..Did you feel..?"
"Yes. It was watching us-”

IN HER WORLD
 BRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGG!!
BRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGG!!

IN ANOTHER WORLD

"There it is again!"

IN HER WORLD

BRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGG!!
Shani sat bolt upright and examined herself. She was still here; all body parts accounted for. She shook
from head to toe as she grabbed her hands, checking to make sure she was still whole.
She'd been somewhere else again. Somewhere else entirely. Strange names. Faces she had already
forgotten.
It was just a dream. Just a stupid dream, that was all. She reached over for the alarm on her phone,
wailing incessantly next to her. Her mouth was dry.
Tuesday morning. Time for work.
 CHAPTER THREE

It was a gloomy Tuesday morning. Mid-October, the kind of day that always passed you by, the ones you
didn't look back on. Grey clouds lurked away ominously in the distance, the shouts of the market sellers and
the other noises that seemed to make up the unintelligible drone of Bournemouth just after rush hour.
Shani yawned, gazing at the vindictively tasteless polka-dot clock that hung on the drab, lifeless walls of
the offices of Simmons Glaziers Ltd. The EHS-approved work placement, the third month in. At twenty-
eight, she still needed a psychologists letter and a government grant to get a job. One strike left on her
disciplinary record.
Running her fingers through her brownish, mousy curled hair, she counted the seconds down impatiently.
Nine in the morning. Ten hours to go, if you chalked up the inevitably dull lunch break that promised at least
some relief from the even greater monotony of finances.
She'd included the extra hour she'd inevitably have to work to get everything done. The arse-numbing,
brain-killing minutes would all start to add up, she promised herself.
Then, finally it would come - the journey home back to the overpriced flat in Winton, the sweet embrace
of television, video games, Facebook and cheap food and, perhaps worst of all, the sleep that would only
lead on to another unremarkable day.
Turning away from the office window, Shani tried to look busy in front of her co-workers, sipping the
steaming mug of coffee guardedly, scrolling up and down the computer screen inanely.
The coffee tasted of boiling water and milk, tongue prickling with the searing heat.
There would be money soon - once the paycheque materialised at the end of the month, she'd be able to
pay the rent and afford more than just multi-packs of crisps. Yes. Soon.
Shani bit her lip and began to type up some sales figures from the previous day. The work was just as
tedious as the atmosphere in the office, if not worse, sums, spreadsheets and receipts that made her head
ache.
Four minutes were gone. She continued to copy up the reports. Stared at the clock and tried to force it
with her mind to jump forward five minutes. The hand remained firmly in place.
"Working hard are we, Shani?"
Shani felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and turned around nervously, to the broad, unsmiling face of
Keith Simmons, the head of the company. She looked around and caught a glimpse of the other employees
bowing their heads, frantically trying to look busy.
Simmons was a dictator within the office, and everyone seemed intimidated by him. He was like the
strictest teacher at a school, radiating an unspoken sense of immovable authority. Shani swallowed and
looked down at the desk.
"Yes, Mr. Simmons", she said, trying not to mumble, “I'm just going to finish typing up these reports
then.."
"-Actually Shani..” Simmons said, his face breaking into a terrifying grin across his quadruple chins that
Shani knew equalled trouble, "..I'd like a word with you in my office."
His eyes wandered over her chest.
"Now, please."
Shani swallowed, nodded slowly and stood up from the desk, trailing Simmons's waddle past the other
employees into the cramped room. As she moved to close the door behind her, Shani saw them staring back.
She shut the door behind her and turned around to face Simmons, who had eased himself behind his desk,
bulky frame hunched over - Shani saw with a surge of panic- a copy of the CV and personal statement she'd
applied for the placement with. Shani waited with bated breath, trying to stay calm.
 Simmons' chubby fingers began to pick through the slim, three-page document, as he barely attempted to
hide the look of derision that spread across his blotchy, red bloated face.
"Ah! Here we are. Hard working..punctual..diligent and enthusiastic...well, Shani - it's been nearly three
months, and I have yet to see you demonstrate even one of these characteristics. Is it your policy to lie on
your CV?"
Shani felt her face flush with silent fury, looking around the office tensely trying to avoid Simmons's
gaze. Though it was hardly at eye level, still preoccupied with her body from the neck down.
From a framed picture on the side, Simmons' equally portly wife and child leered at her with their small
piggy eyes. She looked down at the floor, trying to shield herself from his fixed gaze.
"I am trying,” she muttered, trying to keep her voice level, "It's just that I wasn't given much time to learn
how the system works around here."
"Ah," said Simmons and his eyebrows rose high on his forehead, shifting the rolls of fat around his brow,
like Moses parting the Red Sea.
"That doesn't seem to corroborate your description as..what was it-"
He examined the paper once more.
"-Quick to learn." So you feel that it's our obligation to continuously hold your hand when you are at the
office?"
Shani wanted to shove him through one of their patented Heatstor™ panes. She fixed her eyes on her
feet. Just kept them on the shoes. There was a slight scuff on her left shoe, how on earth had it got there?
"It doesn't end there, Miss Smith", Simmons seethed through gritted teeth, "Would you mind explaining
to me exactly why you were late for work yesterday - do you somehow believe that I am paying you to
waste my time? That's very small minded of you. And the EHS' time? You know, we've tried to be very
accommodating to you here."
His eyes bulged out at Shani, who shuddered inwardly.
"It won't happen again" she wearied, “It’s just because the bus from Winton takes ages and-"
"I don't want to hear your excuses. Do you know how lucky you are to have this job?" Simmons snarled.
It wasn't a job, Shani wanted to correct him. It was an eight-month work placement with a view to
extend. And that view was looking very dark. She nodded.
"You've got two days to buck your ideas up, or I'm going to come down very hard on you. Do you
understand?"
She quickly assumed a mournful demeanour. There was a pause.
"Now get back to work and don't let me see you wasting company time again."
He looked back down at his papers and a stony silence filled the room. The meeting was over. Shani rose
from the chair and walked out of the door, trying and failing to let her bitter anger show. The other
employees all avoided her glare as she strode back to the desk. He was an utter twat; she thought to herself -
so she had a small mind, did she?
Stupid fucking old fat bastard. She knew what this was about. Known since Day One. Her skin wasn't the
rosy white of the other office girls, just a brown, speckled tan. She had a flat nose, a dumpy frame, a fat arse
and her hair was a mess. Big boobs, though, he'd been looking at those the whole time. Almost mournfully.
She wasn't pretty enough to get an interview; she was there on an EHS work programme authorised by
the higher-ups. People he couldn't vet. So he couldn't jack off to sweet thoughts of her in his spare time
when his ugly wife wasn't home, because Shani wasn't some skinny white girl who was happy to giggle at
him when he made a joke at the photocopier.
So obviously, she had to go. And it was only a matter of time. No strikes left. Every excuse he could get.
He could go fuck himself.
 All of them could. She sat down and got back to the notes. It was quarter past nine. Just under ten hours
to go.

The glow of the street lamps bathed the unremarkable exterior of 43-47 Knox Street, Both State, Dutch
Kingdom of America, in a sickly orange shade. The rush hour had been and gone, road largely deserted,
spare the occasional delivery lorry or late-night office jockeys on their way to salvage what remained of
their evening.
The area was home to a large series of industrial buildings and some smaller business outlooks, the
offices for some small-time solicitors, a gravel extraction site and an old bike shop. They made up just a
handful of the companies working in the area. Only a few residential buildings round on one corner and a
kebab joint round the other, plus a run-down play park across the street.
You certainly wouldn't suspect that the building on the end of the road contained anything less ordinary
than the rest of the city. At least, nothing less Human. Which, Yarnaeth thought to himself, was precisely the
point. He was of medium height, with a stocky build and light, silvery grey hair that he kept short, cropped
and sensible around his weathered face.
He pulled at the cuffs of his dishevelled suit. He resented fuss and despised interruptions, which was why
he was less than in the best of moods, having just weathered a four-hour cross-country flight from his home
in NAC. All this for a few lousy hours meeting with his kind. But tradition said they would meet, so meet
they did. A chill was in the air though Yarnaeth, even in his thin work suit, chose to ignore it.
The sky above was threatening to burst at any moment, overcast with dark, angry clouds. Ready to piss
all over him. He jabbed at the electric buzzer on the doorstep of the old office block.
"It's Yarnaeth. Open the door already."
He spoke in hushed tones, knowing that any passer-by might be curious at hearing an American, white
male losing his temper at an abandoned office complex in a foreign language.
Hysteria and paranoia certainly weren't in short supply at the moment and Yarnaeth- particularly in his
line of work - didn't need any undue attention. The speaker crackled to life in a buzz of static next to him, a
man's voice, reedy, old.
"Who is Yarnaeth?"
Yarnaeth sighed inwardly, reciting back the words as he had a thousand times before in his best Iirebos,
the Old Tongue.
"I am nameless in His embrace, but a servant of the Chosen, Lord Father, protector of our people. Alone,
I am no one, but with the blessing of the Lord Father Aleron, my Chosen Child, I am whole. I, a subject,
seek entry."
There was a pause before the speaker blared again.
"It is granted. Enter, Yarnaeth, of the worthy few."
"About fucking time you senile old fart", Yarnaeth muttered under his breath, but he kept his irritation in
check as he heard the whir of the door mechanism. He made his way down the dilapidated corridor, where
the lift was waiting.
Rituals and rites were all well and good, but he would have gladly scrapped them when they kept him
lurking about on a godforsaken Bothe State street for thirty minutes.
It felt like an age. The elevator was old and barely functional, Yarnaeth would have bet a month's salary
on it being around fifty years old at least. Now and then, it would grind to a halt, and he would have to
reassure himself that he would not be trapped underground for all eternity in the damned pit.
 Eventually, with the last shuddering scream of un-oiled gears, the elevator reached the bottom. The door
mechanism would not budge, so Yarnaeth merely kicked straight through it, the rusty metal shattering upon
impact with his tailored shoes. Sometimes he forgot his strength couldn’t always be accommodated by the
Humans. Though this old place was falling to pieces, what did he care?
He exited the cramped lift, into the dingy, concrete briefing room, illuminated by a pale row of
yellowing, flickering light bulbs that threatened to shatter and die at any moment.
Yarnaeth already knew he was the last one they were all waiting for, he had counted all of his associates
on the way down, sensed their impatience. A meeting like this happened rarely. There were untold dangers
in bringing so many Eaolin together under one roof like this.
Yarnaeth was unarmed, but he doubted many more would be. They all trusted each other about as much
as they trusted the Humans. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to make out their faces.
There was old Houten, the voice at the door, nearing the end of his days and presumably no more
interested in attending this meeting than Yarnaeth, coughing fitfully into a sodden handkerchief. Behind was
Keres, a beautiful woman with an ugly past and more unpleasant expression. Besides her, Edel, the
namesake of a legendary Eaolin warrior, now a millionaire Human banker and looking rather plump of late.
Next to him, an English politician whose name Yarnaeth could not recall and did not care to. Across from
him was Daem.
Yarnaeth hated him most of all within the room. The ruddy, fat cheeks, dark curly hair and vacant smile
on his squat face were fooling no one. When they had arrived in this world, it was Daem, or rather his
'Human' persona, Rufus King, who had ingratiated himself so comfortably into its dark underbelly. He'd
united with a band of equally reprehensible criminals who had followed him, exiles from the Homeworld.
The smiling murderer. There was more blood on his hands, Eaolin and Human combined, than anyone
else in the room cared to know about. He had a disdain for Humans and an even greater hatred of life away
from the Homeworld. There were rumours, little more, that he killed Humans for sport.
The Eaolin had all positioned themselves into the ranks of this world’s society, but none had the
reputation for abusing their powers as much as he. Perhaps sensing this dissection of his character, Daem
threw a half glance in his direction. Yarnaeth swallowed a shudder, choosing to look around the rest of the
room. Some more old faces. Some new. And at the head of the table-
"You're late.” said Festen curtly.
Yarnaeth brushed off the remark.
"I apologise. I was outside for a while ringing the bell."
He looked at Festen for approval but found nothing. No surprises there. An almost impossibly thin man,
with spindly limbs and a head that almost seemed too big for the rest of his body, Festen was a strange
choice for the chief of this group. He looked so delicate, skin so pasty and thin, hair light, blondish-brown
strands that floated loosely to his scalp.
He certainly wasn't a portrait of power or physical strength. Yarnaeth almost believed even he could
break him over his knee like a twig. Why he had been placed in charge of the Protectorate, Yarnaeth might
not have immediately understood by looking at him alone, but he knew Festen had a shrewd, precise mind
that served him well. True, he had little in the way of a personality as such, but he was a perfect specimen of
efficiency, minute and uninspired.
Lord Father did not want anyone in charge so much as someone that could keep the Protectorate
functioning - and it was at that which Festen excelled in. Leadership without charisma. The Humans called it
‘management.' Yarnaeth often compared Festen to the computers of the Humans, cold and uninteresting, but
concise.
 "Your apology is accepted", Festen stated bluntly, his eyes gazing right through him. No surprises there.
Festen had little time for point scoring or asserting his authority. "This meeting of the Protectorate I call to
order. I expect you are all aware that Lord Father demands an audience with us all."
"Does this concern the War? Are we finally to hear of the fate of the Redcloak rebels?"
Yarnaeth was surprised to hear himself speaking out of turn though he was only voicing the question that
all of them were burning to know the answer to. Festen fixed him with a dismissive stare.
"You shall learn soon enough, Yarnaeth. Lord Father has instructions for you all. He is waiting."
The aides appeared silently, hooded heads bowed beneath their black cloaks. They filed out with the red-
hot knives carried on ebony, round ceremonial trays; blade handles crafted in bone and steel, adorned with
ornate silver and gold leaves. There was no beauty in what was to come next.
Yarnaeth watched the newly heated metal cool, orange glow fading in the dim light. Festen waved his
hand.
"Now, let us-"
"- Before we begin with all the ceremonials, Master Festen, I also have some questions."
Yarnaeth didn't miss the pleasure in Daem's girlish, mocking tone, enjoying the insubordination. Festen
glared back at him.
"Lord Father is waiting. We must start the Diwoeth".
"Be sure, I shall not take up too much of your time, nor that of my fellow Protectorate members. The
Diwoeth can start soon I am certain. What I would like to know is - what is the current nature of the..ah..how
shall we call it..Godfrey situation?
The other members of the Protectorate bristled uncomfortably in their seats at the topic, but Festen was
unflustered by the question, fixing Daem with a cold stare.
"As we agreed, some of the best we have were sent out to deal with the blood traitor taking the Human
name of ‘Marcus Godfrey’."
"And?"
"We haven't received much information. Several of our men confronted Godfrey and were killed. Two of
those assigned had traced him to a hotel in London."
There was a tense silence in the room. Festen gestured to the aides. Was that a hint of nervousness that
Yarnaeth saw?
"Now, we must begin-"
"Just one moment."
Daem stopped the man's voice dead in its tracks yet again, leaning forward in his chair. Yarnaeth tried to
hide his disdain as he looked at him. Edel cleared his throat.
"Daem, I am sure Lord Father-"
"Lord Father would be very interested to know that Marcus Godfrey has escaped the Protectorate yet
again, Edel. Though I don't believe, we've even informed him of his existence. Perhaps you would like to
tell him yourself?"
Yarnaeth felt the anger flushing his neck but kept his voice steady, forcing himself to look into Daem's
violet eyes.
"What do you propose then?"
Daem smiled.
Perfect teeth, Yarnaeth noticed amusedly. How very Human of him. The arrogant prick was in control of
the room's attention now, basking in it.
"There is little doubt that Godfrey is a problem for our Protectorate. Disrupting our operations, risking
the exposure of our kind. If this blood traitor keeps trying to hunt us down, he could reveal us to the
Humans. He is a danger to our cause, reckless. With personal history against..well, some of us."
 Festen's patience was wearing thin.
"Your point, Daem?"
"I have - well how shall I say...more...capable associates ready to go after Godfrey. A bit more reliable
than the Protectorate's pettier, ah, contractors. With your approval, of course, Master Festen."
Criminals, Yarnaeth knew. Exiles, Murderers, Rapists and who knew what else, working in the name of
the Golden Throne. Those exiled out of the Homeworld in shame, allowed to continue their foul work
without the bat of an eyelid. Human lives mattered little in this room.
And he'd already sent them out, hadn't he? He could see it in the bastard's eyes. Daem never asked for
anyone's approval. But Yarnaeth kept silent. Festen waved a bony hand.
"Very well, Daem, permission is granted. If you believe your men can succeed where ours have failed,
then you are certainly more than welcome to try. Now, the blades have cooled. Lord Father is waiting, and
we must not keep him any longer."
There was a murmur of approval as the knives were lifted from the trays with a dim clatter of metal.
Yarnaeth glanced at the edge of the silvery blade, reddish glow shrunk to almost nothing.
He picked up the handle, hot in grasp, closed his eyes..
.. and opened his wrist with the blade. The pain was nothing, the action a reflex.
He lay his arm down on the table, feeling the warm trickle flowing through the specially carved canals on
the stone surface of the table.
Others were joining him; he could feel their presence as their blood mixed and weaved, spreading out
across the stone.
The Diwoeth, the bloodtalk, had begun.
They started the chant. Edel, Keres, Festen, Old Houten, the other souls around the table, Daem- they
were connected now, saying the Old Words, the dull pain in his wrist joined theirs and became nothing.
"Chosen Child, Our Lord Father Aleron, We Let You Into Our Hearts and Minds.."
His head swooped, throat straining from the weight of his voice. Yarnaeth could see himself from below,
floating above the room, amid the vast blackness, hearing the thoughts and feelings of the rest of the
Protectorate around him, like birdsong.
The room and his body below him fell further, a million miles away, a tiny dot.
The chanting continued, in their heads now, even as their bodies were silenced, slumping down in the
Human world in a state of unconsciousness.
Disconnected.
He heard Festen's voice above the murmur, filling the emptiness of the void around them.
But not his voice, not anymore, for Yarnaeth's ears, he expected, were only full of the sounds of the
briefing room. Aura was what he 'heard' now.
"Hear us, Lord Father Aleron. We, your faithful servants, your eyes and ears in this world, beseech you
to speak to us."
And He Spoke.
Yarnaeth had often heard Lord Father in the bloodtalks, but he could never prepare himself, no matter
how he tried. Each word was warmth; every sound was his Aura, light and power and flame. The hot glow
filled the vast nothing around them, warming them in the void.
"Greetings, my children. I thank you all for your audience."
"Hail Aleron!", Festen cried out. “Hail our Chosen Child. Lord Father, King of Dawn. Father of all
Eaolin."
"I thank you, Festen. Your devotion is as steadfast as ever."
Derision at Festen's grovelling amused Yarnaeth, followed by panic, silently cursing himself.
There was no knowing who could hear his thoughts and feelings in the bloodtalk. He had to be careful.
 He focused on Lord Father Aleron's voice.
"Rest assured, my children and loyal Protectorate, you shall be rewarded soon. I cannot speak long from
this world to yours, so I shall make this brief. You are all aware of a threat to the Golden Throne. The
supporters of an Usurper whose armies I have waged war with in this world, for over twenty years now. The
Redcloaks led by the blood traitor Tha'en."
There was a collective wave of discomfort about the surrounding Auras of the Protectorate, as he
continued.
"I have scattered those armies to the winds, my children. The war is over."
The shock rippled through all of them. Yarnaeth tried to focus, but everything kept pulling out of sight.
Impossible. lies. Lies, yes it had to be.
He forced himself to concentrate. There would be time for thinking later. He had a burning question of
his own.
"My Lord Father, I am Yarnaeth, your humble servant. What of Tha'en, the Redcloak leader?”
"He has fallen, along with all of his traitorous supporters. His head sits before me as we speak. It is a
piteous, dead thing. Not fit for the food of dogs, though I am sure they will be grateful for it. As fate dictates,
your Lord Father sits upon the Golden Throne unopposed. It is time for my attentions to turn towards you,
my Protectorate in that World you so loyally inhabit. The Gate shall soon open again. With the blood of
Tha'en, I have the means."
There was another, collective murmur. Yarnaeth felt himself pulled in, part of the crowd.
Festen chose to speak.
"My Lord Father. What would you have us do?"
"To ensure the success of the Protectorate's mission, I offer you all company. An army. And some
personal servants of mine."
Festen's voice paled.
"Servants, my Lord? And an...army?"
Disciples. Yarnaeth knew. So the rumours of the Burned Children were true.
"You will welcome them and offer any assistance necessary. They shall be in this World soon enough.
Have your best men sent to the Gate. They shall meet you there. And yes - they shall bring an army with
them."
There was a heavy silence, broken only once Lord Father spoke again.
"I must depart to prepare for the rituals. The Gate is formidable and requires a great deal of bloodwork.
I thank you, my most loyal children. Farewell."
And then he was gone, the great glow tarnished to dull warmth before dissipating entirely. The black
walls, cold waves collapsed to white around Yarnaeth as he came crashing back down to his body.
He sensed the discomfort in the Aura of his peers as the solid grey concrete of the briefing room swam
back into focus. The dull pain in his wrist became ever clearer. The aides got to work, circling the stone
table with hot water, bandages and bloodscrolls, working quickly to stem the bleeding. In a matter of
minutes, some colour had returned to the faces of the Protectorate members.
The deep red gash across Yarnaeth's arm confined itself to memory, scar quickly falling away, weaving
back into his skin until it was indiscernible. Yarnaeth hated the Diwoeth; the sensation of slowly dying in
one world while having orders thrown at you from another.
He breathed heavily as the other Protectorate members, having gained the rest of their composure, broke
into a cacophony of voices, each struggling to be heard above the next.
"Disciples...here in this world? Why would Lord Father send his Burned Children to us?"
"The Gate has been closed for almost two decades. How does he mean to open it now? The blood of
Tha'en? It shall not be enough, surely?"
 "He suspects us, believes we have not done enough in our work, so he sends a Disciple to watch us. We
must double our efforts."
Yarnaeth glanced at Daem. He was silent, unmoving though some of that smirking superiority had faded
from his features. He did not want a Disciple breathing down their necks any more than Yarnaeth did.
Edel slammed his hand down on the table, unable to contain his anger.
"Does Lord Father believe that sending his baby-faced monstrosities will make this process go any
faster? Our work takes time. We don't need new-named whelps dictating to us."
"I would watch that mouth of yours", Keres warned with an unruffled stare. “Rumours are, Lord Father's
Disciples are our superiors, even for their age. They are well respected."
"So is claimed in the idle chatter of the bloodtalks. Lord Father has never mentioned their presence
publicly."
Edel snorted, tapping at a speck of blood on the sleeve of his straining tailored suit.
"Could be they don't even exist. Perhaps Lord Father simply has a test of loyalty for us all. And what is
this talk of an army? Does he not know we are far from conquering anything here?"
"Well", said Daem, a mocking glint in his eyes, “this is a perfect opportunity to make progress, is it not?
Let the Disciples come, I say and bring an army with them. Lord Father's business is his own."
Looking at Daem's face, Yarnaeth realized that his fellow Protectorate member knew or at least suspected
why Lord Father would send a Disciple to this world.
Daem had more connections in the Homeworld than Yarnaeth would give him credit. Information
travelled thick and fast in the bloodtalks, no doubt Daem had his own eyes and ears.
So he knew the truth. Yarnaeth would have to keep a closer eye on him. The voices were still frenzied,
Festen calling for order. Eventually, his patience ran out, after banging his fist down one last time on the
black marble.
"SILENCE!"
Festen's voice rang shrill above the rest, thick with Aura. The conversation dropped, Protectorate's heads
stinging as the shrieking noise pulsated about their ears. Yarnaeth winced. Festen had a knack for doing that.
"Order! I must have order! The Protectorate shall welcome any envoys of Aleron to this world. Our Lord
Father's word is final! Yarnaeth, you have resources at your disposal in your current position with the
Humans, correct?"
Yarnaeth could have laughed in his face. When it came to Yarnaeth's Human resources, the Eaolin had
the best hand on the table. The American FIA was the top intelligence agency in this world, monitoring over
forty thousand channels of communication and almost as many operatives.
Yarnaeth’s Human persona, John Thomas oversaw agents across more than fifty countries, in various
stages of cover. He often wondered how they would take the news that John Thomas wasn't Human. A
fallacy, the made-up name and a clever forgery, nearly thirty years in the making. Shoot him, most probably.
To Festen, such things meant nothing, meaningless Human politics and lives, with which their kind were
not to concern themselves. He was sometimes infuriatingly Eaolin. He understood Humans very little and
was more than content to ignore them entirely, pining away for life back on the Homeworld. Yarnaeth often
wondered how he coped day-to-day, so isolated and insular, refusing to give his life there any reason.
Perhaps he never left his home between meetings, bloodtalking to the Homeworld and waiting till they
could return. Puppets didn't need an education, just that hand up their arse. He looked at the fool and
nodded.
"I do have resources, as you say, Master Festen. Your point?"
"Marcus Godfrey. He's had run-ins with you before. I trust your Human men are monitoring the
situation?"
 FIA head John Thomas had women too; Yarnaeth thought wryly, but he wasn't about to take Festen on a
course in Human gender politics.
"Marcus Godfrey remains as a listed threat with the FIA. His face is known to all the major world
intelligence agencies - KGB, SSB and the CCIS. Rest assured, there are people searching for him around the
clock."
Festen waved his hand.
"It'll do, I suppose. No Human can catch one of our kind, but at least we'll have some idea of where this
Godfrey bastard is, if they make a big enough commotion."
Yarnaeth didn't say anything, but Daem felt the need to jeer.
"Didn't Yarnaeth's Humans lose Marcus Godfrey before, Master Festen if memory serves? Are we sure
this will be any use?"
The remark was expected, and Yarnaeth shrugged it off with a cool demeanour.
"My men learned the hard way. No Human prison can hold any of our kind and I was unable to extract
him in time to answer to our own. Though at least I captured him. Albeit briefly. Can the same be said of the
same characters in your employ, Daem?"
He faded a little but was quick with a retort.
"My men won't make the same mistakes your pet Humans did, Yarnaeth. A dead enemy is always better
than a caged one, in my experience."
"I'll keep that in mind, Daem."
The bastard could make his little jibes when he could. Keres cleared her throat, ugly expression turned
more unsightly.
"As amusing as this cock measuring contest is, can we return to the point, please? Godfrey was last
spotted in London, correct? We should have all of our people on high alert around the area."
Festen didn't even look at her. Just another voice at the table.
"Your query is noted, Keres. All available are seeking him out, and Daem has offered his assistance,
which I have permitted. Consider the matter closed. Now, we really must move onto the next item on the
agenda..."

It was the early hours of the next morning once the Protectorate's meeting finished. They left silently, one
by one, filling out into the night, allowing twenty minutes between each departure so as not to raise
suspicion.
Yarnaeth was the fourth to go, hurrying out of the great depths of the elevator and the dank, musty cellars
and into the comparatively fresher air of the street outside.
As he left the area, back to the airport via the taxi, he pondered his next move. Calls needed to be made.
Lines drawn up.
Things were moving quickly. That much now was certain, now that Lord Father had suddenly announced
his plans to open the Gate. And send an army.
So, it was finally starting. Soon, the Protectorate would have a whole lot more problems to deal with than
Marcus Godfrey or their petty infiltrations. Yarnaeth laughed to himself. The war, over?
It was just beginning.
 CHAPTER FOUR

Shani's ten hours had gone by excruciatingly slowly. The day had been unremarkable as usual - an assault
of figures, telephone calls and general administration. Now that she had pissed off the boss, it seemed that
everyone was avoiding her - and with good reason. Simmons was notoriously quick to spread the blame
around people in quick succession, so they didn't want to be too closely associated, lest they caught
something. Not that she cared, of course. She just wanted to go home and sleep. Finally, six o'clock had
come.
She'd signed out, mumbled "goodbye" to the ambivalent desk clerk and practically sprinted out of the
building. She was on the bus now, looking out of the window at the slowly darkening streets, headlights of
cars, the shadowy figures of passers-by on the pavement. Shani seemed to spend her life staring out of
windows; she noted glumly, observing life - but hopelessly distant from it.
Finally, through the window of the bus, she saw the corner of her street coming up, pressed the button,
slowly making her way down the stairs and into the dark street from the warm interior of the bus.
Trudging down the pavement, under the greenish glow of the failing street lamps, she reached the front
door of her apartment block. Her key turned in the lock, after some effort - she needed to get a new one cut
off the master - and she stepped into the dark corridor, the door closing behind.
Fumbling for the light switch, she found and flipped it. The corridor was barely illuminated by the dimly
flickering bulb swinging from the ceiling. Began to climb the concrete staircase, footsteps echoing. She
could barely make out the murmur of a television set, a couple arguing, muffled lives behind the walls. Trod
on slowly up winding stairs.
As Shani reached the corner of the third floor, her heart sank, not missing the light from behind the door
window. This was the part of the climb to the flat that she hated the most - passing the apartment owned by
the building's owners.
Mrs. Brown, the landlady, had already articulated her displeasure with Shani's payments- her rent was
long overdue, although she'd explained to her that she couldn't pay until the end of the month.
Despite this, Shani had been subject to a lecture for the past two evenings. A third would be far from
appreciated.
Shani didn't like keeping her waiting, especially in this economy, but she was growing tired, sick of
having to explain her financial situation to her every week.
The last thing she needed after work was yet another tirade.
She swallowed and slowly edged her way up the stairs. Her heel creaked on the landing, the old wooden
floorboards groaning under the weight.
She paused, wracked with tension, feeling incredibly stupid. What was wrong with her - she couldn't be
frightened of her landlady? Glancing back at the door, she edged slowly around the corner. She was off the
landing now, feet on the stairs leading up to the flat. Just a few more seconds...
There was the sound of the door flying open; she spun around, trying to look innocent. Sure enough, Mrs.
Brown was stood there, thin, bony frame wrapped in a dressing gown, slippers glued to her gaunt ankles.
Already, Shani was pissed off. Eight o’clock in the evening and the woman was already ready for bed.
Was she looking at herself? Ten years down the line, some sad old slapper in a nightie?
"Is that you Shani?" said Mrs. Brown tersely, "I see you finally got back."
Shani forced a smile.
"Yeah, sorry Mrs. Brown, I was working full-time today." she beamed insincerely.
"Good to see you're earning money”, Mrs. Brown smiled, “Which leads me to ask, regrettably, once
again - I was wondering when I'd get the rent, please?"
 Shani tried not the let any hints of weariness creep into her voice. Tried and failed.
"It's on its way, Mrs. Brown, I promise, I just need another week or so to receive the cheque from the
payment office."
"I'm trying to be supportive Shani; I am - I understand you're still waiting to be paid I do, but I need some
rent as soon as possible."
She looked down at the floor.
It was all she ever seemed to do half the time. That same old scuff.
"I was thinking today”, Mrs. Brown continued, "Surely you could get some money from your parents,
something to tie you over until you get paid?".
Shani brushed off the comment as best she could, forced herself to look up at the woman.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Brown, really I am, but it's just not possible to get money from my parents. I swear it'll
only be another week or so."
"But you said that last week Shani!"
"I promise this time. I'm sorry I haven't been able to get it to you sooner."
Shani felt a small twinge of guilt, as she saw Brown's disappointment. She hated messing her around, but
she didn't have a choice. She flashed her one last quick smile, muttered an excuse about making a phone call
and briskly made her way up to the door to the flat.
Sighed, keys in the lock, hinge squealing. Inside, Shani could hear Katie and Pete, chatting in the kitchen.
Her flatmates were students, far too many years younger than her than was normally acceptable - Katie was
studying Film and Pete was majoring in Art.
She'd posted online for flatmates and they'd agreed to share on the property in Winton, not realising until
after it had all been signed and agreed that she was two years away from thirty while Katie had yet to hit
twenty.
Shani was never quite sure how that had happened - how old did people think she was? She still got ID'd
for booze as well. She was stuck in the body of a fat teenager.
But after all was said and done, they got along very well, indeed, Shani considered them to be the closest
thing to friends that she'd had in a very long while. They'd wasted away many hours into the morning
playing video games, watching DVDs and chatting about their mutual love of science fiction and Tarantino
films. Sharing the odd joint.
To Shani, it had been almost a guilty pleasure, being able to bond despite their differences in years. She'd
almost dare to admit that they made her feel younger. More relaxed.
But as much as they were friends, Shani still felt as if an invisible wall separated them from her, for they
only really hung out in the evenings after they had finished work and university drinks. Sometimes, she felt
like an afterthought. They didn't seem to realise that they were it for her when it came to human interaction
or activity outside of the monthly appointments with Doctor Hopkins.
When they talked about their courses and their studies, all she could do was listen, without really being
able to contribute to the conversation. She'd never gone to university. Didn't even have any O-Levels to her
name.
This often made her feel embarrassed and a bit stupid. She didn't have much to return in terms of
conversation unless they wanted an in-depth discussion about the perks of insulated windowpanes. Shani
very much doubted they cared about the inner workings of Simmons Glaziers Ltd.
She took off her shoes, sifting through a pile of mail on the side. A few bills, a bank statement and some
spam offering cheaper internet bills. It hardly made for thrilling reading. Not even her post provided
excitement.
She walked from the corridor into the cramped kitchen, where Katie and Pete were discussing a Sci-Fi
convention that they were considering attending, while tucking into bowls of spaghetti bolognese.
 She couldn't bring herself to look at it, mouth watering. The TV was buzzing quietly in the corner.
"....and the Chancellor refused to comment on allegations of voter fraud.."
"Hey, guys." Shani said, raising a hand in mock happiness.
The pair looked at each other and laughed.
"You look fucking wrecked", Pete chuckled.
He'd been trying to grow a beard these last few days, Shani noticed amusedly, but it hadn't quite worked,
the wispy tufts of hair dotted around his chin were considerably underwhelming. He was halfway there with
the biker look though, in the new leather jacket.
It must have been a student thing.
"Yeah, I'm bloody knackered."
"Bad day then?"
"Fucking abysmal."
It was strange. A different person seemed to emerge when she was with them. Talking like everyone else.
Like everything was normal.
Shani shoved her rucksack down on the floor, easing into a seat at the table. Katie was a pretty, slender
girl with a nose stud and dyed, raven-black hair, who loved to regale the pair of them of her stories in her
constant search for love. She'd been besotted with Pete for the first two months of their tenancy, until she'd
finally coined onto the fact that he wasn't that way inclined. It had been a tad awkward then and Shani had
spent a few days having to keep fetching Katie tissues.
But a month later, it was all forgotten and they laughed about it. Katie had just got that new app
(Timber?) and kept looking down to swipe at the screen on her phone.
She cared too much about finding someone, Shani thought. She had her whole life ahead of her. What
was she thinking?
Or maybe Shani was just broken. She couldn't exactly put her hand up and call herself a relationship
guru. Katie took a small bite of her spaghetti, smiling in her direction encouragingly.
"It can't have been that bad, you're still getting paid your cheque next week, right?"
"If I have a job next week", Shani said sadly, "I've been given my last chance apparently, courtesy of Mr.
Simmons."
"Your boss sounds like a twat", Pete supportively, "he can't just fire you a few months into the job!"
Shani nodded. She hadn't told them that actually, yes, Mr. Simmons had every right to, as it wasn't a real
job. Just a placement for mental cases with a view to full time. Though that was looking increasingly
unlikely.
"...the body of Mr. Becker, a correspondent for the Guardian, was found on rocks in the Lake District.
Police say Mr. Becker had been diagnosed with depression and are not-"
Shani nodded meekly, grabbed a packet of her crisps off the table and began to eat them ravenously.
"It's bad enough as it is", she mumbled through a mouthful of cheese and onion, "She Who Lurks
Downstairs is still on my case about the rent."
"Oh yeah, we thought we heard her earlier", Katie chimed in, "you just need to ignore her as well, it's not
like she can throw you out onto the street, you need like, weeks of notice and warnings."
"Wouldn't put it past the old cow though", Shani said miserably. She emptied the last of the crisps into
her mouth, scrunched up the packet and threw it towards the bin. It bounced off the rim, spinning across the
floor, spilling crisp crumbs. Katie tutted.
Sheepishly, Shani got up and cleared it up. She went over to the kettle, busying herself with a cup of tea.
Pete was incredulous.
"Is that seriously it for your dinner? Crisps and tea?"
"I don't have anything else."
 "Then go out and buy something."
"No cash till next week."
"That's not good for you!" Katie said reproachfully, "You need to go out and get some real food. Some
fruit or something."
Shani raised her eyebrows, grinning tiredly.
She felt so weary, she just wanted to curl up and sleep, eyes close to drooping.
"I'm down to about a week of crisps and noodles; I'll survive."
Pete slurped up the last of his spaghetti bolognese and belched contentedly, patting his stomach.
Katie punched him hard on the arm.
"Ow, what's that for?"
"Don't be a fucking pig."
Shani laughed as Pete, rubbing his arm, looked at her reproachfully.
"Look, Shani - we can lend you money if you want. You can just pay us back when your cheque comes
through."
Shani smiled.
"That's OK Pete - I'm fine. I need to lose weight anyways."
"Yeah, but there's no reason to starve yourself though" Katie chimed in.
Shani frowned. Katie coughed.
"I mean, it'd be no problem!"
But Shani wouldn't hear of it. She didn't know why, but somehow, the idea of taking money from Pete
and Katie seemed wrong.
She was older than them; they were students. If anything it should have been the other way round. She
shook her head.
"Don't worry about it, honest."
"You sure?" Katie said softly.
"I eat at the staff canteen as well", Shani lied, "so it's okay."
The pair rolled their eyes exchanging glances but didn't say anything.
"...Pippa, a four-month-old Dachshund puppy, is just one of the rescued animals at the shelter..."
"Well," said Pete, changing the subject, "I've got an offer that might cheer you up. James has spare Frosh
tickets for tonight and he's invited all three of us to come on a club crawl. We can get free entry and
welcome shots, any SU approved club before eleven."
Shani 's heart skipped a beat, even as she struggled to translate Pete's rich university vocabulary.
James Dawes. Of course, James Dawes would be there. She'd met him at a student event that she'd been
dragged along to a few weeks ago. He was her age, possibly older, finished a Masters from Bournemouth
University six years previously.
Something in business management, but he'd stayed on to work at the local student union in public
relations. Boring, safe. Sadly, a newlywed, wife in tow. He'd been overseeing the event, a leading voice in
the mass of gibbering students.
The condescending prick had been the centre of attention all the time. Whenever Katie and Pete
mentioned James to her with knowing looks, Shani's heart sunk. They thought she wanted him. Made a joke
of it. Shani has a crush on a married man. But why was it so hard for everyone else to see?
She wanted his wife.
Benny Dawes had been the most memorable part of the whole party, charming in her chubby,
bespectacled and friendly manner. She had made Shani smile. She couldn't remember the last time she’d
smiled. Even now, she could see her round cheerful face, toothy grin and red hair. Shani had hung onto her
every word the entire evening, jokes, reminiscences, everything..
 And then there had been the constant reminder. That she was married to James and had been so for four
years. Four years!
Shani vaguely recalled from the conversation that his thirtieth was looming that year even as her own
glared at her the year after the next. This was all too young surely, to be married? Or was that her wishful
thinking?
Shani wasn't gay. She wasn't a lesbian; she'd always reminded herself of that fact. She'd once had all of
Take That plastered on her bedroom wall for Christ's sake. She'd thought about boys. Well men now. There
had been a few dates, sex. All one-night stands. All awkward conversations and not knowing how to feel.
She didn't... Benny was different. She hadn't been looking for fall in love with another woman. Hadn't
asked for it. She didn't lie awake fantasising about cheerleaders or whatever lesbians were supposed to
fantasise about. Didn't seek it out.
It had happened so slowly, meeting Benny after that evening, as friends, again and again, until one day
she had woken up and realised that she loved her. Benny was torture. Shani knew it wasn't healthy. Not
right. Why did she seem to do everything wrong?
But she couldn't move on, try as she might. Attempted to force herself to forget Benny. Even try and
convince herself that she hated her. To no avail. She imagined it so much. Talking to Benny, daring to bring
their conversation to...truth. Honesty.
But she knew what would happen. Benny would shun her, horrified that this black girl she barely knew
might be a dyke. That she was abusing their casual friendship. Manipulating her. Shani would be branded,
whether she liked it or not.
Gay, Homo, Lezzer. They were the playground taunts she'd grown up alongside every day.
Fought so hard against. And now these new feelings felt like surrender. So the best Shani could offer was
the lie of a casual friendship. And she was going, she decided.
"Oh great! I'm in!"
"Cool. It's a tenner. Usually it’s twenty but James put our names on the guest list."
Shani's heart sank.
No money. She'd forgotten that part.
Of course, she'd have to pay.
" Oh. Actually, sorry, I might not be able to go."
Katie, seeing her disappointment, fumbled around in her wallet and took out a five-pound note.
"No, Katie, I already said I don't want-"
"Just take it, Shani! Honest, you can just pay me back - seriously - don't worry about it."
Pete followed suit, handing her another fiver. Shani paused, relented and took the money off the table and
pocketed it. She felt stupid.
"OK", she cautioned, “but I want you two to remind me as soon as my cheque comes in, I don't want to
forget to pay you back."
"Seriously Shani, why are you so paranoid?"
Shani looked at them.
"Thanks. It's really kind of you."
Katie and Pete tried to look serene, before bursting into laughter.
"What are you going on about you dozy mare? It's only a tenner!"
Shani flushed red, finishing the dregs of her tea, tilting the mug to avoid the crack down one side. Katie
glanced at the digital clock hanging on the kitchen wall.
"Oh God, we'd better get a move on, it's coming up to half-past now. I haven't even got myself ready."
"Well, we might as well give up then", Pete teased "you take what, an hour to prepare?"
Katie jabbed Pete hard in the ribs.
 "Not all of us can just shove a shirt on and put on some deodorant", she snorted, "some of us have
standards."
"Where are we going?" Shani interjected.
"Uhh, don’t know. We're going to just find a place and then text everyone where we are."
"Any ideas?"
Pete and Katie considered.
"JJ's?" Katie queried.
"Closed down" replied Pete grimly, “they’re going to turn it into a gym apparently."
Katie threw up her hands in irritancy. “I loved JJ's!"
She checked her phone, before busying herself with the rest of her dessert.
"Bingos?"
"Not SU."
"Dammit."
"There's always Fox. I know there's a few people going tonight."
"Oh yeah!" Katie said thoughtfully, "let's go there then."
Shani swallowed. Fox was a club down the road with a significant reputation, but not because it was host
to celebrities or anything like that. Katie and Pete had been on occasion, mainly because of the cheap prices
and the Student Union discounts. They didn't seem to mind it, but Shani wasn't so sure.
She always appeared to read about it on the news, a drugs bust-up here, a stabbing there. She was
astounded it could still be in business. Perhaps she worried too much, but a club crawl was becoming less
desirable every passing second.
In an ideal world, it would be her, them and maybe Benny and by association, James. A trip down to the
local pub on the corner, a bit of discussion and a few pints of cider. It was a scenario she had run through in
her head, time and time again. Yet to happen. Too scared to ask. She tried not to let her disappointment
show, however - Katie and Pete loved clubbing, along with their friends from university.
They were constantly in a competition to try and make each night more memorable than the last. Shani
wasn't sure why she worked to keep up with them. Perhaps it was due to the simple reality that Shani didn't
want to look like a saddo - or remember that they were younger than her.
"Sure", she said, shrugging shoulders, "let's go to Fox then."
"Excellent," said Pete enthusiastically.
Shani gulped down the lukewarm tea.
"I'm gonna go get ready."
"OK, see you in a bit."
Shani swiftly rinsed off her mug, shoved a tea towel round the rim and cupboard-ed it. She gave Katie
and Pete one last smile, before making her way to the pokey room at the other side of the flat where she
lived.
She was cross with herself again. She wanted to hit something. Breathe, she told herself. Why was she
constantly incapable of standing up to anyone? Now she was in for a night in which she had to pretend she
was having fun.
No doubt she'd end up having to carry Pete home as well. Like last time. She genuinely wanted to be
excited about nightclubs. But even now she could feel the dread setting in. And she had suggested going out.
She'd brought it on herself. She flopped over onto her bed and looked up at the ceiling, at the Pulp Fiction
poster that she had stuck there.
Well, it wasn't all that bad.
No. She'd get to see Benny again. Yes, not so bad.
She forced herself to move off the bed, starting to pick out clothes for the evening.
 Just a t-shirt and some jeans? Standard? No, too...not straight. Or maybe a dress? Yes, more appropriate.
But would Benny even care?
No, probably not, she decided sadly. Not like Shani wanted her to care. She imagined Benny, hands
around her dress, her waist, standing over her shoulder. Choosing what to wear for her. Shani would have
killed to know what she liked.
The dress, she decided. Yes. It looked normal. Not weird. Shani flung her work uniform to the ground,
pulled on the dress with more difficulty than she'd like to admit and threw herself back on the bed once
more.
She was suddenly very sleepy, she realised. In actuality, perhaps going out wasn't the best idea. She'd get
a coffee, she decided, something to keep her awake. In fact, that was just what she needed...yes...in fact
she'd go and get it from the kitchen,-any minute now....surely she wasn't...tired..already?
The eyelids drooped and everything faded away, she was falling into the warm duvet, it swallowed her
whole.
 CHAPTER FIVE

IN ANOTHER WORLD

Beneath the old white elm tree in the gardens of the Old Keep courtyard, the two white-cloaked Disciples
of Lord Father Aleron waited nervously in the pale glow of the moon. If it were not for the minute swaying
of the tree's branches in the weak wind then to the unobserved viewer, they would have seemed to have
stopped, frozen in time.
Finally, it was Wolff, the taller of the two that spoke, hushed tones about the expanse of the courtyard.
"He shall tell us tomorrow, Emese. Officially, anyway. Lord Father shall order me to the Human world
with the others."
He brought down the hood of his cloak, gingerly, as she did the same; their faces dim in the moonlight.
Wolff was tall, unusually so, with the dark skin of the Northrealm people, weathered, pocked by the
flames of their baptism. It was impossible to know what Wolff was saying or what he was thinking with
sight alone of course, the skin across his dark face was tainted, a mass of white blotches and burn marks,
which wound their way across his features, masking his visage to a distant, painful memory. One eye was
still good, but the other swollen and dead, a black sphere swimming loosely in a bloated sea of red.
Wolff had never known or understood beauty or his distant lack of it. He had left the Old Keep only a
handful of times in his life, accompanied only by servants too terrified to speak to him. His only companions
and friends were his fellow Brothers and Sisters of the Disciples, as disfigured as he. Wolff and Emese lived
in the eyes of their Lord Father, Aleron, their creator, whose love looked above such things such as the
beauty of the flesh.
Emese had removed her hood thoroughly now, he could only admire the blotchy scars that peppered her
face, lipless mouth and sweet, petite holes that made up what remained of her nose, the small perfectly
formed pinpoints below her hairless head. The Burned Children, or the Disciples, whichever they preferred,
were all equal in their Lord Father's eyes and knew a beauty that was unsullied by the sins of the eye or the
flesh.
To Wolff, Emese was perfection, as he was, surely, to her. And he loved her. As he knew, she loved him.
As much as they tried to hide it from each other and their fellow Disciples. The morning's mission had both
affected them. Perhaps killing bandits was an aphrodisiac. As she scanned the courtyard for any sign of the
guards, Wolff couldn't take his eyes off her as she confirmed that, for now at best, they were alone and
unheard.
"You are sad."
Emese looked at him, emotions just visible past the patterns of her face.
There was an art to knowing what she was thinking. Wolff has mastered it long ago and now he could
read her like a book.
"The other World. The Human World."
Wolff nodded. “Lord Father has tasked us all with a divine mission."
She looked away from him.
"Then there is no reason to celebrate the Redcloaks' defeat. The war is not won. Not until the Usurper's
life is ended."
"There is nothing to fear Emese, nothing at all. The Protectorate has been informed. They are waiting for
us. Lord Father shall open the Gate."
"Can't they kill the Usurper? The Protectorate, I mean?"
"Lord Father has deemed it so. They are not to know of our mission."
 "I'm worried, Wolff. Going to this world-"
"I don't fear Humans. How can you?"
"You've never even seen a Human! How shall the Gate be opened?"
"We have the means. Mhorn blood closed the Gate. That traitor Tha'en, as a branch bloodline, had plenty
to offer. With that and the Eclipse, it is at its weakest. Lord Father's ritual can break through-"
"I do not want you to go. Why has Lord Father not chosen to send me?"
"Your place is here. He needs your healing, you know that. We are the Disciples. Emotion does not sway
us. We are the tools of the Lord Father Aleron, the Chosen Child, we-"
He was stopped in his recitations, as Emese's lips brushed his, briefly, momentarily.
For a moment they were connected, two floating, mouths and three eyes entangled. Wolff could see every
scar, every patch of blotchy, bleached burnt skin, her face, one eye nervous back at him.

IN HER WORLD

"SHANI!! SHANI!!"

IN ANOTHER WORLD

Then they parted, Emese shrinking back; her robes pulled tight around her head.
"Did you hear..?”
He blinked.
“Emese?”
“It is nothing. I must go. Lord Father will need me. I must tend to him. This latest Diwoeth ritual has
taken its toll..the bloodtalks..he is not as strong as he was.."
She was a light footstep in the distance by the time Wolff had gathered his thoughts.
He turned tail back to his quarters, where the food awaiting him did little to quell this other hunger.

IN HER WORLD

"Shani! Are you alright?"

Pete's voice woke her with a start. She sat bolt upright and examined herself. She was still here; all body
parts accounted for. She shook from head to toe as she grabbed her hands, checking to make sure she was
still whole.
She'd been there again. It was just a dream. Just a stupid dream, that was all. She shook her head, trying
to regain composure. Pete was staring through the crack in the door.
"Sorry.." Shani muttered, “I dozed off."
"Right.." said Pete uncertainly "..well, we're ready to go, so if you're ready?"
She stood up from the bed, slipping on her shoes.
"I'll be there in a sec."
Pete nodded and his head disappeared from view. She looked down at the bed. It was like no dream she'd
ever had before; she could still taste the cold air of that place in her mouth, smell the chill on the stone...So
far from the forest where they'd been before. Forest. Yes, trees. Falling trees before..
 She'd remembered that. Maybe Pete was right, she concluded, she needed to sort out her diet. Perhaps
this was her body's way of telling her to eat healthier.
She winced. Her hand was burning; she flipped it over, examining her palm. The old burn mark, white
patchy skin on brown, almost a strange pattern. Had it always been so...there? So stark, it almost seemed to
glow.
She clenched her fist, making for the door, flicked the switch and followed Katie and Pete out into the
street, trying to banish the strange dream to nothing.

The Assassin drove the knife forward with both hands, aiming for the side of the target's abdomen. It
would be a clean kill if he could hit the major artery. This target was exhausted. Not enough strength to heal
his cuts and bruises. His time was coming.
They had been fighting for a good fifteen minutes now, evading each other in the shadows, disappearing
back into the embrace of the birches and trees, each searching for an end game. Away from the eyes of the
Humans, even as the sound of their cars buzzed on the motorway half a mile away from the moors.
The man in front of him was ungainly, slow, out of shape, breathing heavily from the strain. The
Assassin was astounded it had taken this long for the fat fuck to break down. But he was finally faltering and
the artery was in his sights. He imagined it beating under that flabby, bearded neck.
A few seconds at the tip of his blade, the target would bleed out, and this job would be complete.
The Protectorate and Lord Father would reward him well. Very well indeed. In the corner of the eye, he
caught a glint of silver, illuminated by the moonlight. He drew his hand up reflexively, his own blade
wavering.
So fast. Where had it come from? There was a sharp pain as the razor-sharp sword blade ripped through
lower side. It tore away flesh and bone; he focused on the wound with his Aura, trying to will away the pain
with his mind, start repairing the damage.
Groaning through it, he brought the knife forward to strike at his attacker, Aura guiding his hand, but too
late, the knife's blade met air, as the target manoeuvred deftly out of its path.
Wide open, the Assassin stumbled forwards, as the target brought the sword around his head. Too fast!
He used all his strength to throw himself out of the sword's path, his whole body crying out with agony as
he fell to the muddy ground, staining his clothes.
Apprehensive, the target stepped backwards and raised the sword defensively, brushing a sweaty hand
through his long, thinning blonde hair.
The Assassin forced himself to his feet. He tried to ignore the waves of agony across his side, shrinking
back, as fast as he could.
Crouched down behind a rock, using the darkness to his advantage. This man was dangerous; he cursed
himself for not seeing it. He'd been baited, with the promise of an easy kill. A stupid mistake, he spat on the
ground, cursing himself.
Concealed in the darkness that wrapped itself around the moor, the Assassin fixed his target with a heavy
stare, looking for any sign of attack, or an opening.
The fat man began to speak. Usually they just cried and begged for mercy. This one was just insulting
him.
"Oi. You can still leave this place alive. Just turn around and fuck right off. Strike at me one more time
with that sword and you won't get a second offer, you bellend."
 The coarse language surprised him. A hoarse, smoker's voice, gruff. The accent was thick. Northern, at
least of what he knew of the English tongue. This man was some way from home, here near the South Coast.
Somewhere near Cornwall. Who really cared?
The Assassin could finally make out the man, dark coat pulled over his broad stomach. Above his
muddied boots, the sword wavered masterfully in his ham-fisted grip.
For all of the man's extra girth, this was a trained, calculated stance. The Assassin considered an opening.
There were several, but they relied on being faster. For his size, this man's speed had to be seen to be
believed. One wrong step-
The Assassin swore inwardly, continuing to scrutinise him intensely through the shade. The target waved
his hand dangerously.
"LISTEN TO ME! This is your last warning. Fuck off- and tell the Eaolin Protectorate to stop sending
your lot after me. You're the third this week."
The Assassin grinned under his black mask. This man had a mouth on him that was for sure. But for all
his confidence and skill, he just didn't have the shadows. The darkness was his ally. He had to find the right
moment. As long as he found the right one-
The wind screamed. It buffeted the pair of them, swaying in its force. The target raised his sword,
regaining his footing. His eyes slid briefly to the handle, lost in thought, contemplation of his stance. The
Assassin's eyes widened. There it was!
He came in low, the blade sliding out of his sleeve. The darkness would protect him.
Yet as he came close, the man seemed to flicker out of sight, with a bellow of anger.
"FUCK OFF!"
The knife carved air, he stumbled forward, shins banging against a rock, wheeling as the man moved,
circling behind him..
Screamed as the man's cruel blade embedded into his chest.
He choked, neck snapping back. The force of the impact of the huge blade threw him to his feet,
shrieking through dying breaths as his blood spilled slowly, staining the wet ground. He took one last gasp
and shuddered to a halt on the floor.

'...Dickhead."
Marcus Godfrey stood still for a moment, sword raised, saluting the night sky, silver blade dripping.
Finally, he lowered his hand, paused, looked around and wiped the broad blade on the mildewed grass.
He re-sheathed his sword and strode over to the body.
After a few minutes of searching, he found what he was looking for, a small mobile telephone.
He rattled off a quick, mocking text before snapping it in two, discarding it into the shallows of a muddy
brook next to its unfortunate owner.
 CHAPTER SIX

Shani's misgivings about the night out were duly proven upon her arrival at Fox with Katie and Pete.
Nightclubs had never been her cup of tea; she was painfully aware that she couldn't dance, had no one to
dance with and no one she wanted to dance with.
She despised most of the music blaring out of the speakers over in the far side of the room. Too old for
this shit. Here she was, slave to popular pressure. She'd opted for the old dress after some agonising; it was
just a tad too small. It kept riding up; she pulled it down for the umpteenth time. What had she been
thinking?
She continued to sip the overpriced pint of cider despondently, deciding that if she drank enough, she
might be able to fool herself into having a good time. God. She must have looked a right misery. A sad old
cow. After downing a selection of tequila shots at the bar, Katie and Pete were practically bouncing off the
walls.
They'd disappeared over to the corner to purchase another round of drinks. Shani had a good guess as to
where their student loan was going. Cursed her cynicism. The music droned and boomed, as the mass of
bodies seemed to engulf her. She smiled awkwardly, more of a grimace, as a man in aviator glasses and a
bandana, passionately attached to a woman, knocked backwards into her.
His friends apologised for him, laughing; she threw her hand up in mock amusement. Shani shuffled over
to the corner, still trying to move in time to the music. She took covert glances at the other people around
her, attempting to mimic their moves.
Why did she find it so difficult? Every inch of her wanted her bed. But she wanted to want more. One
girl, empowered by the alcohol and the attention of her friends and admirers, flung herself over to the pole in
the middle of the room.
She gyrated and twirled, laughing at her audaciousness, as a crowd gathered around, whooping in
approval. Shani looked away and settled for a simple swaying movement to the beat of the music, from side
to side, drink in hand. Keep it simple. She glanced enviously at the dancer, who squealed with triumph at her
feats, as her eager fans took photos on their phones. Shani wasn't brave enough. Or drunk enough. But she’d
fix that.
She downed her drink, placing the empty pint glass over on the side. There was no sign of Katie or Pete.
Shani gritted her teeth and continued to bob, looking round at the crowd, wondering what they were
thinking.
A lovely girl with a nose stud caught her eye as if sensing her unease, ripe for parody. Shani looked down
at the floor. The best shoes were a bit faded. Needed a polish. Or some new ones.
The girl's friend next to her whispered something in her ear. They both giggled. Shani pretended she
hadn't noticed. She looked over at the bar despairingly. What was taking them so long? There was a voice in
her ear, indiscernible amidst the uproar of the club.
She turned round in the direction of the sound and found herself face to face with a short, dark haired
shrewish man, his eyes narrowed.
Shani looked at him expectantly. Did he want to dance? She wouldn't mind. On second glance, he wasn't
too bad looking. He said something again.
"What did you say?" Shani shouted over the noise.
"You wanna buy some pills?", the man replied, scowling, evidently unwilling to draw attention to
himself.
Shani shook her head. He turned round, disappeared off into the crowd, presumably to find some real
users.
 Everyone was letting themselves go. And then there was her, completely clueless as to what to do, or
how to enjoy herself. Someone had decided she must have needed pills to have fun. No, she needed more
alcohol. If she kept drinking, then surely, eventually, she might be able to lose herself. Find a man. How
hard could it be?
She headed to the bar, steadily pushing through the sweaty mass of people, as the strobe lights flickered.
She reunited with Katie and Pete, drunk and content. They were surrounded by a throng of admirers, whom
Shani recognised as being friends from their Uni.
Shani couldn't help smiling. Katie, predictable as ever, was well and truly pissed out of her head. She
threw her arms around Shani.
"Hey! Where did you go?!"
"What do you mean?" Shani said incredulously, "you went to get more shots, remember?"
Katie laughed.
"You're hilarious, Shani. Come on, get a drink!"
Her hand grabbed her wrist, and she pulled her over to the bar, pushing through the waiting crowd to the
front, which raised a few verbal objections, which Katie ignored, unabashed. Her grip was warm, sweaty on
her forearm in the heat of the club.
Shani knew that after a few drinks, Katie became relatively barefaced about what she did or said. The
bartender grimaced and turned to the pumps.
"Two Blair cider's yeah?"
Shani stood by, awkwardly, trying to ignore the unamused stares from the people in the queue behind.
Rejoining the rest of Katie's friends, the group continued to chat over the boom of the music. From what
Shani could gather, Pete and Katie were currently in a competition to make out with as many people as
possible before the club closed. They always became stupidly competitive against each other on a night out,
often making up their little games for the evening.
Pete leaned over to her, slurring. Shani could smell the beer on his breath.
"Shani, is that James over there by the cloak room?"
Shani's heart stopped in its tracks. She turned round slowly; the incessant thumping of the music became
faint at the back of her mind.
Yes, he was there alright, smart shirt and jeans, drink in hand. That same old unamused frown. Wanker.
Benny next to him, that red bob of soft hair immaculate as ever, was easing her arm around his. He said
something to her, and she laughed.
Shani's heart sank slightly. Everywhere she looked, she saw she couldn't have her. She shouldn't have
come, should have stayed away. Yes, she needed to go-
James looked up and saw her staring at them. Shani froze. For a moment, she was still, as her eyes
examined him.
For an instant, there was uncertainty in his expression, but it vanished as recognition spread over his face.
He grinned and raised his hand. Shani's feet seemed to move of their accord; she squeezed through the dense
crowd of people, as Benny's beaming face drew nearer.
"Hey! How are you doing?"
A wave of excruciating self-consciousness washed over her. The silly, artificial grin plastered all over her
face felt fake, intrusive. But Benny's smile widened, eyes open and welcoming.
"I'm great thanks, Shani, how are you?"
Shani smiled. Again, the words seemed to flow; that confidence seemed to return. Benny was looking at
her.
"Yeah, I'm good thanks. Work's going OK, a bit hard now and again, but ..you know.."
She trailed off. Killed it.
 Benny nodded, smiling gently, understanding but awkward. There was a pause.
"James organised this, you know!"
She gestured to him, standing behind, hand squeezing her shoulder gently.
He was inspecting the confines of the club with a less than impressed expression on her face, the same
look those presenters had carried in that How Clean Is Your House? special when they were clearing out a
dead hoarder's bungalow for a lovely family of three from Essex. Shani needed to stop watching so much
television, she decided. James was talking to her, she realised, and she forced herself to zone in. His voice
was authoritative, taking charge of the conversation.
"How's it all going in the world of double glazing?"
His mouth was pulled into a friendly grin; eyes flitted briefly around Shani's dress. Saw a mocking glint
in his eyes, brow ever so slightly raised. She forced herself to smile back. Dredged up a conversation starter
from her chats with Tom and Katie.
"Yeah, same old, same old. What about you? I hear you’ve got a new job!"
The thought of talking about it lit up James' face. He ran his hands through his curls.
"Yeah, so glad to finally get out of the SU thing. Leaving at the end of the month. It's SEO, web content
for small businesses, that sort of stuff. It's the future after all. Little bit boring, but I get to manage a whole
team, which is fucking exciting!"
He gulped down his pint incredibly fast; an arm snaking around Benny's waist; he pulled her closer to
him.
"I'll be managing this one too soon. We're making plans to run the whole thing, buy the company out.."
"-James, we're keeping quiet about that-"
"Oh, we can tell her darling. Besides, Mum said we could borrow the money; it'll be common knowledge
soon enough."
Her smiled at them.
"That all sounds very exciting."
"We literally cannot wait. We're looking for offices at the moment. Old ones suck. Shani, do you know if
you need any work done at the glaziers? Website optimisation, anything like that?"
Shani faltered. Benny was waiting for her reply. James too. Could she come clean that she was on a work
placement? Yes, there wouldn't be any harm in admitting that she had no power in the office whatsoever.
That she would probably be back on benefits in a month.
"Yeah, I'll have an ask around. I know we have a website, but they keep saying it needs work."
Lies. Lies, lies, lies. James winked.
"Hey, you could be our first customer, Shani!"
Benny raised her hands.
"Top Secret! We'll talk about it later, James. Are you enjoying the crawl, Shani?"
"Oh yeah, it's great! But James - you don't look well..excited?"
She marvelled at her audaciousness. The cider must have kicked in. James seemed to deflate slightly at
even the suggestion of enjoying the place, his grin became colder.
"What do you mean?"
Benny laughed, clutching his arm.
"You are a misery-guts."
"Well, I wanted to go somewhere else babes."
He looked at Shani.
"Benny wanted to come here tonight, just cos' I organised it. Well, SU's not my scene. I know I work for
them, but-"
Benny pulled him closer.
 "Yeah yeah. You're so very clever."
James laughed.
"Benny thinks I should say goodbye to people properly before I leave."
"Yeah, and you're being a dick about it."
There was another awkward pause; Shani mentally added it to a growing tally.
"Oh!", Benny exclaimed, suddenly breaking the lull in the conversation, "Are you coming to the party
we're throwing tomorrow? It's my birthday on Monday, but since everyone's going to be at work and doesn't
want the hangover, we figured we'd do it beforehand."
It was the first Shani had heard about it. But she played it cool.
"I'm going to come, sounds like it'll be great!
Shani couldn't help but notice James' nostrils flare and felt a slight stab of satisfaction. Benny beamed at
her.
"Great! We'll see you there then! Gonna start the barbecue around Five."
James tapped his foot impatiently.
"Babe, I promised Sonia and Daniel we'd be back by one, remember."
Benny grinned at Shani, rolling her eyes.
"I guess we'd better be off. We'll see you there, OK?"
Shani nodded and mustered a weak grin.
"See you later!"
And, just like that, they were gone, James with his hand around her, embracing in a kiss as they left the
club. They would sleep together tonight. She imagined it in her head. Benny and James. Naked. And her,
fully clothed, just thinking about it, wishing it were she instead of him. Alone in her bed tonight, in her
pyjamas.
Shani realised she was once again standing on her own in the middle of a cramped dance floor. And it
hurt. A voice in her head told her to pull herself together. Another screamed at her to leave. To go home and
cry.
She glanced back at the bar. Katie and Pete's group were still gathered around, laughing and clapping, as
Katie locked lips with a short man with a tattoos and face piercings. Typical.
She waved over at them and rejoined the crowd, drink in hand. Not done, yet. The night was still young.
Pete gestured over.
"Katie's completely wiping the floor with me."
"Well it is a straight club. Good to know you two are having fun."
"You saw James then?"
"Yeah."
Pete's smile faded. He looked like he wanted to punch something.
"What is it?"
Pete laughed.
"Apparently Kate saw him arguing with Benny yesterday. Didn't want me to go to this fucking party
because, and I quote “My friends will want real men there. What a bellend!"
"Ouch. Pete, I'm sorry-"
"Hmm - and his parents are super rich AND he's got Benny. God could have made him a munter or
something to balance it out. Fuck knows why he works at the SU. Guess he doesn't need the money. Benny
must have a fortune coming her way. I ain't saying she's a gold digger-"
"Benny's not a gold-digger! You're drunk!"
 "Oh come on. Five years time, he'll be bald, fat and divorced while she's jetting off with their newborn
child to L.A. Trust me. You're better off out of it. Well, maybe not. You could make a fortune if you get
Benny out of the picture…"
Ignoring that, Shani gestured towards Katie. Pete was just bitter, she guessed.
"How much has she had?"
Pete laughed.
"Too much. And, I intend to copy her."
He finished his pint.
"Cheer up Shani. So he's married, so what? Look around you. Half of these guys are fitter than James
anyway."
Shani blinked.
"Why-"
"Oh come on, it's fucking obvious. Your face lights up every time we see him. I mean, don't get me
wrong, I really would."
But it wasn't obvious.
There wasn't a soul in this club she wanted to dance with. Never would be, something in her said, even as
another part tried to imagine this miraculous Mr. Right.
The DJ changed the record, and the club went mad in approval.
From behind her, Shani heard Katie shriek.
"I fucking love this song!"
Then the whole crowd seemed to devour her; she was lost in a drunken haze as the lights blazed.
She scratched her palm. The burn mark was itching again.

Finally, the night was over. People were slowly milling out of the club; the lights were back up. The
workers were starting to sweep the aftermath into industrial-size bin bags.
Shani, Pete and Katie stood in the line for their coats, sampling the scent of shame, booze and sweat,
thick in the air. Shani couldn't wait to get home to bed. The weekend was here. Yes, Benny hadn't run away
with her after their chat in the club but there was always next time.
Was she too obsessive? Yes. She must have been. She had a problem. She felt the sadness creeping up
her chest. The next day. She'd have a long sleep, wake up around midday, and then lie in some more. Bliss.
She handed the girl behind the counter her ticket and collected her coat. Looking back, she realised that
the club, without the darkness and the music and the people, seemed quite small and pitiful. Banished that
cynical thought from her mind. She got too many of those.
Time to get home to her bed made for one. Together, the three stepped out into the harsh cold chill of the
night. Shani glanced at Pete and Katie. They were laughing uproariously, stumbling to and fro on the
pavement. The tequila and cider had done its job. Her head span. She'd had her fair share as well.
They began to make the trek up the road and round the corner back to the flat. Suddenly, a voice rang out
at them. Anger.
"Oi!"
The group span in drunken surprise, Katie still giggling. It was the man with piercings whom Katie had
been making out with in the club earlier. Next to him were two of his friends. They didn't look happy. Shani
froze. Her stomach churned. The man pointed towards Katie.
"What the fuck was all that about, eh? Did you think you could just have me on you slut?"
Shani looked at Katie, who said nothing. The alcohol and fear seemed to have stopped them all in their
tracks. One of the man's friends spoke up.
"Sean, you're drunk. Just leave it, yeh? Ignore him, sorry guys."
 "Shut it. You're not the one that got led on by this bitch before she starts making out with half the club.
You fucking whore."
Katie mumbled, her eyes wide with fright
"Please, just leave us alone."
"Yeah? Well, you're the one who's started this."
The man started towards them.
Shani found herself shuffling slowly backwards.
She looked around. A few of the people from the club were gazing on, but no one seemed willing to get
involved. They were walking off in different directions away from the trouble.
Pete spoke up, slurring slightly.
"Look guys, just leave us alone, yeah? We were just playing around that's all."
The man spat on the floor.
"Do you fucking speak for her or something mate? Cat got her tongue? I want to hear the bitch
apologise."
"Don't you fucking call her a bitch", Pete said sharply and the butterflies in Shani's stomach seemed to
multiply tenfold streaming up her chest.
The man's face became a stony glare.
"What the fuck's your problem, you queer? I will fucking kill you!"
He rushed forward. Pete put up his hands to defend himself, but too late, as the man punched him hard in
the stomach, before kicking him to the ground. He moaned, vomiting up yellow, liquid bile into the gutter on
all fours. There were a few shouts and jeers from some drunken bitch walking past.
The man laughed. Katie gave a scream.
"Leave him alone, leave him alone!"
Shani, still rooted to the spot. Breathe. She just had to breathe like Hopkins said. Her face was getting
hot; she could feel her clenched fist, knuckles straining white. She couldn't move. She couldn't get involved.
She couldn't-
The man's foot came down, kicked Pete hard in the head, who rolled over, crying out.
Pete clenched the side of his face; fingers stained red. The man's friends were pulling their friend back,
shouting out. He wrested free of their grip and came in again.
It took her. Try as she might, it took her. Hopkins' stupid fuckingbreathingbullshit..useless!
Shani took a step forward, even as she begged herself not to. The old handbag was hot in her grip, old
sweaty leather against her skin.
It was an old-fashioned one she'd bought for a costume party. Theme: Sixties. She'd found it in a charity
shop. Probably belonged to some old lady who'd snuffed it.
Contents - a mobile phone. Hairbrush. Purse. Tampons. A big pile of coins. A heavy metal frame. Heavy
enough, that little voice she tried to fight in her head had decided.
The man sneered.
"Get the fuck out of my way. Stupid black bitch."
Breathe!
Her arm swung it hard, catching the pierced twat across the face, its edge splitting his head wide open.
He bawled, red streaks across his fingers. So much blood. So much, like last time.
No! No! STOP! Breathe! Breathe!
But she couldn't help herself. It was happening again. Her body just moved on its own, taken alight by
something. It was the same all again.
So angry. This..this dickhead..! Pete! Katie! Ruining everything! She was screaming, shouting something
at the man even as he cowered.
 Barely aware of what she was saying. She swung it again, he reeled back, it caught him on the nose, and
he stumbled, sobbing, begging her to stop.
His friends were shouting, circling nervously. She caught the look in his eyes.
It was fear. So much fear. The whites baring his soul at her. Shani saw Katie crying in the corner of her
eye.
"Shani..stop it! Stop!"
She began to realise what she had done.
The man held his head in his hands, a dark, black-red cut across his forehead. He stumbled backwards.
Shani had control again. She reeled backwards; the bag dropped to the floor, words tumbling.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
But the man was stumbling away, two friends supporting him as they made their distance, rounding the
corner past yellow street lamps.
Suddenly, she was crying too.
"Hey! Hey! Are you OK?!"
These saving words from the security staff of Fox. They had spent a large portion of their evening on a
cramped dance floor, with little to do other than escort drunk people off the premises.
Presumably this was all the more entertaining. One of the remaining guards walked over to them. Pete
was sitting upright on the pavement, head in his hands while Katie cried next to him.
Neither of them looked at her.
The guard took out a medical kit. "Let's take a look then, son."
She shone a light in Pete's eye, examining him intently for a few seconds.
"Yeah, I think you need to go to the hospital. You come along with me; we've got a car for this."
She unclipped a radio from her belt and spoke into it.
"Yeah, we're going to take him down to A&E, Mike. Get the van ready."
"Bloody kids!", the microphone replied.
She turned to Shani and Katie.
"You'll have to stay here to talk to the police, tell them what happened. I expect they'll keep your friend
overnight, I think he's got a concussion."
Katie started to cry again. The guard turned to Shani.
"I'd keep it simple with the police if I were you. Now, the way I saw it, you were protecting your
friend..but.."
Shani could see the look in the woman's eye too. It was the same look.
The one she knew all too well. They all had it now. She nodded. Her voice was so tiny. It wasn't hers.
"OK."
The male guard gestured to Pete. "Follow me. We'll wait for the van inside."
They left Katie and Shani waiting on the side of the road. Other than checking if the other was "OK",
neither of the two women said a word to each other for the fifteen minutes until the police car drove up.
Katie had a cigarette. Shani thought about asking for one. She didn't smoke. But she just wanted one.
The police interview had taken about half an hour. Finally, satisfied that their questions had been
answered, they took Katie and Shani back to their flat in their car.
A kind policewoman told them that Pete was being kept overnight at hospital, but only as a precautionary
measure. She didn't think the attackers would hand themselves in, so they would tell them about any
developments. They thanked the police quietly and stepped out of the car.
Exhausted, they returned to the flat. It was almost half four in the morning.
Katie didn't say a word. When Shani tried to catch her eye, she just looked away. Guilt crawled up her
skin, intestines writhing. She went to bed, escaping into the dreams, where her loathing could not follow.
 There was only more of the same - the strange worlds of forests and faces, voices she couldn't remember,
that for once seemed almost comforting.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

IN ANOTHER WORLD

Lord Father Aleron's decree had placed the Gate under heavy guard for more than two decades since the
last Mhorn had sealed the other side with her own mortal blood. Almost a generation of soldiers had stood
still on guard there, waiting for it to reopen.
Emese glanced up from line to scrutinise the Gate stone. Its smooth, black surface was meticulously
polished, gleaming in the red glow of the rising sun.
The advance force had placed garlands and crests, in commemoration, that morning. The squadron would
follow them to the other side, three hundred strong into the Human world. Then they would find the
Usurper.
Though, of course, the Disciples were the only ones who knew about that aspect of the plan. Soldiers
knew better than to ask questions.
They stood in immaculate lines on either side of the Gate stone, a great smooth, dark piece of rock, an
empty depth in the snow.
The Disciples waited patiently to the side, white hoods pulled down over their faces. Five spectres in the
fresh snow. Yes, Emese thought. Ghosts among these men.
There was the distant call of a horn. The men looked forward nervously, trying to resist the urge to check
themselves, their uniformity. When he felt the need to leave the Old Keep and remember his often-
ceremonial role as Supreme Commander of his armies, re-asserting discipline in the ranks was a favourite
activity of Lord Father Aleron's.
One button out of place, one loose helmet strap, could have you dragged out of line and cut down there
and then. They had all seen it before. Aleron loved to lead by example.
The horn again, louder, more urgent.
A mass of helmets, shields and swords took a deep breath in unison as their Lord Father's horse appeared
over the hill, bringing the biting wind with him.
Three hundred armed men fought the urge to shiver. They were Eaolin after all. Cold wasn't supposed to
matter.
Aleron unsaddled his black mare, perhaps with more difficulty than he might have in the past, old bones
creaking on the fresh snow as he made his way over to the gate stone without a word to anyone.
The Lord Father bit his lip, irritation furrowing his mangled brow.
He carried the burns of his children; a scowl broke across his broad, wrinkled features, making the
hundreds of red scars etched across his face and hairless head dance angrily.
Like them, he could no longer boast of beauty. Though his face had been burned a long time before their
offering to the flames. He had made them in his image. The scars trailed all over his skin, still a raw red,
curving past his hooked nose and the good eye, around the left socket, empty, melted away, a blackened
crater in his face.
His figure was stooped, shrunken with age. He was an old man now, even with the scars, you could see it.
But by no means less dangerous. Not at all. His hands caressed the black marble, wizened fingers teasing,
tantalised. He paused.
Perhaps sensing that this was his cue, Lieutenant Third-Son-Of-Gyre coughed and shuffled forward from
the ranks where he had been waiting.
He was a well-built man, not too tall, not too short, with cold blue eyes and dark, curled hair that tickled
his ears. He'd dressed for the occasion.
 With his illustrious golden armour, spit-shined, carved with ancient runes and seals and the great war axe
strapped to his back, he was the very image of his father and the father before him in the portraits that hung
on the walls of the Old Keep.
Emese knew that the Gyre had always been experts at war, and also how to keep their armour nice and
clean for most of it. Born tacticians and leaders, it was no surprise that Gyre lower-borns and bastards held
many high-ranking positions in Lord Father's armies. Many had even been rewarded with names of their
own.
Third-Son's knee kissed the cold snow, head bowed. Model of a soldier.
"My Lord Father. My men are ready for your command."
Aleron's disdain was palpable, rippling out through the ranks. “Where is your father? I wanted the Gyre
here, not his whelp."
The Lieutenant knew better than to respond with anything other than absolute deference.
"He sends his most humble apologies, Lord Father. The last battle, he is in no state to travel-"
"So we are to expect a new Gyre soon? Are his healers not paid well enough?"
Emese looked at the kneeling General. He was handsome, she realised, even as she hid her deformed face
under her hood.
Her stomach churned. A sharp chin, those eyes. Underclothes tight in snow-sodden battle cloths. The
chill of the air was suddenly more present, skin clammy under her robes.
She knew she was no specimen of beauty and such feelings were forbidden by Aleron, but-
But-
She breathed through the ecstasy, imagining his touch, crossing her legs best she could under her robes,
biting her lip. Wolff was silent next to her. Had he sensed it? She cursed herself over hot shame, blinking
back tears. How could she be so sinful, here of all places?
"Disciples! Move forward!"
They lined up at the foot of the Gate stone in silence. Emese could see her reflection in that black,
polished surface.
She rarely saw herself, so much so that the image staring back at her from within the hood could have
been any unwelcome stranger.
Lord Father Aleron was pacing in front of the stone and the soldiers, letting his Aura carry his voice
where his old throat could not.
"Today! Today is a day of a new era for the Eaolin!"
Cheers. Predictable.
Next to her, Malkyn was impassive, looking back at herself without question. Perhaps she didn't care.
Malkyn was so monstrous under the skin; Emese thought bitterly. Her arm twinged, remembering the cut of
the blade the day before. She would miss her least of all.
"Now, we turn our attention away from the armies of Redcloak blood traitors and treason. A whole new
world to conquer!"
Though Emese had to admit, for all of the years spent in their company, she knew so little about her
fellow Burned Children. They had barely spoken in the years they had known each other. Well, apart from
Wolff, of course.
Crow could look at the gate's reflection with the least apprehension, of course, she had always been
jealous that Aleron had deemed him worthy of learning the skinchanging. To the untrained eye, he was very
much the odd one out in this group, skin unmarked, two eyes and full lips, long brown hair tied in a ponytail.
He'd chosen a different face for the ceremony, she wondered why. Maybe he had just wanted to mark the
occasion in his own way.
Lord Father had noted it without comment.
 "The world that is our birthright, unjustly denied us by the traitor Mhorn! But NO MORE!"
Next to Crow, Bezek was talking to himself nervously, gigantic frame hunched, stooping over the black
rock.
So tall that he probably couldn't see his reflection. That was for the best. When Bezek was scared, no one
was safe. He wrung his beefy hands, eyes vacant.
Her eyes stung. It was not so long ago that Bezek might have looked into the stone with as much insight
as the rest of them. Lord Father had been so cruel in his punishment of the giant.
"Today! I shall break open the Gate once more! With the Eclipse and the One at my back!"
A cheer went up from the soldiers, a roar of approval. Emese wondered how many of them were thankful
to be fighting the real enemy rather than their own kind. It had been a long, bloody war. Too long.
Aleron knew he had their attention, it empowered him, his Aura growing fierier, more impassioned. It
was rare to see him like this. Frightening.
"You privileged few! The first to pass through this Gate in nearly three decades! Today, you bring
honour to all your blood names! HONOUR AND BLOOD!"
"HONOUR AND BLOOD!"
It was an almighty roar from the men, Aleron's most famous phrase bursting from their lips.
His back was turned away from the Disciples, revelling in the soldier's cheers, regardless of whether
these were actual, excited declarations or shrewd, rehearsed routines.
That third-born knew better than to deny their Lord Father a show-
She felt Wolff's hand in her own, hot, veins beating, but pulled it away in an instant, hissing under her
breath.
"Stop it!"
"..Sorry."
"Emese!"
She froze. Aleron was looking right at her. Had he seen, heard something, even with his back turned and
his attention to his speech?
He was talking to her best her could under the roars of “Honour and blood!" behind them.
"My Lord Father?"
"Bid farewell to your brothers and sisters. It is time."
He turned back to the men. Wolff looked at her. Crow too. Malkyn and Bezek kept their eyes forward, on
Aleron
"PREPARE THE GATE! Disciples! Be ready! I shall open it!"
The sky was darkening, moon's shadow caught in the dawn sun.
The Gate would be at its weakest in mere moments. Aleron had to time the ritual perfectly.
"Goodbye” was all Emese could muster. Weak and insincere.
Crow nodded. Wolff looked sick. Malkyn pretended not to notice, and Bezek almost certainly hadn't.
Then she took three steps backwards to the sidelines, watching as they faced the Gate stone, keeping their
heads bowed. The scrollcrafters went to work, drawing brushes from their robes, the old inscriptions on
large, freshly skinned parchment. The hairs on the brushes dipped into the small pot; bubbling happily on a
stone-circled fire they had prepared offside.
Dark red, of course. They had drained Tha'en well. A distant relation of the last Mhorn-but it was Mhorn
blood nonetheless.
The sickening smell filled their nostrils, assembled crowd fighting to ignore it.
Aleron gave it little attention, passed a ceremonial blade by an aide.
"Great One! As your Chosen Child, I ask for your assistance in opening this Gate, so unfairly closed! Let
your Eclipse guide my path! Be at my back! Let the actions of the blood traitors be in vain!"
 He raised the hilt. “I give you my flesh and blood-as is your own!"
He drew the knife across his hand, allowing a liberal sprinkle onto the black surface of the Gate stone.
The scrollcrafters had laid their final scrolls, Emese could feel their Aura, concentrating, grabbing hold of
the invisible seal on the Gate. Ready for the moment.
Aleron pressed his hand down, smearing his palm print over the dark smooth rock. What was this power?
She felt the chill in her stomach, even as Malkyn's lips parted in an adoring smile.
He snatched his hands away.
"Blood of the traitor, spilled in your name!"
He ran over, plucking the pot with two hands from the flames with little regard for his cloak, kicking
ashes and embers. Taking slow steps back, his wrinkled arms almost buckled from the strain, nearly tripping
as he upended its contents over the black stone, staining his skin and robes, plunging bloodied, rippled hands
onto the now- burgundy surface. The smell of rotted blood. Her stomach lurched. Lord Father didn’t seem to
even notice.
Aleron drew his breath and poured his entire Aura into one word.
It was dark, she realised. The light had crept away with little notice.
"OPEN."
It wasn't the voice she knew. Something dark and hot, the Aura in his voice scalding them all. The good
eye had clouded again. Malkyn was laughing with admiration, whooping and shrieking.
"Oh, my Lord Father! Lord Father!"
Then the scrollcrafters started to burn, screaming as flames rose from within them, splitting out from
under their skin. Roars and cheers turned to cried of fright.
Her stomach flipped; she froze on the spot at the grotesque sight, Bezek bawling, the men were burning
so brightly, engulfed by the fire, blue and bright and impossible.
The horses were screaming, bolting, no longer under the control of the men who were as equally at a loss
as what to do. Third-Son was bellowing at soldiers to bring water, they threw it over the diminishing figures
in vain, it seemed to disappear, turned to steam before it could even touch the flames.
Aleron was still chanting the old words, hands planted on the Gate stone, sparks flying, eyes in the back
of his head. The scrollcrafters shrieked and screamed, arms waving writhing in vain.
Oh, Great One, Great One what was happening?
Shielding her eyes from the glow, Emese saw it.
The Gate through the cracks in her fingers, appearing behind Aleron, as if from nothing. It was open. As
if someone had carved the air and the world away with a knife, a strange tear, almost a crack in front of
them, the eye of the storm of light and flame.
She forced herself to look into it, even as her eyes screamed at her to stop. Blackness, flickering
with..something else?
A piece of sky. Not the darkened dawn around them, but a blue, starry night. The Human world..
Her head span.
"Move! Go, my Disciples! Go!"
Wolff, Malkyn, Crow and Bezek.
Their white-robed arms shielding them from the heat, the burning earth as the snow evaporated and the
fires swept around them, Lord Father seemingly keeping them at bay, raising one hand to force an opening
even as his other remained planted to surface of the Gate stone, straining to stay connected.
The stone was cracking, breaking apart, black fragments tearing themselves away. They swept in as they
had been taught, Wolff claiming a fragment of the black stone from the ground. That was crucial.
She sensed the panic in Aleron's actions, the tinge of fear in his Aura. Something was wrong, the Gate
stone was fighting back. It had to be the Mhorn's old blood ritual, she could feel his pain.
 An invisible force was trying to push him away, she saw him scream, howling in agony, hurling
obscenities at the black rock as if it could sense his outrage. He couldn't bend it entirely to his will. The Gate
was merely weakened..
Wolff-
She caught a glimpse of his face, terrified as they took each other's hands and stepped through into the
gap between worlds. They disappeared in front of her eyes, slipping into darkness almost as quickly as the
gate had appeared.
Lord Father let loose a shriek of triumph, as if mocking the Gate stone, crying out through the pain.
"ARMIES! Move, run you fools!"
The Gyre third-born drew his war axe, all ceremonial etchings, saluting the sky.
"HONOUR AND BLOOD!"
The soldiers surged forward, boots crushing the scorched earth. General Third-Son-Of Gyre led the
charge.
As he took one step towards the edge of the Gate, there was a crack that tore the air and the ears. Aleron
screamed, sobbing as the Gate stone burned, glowing hot red, and the last of Tha'en's blood a mist about the
air. He wrenched his hand away, crying, reeling, back into the snow on his backside, robes limp.
The flames were dying, a great roar, as the connection was lost. Seizing the moment, the third-born
leaned into the gate with all his pomp and circumstance, crying out again, the axe raised. He pushed all his
weight forward with a surge, as the soldiers cheered on after him.
There was a crack of thunder, fear replacing duty and honour, the men shielded their eyes, throwing
themselves backwards as the snow around the Gate cast itself high in the air.
Only the top half of General Third-Son Of Gyre had passed through the Gate. The rest of him lay
motionless, sticking out of the freshly fallen mounds of snow, a few feet from the stone, insides trailing out
from the foot of the broken Gate stone.
In the unwelcome silence, there were a few horrified gasps and cries, whipped away by the wind. The
Gate stone was black, smouldering rubble. Never to be used again.
Emese sought out Aleron with her Aura; the thunder had thrown the land around them into disarray. She
found him, half buried in the snow; she stumbled towards him over the white, red and black terrain.
"Lord Father! Lord Father!"
He was ashen under his scars; good eye rolling in the back of his scarred and pocked head, her presence
forgotten. She heard him choking back the words, furious whispers to himself. Frenzied mutterings.
"Gate..impossible..my blood should still have the power.."
"Lord Father!"
"What is it, child?! Stop staring you fool, come to my aid!"
She nodded, hands out, brushing his skin, starting with the gash on his forehead where he had struck it on
the side of the stone, moving to the broken leg and cuts and bruises. Once satisfied, she drew back, allowing
him room to stand, finally aware of the carnage around them.
Dead and blackened scrollcrafters, blood steaming in the cold wind, soldiers lying motionless around
them and half a third-born marking the spot where the Gate had finally been opened in so long. Only to
close again, with just a glimpse of the Human world in memory.
Not a single soldier had managed to follow the Disciples through.
No Eaolin army would march on the Humans today. Lord Father turned in silence towards his waiting
horse, galloping back to the Old Keep without a word to her.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

IN HER WORLD

Shani woke up the next morning after the club, head pounding.
She lay in bed for a few moments, trying to remember why she felt like shit. Then it all came rushing
back - the club, Benny, James, Pete being taken to the hospital and-
Shani groaned as a wave of nausea hit her. A horrible drunken blur. She staggered to the bathroom,
unceremoniously throwing up in the toilet bowl. Delightful.
Ten minutes later, she had cleaned herself up, showered and was sitting in the messy kitchen, a steaming
cup of coffee in hand, bread slowly blackening in the toaster. She reached for her phone and rattled off a text
to Pete, asking how he was. Another quarter of an hour and she had not yet received a reply.
She sighed, looking over at the poky corridor leading to Katie's room. She suspected she was in no fit
state to go to the party that afternoon. So. It was her against the world. She checked the clock. Her stomach
lurched. She was eating breakfast at half-past three in the afternoon. Shit, she had slept in far further than
hoped. She never slept that much. Not really.
The party was due to start in just under two hours. It was a barbecue and drinks. That was what Benny
had told her, right? She stood up from the table, walking over to Katie's door, tapping on it gently with her
knuckles.
She winced. They were bloodied, scarred. A wave of shame. She couldn't escape it.
"Katie? Are you still going to James' barbecue thing?"
She heard a weak reply drift from behind the door.
"No, I'm not, sorry. I'm so ill sorry. I already texted her to say I can't make it. Have a good time though."
Shani paused.
"Any news about Pete?", she finally asked.
"Yeah, he texted me. All discharged now, but he's gone back to his parents for the day."
"Oh good."
"Sorry about last night."
"It's OK. It's not your fault; we were all a bit hopeless, let's be honest. We got you into it."
Shani looked down at the floor, biting her lip.
"Oh OK. I just thought.."
She stalled.
"Never mind. I'll see you later."
"Bye," Katie whispered.
Back in the kitchen, she checked her phone for directions and reached for her coat, wolfing down burnt
toast and bolting down the stairs.
It seemed, thankfully, Mrs. Brown was out for the day.
She strode down the street, the thumping in her head softened ever so slightly thanks to the two Nurofen
now floating around in her system.
Oh, the pull of bed, but Benny was waiting.
She still felt considerably lousy. Had she actually drunk enough to warrant this much pain?
There was no way she was going to miss today though, not for the entire world. She wasn't going to miss
her.
She had reached the bus stop. Now she waited in anticipation. The party was in the more upmarket
residential areas of Bournemouth, just a short walk from the centre and the high street. Fancy.
 Finally, the bus pulled up and Shani counted through the last of her change from the night before. Just
enough to cover the single fare.
She guessed she'd have to walk home. But how would she get to work come Monday?
Damn. She should have thought better.
She gazed out of the bus window. Everything seemed so vibrant and loud, which only served to intensify
her migraine further. She closed her eyes, listening out for the stop.
Eventually, she was standing on the corner of Martel Close, where the party was taking place. Palm trees
and delicate flower arrangements, the pavements seemed to glisten in the afternoon sun.
It was a far cry from Shani's street, which was often rubbish-strewn, discarded fried chicken topped with
the occasional flourish of tape that read POLICE - DO NOT CROSS.
Did Benny even come from a wealthy background? She didn't seem the type. Or maybe - in fact- she
realised -much more likely-, this was James' house. That had to be it. In her idealistic little mind, the concept
hadn't even occurred. Obvious, really.
Enthusiasm now slightly dampened, she trotted up the path to the address Katie had given her. She rang
the doorbell, peering into the window out of the corner of her eye. People chatting indoors, food and drink in
hand. Over the fence, she caught a glimpse a large barbecue steaming away, as the smell of burgers and
bacon filled her nostrils. In her delicate state, it was sickening; she willed her breakfast to stay firmly in her
stomach. Suddenly realised that it was completely the wrong time of year for a barbecue. Very odd, when
you thought about it.
The door opened. Benny was stood there with a warm glow in her eye, dressed in an unseasonal floral
summer dress, ornate flower in her hair. A red pendant swung from her neck. It looked expensive. Shani
wondered if James had bought it for her.
Benny seemed to light up in the sunlight, as it streamed from behind Shani, her scarlet hair seemed to
glow, the edges set alight.
"Benny!" Shani said.
"Shani! Hi again!", she replied.
Shani smiled, showing too many teeth. James had materialised behind his wife.
"Come in! Come in!"
Shani followed her into the hallway, a mass of marble and oak. James skulked behind the pair of them,
brandishing a hand.
"Can I get you a drink?"
Shani nodded.
"Just a soft drink, please. I had quite a night of it yesterday."
James' face grew serious.
"Katie texted me about it. How awful."
Shani gave a nod of approval.
"It was pretty bad. Katie told me he was a bit better."
"How about you? Are you OK?"
The question threw her. She paused. How much did he know?
"Yeah, I'm all right."
"He doesn't help himself though, does he?"
Benny frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, all that stuff he was up to in the club with those other men. A lot of people don't want to see that,
you know what I mean?"
She was looking at her husband; eyebrows raised.
 "So what, Pete was asking to get beaten up?"
He froze, before composing his self, laughing, a short, high bark. “No! I just meant a lot of regular
people..oh, never mind, never mind! Forget I said anything! Now, soft drinks! Lemonade OK Shani?"
Shani nodded. "Yeah, that'll be fine."
The doorbell rang a light musical tone. James threw Benny an apologetic look.
"Babe, could you get that for Shani? Got to see who that is. Make yourself at home, Shani."
Benny nodded, turning to her as James went to the door.
"I'll just grab you a drink."
And she bustled away, backside slinking from side to side, two cheeks wrapped tight against the floral
dress. The perfect housewife, Shani thought. Leaving Shani very much alone amongst a bunch of people she
had never met. Benny returned soon thankfully, handing her a glass of sprite, before making herself scarce
with a smile and what was probably a lie about loving her top.
Shani decided to float around.
Spotting a group of people laughing, she poised herself at the edge of the group. One of James entourage,
a plummy, bald man telling a hilariously unfunny anecdote about a recent business trip to Scotland.
"Can you believe it?!" The crowd tittered. Shani attempted a half-arsed effort to join in, before just
smiling politely.
She'd peaked too early, she decided. It was almost forty-five minutes of waiting for the other guests to
turn up, as James and Benny dashed back and forth, offering drinks, carrying coats.
Benny swanned back around, her eyes clamping back on her, a plastic cup filled with a modest amount of
coke in hand.
"Thought you'd fancy another."
"Cheers"
"So..how are you enjoying the job?"
And Shani was about to answer, and tell Benny in no uncertain terms just how much she hated it and
wanted to quit, when James appeared wordlessly behind his wife, hand around her wrist, pulling her
attention away in an instant.
"Babe, can you go and check on the lamb burgers for me? I think they're almost done, just need a second
opinion."
Benny turned wordlessly off towards the garden door. James smiled at Shani and began to prepare more
drinks. Perplexed and a little annoyed, Shani walked over to a sofa in the corner of the room and plonked
herself down, examining the rest of the growing crowd.
They must have been friends of James' maybe from outside the Uni, she didn't recognise any of them.
They were all smartly dressed as far as she could tell - a lot of labels on display.
A man was looking at her strangely. Intensely, even. Long, dark hair, sitting in the corner dis-
interestedly, smartphone in hand, tapping away.
He was looking at her. Was something wrong? Did she have something on her face? How could she
check without drawing attention to herself?
She looked away. Back down at the floor. The man got up quickly and made for the kitchen. Weird. She
looked over into the adjacent hallway and recognised some of Katie and James’ friends from the University
coming in through the door.
Shani found she was able to relax, at least a little more. A social divide seemed to be forming in the
living room; the t-shirts and jeans squashed up against chinos, cocktail dresses and waistcoats in the
suddenly overcrowded sitting room. She glanced over, through to the kitchen.
Benny was frustratedly trying to open a tin of olives over on the table. She seemed stressed out. Maybe
things between her and James weren't going so well as this little soiree might have said.
 She felt sick with the shame as soon as she'd experienced the glee at the thought. Benny would never love
her back. As much as she wished it, as much as she cried and thought and dreamed.
But that simple fact didn't make it any easier. Shani watched as she sprinted to get more pringles at
James' behest.
She sipped her drink. She'd leave it an hour before she went home.

Two hours later and the party seemed to be in full swing. Shani bit into a hot dog and recoiled as it burnt
her mouth and tongue.
She reached for her drink and washed it all down.
A beautiful girl in the corner giggled. Shani smiled nervously and reached for the bowl of crisps on the
table. Little sense in letting them go to waste.
Another throbbing pain surged through her skull, and she clenched her eyes shut, massaging her temples.
The Nurofen didn't seem to be doing its job. She wolfed down the rest of her food and walked out into
the sunlight. Outside, the fresh air would do her some good, she decided. Her stomach protested.
She looked around the vast garden, complete with a small swimming pool on the far side. James'
affluence seemed to be in her face wherever she went. Thankfully the rain was keeping bay..bit nippy
though.
A tall willow tree drooped and swayed in the centre of the garden - under its shade, James and more party
guests had gathered around.
The bald posh one was leaping up and down, his expensive jacket struggling to keep up. James was
singing along with some similarly inebriated friends. He belted out a slurred rendition of God Save The King
at the top of his voice for all to hear.
Shani couldn't see Benny anywhere. She doubled back inside. Nowhere in the house either. Strange. It
was getting dark. Another ripple of pain burst through her head. Suddenly, the entire party, the music, the
chatter and the smell of cooking food, seemed overpowering.
She headed back through to the garden.
Off to the side, tall sculptured hedges surrounded a little path, leading to a separate, smaller plot of grass.
Perfect. She decided to move over there to clear her head, get away from it all for a few minutes.
James and his friends broke into a chorus of You're Not Welcome On My Ship as she walked down the
winding gravel path. This second garden was quieter, the noise from the party muffled behind the thick
hedges. Two small electric lanterns were losing a battle against the encroaching night. Shani felt a little
better already.
A single swing chair sat in the centre, between two statues carved in marble. The chair was not empty,
however. Benny sat there, swinging softly forward and backwards, listening to the raucous singing
overhead, wine bottle in hand. Only the dregs now, the rest was only remembered on her lips.
Shani moved towards her slowly.
"Benny..are you alright?"
She threw Shani a weary smile, head bobbing.
She'd been crying, eyes puffy and red. Shani could see that much.
"James is doing my head in. They won't shut up."
She gestured in the location of the noise.
"It'll be OK", Shani suggested, “besides I'm enjoying myself."
Benny looked pleasantly surprised.
"Really?"
"Yes", Shani lied.
And Benny was off crying again.
 "You're the first person to say that all day. I think a lot of people have already gone home. I mean, he
wanted a barbecue in fucking October, just because he was working all summer and missed out. It's freezing
and he's drunk and..He fucked it all up, as usual. I worked really hard on this."
She wiped her eyes, choking on her words.
"Hey.."
Shani didn't know what to do. Benny was always so..well, cheerful and confident. Not like this, not at all.
The singing grew louder. Benny sniffed, wiping her eyes, lightly kicking the grass.
"He'll have the neighbours round in a minute. Fucking idiot."
"It'll be OK."
"It's all been ruined."
"No! It's cool. I'm having a great time."
They both knew it was a lie.
Benny looked shrunken. Miserable.
Shani didn't know what to say or do. As usual. She thought about reaching over, putting her arm around
her shoulder. But, would that be the right thing to do?
She leaned in as if to comfort her when it happened. Benny moved in at the same moment, with a big
sob; she lumbered forward. The two were inches from each other. Shani could see each eyelash. Each tear.
For a brief moment, they were both staring into each other's eyes. Shani struggled to say something.
"Benny, hey like I said, I'm enjoying myself-"
And Benny leaned in. They touched lips, each pulling away from each other as it happened, startling the
other.
Benny's grey face turned more ashen. She was so soft. The taste of wine. They paused. And then they
went to town, out of some strange desperation. Benny's teeth gripped her lower lip, pulling gently, a soft
pain even as Shani's hands found her hair, stroking the soft back of her skull. She could taste her breath,
cheeks brushing wet skin against each other.
"Benny-"
"Shh."
"But-"
"I'm not blind you know."
"I'm sorry I-"
"Just shut up, Shani."
Shani's stomach swooped, even as Benny's hand teased her thigh. It found the rim of her skirt, teasing it
up her leg as she shuddered, reaching over herself past the floral dress-
"Benny?"
James Dawes. Half drunk and apoplectic, beer in hand, staring at the pair of them. Two guests behind
him, looks of amusement. One of them doubled up. Benny pushing her away, shrinking off the bench in an
instant.
"James, she-"
"What the fuck are you doing?"
And Shani was about to run.
About to leave and never come back. Maybe just keep on running.
Then it happened. She was gazing high into the sky, as the shadows of the moon began to blot out the
sun, the last light fleeing from around them.
No..what was she thinking? It was broad daylight. Wasn’t it?
This wasn't the sky. Not the one she knew. It was a cold winter day in Bournemouth. Overcast..Where
was she?
 The momentary contact with Benny was forgotten, lost like breaths in the air.
Everything was falling away. There was only Shani and the sky she didn't know.
Her head exploded with pain; she felt her body hit the floor, but it was all separating, distant, and numb.
It was like there was water in her ears, she heard Benny's voice cry out in shock, pleading drunkenly with
James to get an ambulance, yet it was all muffled as if being shouted across a vast space.
Floating in the eye of the sun, strange images danced and flashed amidst her, of a great white light,
surrounding her, engulfing everything.
The shadow of a moon across her eyes. Shani looked up and saw it-
She was writhing and burning, yet the white light surrounded her once more, she heard the whisper of
those voices. The ones from her dream again, as she plummeted far from everything, plunged into pitch
black.

IN ANOTHER WORLD

“The Gate…How..how could this happen? How could it not recognize me? But they are through. My
Disciples are arrived..”

IN HER WORLD

They were here, something in her head told her, even as another part of her brain told her to stop talking
such nonsense.
They had arrived. Whoever they were. They were here.

It was hot, so very, very hot, but if the Disciples felt it, none let it show. Sand. Sand, all around them.
And the top half of a dead Gyre third-born. A far cry from the snowy mountains they had been in moments
earlier. A desert.
They had just regained their demeanour after all - traveling past the Gate was an ordeal in itself.
Attention was now focused on the group of Eaolin sweating in front of them, in peculiar clothes and with the
barest of subservience on display.
Familiar, but strange. The Eaolin of the Protectorate. Their leader had knelt, thankfully. Though perhaps,
Wolff thought, not with an entirely proper sense of decorum, in the thick swathes of sand that surrounded
them.
They had lost his attention, as he glanced down, brushing the light grains off of his peculiar garments. No
cloaks, or skins. Light, strange fabrics. But not silk. Human clothes. His Iirebos was strange, tinted with an
accent they couldn't place.
"Disciples of Lord Father Aleron, I welcome you. Thank the Great One for your safe passage from the
Homeworld. We have transportation and shelter for you all, to aid your purpose here, whatever that may be.
I trust your journey through the Gate has not fatigued you. If I may be so bold, honoured Disciples–I believe
an army was to follow..?"
Malkyn scowled.
 "What place is it of yours to consult on our health or ask us of our armies? We are Disciples of the
Chosen, lest you forget."
"Humblest apologies, Lady Malkyn, and my other, honoured Lord Disciples. It was not my intention to
question. I am, in your presence, the Eaolin, Daem. Oh, it is a joy to say that name! We in the Protectorate
have taken to using our Human names, even amongst ourselves in some cases, in the name of security."
Wolff frowned. A Human name for one of their own? A flatterer at that. Lord Father would be most
displeased. Daem was not an unfamiliar name either.
"How many Daems have passed before you?"
"I am the seventeenth Daem, the records say. My father, the sixteenth, served Lord Father in the
Homeworld while I did my duty here in the guise of the Human, Rufus King. It was only recently that the
Daem name became my own."
Wolff nodded. A Daem had been a general in the war against Thaen's Redcloaks if memory served. He
had passed, not too long ago. A war-hardened old man, destined to die on the battlefield but who had passed
silently in his sleep. He'd never heard of any descendants.
"I was sorry to hear of your father's death."
"As was I. Though the news was not without value. It was a privilege to be finally able to take a name
other than some Human one. He was an old man when I left for this world; I knew I would not see him
again. I understand he lived his last days in comfort."
Malkyn gestured to the men behind Daem.
"And these men of yours, do they have names also?"
"No, my Lady. They are all lower-born and bastards. There are many among the Protectorate's ranks that
have never earned their names. Though, of course, they too have taken up Human ones, in the interests of
assimilating, of course."
Malkyn raised an eyebrow at that.
"A Human name for them all? Even the whorespawn and the half-castes? How depraved."
"I am afraid my Lady must prepare herself for much worse. Humanity's depravations are...far reaching.
My men are on hand to aid you, if you require it, if not, we shall leave you be."
Malkyn considered her options, glancing around at the vast dusty space.
They knew this terrain, at least in the Homeworld, but here..
"Where are we?” Crow asked.
"In the Human world, you mean?"
"Yes, in the Human world!"
"The Sahara. That is..a desert, my Lord."
"I can see that. Do all Humans live in this heat?"
"No. The Gate sits in a place that Humans cannot live. Where they would rarely look. This one was
buried under half a mile of sand. It has not been used for some years."
"And never will again. The link is destroyed, the stone broken in the Homeworld."
"So it seems, judging by the state of that half-Gyre over there. How do you intend to return?"
"This is none of your concern."
"My Lord is wise."
Wolff took step forward, feet uneven on the sand.
"We shall go with you. You shall direct us to suitable transport and shelter so we can continue our
journey."
"As you wish."
The sneer was far from Daem's lip, but Wolff didn't miss the glint in his eyes and scowled as one of his
men, swathed in hairless black furs, indiscernible under the layers, gestured to them.
 "King, we're ready to ride. Are they coming with us or what?"
His Iirebos was different, less formal, so accented and broken that Wolff struggled to keep up with it. He
hadn't even bowed in acknowledgement of the Disciples. Not even nodded.
Wolff was tired and hungry; he would have gladly overlooked this breach in reverence, as he suspected
Crow and Bezek might have too. But he heard Malkyn's blade slide out of its sheathe and the man's gasp of
confusion before she tore open his stomach with a scream of outrage, spinning away, shrieking at Daem.
"Insult! Insult! I am insulted by your servant, Daem!"
He shrank into the sandy floor writhing in shock, before becoming a doubled up corpse still trying to
understand what he had done wrong to upset the girl. She kicked the dead man, spattering her shoes.
"You...dare? Dare..to..speak..in our presence, uninvited, worm?!"
The warmth of his entrails made bloodied grit. She gave the corpse one final kick and slunk back to join
her fellow Disciples, breathing heavily, eye manic. The other men shrunk back, muttering in their own
Human languages, whispers in the shriek of the warm wind.
For a second, unease flickered on Daem's face, though he kept his nerve, hands firmly at his side, away
from the sword on his belt, before sinking into a lower bow. His men followed suit. The other Disciples
stood aside. Malkyn's temper was best left unchallenged, as they knew.
"I apologise unreservedly, my Lady. Many in the Protectorate are unschooled in proper etiquette. Why,
he even forgot to address me by my true name! It will be dealt with."
"This was an insult. How dare your men approach me? It has been paid in blood, and you have lost a
servant. Make it known that we are not the Human faeces you surround yourself in."
"As you wish."
She turned around, calming herself, wiping the short blade on the surface of the dune. Crow crinkled his
nose at the smell of the disembowelled corpse in the heat.
"It seems our tongue has been butchered by the Protectorate. I couldn't even understand what he was
saying."
Daem barely acknowledged the remark.
"Apologies, Lord Crow. It is hard to preserve our kind's language, so far from the Homeworld and with
such perverse influences. I assure you, my own Iirebos has never wavered."
"You speak most eloquently", Malkyn said viciously. “Even for one who has hidden themselves from the
war so comfortably in this world."
Daem brushed the remark aside.
"My Lady's compliment is most welcome. The doonebagiis are waiting."
"I don't understand your words."
"Apologies, I forget myself. A transport of sorts, my Lady. It is called a dune buggy. For use on sand."
"Human transport?” Malkyn asked, with a hint of danger in her voice.
"We have a long way to travel. Horses here are unsuited to this climate. There are creatures called camels
that we do not have in the Homeworld. They are amusing enough, but they are slow, not like the sand beasts
you know. If this is not to my Lady's satisfaction, I can direct you to the path on foot."
"No matter. The Great One guides us. Therefore, he has brought these for our use. We shall ride
these..carriages you speak of."
The men were whispering to each other, stealing glances at Malkyn and the cooling corpse on the ground,
already covered with new sand in the dusty wind. Others pointed covertly at the Disciples’ faces,
whispering.
Wolff had little doubt about the nature of their observations; he pulled the hood a little closer over his
scars. It was not often that he had been made to feel like a freak show. He did not like it. Daem directed his
hands in the direction of a peculiar noise, a low, grumbling sound from over the gold-topped hills.
 "My men arrive. Allow me to escort you."
The carriages were not carriages at all, Wolff realised, but beasts of metal, rolling on great wheels, with a
rider atop each one. The Disciples drew back guardedly. Bezek gave a small cry, shrinking into his massive
frame.
"Wha..is..? No.."
He shrank away, face in hands, peering out from the cracks in his fingers. Crow comforted him, clearly
wary of the dangers of letting Bezek become upset or agitated.
"Calm yourself Bezek. These creatures mean us no harm."
Daem's voice fought a losing battle to hold back the derision.
"There is nothing to fear, my Lord. These things are as dead as the sand under your feet or the swords at
your side. These are tools, nothing more, for us to command. My men shall assist you in riding them."
"Fear?” retorted Wolff coldly, trying to sound as tough as he could as he watched one of the men
dismount the creature suspiciously. “Disciples have no fear, Daem. Of that I can assure you."
He strode forward, gesturing at one of Daem's men.
"You there. Help me on."
"Best if you ride passenger, my Lord", Daem interjected quickly. “To ride this, it takes some time to
master."
"Then I will master it as I go."
"I am sorry. I must insist. These Human machines, they are untrustworthy. They will only let you ride
them if you have earned their trust. It takes years.."
"As you wish."
He clambered up, the man seated in front. Following his lead, the other Disciples relented, approaching.
In a few minutes, they were all astride the metal beasts, even Bezek, whose sheer weight threatened to
topple the creature backwards, much to the discomfort of the front rider.
Daem was riding solo; he gave a final wave to the Disciples as he leant forward.
"We have a camp set up eighty miles to the South. A few hours ride from here."
"Miles? What do you mean?"
"Apologies. A unit of measurement. Human. The Homeworld does not yet have such things."
"You seek to confuse us on purpose!"
"Not at all, my Lord! Come!"
There was a roar, and he was away, galloping on the dunes. Wolff tried to keep the panic at bay as the
beast came to life beneath him with a deep growl, screaming as it lurched forward, across the plains,
impossibly fast, acrid fumes belching from its behind.
It moved so quick that for the briefest of moments, Wolff forgot all of his teachings and grabbed onto the
driver in front, clinging on as they were propelled across the terrain. He could barely hear his thoughts over
the snarling of the beast.
The sand and the rocks sped past, becoming blurs, great streaks. Wolff caught another glimpse of his
brothers and sister as they pelted over the darkening horizon, blood red sun setting ahead of them. It got cold
quickly. They clutched on, as equally fascinated and terrified of this journey as he. It had been Dawn when
they left their world. Here, it was Dusk. A day had been lost in the blink of an eye.
Finally, they arrived, heralded by the sight of tents, strange colours on dull sand, ruffling in the wind.
Daem signalled to his men to bring the metal monsters around, they came to a juddering halt in front of
the camp; dismounting, the Disciples’ white robes sodden from the sweat and shivering from the
encroaching chill in the air.
If Crow hadn't been scared of the machines before, he certainly wasn't now, voicing the awe that the
others had the grace to contain.
 "We moved so quickly! Faster than the wind! Why, if we had these in the Homeworld, the journey to the
Old Keep would be nothing!
Malkyn sniffed through her bare nostrils, the nose long gone. “Your admiration is worrying, Crow. These
tools of Oneless Humans are but sin. If the Great One wished us to have such things in our world, he would
have created them in his image. They are not worthy of our passage."
Out of the corner of his eye, Wolff could just sense Daem suppressing a smirk as he spoke.
"I apologise, My Lady. This world is plagued with such sinful things. It is the price we pay for our
survival."
Malkyn nodded tersely.
"Enough of your sly tongue. Take us inside and to our quarters. We have travelled far and need rest."
"As my Lady requires."
The man swaggered into the tent, beckoning them to follow. They were not the tents that Wolff knew. No
thick furs and canvas draped over a pole but woven from strange fabrics, as light as silk, somehow kept up
by tiny ropes and a skeleton of metal. Familiar, yet very different.
Wolff was the last to enter, taking one last glance at the wasteland of sand and very little else around
them.
The world that, save for its inhabitants, seemed so much like his own.
If the unnatural journey to this place of rest had taught him anything, it was that the world beyond would
be very different to the one he knew in the coming days.

The taxi driver was unamused with his newest customer. He didn't like to ask questions, but he was now
sincerely regretting picking up this odd Northern geezer from Honiton. Massive guitar case too, you'd barely
fit it in a regular taxi. No not a guitar. What was that instrument called?
A taxi fare from Devon, this time of day on a weekend bordered on ridiculous. Surely he could have just
got the train?
To make matters worse, the man was intent on giving him vague directions rather than a simple location.
He just seemed to be making it up as he went along. It had been that way for the last four hours. They were
now somewhere in Dorset.
The driver growled and pressed the speaker button.
"Are you still wanting me to go down this road mate?"
"No, sorry, there's been a change of plan. Turn around here and take a left back on that road we passed."
The driver swallowed his displeasure. After all, the large sum of cash the man had handed him had
sweetened the deal. That trip to France with the family was a lot closer now than when he had got up that
morning.
He looked up in the centre mirror and did a double take. The man had a sword! He was holding it length
ways in his lap, just over his folded gut. Head bowed closely to it, as if listening intently to it, like a doctor
surveying a heartbeat.
The case was propped up next to him, half open. No instrument. But an even bigger sword, nested inside
a specially hollowed out compartment. Two swords!
The driver drew an intake of breath, not un-quietly. He had a lunatic in his car! He was going to die.
Some crazy with a sword was going to cut his head off. He felt himself start to sweat under his hat.
Perhaps aware of his reaction, the man looked up.
 "You finished gawking? No questions, all right? Not what I'm paying you for. And relax; I'm not going to
kill you. I want you to take a U-turn and go down that street we passed on the right."
His attention was still entirely on the blade he cradled in his arms, head down. Like he was..listening to
it.
Nutter. Bloody nutter.
The driver nodded slowly, swallowed and pulled the car around. He felt the wad of cash in his pocket, by
his leg. Lots of fifties.
Best not to argue.
 CHAPTER NINE

"Can I go home now?"

The question was a tad impertinent, but Shani was tired, ashamed and had a killer headache. The nurse
barely looked up at her.
"One more hour of observation, then you can go. Eat your sandwich."
A limp smattering of tuna between two hard slices of bread had been brought round five minutes earlier.
Shani couldn't even look at it.
"I'm not hungry."
"Very well."
The nurse pursed her lips and took the sandwich away. Shani squirmed on the bed. She didn't want to be
here. Thankfully she couldn't remember the ambulance trip, or who had even accompanied her. James
Dawes, most probably. Benny, perhaps not. That would have been one hell of an awkward drive over.
A seizure, they'd said. Right after James had found them. Lips locked together. Yes. During the badly
planned barbecue. That was right.
She'd found herself lying back on the mildewed grass, trembling and shaking, clammy and cold, chest
rising and falling as the shock had begun to subside. She'd remembered something on that lawn. Yes.
Someone..they..
She tried to recall it, drudge it up from the depths of her skull, but strange images, unfamiliar and
terrifying, only floated in front of her.
She clenched her teeth in the hospital bed, remembering James Dawes, kneeling next to her, playing the
hero in the face of infidelity, head draped in front of her chest, shouting out drunken, panicked instructions
to Benny, who had yelled back drunken, panicked lies.
Shani sat up slowly, blood rushing through her ears, head thick with dizziness
A fit? Shani didn't have fits. She never got sick. Ever. Never. Some GP had given her the once over. No
need for an operation or surgery. Just a fit. No history of epilepsy, but sometimes, rarely it could happen.
Possibly, due to extreme stress. Bad diet, perhaps. He didn't really have any answers, but he was proficient
in overcoming that hurdle. Blood tests scheduled. More lost time off work.
Extreme stress. Yes, maybe that was it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. People were going to find out.
People were going to know. She felt clammy. Shook her head. No. James Dawes would keep this quiet. Just
a stupid drunken mistake. That was all it ever could be.
The nurse came round again, brandishing a thermometer.
"Just need to check your temperature. Open wide, please."
Shani did. The nurse shoved the device in her mouth, taking the reading with a trained nonchalance.
"Seems fine. OK, just lie back and relax. I'll let you know when you can go home. Are you sure there's no
one I can call?"
"No."
She shrugged at that, and went back to doing her rounds. Shani lay back and sifted through her muddied
thoughts. Trees. Yes, a forest. And a courtyard. A floor of stone. Strange dreams, new places.
She remembered the taste of Benny, even as she tried to forget. Heard James Dawes ranting and
screaming, beer in hand. His friends, snickering. She couldn't get it out of her head, even as she tried to
distract herself with the murmuring of the television set in the far corner of the room, or the conversation
between the nurses and patients. Clenched her fists so hard, her nails cut the skin.
Finally, it was time to go home and the nurse was more than happy to get rid of her. She didn't have the
fare for a bus, let alone the taxi, so Shani walked the half hour trek back to the flat.
 Mrs. Brown didn't murmur as she made it up the stairs. Katie spotted her from the living room as she got
in, but didn't say a word. Pete still wasn't home. Shani didn't miss the phone in Katie's hand, curled up on the
sofa in front of The X Factor. Frantic texting.
She shut the door of her bedroom and went to bed without a word.
It was about midnight when her phone waked her, vibrating rudely on the dresser by her bed. The
customary two beats of a text message. She snatched it blearily off the surface. Didn't recognise the number.

Hi Shani. Are you OK? – Benny

Shani paused. And rattled off a reply.

Yeah. Nothing serious, just a funny turn. Doctor says it's fine. You?

The reply took five minutes, as Shani tried to keep her eyes open.

Oh, that's good to hear.

How was she meant to respond to that? She went with the banal response.

I'm sorry about what happened earlier. It was just a stupid mistake.

And then it came.

Don't be sorry. Speak soon.

And now Shani didn't know what the fuck to think. She frowned, smiled and turned over.

The sand winds in the night had subsided somewhat, burying the tents in the stuff, so that it had been a
struggle to get out in the morning.
The Disciples had slept fitfully, that much they could agree on, shrugging off the fatigue of the journey
and the drain of the climate.
It was time for the death prayer to the Great One, before they set out again. They all had the seals and the
task of finding the Usurper would soon be underfoot.
To find him in a world of sin and Humanity. Being in command, the kill was Wolff’s right, as Lord
Father had deemed. There was still some consternation among his fellow Disciples for that right.
"Let us begin the prayer", Malkyn commanded, drawing the dagger from inside her white robes.
They followed her example, each unsheathing their own blades. Malkyn closed her eyes, beginning the
chant, letting the Aura grow thick about her tongue.
"Great One. We are servants of your child, the King of Dawn. Disciples of our Lord Father Aleron. We
offer to you a prayer and gift of blood, in return for safe passage and the death of our mutual enemy."
Wolff brought the tip of the knife to his wrist. He'd done the prayer a thousand times before, but could
never quite shake off the dread of the bleed as he recited the verses.
 "The gift of pain. The tribute of flesh. The offering of blood."
With scarcely hidden gritted teeth, Wolff carved away the skin of his forearm, allowing a liberal offering
of red to stain the dirt. The open wound bathed in the warm breeze of the air, as he opened up the flesh to the
Great One's embrace.
His arm throbbed; he yearned for a scroll as the other Disciples finished their chanting, offerings sprayed
about the ground. Malkyn brought out the tattered cloth from its box. A single stain of blood, no bigger than
a fingerprint, browned and dried into the fabric. It had been in Lord Father's possession for more than two
years.
The blood of the Usurper, kept safe for this purpose alone. The death prayer would lead them to him. In
turn, they all soaked their blood into the rag. Their blood was now tied to his own. Already, they could feel
him on the wind. They knew, instinctively, where they had to go.
Once the ritual was finished, it was time to depart. They moved quickly to the far tent, discarding the
white robes, flecked with scarlet. They would now don the clothes of Humans, chosen from the faded, tatty
selection Daem's men had provided, ill fitting and unwashed as they were.
Daem had told them it was dangerous to stay together. The Humans would notice their faces and customs
even more in a group and the Protectorate's biggest struggle was to evade detection. So, they had agreed to
split up. Find refuge with the Protectorate and let Wolff make the first move. Return to the Gate and go
home, once the job was done.
They did not say goodbye to each other, borne away in opposite directions on the strange, metal beasts.
They knew they would meet again, Wolff reassured himself, once the mission was over and the Usurper
walked among the dead.

Rufus King, or Daem to his Eaolin friends in the Protectorate, was having an exquisite dinner at La
Mouette, one of the finest restaurants that Los Angeles had to offer. It was a small establishment in a
shabbier part of the city, tucked well out of the way of the larger, more commercial food ventures.
Exclusively non-scene.
Having polished off the liver parfait, he was salivating at the prospect of the duck breasts stuffed with
almonds that he could smell cooking in the kitchen.
It had been a handful of hours now since Daem had left the Disciples in the desert and taken a chartered
jet back to the DKA. He was still finding fucking sand in his clothes. But he hadn't been able to sleep. The
jet lag was getting to him, Eaolin were more sensitive to these things than the Humans.
So, he'd decided to eat instead. The restaurant catered to the political and cultural elite and thus it was
always on call. Fifteen minutes after making his reservation, he had strolled down from his apartment to find
a table laid and the staff ready to serve.
Outside, it was a mild Three AM morning on the streets of Los Angeles. Across the street, a few maniacs
slaved away behind the glass windows of a twenty-four hour gym. Oh, the vain fools.
Laurent, the chef, was a genius, for a Human. Though that wasn't saying much. Food from the
Homeworld was a luxury in itself, with the famine that Lord Father seemed more than happy to ignore. No
Eaolin would ever consider the potential for art in food. The idea of food as anything other than food?
Preposterous. Food to his kind was fuel for war and survival. Daem's belt was straining under his bespoke
suit. He had been lean in the Homeworld. Here, he was fat and content.
 Daem shuddered as he remembered the slop he had once been served at his father's dining hall, for the
first three decades of his life. Stews and all sorts, taken from animals hunted in the forest by the peasants and
cut up and roasted in stone ovens, put into pots over fires. The meat was either too fresh that it was bloodied,
or rotting. Big tankards of beer, because the water always carried the disease.
The smell of that dining hall had been nauseating. Those people shit in buckets just outside the hall
where food was served, for fuck's sake. He'd never forget it as long as he lived. It had been a long time ago,
when he was merely First-Son-Of-Daem, a sickly, resentful child sitting at his father's high table.
That sour old man, the Daem before him, had taken his sweet time dying. In between that, some light
treason, exile in the Human world and forced membership of the Protectorate had been the best thing that
had ever happened to him.
Daem often wondered how he'd survived without all the mod cons of life here. Oh, for the day he could
take a microwave back to the Homeworld through the Gate and reliably inform his kind just how backward
they all were. The idea that his life here was seen as some sort of punishment by his people was a joke he'd
never quite stopped laughing at.
Daem spotted Laurent in the gap in the kitchen door as it swung open, the waitress bringing more wine.
Sweating away over the stove, fighting back the fatigue. Daem was considering whether his talents could be
put to more use on a one-to-one basis.
It wouldn't be the first Human he'd taken into his service. Whether or not they wanted to work for him
never came into it. Slavery to Eaolin was nothing to write home about, after all. The Humans seemed to get
the hump about it for some reason.
He nodded gratefully at the pretty young woman who carried the drinks on the silver tray. Immaculately
made up, not a golden hair out of place, in a pristine waitress uniform. Los Angeles was always ready to
serve, whatever hour it was.
Daem had given his chosen host country a lot of thought when he arrived through the Gate. He had
wanted the biggest, the most powerful and most feared nation in this world. Why settle to conquer anything
else? The answer was the Dutch Kingdom of America of course. He'd been accompanied by enough loyal
followers from the Homeworld who'd been happy to employ their unique talents elsewhere, outside of Lord
Father's jurisdiction. His actions in the Homeworld had made him realise his lust for riches, and a whole
world was here to be conquered. Exploited. Yes. He liked that word. It was a nice, Human word. Rolled off
the tongue. Exploited.
Shame that impertinent little man Yarnaeth had been assigned the DKA as well. How much easier it
would have been if he'd been shipped off to try and take over some paltry little third world state. Who could
bother with working in the Protectorate's name? Infiltrating and running the FIA just so Lord Father could
invade the Homeworld with ease whenever the often-promised time came?
It was exhausting just to watch. No, better to line his own pockets for the day when Lord Father did
finally manage to get that long-promised army through that Gate.
Daem's cell phone was murmuring on the table. He recognised the number. That fucking idiot Festen. He
considered leaving it to keep ringing, but thought better. Laughable as it was, the man was in charge. He
took a quick glance at the surrounding restaurant. They knew better than to pry.
Iirebos would be fine here. He took the call.
"This is Daem."
"Who is Daem?"
"Master Festen, we're on a secure line."
"Who is Daem?"
Daem sighed and sped through the introduction as quickly as he could.
 "IamnamelessinHisembracebutaservantoftheChosen,LordFatherprotectorofourpeopleAlone,Iamno
onebutwiththeblessingoftheLordFatherAleronmyChosenChildIamwholeIasubjectseekentry."
"Enough! Can you perform a Diwoeth?"
Daem tried not to laugh. Yes, perform a blood ritual in a restaurant with more Michelin stars than staff, in
plain view of the street.
"I am afraid not, Master Festen. We shall have to make do on the phone."
No fucking way he was slicing himself open for the scrawny waste of skin anyway. Festen couldn't quite
shake the annoyance in his voice from having to stoop so low to use the Human device.
"Fine! We shall speak briefly then. The Disciples. You are monitoring their progress?"
The waitress brought over the long-awaited duck breasts. Daem could smell the garlic and fat. His
stomach purred in anticipation.
"I have men with them now. Taking them wherever they wish to go."
"Did they say what their purpose here was?"
"No, Master Festen. Only that we were to assist them and not to ask questions. I expect you have heard
about..the army. Or rather the distinct lack of it."
"It is not important. Lord Father has instructed me that the army is no longer a cause for concern. You'll
teach yourself Daem, that not asking questions is a very sensible course of action. The Gate is damaged, I
understand?"
The moody beggar.
"It is a pile of rubble, last I checked. So the one called Wolff told me. The bloodtalks confirmed it."
"I see. Unfortunate."
This was the closest Festen ever came to small talk. He had an order for Daem, no doubt. He supposed it
was best to tackle it head on.
"Is there anything else I can assist you with?"
"I want you to personally oversee the Disciples. Fly out as soon as you can. Meet Wolff. Make sure he
has everything."
The duck was getting cold; he frowned, sneaking a chunk, trying not to sound like he was eating over the
line.
"But..I just came from meeting them! They're with my men."
"You're sending lowerborn and no-names to accompany the Disciples of Lord Father? His sacred Burned
Children? If he hears of this, he shall be furious, Daem! I don't need to remind you of Lord Father's temper -
or theirs! I understand Lady Malkyn has already killed one of your people."
"Yes. It seems she didn't take kindly to his manner of speech."
"Go there tonight. Whatever mission the Disciples have been issued, whatever their purpose in this world
that would see Lord Father go to such lengths to get them here..we must make sure it succeeds. The
Disciples will be reporting directly back to him!"
Well well. Festen was nervous. Suddenly he wasn't the only man with Lord Father's ear in the
Homeworld. These Disciples must have seemed mighty threatening.
Daem decided to lie. No way he was jetting off again. Fuck. That.
"I understand Master Festen. I will endeavour to meet Wolff as soon as possible."
"Very good. Goodbye."
Festen put down the phone. Never one for making idle conversation. But he hadn't hung up. Daem could
hear him breathing on the other end. He rolled his eyes and ended the call himself.
Daem made another quick call to one of his best men. Festen's phone call had irritated him. He needed
cheering up. A nice present to get his head straight. He watched Laurent through the door, preparing the next
course.
 Tomorrow the chef would wake up with a brand new, distinctly non-Human employer, somewhere far
from here. Rufus King had a lovely holiday retreat and plenty of guests who needed entertaining all year
round. Plus he could fly him back to L.A for the occasional spot of brunch.
Not that Daem - or rather Rufus King - would be paying him anything of course. He'd kill Laurent once
he got bored of him, but for now, the idea of having his own personal chef was just too wonderful not to act
on.
It was so important to have nice things.
 CHAPTER TEN

The highest that Wolff had ever travelled was to the peaks of the neighbouring mountain ranges of the
Homeworld to the South of Yhael, three days on horseback from the Old Keep.
His younger self had marvelled at the colours of the sky, blood red rays bursting out, ripping apart the
dull blacks and greys of the encroaching snow clouds. Above it all, a path of clear blue sky, spiralling out to
infinity above him.
It had been some years before, when tasked by Lord Father to track down a group of Redcloaks striking
at their war convoys to the front. That mission had gone smoothly enough and all the necessary blood had
been spilled. A whole world away now.
Back then, Wolff had stood on the top of that mountain and seen that he was truly atop the heavens.
Above him there was only the Afterlands and the One's embrace. So, to be so much higher in this strange
mechanical Human creature, suspended in mid-air in the clouds was both sobering and invigorating.
A plane, one of the Protectorate men had called it when he'd asked. Malkyn would have been very vocal
in her condemnation. Wolff didn't know what to make of it either.
If the heavens had not been close before, then Wolff felt for certain that he might catch a glimpse of the
Afterlands.
Though the Human world may very well have not had any, Oneless as they all were.
The wound from the Blood Prayer burned. More images floated in front of his eyes, strange,
disconnected symbols and shapes that were Human in origin. Faces.
One face becoming clearer, more frequent in his thoughts, but still indiscernible. Like him, somehow. All
the visions had been painstakingly written down and recorded by the Protectorate Eaolin with their strange
instruments, played back by some design.
He knew nothing of what it could mean. He briefly touched on Malkyn, Crow and Bezek in his thoughts.
They were also being spirited away to this island, to aid the search, staying with willing host families.
Protectorate Eaolin.
Wolff did not envy whichever household would be entertaining Malkyn. The other Protectorate members
accompanying Wolff had barely spoken a word to him. He knew they were scared of the burns and the scars.
He'd noticed it before, when they'd arrived.
After a life of living in the Old Keep where the burns were never remarked upon or caused any noticeable
aversion among his serving staff, Wolff did not like this sudden..tendency to attract sideways glances and
whispers.
Malkyn would gut them where they stood. He wondered what fate had undoubtedly befallen her own
entourage of unschooled Protectorate members. Bezek knew no better obviously and Crow...well Crow did
not have the luxury. The skinchanger would never know the feeling, something that made Wolff quite
envious. Though of course, he would never admit as such.
There was a call from the front of the flying creature. A Protectorate member-
The floor shunted under his feet, Wolff staggered, managing to maintain his balance in these tight Human
garments and uneven shoes. The plane was riding the winds, Wolff had decided. That must have been how it
worked, a large sail in the sky. Presumably it tilted whenever the wind changed.
One of the Protectorate Eaolin, a jumpy young man with the best Iirebos among them, poked his head out
of a door to the side.
"Lord Wolff. Please, strap yourself in. We are soon to land."
"I do not understand. Strap?
So he was show how, sitting obediently in the chair as the Eaolin nervously pulled the sashes across him.
 Wolff did not understand the reason at first, but as the plane bumped down the runway and everyone
inside was flung about, he saw its purpose.
The Protectorate took him to a waiting carriage, a car. He would rest this evening. The Usurper was
closer with each passing hour. And Wolff was ready.

Crow and Bezek had arrived at the Human household around afternoon by their own telling, tired and in
dire need of a bath and a sleep.
They were accompanied by a group of the Protectorate Eaolin from the desert and after a fourteen-hour
journey, were close to exhaustion.
Bezek was getting tearful. Crow knew the warning signs. The Foskrane, an old, rich bloodline of the
Homeworld, who had some branches in the Human one, had been elected to accommodate the two of them
for the night. They had welcomed them with as much deference as possible, each bowing and scraping
deeply.
The smallest, a child of two years, had started to wail upon seeing Bezek's face, before being swiftly
whisked out of the room, along with a thousand pardons alongside it. Crow felt grateful for his
skinchanging. Bezek was too engrossed in the new surroundings to pay much interest to the looks that were
thrown to his deformities by the family.
It was a reluctant hospitality, and Crow knew he'd be lying if he thought it were anything other. Crow
had been offered the use of the showa, a strange device that spat hot rain to clean oneself with. He'd
considered assisting Bezek to bathe himself, a task he was loath to perform. Without Bezek's numerous
servants on hand, he could see him becoming a handful. He could go without bathing for now. They would
be back in the Homeworld before they knew it.
How many days until they got to this place, had that sly Daem said? Enough time, he was sure. Wolff had
the piece of the Gate stone. The trip home.
In the showa, Crow had been startled by the heat of the water, not the searing burn of the pots that had
bubbled gently under flames, or of the cold spring water that he doused himself with back home. The water's
temperature was..well, perfect. He hadn't touched the strange controls, for fear of ruining it.
He'd left it running, unsure as to how to turn it off, seen one of the younger Foskrane daughters dash in to
do so once she thought he was no longer around to be offended.
The palace was strange. Two levels, with stairs, but so compact. No larger than a peasant's dwellings.
They had all eaten a meal round the smallest table that Crow had ever seen. It had been extremely delicious.
He had asked what it was. Some kind of stew.
Venison, one of them had called it. Deer meat. They had deer in the Homeworld too. Such things would
have been a luxury in the Homeworld.
The Foskrane here had no servants, instead, the lower-born of the family had collected the plates,
dutifully carrying them out of the room. They were their own servants. It was bizarre.
After the meal had concluded, they had been invited into a separate room, where the whole family
convened. A single throne, low and squat, made of leather and what must have been goose down, which was
impossibly comfortable, that looked onto something called a TEEVEE, a sort of box that told the Humans
things.
Bezek was transfixed by it, perhaps sensing his enthusiasm and not disgusted by his face, one of the
youngest children had turned it over to something inane, a bunch of shapes that moved about the screen.
 Apparently the shapes were characters, like drawings that moved, the Foskrane father (a seventh-born,
Crow believed, though his Human name was Dave) tried to explain when Crow asked.
He couldn't see it, but Bezek was sucked straight in.
In an hour, his massive frame was curled up on the whole sofa, thumb in his mouth, leaving the rest of
the family to sit politely on the sides or floor.
The Foskrane had clearly been drilling their children for the visit. They declined to say much at all, in
case their Iirebos might offend their guests and called each other by their Eaolin names.
Crow guessed that if they had not been there, they would have all been speaking a Human tongue and
calling each other something else entirely. Dave and his family.
Finally, the Foskrane family members had each retired, leaving just Crow looking at the box of strange
images, with Bezek dozing next to him. He wished he had a better grasp of the Human language to
understand what was happening.
It was almost like the box was trying to tell a story, like the mummers or puppet shows that sometimes
travelled past the Old Keep in the summer.
Finally, once he had seen as much as he could and his eyes were heavy, he left the dozing giant asleep on
the leather throne and went to the bed the eldest Foskrane woman had prepared, diving into the sheets.
He'd never known comfort like it, dead as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He must have been a busker, the old tramp sitting on the bench outside the bus stop across from WH
Smith thought. That or a druggie who'd stolen a cello case. No, not a cello. A double bass maybe. Massive
case.
Was there even much appeal in busking at this time on a Sunday?
Better off with a guitar if you asked him. Cellos weren't exactly cool, even he could tell you that.
But the man wasn't very interested in breaking out a tune whatsoever.
Shy, perhaps. Stage..well..street fright.
He'd seen the odd man, bearded, thickset, thinning hair in the long coat, large case straining in hand.
Certainly looked like a weirdo.
The tramp knew he got looks of course, but this man..there was something bizarre. He'd been up and
down the high street about ten times now, taking an awful long time to stop and look around before doing
something with the instrument in the case.
Looking for the best spot to play? Taking an awful long time though.
Seemed to keep looking inside the case discreetly, without actually opening it up more than a crack
before swiftly moving on.
Yes, perhaps he was drunk. Or high. Not even a very good time to busk, on a Sunday afternoon, everyone
was at work or the shops.
There he went again! Checking that case before rushing off again.
He seemed more agitated now, sweating as he rushed about quickly, eyes scanning, head up and down
looking inside the case.
A minute or so later, he had broken into a run, right back down towards the other end of the shops.
The tramp called after his retreating frame.
"Oi! You're not going to make any money if you don't stay in one place mate!"
 The words went unnoticed. The tramp watched him disappear back off down to the other side of the
town, a man possessed.
Yes. Very weird indeed.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rufus King, or Daem to his friends, was not best pleased.

The girl Disciple, Malkyn, had killed two more of his men since she'd opened up the one in the desert,
and Daem had just finished a tense phone call to one of the families.
Apparently one of them had spilled some soup on her. It had not been a pleasant phone call. Tensions
were high, to say the least. The other three Disciples hadn't killed anyone yet at least. The fat retard and the
curly haired snide one were all cosy down at one host family while the leader, arrogant little tosser, Wolff,
was being briefed.
Apparently they had a lead on their target. A blood prayer, Daem's informers believed, was guiding them.
Very clever. So they were searching for someone. Someone who Lord Father wanted.
He'd seen they were heading somewhere off Europe. A continent Daem didn't particularly enamour
himself with. Who cared? Ass-end of nowhere.
Well wasn't all this lovely and unexpected? He'd piss himself laughing if the kid were wrong.
He had a good guess in mind as to what they were after. Fuck. He wanted to stay in Los Angeles, but
Festen had demanded he go spend One knew how long in the pouring rain instead, babysitting. He'd sat back
at his apartment, wondering whether to get his suitcase.
He could charter a plane and be there in nine hours. Or...He picked up the phone. One of his men, an old
favourite of his called Rier, a murderer in the Homeworld and much worse in this one, could better
coordinate all of this. Nasty bastard, his old friend Rier. He'd keep those kids in line.
The voice on the other end of the line was tinged with annoyance. Probably sleeping off some excesses of
the night before. Early mornings didn't sit well with Rier, though he knew better to ignore the call.
"Yes, Daem?"
"Congratulations. You're on Disciple duty."
"Fuck. You'd better be paying well."
"Double the usual. You can get some more of that Human muck to shove up your nose. I just can't be
fucked to fly out to some shitty little European backwater."
"I hear you. You going to set it all up?"
"Get your skinny ass down to the plane. I'll have you over there by tomorrow morning. All set up."
"Double yeah? These Disciples sound like a fucking nightmare."
Daem laughed.
"Well, we must behave ourselves now Lord Father is keeping an eye on us. Meet up with this Wolff kid.
Apparently he's in charge though I wouldn't trust him to run a bath. Think he wants to kill a few Humans.
Oh, and don't freak out when you see the face. It's a sensitive issue."
"Seen plenty of freaks in my time. A few more won't hurt."
"That's the spirit."
Daem ended the call and leaned back.
Well, Festen might not approve, but fuck him. He had better things to do with his time. Besides, he could
run it all from his office in L.A. Why stress out?

◑
 IN ANOTHER WORLD

Emese and Lord Father Aleron stood together in the cold confines of the high tower’s upper level, a large
ornate glass window overlooking the white wastelands outside. Wind and snow buffeted the glass and the
darkness.
Emese was used to the regular summons at uncommon hours from her master. She tried not to let her
fatigue show, standing silently, head bowed out of respect for Lord Father Aleron, trying to ignore the cries
of pain that floated in from the adjacent corridor.
Aleron glanced at Hdorien, the court torturer. Though the woman’s face was stone cold, expressionless in
deference, her eyes were lit up, gleeful.
Hdorien adored inflicting pain, her love of it had made her a gifted interrogator, and she had earned her
stripes under her Lord Father’s watchful eye.
The rest of his subjects were all the happier to let her take a role that only she could covet. She was a
squat, shaven headed woman, with a handful of teeth and a foul breath.
As the shrieks of agony grew louder, Aleron glared at her.
“Couldn’t you have waited until we were all present, Hdorien?”
“I was merely thinking in your best interests, Lord Father. His mind is broken, along with his will. He
should answer all your questions now, with a little persuasion.”
“Very well”, Aleron conceded, “but in the future, I request that you keep your charges silent during our
meetings.”
She nodded.
“I apologise unreservedly. Shall I bring him in now?”
He waved his hand in approval.
“Let’s see what results your handiwork give us.”
Hdorien gestured to one of the guards that flanked the entrance hall. Faceless, silent under their armour.
“Bring in the bastard.”
The guard nodded and trod slowly out of the room, down into the lower chamber. Some time later, he
returned, chain in hand, dragging a weeping figure clothed in rags across the floor.
Hdorien sprang forward and yanked the chain away, like a child snatching a sweetbread. Pushed the man
to the ground, who hit the concrete floor with an agonising crack. The woman giggled through a flabby
throat. On the other side of the room, Emese swallowed.
The full extents of her tortures were unmissable. He was coated in welts, burns and scars that blazed a
vicious red across his entire body. Fresh wounds, every inch of this man’s skin had become a canvas, upon
which Hdorien had drawn with knives, brands and needles. His hands had no fingers now, but bloody
stumps that he cradled as he writhed slowly on the floor, wracked with pain.
Hdorien turned to Lord Father, a questioning smile on her face.
Aleron nodded.
“Good work. I shall speak to him.”
She strode over to the man and yanked the chain viciously. “Lord Father Aleron shall talk to you now- “
she barked, “-answer his questions.”
She leaned towards the trembling man, fingering her blade. A red line up the skin.
“Unless you want me to play with you for just a little longer?”
“Enough”, Aleron said sharply and Hdorien throwing one last mocking glance at the man, skulked back
to her position.
Lord Father examined the figure on the ground.
“Are you worthy of a name?”
 The reply, through gritted teeth and a dry throat and lips, was barely audible.
“No..no..my Lord Father. I have no name.”
He narrowed his eye and leaned in closer.
“Well, No-Name, do you know why I have brought you here today?”
Hesitantly, the wretched figure shook his head. Aleron looked at Hdorien, who nodded. The Lord Father
grimaced, then delivered a vicious kick to the No-Name’s skull.
A hollow smack sounded throughout the briefing room, the man moaned, spitting teeth and crimson.
Aleron turned, grabbing the man by his hair, pulling him close to his face, each scar and welt up close,
the black eye gaping.
“Do not lie to me!” he hissed. “You know precisely why you are here. It is because of a vision. A
premonition.”
He released his red grip on the man’s bloodied hair, who gasped as he rolled on the floor.
“I understand that you are a bastard of the Haleage”, Aleron continued, “as such you have knowledge of
the future. It was always a miserable trait of your kind.”
“No..n-not at all, Lord Father, the man whispered, his eyes pleading. “It is as you said. I am a bastard of
the Haleage line. I am a Seventh-Born, a bastard and a No-Name, please most merciful King of Dawn.. I do
not have the Sight...not as they did.”
Aleron paused, deliberating.
“You lie eloquently. You do have the Sight.”, he said, striding over to a table and examining a scroll that
lay on the side.
“No, Lord Father, I swear-”
“My spies have confirmed as much. I have a report here. It seems you were using it for less than Onely
purposes. Gambling in taverns all across the Yhaer region. A waste of the One’s blessing. But it only took
one common whore and some ale for you to let the truth slip. And you boasted of a vision.”
He scrutinised the paper further.
“A vision that you said, of an Usurper on the Golden Throne. And a King overthrown.”
If it were possible, Emese thought he saw the man turn greyer beneath the wounds. Aleron’s good eye
closed; head turned away as if the thought disgusted him.
“I had thought the Haleage blood were no more. Another casualty of the war with the Redcloaks. Seers
are a rare thing, they keep to themselves. But the last Haleage was always a very..active man, if rumours are
to be believed.”
He smiled, burns and wrinkles cracking, opening up on his old face. Paced down the floor, watching the
sobbing man, predatory.
“Please!”
“SILENCE!”
The cold Aura was all over the room in an instant, screaming, attacking, unseen yet so present, ripping at
the man, snapping.
Even from a few paces away, Aleron could hurt the man without touching him. His power never failed to
frighten Emese, when he ever could be bothered to use it. The man screamed, writhing. Emese could feel
Aleron scratching on the inside of his skull, torturing him with sheer will alone.
“Please, Lord Father! I beg for mercy..”
Hdorien giggled softly in the corner. Aleron raised his brow, before continuing.
“So..an Usurper on the Golden Throne.”
He released the man. Glared, raised his hand, finger pointed accusingly.
“You accuse me of being a false king.”
“No! I swear-”
 “Your Sight is penance for your insult and you shall offer it up to me.”
His mouth twitched.
“..Then I shall kill you. Your life is also penance, which goes without saying. But you knew that, of
course. Try to resist me before this inevitability, and I shall instruct Hdorien here to put you through more
suffering. She can be very inventive in her methods as I am sure you know.”
Emese kept watching, trying to hold back the tears herself. Lord Father couldn’t sense her weakness. No,
he simply couldn’t. But the air was so thick with his malice, crackling with his Aura. She shut her eyes, but
couldn’t find the courage not to open them again.
The sobbing man did not say anything, broken. Lord Father leant over him, his fingers brushing with the
seer’s temple.
The room grew cold, unnaturally so. Lord Father’s eyes were clenched shut, focusing on something that
Emese could not see. In the corner, Hdorien shivered. She could feel it too.
The Haleage bastard choked, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging. Drooling, mind lost.
A small gasp escaped Emese.
Small streams of blood were making their way down Lord Father’s hands, dancing seemingly out of
nowhere. Two deep cuts on his wrists had opened themselves as if on command, without the embrace of a
knife, the red lines making their way about the two men, traveling down Lord Father’s arms and the man’s
head, a fatal blood chain connecting the two.
Emese shuddered. Lord Father Aleron’s good eye had turned as dark as its counterpart, lined with black
veins amid the wrinkles. The No-Name was shuddering, a lifeless rag doll in Lord Father’s strange embrace.
It was over in a flash, Lord Father pulled back with a start from the bastard, shrieking, clutching his hand,
eye burning with cold fury.
The Haleage bastard’s head dropped. Yes, dead. No denying that.
No Aura to sense. None at all.
That made her skin crawl more than anything. He was drained.
Aleron was frozen, his good eye clenched shut, the other vacant.
It opened. For an instant, it seemed to be clouded over in its entirety, a vast pool of darkness.As it had,
when he had performed the Gate’s opening ritual.
Then in a fleeting moment, the eye returned to normal. It surveyed her dangerously. The old man paused
and looked back to the corpse. Emese couldn’t sense anything from it. Just a void. No Aura to speak of. She
couldn’t touch it, no matter how far she reached. Nothing. Nothing at all. Aleron looked at her.
“It is done. I have what I need.”
She found the strength to speak.
“Lord Father, what exactly did you do?”
Aleron looked at her.
“The Great One gave us all the gift of Aura, Emese. As his Chosen Child, I take away.”
They looked at each other, perplexed. Lord Father smiled.
“I see the Usurper now. In the other world. Right now, he is shadow, unformed. This Sight shall serve me
much better than this No-Name, I think.”
Emese bowed her head.
“I...I understand. Lord Father, you are most wise.”
He smiled at that, glanced at the body and swept from the room without another word to her, treading
bloody footsteps as he went. The servants would deal with the mess.

◑
 IN HER WORLD

Wolff had slept badly. He still wasn't used to the noises of Human life, the Old Keep had been still and
almost serene in its silence. The Human world had thousands of little sounds, clicks, scratches and bangs.
Things the Protectorate Eaolin just seemed to drown out. Half the time they looked at him like he was
mad when he complained. He wasn't quite sure where they were now, some little Human building looking
out over a field of crops. Not unlike the ones in the Homeworld.
Though it had been some time since Wolff had seen anything grow properly over there. The Humans
didn't have the luxury of famine it seemed.
He awoke suddenly to a knock, timid but firm on his door. Since leaving the Homeworld, his sense of
time had been warped. From the glow of the moon outside of the window, he guessed it was early morning.
He called out groggily in the darkness.
"Yes?"
The nervous one again. A third-born of a sixth-born. Why did the Protectorate lumber them with such
low blood?
"I am sorry to disturb you at this hour, Lord Wolff. One of Daem's men has just arrived and would like to
see you. Regarding uhh..."
Wolff waved his hand.
"Very well."
The lowborn nodded and stepped aside to let the figure enter. Wolff scrutinised him as his eyes adjusted
in the low light.
The man was tall, wiry and bearded, with long dark hair that cascaded down behind his back. An
eyepatch. Wolff wondered if the pupil underneath it was as warped as his own.
"Yes?"
The man kneeled.
"I am Rier, Lord Wolff. Master Daem has asked me to assist you. I understand you have some business in
this country."
Rier. Another name that Wolff tried to claw out of his head. An exile, he believed, from the Homeworld.
Though he was not sure for what.
"Greetings, Rier. You may stand. The blood prayer has led us here. The thing I am searching for. It is
near."
"And what would that be, My Lord?"
Dangerous, Wolff thought. Any Eaolin in the Homeworld would not have dared to question. But he
would indulge it. They needed a cover; he used the one Lord Father had concocted.
"Very well. We are searching for a dangerous Eaolin convict from the war. A Redcloak sympathiser. He
escaped and has been living in this world, within the Protectorate, since before the Gate was closed off. We
are here to make blood for his crimes."
"A very honourable task. You want men?"
"Two of your best, to assist me."
"As you wish. I will get it set up. How many Humans do you intend to kill?"
"All in my sight."
"I see. My Lord, could I ask you to exercise..caution?"
Wolff's eyes narrowed instinctively.
"Is that what Protectorate do when something like this is carried out? Care about Human whims?"
 He nodded.
"Correct. We have a strict drive against witnesses to any of our affairs. You must understand. Humans
are weak. But they outnumber us, a million to one."
"If they get in my way, they die. You shall devise a means for me to conceal myself. I am aware that my
face is not...usual in this place."
He thought he caught a glimpse of a smirk around Rier's thin, bearded lips. He supposed it came across
as quite the understatement.
"Very well. And you are sure that the prayer is correct? The Protectorate is loath to shed Human blood
unnecessarily. It draws attention, as I said."
"Do not question. It is of Lord Father's hand that I have this prayer's blessing. It cannot lie."
Rier nodded.
"Very well. Two men. I shall make the preparations." He turned tail and left, with Wolff ready to get
whatever last vestiges of sleep her could.
He would need all of his strength for the morning. The Disciple's mission was almost complete.
The Usurper would die tomorrow.
 CHAPTER TWELVE

Another day, another nine hours in this fucking job.

Shani's head was killing her; she'd spent all of Sunday in bed with a splitting migraine. She'd called 111
(surely a headache after a seizure wasn't a good sign?) but the nurse had just to her to try Nurofen Extra.
So Monday had arrived as unwelcome as ever and the headache had yet to budge. She’d wanted to take it
off sick, but she'd be giving Simmons his third strike on a silver platter. Couldn’t follow up her shitty
weekend with an even shittier Monday.
Her palm was still burning. The birthmark felt like it was trying to push itself out from under her skin.
She scratched it, wincing. It was almost inflamed. Maybe she should take that to the doctor as well?
She'd not seen Katie again yet, holed up in her room. She was trying to forget about what had happened
before the seizure. But what if James Dawes had told people? Suppose everyone already knew?
She tried to focus on the morning's sales reports. Put it out of her head. She was meant to file them by the
date of completion, or was it the start date? Shit, shit shit. She'd fucked it up already. She considered
deleting the document and starting all over. But there were thirty more waiting in her inbox.
No, bollocks to it. She'd just move on and do it right on the rest of them. Yes. Ten A.M. One hour wasted
already. She could see Simmons hunched over on his desk, tapping away at his mobile. Probably looking at
porn. Fucking twat.
Then the policemen walked through the door and everything fell apart. Shani's heart leapt into her mouth,
she stepped up from her desk, taking two quick strides behind the pillar that stood a few feet away from her
desk. She dared a glance. They were talking to the secretary, that snotty cow Lynda 'with a Y'. She was
pointing at Shani's desk, her lips flapping.
A question, a mockery. Shani Smith?
Saturday night. They knew, yes that had to be it. Somehow, her name had gotten back to them. She still
had the handbag; she couldn't afford a new one. Bottom was polished clean - and dented. Fuck. FUCK. She
half-walked, half-ran, tucking away into the corridor, the bag in hand.
Maybe she could hide it. She wasn't thinking straight and her head was killing her, she could barely see
straight for Christ's sake, why did this all have to happen now?
Into the loos, heart pounding. Maybe she could hide here. Wait until they left, just went away to look
elsewhere. Hated the facilities here. Unisex, Simmons was too cheap to buy signs. No one dared complain.
She'd keep hiding for a bit, she decided. No, shit. Her co-workers would just tell them. They knew she was
nearby. They’d all seen her come in ten minutes early that morning. She’d wanted to make a good
impression, demonstrate her punctuality.
Now the police were here. Wanted to cry, eyes stinging. She dared a glimpse out of the bathroom door,
just a peek through the crack. Couldn't see anything-
James Dawes walked out of the cubicle, heralded by the flush behind him. Shani leapt out of her skin.
What was he doing here? Nothing seemed to be making sense.
"Oh, it's you."
Shani sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Everything was folding around her. She felt
sick.
She needed to get in the cubicle.
"Hi, hi James. Sorry, I'll-"
She tried to walk past him, into the loo.
And his eyes darkened.
 "No. Actually, I want a word. Swung by to try and get Simmons on as a new client, but I've been looking
for you as well, Shani."
He had her by the hair. Strong hands, stronger than Shani would have ever thought from such a self-
confessed gentleman. Brown clumps coming away, tearing from her scalp.
She was so shocked, the pain almost didn't register.
"Wh-"
The hands pushed her against the mirror, cold metal cracking against her forehead. She felt the lump
rising under her skin.
"You think she wants you? You think she WANTS a crazy bitch like you?"
He sounded more convinced than Shani did.
"I-"
"Benny doesn't give two fucks about you, you stupid fat dyke. Now leave us alone! What the fuck do you
think you're trying to do?"
"-Nothing!"
"She told me what you did before your little seizure trick. Fucking ruined my party you did, why don't
you fuck off back to Africa?"
"Look. Please James, I can explain-"
His grip tightened.
"I know about you."
"Wh-"
"I know what you did."
Her head reeled. He couldn’t. Couldn’t.
"I don't-"
"Mate of mine at the party, thought you looked familiar. Moved down from Aberdeen a couple of years
ago, his sister used to go to primary school there. Ringing any bells?"
Yes. He knew.
"Please. Please, please don't."
"Small fucking world, big old coincidence. What, do you got moved down here from Scotland did you?
All got covered up, didn't it?"
"What do you want?"
"You fucking go near Benny again and I'll make sure everyone knows about Bill Grange. Everyone."
That name. She hadn't heard it in so long. The name she'd tried to forget, every day. Her eyes were hot,
she was gabbling.
"Sorry...sorry."
James paused. Attention lost. His grip around her hair had loosened.
"What the fuck?"
There was someone else in the toilet with them. Wait, why was that so surprising? Was he going to step
in and stop this blatant assault?
OH. She couldn't see the face. Motorcycle helmet. Jeans and jacket. And the red hands. The sword.
Shani saw it all but it just didn't register. Nothing made sense, everything was moving too fast.
James was screaming. Why was he screaming? It wasn't very manly, to scream like that. What did Benny
see in him?
The figure said something. A man's voice. What was it? She couldn't make it out. James Dawes was
shrieking.
"HELP! HELP"
 Then the figure in the motorcycle helmet took a quick step forward, raised the arms and cut off James'
head, even as he shrank back screaming. It landed next to the hand towel bin. The rest of him swayed and
toppled down on the floor.
The man strode over to Shani.
What? Was James going to get back up? Was this a joke?
The piercing screaming pain in her head became higher as the person in the motorcycle helmet -
..but the blood, oh no, so much, so much, oh God , oh God why? Was it real? It looked real.
Wait. Was James Dawes dead? No, that was just stupid.
His boots were in front of her view. She couldn't lift her head past his knees. There was wet warmth
running down her work skirt. She was scared. But this was just a joke right? Well it wasn't funny. It was
scaring her.
He was speaking. A strange language. Unfamiliar. Was it Dutch? She raced through her lessons at
school. Not..not Dutch. Spanish? Mandarin? Wait, why did it matter? She was going to die. Yes, this wasn't
a joke. This man was going to kill her.
She was going to die. She was going to die.
Die.
There was a glint of silver as he brought the blade down-
A glint of silver- the sound of the door of the toilets, pushed open-
Her head swooped-
Hands, pushing her to the side. Strange. Her head hurt. She'd hit it against something. The wall of the
loos. She was slumped on her arse. Yes..
A second voice, talking.
Different. But still speaking in that strange language. Someone's legs in front of her, blocking her vision-
Her head-

The Disciple - no more than a kid, Marcus could tell that much from the muffled voice under the
motorcycle helmet - stumbled, slipping on the bloodied tiles, cursing.
Marcus glanced behind him.
Close one. He'd blocked the blade just in time. Ran past all the carnage with too few moments to spare.
Bloodied footprints heading to the loos. Stupid mistake.
She was slumped against the wall, silent, behind him. Yes, it was her. Same curly hair. He’d almost
forgotten what she looked like. He wondered what she called herself now. Must have fainted. No idea who
the headless fellow was.
He needed to hold his ground, keep himself between them. Kid’s movements were devastatingly
efficient; his sword blows fast and calculating. Well trained, but fucking cocky. Nice flourish with the
motorcycle helmet. Covering the burns. Yes. A Disciple.
Marcus stepped to the side clumsily as a fierce stab missed his head by an inch. Enraged, he growled,
raising his blade, he forced all of his strength behind the blows. One and a half Eaolin having a sword duel
in a fucking office loo. It wasn't exactly the best place-
The Disciple reeled backwards, dodging Marcus' slower, broad swings. As Marcus pulled Astigan back
from a heavy slice, he created an opening. Pinning the broad sword in place, the kid slid the shorter, nimbler
blade towards Marcus' jugular. But it was the move that the larger man had been banking on.
 He forced the Disciple back with the flat of the sword, concentrating his strength on the blow. The kid,
taken aback, lost his grip on the blade's handle, it span through the air, landing lightly on the floor behind
them. Easy, simple disarm. The kid was overconfident. Marcus wasted no time, moving in again with
Astigan, the sword’s steel screaming in the air-
The young Disciple tried to avoid Marcus' following slice with the broad sword, but only half
successfully, Astigan's edge ripped across his side, drawing blood. Blue jeans stained glorious crimson.
It wasn't a killing blow by any means, but certainly one that put the kid at a significant disadvantage. He
leapt back, putting as much distance between himself and Marcus, grunting as he held a hand over his side.
His eyes slid to her, still motionless in the corner on the bloodied tiles.
Marcus saw his expression and realised his intent, as the kid dashed with all of his might towards the girl
- woman - he threw himself between the two. A fierce kick forced the Disciple back. Thought he'd felt a rib
break.
Nice. Marcus stepped around her, his sword poised, ready.
"It's as I said earlier", he replied slowly in his best Iirebos, "This woman is under my protection."
"No. Stand aside. She must die. Lord Father Aleron commands it. Talk to the Protectorate."
"I'm not with the Protectorate, mate. Sounds like you're a long way from home-"
Marcus threw himself to one side, raising the blade-
The kid was trying to catch him off guard, blade raised. No time to lift Astigan. Fine then.
He brought up his free fist, channelled his Aura, the knuckles burning white hot, punching, throwing his
whole mass forward, connecting with the kid's chest, feeling the crack.
Boom. Four ribs broken. Five even. Fuck him. The Disciple was thrown backwards like a rag doll,
colliding with the wall.
Plaster fell to the ground, the kid choked inside the helmet, blood dribbling out from underneath his chin.
Marcus was in front of the girl again, Astigan raised, blinking, eyes readjusting.
"She is protected. Tell me, Disciple –why do you serve a false king?"
The Disciple looked like he was about to reply, but with some broken ribs and his seeping stomach, with
one last pained backwards glance, he threw himself through the window to their left. Glass smashing. Light
footsteps echoing away into nothing over the rooftops. Clever kid knew how to pick his battles. Marcus
gritted his teeth. Any other time and he'd have been glad to have finish off the little twat. Though he knew
he wasn't really in shape for running over rooftops.
The woman stirred next to him. He used his Aura, brought her head back to consciousness. Yanked her to
her feet. She stood there, stammering.
"I-i-i-i"
"C'mon. We need to get you out of here now."
"H-h-h-h-"
Nothing. No response to the Iirebos. Too soon. She couldn't remember it.
Yes, too soon. He switched to English
"C'mon. We need to get you out of here!"
Shock, settling in. He'd seen it before. He could see it in her eyes. The English had gotten her thinking.
"Who are you? What is this? Oh God, Oh God, Help me! Help me someone! HELP! HELP!"
"There's no time for that", Marcus replied sharply, yanking her hard again.
She squealed, protesting, trying to pull her arm away.
"Let me go!! LET ME GO!"
He lost his temper.
"SHUT UP!"
She was sobbing.
 He felt bad, but wasn't ready to let it show. They were walking back towards the exit, he pulled harder,
but she struggled against his grasp.
"Wait!"
The woman turned her gaze to the corpse. Sans a head. The other man, whoever he had been. Why had
they been in the loo together? Maybe he was her boyfriend.
"I'm sorry."
At least it had been quick. The expression on the face was one of total surprise. Maybe he hadn't even
been aware.
"Is-is he?"
"Dead. Now come on."
The girl fell silent again. No, not a girl, Marcus realised. He had to stop thinking like that. A woman,
now. She had an air of youth, of a time passed, but it was an afterthought now. It was him that was old.
But it was her. It had to be.
They walked out into the main lobby of the office. The files were in pieces on the ground, the carpet
strewn with litter and glass. A single arm poked out from underneath a table, the hand limp, fingers splayed.
Blood wasn't in short supply.
The girl was retching, doubled up. Marcus pulled her away, trying to snap her out of it.
"Stop! Stop! Please, later. We have to move!"
They were going too slow, the exit so far away.. the bodies of the workers, so animated before, now
littered the floor, torn apart by the Disciple's blade.
She must have known them. Too much, too soon. He pulled her around, forcing her to look in his eyes.
Her gaze dropped down, she wriggled.
"No. Look at me! Look at me! Not at them! Ignore them! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!"
She couldn't stop, her head craning, turning to see them all. Her chest was starting to rise and fall, Marcus
despaired, if she went into further shock it would make things all the harder. She screamed.
"Stop it! Hey, look at me!"
He trapped her gaze. Frightened eyes.
Wide, completely unable to comprehend it all. But he had her attention.
"What's your name?"
"Sh-Shani...S...Smith."
"Shani Smith. Look at me, you understand. I'm getting you out of here. But keep your eyes on me."
Then she was screaming, shrieking clawing at his face. Ripping at his cheeks. Panicked nonsense. God
fucking dammit. So much for the soft approach.
He leaned back, reached for the blood scroll in his coat pocket and jammed it hard on her forehead,
forcing his Aura down the back of her mind, thumb twisting on her dark skin, pulsing it through her skull.
She gave a little cry, he tightened his grip on her, imposing his will.
"Go to sleep" he commanded
She did, slumping down onto the floor with a small sigh. And there was the sound of sirens. It was time
to go.
He picked her up as best he could, and carried her over his shoulder, out of the building and into the
waiting car, taking care to avoid all the CCTV he could.
He packed Astigan back into the double-bass case and drove away.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pauline Cameron had lived in her Bournemouth house, off the side of the high street for almost twenty
years.
She could only count a couple of times in which she had seen a police car in the area. Never had the
police at her door, back when the children still lived at home.
Today, there were no less than five cars at the office building across the road. They did double-glazing,
she recalled.
Pauline took a step forward, drink in hand, her Polaroid camera hanging around her neck. The quiet
drinks with her husband and her old friends Pam and Tony had been interrupted by the sound of sirens.
So, being a nosy parker, she'd popped out to take a look.
A young policeman was cordoning off the area, emblazoning POLICE - DO NOT CROSS all round the
handrails.
A short, dumpy policewoman came up to her.
"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to stand back."
"What's going on?"
"I can't say. Please, it's best if you move along. Please."
Behind the policewoman, a van drove up. Men and women in white masks and gear got out and walked
through the front door.
Pauline gestured at them. She’d seen Silent Witness.
"Is someone dead? Has there been a murder?"
"I'm sorry I can't say anything. I'll have to ask you to step away."
So Pauline traipsed back inside. Along with Pam and Tony, she and her husband watched through the
curtains, as the police carried all the body bags out of the building and into the waiting van.
It certainly killed the mood. Pam cleared away the sausage rolls.
"There was always something off about that place”, her husband said later, “never liked the guy who ran
it."

Wolff surged forward through the approaching rain, the peculiar Human, hooded top wrapped around
him, constricting, torn jeans hindering his every move.
He bit his lip, drawing blood, trying to blink the tears away from his eyes. The strange helmet didn't help;
it just made the salt in his eyes build up, burning. He'd been wearing it for too long, but couldn't take it off.
The emergency bloodscroll hadn't done a good enough job, the thin slash across his stomach was
weeping, barely held together. Why hadn't it worked?
Every movement felt like some unseen force were jamming cruel fingers into the wound, flesh screaming
with bloodied agony. He had never known pain like it, save for perhaps the day he had been offered to the
flames though that particular memory was fuzzy, incoherent and broken.
This pain was fresh, searing. He kept replaying the scene over and over again in his mind. Humans
falling to his blade as he had waded after the Usurper in his bloodied Human rags, to finish his - her- life and
soak his sword in blood.
 He'd gone mad. Yes. Crazy. Those Humans. They hadn't fought back. Why. Why had they just let
themselves be killed? They were evil. They were meant to put up a fight. And he'd kept trying to find the
battle. Then found it. The other Eaolin had interfered. Wolff had been stupid, overconfident, driven into a
drunken frenzy on the bloodlust. The man's sword had been faster than he could ever believe. Faster than
him.
Deadlier. And colder. His eyes had been ice. And his Iirebos. It had been perfect. Raised in the
Homeworld, surely? Fear rose in his gut, seeping out, staining the strangely warm top crimson.
Would he follow him? This world was strange, unfamiliar and intrusive. Lights everywhere, neither the
stark glow of the sun nor the flicker of a candle but thousands of colours, greens, golds, reds and purples,
flashing, dancing around about him. He'd hidden until night in an alley, trying to heal himself in vain.
His head span, delirious from blood loss, the fatigue of the battle, he staggered, hand cracking on the
hard, stone ground, eyes of the passers-by scrutinising, questioning, laughing. Humans. They might attack.
But his sword lay discarded back with the Protectorate men who had accompanied him, all dead. The
strange swordsman had the Usurper now.
Wolff had failed. Utterly, miserably, impossibly, the Disciple had failed-
There was a dull thud and a stab of white about his head. A screaming, like a Gkaerhan coming into
roost. It took Wolff a few seconds to realise that something had hit him, his mind felt fuzzy, warm. Burning
hot. His fingers brushed the stone road, each drop of rain a drumbeat on his head. It was one of those strange
machines, he half-realised, the creatures of metal and glass that roared and rolled across the ground.
Hadn't even noticed-

Police Detective Mike Mason wasn't sure what put him off emergency press conferences more - the
inadvertent questions from throngs of journalists hungry for whatever titbit of information they could glean
from his carefully chosen words. Or the thought that he was acting as the harbinger of the terrible news to an
audience of millions up and down the country.
He was a broad, ruddy-faced man with all the scars of county policing, hair now all turned to grey or
gone.
About to present himself to the world.
Behind the tinted glass doors of the back of the hall, he could see the crowd of press, a dark mass of
bodies thronging about the platform on which he was soon due to speak.
If the sight of them, even obscured behind the glass with the occasional flicker of an over-zealous
photographer's camera, was enough to set his nerves on edge, it was the sound that actually made him
clamour for the exit.
The chatter and noises of a hundred raised voices, all anticipating the arrival of their prey, to bleed dry of
every last morsel of information they could peddle to their readers for the cost of a newspaper.
The vultures were circling.
His deputy, Gemma nodded to him, and he responded with a weak, wry smile. No point in keeping them
waiting any longer, they were over the promised start time by ten minutes as it was. Wrestling his stomach
under control, Mason pushed the tinted glass door aside, sliding them back and stepping over the threshold
to meet the horde.
He could never get used to the lights. Every conference he did, every single time, and they never-
 Even as he raised his hand up instinctively to shield his eyes, the first snap and flash of the camera bulb
caught him full in the face. It was the starting gun for the rest, a hundred fingers on shutters, lighting up the
room with hot, white light.
Mason squinted, trying to avert his gaze from the barrage of flashes that lit up every fraction of the five-
second walk to the podium. He stared out at the mass of inquisitive faces, dictaphones waved in front of
their respective owners, like lighters at a rock concert, hanging on to every word he was about to speak.
At the back, he could see the red glow of the video camera lights, the logos of all the regional news
stations. Live to the world. He cleared his throat and began.
"Good evening. I will be answering a limited number of questions at the end of this conference. I know
you all want more information regarding the case today, and I realise you all have deadlines to meet, so I
will keep this brief."
One of the journalists smirked, whispering something to his attractive female colleague. Mason ignored
him.
His collar felt tight around his neck, forcing the words out. Old shirt, poor choice. He ignored the glass of
water next to him. Sign of weakness.
"As you are all aware, at approximately Eleven A.M today, police were called to the offices of Simmons
Glaziers following reports of the sound of a commotion. Shortly before, two police officers had lost contact
during a routine inquiry. They soon found multiple fatalities on the premises-"
"Who made the phone call?"
Mason fixed a beady eye on the question's owner, a short, dark-haired woman with a snub nose.
"One of the employees in the adjacent building. Please, direct your questions to me after I have presented
all the facts."
The woman nodded, unperturbed.
Mason fought back a scowl as he continued. Another bulb flashed, his eyes stinging. No doubt they'd use
that one.
"...Upon arrival, emergency services discovered members of the public with multiple stab wounds and
did their utmost to tend to the victims. I can confirm that the current death toll stands at five. Unfortunately,
we do expect that number to rise. We will be releasing the names of the victims once they have been
positively identified."
There was a heavy silence in the room. Mason wondered how much indication the press might have had
about the scale of the killings.
He felt a kind of sad pride in his chest. At least no one in the force was leaking information yet. They'd
see how long Shani Smith's file held out for. It was tabloid dynamite.
"At this time, we have one person of interest who we are desperate to speak to. Twenty-eight year old
Shani Smith, an employee of Simmons Glaziers, has currently not been located or contacted by our officers
following the attack. If Shani or anyone who might know where she could be is watching, I urge them to
come forward so that we can rule her out as a suspect. Until then, we would advise the public not to
approach Miss Smith, but to instead inform a police officer upon sighting her."
Cue the scribbling of pens on notebooks, the murmur of suspicion and the tapping of fingers on phones.
They had a name.
They had their story. It was time to finish off.
'I am open for some questions from the press."
A sea of hands. Quick as a flash, a man with a red tie and a redder face, sweating as he was passed the
microphone, snatching his prize.
"This suspect of yours, Shani..ah?"
 "Smith. And as I have previously stated, at this time, she is not a suspect though we are anxious to speak
to her to rule her out."
The man scoffed. “So the public aren't to approach, she's missing from the scene of the crime, and she's
not a suspect?"
Mason tried not to let the irritation rise in his throat.
"We will be releasing more information once it becomes available."
The man went to speak again, but Mason wasn't about to get into a heated debate.
"I am open to one more question and then I must end this briefing."
Another glare of cameras, a figure rising behind it. A petite woman, with curly red hair. Dumpy,
scowling. Mason swallowed as she caught his eye.
"You said that the victims were found with multiple stab wounds. Do the police have any information on
a murder weapon?"
There was a hungry glint in her eye. Oh fuck. She knew. Less than eight hours dead and she knew. How?
"We are currently acting on eyewitness reports to try and locate the weapon used in today's killings."
"And that would be?"
Mason paused. Could he give the usual brush off about privy information, or would it just look weak? If
the press already knew about the weapon...well, there was no point in keeping the speculation rife...was
there?
"We are working on the assumption that the weapon in question.."
"Yes?"
Mason breathed.
"..may have been a sword."
They surged forward with their microphones again, chanting, demanding more. Mason turned, not even
aware of what he was saying as he dismissed their questions, stepping down from the press podium.
He could see the headlines now.
SWORD SLASHER ON LOOSE, BLOODY SWORD EXECUTION, SICK SWORD FREAK IN
KILLING SPREE.
No doubt there would be a few raised eyebrows from his superiors up top. Feeding into public fantasies,
never an ingenious idea. He despaired; he did. Gemma met him in the quiet corridor round the back, the
cries of the press muffled, shrinking away as they filed out of the other side.
"You handled that alright, Sir."
"It was fucking dreadful. They knew about the sword."
"No way you could keep a detail like that down for long."
"Either way, I don't like it. Someone's been talking. The one survivor hasn't even woken up since we
stormed that fucking office. No way she could have gone to the local rag...any luck on CCTV yet?"
"We've put out a request based on Smith's data. But the local stuff. Still missing. I'd check with the
security guards, but.."
"In-house with the building firm? All dead."
She nodded.
"I want that file of hers under lock and key. Get someone to go and speak to the psychologist, that
Hopkins woman."
Last thing they needed was some shrink breaking her Hippocratic oath for the promise of five minutes of
fame. INSIDE THE MIND OF THE SWORD SLASHER. He shook his head.
"I need a fucking cigarette. Then we're getting down to the hospital."
They departed the hall, driving out the back covertly but in vain, trying to keep level faces as the last
dregs of the gutter press snapped a few pictures of them as Mason pulled away in the car.
 The country knew the name of Shani Smith five minutes later.

It was the talk of the whole neighbourhood. The phone was barely on the hook all night. That evening,
Pauline sat in front of the television, watching coverage on the news while at the same time watching the
journalists and news crews swarming outside the window.
It was surreal. Just so strange. So, some maniac had gone to that office and killed a load of people.
Probably a druggie or a mental case So out of nowhere, so sudden. You couldn’t even process it. The media
kept circulating a picture of a woman they wanted to "talk to", a weird looking black girl with curly brown
hair and a nasty expression. Looked a right nutter.
The news coverage reminded Pauline of the school shootings you saw in America, a lot of shocked faces,
interviews with Pauline's neighbours, the Prime Minister expressing condolences. A few journalists had
come to the door, but Pauline had pretended she weren't in. Only one person had survived apparently though
there was no more information. Pauline wondered what they were going through.
She couldn't believe it. Just over the road, all these horrible things had taken place just a few hundred
yards from their garden! The last time the area had seen any media attention was when some loopy activist
had protested against the building works and lain down in front of a concrete mixer.
A police support officer had come round to check on them. Pauline had smiled and said they were fine.
She and her husband opted for an early night. Neither of them got a wink of sleep. In the morning, they
would give the estate agents a call and arrange a valuation.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Slowly, the world began to return to Shani, noise and light exploding back into existence around her. The
glare was overwhelming. She shut her eyes tight. It was all a stupid dream, she decided. She was in her
bedroom. James would be okay. An arsehole, but still fine. Head still on shoulders.
She'd be heading off to work in an hour. Benny would be cool. Hell, the party might not have even
happened yet! Doubts crawled into her head, clawing inside. She couldn't hear the sound of the cars that
would rattle her windowpanes, or the tiny breakfast radio music across the hall, the echo of Mrs. Brown's
footsteps downstairs–or any of the other little notes that made up her morning symphony.
It was quiet, save for the small shriek of an owl and the tapping of feet on stone. Shani willed herself to
open one eye. All she could see was the endless night sky, dark clouds overhead. She shut her eyes again.
There had to be a sensible explanation for all of this. That stuff at the office, all those people, they couldn't
possibly be-
"Finally, you're awake."
The voice punctured Shani's bubble of thought. She wrenched her eyes open and sat up, looking in the
direction of the sound. The level of disorientation hit her. She was in the middle of an array of crumbling
walls, the remains of turrets and towers twisted and warped by vast swathes of ivy that crept over every
brick and stone.
Beyond the ruins lay great stretches of fields, bathed in the sickly pale glow of the moon, almost frozen
in silver. She was far away from her flat, the office, Bournemouth. The entire area was desolate, devoid of
people. That might have been a light in the distance. A house.. Too far to scream to?
She got to her feet slowly, head swimming. She felt sick, grasping at the stones for balance.
"Where-who?"
"I'll explain everything shortly", the voice said, still a blur as her eyes started to focus. “I’ll just give you
a minute to find your feet."
Shani scrutinised him, vision adjusting.
An older man, she guessed, from the shape and the deep voice. Northern sounding. Yorkshire maybe.
Was he a tramp? Had she had too much at the party? Did she pick up tramps now? Dressed in a black,
muddied overcoat pulled over a broad stomach and a tattered shirt and equally battered Doc Martins, he
couldn't have looked any less in place amid the crumbling walls.
His hair was long and straw-gold, thinning. Face oval, flabby despite angular cheeks, above a weak
jawline. Yes, maybe late thirties..early forties..older? He glared back at Shani with dark eyes, before looking
over the horizon into the sunset.
"Feeling better?"
He did not look back at her. Shani, incensed, ignoring his question, responded with one of her own. Tried
to sound tough. Wasn't sure if she succeeded.
"Who the fuck are you? What's going on?!"
"It's quite complicated for me to explain", the man said abruptly, turning away from her.
"How did I get here?"
"I stole a car. Look it doesn't matter."
"You stole..tell me what's going on right now."
"Look, I'll try as best as I can ok? The key is to stay calm. What do you remember?"
Stay calm. Yes, he'd said that. Before..with a sword..it was all coming back to her..a sword. And James
Dawes with no head.
"Stay away! Fuck off you murderer!"
 "Stop, you don't understand-"
Shani turned her back on the man and bolted, great, strides away, leaning forward, huffing and puffing.
God she was out of shape.
"Shani, WAIT!"
"HELP! Somebody help me!"
She tried not to look behind her, fearing this strange, disturbed man might draw that sword from
somewhere. She broke into a sprint, instinctively taking a quick glance look back, cursing herself as she did.
The man hadn't moved, calling after her urgently; the words lost in the rush of blood in her ears.
She dashed into the forest, losing herself in the encroaching darkness and the undergrowth.

Light returned simultaneously immediately, yet also as if he had just taken a long sleep. Wolff couldn't
say how long he had been unconscious, his head was swimming. The helmet had left his head.
He reached out with his Aura, trying to sense what was happening. No Eaolin. The voices must have
belonged to Humans, small, insignificant. He sensed nothing more.
The lights had changed, bright, hot light. Hotter than the sun, his skin burned, head throbbing. Silhouettes
danced in front of his eyes, he tried to focus on them, make out their faces, so intent on doing so that he
barely noticed a pain in his arm..a blade. A knife?
No..too small....too-
The bile rose in his throat, choking on acid and yesterday’s bread, throat burning. Wolff bolted forwards,
sending objects lying as he flailed, vomiting, spraying some Human, who yelped, stumbling backwards in
disgust and shock. He breathed once, letting the fresh air in his lungs, trying to keep it all down. Breathed
again. Once more. His Aura flared, searching, honing. Humans. More Humans....and something else. There
it was.
Eaolin. Friend? Foe? Close by.
He tried to leap out of the bed that contained him, but only lurched forwards clumsily, falling, hands
pulling him up, fingers tight on his skin, voices cursing, scolding. There was some poison in his veins, he
could feel it. What had they given him?
He remembered the blade, lost and choked, more bile rising in his throat. No strength to leap forwards
this time, he was sputtering, struggling to breathe through half-digested food and white fingers that jammed
into his mouth, pinning him down.
Then the last of it came up and he heaved gloriously again, lungs clearing, legs splattered with wet
warmth, the room spinning back into sight and mind. Past the figures, strong hands pushing him down, he
heard a man's voice thick with Aura booming out orders in a foreign tongue.
Familiar. They released him, retreating, fleeing this white, impossibly bright room. Wolff scrambled,
hand reaching instinctively for the object lodged in his windpipe, some strange, slimy thing that travelled
down, impossibly down, his throat.
 He yanked it out in one smooth motion, sliding it up from his throat, with the rest of what he could bring
up, on triumphant final spray. He examined it disgustedly at the see-through tube - see-through, but not
glass, strange - before tossing it to one side. Wolff went to touch his wound instinctively, but his fingers
brushed up against cloth.
Bandages. No bloodscroll. Savages. His vision was swimming back into full focus, the figure in front of
him becoming clearer. The words were becoming more apparent. Mocking, high. A certain smugness.
"Well", said Daem, “I take it your mission wasn't exactly a glaring success?"
Wolff ignored him, gritting teeth through the pain.
"Just get me a scroll."
"Certainly. I'm afraid Human medicine doesn't really hold a candle to our own. Though you should see
what they can do with teeth..."

An hour later, once bandaged sufficiently, Wolff and Daem were in a car heading out of the town. Even
the stronger bloodscroll had not closed the sword wound, so he had settled for fresh bandages. Daem had
made him change clothes. An extra precaution. The Humans were searching for them all. Wolff had almost
laughed at that. What was there to fear from Humans? But his incredulity could wait.
He sat silently, contemplating his failure. Wolff’s purpose, his life's assignment. Ruined.
Lord Father's rage would be intangible. Several times, he thought of taking the black blade from Daem's
side and ending his life. Perhaps he should have died at the hands of the mystery swordsman.
But it was Emese's face that kept him in the car, and Daem's blade firmly in the front seat. The older
Eaolin turned to him.
"I've come an awful fucking long way to sort this out for you. Rier told me all he could. What happened
to the two who accompanied you?"
"They were dealing with the other Humans inside. I felt their Auras die. It was the sword man."
"The sword man?"
Daem plagued him with questions, all adding to the weight on his mind. Where did they go? Did they
give any indication as to where they could be headed? Wolff scowled through the questions and a piercing
headache, dismissing Daem's curiosity.
"You are not privy to this information. I am on a sacred mission from Lord Father himself"
"You seriously don't think I'm blind to what you and your fellow Disciples are up to Wolff?
Daem smiled, far from pleasantly, leaning back in his chair.
"The young woman you were hunting tonight is more than some convenient Redcloak supporter on this
side of the Gate. She is the Usurper the Redcloak rebellion has worshipped for so long. Or of course, The
Chosen, well, to them anyway. The real thorn in Lord Father's side, not whatever poor child died at his hand
all those years ago and we all had to feast over."
Shock turned Wolff cold.
"How can you-"
 "I have my ways. It doesn't take a genius to work out that whoever Lord Father sends a Disciple after is
rather a big prize- let alone all of them. The war against Tha'en and the Redcloaks is all but won in the
Homeworld, yet Lord Father feels the need to dispatch his Disciples to this world? You never saw action on
the front line, did you? The things I hear in the bloodtalks from home are fascinating. What interest could he
have to send you here - unless it was something he very much wanted? Something he could not have taken
before?"
Wolff considered his options. It seemed pointless to keep lying.
"The Eclipse."
"Of course. The Gate, weakened. The chance Lord Father needed to get what he has always wanted. The
Usurper has been here all along, it seems. Out of reach, until now. That is why you are here, correct?"
"...Yes."
"This sword man. The one who confronted you. This Eaolin. Describe him for me."
Wolff thought back. The memory was fresh, raw. He saw the cold eyes, a quicksilver glint of the blade.
"Tall, long light hair. Fat-ish. A sword. Homeworld-made of course, but old. Like one of the ancient
Greatswords that hang in Lord Father's hall. The ones our ancestors wielded. I could sense it."
More than simply sense it, though he spared the sneering Daem all the details. The blade had been
radiating power, soaked in blood and countless lives' Aura. He'd felt them all.
"Fascinating, I must say. I can't think of anyone who fits the description. A Redcloak supporter of the
Usurper, no doubt. He must be found. Though..an old Greatsword? Not like those wielded by the Mhorn?"
Wolff sat up straight on the car seats.
"Yes, that's it! I thought they- no impossible! Take me to rest, Daem. I must find this Usurper and this
blood traitor."
"You shall do no such thing. You must return through the Gate. Lord Father must be informed of these
developments."
Anger seethed inside of him.
"I will tell him in the bloodtalks. I cannot return until my mission is complete. Besides, I cannot return
without my brothers and sister. To use the stone fragment from the Gate..it is a one-way trip, they will be
trapped here-"
"Lord Father is in no condition to speak to anyone, as I understand. The Gate rituals have weakened him.
He must hear the account of what has happened first hand."
He withdrew the Gate stone fragment from his breast pocket.
"They found this on you when they took you into the hospital."
Wolff's teeth bared.
"GIVE that to me!"
"I shall do no such thing. Your tantrum doesn't exactly inspire me with fear and your injuries aren't going
to heal well, Wolff. That sword was bathed in Aura, soaked in blood. It defies Ilenir. A Mhorn's blade's
wounds are a dangerous thing. Only one thing will heal those wounds - time."
"You can't force me to go back!"
"Then I shall go myself. I am sure Lord Father Aleron would love to hear all the details about tonight's
events. He will be glad to know of all of your failures in utmost detail - and it would be so nice to glance
upon the skies of the Homeworld again."
Wolff glared.
"It is forbidden. Your place is here, in the Protectorate. As is mine, with this mission."
"Your fellow Disciples can finish the job. You must go back. You have failed Wolff - and there is no
honour in denying it. This plane is taking you back to the desert. The Gate. You will be going through it
with your fragment. Once you get there, tell Lord Father everything that happened here."
 "My brothers and sister. They will be trapped in this world. The Gate, it is mere rubble now, it will not
last much longer, even with the fragment to guide me back-"
"No. There is another Gate. And I am sure they will find the means to open it in time."
"Another Gate?"
"Dear me, Lord Father does keep you in the dark, doesn't he? Another Gate exists, yes. Closed, of course.
But it doesn't matter. Now sleep. You have a long journey ahead of you."
"You bastard!"
Wolff bared his teeth. He wanted to put his hands around the squat, bulbous neck of this condescending
man and squeeze tight, even as his body shook in pain.
"How dare you speak to a Disciple this way? I should have your blood for this insult, Daem!"
"I expect you should. But you won't - and I've told you what will happen if you disobey me. My men will
hold onto this fragment and make sure they see you through. They will kill you if you fight back. A terrible
accident."
"You dare threaten me?"
"Of course not. No Disciple would ever be threatened. Lord Father would certainly not train his servants
to feel fear."
"Bastard!"
He leaned forward and cried out, feeling the layers under the bandages shift.
"Your wounds will not help you. Now rest. Your mission in this world is over, little Wolff. Run along
back to Lord Father. We shall find your Usurper."
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The country road was dark, winding down some godforsaken path, which Shani had no idea led. Every
few seconds, she would stop and listen, hoping that the strange man wasn't too close behind, looking around
cautiously. So far, nothing.
She'd been stumbling around in the night for almost a half-hour now, with no sign of civilisation around.
She winced, losing her step as she kept running and puffing - so out of shape - over the uneven road, one
pristine office shoe submerged in a muddy puddle, the cold shock shooting up her leg and socks.
The rain was a light drizzle, but the earlier storms had turned the lane to puddled mush. She pushed on,
half- running through the wet air.
As Shani turned the umpteenth corner, batting away the doubts, not just about giving herself up to the
madman back in those ruins, the road suddenly widened. It backed into a large clearing, glorious tarmac and
pavements rudely plastered over the surrounding greenery.
A nearby town, she decided, though she had no exact idea where nearby was.
She called out.
"HELLO? ANYONE?"
Only the rain replied. Taking a final glance backwards, she kept on jogging - if you could call flailing
around in soaked clothes and drenched heels that.
An orange street lamp, solitary on one corner of the street, glowed at her sullenly. Ahead was the sheen
of lights in windows and doorways, her eyes caught a pub sign on a near side of one of the buildings,
swaying gently, creaking in the light rain.
The Friar's Hand. Perfect.
A few solitary people strode past, choosing to ignore her muddied appearance. Perhaps they just didn't
care. She trudged up to the steps of the pub, each shoe vomiting water with every step, before wrenching the
door open.
The warm, soft hum of a Monday pub night greeted her. A friendly enough drunken chatter, over the
quiet whine of Depeche Mode on some beat up old speaker system.
Shani edged past the door; trying best she could to get to the payphone in the far corner, trying to ignore
the puzzled and lecherous looks of the snooker players with their pints and beer bellies.
She didn't miss a drunken leer in the corner of the room. Stupid old twats. Lifting up the phone receiver
and reaching for her wallet resulted only in the stab of horror, the realisation that she had no change
whatsoever.
What about a reverse number? She rustled around in her pockets, fingers brushing with the sodden five-
pound note in her pocket, another she'd scrounged off Katie. Cromwell glared back at her on the soaked
paper disapprovingly.
Sidling quickly past the pool table once more, she edged over to the bar, keeping her head firmly down.
Just needed to make the phone call, she reassured herself, just one-
"Are you being served darling?"
She looked up while simultaneously trying to keep her head down.
The bartender, jowly, shaved head poking out of an ill-fitting suit, pursed his lips.
"I- I've- I'd like some change, please. For the phone."
He grunted at that.
"No change. Sorry. Need it for paying customers."
Shani's mind raced.
"Oh..I'll..just..just a packet of crisps please."
 The bartender nodded curtly, turning to a selection at the back of the wall. Trying not to stare, Shani
scanned the interior of the bar.
It was quiet by pub standards. Safe. A few regulars sipping pints by the fire, those dickheads playing
pool, some students back from Uni pining away in the corner on a slot machine. Safe, yes.
The bartender called out to her.
"What flavour?"
"S-sorry?"
"Crisps. Salt and Vinegar or Ready Salted. No Cheese and Onion left."
"Ready Salted."
She tried to ignore the Bartender's gaze, scanning the room again. Did it look suspicious? She couldn't
tell. Her eyes wavered on the television set, humming quietly in the corner of the pub floor.
And her sixteen-year-old self, glaring back moodily at her on the dull faded screen. Thinner in the face,
with a bad haircut and no idea of all the trouble she was going to run into a decade or so down the line.
Time froze, her mouth running dry, trying to make out the words on the bottom of the screen, but they
were disjointed, unfocused.
Suspect. Mass killing. Crime scene. Bournemouth. Do Not Approach.
Suddenly, every eye in the room felt like it was glued to her. She swallowed, trying to remain calm. Just
had to make the phone call.
Shani turned back to the bartender, passing the note.
"You not got anything smaller?"
"No. Sorry."
He grunted again at that but didn't look up from the till, turning away before returning with the coins.
Shani forced herself to speak.
"Cheers."
She felt the cold metal pressed into her palm.
"That's four fifty change."
"Cheers."
She'd said it twice. The bartender glanced at her.
"No problem."
Then glanced at the screen. And back at her.
The penny dropped. So did the rest of the change, spilling from Shani's hand onto the floor as she jerked
back nervously.
"Ere! You're the one from the telly!"
Shani turned, running towards the exit, but the bartender was yelling, she felt the hands of one heavy-set
man around her arms, yanking her back inside.
She wasn't sure how it happened, but moments later the man was moaning through bloodied fingers, red
dripping through the cracks in his hands. More patrons were wading in, more bodies around her, and a
muffled yell of anger as she tried to push through them, towards the door, a sea of hands pulling her back.
"Call the police!", the bartender was yelling as one of the women at the bar screamed and yelled at them.
Shani couldn't move, pinned by the strength of them all.
"She's that one on the telly, innshee? Hold'er down till the police get here."
"It wasn't me! Please, PLEASE!” Shani was shouting now, blinking tears out of her eyes. "He's coming
for me, and I need to get out of here-"
"She's that murderer!"
"Murderer! Police Killer!"
 Murderer. It was the word that rose above the rest amidst the hubbub of the scene. Someone was
shouting down a police phone line, the students staring agape, their slot machine forgotten, hovering,
deciding whether to get involved.
"I say we teach the bitch a lesson right here and now!"
A large, beefy man stepped in, pressing a tattooed face up close, rotten breath, booze and fags heavy in
the air.
There were mutters and some shouts of approval.
"Easy Mick", the bartender warned, “police are on their way."
"Well, doesn't matter if she gets a bit battered before the pigs show, do it? Resisting my citizen's arrest,
ain't she?"
There was an almighty crack and a flash of pain; Shani's head reeled backwards, the rest of her held
firmly in place by the pub crowd, as the man's fist met the side of her head.
Bright lights were dancing in front of her. The first blow was like a starting gun. More punches, hits,
kicks. They were all having a go, the landlord protesting from over the bar, but uninterested in getting
involved.
And who could blame them? A foot rammed her hard in the kidneys; she lost her breath as the blows
intensified.
She couldn't focus on one pain before a fresh one came, blood all over her, trying to blink through glued
eyelids. Every hit was propelling her further into blackness, great splotches gliding in front of her eyes.
She felt something crack in her cheek, pressure swelling in her head. The shadows were circling, growing
larger in front of her eyes. There was a sudden, cracking impact and a shattering sound on the back of her
head, something painful slicing into the skin of her scalp. A bottle, or a glass, one of the braver men had cut
to the chase. The vomit rose in her throat, and she slumped to the floor, trying to shield herself.
She heard another smash, louder than the first, a man howling in pain, the bodies that held her down
loosening, shrinking back, appalled, falling silent.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"
Shani willed herself to look up, blinking through fading consciousness.
The sword man was standing in that long dark coat, nonplussed, a shattered beer bottle in hand. The
browned shards were pointed, ever so delicately, towards the barman's throat.
The smells of ale filled the air as it dripped onto the man's shoes, forming a puddle on the stained wooden
floorboards.
His Northern accent snarled.
"Let her go. Now.."
"Or what?” One of the harder men leered, pulling Shani up from the floor, a tight grip on her shoulder.
"What are you gonna fucking do about it?"
"Isn't it obvious? You can all watch while I shove this bottle right through your friend's throat."
"Stop Gaz, I think he means it."
The man's tone was pleading, eyes popping as the edges of the bottle danced dangerously close to the
jowled neck, droplets of blood seeping from a solitary - so far- cut in her neck, a thin red line in the pasty
flesh.
"Course I fucking mean it", the sword man replied coldly, eyes still fixed on the mocking voice's owner.
"Now, hand her over lads, before I give your friend here the worst tracheotomy you've ever seen."
"Do as he says", the landlord pleaded through a cold sweat, unaccustomed to even this level of violence
in his establishment. “We don't want any trouble."
There was a stifled murmur, the grip around her shoulders loosened, Shani staggered forwards, the sword
man waiting impatiently.
 "Waste of a good beer. Now we're leaving."
He pushed the landlord forward, yanking Shani out by the collar, the rest of the bottle smashing
unceremoniously on the floor, spraying the ground with brown glass.
"Cheese it!"
The crowd gave chase, empowered with the booze and bravado.
"You can't escape you fucking murderers!” one enraged skinhead was shouting, a pint in one hand as
they bolted down the cobblestoned streets.
His voice faded away, they were twisting down an alleyway and suddenly there was yet another
smashing noise as the sword man elbowed the window of a vacant car.
"Shit! Get inside!"
With little alternative, Shani obeyed, dashing into the passenger seat as the car reversed violently out of
the alleyway, brought to life by some tool the man had withdrawn from his long coat.
Shani lurched, trying to fasten her seatbelt as they accelerated backwards, the bumpers clipping one
unfortunate member of the pub mob with a dull thud.
Shani cried out involuntarily as they pulled away, the sword man's foot to the pedal floor, she saw the
man lying motionless in the road.
The sword man barely glanced into the wing mirror.
"He'll be okay. I barely hit him. Hold tight!"
The car rushed past a group of the pub crew, diving for cover from the middle of the road as the tyres
screeched on wet tarmac.
They were speeding down the street now, away from the town, the sword man swerved out of the path of
the oncoming traffic, accompanied by a flurry of irate car horns.
He glanced back nervously, the cockiness dissipated.
"Doubt they saw the plate. Keep your head down for fuck's sake!"
He directed his last words at Shani as they screamed past the corner, inching past the kerb, back on two
lanes and the main road, dimly lit by the stark, white headlights rushing past them, streaks of sound.
In the distance, Shani thought she heard sirens, but as the car turned back round the curving main road
and down a second, isolated country road, the noise was indiscernible under the growl of the engine.
The sword man didn't speak until they had pulled up on the side of a large lake, the murky moonlight
playing with the ripples of the water.
They sat in the car in silence.
Then he said gruffly, “You’re going to get out of the car, take the path on the far side. Half a mile down's
that ruin we were at earlier. You wait there until I've finished sinking the second car in less than a day in the
lake. Then you'll let me finish my goddamned story before you try to run off again."
"I-"
"Understand?"
Shani nodded.
"Good. Now get a move on."
He got out of the other side as Shani pushed open the door.
He was just starting to push the car into the water as he called back to her.
"You wait there like I said. Try running off again and I swear to fucking God-"
Shani ran, heart pounding as she leapt back through the undergrowth.
This was her chance to escape-
In the darkness, she didn't even see the path ahead until it was too late.
There was a thump, her already fractured skull took the full brunt of the blow and everything turned to
black.
 A few feet away, Marcus Godfrey watched, agape. The young woman was a crumpled heap on the forest
floor, next to a tree.
Peace at last.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mason yawned as he prepared his fifth coffee of his shift. The weak wintry darkness mocked him
through the blinds. Almost midnight. He knew he wouldn't be out of here for a couple more hours at least.
It was utter chaos down at the offices as investigators made calls, followed up leads, and scoured CCTV
footage. In his fifteen years of police work, nothing had ever ripped a hole in the department's work
schedule such as this. Until some answers appeared soon, Mike felt he might keel over from exhaustion.
The top brass had placed everyone on double shifts. All he wanted was to go home to a shower, a clean
change of clothes and cold beer in front of the telly. He scrutinised police reports through red, tired eyes.
Despite a manhunt across the whole county, there was still no sign of the suspect, or indeed any real
indication of who the perpetrators were. All the CCTV footage around the office had miraculously vanished.
The media were furious in their crucifixion of Shani Smith, to be sure, but matters were compounded
somewhat by the fact that the one survivor still wasn't up for talking.
She was under protection at the local hospital. Mason didn't think the problems were physical. Mason
scrutinised the report on his desk.
Twenty-four people dead and a killer at large. One survivor hospitalised. Two victims were local police
officers.
He'd known them only by association, but it made things far more personal. He'd put a tenner in the
bereavement pot for PC Hughes and Robinson that morning.
They had been there doing door-to-door about a break-in around the corner, a weekend before. Wrong
place, wrong time. Had they spooked the killer?
It was unfathomable in this wholly uneventful town.
The local police were stretched thin, and there was chatter from upstairs of the Metropolitan CID coming
in to helm the operation.
Until then, Mason wasn't sure how much more he could take of this case. It was riddled with too many
loose ends, too many uncertainties.
Starting with the unidentified men in balaclavas they had found inside the house, dressed in military-
grade gear but no guns, only two bloodied swords.
Swords, for Christ's sake. The men had no connections to any of the victims, no fingerprints, no records,
nothing to go on. Nothing on the passport database so far.
And then there had been the CCTV footage tapes. It had all gone. Vanished. Taken? An inside job
maybe. Pre-planned, perhaps? But why?
Mason's first hunch had been Islamic terrorism until the preliminary autopsy brought back stomach
contents of a full English breakfast for the pair of them.
If the black pudding, bacon and sausages hadn't been enough to convince him, the fact they were both
white and that neither Daesh nor Al Qaeda had put their hands up was just enough. The kicker was that two
of the victims were Muslim, though the Sun hadn't acknowledged that during their earlier claim that the
killer was the White Widow.
Why were they carrying swords? Was it a ceremonial, religious thing perhaps? A cult? The coroner
confirmed that their swords had killed the people inside the house, but whose blade had killed them?
And why cut off James Dawes' head? Was it Shani Smith's doing? As far as they knew, she had been a
friend. Not a close one. More of an associate.
Would she even have the strength? The dead balaclava men in the office were ghosts. Foreign, perhaps.
No relation to Shani Smith, despite media hype that they were her accomplices or her lovers.
 The media had zoned in on her fixation with Tarantino movies. Apparently Smith's flatmates were in
hiding. The press office were putting all of their efforts on the Crimewatch reconstruction that would follow
later in the week, but Mason's hopes for a breakthrough were far from high.
The possibility of a murderous conflict surrounding the Dawes family was another viable option, but it
didn't float well with Mason. They had never demonstrated any criminal connections or activity in the past.
Rich yes, but no reason to suspect anything.
They were, as far as the fraud and legal investigators had discerned in their separate reports, fair business
owners without any disreputable connections.
And, if this were a contract killing or some feud, where had Shani Smith vanished to? Kidnap perhaps? A
case of mistaken identity - maybe the kidnappers had believed Shani Smith was related to James Dawes
somehow?
He would have fetched a handsome ransom, not billionaire standard, but not unimpressive. But surely
they weren't so dense to mistake a 6", Harrow-educated white son of a peer with a 5"5 black, female alumni
of Boscombe High?
They would have at least phoned in a ransom by now. Plus, it didn't blow over the dead men. Not at all.
The questions were inescapable, the problems inexplicable. Every person in town had their theory as to
where the killer could be.
The gossip over the case was set to dominate life in the police office and outside it. They had almost
three thousand leads phoned in so far. Mason didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Only a few had been
more helpful than simply 'black woman', a spattering of more concrete sightings of someone matching
Smith's description in the neighbouring county.
They'd alerted the police there, but they had yet to get back. Another loose end, to a tangled mess of leads
and misinformation.
Mason sighed and looked at the pin-up chart in his corner office.
The photo of a younger Shani Smith in school uniform, a sullen frown plastered on her face, was now
surrounded by post-it notes, pictures and other paraphernalia.
All about leads and possible hideouts relating to this girl. A young woman, he reminded himself, but for
an old duffer like him it was hard to see her as anything but.
Mason looked carefully at the photo. Could she be behind all of this? Was she a cold-blooded psychopath
who'd killed over a love interest?
It was hard to distance the facts from the papers. The white, more attractive wife of James Dawes was
being pictured by some as the motive.
A jealous lust for the man and disdain at his marriage. A mass murder of passion? No, he had to get the
tabloid smut out of his mind. It was feasible, of course, Mason knew better than to judge a killer by face.
People had killed for less.
But where had these two mystery bodies come from? He let his mind consider a more far-fetched
possibility. Could Smith have hired a contract killing on Dawes and then killed the people she was paying in
a moment of panic or remorse?
Mason chided himself crossly. Of course not, she made less than eight grand a year in benefits and odd
work, and she had less than a hundred in savings. No sign of activity on the account.
Nothing added up. He banged his head on the desk. There was a knock on the door. Mason looked at it
warily.
"Come in."
Gemma poked her round, cheerful face through the door and gave him a weary smile. Mason always
wondered where she found the energy to grin like that.
"We've got an update. It's a substantial lead."
 "Jesus Christ, finally. I was beginning to think we'd have nothing to show the Met when they roll up here
and start bossing us around."
"CCTV footage in a petrol station, a few hours after it happened. There's a woman sleeping in the
passenger seat of a car. AV techies gave us a positive ID on Smith from the footage, same t-shirt, the face is
a dead ringer."
"Passenger seat? Then who's the driver?"
Oliver took out a large blow-up from her case, the grainy photograph grasped between her fingers.
Mason looked at the image. It was a man, unshaven tall and muscular but with considerable girth above
his belt, dark eyes and long hair almost down to his shoulders off a high forehead. His mouth was slightly
ajar as if he was talking to someone off camera.
"What's going on here? Can I see the footage?"
Oliver nodded, yanking a USB drive from her bag pocket.
"It's on this. Let me just set it up."
She stood back from the desktop computer. Mason scrutinised the screen. The man walked from outside
the station, past the frozen section and to the counter. He stated the pump number, pushed a note over the
counter and left.
"How much did he pay?"
"According to the store receipts, thirty-two pounds, seventy."
"That's a fifty. He didn't even wait for the change. Must have been in a damned hurry. We get an ID on
the car registration?"
"Yeah, it belonged to one of the victims, hence the fact that no-one's reported it missing. She lived alone.
Must have been parked right outside."
"Goddammit, if we'd known that sooner, we could have got a trace on it. Best we keep that oversight
quiet upstairs."
"Well, I've put out a call on the registration number now. Though I guess, it'll have been ditched by
now."
"So who is this driver and what's his relationship with Smith? This thing just goes on and on."
Mason leant back and thought. Maybe the kidnap angle had some weight now. This man could be
abducting Smith, holding her against her will. But for what purpose? Gemma leant forward, with an idea of
her own.
"So hear me out. You'll think I'm mad Mike, but I swear you'll see it too. It’s grainy so we can't confirm
this, but I think this guy matches the e-fit description for those hotel killings in London a few days ago."
"You think so?"
Mason craned his head, looking at the photo. He recalled the picture from the news report and the appeal
on TV.
There was a passing resemblance..
"Did the Met find an ID on those hotel victims yet?"
"Nope. Just like the men we found in the Grange house. No records, no traces. Just checked up with our
friends in London, they're looking abroad. Same as our two mystery dead men."
"Forensics report?"
"Tomorrow at the earliest. They're trying to work out our murder weapons."
Mason scratched his head. “I guess we've got to wait until this Lynda Jones is ready to be interviewed."
"I spoke to the doctor. She's doing very well, should be ready to talk tomorrow."
"Nervous breakdown?"
"Severe shock. They had to call an ambulance when they found her. Weak heart, apparently. From what
we know, the killer just missed her hiding under the desk."
 "Jesus. Well, maybe we'll finally get some answers."
"Here's hoping. The press are getting restless, they keep asking me for updates."
Mason reached for his jacket pocket and slid his box of cigarettes out. He gestured to Oliver.
"Fag break?"
A smile broke out over Oliver's tired face. Yes, she was still smiling.
"God, yes."
Mason chuckled.
The two of them made their way down to the fire exit, banishing the Grange case from their mind for a
blissful, cancerous five minutes of reprieve from swords, murderers and Shani Smith.

IN ANOTHER WORLD

The courtyard, once again as always, was deathly silent, though the recent blizzard had cast new snow
across the stones, frozen paving adorned with a sheen of frost.
Wolff's wounds protested to the temperature, but his honour overrode the yearning for his bed.
He owed an explanation to no one, except her.
She was already waiting, not slowed as he was by the pains of the flesh, face drawn under her cloak, or
what Wolff could see under the scars.
She was tired, he sensed. Perhaps of everything.
"You have returned then. Are the rumours true?"
There was little point in denying it; he edged closer to her.
"Yes. The Usurper still lives. I failed, Emese. I don't know what to do."
The heavy silence hung in the air, as he struggled to speak.
"I shall hold an audience with Lord Father tomorrow, to report to him."
"You should never have come back."
Emese's words were wistful, sorrowful, somewhat, but far from warm.
Wolff realised. He had brought this on her too.
Oh Great One, forgive him.
"I had no choice. A Protectorate Eaolin called Daem. He forced me to come back. Use the fragment. It
turned to dust as soon as I arrived back on the other side-"
"Forced you? You are a Disciple Wolff! Is that any excuse to abandon the others? You were leading
them! They are trapped now, thanks to you! "
"I had no choice. Look!"
He showed her the wound across his stomach, bandaged by the Humans.
Her hands were gentle, unwrapping it.
Warm.
Exposed, she tried to heal it but shrank back, almost disgusted.
"I cannot...What does this mean?"
"A Mhorn Greatsword. Blood steel. They cast wounds like this."
"That's not possible. The Mhorn traitors died."
"Perhaps not as well as Lord Father boasted."
She reapplied the bandages gingerly. She had never had to deal with an open wound for long.
 "It is still..why Wolff? You should have stayed."
"I wanted to be with you."
The words floated up into the night, but they were so hard and cumbersome to speak.
Emese was pensive, withdrawn for a few seconds.
"I see."
"Last time in this place, when we-"
"We swore an oath!"
Her tone was pleading but her eyes were regretful.
"Such thoughts and..feelings. They were burned away, as Lord Father commanded. They don’t exist. Not
anymore."
The voice of the sword man.
Tell me, why do you solve a false king?
The tone had been so even, the Aura devoid of deceit.
"What if Lord Father were wrong?"
The words were a slap in the face; he regretted them as Emese turned away in horror.
"Blasphemy? Has the world of Humans tainted your soul already?"
She was squirming backwards, even as he took wary step forward, palms raised.
"No, you don't understand, it's just-"
They came together, Emese pausing to wipe the tears from her eyes, he with hands to comfort her.
"Emese. They were so scared."
He felt his voice crack.
"Who? Who was scared?"
"The Humans. I- I killed them and–it- they couldn't. I-"
"Oh, Wolff."
"They didn't fight back. Why didn't they fight back?"
"You are tired."
And in an instant it happened again, cracked, blackened lips brushing together, her warm breath and his
own, two good eyes and two bad locked on each other as warm skin met and melted, singed by the burn of
the cold.
They were one again and this time there were no regrets, clutching each other as if one never wished to
let go of the other. The tears were streaming down his face, as they broke away gently though she gripped
him even tighter.
"I don't know what I would do if I lost you. He will be so angry. What if he punishes you like he did
Bezek?" Wolff swallowed.
"It won't come to that."
He hoped his confident tone had not betrayed the fear in his heart.
Bezek was a lesson unto himself.
"We must be strong. Lord Father-"
They both felt it. The Aura, seeping out, watching coldly from afar, they were apart in a matter of
moments, running, half walking, in opposite directions away from each other.
They could not have been spotted Wolff told himself, even if some guard had seen them, what business
of it was his that the Disciples were out late at night in each other's company?
Just a guard. A stupid guard. Yes, it had to be. Lord Father could barely move from his bedroom.
He slept soundly in the high tower of the castle, unaware of their meetings in the courtyard so far away.
Just a guard, that was all.
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IN HER WORLD

How many more times was she going to fall unconscious this week?
Shani’s head swam. It was dark. Dark. Night.
Wait, how long had she been out? Hadn't it been night earlier, come to think of it? The memory of hitting
her head. Or being hit. Yes, with a bottle.
She went to touch the skin gingerly but found only a smooth, unbroken surface. Yes, she'd been attacked.
In a pub, it was all coming back to her. But no pain. Strange. Everything felt impossibly usual. She found
her feet, hands on stones and grass, back up standing.
The sword man..yes she remembered him. He was barely visible, save for the tiny glow of the cigarette
he had clasped in his fingers. It lit up his eyes and bearded chin, for a moment as her eyes adjusted, he was a
manic, disembodied face, floating in the darkness.
"Are you ready to listen to me now, Shani?"
She paused. Decided to engage him.
"How do you know my name?"
"Oh for f- you told me! Remember?"
She paused. Oh yes. She had.
"Do you want money or something? Is that it? Look, I don't have any, if you let me go, I won't tell
anyone."
"Christ. Are you amnesiac or something?"
She blinked. Yes, Northern, like she'd thought. From Yorkshire..wait..she'd thought about this before.
"Am I dreaming?"
She closed her eyes, trying to will herself to wake up.
Nothing. Clenched her eyes tighter.
"Stop that, you'll have an aneurysm."
She eyed the exit.
Well, a crumbling arch of stone. An escape from the crumbling walls. No one else around to hear her. He
could see she was looking.
"Look. Listen. You run off again like that, and you'll be dead in a few hours. There are people looking for
you."
"I'll explain. It wasn't me. You know that."
"Shani-"
"Look, leave me alone. I don't owe you anything-"
"I saved your life! Probably twice now."
She tried to..yes..he'd asked her name then. And there'd been so- so much blood.
She was gabbling.
"I have to tell them, get it? On the TV in the pub, they don't understand. It said- it–it said.."
"Never mind the bloody TV. The people you need to be worried about aren't the media. Or the police.
There are people trying to kill you, Shani Smith. More dangerous people than you'd ever think you could
meet. You try to go home and explain this all? They'll find you in minutes."
"The-With the sword, and the helmet-"
"One of them."
 Of course. It was all making sense now.
"I didn't mean to hurt those guys, OK? It was a vintage handbag, so it's heavier, I didn't–they were after
Pete, and I was so angry and-"
"Hey! Oi! Oi, calm down!"
She could barely hear him, stammering, blinking back tears.
"Are they..Mafia or something? Oh God, what have I done? They want revenge, don't they? You've got
to help me!"
"Shani Smith! Listen to me. LISTEN!"
"What?!"
"You're not Human."
Shani blinked.
"Yes, I can see that got your attention."
"What the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean, not Human? That's fucking racist; I ought to
report you-"
"Eaolin."
"Eaolin?"
"Yes. You're Eaolin."
She wanted to go home. “What the fuck is a Eaolin?"
"We live in another world-"
"What, like outer space?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
She could have laughed.
"You're stoned, right? This is all a joke. Is it all a Derren Brown thing? It is, isn't it?"
"You were born in another world, Shani. Your whole life, you've felt out of place. Like you never
belonged and never could. I know the feeling-"
She moved to run but felt a warm grip, firm on her arm.
"LET ME GO!"
"Please! You need to listen! Look my name's Marcus, Marcus Godfrey-"
"You're sick! Insane! You need help mate!"
"Look, think whatever you want right now, but I'm the only person who can keep you safe right now. So
please."
There was such desperation in his voice that Shani wavered.
"You've got five minutes."
"OK."
"And I want a fucking cigarette."
He relented, passing her one from a battered old case in his long coat pocket.
"Here. Light?"
She nodded gratefully as the flame licked the tip.
She didn't smoke. Not at all. But she'd do anything to calm down right now as she listened to this
madman.
"There is another world, running alongside this one. Always has been. The world of the Eaolin. Once,
millennia ago, we coexisted among Humans, but we exiled ourselves, split the world in two and closed the
Gate between them. The Humans forgot all about us, in time."
"Why the fuck would you want to do that?"
"The Eaolin–we–there is a legend..."
"A legend?"
 He was nervous. He looked down at his cigarette and took a deep breath.
"A legend. That a Chosen Child will rise from the world of the Humans, open the Gate between worlds
and claim the Golden Throne as their birthright. As Lord Father–well, Lord Mother in your case I suppose–
of all Eaolin. As our destined ruler."
Shani took a drag. Her eyes watered. The cigarette was a terrible idea.
"So what? That's me?"
"On your palm. There is a mark."
She paused, cigarette in the corner of her mouth.
"Yeah, you saw it earlier when I was unconscious."
"No. Well, yes and no. I saw it a long time ago. Twenty-seven years ago, when you were carried out of
the desert as a baby."
"I was born in Southampton General."
She looked at him. Eye contact. A trick. But she couldn't look down. She tried to raise her voice.
"You're a liar. They told me how I got that mark, alright? My mum used to stub her crack pipe on me.
That's why I got sent to care."
"It's a convincing story, certainly. But it's not true."
"Yeah, it is."
"But it's not. Your parents lived in the other world, Shani. And they died some time ago. They were
killed trying to protect you."
"You're sick in the head, you know that?"
"I'm sorry."
She laughed.
"Nothing to be sorry for. It's not true."
"I think you know it is."
She gestured at the cigarette.
"This is running out."
"I am of a Eaolin bloodline called the Mhorn. Once, we guarded the Gate between our worlds, waiting in
the Human world to bring the Chosen home. The last Eaolin left behind. We waited, to help fulfil the
prophecy -"
"OK, let me stop you there with the whole speech thing. So I'm..not Human? I'm one of these Eaolin
thingies?"
"Yes."
"I look pretty bloody Human!"
"Look, don't play dumb. How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight. Thanks for reminding me."
"You look like fucking fourteen."
"Hey!"
"Well, it's a compliment. Get ID'd a lot, do you?"
She paused.
Yes, she did. All the time.
"I just don't look very mature for my age."
"Eaolin age marginally slower than Humans. We can live to a hundred and twenty, easy."
"Right."
"Look, we're getting sidetracked here.."
The cigarette was a stub in her fingers, glowing hot.
"Not much time left, Marcus."
 "The Mhorn live in the Human world, waiting for the Chosen, per the prophecy, cut off from the rest of
our kind, waiting to bring him - her - home. We have done so for thousands of years. But something went
wrong.”

“Of course.”
“Over seventy years ago, without our knowledge, a man claiming to be the Chosen and bearing the mark
on his palm, reopened the Gate from this world into our own. We don't know where he came from, or how
he did it."
"Good for him."
Marcus ignored her.
"He took the Golden Throne, and the Eaolin name Aleron. He was the Chosen, per our people’s most
sacred prophecy. Or so it was thought in the Homeworld. The rejoicing went on for months. But he was–is–
a cruel ruler. Famine, starvation, civil wars soon ensued. But all in the Homeworld had to follow Aleron,
into more than four decades of rule-"
"Why?"
"Because the prophecy said so. Because he bore the mark and passed through the Gate, per the prophecy.
The prophecy is the core of our belief."
"Right."
"But everything changed, the day you were born. My mother received word that a child had been born,
bearing the mark of the Chosen. The same mark on your palm. That was you."
"This cigarette's finished."
He brushed her remark aside.
"My mother realised. There was a false king on the throne, as we had privately suspected for a long time.
A cuckoo. The whole Eaolin world had been tricked. But by then, Aleron had started to make his move.
He'd set up a Eaolin Protectorate in this world, sending them through the Gate he'd opened, preparing it for
conquest. Eaolin hiding among Humans. Thousands of them."
"Bullshit."
"It's true."
"So what happened?"
"My mother realised that the prophecy needed to be fulfilled. You needed to come to the Human world,
until the time was right. We had contacts on the other side, in the Eaolin world, distant relatives to our own
who shared our distrust of Aleron. They would go on to forge a rebellion in your name. Many of them died
to get you to the Human world before the Gate was sealed off by my mother. A civil war has raged since.
Very recently, their leader was killed."
"Am I supposed to feel bad?"
"I'm just asking you to listen. You can believe later."
She stubbed the cigarette under her shoe.
"Thirty seconds."
"The Gate between our world and this one was still open. More Protectorate members coming through,
every day, a handful at a time to avoid attention from Humans. We were able to smuggle you across with
our sympathisers. Once you were here, my Mother closed the Gate. She gave her life to place a seal on it,
with your blood and hers. I became the Mhorn."
Shani didn't know what to say.
"Right."
"Skip a lot of details, fast forward to now. Aleron has managed to weaken my mother's seal, and send his
Disciples to this world."
 "Disciples?"
"The man that attacked you. Killed..all those people. He was one of them. His most loyal servants - and
deadly. Raised for one purpose - to remove you from the picture and secure his false claim to the Golden
Throne. I held him back, but they're after us. More are coming."
Fear was crawling up inside. No, this man was just trying to scare her.
"You're ly-"
"Oh for FUCK'S SAKE. You saw what happened? Didn't you?"
"I- don’t talk to me like that, you arrogant Tyke prick! I'm not scared of you!"
"What?"
"This is all a trick. I want to go home."
There isn't a home for you now. Not anymore. Here."
He had pulled something from the cello case at his feet. Yes, it looked like a cello case. But inside there
was no cello. A short sword, in a dusty scabbard, blue string wound around an ornate handle of light bone.
"This is yours."
"Mine?"
"Its name is Hyxarn. It is an old sword, from the armoury of the Great Keep. Forged for you, hundreds of
years ago. Waiting for the Chosen. It's how I found you. It knows its master."
"I don't want your stupid sword-"
It was now unsheathed, wavering inches from her throat. And there was a sudden light, a strange, weak
glow off the edge of the blade, a ghostly white.
"Sorry, I just have to check."
Shani felt hot tears in her throat.
"Please don't hurt me. Please. I don't know what you want, but please. Please don't cut my throat.
Please."
It was a look of pity and derision that greeted her request.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
The sword vanished, back into its sheath. He put it down on the ground.
"Until recently, Hyxarn never glowed. But with the Eclipse in the Homeworld.. your Eaolin blood
reacted. Your Aura stirred."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You feel funny recently?"
Her mind raced.
"Collapsed the other day, yeah. Dunno why."
"It was then, when the Eclipse came and the Gate was re-opened. That was when Hyxarn bonded with
you. Found you."
It was darker again. Yes. The sword had been glowing. It had to be a trick. Surely. She forced herself to
speak up.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Come with me. I can protect you like I keep saying. Please. You're tired. Come on, I've got a bed made
up for you. There's a house near here."
"If you've got a house, why the fuck did you take me here?"
"I needed to make sure you're who I hoped you were. And you are. Hyxarn recognises its master. Please,
Shani. Just believe me."
"I don't."
But she was tired. And it was dark.
"Alright. Whatever. Take me back to your house. But if this is a sex thing-"
 He winced.
"It's really not. Look, you need to rest. You're going to need your strength."
"Why?"
"Because tomorrow, we start preparing you for the battles ahead."
"You're a fucking weirdo, you know that? What the fuck are you talking about? You are talking
NONSENSE!"
But she was tired. And she followed him, anyway. Back to some house, tucked out the way, and a single
bed in a dusty room.
He didn't try to rape her, just bid her good night and disappeared. Well, that was something at least.
She was asleep before she realised it, back to the unconscious where it was safest. She'd work it all out in
the morning. What a load of bollocks that fat Yorkshire man had been talking.
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

IN ANOTHER WORLD

The silence in the Great Hall was so thick that it could almost be tasted. Aleron examined Wolff with
absolute disdain in his good eye, veins popping, wrinkled hands clenched tight.
"Let me understand this, Wolff. You not only failed to bring me the head of the Usurper, but you let
some blood traitor wound you? And abandoned your brothers and sisters in the Human world-"
"If my Lord Father would-."
"SILENCE! Do not answer back to me! YES, OR NO?"
"Then. Yes. I have failed you. I apologise."
Another silence followed. Aleron's single good eye bulged beneath the scars. Hands clenched, he picked
up the large table in front of him by the corner and threw it against a wall. Made of black glass, it broke into
thousands of tiny fragments with a sharp crash.
Emese looked on nervously. She had seldom seen their master in such a fit of rage. His strength betrayed
his years. That single eye settled on Wolff, his head still bowed. He did not flinch, or react.
He drew his sword with that unnatural ease for his advanced age, strode over to Wolff and brought it
down towards his head. The black blade wavered, inches from Wolff's neck.
Lord Father waited. The boy did nothing, his eyes still firmly facing the floor. His hands remained firmly
in his lap, far from the short sword sheathed on his back.
The black blade moved again. It was a streak in the air, a dark glint that cleaved off Wolff's forearm with
ease.
He screamed, clutching the bloodied stump, sobbing as he collapsed in on himself. Emese couldn't help
but gasp next to him, forgetting to keep her head down. That earned her a hard smack across the head from
Lord Father, who, satisfied, stormed away from the pair of them.
He turned away, the cold calm mask beneath the scars soon returning to his face, anger fading from his
cheeks and eyes.
"Wolff", he spat, “you have dishonoured me. Dishonoured the Chosen."
He paused.
"You say this woman was the Usurper? This girl?"
Wolff gasped above the pain, sweating.
"Absolutely. The Eaolin I encountered confirmed it. The blood prayer led me to her. We conducted it just
as you instructed.."
"It served its purpose. But you did not."
Aleron thought slowly. He closed his eyes and breathed. A rattling, poisonous sound.
" Tell me about this man, this Eaolin. He was one of our kind, but not of the Protectorate? Who was he?"
"Lord Father, said Wolff urgently, “he wielded an old Greatsword. I recognised the markings from the
records. A Greatsword of the Mhorn-"
"You lie!"
The air in the room was compressing, squeezed by the Aura. Emese could feel it pressing her chest, a
sharp pain in her throat.
Wolf choked.
"No Lord Father, no. I swear, I swear it! Daem..Daem he said as much. And these wounds, they do not
heal as they should.."
 "You speak of the impossible. The Mhorn bloodline is wiped out, as the Protectorate promised. This is
some imposter."
Wolff spoke in a low voice. His eyes narrowed bitterly.
"His sword talent..was worthy of the Mhorn."
"No. You are utterly pathetic. This is some no-name bastard blood traitor with an old sword and
misplaced loyalty. Nothing more.
"There is another thing, my Lord."
"Yes?"
"This Daem. He spoke of a second Gate. I have never heard of it, but perhaps- perhaps we could-"
Wolff thought he had seen Aleron pale under the scars.
For an instant, there was something else in his eyes before he spoke again. If he hadn't known otherwise,
Wolff would have called it fear.
"SILENCE. More damned lies! A second Gate? There is no such thing. Daem has lied to you and he will
pay the price. Now get out. All of you. Out - away from my sight! OUT!"
And they turned tail and fled his rage.

IN HER WORLD

"I'm sorry. You want what?"

Yarnaeth was pissed off. Sunny day in New Amsterdam, unexpected in the winter. Warm enough. Back
in the FIA office, just cruised up in his convertible from his apartment.
A long day at a job as secretive as his life as a Eaolin. Shades on, up the stairs and had just sat down. And
now the Disciples had come calling. But he kept his irritation in check.
This Disciple, this girl, Malkyn. He'd already heard of her bad side first hand, and he'd rather avoid it.
"I need some subjects for an Aescyme ritual."
He tried not to spit his Iirebos back at her down the phone she seemed incapable of using. Each word was
like a foghorn.
"Alright fine. Have Rier organise that. I know Daem sent him to do your bidding. But what exactly are
you planning to do, Lady Malkyn, if I may most humbly enquire-"
"This does not concern you. Our mission is for our eyes and ears only."
Yarnaeth had to resist the urge to point out that so far, their mission had lost them five good men, three
by the girl's blade, and had thrown a shit lot of paperwork and unfinished business on the Protectorate. He
was still coordinating how to keep the killings clean of their involvement.
Luckily the Protectorate had contacts in the police forces all over the world. But he kept the civil tongue.
Why was this girl even contacting him? She just wanted to speak to the most senior person she could. Daem
was undoubtedly ignoring her.
"Very well. Though I must ask you to exercise caution. Aescyme here..it would cause..well, a stir."
"That is your problem. Now get me the subjects. I want them straight away."
 And she ended the call. Of course, she did. Little bitch. Yarnaeth gritted his teeth and slammed the phone
down.
Aescyme indeed.
Why not just put a sign up and hand out flyers while they were at it? Eaolin live among you - enquire
within.
The Disciples were dangerously close to being out of control.

By the time Mike had driven home, changed and showered, it was approaching the early hours of the
morning.
He had hoped for sleep, for some pleasant relief from the increasing pressure of the case at work.
However, someone had other ideas. The hospital had called just an hour into his deserved slumber. Lynda
Jones had seen a great recovery in the middle of the night and was now able to talk.
Mike had forced himself out of bed, kissed his tired wife goodbye and was heading over to the hospital to
meet with Gemma. She had certainly been less than pleased to come in on her meagre time off but had
begrudgingly agreed to assist him.
Both of them knew privately, that with the force in such turmoil in these hard times, failure in the case
would not reflect well at all.
It was an unspoken burden, but one they still had to carry. If the Met got involved, things would not look
good.
No concrete leads on the perp, save for the obvious suspect that the morning papers were spending
another day condemning. Mike couldn't wait to see if Mrs. Jones might finally shed some light on the
events.
He swung the car down the side, the lights blaring down the narrow country lanes, dispelling the shroud
of darkness. Mike pulled round onto the dual carriageway, swearing under his breath, as another car pulled
out of the road in front of him.
Wanker!
He took his mind off his road rage, thinking about the case. Maybe, finally, the mysteries that had played
with his head for days could be solved. Mason pulled the wheel across, turning off onto the exit towards the
hospital.

The dimmed bulbs barely illuminated the hospital room. Mike and Gemma surveyed the bed quietly.
Lynda Jones certainly wasn't a slim woman but seemed impossibly gaunt, a sickly shade of pale, hair limp,
spread lifelessly across a yellowing pillow.
Must have been one hell of an ordeal. Her eyes inspected them bleakly as he struggled to stay conscious,
drifting in and out of sleep.
The nurse that sat by the hospital bed pursed her lips.
"Inspectors, I must ask that you keep this as short as possible. This woman needs rest. Mike nodded.
 "We're detectives. And I'm sure it won't take long."
The woman gave the weakest of nods, craning her head to look at the nurse pleadingly.
"I'm..OK."
The nurse didn't say anything, choosing to sit back in her chair and resume reading her copy of Heat.
Mike took a step forward.
"How are you feeling, Lynda?"
The question was ignored. The woman twisted her head from side to side; eyes tormented as if trying to
recall something.
"At the office- helmet"
"You're safe now", Gemma soothed, “please, take your time."
"Do you remember what happened when you were on the phone?” Mike interjected quickly.
The nurse glowered at him over the top of her magazine, but he chose to ignore her.
Lynda thought, struggling to speak, words limp, barely a whisper.
"Shani..suddenly she just ran from her desk. Over to where the toilets are. I think the policeman..scared
her."
"Scared her?"
"She looked terrified. I thought she might have been ill. Apparently she'd had a seizure on the weekend.
And then–then there was all this screaming from the lift."
"Wait. But you said Shani ran to the toilets."
Mike did a mental scan of the office in his head. He'd seen a floor plan earlier that day.
The lift was nowhere near the toilets. Another side of the floor, past the front desk.
"It was someone in a helmet. And two other people with him. A motorcycle helmet..balaclavas..and s- s-
s-"
"It's OK. You're safe now."
"They were shouting. Everyone was at his or her desks. I hid under mine. I kept quiet, and when I came
out, they were all- they were all- I could hear.."
The nurse busied herself with a needle.
"Minor sedative. I told you; this is too soon."
The woman didn't even notice as she slipped it into her arm. Mike scowled.
"It's all OK. We'll come again tomorrow. Did you see where Shani went?"
"I didn't see her leave the toilets. I heard the man walk past. He was speaking to the other two in some
strange language. I didn't, couldn't catch any of it. Then I heard more crying. The balaclava men were
screaming. And..."
The nurse shot the detectives a warning glance.
"I'm afraid you won't get much more out of her like this, detectives. Come back tomorrow, you should
quit while you're ahead tonight."
"Do you remember hearing anyone leave?” said Mike desperately.
"I can't.."
She sank back down into his sheets. The nurse folded down her magazine and stood up.
"Show's over folks, for all the good it did you. Come back tomorrow."
Mike scowled at her.
"Thank you for your time."
He gestured to Gemma and the pair walked out of the ward doors, back down the corridor that stank of
stale piss and fresh bleach.
"Fuck's sake. So we have a single witness whose only concrete recollection so far is seeing Smith run
into the loos."
 "She said something about a seizure?"
"It's in the file. She went funny at a party a few days before, had a fit. Unspecified cause.”
“A psychotic breakdown maybe? Prelude to a murderous attack?"
"You sound like a tabloid. James Dawes, the one whose head...well, why was he there? He didn't work
there, and Smith knew him."
"His wife says he was dropping off a brief to the office. Some new business they were starting."
"OK. We need to inspect their relationship closer. Smith and James Dawes, I mean, obviously."
"So we know there were three attackers. Two dead and one in a motorcycle helmet. Could be the man in
the car with Smith?"
Mike glanced at his watch. It was too late to talk any more about this whole bloody affair.
"Bugger if I know."
He quickened his pace as the two made their way to the car park, amid the bitter sting of the freezing air.
Forty minutes drive and back for a sodding two-minute chat with a drugged up woman in a hospital bed.
He shivered a quick goodbye to Gemma.
"See you tomorrow."
"Goodbye."
The car seemed to drive itself as Mike floated between thoughts on the long road home, the warm
embrace of his wife never far from the cries of those damned souls and the one left behind.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was the next morning, after the barbecue and less than twenty-four hours since Shani had met Marcus.
Already, it seemed that the two were to come to blows, albeit for the purpose, so Marcus said, of this
"preparation."
After a few hours of solid chiding and arguing, Shani had been persuaded to leave the house and
accompany him outside. They were standing in the middle of a vast forest, the trees climbed around them,
the light of the sun obscured by the mass of branches and leaves.
Shani still didn't fully trust the man or his story. But what was the alternative? Try and run away again?
He'd just catch her. She glanced at the sword and sheath by her feet. Maybe when the time was right. But no,
she couldn't just- not after he'd saved her. She remembered the office. She'd barely slept that night. Every
little sound made her jump.
She'd play along, she decided, for now. Shani was feeling somewhat nervous already, not aided by
Marcus's aloof behaviour and general dislike of small talk.
This sudden verbal suggestion from Marcus had suddenly shaken up the lull in the conversation.
"You want me to what?” Shani said disbelievingly, her hands firmly stuck in the pockets of her
increasingly bedraggled office clothes.
He had a thick accent; maybe she'd just misheard the words in that gravelly, smoker’s tone.
Marcus repeated himself.
"I want you to try and kill me. Any means, any method at your disposal."
Shani was speechless. What means?
She glanced around the dense forest. Perhaps she could stab Marcus to death with a sharpened twig. The
idea brought a grin to her face, disbelieving.
"You're joking, right? You psycho, what are you playing at?"
She turned to walk back to the house. Marcus glowered.
"Perhaps you weren't listening to me yesterday. People want you dead. They've already tried once. You
need to defend yourself."
Shani bit her lip.
"Well, anyway, what will trying to kill you do? You'll easily beat me. I mean look at the size of you!"
Marcus brushed off the comment.
"Just humour me alright. If you're going to survive with me, you need to learn how to defend yourself."
He lifted his sword from the cello case and its sheath, bringing his right foot forward.
"Draw Hyxarn"
"But I don't-"
"Just do it!"
She trailed around, picking up the sword and sheath from the floor, sliding out the blade. The handle was
thick in her grip; she could feel its weight dragging on her shoulders. Her mind was racing, trying to think,
eyes fixed nervously on the considerably larger blade Marcus held in a two-handed grip, so calmly.
"Ready?"
"No. This is stupid."
Marcus, sensing Shani's reluctance, lowered his broadsword, returning it to the sheath and propping it
against a tree.
"Fine. We'll start simpler then. No blades. Leave Hyxarn for now.
She did gratefully, dropping the short sword as her arm ached. It rolled on the ground, covered in leaves.
Marcus glowered.
 "Oh for God's sake, show it some respect! Put it back in its sheath."
She snorted at that but did as she was told.
"It's a fucking sword. It doesn't have feelings."
"Hyxarn is more than any sword, Shani Smith. It's one of the treasured relics of the Eaolin. It had powers
many don't quite understand. Ancient seals and all sorts. So please. Don’t throw it around like a tin can."
"You seem to care a lot about it."
"It's a part of who you are. Just like Astigan here. It's a part of who I am."
He brandished his sheathed greatsword, a thick blade of old iron and carvings cascading down to an
ornate hilt, the cross guard curved into two talons almost as sharp as the blade itself. From pommel to tip it
was nearly as tall as he was, yet he seemed to hold it so easily in his hands.
"Passed down from the Mhorn for generations, this old thing. But it's no less dangerous, a thousand years
since its forging. Its bites don't heal. It's deadly, so I respect it."
Shani frowned.
"So we're going fisticuffs?"
"Oh yes. Whenever you're ready."
"You're aware I'm a small black woman right? This is like...a triple hate crime."
He laughed at that.
"I'll go easy on you. Look - one hand behind my back. Right arm, my best one."
He demonstrated, pinning his arm around behind his torso.
"OK, let's go."
Shani wavered, considering.
If she could just get her hands around Marcus's neck. Maybe she could throttle him? She broke into a run;
hands outstretched, Marcus growing closer with every stride. Shani lunged clumsily, eyes fixed firmly on his
throat-
Marcus's response was effortless. The arm came up, smacking Shani's hand to the side, while his foot
hooked around his heel, catapulting her towards the ground. Before Shani could even react to the
momentum, Marcus had moved, his hand balled into a fist. It stopped inches from Shani's jugular.
Shani gaped, mouth ajar. Marcus smiled.
"Jesus fucking Christ!"
"I just collapsed your windpipe. You might choke to death, or I might end it with the sword, depending
on how I feel."
“What is your problem?”
Shani stuttered, reeling from the shock and speed of Marcus's blow. She felt helpless, weak. Marcus's fist
uncurled into an open palm.
"Here."
He pulled Shani to his feet, who staggered backwards in alarm.
"F-fuck you! You almost hit me!"
Marcus chuckled.
"Don't worry. I'm in complete control."
Shani did not feel reassured. He'd moved so quickly, even with all that fat on him. Inhumanly so. Yes. No
one could move like that regularly..unless..maybe he was on steroids?
"You move fast for a tubby bastard."
"You're one to talk."
"Oi!"
"It's all down to Eaolin blood. And Aura."
"What the fuck's that?"
 Marcus was silent, his eyes lost in thought. He seemed concerned.
"It looks like the seal's still in place. Your Aura is dormant."
"Again. Aura? What is that?"
"Our power. Eaolin power, runs in the blood. But yours isn't working for some reason."
As he spoke, his hand had been reaching slowly for his jacket pocket. Shani gave a smile of relief.
"So... I can go home?"
There was a silver flash and she felt a numb, stinging sensation in her left hand. The birthmark on her
palm-
She yelled, raising her hand up to view. There was a dark red cut across her skin, seeping blood slowly.
He'd cut her! Shani gritted her teeth, stamping her foot as she danced a hop around the forest clearing in
agony.
She glanced up at Marcus, a small dagger in hand, dripping blood- her blood. Felt a mix of anger and fear
rise inside.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"
"Shut up", Marcus responded curtly. “I need to concentrate here."
"OWWW!"
"Shush!"
As Shani watched on in livid bemusement, half considering another escape attempt, Marcus withdrew a
small, thin brush–like the ones people used in calligraphy, Shani realised -, along with scroll of yellowed
parchment, dry and crinkled.
With intense concentration, he dipped the brush into the minuscule pool of blood on the knife's edge,
before taking it to the paper.
With swift strokes, he began to draw with Shani's blood.
"Oh what the fuck is that?"
"Shut the fuck up. And stop swearing all the time. I need to concentrate."
Shani's eyes widened, her face flushed from the stress of the pain.
"What are you doing?! I'm bleeding to death over here!"
Marcus looked over briefly.
"You're fine, he replied, “Just give me a minute here, please."
Holding her hand close to her chest, as it dripped onto the forest floor, Shani watched as Marcus put the
finishing touches to the bizarre drawing.
Marcus got to his feet, stowing the brush, blade and parchment.
"That should just about do it", he muttered. Shani narrowed her eyes, scrutinising the scroll.
On the paper, Marcus had drawn some strange symbol, like the ones you found in tattoo parlours or
something, an intricate symbol of rings and brush strokes. It looked like nothing Shani had ever seen before.
"That's just wonderful,” Shani said, each word dripping with sarcasm, “how exactly is making me die of
blood loss going to help?"
Marcus ignored her. “This is a bloodscroll", he explained, "Basic Eaolin bloodcrafts. It's going to force
your body into a dream state. Let you reawaken your Aura."
Shani shook her head disbelievingly.
"Sounds like bullshit."
Marcus sighed as if he was explaining a concept to a child for the umpteenth time.
"It's an old Eaolin technique. This is basic. Your blood carries Aura; it's rich in the stuff. Blood is a
powerful tool of our kind. The problem is, your Aura is dormant. None of it is flowing in your veins; it's
all..frozen. Stuck."
"My GP never told me about this."
 "Your GP is a Human. They can't feel Aura. Not can their science. Mainly because they're not looking for
it."
"You're not gonna cut me again are you? I'm going to get hepatitis."
"Ah, you'll be okay. I've got to use my own Aura with this scroll. With it, I can calm the flow of blood to
your head, let you fall into a deep sleep and find your Aura, get it running."
"My Aura?" said Shani thickly.
Marcus nodded.
"Like I said. The power of the Eaolin. What sets us apart from Humans."
Shani rolled her eyes.
"How come I've never heard of this Aura stuff?"
Marcus crossed his arms. “Humans know about it plenty, even if our races are segregated between
worlds."
"...Worlds?"
"I told you this last night. The other world. Our Homeworld."
"Right, yeah..You're starting to sound like a loon. You know that?"
"Just bear with me. There are limits and rules to Aura. Like anything else. Humans might call it magic
though they'd be wrong."
"Well, you've certainly spelt it out for me. I mean, everything is making so much more sense now."
"You'll be less damn sarky once I do this. Here-"
He took a step forward and instinctively, Shani took a step back.
"Is it safe?"
"It should be. It's not something I've used often but I understand the fundaments."
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable -"she began to say weakly, but Marcus's response was to take the
parchment and jab it sharply onto Shani's forehead, brushing her skin.
Instantly, Shani felt peculiar, impossibly, lightheaded. She could feel Marcus, pushing down on her. But
he wasn't touching her-
"..nngh.."
Her legs buckled and she was pulled deep into the soft forest floor-
It was light and dark, her head was spinning, the forest vanished from underneath her feet, feet that were
no longer there, warm, so warm, impossible, hot burning, burning, please make it stop, could see everything
and nothing, nothing made sense, felt sick, but didn't have a throat, the world was gone and she was all that
was left, it was bubbling up in her veins, her whole body was on fire, she could feel it in her mouth, licking
her tongue, flames and fire, her eyes were hot and something else, something strange, alien, inside of her
and not her, it was looking at her, wait no perhaps it was her after all and she went to touch it-
"OW!"
She sat up, rubbing her cheek.
It stung, burning red. She was back in the forest, the song of birdsong and the chatter of insects crept
back into her ears.
She felt strangely sensitive, every noise and movement did not go unnoticed. It was as if someone had
turned up the volume.
She could see every small detail, the swaying of the trees, the bugs that crawled on the forest floor,
nothing seemed to go unnoticed. Yes. It was a great warmth that blanketed the world around her. The cold of
the forest. She could have forgotten it.
She turned.
Marcus's hand was raised, his grumpy demeanour dulled by an air of sheepishness.
"Sorry. I decided to slap you out of it–wasn't sure if it was safe keeping you under for much longer."
 The strange warmth seemed to be emanating particularly strongly from Marcus. But it felt different, more
intense. Like standing too close to a fireplace.
Shani tried to ignore the new sensations flooding her mind.
"How long?" she inquired suspiciously.
"Oh, about three hours."
"What the fuck?"
She checked her battered watch. Marcus wasn't lying. But it had only been a few seconds...
Shani pulled herself to her feet. Marcus was studying her intently.
"How do you feel?"
"All..right” said Shani uncertainly, “But hot. REALLY hot."
"I can feel it now. Your Aura, Shani. It's flowing."
"You can feel it?"
Marcus stood up and walked back, putting distance between him and Shani.
"Sense it. Whatever. Ready to try again?"
"I'm so hot."
"Breathe. You're still adjusting. Tell yourself. It's cold. Come on, say it."
"It..it's cold."
"Yeah?"
"It's cold."
"One more time."
"It's cold!"
It WAS cold, she realised, shivering.
"Breathe, Shani."
"What's happening? My heart's pounding."
"Your body is just getting used to it. Ready to try again?"
"No!"
"I'll be gentle."
"Fuck off!"
"You need to know how to control it."
"No, I don't want this, OK? Take it away!"
"Try and kill m-"
"OH SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Marcus was thrown aside, crying out, half in surprise, half in amusement. Suddenly he was so close. Just
metres away- had he charged at her?
No, realisation dawned, she had charged at him.
He wheeled back, joy on his face. A smile, cracking across his broad face. Shani stopped in her tracks
astounded.
She looked down at her hands and feet confusedly. Impossible–without even thinking, so angry, she had
leapt towards Marcus, fearlessly and tried to strike him with her hand. No her newly balled fist...
Alarmed, she looked at Marcus, who had taken a wary step backwards.
"How did I do that?! Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean to do that!"
Marcus' expression was one of barely-visible delight.
"Instinct, Shani Smith. Thousands of years in the making. This is the power of the Chosen."
"It's like. Like before."
"Before?"
"Sometimes. I do things. I get angry. And I..I've hurt people."
 "Flashes. Little bursts. If you got mad..sometimes your Aura would try to wake up."
He picked up his sword from the trunk of a tree where it lay.
"Hand to hand combat is no specialty of mine. You, on the other hand, seem quite suited to it. That was
quite a punch."
"I've thrown a few in my time."
"Well, I let my guard down and nearly paid for it. I want to see your swordplay."
"But I haven't even learned the basics-"
'Trust me. You'll know."
He levelled Astigan.
"Draw Hyxarn. Come on!"
Shani concentrated, trying to muster the same strength again. She cleared her mind and pulled the sword
from its sheath with a grating screech.
There was a drumming in her ears. Somehow, she knew what to do. She was holding the sword without
even realising it, no longer a dead weight in her sweaty hands. The new wound on her palm didn't bother her
anymore.
Marcus nodded.
"Let's go!"
Everything seemed so easy. Every swing of the short blade, every swipe and stab. Marcus was dodging
her blows, blocking others with his blade, hand still behind his back.
Shani sensed his unwillingness to strike back with the larger sword for fear of hurting her and used it as
an advantage. She lunged in, her arm locking around the handle, wrenching it from Marcus's grip, who
grunted.
Yes. She knew what to do. Somehow without ever having known. If she could disarm him-
Marcus's leg came round, impacting with Shani's stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She stumbled
backwards, all concentration lost. She was that scared and confused double glazing saleswoman again.
Marcus's hand came down. Astigan stopped inches from Shani's throat. The man's eyes had lost his
mocking edge, perhaps briefly.
Was there..admiration?
"Magnificent, Shani. You got hold of the basics a lot quicker than I thought you would."
The smile became a pensive frown.
"You need to maintain concentration. Don't be afraid to strike me. On the flip side - don't get too cocky.
This might make me sound full of myself, but I am holding back. You've got a long way to go."
Shani stopped. The full realisation of the events of the last minute or so hit her.
"Oh my god. What the fuck am I doing?"
She stood up, brushing the leaves and twigs off her.
"I can't be here, messing about in a forest with all this...swords and Aura and fighting. It’s ridiculous! It's
stupid! I've got go home; I've got to get out of here-"
"Hey. Hey, hey hey. Please, please! Calm down. It's a shock I know. You've been through a lot. Look,
I'm sorry."
"About what?!"
"I know how bad all this must be for you. You've seen a lot, Shani Smith. All those people at your office,
the news. Look. I'm afraid you're going to see a lot more-"
"Says who?"
'Says me, alright? Look, sorry. I'm not great at explaining stuff, alright? I'm not good at understanding
people either. But you have to believe me."
"It's a load of bollocks. All of it."
 "All that you just did. You have any other better explanation than mine?"
She paused.
"I-"
Marcus shook his head.
"If you don't want to believe what I've told you that's fine. But you can't lie to yourself. You can sense it
all can't you? Don't try and fight it."
She'd been trying to ignore it, but it was overpowering. She didn't understand what she was feeling; it
swam about her head, reaching out into the space around her.
"Aura. This is Aura, isn't it?"
It was so much clearer now. She could feel Marcus now, just as much as she could see him, a warm glow,
invisible, but present. She could sense his emotions too. A fierceness, pride but also loyalty. It frightened
her.
"I'm scared. Why is this happening to me?"
"You are the Chosen, Shani. That mark on your palm is the sign of the Great One. You are our real ruler,
our Lord Mother. I am here to help you and you need to trust me-”
Shani felt tired.
"Shut up. Just stop talking now. I just want to rest."
Marcus relented.
"Let's stop for a while. Then we'll get right back into it. The training's only just begun."
"Training? That's what this is then? You weren't joking?"
"Like I said Shani, I'm sorry. We Eaolin are a race of war, fire and blood. And a great battle is coming-
"..Fine. So that's what this is. Have your fight. I won't be a part of it, you hear me, Marcus, Mhorn,
whoever the fuck you are? I'm not your fucking Chosen, alright?"
And Shani stomped off back down the road, Marcus running after her, struggling to carry Hyxarn and
Astigan in his arms.
 CHAPTER TWENTY

The older woman sitting in the darkened cell wasn't exactly sure where she was, or how she had got
there. It was desperately cold; a draft was flowing through past her slippered ankles the locked door in the
corner of the room.
She racked her brains, trying to work out exactly what was going on. Appeared to be in a police cell. Had
she done something wrong? It couldn't have been kidnappers, or drug cartels, or something like that, could
it?
Not in the sleepy village she lived in, she scolded herself. Too much TV, that was her problem. She'd
never been in trouble with the law before. Was this mistaken identity? Maybe she had gotten drunk? No, not
like her. She tried to think, remember. But there was a cloud in her head. Yes. Something was making her
forget.
She jumped with fright as the handle on the cell door turned, shrinking away into the corner. A
policeman entered, shutting the door behind him.
Amidst the increasingly bitter cold, she felt a surge of relief. The police! She forced herself to speak.
"What's going on, Officer? Where am I?"
The policeman fixed her with an authoritarian stare.
"Just a few questions. We believe you may be an important witness to a severe crime."
Outrage replaced comfort.
"What on earth is the matter with you people? I pay your wages! Couldn't it have waited until morning?!
You can't just drag honest people out of bed in the middle of the night, what is this, a Communist state?!
How did I get here?"
The remark spurred a twitch of annoyance across the policeman's face.
"Just answer our questions", he replied slowly,” and you're free to go. You can file a complaint if you'd
like–it's just that this is a very serious crime we're trying to solve and time is of the essence."
"I demand to know how I got here."
"We invited you. Don't you remember?"
Nonsense. Surely? She looked at him. His eyes were pulling her in.
"I.."
"You don't remember?"
Remember?
His eyes. They were so much deeper than she remembered.
"Well-"
Those eyes..
Yes. Perhaps she had..
You did.
She smiled.
Yes. Yes of course she had been invited. How could she forget?
"Yes. So sorry about that officer. I don't know what came over me."
He procured a newspaper from his coat pocket.
"I'm sure you must have seen this in the news."
He handed her the paper. Pictures of police forensic vans and crying neighbours splashed across the front
page. The woman's mouth was agape.
"Those horrible killings in Bournemouth? Just how am I witness to that? That's miles and miles away!"
The policeman leant back against his chair.
 "We believe you might have seen the suspects. You're on CCTV walking your dogs around the woods of
your house around Seven A.M this morning?"
She nodded slowly.
"Yes, I always walk them there in the morning, before work."
"Did you see anyone?"
The woman thought.
She had been walking down the dewy path this morning. Who had she passed?
Old Mrs. Baker from the post office, Dr. Harper from the surgery, June Spencer from down the lane-
Something important, out of place, began to crawl up from her mind.
"Take your time", the officer coaxed softly.
In an instant, it all came rushing back to her.
She shook her head hurriedly.
"Yes! There was someone–no, two people!"
Two faces floated in front of her mind.
"A man and a woman. I was surprised to see them up so early in the morning. I thought it was odd."
She tried to drag more details from her head.
"The man was tall, kind of chunky with long hair. He had a big long coat on. Looked weird. The woman
was smaller, shaved head. Younger. Looked a bit queer."
She thought it over.
"The woman. She was covered in bruises. Well, they both were. I thought maybe. Well, it was best not to
ask if you see what I mean."
The policeman nodded. “Anything else?"
She tried to drudge up more facts.
"The tall one. He had a big cello case. Well, I think it was a cello case. I thought they were from the
university maybe. They shoot a lot of student films down in those woods; maybe they were making a music
video."
Realisation dawned.
"Oh my God! Are those the killers from the telly? They just walked past me, didn't say hello, I didn't
think anything of it!"
The policeman shook his head.
"Don't worry. You're extremely helpful. Do you know where they were headed?"
"Imagine - Criminals! Here!", the woman continued, ignoring him. “It could have been me!"
The policeman gave a cough of annoyance.
"Oh. Sorry- where they were headed, you said?"
She frowned, trying to think.
"I'd say down off the path, towards the forest. Just near the stream. I walk my dogs there a lot, but you
can get lost quickly. Covers thirty square miles, you know."
She looked up.
"I'm afraid that's all I remember."
The policeman stood up.
"Thank you for your help. I'll have another officer take you home now."
"No, thank you. I hope you catch the ones responsible."
The policeman flashed her an encouraging smile.
"I'm sure we will. Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh, yes please."
She was gasping, she realised.
 How had she not noticed how thirsty she was? She must have been asleep for longer than she thought. He
gestured, and she got out of her chair and walked past him, out of the door.
She looked around, confused. Behind the cell, there was no police station, but a dark underground cellar,
moonlight streaming from a single barred window at the top of the ceiling. Tools, knives, crates and other
boxes lay scattered. She suddenly realised–she had no recollection of actually arriving at the police station.
No, she certainly didn't. She'd just thought she had. That policeman had made her think so. How?
She had just fallen asleep that evening, strangely drowsy. She realised that the cold draft in the cell
seemed to have followed her out into the door. She turned.
"You're not a police officer! What is this-"
She was cut short, as the policeman brought his arms firmly around her head and broke her neck cleanly
with a sharp motion. Her head hit the table.
The policeman looked back up again, dialling a number on a mobile telephone.
"I've made progress."
Rier's voice sounded on the other end.
"Splendid job. Let our Disciple friend know where to find them. She will handle the rest, I am sure. I'll
tell Daem."
The phone cut dead, the tone whining in the cold silence of the room, punctuated by the drip of water.
The policeman walked away, leaving the woman's body where it was.
So Marcus Godfrey did tie up into all of this after all, he thought to himself. As he left, he flipped a
switch. Electricity and petrol flared, turning the old Protectorate building into a great ball of flame.
But he took the body with him, slung into an oversized hold all. The Disciple girl wanted it, apparently.
He turned away, the heat of the explosion making ripples in the air, disappearing back into Human life.

The Chief Inspector's office was a modest affair, dull peeling wallpaper and stacks of papers swathed
across a faded, cracking mahogany table that had known better times. Still, nicer than Mason would ever
get. Recession being what it was, budget priorities didn't quite stretch to keeping the top brass' offices lavish,
not anymore.
He was expecting them, in his miserable fashion, offering up a cursory gesture with his hand as the other
clutched a mobile telephone to his ear.
"Keep me up to date then...yes. Thank you."
He ended the call, attention almost entirely undivided as he tapped away at the computer in front of him.
Glancing up periodically at the pair of them, of course.
"Mason, just the man. The press office is bloody clueless at the moment; want quotes from me of all
people. Has someone not told them that I am extremely busy? Can you sort them out for me?"
Mason took the hint and didn't waste any time on the details.
"We've had a development, Sir."
"Oh yes? "
A new potential suspect. Spotted with Smith on CCTV and in multiple eyewitness accounts from that
sighting in Whenshire."
"So you're saying Smith has an accomplice?"
"No, Sir. I'm saying there's a chance that this suspect has Smith hostage."
 "Hostage? Are you seriously suggesting this woman had no hand in this mess? You've seen all the
evidence we've got on her haven't you Detective?"
Mason gritted his teeth.
"I'm saying there's the possibility sir. Tonight's broadcast, the reward. It might be a little premature, with
all due respect. Not with this new information. Could throw the attention away from the real killer, if we
assume the hostage theory has any water."
The Chief's smile was far from infectious, his palms came up, chiding.
"Mike. You’re making things more complicated than they need to be here. The script's all written, and the
press has been called. These things cost money and time. You're a sensible man. Shani Smith is our first port
of call."
Mason was shocked; looking at Gemma he saw her face too was a picture of surprise.
"Sir, you're not possibly suggesting that we rule out a suspect just to fit the producers at Crimewatch?"
The smile vanished.
"You're an excellent detective Mason, really you are, but you're scraping the bottle of the barrel here.
Shani Smith is the suspect in these killings until you bring me some substantial evidence that proves
otherwise."
"She was spotted in the car with the man on CCTV, two hours after the attack took place."
"Who's to say it isn't an accomplice? Or worse, a victim she coerced to drive her around with the threat of
violence? Or something else entirely, of course."
Mason ignored this.
"Then why hasn't he come forward? That incident in the pub. Five men reported Smith shouting that
someone was 'coming to get her.'"
Another dismissive wave of the hand.
"The woman's deranged. Who knows what nonsense she's babbling? This man is likely her hostage."
Mason was starting to lose his temper.
"She's not capable of taking a hostage!"
"Evidence?"
"The psychologist seems to think she's sound of mind."
"Anyone who needs a psychologist Mike, really can't hide under a label of perfect sanity. Now be
reasonable."
"Lynda Jones' testimony will contradict all of this. She says Smith was in the bathroom when three killers
entered. Two dead men in balaclavas at the scene. That's one left."
The Chief leaned forward, tone barely level.
"Smith is the suspect until I say otherwise."
"Sir, do you have some personal reason to believe Smith is guilty?"
He'd meant a low blow and wasn't disappointed. The Chief Inspector was no doubt revelling in the
opportunity to get in front of the cameras. Yes, that had to be it, one little killing spree and Hollywood
beckons. There was little opportunity for media stardom in a career with Dorset County Police after all. A
second suspect at this stage. Well, that would take all the attention away from him.
What Mason hadn't expected was such a furious response from the old fool. There was a white-hot fury
in the Inspector's eyes; he drew back as if Mason somehow repulsed him, spitting in anger.
"Just what are you implying?"
Gemma shot Mason a warning look.
"Sir, I think he just-"
"Shut up, I'm speaking to him. What are you implying?"
Gemma stopped, agape.
 "I beg your pardon, Sir?"
Mason stood up quickly, trying to avoid the Inspector's glare.
"I think I understand. Come on Gemma."
"Yes. Get out. Both of you."
"I'll be filing a complaint to HR about this", Gemma fumed, "You don't talk to your officers like that; it's
completely unacceptable."
Mason laughed dismissively as the Inspector's moody silence drove them from the room, Gemma's
protests doing little to ease the tension in the air. Down in the car park, they were still thrown by the odd end
of their meeting.
"He's got big plans, that one", Gemma reckoned as she tapped her dwindling cigarette against her
forefinger impatiently, "Looking for a higher position in the force."
Mason snorted. "County policing too good for him I expect. I'll never understand why they source these
bellends from the fucking city."
He flicked his fag end to the pavement, crushing it underfoot.
"Let's go. I'll give you a lift to the station."
Gemma smiled, face lined with fatigue, the kind that policing put on you.
"Thanks, boss."
As they turned out of the car park, Mason realised a third presence, in the corner of his eyes. Up in the
window, the figure of the Police Inspector watched them silently from the window, a little man scrutinising
them from up high.
Mason bid him farewell with a sarcastic little wave as he turned the corner and sped off. Fucker.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"OK. Let's pack this in for now and get something to eat."
This sudden outburst from Marcus made Shani look up in astonishment, wincing as she did so.
Everything hurt.
It had been another hard day of teaching. She was losing track of the days. Shani was smothered in
bruises and cuts, caked in mud and exhausted.
Each limb and tendon of muscle ached for relief, rest. But something was changing. So quickly. Her
clothes felt baggier, body leaner and more muscular, something she wasn't sure whether she liked.
The weight had just fallen off. She'd tried diets and running for a few years and couldn't escape the
melted candle look when she took her clothes off. Now..well, was this even normal?
Marcus had been relentless in his program. The pair would wake at Five A.M, in the small, cramped
house, which Marcus refused to tell her how he had procured.
They would then make the ten-mile trek to the training spot, where Marcus kept devising more gruelling
exercises to test her. She wanted to leave. But she couldn't. Every time she shut her eyes at night, she was
back in that office. Looking at James Dawes' head on a grotty bathroom floor.
Shani's side still burned and pained, where Marcus had kicked her the day before in sparring. It now
glowed a dark purple, a monstrous bruise that spread over her ribs. She'd been doubled over in agony. He'd
refused to apologise. She'd let her guard down. His foot was a kindness he said; a blade would not be so
considerate. Arrogant Northern twat.
She was meant to be channelling her Aura to the wound, speeding up the healing process. It was still raw
and painful to the touch. Marcus seemed intent on making her as miserable as possible. She had been
shouted at, called every name under the sun, pushed into a bog, put in all sorts of chokeholds.
She was a woman. Smaller, weaker than him, all six feet of muscle, beard and fat. It wasn't right. It
wasn't fair.
Worst of all had been her hair. He’d cut it on the second day, deftly slicing a large chunk of it away.
Punishment. She’d lost control and paid for it. She'd been distracted he said. Not focusing on him. Too busy
thinking about makeup and nail polish maybe. Some big strong man coming to save her? Rescue her from a
dragon and let her sit on his cock? Misogynist prick. And completely wrong.
Nothing changed. The words had sent her into a white rage. She was on her period for fuck's sake; it was
hard to maintain any interest in anything. He wouldn’t let her go to the shops.
He'd laughed at that. Sneered.
Their enemies wouldn't care that the painters were in, and neither did he.
"Stop being a whining bitch."
She'd gotten mad lunged at him with his back turned, Hyxarn ready.
She'd just wanted to scare him, she'd told herself.
But he'd laughed mockingly, sidestepping the strike, pinning her down and running a knife across her
scalp before snapping, screaming at her never to try it again. It had frightened her. She'd stormed off for the
umpteenth time to leave before turning back. There was a reason he'd chosen this secluded spot. She had no
clue where to go. And she was scared.
For a moment on the first day; she had thought she was strong. But she wasn't. Maybe that was the
lesson. So, blinking back tears, she'd accompanied the arsehole back to the house. She’d tried to tidy her hair
up with some nail scissors, before, defeated, taking Marcus' razor to it instead.
She didn't know what to think. She found herself running her hand over the buzzcut. If she'd not looked
queer before, well..
 She thought she'd been doing well on the first day, But Marcus was playing fair then. He’d been quick to
remind her of that. It was a lot harder to maintain concentration now his methods had become more painful.
And he'd become such..such a dickhead. The more she grew to know him, the more she despised this man,
calling himself Marcus Godfrey, with all his stories.
Today, Shani had been improving on maintaining focus while under pain. She had no idea if that was a
sly dig at her predicament. Marcus had disappeared for a few hours after the hair incident on the second day,
slinking back to chuck a pack of tampons in Shani's direction without a word.
Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he didn't want any more distractions. He’d told her it was too dangerous for
her to go back into public. Her face was everywhere. He'd brought a newspaper back with him as if to
validate her staying out of sight. She was front page. He hadn't let her read it.
So the training continued. That morning, Marcus had tied thick logs to her arms and legs, ropes binding
them tightly in place. She’d made a stupid joke about BDSM, he'd told her to grow up. But it soon became
apparent it wasn't a laughing matter. With each movement, Shani's bones felt like they would snap under the
weight, ropes burning into her skin.
To add to Shani's misery. Marcus had made her wear a filthy layer of insulated clothing and a thick
woolly hat at all times. They smelt of sweat and mothballs and itched uncontrollably. The past day, they had
been using heavy wooden swords, heavier than Hyxarn.
They looked a little like those in that Nihonese thing, the sword fighting sport; she forgot the name. They
used them so her muscles would adjust, Marcus had told her. They were horrible things, cumbersome and
painful when struck with. So far, Shani felt like she'd been beaten up with a baseball bat.
She felt faint from the heat; sweat spilling from every pore with every movement. Her new short hair was
soaked, eyes stinging. Add to all of this the fact that she was meant to be preventing Marcus from beating
her into an even bloodier pulp, and she was, to put it lightly, fucking pissed off. And Marcus wasn't holding
back, as best as she tried to defend herself. He could get past all her blows; strike her before she could bring
the wood up to stop him. She couldn't win.

She'd asked the obvious question the night before, as they'd rested, sitting in the cramped living room of
the old house that Marcus apparently owned.
"Why the fuck don't you just buy a gun?"
"That's a stupid question. Guns don't stop Eaolin."
"So if I shoot you in the head, you'll just get up and walk away?"
"Oh no, I'd be dead. But you'd need to be very lucky. I can dodge bullets."
"Oh shut up."
"It's true."
He'd laughed.
"Will I be able to do that?"
"In time. It's tricky."
Shani rather liked the idea. The Matrix had been one of her favourite films in school.
"You're not lying, are you?"
"I'll prove it. Bottom drawer over there."
She'd gone to it, found a small wooden box, and unwrapped a black pistol from a dirty rag.
"What the fuck?"
"I mainly use it for the show. Humans tend to be more scared- careful; it's loaded-"
But she'd turned it on him. Her side still ached.
"UP AGAINST THE WALL!"
He'd scoffed at her.
 "Shani-"
There he went, with the roll of the eyes. Arrogant prick.
"I've had it with all your lies, alright? Eaolin, other worlds, all that shite. You tell me the truth!"
He'd had a look in his eyes. Fear. Doubt?
"Put the gun away and calm down."
"So you're scared. Thought you could dodge bullets, Marcus? If that is your fucking name!"
"I can. But you can't pull that trigger in here."
"Want to bet?"
She'd felt the skin of her pointer finger on the greasy metal trigger.
"I've been dragged fuck-knows-where, people have died and you're holding me here against my will-"
"Look, I'm sorry alright? I don't have a choice."
"You're just keeping me here. That's all this is, isn't it, Joseph Fritzl?"
"Oh, fuck's sake. Fine. Pull the trigger then."
"What?"
"You still don't believe me. Well if you're right, shoot. Go on. Kill me and you can escape."
Was he bluffing? Her hand was trembling. He was mocking her.
"I mean, maybe you just can't, Shani."
"Shut up!"
"Look, angle it down if you like. Shoot me in the leg. I won't be able to catch you."
The metal felt like it was melting in her clammy grip.
"I-"
"Not got the balls?"
"Shut up. Maybe I'll shoot your bollocks off."
She had the gun aimed at his groin. God. What was she doing? What was she thinking of?
He laughed. “Aim a little lower, please. Go on. Pull the trigger."
"Sh-shut up!"
"PULL IT!"
He had shouted so loud that she'd jerked back in surprise, hand clenching as the gun was still pointing at
him. There had been an almighty splitting sound from the gun, her ears had rung, head thumping. It had
been so loud.
She'd tried to find Marcus through the sensory overload, vision blurry, head dizzy.
And felt a tap on her shoulder. Made out the wall. One small bullet hole, right where he'd been standing.
"BELIEVE ME NOW?"
He'd shouted it right in her ear, lips up against the side of her head. The sound had ripped right through
her, and she'd squealed, sinking to the floor.
"You fucking Northern bastard. Fuck..it hurts. I can't hear!"
He roared with laughter.
"You stuck up Southern bitch. You know, I might be starting to like you."
He'd walked out with the gun lazily hanging on a spare finger.
"Get some rest. It'll wear off. We've got more training tomorrow."

So she was back in the forest, fifteen hours later. Her head still ached.
Over the past hour, she had been gradually losing the will to continue–for every strike or stab with the
wooden sword that she was able to evade, Marcus had landed two more.
Her body burned, the weak winter's sun beat down. It would have usually been a comfort in the chill, but
now it was a gas oven in the sky. She had kept going.
 It was purely the thought of Benny–and the idea that she could somehow put things right that kept her
going. When she went to sleep, she'd kept telling herself that she'd clear her name.
The newspaper article and TV report at the pub..what would people think of her? Not a great track record
to start with. She'd been trying to put it out of her head. She had to admit grudgingly that Marcus's methods
though cruel were efficient.
On Day One, she had spent most of the training on the floor, knocked or pinned to the ground by
Marcus's superior speed and technique.
Now, she was slowly beginning to hold her own. Well, almost.
Shani never saw it on his face, especially as he kept yelling at her, but she couldn't help wondering if
there were a sense of pride slowly entering Marcus's manner. Perhaps it was this that had kept her going.
But for every tiny hint of animosity, there had been numerous more of complete disregard. Marcus had
barely spoken a word to Shani that day since the gun incident. It was no improvement in their
communication.
Patiently, she had endured Marcus's relentless exercises and drills. Marcus seemed so focused,
determined to push Shani beyond her capabilities. But she wished he'd say something other than criticism or
an insult. Just something.
So this sudden verbal outburst had come as some surprise to her. She slowly rose to his feet, defying the
weight of the logs, pulling her back upright. The sun was barely starting to set. She looked back at Marcus.
"Really?"
"Yeah", Marcus said, his eyes fixed on her. “We’ve barely eaten properly for two days. I don't want you
collapsing on me. My treat. I'd take us to Nando's, but too risky. I guess I could cook something."
Shani felt her mouth water.
All she'd had in however long she'd been here was tracker bars and what seemed like a gallon of water.
Her stomach twisted. The hunger almost made her nauseous. Paused to think. From her experience, this was
very un-Marcus like behaviour. She wondered aloud -
"There's a catch isn't there?"
Marcus's face broke into an amused smirk.
"Yeah, you're right there's a fucking catch. You want to eat; you've got to pass one little test."
He grinned widely and Shani could barely keep the disbelief off of her face. After days of being a twat,
suddenly he had become all talkative again. Shani's face burned with frustration.
Or maybe that was the heat.
"OK. What is it?"
Marcus's grin grew smugger.
"I'll let you off training early–if you can hit me. I don't care what methods you use if you cheat, whatever.
Just do that and we can go. Use everything you've learned, hit me and we're done here."
His expression hardened, the eyes mocking.
"I can't exactly spend all week waiting around for a stupid little girl, can I?"
The words made Shani's blood boil. Oh, he knew how to wind her right up, really he did. Her knuckles
felt hot.
"Fine", she muttered through gritted teeth. “I can't exactly wait around for you to stop being a wanker.
Maybe I'll teach you some fucking manners."
The promise of proper food after all these days seemed to fuel her determination. She just needed to wipe
that arrogant smirk off of that fat bastard's face.
He'd not shaved or showered today, she deduced. But getting close enough to knock his teeth out would
be worth it.
 "Yeah yeah, Shani. You're all bitchy back talk now. But that's all you are. I'll be the one watching your
fall on your arse for the thousandth time."
She imagined striking him, the satisfaction of inflicting pain after all he'd put her through. The fury rose.
She ignored the searing aches in her stomach, the throbbing head and burning joints, along with all of the
other pains she had accumulated.
Marcus looked at her.
"Yes. Channel that anger. Aura. You have it. Use it. Try and hit me."
She did, moving, much faster than she remembered, her wooden blade arching towards Marcus's head.
He was moving too, arms coming up. Wood met the wood, splintering; Marcus nonchalantly blocked the
blow, forcing her back.
Shani winced but ignoring the yells of protest from her body, she kept moving. She struck again, this
time with her free hand, pulling the heavy sword back, Marcus easily batting her fist away with his elbow.
Something cracked, but she barely noticed. Before, she'd have been on the floor.
Shani kept striking with the fake sword, parries, feints, and stabs–trying to muster everything she'd been
taught. She almost buckled under the strain, trying to focus, imagining her Aura as Marcus had told her to,
visualising it reaching out to her arms and hands, guiding her movements...
Marcus struck back, sword in other hand, his fist slamming towards Shani's neck, whose arm came up.
She met the force of the blow, striking back with a turning kick that Marcus effortlessly dodged, putting
distance between them.
They paused, waiting for the other to make a move. Focus, she remembered. Tried to stay calm through
the pain and sweat. She had to bring it all out. She was moving in ways she never could have imagined,
doing all this like it was second nature.
Just like Marcus had taught her. She tried to pull out her Aura, channel it into her movements, and turn it
to her instincts. She was moving faster than she could ever remember, her brain felt like it had been plugged
into an electrical outlet, everything drawn out, moments stretched in front of her.
She was strong. More powerful than she'd ever thought. Marcus was drawing in, choosing to use her
fatigue to strike first, all of his momentum channelled into his wooden sword. Cold anger etched in his face.
Shani froze, still desperately trying to do everything she had been taught. But filled with fear, she
couldn't..
Marcus grew closer. She couldn't-
Shani's wood blade came up without even knowing it; she yelled in pain as the blow smashed against her
elbow, glancing off the wood. It had carved an enormous gash in its wooden skin, a chunk torn away. But
there it was, gloriously, unbelievably–an opening.
Her hand gripping Marcus's arm best she could, pinning him in place, she moved in with the wood edge,
pushed forward. Just had to focus. Let it all come naturally-
Marcus's leg came up, sweeping Shani to the ground, she groaned as the ball of his foot slammed into her
side, perhaps vindictively, right where he had kicked her before. Her face slammed into the wet ground; she
tasted dirt and twigs. She felt numb. No matter how hard she tried, her brain could not get her body to
respond. She’d hit a wall. Shani drew great rattling breaths, gasping for air. Marcus's footsteps crunched on
the damp foliage.
"Get up!"
He was standing over her. Shani could just make out his figure in the corner of her eyes.
She did, lifting herself slowly back onto her feet.
"Good", Marcus said, his voice muffled and flat in Shani's ringing ears, “You just about glanced me with
that last strike. I'll accept that as a pass."
The seeming fury that Shani had glimpsed had dissipated from his voice.
 "OK, Shani. I'll keep my end of the bargain. We'll conclude training for today."
Shani's senses seemed to be returning faster than ever; she found the strength to pull herself to her feet.
Barely standing thanks to the weight of the sopping wet overcoat and logs that clung to her body.
"You mean it this time?” she sputtered weakly, resisting the tantalising urge to fall back on the ground
and sleep there forever.
"You're exhausted", Marcus noted, “borderline malnourished, sleep-deprived–I can't have you collapsing
on me. And yes, I've done that to you. But most importantly–I think you've got a sense now of the limits
you'll have to push yourself to. And of how merciless our enemies will be."
He moved forward, his small dagger from his ankle holster deftly cutting the ropes from around Shani's
body, which fell to the floor with a soft thud on the forest floor.
Shani gasped with relief, freeing herself from the padded clothes and hat, pulling off layers to let her
soaked skin breathe. She massaged the purple rings around her wrists, where the rope had cut into the skin.
"Jesus. Kidnap me, tie me up. You’d better have a fucking good reason for all this."
Marcus watched her, half amused. Half solemn.
"It doesn't get any easier."
Perhaps Shani let the exasperation show on her face too much, for Marcus's eyebrows rose up his head.
"I suppose you think I'm some absolute sexist, sadistic twat right about now."
‘Top marks’, Shani wanted to say, but her mouth was numb.
"I admit, this training is harsh. We don't have a lot of time. It's a crash course in surviving as a Eaolin.
And you've only just got the basics. But you've learned what takes years in hours. You are the Chosen."
Shani shook her head.
"If you say so."
"You're still here. Any sane person would have left by now, if they didn't believe me."
"Yeah whatever."
"Trust me. We're going up against people who have trained much harder and further. If you don't prepare
yourself mentally and physically, you won't last long out there."
Shani coughed; the cold air nipped at her chest, the burning slowly subsiding.
"Where's there? The Homeworld you keep talking about?"
Marcus smiled.
Ignored her question.
"I've been a bastard to you these last few days and for that I apologise. Trust me, I know how I must
seem. But if you're going to get through this, I've got to be a twat. There's no place for niceties in war."
He turned, walking away from Shani, hunched over in fatigue.
"Come on, Shani. I'll be true to my word. You've passed for the day. Let's go get something to eat."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Give me time."
So they went to get food.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was getting late by the time Shani and Marcus had made the agonising trek back to the house, cleaned
up and set off again to the local town. Marcus was decidedly cautious about moving around freely, often
stopping dead in his tracks to survey the area, constantly looking over his shoulder.
That beefy hand reaching for the sword concealed in the instrument case slung on his back. They must
have brought to mind a terrible band. Shani had refused to take Hyxarn. Marcus had wanted to argue, but
she suspected he was as hungry as she was.
So after a long shower and an expired beer from the fridge, they'd gone to get food. Shani was getting
sick of wearing whatever clothes Marcus had sourced for her, presumably from a charity shop. Nothing
fitted right, either too baggy or too tight. She'd opted for some grubby tracksuit bottoms and a dull, faded
hoodie, on top of the sunglasses and cap Marcus had demanded.
Shani wasn't sure who exactly who this Protectorate or the Disciples, or whatever Marcus had called
them were, when they might appear and what they might do, but she guessed it was best to look low-key.
But Marcus' fanatical vigilance made her jumpy, stomach churning every time the slightest suspicion was
aroused. After circling the supermarket like a nutcase, Marcus had deemed it safe to enter. They had gone
inside to get food, Shani trying to ignore the suspicious glances from customers who were probably
wondering why this odd black girl was wearing dark shades and a cap in a supermarket in midwinter.
Marcus had no qualms about the stares and Shani understood why - people thought better than to ask
questions. Rule number one. People hated trouble. Shani might have found it laughable if she wasn't aware
that the whole world seemed to be after her.
She had no money. Since the party, she had barely had time to make sense of what was going on, let
alone try and get some cash out from the bank, where she knew her paycheque should have been waiting.
Her bankcard was in her purse back at the safe house. Marcus had forbidden her from using it. No way she
could get to a pay phone easy.
She still ached all over; her impressive collection of bruises had attracted further scrutiny from the people
around. They probably thought she was an abused housewife. The shades weren't helping.
Marcus was oblivious to the attention, but Shani couldn't exactly help feeling self-conscious as they
trailed up and down the aisles. Surely someone might recognise her? Even with the haircut and shades?
It all seemed so surreal–just two hours before they had been fighting with wooden swords in the middle
of the forest. Now they were food shopping. Well, if you could call it that. Marcus didn't seem to know what
he was doing. He had little regard for the labels or prices of the products, throwing items off the shelf into
the trolley without even stopping to examine them. Almost as if he were trying to look natural.
Shani kept quiet until Marcus nonchalantly plucked a tin of dog food off the side of the wall, tossing it in
without giving it a second glance.
"Uhh. What’s that for?"
Marcus looked up stunned, as if broken from a trance.
"What?" he said loudly.
Shani shuffled, trying to ignore the attention of a young mother pushing a pram across the frozen food
section. She gestured at the dog food, on top of a pile of other products, ranging from frozen burgers, soy
sauce and a wax candle.
"I swear you're just grabbing whatever's in your line of vision. I thought we were meant to be know,
keeping a low profile."
Marcus crossed his arms.
 "I'm not exactly used to doing this", he muttered sheepishly, glancing down at the odd jumble of products
that filled the trolley.
Shani laughed.
"Why? Were you born with a silver spoon up your arse or something?"
Coolly pulling them from his wallet, Marcus defiantly waved a wad of fifty-pound notes in the air.
"Yeah, something like that. Don't worry, we're covered."
Shani's mouth fell open. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen such a large sum of cash–come to
think of it, she wasn't sure if ever had.
"You're loaded?"
She glanced around, just managing to keep her voice down. Marcus shrugged.
"Yeah. My Dad was pretty generous. And stinking rich. When he died, I got it."
Shani reeled.
"But-"she spluttered"-the house. And the forest.."
Marcus tilted his head to the side.
"Mmm?"
"Well–how much do you have?", she said weakly.
"Dunno."
He furrowed his brow.
"I've never really counted it all. I know there's a lot of it. Tied up in stocks and shares and all that bullshit.
A friend takes care of it for me."
Shani had automatically assumed that Marcus had nothing; that time had taken it all away, save the
sword. And here he was, brandishing a handful of notes like pieces of scrap paper.
"Don't you spend it?” she said slowly, "I mean, that house isn't exactly- y'know."
Marcus 's eyebrows rose.
"Money draws attention", he stated bluntly. “If I walked around in fancy suits, hired a chauffeur and
owned a mansion, I might as well give myself up to the Protectorate straight away. I use my money to hide.
Not to show off."
Shani nodded slowly, eyes still transfixed on the money in Marcus 's grasp.
"I do use it, naturally", Marcus said annoyed, “I just don't draw attention to myself. Alright with you?"
She felt a surge of jealousy.
He patted the mound of goods piled high in the trolley.
"We'll get this back to the house, you're going to need the strength tomorrow-"
Shani cut him off abruptly, days of pressure erupting.
"For more training?" she snapped angrily, tossing the tin of dog food to the floor.
It smacked onto the cold linoleum. There was the faintest tut from someone in the distance. Marcus 's
eyes widened in surprise. And disdain.
"What's your problem?"
Shani glared down at the floor.
"How much longer are we going to do this? I want my fucking life back. I passed your training today,
OK, but instead of sorting all of this shit out, what are we doing? Messing about in the forest for even
longer!"
She looked away.
"Now it turns out that you just happen to have this massive fortune. Excuse me if this doesn't all add up
in my head."
Marcus fixed her with a belligerent eye.
"Listen here, you jumped up little scrote", he said dangerously, prodding his finger in Shani's chest.
 She turned away, avoiding his glare.
"You've got it into your head that it's going to be easy - and I say you're not ready, and you need more
training. I'm not about to let you get killed, so show some fucking gratitude."
He drew back, biting his lip.
"Don't think your cosy little fake Human life is all that matters here."
"It is."
"You want to go back to normal? You've got worse problems, sweetheart."
"It's all that matters to me!"
Marcus seemed to have lost his composure, he took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and began absent-
mindedly examining the newspapers. Shani's face had gone from the covers. The news must have got bored.
Shani's face burned; she picked up the can and returned it to the shelf.
"What if that Disciple or whatever the hell you call him at my office made a mistake? You keep saying
people are after me and whatever. But how do you know you're right? And how do I know you're not
lying?"
"Are you still seriously doing all this? After all that's happened? All we've done? Why can't you trust
me?"
"I just want proof, Marcus!"
He turned; alert all of a sudden; his eyes scanning over Shani's shoulder. It was like someone flipped a
switch. One second, Marcus was stationary, yet in an instant, the blade had been drawn, the case clattering
to the ground. Shani felt herself shoved to the side, flying into a shelf of baked bean tins. It took a moment
for her brain to decipher that Marcus had pushed her out of the way.
The shelf toppled backwards as if in slow motion, the tins spilled across the ground, customers’ heads
turning in alarm at the sound.
"There's your fucking proof. Stay on the floor!", he hissed.
Shani looked up, wincing as her cuts and bruises responded to the fall. She shook her head, dazed, the
scene unfolding in front of her.
Marcus, Astigan held aloft, was squaring off against three figures, swathed in masked hoods and robes,
black spectres under the bright fluorescent lights.
They seemed to have appeared out of nowhere without warning, silent, as they slunk towards Marcus,
forming a semi-circle around him. Hearing a shriek of horror from a woman behind her, Shani glanced at the
back entrance near the meat counter. Her stomach lurched sickeningly–a woman in a white uniform, poking
out from behind the counter, the butcher, lay face down in a spreading red puddle.
The fire doors were wide open, cold wind from outside flowing through the aisles. There was a deathly
silence and then the panic started. The other customers abandoned their trolleys and baskets and scrambled
for the exit. Shani reeled, one man's feet slamming into her head, as the crowd bolted. Her lip was split; she
blinked back tears.
The whole shop floor cleared in a few seconds, leaving a mass of shopping and food across the aisles.
Shani, paralysed, could only look on, her breath stuck in her throat. All the training, the hours of drills and
practice had been chased from her memory the moment she'd set eyes on these new, very real, enemies.
She couldn't move. Vision stuck, fixed on the bloody axes that the men held in their meaty hands, as they
stared Marcus down. She could sense their bloodlust, their desire to strike. Yes, it was in their Aura.
Marcus was silent, eyeing them back coldly. The men were huge, imposing. Marcus was tall, granted, but
the shortest stood a head taller than him. One took a step forward-
It was over in the space of five seconds.
 They lunged forward, the heavy, battle-axes terrifyingly given momentum through their brute strength.
Marcus moved in, Astigan in place, ready. Before the first axe could touch him, he had opened the throat of
one of the giants, his great sword dancing, and his movements paradoxically graceful for his size and his
sword's.
The man clutched his neck in bewilderment, a new crimson smile grinning out from his neck, with a
bubbling, sickening choke he fell to the ground. Astigan moved with cruel speed; a broad slice tore across
the stomach of the second, who did not even have time to react- Marcus was a blur. The speed.
It was incredible, she could barely-
Before his company had even drawn their last breath, the final attacker had been dispatched; he had used
Marcus 's momentary preoccupation to deliver a clumsy swing, with the intention of cleaving his head in
two. But the razor-sharp blade was lightning fast, taking off his hands at the wrists, the assailant moaned,
brandishing bloody stumps, and the axe lost its momentum.
It fell to the floor with a clang; fingers still gripped firmly around the handle. Marcus impaled its owner
through the heart. His eyes were burning. For the next few seconds, he did not say anything as he withdrew
the blade from the corpse, wiped it with a cloth in his case, then placed it back inside delicately. There was a
heavy silence in the air. Shani felt sick, the smell of blood hit her, she retched, bringing up what little was
left in her system.
She tried not to look at the corpses that now lay, deathly still on the ground. The sound of the fire alarm
whooped in the distance. Marcus looked at her.
"Let's get moving", he said sharply.
Shani nodded, spitting, trying not to choke.
"R-right..."
"This way. Keep it together. Come on."
Marcus strode out of the fire doors into the cold night outside.
Shani walked briskly after him, trying once again, not to look back. Out into the night and the shriek of
the sirens yet again.

Mason had decided some time ago that the driving was his favourite part of detective work.
There were few other roles in the police force that gave one such freedom of travel, certainly not
compared to being on the beat, the same old routes and neighbourhoods. The same old faces.
It was likely this case would take them even further afield in due time, they'd just had a possible sighting
near the ferry port at Dover. If they managed to sneak off over to Brittany, there'd be hell to pay. Though
Mason had always fancied a day trip over the Channel. Shame it was the middle of winter.
He and Gemma were speeding down the motorway now, amid the aftermath of the evening rush hour.
Long hours and no rewards. Gemma was gazing out of the window at the road.
"Worried they'll make it over to the Frogs?"
It was like she could read his thoughts sometimes; he guessed great minds just thought alike.
The pair of them knew the suspect as "they" now, because they knew the second man was involved
somehow. Too many strands of evidence. Three more sightings radioed in. Positive IDs. And some new
incident just unfolding on the radio as they drove, with Smith and the mystery man, of three dead people in a
supermarket. Two with axes. All being kept very hush-hush for now. What the fuck was going on?
 A tall man, fat-ish, thinning hair with a cello case. And a black, young woman wearing dark shades.
Shorter hair, but same height and build. Bingo. So now, axes and swords.
At least the oddities were consistent. It had to be a kidnapping attempt gone wrong, Shani Smith, an extra
hostage for security. Maybe this was in fighting among the kidnappers? And they..liked using swords and
axes? Gangs maybe. Guns were tough to come by in this country.
Mason wasn't convinced. With Smith, something still didn't fit. The evidence was incriminating, the
psych report damning and yet Mason knew that something just didn't add up. He’d profiled several killers,
psychopaths and menaces to society in his time, perhaps less than others, policing such a quiet county, but
evil didn't pick and choose where it wanted to be.
He just wasn't getting the same sinking sense of apprehension when he looked at the photograph of Shani
Smith, glued up on the station wall, surrounded by black marker pen. Perhaps it was because he saw
someone who could be one of his children there.
She wouldn't have looked out of place on the arm of either of his two lads, one married to a dull, shrill
girl he couldn't stand, the other who really needed to strike up a relationship with more than just his right
hand.
Shani Smith couldn't be much older than either of them. Mason was getting soft. Old and weak. He
steadied the wheel. It had started to rain again. Maybe he just wanted to believe that for once the most
obvious answer to the question of murder wasn't looking him in the face.
Though he just wished it was an obvious answer. Gemma could barely keep her eyes open, lids drooping
as she rested that gorgeous head of hair on the window.
Oh, if Mason had been thirty years younger. Wasted chasing scum. She could have been a model. He
stole another covert glance at her. They worked too hard, he decided. The Inspector's face seemed to taunt
him in the glow of the street lamps ahead.
Stupid old bastard. The major police operation comes to town, and all he could think about was pleasing
the crowds at home watching the box. Mason would have to watch his step. He wasn't due to retire for
another two years. Well, more like eight if the government had its way-
There was a crackle on the radio. Gemma picked it up, quick as a flash.
"Yes? Any news on this supermarket incident?"
"No Ma’am. It’s Lynda Jones."
"Yeah? She ready for another interview?"
Mason looked at Gemma and nodded.
"We've got to speak to her some more. She must have more details-"
The voice on the radio was urgent.
"No, Sir. Ma’am. I'm sorry. Lynda Jones passed away an hour ago. She's dead, I'm afraid."
There was a pause. Mason looked forward at the road. No traffic ahead. Gemma wrung her hands,
looking at him.
"How?"
"Nurses aren't sure. They're thinking a heart attack. Possibly some allergic reaction to the medication.
They're trying to find out."
Mason shook her head disbelievingly.
"Fuck."
"Sorry, Sir. I'll let you get on."
"Yeah. Cheers for letting us know."
Gemma ended the call on the radio.
"She was our one link to a third man. The one in the motorcycle helmet she described."
Mason's blood ran cold.
 "Yeah. She was."
His mouth was dry. The one connection. Who else knew. Apart from them? The shock on the Chief's
face, when he'd made that stupid comment about ulterior motives. No. He had to stop being stupid. This case
was tearing his head apart.
Think logically. The woman was ill. That was why she was in the hospital in the first place. That was all.
This was all terrible luck, and he had to think professionally-
There was an ear-splitting BANG, and Mason found the steering wheel lurching to one side. He yanked it
back in place, jumping out of his skin as the scream of wet rubber on tarmac burned out on the road in front
of him.
Gemma shuddered out of the seat with a shriek, agape as her head bounced off the window from the
impact, cheek splintering. The wheel had gone; Mason deduced as his head was flung forward, the back left
tyre had burst-
A dull thud, a sloshing in his skull, as his head met the hard surface of the steering wheel. The shock
snapped his back like a twig, head collapsing into an unnatural position; he felt his mouth fill with blood,
salty and warm, pouring out of his nostrils.
Something wrenched out of place as his head spun loosely, shattering glass, and Gemma hit the window
again, scream silenced with a snapping, the seat belt a tight chain around her ribs.
He tried to control the car, wrestling the wheel but it was useless, the vehicles in front of them were
screeching, fragments of metal and window about the air-
Then the car rolled, flipped over the barrier of the hard shoulder. All direction lost. Life was spinning, up
was down, alive and dead with noise and air.
Mason's last sensation was of a high heat, a distant rush of air and petrol and an embrace of eternal
darkness as the fuel tank burst and met the ignition, sparking white hot flames around them.
It was a fireworks display that the children travelling on the opposite side of the motorway, gazing
disinterestedly at the blur of concrete and grass, found some welcome reprieve in.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

After fleeing the supermarket, they made it back to the house an hour later. Marcus' paranoia had
intensified. On the way back, he had insisted on stopping about every minute, determinedly looking around.
No, not fear. A conviction. Shani had a fear that Marcus wasn't telling her something. He'd insisted she keep
Hyxarn with her at all times. So just how safe were they?
Every sound made her sit up. She was lying now, on the thin mattress in the mould-bitten room in the
safe house, grubby blanket draped over her. Replaying Marcus’ unflinching killing of the three men over
and over again in her head. The sword making short work of them, they way they had fallen, lifeless and
bloodied, onto the linoleum.
They murdered someone, yes; they had killed that butcher. She was innocent, and they were coming to
get her, cut her up with those axes. They wanted her dead; Marcus had said so, and he was protecting her.
But could she do the same? She imagined it. Using Hyxarn in that way.
She groaned. Marcus 's strange, cold expression played out in her mind once again. She was hanging out
with a killer.
"Not a new experience for you now though is it”, a horrible little voice sneered in her head. She ignored
it, trying to set her thoughts straight. If those three men were after her, surely more of them were on their
way? That couldn't be it now. Could it? Could it?
Shani went over to the window and looked out. Darkness. The moon. Not much else. Nothing out in the
yard–for now. Her stomach growled, she doubled up on the bed wretchedly, sadly thinking of the mountain
of food that Marcus had left in the trolley when they bolted. She hadn't eaten or bathed properly; there was
only the filthy, cold shower with moss crawling up one wall. She felt like absolute shit. Marcus had grabbed
a frozen pizza from the trolley, which they had halved, and there had been some more Coronas in the broken
fridge, but nothing substantial.
She felt half dizzy from hunger, her head thumping. She’d kill for a steak. Murder for a McDonalds. A
poor choice of words. Too soon? Christ, what was wrong with her? She'd seen so much death in the space of
a few days and she was making jokes in her head.
Marcus had disappeared into the upper levels of the house wordlessly, slinking away without a word to
Shani, beer in hand. She guessed he was still angry from their argument. Perhaps to go up and talk to him?
No. She'd just get shouted at. No pleasing him.
A sudden cold breeze shivered through the room, she heard the snap and creak of a latch on the window
frame and reeled back in shock.
"What's bothering you?"
She yelped, jumping about three feet in the air off the mattress, hand scrabbling, failing to find Hyxarn in
its sheath on her bed.
"Jesus Christ, Marcus!"
He leapt down from the windowsill, wearing an apologetic air.
"Sorry, I was just scouting around outside."
"What's wrong with the door?"
"What's the matter?"
The words seemed so alien, coming from Marcus 's mouth after the last few days of torture. Shani stood
up from the bed.
"Nothing", she replied tersely, avoiding Marcus' gaze.
He raised an eyebrow.
 "I'm not a total idiot, you know. I can tell you're bothered by what happened back there. A shock, I
know."
Shani shook her head.
"Bothered? No, I'm okay. I mean, it's.."
Marcus shrugged.
"I know what's eating you, Shani. It eats me too, sometimes. It's fear. Fear and doubt."
"I'm not. I’m not scared!"
"Of course you are. Only an idiot wouldn't be. And you're fucking smart. Of course, you don't think it's
right, to kill people. Of course, it isn't. Not in itself."
Shani bit her lip.
"Of course I get it. You did what you had to do, right?"
She tried to smile, stupidly, falsely and caught Marcus 's stern stare.
"It's not pretty Shani. And it's not a joke. But, it's like I told you. This is a war. Those men chose their
fate the moment they walked into that supermarket and drew their weapons. If it makes you feel any better,
I've never killed an innocent person."
"Does that make it any better?"
"It doesn't make it any worse. They killed an innocent bystander for fuck's sake."
"Who were they?"
"Eaolin, like us. Protectorate, almost certainly."
"Not these, well, these Disciples or whatever you call them?"
"No. Far too easy."
Her stomach did a somersault. Shani scratched her head, trying to forget.
"But did you have to kill them? Couldn't you have just-"
"-let them go? Beat them up a little, break their arms and tell them never to return? Don't think I haven't
tried. What happens? They turn up again six months later and try it all again, filled with even more hatred.
Eaolin love their honour. They tend to want it back quite badly when you take it."
Shani clasped her hands together.
"Killing someone is-"
"-wrong? Well, it's not something I can say I'm proud of. But it's what I do, what I've done my entire life.
You have no convictions about eating meat."
"That's different. Don't pretend it's not, don't try and turn this around, patronise me. How many people
have you killed?"
He wavered.
"Honestly?"
"Yes!"
"Honestly, I lost count a long time ago. I was a contractor for fifteen or so years. Humans who wanted to
kill other Humans. I didn't need the money, not really. But I needed to keep myself sharp. It allowed me to
gather intelligence on the Protectorate at the same time. Being Eaolin, it was easy money, taking out
Humans. Killing was a part of life. Still is."
Shani tried to take it in.
"...And those people deserved to die?"
"More than most. I never took a job if I didn't believe what I was doing was right. It was all extra-judicial
stuff mainly, off the books. Government targets in godforsaken African dictatorships, drug cartels, a lot of
organised crimes abroad. Dealing with people who cast away their Human rights a long time ago, if I'm
honest. I'm a killer, but I'm not a monster. They were."
"And now you want me to kill people as well."
 "Did you seriously think I was training you for anything other than this? Do you think that sword's just
for show?"
"I thought you were training me to defend myself."
Marcus moved to the door, his face half obscured by the flickering ceiling light. His eyes were dark.
"You've got to understand Shani, that it's you or them. Once you're dead, that's the end. So what's the
fucking point? You have to be prepared to take lives, just as I do. That's your fucking defence. Kill or be
killed, for want of a better expression."
Shani shook her head.
"There's got to be another way."
Marcus sighed.
"No-one's asking you to go out and murder someone, kill an innocent person or anything. For God's
sake–put it in perspective. I never had you down as a pacifist, even if we barely know each other. You were
cool with the training before."
"..I can't. I won't."
"These people are trying to kill you. You've got to be as bad as them to survive."
"You don't understand, I've hurt people before, really hurt them, and-"
He began to walk back towards the door.
"If you don't have the will to end a life, then you will die. That's all you need to know."
"I won't do it. You hear me? I won't."
His shadow disappeared back down the dark corridor, footsteps echoing away into nothing. He had gone,
leaving Shani with a head full of even more turmoil. She fell back onto the creaky, uncomfortable bed;
tossing and turning, drifting slowly back into an uneasy sleep.

The office was pitch-black, save for the single desk lamp in the corner of the room, shedding some dull
fluorescent light over the cramped interior. His secretary had been understandably too upset by the day's
news of the car crash, so the Chief Inspector had offered to lock up the building and let her go home early.
It as a perfect opportunity to speak. He’d just finished sending round a letter of commiseration to the
force and donated a few hundred pounds to the trust fund for the families of Detective Mason and the other
one. The Human woman. A terrible, tragic loss. Just awful.
Now it was time to cover his tracks. He needed one of the sixty or so numbers on his mobile phone that
he knew never to call within earshot of any wretched Human. Scanning one last time for any stragglers or
late night cleaners and once satisfied that the only other life in the building was the rats in the walls, he
scrolled down to it and hit the DIAL button.
Daem's voice was perhaps less mocking than usual, Iirebos more disdainful, the Chief Inspector guessed
that dealing with the demands of the Disciples was indeed keeping him occupied. Life away from the
pampered apartment in Los Angeles was irking his fellow Protectorate member, but after the total fuck-up in
the office in Bournemouth, he'd had no choice but to stay in England to oversee the Disciples' activities.
Festen had not been pleased that he'd try to fob them off with Rier.
"Why are you calling me?"
"Those Humans I told you about. It's all been taken care of."
"Your detectives? How exactly?"
"How else?" Terrible accident. It'll be all over the television here."
 "I don't watch that thing."
The Chief Inspector smirked at that.
Was there any doubt that Daem, with his perfect teeth, manicured fingers, fitted suits and luxury cars was
lying? He'd heard an amusing derogatory term once on some dull television programme, about black
Humans who acted like white ones. Coconut. Brown on the outside, but white at the core. He only wished
there was a similar term he could coin for Daem.
This closeted Human certainly didn't seem to be in the best of moods.
"What about this woman? The one who knew about Lord Wolff in the helmet? I told him not to leave any
survivors, for fuck's sake."
"Sorted. Thankfully, we have a few connections in the local hospital. She was dealt with discreetly. It'll
look like well, Human error."
He laughed at his joke.
"You're positive none of this can be traced back to us?"
"I have a few men down at the crash site now. They've gotten rid of the casings and the car. No need for
anyone else to believe that this was anything but a tragic accident. From now on, I have Eaolin in the force
on the case. They'll make sure the inquiries head in the right direction."
Daem chuckled.
"Well, I shouldn't worry too much longer. I understand there's been a development. This Disciple of Lord
Father's, Malkyn, she moves tonight. She's putting on quite the show."
"So I hear. Dangerous, dangerous thing to do. The stupid girl. Aescyme. She’ll expose us all."
"Perhaps they should have just sent you. A moving car tyre, at that distance. You've not lost any of your
aim brother, even with a gun."
"Sometimes the best solutions are not the righteous ones. Besides, a Human weapon won't trace back to
the Protectorate. We can't all run around with swords and bows like our Disciple friends. You know how
much of a headache it is keeping all this under wraps? They're risking everything."
"Yes, I am quite aware. But a moving car. Your skills are wasted here. Perhaps the Homeworld would
have had great use of you."
"I stand by Lord Father's command. My work is here."
The Chief Inspector didn't want any of Daem's false flattery, nor to recall the events that had even
brought him to this godforsaken world in the first place.
"Of course."
"Just know that the matter was dealt with."
"I'm certain it has been. Though I wonder if your little killings weren't a tad...premature. What reasons
were there for your suspicions, again?"
"The male Human accused me of having ulterior motives for keeping the hunt on this woman the
Disciples seem to keen to find."
A soft chuckle danced down the phone line. "So, of course, you naturally assumed that he had discovered
who and what you were and was on his way to turn you into the Human authorities?"
"No line of suspicion, no matter how small should be ignored. You know how imperative this is to the
mission of the Protectorate. Humans cannot know of Eaolin."
"But of course. That's why I'm in this godforsaken country after all. Though, I wonder- No, forgive me. It
is nothing."
Irritation crept into the Police Inspector's voice.
"What?"
"How did it feel? After so long, to shed blood again. To hunt those Humans down and end them?"
He swallowed
 "You know very well how it bloody felt. Now, we must stop talking. No line of communication is safe."
"Certainly. Thank you for bringing this issue to my attention - and for resolving it with only the best of
intentions."
The Police Inspector's phone cut to the dial tone.
He looked at it, biting down on his lip till it drew blood.
It had felt good. So good. And it had been too long.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

James Dawes' head danced in front of her, parting itself from his neck, again and again. Ripping itself
away, while he screamed. Shani tried to reach out, put his head back on, keep it in place, back where it
should be, but only found the blood on her hands, spreading, no matter how hard she tried to wipe it off. The
head kept on, parting and rejoining.
She saw the man with the motorcycle helmet, heard the strange language under the visor, and saw the
bloodied footsteps on the office flaw. Saw him cut open Benny's flawless throat, right in front of her, while
she stood, Hyxarn useless, as Marcus bellowed at her, laughed and mocked.
Then Bill Grange was in front of her from thin air, clawing at her, screaming, smearing fox blood on her
school uniform, leering through a caved-in skull on the water's edge-
"NO!"
She woke in a cold sweat and with a small cry. Looked out of the window. Still night. Oh, how she
wanted day, and the reassurance of the light. Wanted to go back home, to Mrs. Brown and the rent and the
bad food and the terrible job..
She turned back on her side and cried back to slumber...
Shani wasn't sure exactly how long she had been asleep for the next time she woke, but she was awoken
by an almighty commotion, a vast banging, and the heavy knock that floated up from the hallway below.
Catapulted awake, Shani's heart leapt into her mouth. Her head felt heavy. It hurt...
"Marcus!! Marcus!"
Throwing off the covers, she bolted from the room, grabbing Hyxarn from next to her bed, up the stairs
in a fit of panic. Her feet pounded on the rickety wooden stairs, amid the crummy old walls. She rushed
from room to room, trying to find him. Where was he? Not in his room. Nor the other. Or-
The knocking continued, louder and more demanding than before. She couldn't find Marcus, every room
was empty.
"Marcus! MARCUS!"
She tried to calm herself down, wheezing over the noise. What if they had already got him?
She stopped, frozen. Thought to shout out again, but whatever or whoever was outside would almost
certainly hear her. The knocking sounded again, heavier; she gasped in fear, her chest heaving. She pulled
herself together as best she could, trembling hands brushing the curtain at the end of the hallway, the black
night through the window revealed..
In the glow of the front porch light, she could just make out the two figures slowly beating on the door.
Her head span–impossible–it couldn't be...She must have still been dreaming.
Shani felt her bare feet cracking on the coarse wooden boards, running, running frantically back down the
stairs, head rushing, the cracked walls and peeling wallpaper a blur. She put Hyxarn down on the floor as
she went for the latch. The rusty hinges screamed as it opened, the fanfare of these new guests.
It was Katie and Pete.
Yes. Yes, it was them. But- The freezing air woke her from the shock; it played around her bare feet. She
tried to find the words.
"What...H-how?"
They looked at her blankly. Their eyes were fixed on her; she couldn't escape them. The tears were
flowing down her cheeks.
"Thank God, oh thank God you're here! Oh. I’ve missed you!"
She took a step forward; they took one back. Their faces were pulled into frowns. Why hadn't they said
anything?
 "What is it?"
Fingers on their lips. Gesturing at the house behind her. She lowered her voice.
"Marcus?"
They nodded. Katie took a step forward. Her hand around Shani's wrist. It felt cold. Clammy. There was
a chill in the air; they'd catch their deaths standing around outside..
"He's okay. He's safe. Look, it must be freezing, you should come insi-ah!"
Katie yanked her arm, dragging her a few steps back. Her eyes. She didn't seem to be all there. Was she
on drugs? Shani wrenched it away, stumbling on her bare feet.
"What are you doing?"
They gestured again.
"It's not safe. Look, you can speak, really this is just stupid- come inside!"
"Shani?"
She turned, Marcus voice soft, inquisitive, behind her, from the warmth of the house.
She saw his shocked look. And caught a glimpse in the dusty old mirror that lay in the hallway a few
metres away, reflecting the outside, and Katie and Pete.
No, not Katie and Pete. Her, Marcus. And two..two. Two strangers. Hairless. Yellowing and naked. Not
Katie and Pete. It wasn't Katie's grip on her arm.She looked around again.
Katie and Pete there, in the flesh. But in the mirror...
"RUN SHANI!"
She bolted for the house, the figures screaming and growling, no not Katie and Pete, not Katie and Pete,
please God please no, Marcus pulling her inside, slamming the door, she scrambled for the corner,
screaming, not even aware she was doing it.
Marcus was too slow with the door, one cold hand and arm made it through the gap, he pulled it back
ever so slightly and slammed the heavy iron again, roaring.
And again. Again, until an inhuman scream heralded the separation of the limb from its owner. It hit the
stone floor, twitching for the briefest of moments. They clawed and scratched, banging and bashing at the
door. Sweating, Marcus turned, his considerable girth pressed up against the frame, straining from the effort,
wild-eyed.
Shani was shaking.
"Katie! Pete! Please please stop!" PLEASE!"
She might have been screaming. It wasn't registering. Nothing was.
"What's happened to them? What the fuck have you done to them?!"
"Nothing! It's not me!"
The cold was increasing, the temperature dropping instantly. The thumping continued.
Marcus could feel it too; he was struggling to hold the door. The air around Shani's chest felt tight. Panic
rose. She couldn't breathe! She staggered to her feet, throat gasping, crying out for air
Something was blanketing, smothering her. Choking. Her body felt numb, fingers ice.
"Shani! Pull yourself together!"
Marcus kept his eyes on Shani.
"Fight her Aura."
"Whose Aura?" A little dull voice said even as she gritted her teeth, brain frantically trying to remember
what to do.
"It's so cold!"
She was crying. Oh, it was so cold..
"No. It's all in your mind Shani! All of this. Remember what I showed you! Don’t let her win!"
Bring it all out, she reminded herself.
 She tried to see her Aura, picturing it in her mind, seeping from under her skin, cloaking herself. An
essential Eaolin technique, Marcus had said. But she couldn't do it. Nothing seemed to be happening. She
gasped; light headed from the air loss. Felt her feet crumble. Deathly cold, paralysed, her skin felt like ice.
She wanted to rip, peel it off..
"Oh.."
"Shield yourself Shani! Come on!"
She tried with all her might, but the glow of her Aura felt tiny, insignificant like a candle's light plunged
into a lake. If you could even feel it at all..
"SHANI!"
A rush of heat and warmth enveloped her, cold dissipating, fading away in the air. She gasped and
choked, thankful for breath, her chest loosening. Shani looked around for the source of the heat and saw
Marcus. The heat was radiating from him. Marcus’ Aura had flared up; Shani could feel it in the air around
him, shielding her, thawing her skin.
Marcus took a step forward.
"Get a grip, I can't protect you forever. You need to focus."
Shani closed her eyes. Concentrate. Just keep calm and she could do it. Yes. She saw the glow of her
Aura in her mind's eye, the insignificant flame. It seemed so weak. She willed it to burn brighter.
Come on!
Katie and Pete - no, not Katie and Pete - banged on the door again. Marcus groaned.
"I'm going to need some help here Shani, so for fuck's sake, JUST DO IT!"
She channelled it, spreading it down from her centre, out around her body, warming the tips of her
fingers. Something in the cold, a presence close by, tightened its grip. She felt malevolence to it. She
saw...no..didn't see..felt..a girl in her mind's eye. Felt her glee. Ecstasy in her pain.
Shani cried out in pain, her focus lost, the flame subsiding, eyes rolling in her head, mouth agape. She
could feel the malice and hatred pushing down on his mind, taunting her.
The cold - no the Aura - attacked her with renewed enjoyment, gripped her once more, breaching
Marcus's glow. Blackness danced in front of her eyes. It hurt.
Pathetic. She was pathetic. She felt the anger kick in, like petrol to her flame. She wasn't going to die like
this, a little voice in her head said defiantly.
Who did this bitch think she was?
She was sick of being trampled. The injustices and angers, not just of the last few days, but also of so
much longer, came forth, burning memories that pulsed around her head, bouncing, addressing the cold that
was trying to strangle her.
"Fuck you! Fuck you-you stupid twat, whoever you are! Are you trying to kill me? Freeze me to death?
Well, go ahead and fucking try! FUCK YOU!"
It was as if someone had doused her with fuel. The little flame was growing. She could feel the Aura,
white hot under her skin, wrapping around her, bubbling up, she willed it harder, throwing her frustration
onto it like firewood.
Marcus's Aura subsided, pulling back away from Shani. She could feel the chill that taunted her and
fought back, resisting with all her strength. Realisation dawned. She was in control. Yes.
"Well done Shani!"
She barely heard Marcus. The temperature of the air around her was returning to normal, the fire of her
Aura lingering about her, invisible.
Or was that just the warmth of the electric heater? She could feel it all again, the numbness of her skin
subsiding. The chilling Aura was still present, but she kept it at bay, holding it back against her will. Strong.
Yes. She was strong.
 Marcus shouted at her!
"Shani! I need Astigan! Living room"
Her thoughts turned to the blade in the cello case. Yes. She could see it down the hallway, propped
against the fireplace. She caught a glimpse of Pete's manic face in the window, a bloodied hand wrested
through the glass, trying in vain to find Marcus. He looked so normal when she looked at him. But in that
mirror-
"No! You can't hurt them, they're-"
"They're not whoever you think they are! Listen to me!"
"Please, Marcus-"
There was a cracking sound.
"Oh for FUCK'S SAKE! RUN!"
He threw himself away from the door; it was off its hinges, the two figures burst through it, Shani
screamed, scurrying for safety as Marcus dashed for the case. She staggered; they shrieked as they
descended in a chase through the corridor, hands aloft. Marcus was ahead of her. So fast, pushing back
around..
Astigan flew in, cutting into Katie's shoulder; Shani saw the edge break the bone. Katie screamed in pain
and anger, clutching her body as she slunk back. There was something guttural, strange, about her voice.
Pete took a step backwards, like a wounded animal. Marcus's eyes were fire. Shani rounded on him,
sobbing, grabbing at him through thick tears.
"STOP IT! Leave them alone!"
"SHUT UP! Can't you sense it?"
Shani realised. The hateful cold - the girl's Aura - was gone. A few small traces of the cold were fleeting,
disappearing around them.
Shani stared at Katie. She looked back at her with dead eyes and began to laugh, a haunting, screeching
sound. The laughter kept on and on, like a stuck record. Pete joined in, the pair of them, crowing.
They kept staring at Shani, faces frozen, jaws jumping up and down incessantly.
Shani gaped. From Katie's shoulder wound, no blood was flowing. Instead, a sea of white poured from
the long thin slash on her shoulder, pushing its way out from her body, the folds of her skin.
As it hit the floor, Shani saw. She recoiled, gasping. Maggots.
"NO! No!"
It had to be a nightmare. Had to be. Please God, please let her wake up. They crawled and writhed on the
wooden floorboards.
She gagged and choked at the rotting smell and the sight, scrambling back away from the pair of them.
Felt Marcus' broad hand on her shoulder comforting.
"Look Shani!"
"No-"
"Look at them now, please! It's all in your head; she's been turning your mind against you. Do you see
what I see?"
They were changing in front of her eyes as if a great cloud were being lifted from her vision. It was like
looking at one of those pictures of two people's faces against each other. Or was it a vase?
Their hair vanished, burning up into nothing as she blinked, faces hardening, the soft features eroding,
rotting, revealing holes for eyes. Shani stood, rooted to the spot. Yes. How could she have not seen it? Seen
them?
They were still laughing, but no sound came out of the wizened, throats, save for the quiet creaking of
dead gristle and muscle rubbing against each other. Shani tried to understand, as she stared back at the
laughing, decayed corpses in front of her.
 A man and a woman alright, but it was not Pete and Katie. The skin was pallid; pale, hanging from the
bones, patchy. Exacerbated in their dead nakedness. The nose was broader on Pete, the proportions taller.
Katie was shorter in the flesh and certainly not as full or as old..
Their jaws kept jumping up and down, like deranged puppets. Shani struggled to fight the waves of
nausea rising in her stomach.
"You brilliant bitch", Marcus said softly and Shani did not miss the disgust in his voice.
The smell of burning filled Shani's nostrils, the roar of flames thundered overhead from outside. Marcus
tore his eyes from the monstrosities that stood silently laughing and ran to the window.
"It's a fucking trap!"
Shani could see an orange glow streaming through the window, illuminating the room. She sensed
danger, springing into action, leaping back as the ceiling collapsed, flame and debris falling onto them, her
eyes stung as she scanned around through the dust and the smoke.
A sea of fire enveloped the room, the heat burning her skin, walls groaning and cracking under the strain.
From the cold to this. She heard Marcus calling out to her amidst the inferno, the smashing of glass,
stumbled blindly towards the noise, glancing back one last time to see the abominations enveloped in flame,
bursting on the ground.
Marcus's grip on her shirt, pulling her away, she cried out as the shards of glass scratched her arms and
legs, leaping clumsily through the kitchen door. The flames prickled and roared, lapping at their ankles as
they dashed through the house.
Shani choked, smoke and heat filling up her lungs; they bolted down the corridor, as it collapsed in on
itself, torn to shreds by the fires. For a fleeting moment, Shani thought she had seen the dead faces before
the fire engulfed the house.
Marcus's voice echoed above the roar of the heat.
"Come on Shani!"
There was an almighty burst of light and air. Shani felt the world around her rush and break, body
thrown, surrounded by heat. Her eardrums popped, head ringing. The two were propelled through the front
door by the force of the blast, as the windows shattered, broken glass flying through the air.
Shani landed ungracefully on the doorstep, rolling down the concrete steps, smashing into a large china
flowerpot outside. She felt her wrist twinge and moaned, a new gash on her forehead materialising, wet red
warmth trickling down her forehead.
Her vision flowed back into focus; she took great breaths, coughing up dust that swirled around the air.
Through stinging eyes, she watched the house collapse, the roof caving in, the walls disintegrating into
bricks, rubble and embers. Marcus lay besides her, staggering up to his feet, he dusted off his black coat and
picked up the sword that lay discarded nearby.
He tossed Hyxarn on the ground next to her.
"Knew that fucking stove was dodgy...Good thing I grabbed this. Keep an eye on it, OK? Please?"
He took a glance at her.
"Come on. We need to move."
Shani gestured to her wrist.
"I can't-"
Marcus glared. “You’ll live. We need to go now."
His hand came down, wrenching Shani to her feet, who yelled out in protest.
"Ah!"
She winced as her wrist throbbed indignantly, stumbling after Marcus into the night, leaving the ruined
safe house behind them. Yes. All she could do was follow him.
She found her voice again as they ran into the undergrowth, between deep, gasping breaths.
 "Katie and Pete. Are they- are they??"
The dead, warped faces were still fresh in her mind, laughing back at her. It was like a sick joke. She
could barely think, brain tripping over itself. Could she be dreaming? Let her wake up now, please.
They turned a corner. Shani recognised the route; they were heading towards the training forest. Back
there, again.
"Those weren't your friends."
"Then what were they?"
"Two unfortunate dead people. A while dead, I'd say."
"What do you mean?"
"Aescyme," Marcus said coldly. “Controlling another with Aura. Living or dead. It's a dark Eaolin craft in
the wrong hands. And I think she may be one of the worst I've faced. She used her Aura to take control of a
corpse, reanimate it, bend it to her will."
"But they looked just like Katie and Pete!"
"You were asleep, susceptible. I'm sorry Shani; I should have trained you to block this sort of thing
earlier. I didn't think they'd find us this quickly. She got inside your mind with her Aura when your defences
were down, projected your desires. When you woke up, you saw what you wanted to see on their faces. All I
saw were those two corpses, right from the start. And you were talking to them, completely clueless. I’m so
sorry. Your friends are safe. I promise you."
Shani felt a surge of relief. Her chest heaved.
"She tried to lure me away with them."
"And when that didn't work, she attempted to throttle us with her Aura remotely. Nasty piece of work,
even I had difficulty there. Tried to make us think it was cold and 'freeze' to death. Old trick. You don't need
to be near to kill someone when you have Aura. Easy to block, but if you're not trained..well."
Shani brushed a branch aside as they kept running.
"She was in my head. I could feel her."
"Yeah. She's talented too, managing that and the Aescyme at the same time. She's a Disciple. Right now,
we need to find her before she causes more havoc. That'll be a massive ball ache. Christ, how the hell did
she find us.."
"Well, where is she now?"
"She's trying to mask her presence, but I'm catching glimpses this way, now and again. She'll be hiding in
the forest, waiting it out, gathering her strength and Aura. She was creeping around the house somewhere
earlier; she would have needed to be close by."
"Then that..those things...were decoys too."
"She's shrewd, adaptable. First two plans didn't work so she used the Aescyme as a distraction while she
set light to the place and made off. Broke the connection too early though, that's why we're still here. Her
Aura must be under too much strain. My guess is, she's not physically active. Can't risk getting close to us,
so she resorts to all this bullshit."
Shani wheezed, coughing the dust and smoke out of her lungs.
"Do we have a plan?"
"She'll be weakened. Aescyme puts an enormous strain on the user; it can even be fatal if you make a
mistake. I expect she was planning to use the bodies to take you away and kill you quietly without me
noticing, but we've forced her to play her hand."
"Then we can get her now."
'Get her' won't cut it, Shani. We find her, and we kill the bitch. Are you in? Or do we let her turn your
friends into dead people for real next time?"
 Shani remembered the laughing corpse; saw the dead eyes, the last pieces of flesh that clung to that
skeletal face. A victim, no doubt, used by this Disciple, this Eaolin, then discarded, like rubbish.
So this was what they did with Humans. She thought of Benny and nodded.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The forest was dense, foreboding in the darkness. Shani could barely see the path, or Marcus, who dashed
ahead in front of her, light from his phone illuminating the path ahead, refusing to stop to let her catch up.
Their feet cracked and crunched on the forest floor.
It was as Marcus said - she could sense the Disciple girl's Aura from time to time, a chill in the air that
would suddenly vanish without warning as if it had never been there. Apprehension rose in her stomach, as
she tried to banish the dead, laughing faces from her mind.
Marcus turned sharply to the left, abandoning the path, leaping over the uneven terrain, brambles and
bushes collapsing under his feet. Shani followed, ignoring the stings and scratches of the plants that tangled
their way around her legs as she ran.
The presence was closer. Suddenly, through the darkness, Shani heard Marcus cry out, the noise floating
out from the undergrowth ahead of her. She felt the ground under her feet vanish. Propelled by the
momentum, her legs gave way as she tried to steady herself, but too late. Her arms flailed, a last trivial
action against gravity.
"SHIT!"
She tumbled down a slope, leaves and mud thrown up, rolling down across the ground. The sprained
wrist screamed in protest, as she came to a halt, sprawled out on the leafy floor.
Head spinning, she pulled herself to her feet, glancing around the dark confines of the forest.
It was deathly silent, save for the wind rustling through the treetops. Shani paused, acutely aware that the
glimpses of that cold Aura were ever closer, more tangible in the air that surrounded her. Tried not to panic.
She sought out Marcus, reaching out with her own Aura, moving quickly to him. Yes, where was he?
Her legs gave way again as she tripped over something at knee height, sprawling back down to the floor.
The object groaned.
"Marcus!"
By the light of the moon streaming through the branches overhead, Shani could see Marcus's face, grey
and sweating under his scraggly beard, compounded with agony. He forced himself to speak between
breaths.
"Stay where you are. Don't let your guard down, you understand?"
He pulled himself up from the ground slowly, putting all of his weight on his right arm, steadying and
staggering back to his feet. The left arm hung limply from his side, unnaturally positioned, now lower than
his right. The fingers were splayed, lifeless. Shani swallowed.
"Oh my God!"
Marcus regarded it annoyed.
"Dislocated shoulder. Rope trap. It's like the fucking Adventure Book For Boys over here. Sneaky bitch is
trying to slow us down, biding her time so she can replenish her Aura. She's been hiding out in this forest for
some time. Setting all this up. Watching us."
"But I can sense her.."
"She's toying with us, leading us around in the dark. She'll have set more traps, rest assured."
"What if we wait it out?"
Marcus considered, trying to ignore the pain from his shoulder.
"It's an option, but she's returning to strength every minute. We have the darkness to our advantage."
"And to hers."
He nodded.
"Before we do anything, we need to sort out my shoulder. I need you to pop it back in."
 Shani paled.
"Really?"
She fumbled for an excuse and found a concrete one, gesturing to her limp wrist.
"I can't do it like this."
"I can sort that out", said Marcus, gritting his teeth and stepping over to her.
"Let's take a look."
Shani brandished her arm at him. He examined it.
"Yeah it's a sprain, I think. I can handle those quickly."
"Handle them?"
"In my coat pocket. There are some bloodscrolls."
She reached into Marcus's jacket, pulling out a handful of the strange pieces of parchment with those
unusual symbols, painted in dried and flaking scarlet.
"Which one?"
"The smallest, with the burned edges."
Shani found it, feeling the coarse, dry paper between her fingertips.
"Put it on your wrist. Hold your arm straight out."
Shani complied, she was catching on that it was better just to avoid asking too many questions, despite
her burning urge to do so.
"Nothing's happening."
"You've got to turn it on, so to speak. Use your Aura."
Shani imagined an invisible hand, touching the paper, granting it life. It almost felt like second nature.
Strange. She winced. The paper was growing hot, unbearably so, as if she were holding an iron over the
skin. Her hand felt like it had been plunged into a pan of boiling water. She grit her teeth.
Marcus shot her a warning glance.
"Hold it still!"
"It hurts!"
"No shit."
Shani grunted, looking down, trying to ignore the pain. Swathes of steam were rising from her arm, the
burning sensation shooting down the parchment and through her fingers.
She felt her wrist pop as if some invisible force were pushing the bone back in place and shrieked, the
sound muffled as Marcus' hand wrapped itself around her mouth.
"Shh!"
"Mmph!"
The burning subsided, steam rising into the air, he released his grip on her. Shani examined her wrist, the
numbness of the heat shrinking. Clenched her fist, tensing each finger. She could still feel a slight ache, but
the sprain had vanished, the harder pain a distant memory. She rotated her hand cautiously. It worked! The
vow to stop asking questions broke again.
"How the hell did you do that?"
"Accelerated the healing process with Aura. We call it Ilenir -the closest word Eaolin have for medicine.
It drains your Aura out though, so I use these bloodscrolls in emergencies. Like..backup Aura batteries."
"Why not just use your scroll thingy on your shoulder then?"
Marcus threw her an exasperated look as if he was explaining something to a small child.
"Because if I try to heal it when it's out of place, I'll only have one good arm for the rest of my life. Now
will you stop asking questions and just do this for me?"
Shani nodded reluctantly and took a deep breath.
"Ready?"
 "What do you think?"
Shani grabbed Marcus’ shoulder and pushed it up hard, back where she roughly thought it might have
gone. Forced it up in place with all her might, fingers straining around Marcus's arm. Marcus grunted, eyes
clenched, brow furrowed. Shani took a deep breath and pushed again.
She thought she heard a dull crack, felt the bone sit in place, and the length of Marcus's arm move back
up his shoulder. He took a step back, clutching at his arm; he examined it fervently, gently rotating it,
feeling it back in position.
"I think that did the trick."
"Aren't you going to do this Ilenir thing?"
"Nah. That was my last bloodscroll. No matter, I'll live."
Marcus grinned, his eyes glazed with a slightly tortured air. He looked far from amused. Shani felt guilty.
"Sorry."
"Nah, it's fine."
Examining his arm one final time, Marcus drew Astigan from its sheath.
"Get Hyxarn ready, Shani."
She did, feeling the sword in her grip. It was cold to the touch. A real sword. So much lighter now,
compared to the wooden ones.
"We'll move in now. Stay close and stay alert, she's sure to have more traps set around."
Shani followed cautiously, watching her footing on the uneven surface as they trekked across the
carnage. Marcus squinted ahead.
"She prefers to keep her distance. Everything she's done has tried to stop us from getting close to her.
Hiding behind Aescyme and traps, she's a sneaky fucker."
Shane thought about it.
"Then she's weaker than us?"
"It's possible. And it's two on one."
"So we might have an advantage?"
"Well, we'll see."
They made their way further down into the clearing, Shani peering through the undergrowth, swatting
away the branches and insects in her way. Yes, a clearing. And she could see-
Something stark, white and shapeless seemed to illuminate the centre of the space, glistening in the cold
illuminations of the full moon, dappled through the foliage. Next to her, Marcus' hand was tight around
Astigan, his voice a dead whisper.
"Move slowly. I think she's about to wake up."
Shani drew a sharp intake of breath as his words drew the image ahead of her into sharp focus. A figure,
head bowed in white robes at the foot of a large oak tree, painted silver in the light. The hair, an almost
colourless blonde, completed the effect of a vast, white spectre, the face obscured from view.
Shani's heart was beating so fast, threatening to burst out of her chest, her mouth ran dry, mind running in
all directions.
"Does she know we're here?"
She tried to reach out, timidly stretching her Aura forward, as Marcus had taught her.
"No, Shani–don't touch her-!"
Reaching the base of the tree, waves of cold enveloped everything, Shani cried out involuntarily, pulling
back into Marcus' warmth, yet somehow diminished in stark contrast.
She had brushed the figure with her Aura and felt a great vice grip around her, freezing claws tearing-
Shani stumbled forward, Marcus’ instructions forgotten, massaging her arms where great gashes should
have been, but were strangely absent. It wasn't real...Yes, not true. It was a lie. There were no wounds..
 Marcus hissed next to her.
"Idiot!"
"Sorry, I-"
She paused, words wavering. The air was getting colder again, like before, the figure clambering slowly
to its feet, rising up the base of the tree, slender hands pushing away at the silver hair, revealing the face
below. And what a face it was.
Shani had expected the milk white skin, that the dainty girlish hands betrayed something effortlessly
Caucasian, understandable. But the face defied that. Where a petite nose might have perched, there was
nothing, save for a collection of scarred, serrated skin, as if it had melted away. The features were squashed
and turned in like a play-dough bust disfigured by some zealous infant. The mouth was a slit, lips scars of a
time long gone, red and yellowed, pus-pocked and rotted with malice.
Great purple and red patches made up the canvas of this face, the silvery blonde hair clinging listlessly to
a high forehead, the scalp crimson, raw, exposed. Marcus let loose a low whistle.
"Fuck me."
"What happened to her face?"
"Not now-"
The girl's Aura leapt forward, and Shani caught the pain of this wretched spectre, feeling the same agony
on her face, every scar and welt magnified. As if she were answering her question, out of spite. She might
have screamed though she could not recall, choking back tears, cold, harsh thoughts snarling, biting at her.
Marcus was shouting, she tried to focus through the pain.
"Put up your defences! Remember what I told you!"
The wall. Imagine it, she said to herself, resisting the urge to claw at her face, succumb to it all weighing
down on her. It wasn't there; she kept telling herself, but it felt all so real all the same. Build it up. Block it
all out.
She could see it. The Aura of the figure, subsiding, smashing up against her wall, like waves against the
pier in Boscombe. She looked up through stinging eyes, frantically checking herself all over. Whispering to
herself under her breath.
"No. Not me. I'm OK..I'm OK.."
Marcus’ voice sounded by her side, Aura flaring, warm crackles of flame, singing in their frustration.
"Stay focused and don't let your guard down. It's an illusion. This is what she does. Gets inside your head
with her Aura, shows you her pain. I can feel it too, all of it, but please, Shani, just block it out."
She did, the cool night breeze about the forest returning her to her senses, the heat of Marcus and the
malice of the fiend in front of them subsiding. Shani put it all in the back of her head; eyes concentrated on
the figure, swathed in white, a good twenty metres away.
"What do we do?"
"Stay by me. Keep those defences up. I'll do the talking."
He lurched forward clumsily; the great sword rose, glinting in the light. Shani hesitated before following
on, Hyxarn dark, alien and unwelcome in her clammy palms, almost as if it defied her grip, no matter how
hard she squeezed.
The pair approached slowly, the upsetting nature of the figure's face drawn into closer view. Marcus
stopped in his tracks, signalling at her to do the same; his eyes fixed on it sharply,
And then it spoke. A girl's voice after all, Shani noted though even with Marcus' affirmation of it as a
she, the countenance behind the beautiful long hair was devoid of gender.
She strained her ears, the voice painting syllables and exclamations. A foreign language, but somehow
familiar.
Hyxarn was awkward in her hands, weighing her down. She turned to Marcus.
 "I don't..what is she saying?"
"She's surprised you weren't fooled by her servants earlier."
The fire spread up Shani's chest.
Servants. Those poor dead souls weren't decoys. Not at all.
"You understand what she says then? Tell her those people were innocent. Ask her why she did it."
Marcus spoke, addressing the creature. It was the strange language again; Shani realised, but it was more
than that. The words were thick with Aura. Yes. Each sound, weighted with it, bringing new meanings and
feelings. Anger. Caution. A warning.
The girl replied, gripping her robes angrily. Malice, cold sadism and mocking pride.
A chill ran up Shani's neck. It was directed at her. Somehow, she knew, could feel it, even if the
blackened eyes had not glanced in her direction, the head had not even turned towards her. She was bearing
down on Shani, Aura trying to grasp her, snatch her. A mouse and a cat, playing with its next meal.
Keep the wall up. Keep it up.
Marcus was silent. Shani rounded on him.
"Well?"
He swallowed.
"You don't want-"
"Tell me what she said."
"She says she's looking forward to killing you. Says she'll make you suffer first. Cut out your eyes and
feed them to you. Make me watch."
Shani pushed Hyxarn forward. Something had possessed her. A sudden urge to..act. She felt numb.
"Tell the little bitch to bring it on. COME ON THEN!"
Was this her screaming? Was Shani Smith really charging forward, Hyxarn raised, suddenly so
comfortable in her grasp, even as Marcus bellowed at her to stay back? The girl had drawn a dagger from
the inside of her robes, a chill in the air rising.
Their eyes met. Shani hesitated, stopping dead in her tracks. The sudden surge had abandoned her, eyes
fixed on the wicked blade, dark metal, glistening.
She felt foolish, sick. Bravado vanished. Every inch of her, once so determined to plough on forward,
was screaming at her to turn tail and move in the opposite direction.
But her eyes were stuck, frozen on that blade in the girl's slender hands, Hyxarn weak and useless once
more in her grip.
On the knife's edge were the strange inscriptions, running down a dull, blood rust. She knew whom that
blood belonged to. The girl looked at her again, and Shani realised. They weren't evenly matched, a few
metres from each other, they froze.
Shani had rushed forward to do..what exactly? This girl had said she was going to kill her, and now she
was.
A glint of silver in the blackness, it cut across the night. Shani sobbed, her wrists burning, the cold metal
of the knife biting, tearing into them. Her wrists went limp, she was screaming at the top of her voice.
"HELP! HELP! No!"
"FUCKING DEFENCES, SHANI SMITH. PUT THEM UP!"
The voice tore her back. She was cradling arms that had not felt the sting of the knife, forearms still
attached to the rest of her body. She was just a few paces from Marcus, Hyxarn half raised. She'd barely
made a few steps and then.. it had been a few seconds before..
Yes. She'd looked into the girl's eyes and then..
Not real! It hadn't been real! The tricks again. The stupid tricks.
Marcus took a step forward, bellowing in the strange language at the girl. Shani choked back tears.
 "That wasn't real. Was it Marcus? Was it?"
"For fuck's sake Shani. How many more times-"
He paused, catching a glimpse ahead, wincing. Shani felt it too, a ripple of pain across the air. Yes. The
girl was hurt. She was in pain. She craned her vision up, astounded, as the girl dropped the bloodied knife,
which she had torn across her own wrists. The hands plunged deep into the forest floor, with a strange,
tortured scream, a mocking agony that made the hairs on the back of Shani's neck dance.
The cold was all around them, Shani realised, she could feel the blood of the scarred girl's wounds
travelling, snaking, carried out across the depths of the forest floor, carrying the chill of her Aura..
"NO!"
Marcus was running forward into the clearing, Astigan raised, his Aura blazing up beside her. Shani
rooted herself on the spot, frozen in apprehension, uncertainty.
As Marcus got within ten paces of the girl, it happened. The forest floor seemed to writhe, groaning,
heaving, dispersing, brought alive. Marcus was uprooted, stumbling backwards.
The ground wasn't tearing itself apart, Shani realised, rather something was emerging from it. No. Some
things. Multiple objects, figures of different shapes, sizes, caked in the dirt of the woods. She edged forward,
Hyxarn still clammy in her grip, but felt an iron grip on her ankle, screaming she turned, balance lost,
scrambling onto the earth.
The ground was animated. Insects, she realised with a stab of horror, buzzing helplessly, a mass of ripped
wings and feeble, spindled legs, they writhed helplessly on the surface of the bracken and leaves. She raised
Hyxarn clumsily and struck the force that held her ankle, it relinquished its grip, and she crawled forward,
turning fully to comprehend what had her.
It was a dog. One-eyed, snarling through yellowed teeth, shreds of her jeans in its mouth. Only the head
was still intact, one eye not yet succumbed to decomposition, the other a deep, black abyss. Its innards
trailed behind it as it crawled forward, Hyxarn's edge apparently a mere hindrance.
Her ankle cried, red punctures. Shani bolted, limping forward through the chaos to Marcus, swatting the
flies away that were thickening the air. He was struggling; Astigan was dancing, carving into the
abominations that were rising from the ground.
Everything that had ever died in that forest was clawing its way back up from the soil. She didn't need an
explanation. That had to be it, she knew even as her brain struggled to comprehend, make sense.
She focused her Aura, head pounding. The girl's cold presence was in all of the bodies, she realised.
Controlled by her, grotesque puppets of her own doing, even as she writhed and cried, moaned and jeered,
hands still planted in the earth by the tree.
"Aescyme!” Marcus yelled as if sensing her horror. "This is powerful stuff! Stay behind me Shani!
BEHIND ME!"
A corpse lunged, one arm missing, the other a mere shred of bone and rotten muscle; Astigan carved the
creature in half. A foul stench. Humans too, Shani considered. Victims of this forest. Someone had died
everywhere, at least once. The world was a graveyard. But how many more-
She tried to reach out, moving Hyxarn as Marcus had taught her. But there were so much of them as if
they were materialising out of the earth.
Wherever she looked, more were rising; her eyes couldn't keep up even as her Aura sensed them all
moving around her. Running, shuffling, stumbling, shielding the Disciple girl from them, kettling the pair of
them away from her. A wall of corpses.
She gritted her teeth and yelled, Hyxarn tore out the throat of one to no avail, it kept moving, animated by
a force beyond mere life. They were all the dead, and why would the dead need breath? Shani scrambled,
waving Hyxarn maniacally, rotting limbs and bodies falling to her ungainly strikes and stabs, trying to bring
out the movements as she had been taught, but succumbing to the panic.
 "NO! Stay away! Marcus- MARCUS!"
Marcus was roaring, the greatsword a silver blur.
"Get around them Shani! We need-AARGH!"
“Marcus!”
He was falling out of her view, the bodies multiplying. More were swarming, dead eyes surveying them
hungrily, shepherding them apart. The bodies of the forest had surrounded them, waves of victims, losers
and victors of life, now united.
She broke loose, away from the circle, into the open, but not for long. More were rising. Half eaten
carrion, crawling limply, half a fox, wriggling usefully on the floor, about the feet of the living dead.
A dead fox. Like before.
Her heart was in her mouth. She willed herself to ignore it, but the images came thick and fast. Shook her
head. It couldn't happen now. Couldn’t. Not now.
Catching her breath, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a red-eyed hare, spine broken, protruding
from dirty, matted fur, pitifully limping up the forest incline. A single hand, uselessly flopping about like a
fish gasping for air.
She couldn't stop looking even as Marcus screamed at her to focus. They held her attention, even as the
walking corpses grew nearer. Marcus was getting further and further away, and they were more and more
and more..
"Help me!"
"HELP YOURSELF!"
Marcus sidestepped a clumsy blow from one of the dead men or women, so badly decomposed that it was
a mere skeleton, the skin like a grotesque veil, loose, unnaturally so about its bones.
There were too many; she couldn't keep them back, even as she struck, wheeled and turned, her arm
aching with the strain of holding them at bay. Too many. Marcus could just about hold them, but she-
A hand gripped her own, dead fingers against her skin, she shrieked, snatching her arm away, but
distracted didn't notice the others, sharp nails and teeth tearing into her shoulder, crying out. She raised her
arms instinctively, great gashes and holes in them now so very real.
Marcus was trying to wade through the sea of dead flesh to get to her, but they were only being dragged
further apart by the hoard. All the while, Shani could feel the cold thoughts of the girl behind it all, turning
the hands of the dead against them. Each blow, each step was motivated, dictated by the figure in white that
writhed, screamed and laughed at the base of the tree, hands still plunged into the soil. Possessed by some
madness.
"Get to her!” Marcus was screaming, “Stop the Aescyme!"
"Turn it on."
She paused, leaping backwards, spinning wildly, at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and the will of the
mob. Sighting an opening in the crowd, she charged through, sprinting away, trying to stay untouched.
Yes. There was another chance. Momentarily out of the circle of the dead, the girl was in her line of
sight...
It had to be the whole forest that had resurrected itself now, her shoes crushed whatever struggled on the
ground underfoot, as she dodged and feinted, useless circles, trying to avoid them, Hyxarn still heavy in her
grip.
"Use its power."
The voice urged her again. She gaped, scanning wildly through the chaos, searching for the owner of the
voice.
Before realising. It was her voice, her mind, something nagging her in the back of her head. Turn it on?
What was she thinking?
 "Hyxarn. Use it."
Marcus was yelling, holding the mob at bay.
"Shani! What are you doing! Run, you idiot!"
They were all charging for her now, the outermost reaches of the circle departing Marcus. They could
sense her fatigue, weakness, preyed on it. But she was too tired. It was too much. All too much.
She turned over Hyxarn. What had Marcus said? It had mysterious powers? What if she knew what to
do? Her eyes scanned the old, tempered blade.
Then she saw it. A strange collection of markings at the centre of the blade's handle. Like the markings
on the bloodscrolls..
She wasn't sure whether it was reason, fear or instinct that made her do it. Shani slid the edge of the blade
across her palm, wincing, as the screaming crowd of bodies ran to meet her, pressing the wound carefully
into the inscription. The short sword had parted the layers of skin, drawing red.
Please, God. Please.
Marcus was yelling something at her. The handle grew hot in her hands Hyxarn's blade suddenly
glowing, a dull red, brighter. And brighter.
Then it spat fire, sparks arcing around her, great streams of flame catching everyone present, dead and
living, by surprise.
Shani paused. And charged. The fires did not scorch her as they burst from the blade, but the dead reeled
backwards, the foliage about her caught alight as she ran. Marcus was sprinting back, swearing.
She flailed blindly, running forward as if in a trance, dead bodies going up in flames around her. It
seemed she only needed to touch them with the blade to spread the fire, burn them away.
Yes. The fire was purifying. This dead flesh could not touch her. Not anymore. Hyxarn glowed a fiercer
red as she saw the girl, still rooted in the ground; the sword's metal edge streaming white-hot flames
furiously.
She was undefended, reeling and writhing, foaming at the mouth, eyes far in the back of her head as she
continued the Aescyme, totally preoccupied.
But her crowds were no longer around her, dispersed by the fires. A perfect opening. She just needed to..
The dead were crawling, reeling away from the heat and the light, mouths agape in silent cries,
scrambling back, screeching.
"DO IT SHANI! DO IT!"
Marcus-
Her mind felt distanced from her body as if there were some vast chasm between the two. The hands
tightened around the red-hot sword, feet thumping on the forest ground, leaves and twigs strewn aside.
Her arm was moving forwards, the hand's grip on the handle.
The Disciple girl broke free of the Aescyme mere moments before the burning blade pierced her heart,
striking between the ribs. Shani forced it forward with all she could muster, screaming in rage, both hands
gripping the burning blade. Screaming, yes, she hadn't even noticed. A battle cry, some might have said.
The fires danced and spat, the white robes burning, Shani's legs propelled the girl further forward. The
grotesque face writhed, screaming at her, the head snapping back and forth on the neck, hair whipped into a
frenzy. The girl was going up like a human candle. The fiery blade pinned her tight into the tree.
She fell back with a cry. Shani's momentum against her, they dropped to the ground, the dagger forced in
as far as it could go. The fires had vanished, Shani realised. Almost instantly, though the damage remained,
the burns were still there. Strange.
The lipless mouth released a small noise of surprise as if the last breath were being forced out by her
weight. And she died.
 Shani released her grip, stepping back up dizzily, as the realisation of what she had just carried out hit
her. She looked around, numb.
The dead were falling, dropping silently around them, the cold shrinking away from their bodies.
Masterless. Those torn white robes, now singed black, bathed in blood, were limp about the dead Disciple.
In death, she seemed smaller, shrunken like a doll, the features lifeless. Her expression was peaceful,
from what Shani could see under the burns and scars. If it weren't for the sword lodged in her chest, the red
stain spreading out on the white robes, she might have been sleeping.
Shani heard a moan behind her.
Marcus!
He could barely stand, eyes glazed over, hand clutching his side. She ran over, trying not to panic, trying
not to look at the crimson trail that coated the dull brown and green foliage under their feet.
Marcus spoke quietly, his voice determined.
"One of them got me. Dead man with a knife. Just my fucking luck. In my coat pocket again. Scroll, the
largest one."
"But I thought-"
"I fucking lied, alright?"
He ripped open his shirt, exposing the bulbous torso underneath, clutching his skin. His hands were red.
Shani glanced at the wound. She immediately wished she had not, treated to an undeniable, momentary
glimpse of a great gash next to his beer belly, the exposed flesh underneath, body hair matted with blood.
Marcus smiled weakly.
"I thought this might happen."
He stumbled, moaning.
"Marcus!"
"Get the fucking scroll, before I bleed to death!"
Shani reached for the bloodscroll in Marcus's pocket, pulling out the largest one she could find. She
gritted her teeth, took a deep breath and pushed the parchment against Marcus's wound, bloodying her
hands, staining the yellowed paper.
He screamed.
"Hold on Marcus! Please!"
She willed the scroll with her Aura, the heat and steam rising, burning her fingers.
"Ah!"
Marcus sobbed as the steam thickened, intensifying, his face furrowed into itself from the agony. He
pushed Shani's hand away, taking the parchment from her, holding it in place. Shani looked at the wound
through her fingers. Slowly, painfully slowly, it was shrinking, fading, skin weaving together, each strand
reconnecting in turn.
Marcus groaned.
"Don't hold your breath. This will take some time."
"How much time?"
"Hour or so. This is no fucking sprained wrist, trust me."
Shani watched the steam rising closely.
"She's dead."
"No shit. Good work, your first kill. Now, keep a lookout, will you?"
His legs gave way, and he fell to the floor.
"Marcus!"
"I'm good…need rest."
 Turning on his side, bare skin covered in mud, clutching the scroll firmly against the wound, he closed
his eyes. Shani sat down on the forest floor, exhausted and wanting little more than to fall asleep, unable to
forget the presence of the girl's body that was motionless just a few metres away. The dead were all around
them. They had a new member. She swallowed.
"Not my first", she said quietly, to Marcus, perhaps hoping he'd hear.
He snored back at her.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IN ANOTHER WORLD

"Malkyn. My child and your sister. She is dead. Slain the by the Usurper and the blood traitor Wolff
spoke of."
The words rang out across two worlds. In the hall, heavy, bitter and close to Emese and Wolff, who
shivered, the displeasure in such proximity. And through the bloodtalk, across worlds, to some Human hovel
where Crow and Bezek had taken shelter.
Wherever they were, all the Disciples knelt in solemn silence, their wrists flowing as they listened past
the pain and the blood loss.
"She was a fool. I saw the moment of her death. Glimpses. Cut down by the Usurper's hand. A burning
blade. Her arrogance was her undoing. A waste."
Wolff's face turned ashen. He clenched his fists, shrinking down further to the floor. Emese addressed her
master.
"Lord Father. Are you sure-"
"Absolutely. I felt her Aura pass. The blood prayer confirms it..do not doubt your father's skill, Emese."
Her head bowed. Aleron scowled, turning to the window from his seat at the bloodletting table. The cut
in his wrist did not perturb him. The snow was throwing itself violently against the glass as if it were trying
to break its way inside.
"The Usurper moves against us, with this blood traitor bastard in tow, whoever he may be. We shall need
to act quickly. She shall seek to find entry to this world, to take that which is mine by divine law."
Crow's voice was weak across the blackness, a tiny voice in their minds.
"With your approval, the command now falls to me, with Wolff away and Malkyn dead."
"Of course, my child."
"With Brother Bezek's assistance, I will avenge Malkyn. The Protectorate is cooperating."
Aleron pondered for a few seconds and nodded in approval. Across the void, Crow felt his shrug. It was
almost indifferent.
"Ensure the Protectorate are on high alert. Every channel of Human communication shall be monitored."
"The Protectorate is wary of indiscretion. The Humans have already witnessed-"
"Silence! What do I care for some filthy Humans? It is a sad day when the masters cower in fear from
their slaves! You shall have their location by tomorrow at the latest. Do not make the same mistake as
Malkyn. This Usurper has powerful allies."
Crow nodded.
"Yes, my Lord Father."
Bezek could barely hold on from the bloodtalk's toll, his stutter even slower than usual.
"Lord Father. I-I not..n-not fail."
"Find them, Bezek. My son. Make them suffer. Make them know what traitors to the Golden Throne can
expect."
Wolff felt Lord Father's attention turn to him, goading the ears and eyes of the other Disciples.
"Wolff. Know that wound I cast upon you, the loss of that arm, is a testament to your sins. How will you
cope with the misery of knowing that your failures have killed your sister? Had you dealt with the Usurper
sooner, she might be here with us now."
Wolff said nothing. Lord Father gave a disgusted laugh and rose from the bloodletting table, one arm still
limp on its surface.
 "Eaolin blood, the sacred blood of my Burned Children is spilled. Bring me vengeance, Crow. Bring me
blood, Bezek. Human lives are of no concern to me."
Crow met his gaze across the worlds.
"If it pleases you, Lord Father."
"It shall. Greatly. Begone, my children. Blessings of I, Aleron, Chosen Child of the Great One, Lord
Father of all Eaolin upon you."
"We accept your blessing. Hail, Aleron."
Bezek and Crow bowed deeply and vanished from the bloodtalk, their Auras dissipating into the void.
The three remaining sat in the Great Hall for a while longer in silence, until the Ilenir was complete and
their wrists had closed. Finally, Lord Father rose and marched away without a word to them both. They left
soon after, with nothing to say to each other.

IN HER WORLD

Dawn had broken, the mass of trees and leaves, dancing in the morning glare.
The scroll having finally finished the gruesome task of closing the formidable wound across Marcus's
side, the business had finally turned to the pair's next steps. Shani was numb. She just didn't know what she
should have been feeling. And she was scared. Not just by the fact that she had stabbed and killed this girl,
whose lifeless remains Marcus was now disdainfully frisking. Not just because that strange force had guided
her hand and the burning blade clenched within it, piercing her heart, robbing her of life. It was because,
even as she gazed at the lifeless death mask that the girl's face had become, limbs splayed, the white robes
now a death shroud, she could still sense her.
It was small traces now, faint, vague tinges of cold, the bitterness and hatred she had felt before - but
drowned in something else, nothingness, devoid of anything. Whenever Shani touched the body with her
Aura, her heart had felt like it was being ripped from its chest.
‘Residual Aura’, Marcus had said, an imprint left behind. ‘Like a ghost?’ Shani had asked, feeling almost
childish. He hadn't replied. It was that last feeling the girl had left behind, the pain and anguish at Shani's
burning blade through her heart. Like one of those statues at Pompeii, the last moment, memorialised for the
living.
Shani tried to ignore it, as Marcus knelt beside the dead Disciple's possessions, studiously regarding
them. He looked weary, shrunken. Shani wanted nothing other than sleep. She dragged herself over, feet
crunching on a bed of leaves and twigs around the clearing.
Marcus was delicately examining the folds of a white pouch, his hands gently searching through the light
fabric.
"How are you feeling?"
"Not great. I've just spent an hour watching my innards sew themselves back together. Training's over.
Time's up. Now we move."
He had taken something from the girl's drawstring pouch, a sack woven in wool. It looked like a sort of
jar, made of wood, quite large and cumbersome. He needed both two hands to hold it.
 "Well, that is interesting."
"What is it?"
"A sort of gourd. But look at these markings-"
He pointed to the scrawls around the outside.
"They're preserving seals. Meant to carry..blood, I think."
"Blood?"
"For rituals I guess. I'm just trying to find - aha!"
From inside the robes, he had procured something, a small sphere, carved in black marble, which fit
snugly in the palm of his hand. He brought the object up to his face, scanning it carefully.
"There's a blood ritual on this. There's a piece of Aura tucked inside."
He had taken yet another piece of parchment out of his coat pocket, a larger one, unfolding it and placing
it carefully on the ground.
"If I'm right, this should-"
The sword withdrew slowly from its scabbard.
"Wait, I'll-"
"It's okay."
"But-"
Marcus slid his palm quickly down the sharp edge of the unsheathed blade, a weeping scarlet line
forming in an instant. He winced, before clenching his bloodied fist, the stone tucked tightly inside.
"Ok. Give it a sec. Eaolin blood should be all it needs. Aura is what activates it."
As he tightened his grip, the freshly spilt blood trickling down between his knuckles, a faint sound
emanated from his fingers, like an old kettle about to reach a boiling point. Marcus placed the stone gently
in the centre of the parchment on the ground and took a step back.
The blood around the stone was moving of its own accord, seeping down from the black marble surface
onto the scroll. Red lines were forming across the yellowing parchment, strange characters in blood flowing
into place, great circles and other shapes weaving themselves into the material. The format of the bloodied
diagrams was instantly recognisable.
"Is that a map?"
"Correct. Top of the class, Shani. I've got no fucking idea for where or what though."
Marcus plucked the parchment off of the ground. Shani peered over his shoulder. The characters dotted
around the shapes and circles were strange, like no language or alphabet she'd ever seen before. Marcus
leant down, his eyes inches from the parchment, his lips sounding out vowels silently.
"You can read that?"
"Iirebos. Eaolin language. A bit like hieroglyphs. You'll be able to read it too, in time."
He traced his finger over the paper.
"What does it say?"
"Well, I didn't learn a lot of the written stuff. Just the spoken. My education got a bit cut short. See, here's
the symbol for fire or heat...and then here, the nature for light, to illuminate. I mean, I know that's what they
mean singularly, there could be any number of different contexts when used in conjunction with each
other.."
He scratched his head frustratedly, scrutinising the map again, trying to gather his thoughts. Shani waited
patiently.
"The Protectorate all communicate to each other through Iirebos. Even if their writing was discovered,
who the hell could find anything out about them? To Humans, this paper is just a bunch of scribbles."
An idea had struck him. He glanced at Shani.
"Maybe you'll be able to make something of it."
 Shani took the paper from him, the dry, rough surface in her hands. She looked down at it. No, it made no
sense. The symbols were complete gibberish, nothing more than random drawings and marks on the paper.
And yet, the more she looked at it..
Tilting her head to the side, she scanned the page again, head swimming, those strange, unformed
memories pressing down on her.
"Do you see something?"
"I...can’t. I think so."
"Focus. Just like when you fight. Bring those instincts to your mind."
"Yeah, I know. It's hard."
"..OK, don't worry. Just keep focusing."
"I am!"
The words were fading away again; she tried to make sense of it, pull the pieces into one comprehensible
whole. Suddenly, the symbols made no sense again.
"No. It's gone. I'm sorry."
"No need to apologise. Just...keep at it alright? Maybe you can read it while you're in the car."
"The car?"
"Well, we're not going to hang around the forest waiting for the next Disciple to turn up and try and
murder us."
"So now we have that map-"
"There's someone who could help us figure out what it's for."
"A Eaolin, I'm guessing? But he's not part of the Protectorate?"
"Well officially, yes. But he'll help us. Not every Eaolin in this world loves their Lord Father, even if they
say otherwise."
"Alright, so how can he help us, this uh...?"
"Leicester. I don't know his Eaolin name, he's never told me. He'll need a lot of bloody persuading first.
Had a benny headfit last time I turned up."
"Uhh. Why?"
"Terrified The Protectorate would find out. Not to mention he told me once that his sister was killed
fighting for Redcloaks in the Homeworld. A bit of bad blood there."
"Redcloaks?"
"In the Civil War. Back in the Homeworld. Officially, they call themselves The Army Of The True King.
Your supporters, in a nutshell. The name's gonna need some work, of course."
"Oh. Where is he then?
"Across the Atlantic. The DKA."
"We're going to America?"
Shani couldn't dispel the mix of fear and excitement wrestling down in her gut. The furthest abroad she'd
ever travelled was on a school camping trip to Germany.
"Well, New Amsterdam to be precise. Your Dutch up to scratch?"
She nodded. Everyone in England learned Dutch at school. It was the language of the world after all.
"Good. I've got a network of contacts who can help us get there - those the Protectorate can't touch very
quickly."
"Are they Eaolin too?"
"No, just regular Humans. They keep an eye on Protectorate movements for me now and again, get
whatever information they can. Though they cost me a fucking fortune."
He smiled.
 "The Protectorate has pissed off some Humans too. Even if you take over the world as discreetly as
possible, you start to draw attention. There are a select few who haven't been silenced. Those who know the
truth of their interference and would be more than happy to see them disappear. We've got an alliance of
sorts."
Shani willed herself to look at Emese's body again.
"Marcus. What do we do- well, do with the body?"
"Oh, just leave it."
Shani felt sick. The body was lying there, so still and quiet, yet so undeniably present in her vision.
“This isn’t all a dream then. This is actually happening.”
“Nope. Not a dream. Sorry.”
"Shouldn't we bury her or something? Burn the body maybe? It doesn’t. It doesn't seem right."
"I don't think she'd have done the same for you."
A bitter wave rose in her chest. She wanted to do something, take the body and hide it far from view, but
she felt herself torn away by the sound of Marcus's footsteps on the undergrowth. She took a final fleeting
glance, before darting to catch up, as the two began to trek back up out of the depths of the forest. Shani
gave the body a final thought.
"That was a Disciple."
"Yeah. From what I know there's five of them."
"Five?"
"It's taken me a good decade and a half to gather intelligence through bloodtalks and the like and even
then, there's more question than answers. There are four more like her. Eaolin children and young adults,
orphans of the Wars, or children of Aleron's most loyal followers, given up willingly. He took them away,
refined them, and whittled them down, pitting them against each other, cultivating the strongest. The final
selection went through a baptism of fire. And that's literal. You saw that girl's face."
Shani shuddered. Couldn’t forget it.
As they clambered further out of the forest, the roar of the road, the sound of civilisation, became more
tangible on the horizon.
"Seven years ago, I knew he had about two dozen of these Disciples in his service. A few years down the
line and I hear on bloodtalks that there are nine left. Later on, it's six. They do dangerous work."
Shani thought back to the flames that Hyxarn had produced, the way it had burned through the dead mob
and finally, the girl's heart.
"Hyxarn. And the fire. How did I do it?"
Marcus kept on walking, pushing his way through the bushes.
"I don't know. How did you?"
Shani swallowed.
"There was a marking on the handle. Like on your scrolls. I just sort of..knew how. Something sort-of
told me. Should I do it again?"
Marcus's eyes darkened.
"I don't know. There are things that Eaolin have forgotten. Old, dark powers. From the ancient times,
things we don't fully understand. Try not to use it again. Not till we know the risks."
"Risks?"
"No such thing as a free lunch."
"So if I use Hyxarn like that again-?"
"Power like that. It cones with a cost. Always."
He saw her worried look.
"I'll ask Leicester about Hyxarn. Maybe he'll know."
 They emerged back onto the path, the roar of the nearby road echoing back into the space around them,
the rush of cars and lorries in the distance. Marcus looked around.
"It's not safe going back to town. Even less safe hanging around near the road. Police will be looking for
us and we look pretty fucking suspicious as it is."
Shani looked down at herself. It was the first time she'd paid attention to her appearance amid the
confusion of the events of the past few days and the realisation was somewhat shocking.
She was still wearing the grubby training clothes. It had been unavoidable; there had been no more spares
in the small, cramped safe house and she had been too unsure to ask.
Shani looked down at what was left. They were barely recognisable, torn to ribbons, sweat, soil and god
knew what else.
A once pristine cream t-shirt was now a yellowish-grey, with a great flourish of red stains and holes. Soot
stains and dust from the fire coated her tracksuit, the blue colour lost.
She felt her hair gingerly. She hadn't washed it with anything other than a bar of soap for days, it felt
rough, matted. Her face felt tight, cracked, a mix of dried blood and dirt coated her skin.
Shani didn't want to know what she looked like in a mirror. Or how she might have smelled. Looking
over, she realised Marcus was no better, a thicker beard now adorned his face, the jacket and jeans now as
torn, tattered and stained as her own, face grubby. He hadn't changed his clothes at all, as far as she had been
aware.
His coat was missing an arm from the dead army's attack, the hem frayed. The bruises and cuts of the
battle with the Disciple were plain to see on his face. But he looked gaunt. Thinner. The time in the forest
had taken a lot off him as well.
His eyes were wide, manically so, fighting to stay alert as the adrenaline of the battle began to wear off.
Shani felt it too, the great, tantalising desire to lie on the ground and just doze off.
They looked like tramps, or perhaps drug addicts. Or maybe murderers, or - looking at the burns on their
skin- arsonists. Yes, drug-addicted, homeless, fire-loving murderers. That seemed to sum up their new look
pretty well in Shani's mind. And now they were going to America. She just couldn't keep up.
Marcus turned round the side, the expensive-looking phone in hand, clenched to his ear. It was a strange
addition to his rather impoverished-looking appearance.
"Yeah. It's me. Can you send someone to pick us up? We're just off the forests near the safe house I told
you about....ah?....OK. Understood. Yeah. Thanks."
He ended the call.
"OK. Apparently there's an old industrial estate a stone's throw from here, near those fields we passed."
A horn beeped loudly.
Shani jumped out of her skin. She saw a woman shouting something from her car, her voice a streak of
sound
"GYPPO SCUM!"
The vehicle sped off down the road, careening around a corner. Marcus laughed wearily.
"I think we're making quite an impression here. Let's keep out the way of the traffic. The car will pick us
up from the industrial estate, it's remote enough there."
He quickened his pace, striding down the slope of the embankment, where they would be better
concealed. Shani followed in his wake, the dead girl's Aura behind her a forgotten sensation.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Shani shifted uncomfortably in the car. The windows were tinted, obscuring both her and Marcus from
the attention of the world outside. They had been driving for a handful of hours now though she had
absolutely no clue where, assuming they were on their way to the airport.
The driver stared straight ahead, making no attempt at conversation. Marcus had given him no directions,
and the man drove with no hesitation. This was all organised, she realised. Prepared for, on standby and now
in motion.
Marcus dozed silently in the seat next to her. Though still clad in the bloodied, filthy garments and
covered in the wounds left by the morning's battle, no pain or storm played upon his face. It was the most
peaceful Shani had seen him. She couldn't feel the same way.
She had tried to sleep but found herself too sensitive to the time, unable to ignore the rising sun, the
bright gleam on the horizon unavoidable through the windscreen. Looking over, she caught a glimpse of the
clock on the dashboard. It was coming up to six in the morning.
Every atom in her body yearned for sleep, but the expression of death that had played upon that girl's
burned face confronted her every time that she closed her eyes. She sat, exhausted but silent, staring blearily
ahead at the road that the car ate up in front of them.
The evidence was growing; the bodies she and Marcus left behind them were surely the testament to her
purported guilt. There was only one constant now, and it was Marcus.
That strange force had guided her hand, plunged that knife into her heart. She hadn't felt like her when it
happened. She was sharing her body with someone else. Today, those thugs at the Fox might have lain dead
at her feet.
She was stirred from her musings as the car turned off from the motorway, blazing down a side road. In
an instant, Marcus's eyes had snapped open, the calmness of his sleep banished.
"We're almost there."
Shani peered out the windows. Greenery and trees adorned great squares of concrete, a large black road
lay out in front of them. It looked new as if it had been put out recently over the fields. In the distance as the
car grew nearer, Shani could make out the silhouette of a large building approaching on the brow of a hill
ahead.
It looked like a barn at first, but as they pulled up alongside it, Shani realised it was a bunker. Craning her
head to get a closer look, she could see a plane parked inside, two men in overalls running around, shouting
instructions at each other, and joking.
The car came to a halt, Marcus pulling off his seatbelt, wrenching the door handle, disappearing out of
the car. Shani followed him, stepping out into the glare of the sunrise. She looked around, blinking in the
increasing brightness.
The car was in the middle of the vast concrete road. No. Shani caught on. An aircraft runway.
A voice sounded, light and mischievous.
"Marcus. You're very, very late."
A woman was approaching them from the bunker. She was quite a few years older than herself, Shani
deduced, yes closer to Marcus' age. But a few lines didn't stop the confidence emanating from her posture
and stride. Her red hair (dyed surely?) dangled down around her shoulders, kept out of her face by a woolly
hat.
Shani had forgotten the cold under the light of the sun, but as she looked at the woman's scarf around her
neck and the gloves on her hands it seemed to flood back into her senses. As she walked, she pushed her
rimmed glasses out of her face, amused-annoyance played on her features.
 She was tall and curvy, her generous figure still remarkable under a pair of jeans, a jumper and a wax
jacket. Shani wasn't sure where to put her eyes. Blue eyes surveyed the pair eagerly. Marcus's face lit up.
"Sorry. We had a visitor."
"Been fighting with that sword you love?"
The accent was Irish, light and musical.
"How did you know?"
"Lucky guess. Plus you look like shit. You know what, I don't want to know."
Marcus grinned.
"Nice to see you too."
"Fuck me, you look a mess. Hey, burned some of that fat though."
"Yeah, thanks."
Shani reached out.
The woman was not Eaolin, her senses said instantly, but she could feel a warmth, kindness, ever so
slightly under the light of the winter's sun. The woman looked at her.
"So. Who's this then?"
"The person I was telling you about."
She extended her gloved hand in welcome.
"What's your name?"
"Shani. Shani Smith.
Shani saw the recognition, but chose not to pursue it. It seemed the woman watched the news too.
Marcus took a step forward.
"Shani, this is Emma Flynn. She'll be our pilot for the flight."
Shani looked over at the hangar.
"You can fly that thing?"
Emma's face lit up.
"I most certainly can! Those two are just doing the final checks if they'd stop messing about!"
She directed her attention to the two men on the plane wing, who laughed sheepishly back at her. Emma
grinned.
"If you want to freshen up before the flight - which, by the way, I recommend- there's some showers and
stuff in the outbuilding next to the office."
Marcus looked at her.
"Did you get the clothes?"
She smiled exasperatedly.
"Of course I did. For you and Shani."
"For me?" said Shani surprised. Marcus raised his eyebrows.
"If you want to keep on wearing the same change of clothes then be my guest. I'm going to get out of
these."
Shani was suddenly acutely aware of her current appearance again. She took a tactical step backwards
from Emma, who tutted, a mix of shock and amusement on her face.
"You didn't get any new clothes at the safe house?! Just those old ones?"
"There was no time." Marcus tutted. "Besides, you were getting some for us."
"Poor Shani, having to put up with that! That is just typical of you, Marcus, you forget how to live!"
She looked at Shani apologetically, but humorously.
Marcus rolled his eyes.
"It's not like we were at the fucking Ritz, Emma."
"You stink Marcus. Go and shower, shave and get changed. I'll go help with the final arrangements."
 She walked off towards the hanger.
"Come meet me when you're done and we'll go over the flight plan."
She shouted over at the mechanics. Marcus grinned. They made their way to the small brick building on
the edge of the runway.
"Emma takes charge of my finances for me while I'm busy. For a cut of course. Her mother ran this air
courier company - she inherited it when she died a few years back."
"She's not Eaolin though?"
"No, but some Protectorate members were using her to carry supplies. Distinctly non-Human cargo.
Bloodscrolls, things like that. She got too inquisitive, found too much out and I got involved in keeping her
safe. She's staying out of trouble, keeping her head down. Well, most of the time."
They had reached the far end of the airstrip, standing outside the brick outhouse. Marcus gestured at a
pile of shopping bags slung in the corner.
"That'll be our clothes. The showers are through there."
He threw two of the bags at Shani, who caught them.
"These are yours."
Shani picked through the contents, implacably overjoyed to see toiletries, soap, deodorant and clean
towels on the top of the pile. Underneath the assorted bottles and canisters were the new clothes, various
sizes of t-shirts and jeans. They were all designer labels; she didn't think she'd seen people wearing them
outside of catalogues.
"What happened to inconspicuous?"
Marcus shot her a puzzled look.
"What's wrong? Is your size not there?
"No, it's just-"
"Yeah, you can keep the rest, we can take the bags on the plane."
Shani grabbed a Superdry t-shirt and some CK jeans.
It would appear there were some perks to being the Chosen after all.

IN ANOTHER WORLD

Wolff's fingers played where his other hand had once been. Sometimes, when he was not paying
attention, he would forget that it was lost, and start itching it, as he imagined it in place, as it had been
before.
The pain had gone, thanks to Emese's Ilenir, but the shame had not. It was night outside of his quarters,
the winter moon a distant pin light behind the thick clouds. He was still tuned to the Human time.
He shivered, pulling his robes back around himself. The Human clothes had been so warm. Lord Father's
words played in a loop in the back of his head.
"How will you cope with the misery of knowing that your failures have killed your sister?"
He wiped his eyes and breathed. It was the cold; he told himself.
He couldn't...couldn't face the briefing room again. Couldn't. Lord Father, he didn't..he wouldn't forgive
him. And those Humans. The way they had screamed. Succumbed to his blade. Cut down like crops. He had
killed before. But not..not like this. The tears. He couldn't hold them back. Searing the old burns.
"Wolff?"
 He started, sniffing, head turning. Emese. Her hands wrapped around the old wooden door.
"You-"
He gestured at her, holding back the chokes.
"You can't be in here. It's forbidden, you know that. Lord Father-"
"You're crying."
"It's fine. Look, please-"
She walked in.
"What happened - in the courtyard. Well-"
"It was a moment of weakness, nothing more. We are Disciples."
"You told me. You said you came back for me Wolff."
"I should have run, Emese. I should have.."
"Where would you have gone? Your home is here–and I am here, Wolff. Please-"
She had her arm around him. Comforting. And suddenly he was a child, crying into her shoulder.
"I keep seeing them. Those Humans. Every time I close my eyes. Oh One-"
"It can't be helped. You were following orders."
"Following orders lost me my arm. Look at it Emese. How can I serve Lord Father now? He's going to
kill me."
She blinked.
"I won't let him. I'll speak to him."
"What could you even say? He won't listen to you. He doesn't care what you think."
They both knew it was true.
"I don't know. I don't know what to do."
"Then run, Wolff. Leave. You didn't have to come back."
"I won't leave you. I can't. Go with me. We'll both run."
But they both knew they wouldn't.
"With these faces? We'd be hunted down."
He shuddered, choking.
"Emese.."
"Oh, Wolff."
Her arm round his shoulder. Her head close to his. He leaned in. And suddenly they were three eyes
again, their lips reunited. Hands were searching their bodies, the contours of the scars of the flesh under their
robes. Wolff felt the soft warmth of her bosom in his hands, as she stroked his face, her hand deft, down to
stroke his manhood. Scarred, pocked hands, searching for something.
Truth. Their Auras, intertwined, sharing their sadness. And hope. She kissed him, hands about his robes,
pulling them away. Bringing him towards her as he parted her own robes with his hand.
"We need to stop” Wolff pleaded, “Lord Father-"
"Yes. Please, Wolff, let’s. Let’s stop now."
But they couldn't stop. Something kept pushing them together, a force that try as they might, was
impossible to fight. Something indomitable. Wolff felt her breath tickle his nose as they became one, gliding
into her. She gasped, her hands wrapped around his hairless head, the fingers brushing the rough skin.
"Please, Wolff. Again."
She was crying too, tears pouring from her face to his. He did. They rode it together, as one, their Auras
carrying the waves of ecstasy about their grotesque bodies, trying not to gasp, wary of the guards lurking.
And finally, bitterly, they separated, with a final juddering end onto the bed, their robes discarded. They
lay wordlessly, the heavy weight of that they had just done, keeping their mouths shut as they clung to each
other like lost children.
 Each dared to stay a second longer, silent until the morning rose over the hill and the day inevitably
arrived.

IN HER WORLD

Crow was still getting used to the Human world and the peculiar technology they employed, so he almost
forgave Bezek's sheer incomprehension, a babe thrust into a strange new environment.
The pair had just finished resting; Auras recharged after the hours of tracking the Usurper when a strange
buzzing had engulfed the room of the house they had broken into, the owners silenced forever downstairs.
Bezek, who had had no qualms about tearing the house's former Human inhabitants in half was now
whimpering as the buzzing continued and they searched for its source, fearful of whatever it could be.
With a momentary stab of horror, Crow had realised the noise was coming from him, before realising that
it was the strange miniature mirror that Daem had given him. A phone, they called it. The surface of which
was now displaying strange symbols and images.
Human writing. Daem had explained the device in painstaking detail to Crow, but he had found difficulty
in realising all the details. He just had to press his finger down there and press it to his ear.
"Yes?"
There was a tiny buzzing and Crow realised he had the wrong side clamped to his head, turning it over as
Daem's smooth tone crept down the line.
"Ah, Lord Crow. I trust things are proceeding as planned?"
Crow glanced at Bezek, having fallen asleep again; head soundly tucked on top of broad palms.
"Well enough. We have killed several Humans but remain undetected."
Crow thought he sensed a tone of exasperation.
"I see. We shall deal with that. I'm afraid I'm calling to give you an update on your target's whereabouts."
Crow frowned.
"Target? You should know nothing of our mission."
"Lord Wolff conveyed it all to me. He was injured in combat and the Protectorate returned him through
the gate, shortly before it closed."
Crow already knew that of course, but hearing it again just made him smugger. Wolff so full of bluster
and bravery. Little Wolff had run home to Lord Father before it had even begun.
"Is there any word on Malkyn?"
"Lady Malkyn's body was found a few minutes ago. We have dealt with the rest."
Crow still felt little sorrow. Malkyn had been a liability. Perhaps it was for the best.
"Thank you, Daem."
"Rest assured, the Usurper will pay for her death."
That surprised him.
"So, you know who we are searching for? Why we are in this world."
"We all thought the Usurper dead, but she was here all along, it seems, in the Human world. Unfortunate
for all of us."
 "She?"
"Yes, calm down, no need to pretend to sound surprised. Your Usurper is a young, well, youngish
woman. A Eaolin bearing a Human name, Shani Smith. Stored in this world as a baby by the former Mhorn.
It seems Lord Father boasted a little too well of having killed the Usurper all those years ago.."
"You know too much of all of this, more so than I. It is suspicious, Daem. Perhaps Lord Father would
like to hear of all of this."
"I have simply never been given the opportunity to express what I know."
"Which is?"
"I have known only that the former Mhorn had a Human lover and gave him a child. Just one of course,
the Mhorn have always ensured that Eaolin blood does not..wander. She died closing the Gate and being the
loyal Eaolin I am, I made sure that her love was killed. But her son eludes me. The swordsman who takes
the Human name of Marcus Godfrey."
"I forgot the Mhorn took Human lovers. So she had a child. A half-blood, like the rest of the Mhorn
traitors."
"He has your Usurper. In fact, I believe he may have been sheltering her all this time. They have escaped
the airspace of the country you are currently in. It was he who injured Lord Wolff, I understand he had skills
with a blade the likes of which are rarely seen."
The Mhorn were fabled swordsmen and Wolff was one of the best Crow had seen. There may have been
some truth to this story.
"How do you trust this information–and why tell me?"
"I place great loyalty in my informants. Before the war, the last Mhorn disappeared from the bloodtalks
for a while. A child was often whispered of, but seldom seen. I understand she raised him in secret. Out of
sight."
Discomfort crept into Crow's chest. So the Mhorn name carried on.
"I only hope you place your loyalty in your King higher than that of your sources."
"But of course. I am giving you this information as proof of my loyalty. The Protectorate does not know
of Godfrey's origins. I have kept it quiet for fear of well...it could be rather humiliating for Lord Father if it
transpired the Mhorn and the Usurper were both still alive now, wouldn't it? They have always been the
greatest threat to his rule."
The threat was noted. Crow chose to ignore it.
"What can you do for us now?"
"I am arranging transport for Lord Bezek and yourself. It shall be ready to leave as soon as we know their
location."
"I see. You are most prepared."
"As any loyal servant should be. I was sorry to hear about Lady Malkyn's end.
Crow nodded though he'd decided that he cared very little.
"The Usurper shall pay tenfold for her death."
"Of course. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my duties."
The device cut off, Crow pocketed it, disinterestedly.
Taking care not to wake Bezek, he crept past the bloodied corpses in the hall and entered a small dining
room, withdrawing the scroll from the bags he had placed there.
He would have to make a 'call' of his own.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

As Emma's plane was primarily for cargo, there weren't any seats in the back. Thus, the three of them
were squashed uncomfortably in the cockpit. Emma was in less than a good mood, after being told of their
destination, scowling as she glanced down at the monitors and dials.
"New Amsterdam. Why not just get us all shot down by the American air authorities?"
Marcus, somewhat suaver thanks to a hastily used razor and a shower, scowled.
"We flew there before."
"Four years ago. Our landing licence and ID were still valid four years ago. You'd better hope that
they're in a fucking good mood once we get in reach of their radar. I was all ready for a Pacific flight route
Marcus! You told me we'd be going to the west of the Chinese Kingdoms last you heard, not swanning
about in Times Square."
Shani started.
"Wait, China?"
Marcus shot Emma a furious glare.
"No! I got it wrong, alright? Rumours that there was something there the Protectorate were keeping under
wraps. Whispers. Nothing more."
"Those rumours were all you ever used to hang onto before."
"Yeah and look how many times they almost got me killed. You try having Protectorate assassins on your
trail."
"I know, I know. Look, how do you know this map means anything?"
"I don't. But it's all I've got, alright?"
Marcus kicked the underside of the dashboard in annoyance. Shani massaged her head. Between the
clunking of the plane mechanisms and Marcus and Emma shouting at each other, she was starting feel
distinctly under the weather. She had never flown before and so had to endure the cramped space along with
the experience of taking up right at the front of the plane.
She'd barely managed to keep her breakfast down in time to make it to the tiny onboard bathroom. The
overwhelming sense of cleanliness after the long shower and change of clothes had been somewhat tainted.
"What's this Gate?" Shani asked, trying to keep her thoughts from the sickening sky around them.
"A Gate between the worlds. The Mhorn's sworn blood duty is to protect it. It has now also been
destroyed, by Aleron's ritual."
"Wait, but we're closed off then. We're safe. What's the problem?"
"Aleron never passed through the Gate, when he arrived in the Eaolin world from this one and took the
throne. Long before you were born. He managed to open it after that. We guarded it every day for over a
thousand years. Yet somehow, he appeared on the other side, per the prophecy, without us noticing."
"How?"
"We always assumed there was one Gate. Only ever one, linking the Human world and Eaolin. But what
if there were a second? One only he knew about. Hopefully this map might say where it is."
Emma rolled her eyes.
"It's all nonsense to me, Shani."
They were soaring above the clouds now, Shani desperately trying to avoid her nausea by closing eyes,
zoning in on the loud roar of the engine. The vast distance between them and the ground was extremely
difficult to disregard.
Marcus and Emma seemed unperturbed, absorbed in their bickering, the noise of the plane meaning that
they had to yell to get themselves heard. Emma had her eyes fixed on the sky in front of them as they talked.
 "So what's your plan once we get to New Amsterdam?"
Marcus adjusted his seat belt around his wide stomach, removing the map from the inside of his jacket.
"We're going to get this taken care of. Speak to Leicester."
"I thought he didn't want to cooperate last time."
Marcus grinned at Shani.
"I think he'll be more willing when he meets Shani."
"This is an expensive venture, Marcus. Complete waste if you don't find anything."
"You'll get your cut, Emma."
"Oh, I know. But it's not going to last forever if you keep spending it like this.
He looked to the side, annoyed.
"Emma, can we talk about this later?"
"It's a fifteen-hour flight, not including refuelling time. Why wait?"
"Because my accounts are probably the last thing that Shani wants to listen to."
She laughed and looked at Shani.
"She's pretty quiet. You haven't frightened her into silence have you?
Shani smiled wearily, brandishing the emergency paper bag in her lap.
"Sorry, I'm not talking. I'm not exactly a hundred percent right now."
Emma waved her hand dismissively.
"Oh, you're doing fine. You should have seen Marcus the first time he flew with me. He was a mess,
chucking his guts up all through the flight."
"That is a massive exaggeration."
She poked her tongue out at Marcus teasingly.
Shani was taken aback. She didn't think he would see anyone insult Marcus to his face, so unabashedly.
A smile played on Emma's face as she looked ahead.
"Shani, if you truly are the Head Honcho of the Eaolin or whatever the fuck it is Marcus rattles on
about, please, boss him around from time to time."
"Oh shut up", growled Marcus testily, “you’re forgetting I saved her life, remember?"
Emma threw her hands up in exasperation. Shani's gut lurched as Emma's fingers left the controls.
Involuntarily, she gave a small gasp. The plane continued to fly forwards. Emma gave a rueful grin.
"I've switched to automatic. Sorry, Shani."
Shani sat back, trying to calm down, her heart pounding.
"Anyway, what was I saying...oh yeah - even more history from Marcus!"
She winked at Shani.
"Did he give you the miniature lecture as well?"
Marcus scowled.
"You can never take it seriously, can you?"
Shani looked at Emma.
"Do you not believe in any of it?"
"Course I believe in it. I've seen him fight and use his freaky blood voodoo stuff. That man has done
things I would never believe possible. He does like to go on about it though and when you're blind to what it
is he's talking about, it can be hard to take seriously."
Marcus smirked.
"I don't go on all the time."
"Yeah you do. But please don't forget that it's a regular Human carrying you over to New Amsterdam,
Marcus. Normal Humans tend to get bored of Eaolin affairs after a while."
"Please. Most regular Humans don't even know we exist."
 "Sometimes I wish I could forget."
The conversation seemed worn. As if it were one that had been tread across many times before.
"How many Eaolin are there then?” Shani blurted out suddenly, trying to give her input again. “In this
world I mean?"
Emma rolled her eyes.
"Don't you get him started, it'll never stop."
Marcus glanced at her and sighed, before addressing Shani.
"In this world? The answer's hard. A few thousand, that Aleron sent through, in the forty-odd years
between his opening the Gate and my mother's closing it."
Emma piped up.
"Have you run through the plan with Shani?"
Marcus shrugged. “The flight's what? Twelve hours didn't you say?"
She groaned. “Don’t be a smart arse."
A problem had been accumulating mass in Shani's mind for some time.
"How are we going to get past the border control? I've been in the news; the police are probably looking
for both of us. I don't even have my passport on me!"
Emma smiled. “It’s all been prepared. Marcus, everything's in that hold under your seat."
Shani shifted out of the way as Marcus began rummaging around near the cabin door, pulling up a
briefcase, crafted in wood and metal. He placed it on his lap and popped open the latches on either side with
a snap.
Inside were a collection of papers, documents of various colours and shades and - Shani's heart jumped -
the familiar leather covers of two passports. They weren't the red shade she knew, but blue and grey
respectively.
Marcus chuckled as he examined the contents.
"This must have cost."
"It's best I don't tell you how much till the stock market opens tomorrow. Most of the money went to
keeping the counterfeiters quiet."
Marcus opened up one of the passports, glanced inside at the back cover and tossed it to Shani.
"Here, memorise the details."
Shani looked at the picture with surprise. It was her own, staring out at front with a forlorn scowl under a
mound of greasy hair and acne. The features were softer, the face thinner. It was an old school photograph
she remembered, back from the first year of Sixth Form. She laughed inwardly at the nostalgic absurdity.
"That'll never work."
"It is you, isn't it?"
"From like twelve years ago. Why not a more modern photo?"
"Less chance you'll be recognised. Emma's going to do some work on your face too."
"But I've seen this photo on the news!"
"You think Americans care about one little mass-murder in little England? They have them like three
times a week, all those guns flying around."
Shani felt sad all of a sudden. She’d not thought about the office. Not since. Well. It wasn't a joking
matter. No, not really. She wondered. Kicked herself. Should she be sadder? Should she be weeping and
wailing, at the memories of what had happened?
She didn't feel..well..not much. She must have been in shock. Yes. She'd feel more than this numbness in
time, she told herself. She looked at the photo. So this was her life now. Fraud. She turned it over,
examining the cover. New Zealand's crest looked back at her. And the name. John Owen.
"Wait. Hang on - I'm a man. A man from New Zealand?"
 "I said Emma's doing work on you."
"A man though. I mean, if you look at the passport photo..."
"Loads of teenage boys that look like girls. It'll be fine."
"Are you saying I look like a man?"
"No of course not-"
"Do I have to put on a voice?"
"Ideally, try and keep talking to a minimum, but yeah. I would advise it."
Shani shook her head disbelievingly.
"Great."
Emma gave her a reassuring look.
"It'll be fine, it's Americans. We all sound the same to them."
"Besides", Marcus added, “Think how I feel. I've got to brush up on my French before we land. Thanks,
Emma."
He brandished his passport, his photo glaring out beneath the alias of Guillaume Bouchër."
Emma smirked. “You’re welcome, sweetie."
Shani laughed.
It was hard not to though it felt bitter in her throat. Like she shouldn't have been finding any of this
funny, in the slightest.
The plane trundled on through the sky.

Crow was as close to his Master as he knew possible in this foreign world. Aides spent shifts in the
bloodtalk, bleeding themselves dry to relay messages to Lord Father, but Crow required a private audience.
He had waited, floating high above his rapidly paling body in that strange place of the soul, until finally,
Aleron's Aura had met with his own.
"Speak, Crow."
"We are still on the trail of the Usurper."
"Then this is not a development. This is an inconvenience."
"Perhaps not, Lord Father. I have been speaking with one of the Protectorate. A man called Daem
though he also takes the Human name, King."
"I know him. He was sent to the Protectorate's mission much against his will. He holds a grudge against
me for it though he would deny otherwise. What does he have to say?"
"He knows about the Usurper and our mission. He claims Wolff told him. He tells me the man who aids
the Usurper–is of the Mhorn."
There was a moment's pause, the Aura in the air shifting uneasily.
"The same lies he told Wolff. Daem is not to be trusted. He is slippery. Had he not taken refuge with the
Protectorate, I would have killed him long ago. When this is over, you will bring his head back with the
Usurper's."
"He had aided us so far-"
"Irrelevant. Daem is the only member of the Protectorate who knows the woman you seek is the
Usurper?"
 "Yes. He also claims that the Usurper is travelling beyond the sea here. He is arranging transport to
pursue him."
"I sense that the Protectorate have become a little too privy to Human weaknesses. Secret-
keeping..lying..this is interference. Once the Usurper is dead, Crow, you shall turn your blade to them. They
must be trimmed back."
"A purge, my Lord?"
"A re-envisioning. The Gate has been sealed for too long. They forget their place. John Thomas, Rufus
King… These are not Eaolin names. The Protectorate needs a tighter leash, Crow. With the Usurper gone,
you shall be the one to rein them in."
Crow felt a dull stab of misplaced excitement. And dawning realisation.
"Me, my Lord?"
"Wolff has ensured there is no way to return. Or so, it is thought. I have another task. There is a second
Gate, my Child."
"A second? But this is fortuitous news, my Lord!"
"Silence. This Gate must not be used, until the Usurper is dead."
The tone was so cold; it bit him. He shivered.
"I apologise."
"No one must know of this other Gate. Not even your fellow Disciples. You must conceal its location. As
soon as the Usurper is dealt with, await my instructions. Here."
He reached out with his Aura, touching one of the blank bloodstones by Crow's feet. Giving it
knowledge. Such skill, to be able to reach across worlds..
"The map is there. I had instructed your sister, Malkyn, to do as I now ask and find this other Gate. Now
that duty falls to you. Use this map, when the time comes. Tell no one of this, especially the Protectorate and
that snake Daem."
Crow nodded. Of course, he'd kept secrets to Malkyn. He'd often suspected she was his favourite. What
on earth would Wolff have said?
"The Protectorate has allegiances to the Usurper. There are traitors in their midst. Daem has hinted as
much."
"Indeed? Then I shall make them see reason, Crow. Do not fear. By tomorrow, all Eaolin shall be
searching for the Usurper in that world and this one, as their King commands."
"My Lord?"
"I shall speak to my people, Crow. To all of my people."
His voice was steady, determined. Crow did not have such conviction.
"Are you sure this is wise, My Lord Father?"
He had not forgotten the strain that forcing open the Gate had taken on his Master. If he were planning to
do what he expected..well, Crow knew even Aleron, even with the power of the Golden Throne under him,
had his limits. The void burned, brighter, more forceful.
"You have no place to question me."
Crow let his repentance glow through.
"A thousand pardons, Lord Father."
"Enough. Speak no more of this. Just know it will be done."
"The Chosen is most merciful and all-powerful.."
"Indeed. Now leave me. I must prepare to ascend the Throne."
The light was fading, Crow tumbling out of the darkness of the real, yet so unfamiliar world. The Human
kitchen.
He checked in on Bezek, sleeping soundly.
A pity. He was in for quite a rude awakening.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

High in the air, the plane was lurching through the latest round of turbulence and Shani was just
managing to keep what was left down. It was tough when she was constantly aware of the staggering heights
below her.
She'd never wanted to be down on the ground so badly, lodged uncomfortably on the end of Marcus and
Emma's loud passive-aggressive navigation double act.
"I'm telling you; those are the coordinates. It says right there."
"Marcus, you're reading it wrong. Look, we're five miles west of here; it's on the GPS."
"Then why bother with the coordinates?"
"I need to log them just in case. Don't pretend you don't know. Now please, shut up and let me do it!
"Are we close?” Shani asked hopefully.
"NO!"
For once, the pair seemed to agree on something. Marcus leaned back in the chair, stretching.
"Another six hours at least. Coast should be coming up fairly soon."
"Provided they don't shoot us down over the ocean", Emma glowered at him, "Plane with an expired
licence coming in on an unscheduled arrival. How's that going to look?"
"Not great", Marcus admitted, “but I'll sort it."
"How?"
"Just you see."
He flipped open the phone from the side of his new jeans, tapping in a number.
"I have my ways."
Emma flapped at him while trying to keep her eyes on the path in front of them.
"Stop it! Do you know how dangerous that is? Shani, take it off him!"
"What? Uh.."
Marcus snorted.
"Oh please, that's a load of bullshit-"
The phone hit the floor, Marcus reeling back as if it had burned him.
"Ahh!"
Shani was on her feet in alarm.
"What? What is it?"
Marcus’ head was in his hands.
"Can't you hear it?"
"What?" Shani was about to ask when it hit her as well, she reeled backwards, arms flailing, smashing
into the console, Emma swearing at the pair of them.
“What the fuck are you pair doing?”
"Oh!"
Shani was subconsciously trying to claw the top of her head, some grand fiery presence in her head.
Marcus was steadying himself on the side of the cabin, head in hands, muttering under pained breaths.
"...across the worlds, fucking idiot might kill himself before we get to him, any luck."
Shani gritted her teeth, straining, trying to concentrate on the image of the pair in front of them."
Who-"
"Who else?"
Marcus shouted, articulating through the pain.
"ALERON!!"
 And then the speaking started. It was as if someone was holding a megaphone right up to Shani's ear,
each sound and syllable a knife through her neck. Strange words.Foreign..no..Eaolin.
"GHARAETH LIH DHERL BEAOL PLASE BOENE NI LATHARN SHAE MA.."
She was crying out in pain, Marcus too, biting back a whimper as the voice ripped through the pair of
them. It was so loud.
Emma was shouting asking what the matter was, but Marcus just yelled back at her to steer the plane,
vein popping in his head.
Through the pain, Shani could make out the words, first in the language like none she had ever heard. Yet
as she focused, something in her mind flipped, interpreting the Aura into words, and further, into something
she could understand. It happened so suddenly, that it almost took her by surprise.
"THAH JHOST NE..N.A..ANK YOU, ALL OF MY CHILDREN, FOR RECEIVING MY MESSAGE. I,
ALERON, CHOSEN CHILD, LORD FATHER OF ALL EAOLIN, SPEAK TO WARN YOU ALL OF A MOST
TERRIBLE THREAT TO OUR KIND.."
Marcus was shouting at Shani.
"It's the Golden Throne. He’s using it to amplify the bloodtalk, but to spread himself over two worlds.
Massively dangerous, he's going to feel this one, you mark my words! Ah!"
"AN USURPER LURKS AMONG US, MY CHILDREN. ONE WHOM I BELIEVED SLAIN. ONE WHO
WOULD REBEL AGAINST ME, YOUR LORD FATHER, CHOSEN CHILD OF THE GREAT ONE. HER
NAME, FOR THIS TRAITOR TO OUR KIND, HAS ONLY A HUMAN NAME, IS SHANI SMITH. SHE IS
ACCOMPANIED BY A BASTARD SPAWN OF THE TRAITOROUS MHORN BLOODCLAN, USING THE
HUMAN NAME, MARCUS GODFREY."
"Oh for fuck's sake!"
Marcus had paled; she caught a glimpse of him sweating on the floor.
"KNOW THESE NAMES. I HAVE A GREAT TASK FOR EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU."
Shani felt a chill creep up her spine. To hear her voice spoken by this unseen entity, with such cold fire.
Marcus wasn't taken with this piece of publicity, looking down at his feet. The voice sounded again.
"IF THESE TWO TRAITORS ARE NOT DEAD IN THREE DAYS, THEN I SHALL DEMAND MY
RETRIBUTION. A SINGLE BLOOD TRIBUTE FROM EVERY EAOLIN CLAN AS PROOF OF THEIR
CONTINUED LOYALTY TO ME. ONLY THIS SHALL APPEASE THE GREAT ONE AND CLEANSE THE
SIN OF THE USURPER. THREE DAYS, MY CHILDREN. MAY THE ONE GUIDE-"
Then the voice vanished, dissipated into the air around them. Shani was aware that she was lying on the
shaking floor of the plane, limbs askew, a sweet, dull sensation as the red line trickled down her chin where
she had bitten her tongue. Marcus was nearby, slumped in the corner, shaking. Shani clambered over to him.
"Are you alright?"
"You understood it?"
"Eventually. How?"
"Shani, you're something. Expect nothing less from the Chosen, picking up Iirebos so quick.."
The shaking was laughs, she realised, and great heaves of his shoulders. There was the pause, and then
Marcus roared. It took Shani by surprise but suddenly she was laughing along, nervously at first, but as if
she had remembered some long lost joke she had forgotten the punch line to. Marcus was almost doubled
over.
"He can't do it! The Throne's power, he can't even use it right! What kind of Chosen is he?"
Shani blinked.
"So that was this Aleron guy you keep mentioning? How'd he go all Mysterons on us?"
"Nice. You geek. The Golden Throne has these powers you see, old blood rituals and such that only the
Chosen can master. As an amplifier, carrying the Aura of the user to every living Eaolin.
 "But he can use it?"
Marcus chuckled at that.
"Did you hear how loud he was? How he cut off in the end?"
Shani nodded.
"My head, it's still ringing."
"Force. Willpower. That's how he's doing it. Overcoming the rituals takes a lot of strain. Can even be
fatal in the right circumstances."
"When you've quite finished whatever..that..was", Emma added sarcastically, “perhaps you'd like to pick
yourself up and help me navigate over here before we end up in Toronto."

IN ANOTHER WORLD

"Lord Father", Emese called firmly from the foot of the Throne, trying hard to look him in the eye,
vacant and expressionless as it was.
"Can you hear me, my Lord?"
His head was lolling to one side gently, tongue loose from his mouth, each hand clutching the side of the
Golden Throne's arms, as if an invisible force were trying to wrest him out of it. The one good eye wept a
bloodied tear, his voice a snarl through gritted, blackened teeth.
"Silence!"
There was a dull crack as he launched himself forward from the Throne, breaking the connection, the
thickness of his Aura vanishing, old bones creaking. Only minutes before he had been calm, composed as he
spoke, each of his words carried out through, regal and poised.
Then some strangeness had come over him, a passing scowl across his scarred face and in an instant he
had stopped speaking, instead thrashing about as if possessed.
The King was now crouched, hunched at the foot of the Throne's stairs, shrunken, old and weak of
breath. It was sometime again before he spoke, directing his attention to her.
"Say not a word of this. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"I do."
He rose, pulling his robes back around him, breathing back his composure in sharp gasps.
"The Usurper's power grows. The One is displeased. The throne is cursed and will remain so until she is
dead."
"Is my Lord in pain?"
"This pain is my punishment. Leave me be. I have accomplished what I set out to do. The Usurper and
the Mhorn bastard are as good as dead. My children shall see to that. Leave me!"
She bowed, turning tail, fleeing the room, his Aura pushing down on her, even it seemed, once his
presence had faded away.

◑
 IN HER WORLD

Marcus banged his hand against the cockpit side furiously; Emma tutted while Shani scuffed her feet.
"What just happened, for the benefit of all the Humans on the plane today?" Emma asked tersely.
"Shit hit the fan; that's what happened. We've had one hell of a price put on our heads."
"Wasn't that always going to happen?"
"Not if we'd been a bit quieter. If Shani hadn't become a tabloid's wet fucking dream, then we could have
done this whole thing differently."
"Oi!"
"Sorry Shani. It's not your fault, just appalling luck. Aleron's trying to enforce his will on the
Protectorate. All that's happened has likely raised too much suspicion among them about why the Disciples
are here. Finding the Gate's going to be a lot harder with every Eaolin on both sides of the worlds looking
for us."
"What did he mean?” Shani asked, “a blood tribute?"
Marcus laughed darkly.
"Fucking blood insurance more like. Eaolin have clans, ancient families. Mine is the Mhorn of course,
but there are many more. We war, we squabble, and we all serve the Chosen. Blood tributes were a way of
respecting authority, one sacrifice as proof of loyalty."
Shani felt queasy though it might very well have been the fresh batch of turbulence they were moving
into.
"Human sacrifices?"
"Well, not Human. It's a very rare occurrence, but you can bet everyone's going to be keeping an eye out
for you now."
Her stomach swooped. Suddenly, this plane was the safest place in the world and she was terrified. It was
below, where a new danger was approaching.
"How many Eaolin are here did you say? A few thousand?"
Marcus paused.
"Well. Maybe a few more. No more than four thousand, I’d wager. All emigrated over as part of the
Protectorate. Back when the Gate was still open."
"What about children?"
"There are a few generations. But breeding options are limited if you don't like Humans. Not like my
Mum.
He smiled.
"Don't let it worry you. I got us this far, didn't I?"
Shani was less than reassured.

When Yarnaeth entered the bloodtalk, the debate was already in full force, a hundred angry voices
echoing, fighting to be heard over each other. The Protectorate's lesser members and blood clan
representatives were all adding this voices to the mix and Yarnaeth was sensing something of rebellion in
the air.
As he thought. This announcement of a blood tribute had not gone down well at all. Festen was
struggling to be heard, to impose his authority over the cacophony of the Aura's voices.
 "ORDER! I must have order!"
"Three days!" came one voice, which Yarnaeth thought might have belonged to the Human known as
Lord Saxonbury and the Eaolin known as Xherain, an influential voice within the Protectorate.
"He sends his Disciples after this Usurper without our knowledge and holds us to ransom in the
process!"
"Treason, perhaps Xherain?" sounded another voice, one of the lower-born of the Vandelh, “Aleron’s
law is absolute, and we will obey."
"We need more time, Second-Son! These demands are unfair, even by Lord Father's standards!"
Yarnaeth could see that Xherain was digging himself into a hole and tried accordingly to fill it. There had
to be as little indication of dissent in the Protectorate as possible.
"I am sure Xherain means no disrespect in his duties. As a fellow, loyal subject of Lord Father, I am also
concerned at the time of these orders. What if we cannot please his requirements?
There was a collective murmur of approval, some new voices added to the mix.
"Precisely! We wish only to please our king!"
Yarnaeth smirked at that. Festen tried to reaffirm the debate.
"Blood shall not be spilled unwisely - Lord Father is merely attempting to impress the importance of the
Usurper's death to us. He is fair and merciful. There shall be no blood tribute. Of that, I can assure you."
The old fool. He couldn't even see it.
But Yarnaeth could sense the dissent. Lord Father Aleron was losing control. This demand was the
catalyst. Aleron had overstepped the mark, even for the Chosen.
"Open your eyes! The Protectorate should not bow to these demands! THIS KING IS FALSE! AS YOU
ALL KNOW!"
Yarnaeth had no idea who had said it, the voice indiscernible, but it had its effect. Like a fire in the
middle of a crowded room, the Protectorate were shrinking back, fleeing the bloodtalk in their droves, for
fear of association, their Auras dissipating. He cursed the voice's owner. Stupid, stupid thing to do. The
statement was not wrong. But the timing just wasn't right.
Festen was booming, composition lost.
"WHO SAID THAT? Reveal yourself, traitor! TRAITOR!"
Yarnaeth decided it was time for him to leave as well, sinking back down into the sharp light from the
murky darkness, the voices fading.
Reacquainted with his surroundings, he gingerly wiped the blood off of his wrist, allowing the wound to
heal. He did not need to bleed himself dry. Not for him, the Protectorate. Anyone.
He thought of his wife, a Human, not Eaolin like himself. Who would he have to offer up? No one, he
was not the head of a blood clan. Yarnaeth's loyal service had earned him his branch name.
But his Human lover would not give him blood clan descendants to call his own. There would be no
second Yarnaeth. Though, inevitably, some member of his old clan, back in the home world, was facing
death.
His sister, perhaps. And her children. A lifetime and a world away.
He glanced at his phone next to his office desk. Missed call, dialled some time just before the bloodtalk.
He had a good idea of who it would be.
 CHAPTER THIRTY

IN ANOTHER WORLD

Emese was dreaming of her home again. The images were disjointed, yet somehow meaningful, her
sleeping nostrils remembering the sweet, sickly scent of the honeyed bread that her parents, faceless spectres
now, had once eaten with her in the dining hall.
It was so far away, or at least she thought it was. She never dared to ask. Emese couldn't picture either of
them clearly now, they were voices, smells and air in the fog. She thought she might have had a brother,
maybe a sister, she remembered a boy and a girl her age, she had laughed with them, played in the fields
beyond the courtyard.
Though they might have been servants. Friends perhaps. Now they all ate in her dreams, back in that hall.
She had been six years old when they had offered her as a blood tribute to Lord Father during the war. Her
life for the family's survival. Then the flames had come and a new life had begun.
He woke her. His voice, in her head, Aura wrenching her out of the past and her dozing.
"Emese. Come to the Great Hall."
She shook the fog of sleep from her head, shivering though perhaps not from the cold, glancing through
the plate glass. Darkness. Yes, always darkness here. She pulled on her robes and shoes, rising from the bed,
making her way down the steps from her tower.
A guard sensed her coming from the bottom of the stairs; she reassured him with her Aura before
speaking. She knew they all feared her.
"Lord Father summons me. I shall be gone for some time. Have the servants warm the room for me."
"Excellent, My Lady."
He unlocked the door with the keys slung around the thick chain strung around his armour. Shrunk back
as she pushed the door past him, scratching his whiskered chin, almost as if feigning pensiveness.
Her face scared him; she didn't even have to read his Aura to know it. He was relatively new to his duties
as her tower guard. He would learn in time that staring was dangerous.
She made her way down into the Great Hall. Aleron was waiting for her, slouched in the Golden Throne,
elevated above the floor by the thick, shining pillars and stairs. Contained, drawn into himself, his presence
tangible but disinterested.
She walked slowly over to the foot of the throne and prostrated herself, as protocol called for, onto the
floor. No sign of Wolff. Oh, where was he?
Emese did not rise from her bow, waiting for Lord Father to issue his blessing. It did not arrive; she
stooped even lower to the floor, forehead brushing against the stone, cold marble, hands splayed out. Still he
did not yield, letting the silence hang in the air.
He was savouring it, as he did, but something was wrong, she realised, the suffocating quiet heavy
around her.
Another minute passed. She could sense his Aura, about her, cold, restrained, but inquisitive as if trying
to sniff out her guilt. The silence had heightened her senses, exacerbating his presence. His glare dominated.
Every blink, the smallest movement, the pressure pushed down on her hunched form, straining her head
closer to the floor, an invisible hand pinning her.
It was too much, the words escaped her; tumbling from her lips.
"My Lord, I thank you for your audience-"
"SILENCE!"
He leapt from the throne, fast as lightning, foot down, stamping on the base of her skull.
 Teeth cracked on the marble, nose burst across the white robes. Mercifully, she did not even whimper as
she reeled on the floor, pulling herself back into the bow. The shock dulled the pain, her Aura making
ripples across the room, trying to comprehend.
She was a Burned Child, a Disciple. She had no pain. No, fear. She was his to do with, as he pleased.
That had to be. He stepped back from his handiwork, circling her.
"You shall not speak Emese until I instruct you to do so. You forget yourself, child."
She pulled herself in close, tucking her legs down and in, trying to ignore the throbbing, wet, rattling pain
behind her sinuses, filling her mouth. He continued to observe her, a few feet away, still searching with his
Aura, seeking out her sin. Emese kept her mind clear of her thoughts of Wolff, fighting the urge to choke, a
large lump forming in her chest and throat. The silence passed again though, for how many more minutes,
she could not say.
Finally, he spoke once more.
"Recite your oaths, child. Recite them to me."
He beckoned, permitting her to stand staggering up in her solemn muteness. When she spoke, it did not
seem like her voice, but that of some stranger, a weaker girl than herself.
"Through the judgment of fire, I do swear, my life to Aleron, Lord Father of all Eaolin, Chosen Child of
the Great One, King of Dawn. I assign myself to his service, as his Disciple. I shall not know sin, of the soul
nor the flesh-"
His backhand split her lip, whipping across her head with a crack. She spat blood, a tooth, gasping.
"SAY IT!"
His eyes were cold fire, Aura moving menacingly about the air. Tearing at her own.
"I-"
"DO NOT HESITATE, GIRL!"
"I shall know not the sin of the soul. Nor the flesh, but only devotion and loyalty to my Lord Father. I
shall be the blade that finds his enemies, the voice that sings his praises.."
The words kept flowing, drilled into her, mindlessly, over and over again. However much she tried to
believe in them, those eyes saw right through her, the knife in her heart. He knew. He must have known. Her
Lord Father, who held so much hope for her, whose vows she had betrayed...
"...as long as blood flows through my veins, do I swear to serve him."
The last words of the vow hung heavy in the air, disappearing slowly, echoing away into the vast
expanses of the hall. She blinked back the blood from her eyes, head lowered. For a moment, she thought
she might have seen a pang of sadness in the warped features of the face as burned as her own. But if it had
been there, it had vanished as fast as she had glimpsed it.
"Since the day of your second birth Emese, you have known your vows. To deny them would be to shun
the very reason of your being and what, exactly, is that purpose, Child?
"To serve you, Lord Father."
It was that other girl speaking again, broken and bitter.
"But you deny my love. You have indulged in the sins of the flesh. I saw it approaching with the Sight.
And Wolf has told me everything. I will not hear otherwise."
Panic fluttered in her chest. The room was spinning.
"Where is he now, Lord Father?"
The words were ill advised, his foot lashed out, catching her side. She felt a rib crack.
Emese spread out her Aura, ignoring the bitter fury of Lord Father's presence, moving to start the Ilenir,
repair the damage. Defiance or fear, she could not say, but his own Aura grew more malevolent.
"NO! You will NOT HEAL!" Lord Father bellowed, kicking her again.
She cried out this time.
 "Please!"
"Know this pain, you little whore! You will answer for your sins!"
"Where is Wolff? What have you done with Wolff?"
Some other girl. More defiant. Who was she? An old friend, perhaps. One she hadn't known since the
days of that house by the lake.
He drew back; Emese cried under his hatred, woven into his speech.
"Find out for yourself. See what you have brought about."
The cloud of his Aura lifted, dissipating, thick blankets of his being shrinking back to him. Emese could
sense more clearly about the palace, the hundreds of different Auras, milling about in their duties or
sleeping, mindless in their beds.
And in some deepest, darkest place. Barely there...She swallowed, shaking her head. His pain. It was
agonising, more than she had known, white-hot spasms, collecting in her head and groin. Emese choked
back the tears as her suffering, her pain, merged with his. She broke the connection, shrinking back though
the remnants lingered about her.
She couldn't speak, so Lord Father did it for her.
"He is with the apothecary, child. As my property, I permit him freedoms, all in good faith. But if he is to
act like some Human, well that is another matter. If he is to be little more than some animal, rutting and
fucking under the kindness of my blessing, then let him be chained to his sins. He is being gelded, Emese.
Does that satisfy you? Was his hand not punishment enough? Do you feel it? I asked that they make it as
painful as possible. Feel it."
She tried to shut Wolff out but the pain sought her out, searching for solace, comfort. She sensed the
same savage cuts about her loins; the pain was one.
"NO! Please, My Lord Father, please! I beg of you. If you have any mercy.."
"My mercy extends to my Disciples. To those who follow my rule. To those who serve Aleron, the King
of Dawn. Not to whores or mere beasts. You have had my mercy and you have desecrated it with sin. No
doubt Wolff has been tainted by his time in the Human world. But oh. Emese. I had such higher hopes for
you."
There was little left to say, she sank to the floor. She could have cried more, but felt nothing.
"What of me?"
"Your Lord Father is merciful, as you say. You have sinned, this is true, committed the foulest acts
against your vows. But I will allow you to find forgiveness. I offer my blessing and you shall take it. Kneel."
She did, eyes cast down as his footsteps approached, each one sending fresh fears down her spine, still
trying to shut out Wolff's pleas. He had arrived in front of her. She took the hem of his robe in her shaking
hands and kissed it.
"My. My Lord Father is merciful.."
He reached down, his hand caressing her neck, pulling her head up gently, forcing her gaze to meet his
own."
"Earn your mercy. If you act the slut in my palace, then you shall do your duties as one."
The hands became cruel, clutching at her neck, nails cutting into her skin until they drew blood."
"I beg you.."
She felt his pleasure as he gave her a short hard smack with the back of his hand, striking her temple.
Emese blinked, head spinning.
"You are not worthy of addressing me. Not until your atonement."
She shrank backwards, but his hands were an iron grip, his Aura bore down on her own. He dominated,
her mind raced to the dagger within the hem of her robes, but as her hands edged towards it, he struck her
again, teeth tearing at the flesh of her neck.
 She screamed piteously, dagger clattering to the floor.
"You think to harm your Lord Father?"
The voice was almost alien to her, she sobbed, tears suddenly there again.
"Please. No."
"You will learn, whore. You think that boy will satisfy your lust? You serve your Lord Father - now
serve me. SERVE ME!"
She felt his wrinkled, scarred hand rustle about his robes, yanking himself close, other arm pulled tight
around her, lifting up the rim of her own, hitching up her underclothes, cold fingers teasing her cunt with
malice. She moaned in fear, trying to pull him away, but he pinned her arm painfully, teeth grazing against
her neck.
Wolff. Wolff would save her. But his pain drummed in the back of her head, their agonies intertwined as
Lord Father pulled her closer, roughly probing, the two flailing about the marble, an unholy dance.
Her legs spread apart; he pierced her again and again, that single, blackened eye leering at her as their
flesh melted, his kicking and clawing and her screams only seeming to exacerbate his excitement.
When finally he was satisfied, he left her aching, bleeding on the marble floor without saying a word,
pulling back his robes as he retreated up the steps to the Great Tower and his quarters. She collected herself
silently, making for her bedchambers.
For all the tears she shed and all she bathed, Lord Father's presence, his Aura, was on her, in her, a filthy
tattoo.
She shut out Wolff's fading screams to her and fell into a dark, pained sleep, dreaming that she might
never wake up at all.
But, of course, she did and by the next morning, it might have been that the night's events had never
occurred.
Lord Father was civil to her, she was Emese the Disciple once more and only Wolff was absent,
bedridden by some “disease he had caught in the Human world", as Lord Father told some enquiring
subjects.
Some Redcloaks had been quelled in the Igrean Southlands though servants of the Enlightened had been
spotted in the Khalian Isles, far East if rumours were to be believed.
It was business as usual, Lord Father, the supreme ruler of the Kingdoms of the Eaolin and Emese by his
side.
But every time he glanced at her or spoke, she felt sick; nauseated by the memory of the way he had held
her down. How she had tried to resist as he had forced his tongue down her throat, the tasted of his rancid
breath and the pain as he had clasped her breasts, violated her.
She tried to shut the voice out. But she held on. There was still Wolff. In the dark of the palace and with
Lord Father's wrath, there was still him. She had tried to visit the apothecary but had been met with the
Palace Guard. A polite, but dangerous denial. She had considered breaking in, but the thought of the
repercussions frightened her to the bone.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

IN HER WORLD

Shani's stomach was tying itself in knots as the plane bounced its way down the small runway, seats
jolting as the wheels screamed. They’d told her landing was the worst part, and now she knew why, she'd
ruined her new t-shirt on the refuelling stop landing and was determined not to do so again. She felt the
acidic wave of bile rising in her stomach and swallowed, the paper bag balanced precariously in her lap.
Emma gritted her teeth, wrestling with the control stick, pulling down as they came - thankfully, mercifully
to a halt. Silence filled the void left by the metallic screech of brakes and rubber on the runway.
There were a few more moments of quiet before Marcus's hands slapped themselves together, a cold,
cynical clap. Emma kicked him in the shin.
"OW!"
"As if you could do any better."
She grabbed the radio, which burst to life with a crackle.
"This C0724. We are now out of the air and awaiting further instructions, over."
The radio blared as the traffic control officer Emma had spent the last forty minutes arguing with over
landing clearance gave an exasperated sigh.
"Stay there, turn off your engines. We're sending someone over to escort you to customs, over."
Emma stretched back in her chair, yawning.
"Roger that."
She groaned.
"If that man kicks off one more time about that licence, I swear to God..."
Marcus scratched his head absent-mindedly.
"Just ignore him."
"Easy enough for you to say. You don't own the plane."
Shani unclipped her seatbelt and clambered to peek out of the front cockpit window. The runway was a
vast stretch of concrete, vehicles and corrugated iron structures littered around the barren space.
In the distance, she recognised MLK airport, as she'd always seen in the TV shows...and further on, the
expanses of a great city, the distant spires of the skyscrapers, toiling, reaching high up into the winter's
clouds. She grinned, a silly involuntary smile plastered all over her face. New Amsterdam!
America! Bournemouth and Simmons Glaziers seemed a lifetime and an eternity in the past.
There was an incessant beeping noise from outside of the plane. Stepping curiously over to the side of the
cockpit, she glanced out past the small adjacent circular window. A buggy rolled down the tarmac, several
men in immigration uniforms trailing their way down to meet them. Shani couldn't miss the semi-automatic
weapons they cradled in their arms.
"Marcus - they've got guns!"
She scanned across the cramped cockpit. Nowhere to hide. Marcus chuckled.
"Settle down, Englishman. They've all got guns. How's the beard?"
It itched like crazy. Marcus, with Emma's precise instructions and a lot of bickering over the method, had
spent the last three hours gluing an -intricately crafted- false piece of facial hair on her face.
 The effect, Shani admitted, was convincing, though she hated to say it. She figured that if she hadn't
known the beard was fake, she wouldn't have thought twice. Apparently it was made from real Human hair;
she'd politely declined to know where it had come from. Emma had helped her into the fat suit; her breasts
were currently sore, taped down under the foam layers, in turn covered in an XL elephant-grey suit and tie.
Looking back at the fat little bearded 'man' in the cracked mirror pinned to the corner of the cabin, she
couldn't shake off the notion that she looked a little like her old maths teacher, Mr. Stevens.
"The beard's fine. Suit too. But the voice... Are they going to check the passports now?"
"Probably not. They'll take us over to customs and make us queue with everybody else. Which works to
our advantage. Just speak deeply. Like we practiced. Oh and try to walk normally."
There was a polite if officious, knock on the cabin door. Emma shouted back down.
"Let me just get the stairs down."
She whispered in a hurried, small voice.
"You know your cover stories?"
Shani nodded. She'd spent a good chunk of the flight memorising all the details on the passport, the
stamps, the date of birth, everything. She still didn't want to go through with it.
Emma slammed her hand down on a large, chunky button by the door, before pulling up a lever. The
mechanism whirred as she shoved open the door, a small set of stairs lowering their way down to the
ground.
Stepped out confidently, followed by Marcus, the pair edging their way down tentatively into the light.
Shani trailed out, trying to keep her nerve, sweating with the extra weight. In the middle of the runway, a
thickset man in the customs uniform fixed them with a searching, polite look.
"Welcome to the Dutch Kingdom of America. If you have your passports ready for inspection, please
follow us to the customs building. My colleagues here will remain to search your aircraft. Routine checks."
Shani tried to hold the man's gaze as he talked to them, resisting the urge to stare at the floor. Her Dutch
was good enough; thank God she'd been in the second top set at school. They had dumped all the bloodied
clothes and used makeup equipment on the refuelling stop.
Marcus had also spent a good deal of the flight filling in forged documents to permit him to take a
collection of ‘ornate twelfth-century weaponry' past customs for collectors auction. Eschewing the double
bass case, he had adopted a large roll of brown tape and wrapped it around Hyxarn and Astigan, masking
them like a giant, poorly wrapped Christmas present. This was much to Shani's incredulity.
Emma gave a complying smile.
"Absolutely! Guillaume, be a dear. Can you take this from me?” She gestured to her suitcase and Marcus
promptly grabbed hold, sword still clasped in the other hand, the outline of the blade faintly visible behind
the tape.
"But, of course, Mademoiselle."
Shani cringed. The French accent on passable Dutch. Dear Lord. Unperturbed, the officer kept walking
ahead of them as they walked across the runway, parked aircraft dotted around them as they moved up
towards the terminal.
Emma upheld the facade of indomitable boldness, nattering away in that strange, haughty voice she had
adopted. Her own Dutch was flawless. Perhaps she went to America a lot.
"I'm afraid we had some mix up in the air. Apparently our licence is out of date, but I'm adamant we
renewed it in July. Is there someone I can speak to?"
"Sorry, Ma'am. I'm just doing the routine customs checks. When we get to the terminal, I'm sure someone
can help you there."
"Well, I hope so. Someone's dropped the ball, and I can tell you now - it's not my people.."
 She smiled sweetly and strode ahead behind the man's quickening pace. He didn't say anything, instead
raising his arms, ushering them through the automatic glass doors of the building.
"If you guys line up over there, passports ready for inspection, that'd be swell. Have a good day."
Emma blinked.
"And my plane?"
"You'll have to speak to the private aircraft offices. I don't know."
Emma shot him another beam.
"OK, thank you!"
As his back disappeared, the smile went with him.
She turned to Marcus, voice hushed.
"That's not right. Usually, they stay with me all the way through."
Marcus grinned wearily.
"Uh-huh. Perhaps Shani and I are cramping your feminine style."
"Oh, I could smack you one right now. I don't like this"
"Relax, it'll be okay. I've sorted it."
"How?"
"Never you mind. They'll let us through, trust me."
The queue moved forward, one instance of incessant squawking cutting through the soft murmur of the
crowd. A dumpy middle-aged woman in an unpleasantly tight Warner World t-shirt and equally stretched
jeans, baseball cap and shades pulled down over brown, curling hair.
It appeared she had plenty of complaints, yet only the weary looking husband in similar clothes and
equally disinterested bystanders to divulge them to. Her voice was a kitten on a cheese grater, shrill and
irritating.
"This is ridiculous! How much longer are they going to hold up the line?"
Her husband nodded, examining the far side of the wall.
"I'll write to them about it, babe."
"Ha, write about it all you want, they're still gonna keep us here waiting."
She turned to look at them.
"Have you guys been here long?"
Emma shook her head.
"No, actually we just-"
The woman threw her hands up in the air.
"You hear that Donald? It's just us! It's just us! I ought to demand compensation, that taxi's probably long
gone by now. Are the lines longer where you people are from?"
She smiled, perfect teeth amid a flabby face of imperfections. Emma glanced at the queue as it made a
slow trail down towards the customs officers.
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Well, that's a crying shame. At least it's not just us. Ah!"
The crowd had moved a good few metres forward. The woman grabbed her husband and suitcases as
they shuffled down to catch up with the group.
Emma shot the pair a look, and they moved to join the rest of the line, waiting patiently at the back.
Finally, it was time for them to step forward, as the guard called up for the next person from the line of
approach. Emma went first, striding forward airily, still wrapped in the facade of the fearless intercontinental
businesswoman. Shani's throat tensed.
 Emma started chatting with the guard, sliding her passport through the gap between the glass screens that
separated them. The guard asked some more questions; she watched his lips move, silent mutterings within
the drone of the line.
Was it meant to take this long? Shani moved closer to whisper to Marcus, but as she took a step forward,
another booth became free and Marcus marched up to the line, passport in one hand and wrapped sword
clenched in the other.
Shani smiled nervously, glancing up at the high ceiling, the mess of silver tubing and tiles that climbed
above the terminal hall.
"Next please", sounded an uninterested, officious voice. She tried to walk naturally, each step in the fat
suit threatening to tear apart her mask of calmness.
The immigration guard, a thin, pale woman with glasses and a shock of short, red hair, gave her a quick
glance and pressed the button on the microphone.
"Can I see your passport and documentation please Sir?"
Oh yes. She was Sir now. She could almost forget. Shani put the thin green false passport down on the
cold surface of the counter and pushed it towards her, under the screen, followed by the meticulously forged
visa.
The woman looked down her glasses at them, then back up at her. She bit her lip. Shani held her gaze,
fingers clenched tight around the suitcase handle, frozen, glued to the spot. The scrutinising continued; each
second stretched out over an eternity.
"Is this a recent picture?"
Shani pulled out the reflexive answer from his mind. She'd spent a good hour rehearsing on the flight, so
she cursed herself as she stumbled over her words, trying to make her voice as hoarse as possible."
"Oh yeah. Um, I know-I know I've packed it on a bit since then."
She cursed herself as she remembered the viridian shade of the leather of the passport and the crest of
New Zealand. She’d forgotten the fucking accent.
Though, English and New Zealander. On Dutch, they had to sound similar. The official raised her
eyebrows and went for the visa tucked behind the passport, giving it a quick inspection.
"And what is the purpose of your visit to America?"
"Pleasure. Going to see a few of the sights."
"You came in on a private plane?"
"Yes. It belongs to a friend of mine."
The officer smiled, shaking her head. A small laugh escaped her. It was mocking, disbelieving. A chill
climbed its way up Shani's throat, taking a deep breath as she tried to maintain the false smile plastered on
her face.
"I wish I had friends like yours, buddy."
She slid the documents back under the glass. It took every ounce of Shani's willpower to not snatch them
back the instant they were in reach before the official could look at them again.
Instead, she picked them up slowly and put them back in her pocket. The woman looked back down at
the computer. Shani was just another tourist in her eyes.
"Oh, you'll need to get that visa stamped by my colleague over there."
She gestured to another man waiting patiently at a desk behind them. A smile passed her lips, appearing
almost as quickly as it vanished.
"Enjoy your stay...next please!"
Shani walked away, heart still lodged in her mouth as she moved over to the next desk, handing the man
her visa. This was almost insulting. Did she make such a convincing man?
 In the corner of her eye, she could make out Marcus arguing furiously with a guard, ripping off the brown
tape with one hand while waving a wad of the fake documents in his face. She swallowed. The man on the
desk didn't even look up as he slammed a red stamped eagle down onto the slim piece of paper.
Shani rejoined Emma, waiting impatiently with her suitcases by the arrivals gate. She pursed her lips,
trying not to look worried.
"He had to take those bloody swords with him. He could have left them on the plane."
"He's got papers for them."
"It still looks odd. Especially in that brown tape...oh thank God!"
She turned her head away as Marcus strode towards them, apparently victorious from the argument.
Marcus appeared to have satisfied the customs officials though he looked less than pleased at having drawn
attention to him. He joined them quickly, and the trio started towards the exit.
"Everything OK?"
"What happened to you?", asked Shani suspiciously.
"They said I was missing some stupid customs sticker. I blagged it in the end, said it must have fallen off
in transit."
Emma laughed, tiredly.
"Just like we must have forgotten to renew the plane licence. You're so disorganised. Prior planning-"
"...prevents piss poor performance. God, I know."
Emma grinned.
"It's my favourite saying."
"It's your only saying."
"And I wouldn't have to keep saying it if you took a bit more due care and attention."
"Oh my God," interrupted Shani, as the camel's back broke, “can both of you just stop arguing and shut
up."
There was a pause as the pair turned to look at her with a stunned silence. Shani scrambled to speak.
"Sorry. I’m just tired and hungry, and going through customs with false paperwork was so stressful-"
Emma and Marcus looked at each other. Shani decided to stop digging a hole.
They trailed the crowd outside, past the throngs of people waiting to rejoin their families and loved ones.
Shani was dying to ditch the suit and beard. She was boiling. She decided to end the awkward silence.
"What's going to happen to the plane?"
Emma stepped down off the steps, dragging her baggage with her, pursing her lips.
"Once they're happy with it, they'll seal it off, put it in a hangar till we come back. Which reminds me -
I've got to call the office in London and sort out that licence."
Marcus reached out with his hand, waving out at one of the yellow taxicabs that sped down the waiting
bay towards them. “It’ll be okay for another day, right? Let's go to the hotel, get changed and go out."
Shani's head span. She wasn't even sure of the time anymore - the jet lag and briefest of naps during the
flight, had entirely thrown her body clock into confusion. While it was mid to late morning in her head, the
sky around the airport was darkening, the last embers of the sun lost under the horizon and the clouds. She
didn't understand how Marcus even had the stamina to suggest going out on the town.
Emma tutted.
"I'm not going out. I want to sleep."
Shani felt a surge of relief that she wasn't the only normal one.
"Just half an hour at the hotel bar? I want a drink."
Shani's heart skipped a beat.
 A drink. Just the one. Sitting down, letting the alcohol just wash over her - now she considered it, she
wanted nothing else at this precise moment in time. Every nerve and impulse in her body felt on edge. She
would gladly kill for a drink. Nowadays, she was more than capable, a dark side of her thought blackly.
Emma didn't seem too put off by the notion.
"OK. Just one down at the hotel bar."
Marcus whistled, and they all piled into the taxi that pulled up alongside like clockwork. The driver gave
them an indifferent welcome. A funny urban drawl to his Dutch.
"Where to?"
"The Whitecastle", Marcus directed firmly.
"Sure thing."
The taxi pulled away, speeding down the road, the silhouettes of the cluster of buildings drawing ever
nearer. Emma looked relieved if a little disappointed.
"The Whitecastle then? I thought you might have booked us into Blue Ocean like last time."
"Yeah, because that would have looked inconspicuous. I'm not a complete idiot you know."
Shani ignored them and pressed her hand against the window, silently observing the lines on the road, a
white blur as the vehicle ate up the tarmac. A thousand other cars all converging alongside them upon this
big city.
Did she feel intrepid, perhaps? What was the word to describe it? New Amsterdam. She knew a few
people at home who had been but never in a million years did she think she'd ever get to go. Especially on
her meagre salary.
The taxi carried them down into the sleeping metropolis, down to whatever awaited them within its
towering shadow.

Disappointingly, Shani's request for a pint of Blair’s cider at the hotel bar had been met with a confused
stare from the staff. She'd made do with a glass of their locally brewed brand of beer. She didn't have the
heart to tell the barman, enthusiastic at having introduced a foreigner to a local delicacy, that it tasted like
piss.
They were sat now, the three of them, in the corner of the cushy hotel lounge, after a refreshing shower
and a change of clothes. Shani had cast off the middle-aged, bearded maths teacher and stuffed him in a
suitcase.
She still ached all over and yearned for sleep, yet the bliss of sitting down with a drink was heavenly. The
disgusting beer made her want for another drink. Perhaps once she had finished it, she would get something
stronger, she decided. A mojito perhaps.
Emma looked stunning, having emerged from her hotel room in a black cocktail dress, her hair curled up
her head in an immaculate bun. It seemed like a lot of effort for what was little more than a quick drink
before bed. Marcus had teased her about it, but she had sniffed and come up with an excuse for having
standards. Shani had felt shabby in her t-shirt and jeans in comparison.
Perhaps Emma didn't want to look out of place amongst the other bar patrons, dressed in snazzy,
expensive looking suits and evening wear.
 Shani's eyes wandered again, something she had been trying to control and was largely failing at. It was a
losing battle. Emma’s figure was on display now more than ever, the black dress left little to the
imagination, wrapped around her ample breasts and slender legs, the contours of her body enticing her gaze.
She couldn't shake off the fantasy of ripping off that dress, pulling away the silk fabric to the soft skin
underneath.
She was turned on by her and knowing that made her feel improbably shallow, terribly uncomfortable
and monstrously selfish. It wasn't the same with Benny, she reminded herself. This was something different,
something unspoken and tangible that made her ache.
It was just the stress. That was all. Everything that happened, she just wasn't thinking straight.
Pulling her eyes forward and her mind out of the gutter she zoned in on Marcus's conversation, his own
whisky in hand.
"...if he doesn't help us, we'll go to the city archives. Take a look-see if we can find anything."
Emma laughed.
"Good luck."
"I'm sure Leicester will help us out. He can't deny the signs."
"That smackhead threw you out of his den last time."
"Things are different. I didn't have the Chosen with me."
Emma frowned.
"No one has a problem when there's a gun to their head."
Marcus fell into a stormy silence. Shani watched his thick fingers toying with the thick, elegantly crafted
glass, the last browning dregs sloshed up against the sides. He brought it up to his lips, downing the
remnants, blanched as the alcohol stained his lips and throat.
"Come on. We should head back up to our rooms. Long day tomorrow."
He rose from the chair silently, light footsteps on the lush red carpet of the lounge. Emma observed him
with a beady eye, her drink clasped loosely in hand. She drank deeply from the glass, deftly clenching the
cocktail stick in her mouth. Satisfied, she slid the glass to the table, chewing on the olive still stuck on the
stick.
"I'm going up too. Here's your room key by the way.'
She withdrew it from her black purse, sliding the white square piece of plastic over the side towards her.
"Room 723, I'm two doors down, Marcus is next door."
Then she was gone. Shani remained, awful beer in hand. It had been an anticlimactic end to be sure. Still
at least no one had gotten beaten up or killed. At least not yet she reminded herself. She willed herself to
drink, to force the foul watery concoction down her throat.
Her stomach protested yet she ignored it. As she drank, she realised that for all the more she sank into
this dark world, there were ever-greater depths she would have to traverse. The dead had walked. Whatever
next?
She downed the pint, screwing up her face. It was time for bed.
As she climbed the velvet stairs to the escape of sleep, Shani reached out with her Aura, perhaps
unconsciously, seeking out Marcus. He was not next-door, but even as she searched, she could faintly make
out his glow two doors down the corridor. Room 721.
Drawing her conclusions, Shani bid the evening good night and crawled into the luscious four poster bed,
to face whatever uncertain new world might confront her in the morning.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

IN ANOTHER WORLD

The guards that flanked the entrance tried their utmost not to shiver as the two Disciples filed in, returned
from their work and training in the expanses of the castle. They stood in position, the five now two, though
Bezek and Crow joined them in the bloodtalk, kneeling expectantly in preparation for the arrival of their
Lord Father.
The footsteps faded in, methodological in their approach and speed. The scarred visage of Aleron, in his
usual dark robes, carried the attention of everyone in the room.
The old ravages to his face had become more sunken, so severe that determining the emotions under the
waxy, uneven surface of scars and burns confounded even their trained, familiar eyes. Using the Throne had
come at a cost. But the single eye today was triumphant, to the relief of his Disciples. He strode past them,
easing back into the black throne. He had entered the bloodtalk in a matter of moments, the wounds on his
arms opening on command. No need of a blade.
"Good morning, my children."
"Good morning, Lord Father."
"Good morning, Lord Father."
The replies were trained, instantaneous and perfectly in sync, even across two worlds.
"Crow. You have what I asked for?"
"We are in success, it would seem. Yesterday evening the Protectorate received a report from the
Americas, a region of this world. A plane. That is.. a sort of carriage, that..."
"I know of these Human aberrations and of the places that you speak. You need not explain them."
"They are travelling to New Amsterdam. At least, that is what the Protectorate believes. It is an
important Human city where I am told many of our kind reside."
Wolff looked down at the stone floor quickly. Aleron considered.
"It is a strange move, to walk right into their hands. It may be that those hands do not serve their master.
I do not like it, Crow. I trust you shall fulfil the promises you made the last time we convened?"
He sensed them stumble on the floor the world away, bowing deeply.
"It shall be done, my Lord Father. We shall not fail you."
"So too said that fool Malkyn. But she is dead, Crow. Mere food for worms. Do not repeat her mistakes."
Crow nodded, and with Bezek in tow, their Aura vanished. Aleron was silent as he waited for them
disappear sternly, closing the wound on his arm. That left Wolff and Emese kneeling in front of their Lord,
tending their own wounds. He glanced at the pair. The last two.
"Continue in your duties."
Aleron raised himself slowly from his chair, striding towards the grand exit. Emese did not say anything
until Aleron's steps had disappeared entirely. She glanced at the guards, keeping her voice low.
"Wolff. You must speak with me."
He shook his head, also aware of the guards’ presence.
"I cannot, Sister. I have duties to attend to."
"It is important."
Wolff stalled, deliberating, before shaking his head again. He avoided her gaze.
"I-"
"Please."
Her voice was pleading, desperate.
 "I cannot", Wolff whispered.
He limped quickly from the room, leaving Emese in silence in the hall.

IN HER WORLD

Marcus bit into his toast clumsily, spilling crumbs on his shirt as he poured over the newspapers that he
had grabbed from the rack by the entrance next to the fruit salad.
He'd changed out of his grubbier clothes and coat, showered and shaved and pulled on some smart
designer threads. He was even starting to look a little bit handsome.
Not that Shani was paying too much attention. She was in a state of boundless elation. She had slept for
eleven hours and the sheer refreshment, the renewal of her senses and mind was indescribably idyllic. It was
a feeling of being whole again, after being torn into a thousand pieces, without even knowing it.
She had tried to describe the sensation to Marcus, who'd shrugged and given her some jargon about Aura
being replenished.
And then there was the food. The all-day breakfast had a whole section of this grand old dining hall, piled
high with bacon, sausages, black pudding, waffles, pancakes and so, so much more. She hadn't failed to
notice the raised eyebrows from Emma and Marcus as she returned to their table with a plate piled high with
as much food as she could balance on it.
But fuck them. She'd have been lying if she said she gave a shit about the calories at this point. The
ordeals so far had forced the weight off of her. Looking at herself in the mirror that morning, she'd been
shocked at how scrawny she was. Shani had been aghast at the sudden reappearance of her ribs under
bruised skin, the new muscles about her shoulders and a drawn, pinched face that stared back.
The last time she had eaten properly, proper properly. She couldn't begin to remember. The plate was
almost bare now, save for a last few solitary mushrooms that she poked at with his fork, trying to decide if
she physically had the strength to eat anymore. She decided against it. The mushrooms had their reprieve.
Pushing the plate away, she leant back, more contented than she possibly ever had felt.
Emma looked up from her grapefruit and coffee, a wry look about her green eyes.
"Did that fill a hole?"
"You have no idea."
Emma jabbed at Marcus with her elbow, who gave her an irritated sideways glance.
"You didn't feed her at all. You should keep better care of her."
Marcus scowled, distracted from the paper.
"I told you; I tried to get food, but we ran into trouble."
Emma snorted.
"Trouble here, trouble there. You're a stuck record, you are."
He crunched down on the rest of his toast sullenly.
"Oh, shut up. What are your plans for the day?"
"First sort out this bloody mess with the plane licence. Then I'm going to go shopping."
"Have fun with that. We're going to make a few calls get some cash."
"I thought you were just going to pay Leicester a visit."
"I also need some more scrolls."
"You're not going to start paying that dumb junkie again?"
 "Don't call him that."
Shani felt so isolated from the conversation. Some things never changed. From one spectator to another.
"Christ, are you planning to visit every Eaolin in New Amsterdam?"
"Only the ones that have the sense to keep their mouths shut."
He threw down the newspaper, scraping the chair back across the highly polished wooden floor as he
rose to his feet abruptly.
"We'll meet you back here tonight. Come on Shani."
Shani would have preferred to finish the coffee and let her food go down. She bid the cup a sad farewell
as she trailed after Marcus, out of the dining room and into the foyer.

"She's such a fucking bitch sometimes. I don't know why I put up with her when she's like this."
So spoke Marcus quietly as they travelled down on the N.A Metro, up to the north side of the city. Shani
shifted uncomfortably, unused to the cramped confines of the carriage, ugly in its practicality, great slabs of
plastic and corrugated metal woven around them in the tiny tunnels.
The roar of the engine burst off the walls, stale air blown about the carriage. Their companions were a
large Indian family in I <3 N.A t-shirts, who babbled excitedly to each other, the youngest screaming and
yelling as the train snaked, twisted and shook about the tunnel.
An old woman, resigned to the noise and the journey gazed at them, wrinkled old hands claws about the
handlebars. Marcus looked down at the floor. The case at his feet, Shani knew, contained no musical
instrument.
She was still trying to work out how the fuck Marcus had got the swords past customs. She tried to think
of something to say and gave up. Marcus's hand played with the latch on the case.
"She doesn't believe I can do what I want. The only reason she's helping me, well-"
He glanced at the LED display in front of them.
"We're getting off in two stops. Do you trust me, Shani?"
Shani struggled to speak. This was the most, well Human she'd seen Marcus, controversial as that word
was becoming. Emma had brought something out in him, revealed the man behind the face of sullen silence.
"You're doing a good job so far,” said Shani uncertainly.
Was he though? They were in a strange, unfamiliar city, with plenty of people around. Some of whom
were probably out to kill them. All they had so far for the training and the travelling and the battle was some
map written in a dead language it seemed every other Eaolin knew how to read and no definitive clear way
of getting it translated. Or finding out what it showed.
Marcus gave a bitter chuckle.
"There are so many Eaolin in N.A, Shani. They won't help us. They ignore the true Chosen's arrival.
They close their eyes to the signs of a new leader, and why? Because they're fucking cowards. Aleron to
them, false or not, promises security for loyalty and a grave for betrayal. They couldn't give two shits that he
has built his rule from blood."
Shani said it, the words out, tumbling from her mouth, soft and weak under the roar of the train.
"I don't want to be the Chosen, Marcus. I just want to go home."
She saw the disappointment in Marcus's mouth and eyes, the disdain.
"I already told you. It is beyond your control. You have been chosen to lead the Eaolin. You are Eaolin."
"But what would I even do?"
 Marcus bristled.
"We're getting ahead of ourselves. A false king sits on your throne."
"Couldn't I just..."
"Just what?"
"Let him have it?"
Marcus's face darkened; Shani didn't miss his fingers clenching.
"Shani. Aleron's disciples after us, Eaolin willing to risk exposure, killing Humans in broad daylight.
These are the things the Chosen is meant to prevent. Our world is away from the eyes of Humans - Humans
outnumber us. So why risk exposure now?"
Shani tried to interrupt but Marcus yelled.
"- Oh shit!"
He leapt up, pulling Shani as the doors began to close.
"That's ours! Stop!"
He rammed the case in between the automatic doors, which gave an electronic squeal of discomfort. One
of the guards yelled over at them, Marcus swearing under his breath as they shoved their way through the
doors, out onto the platform.
"Come on. We've going to pay a visit to Leicester."
"Leicester? That smackhead Emma was talking about?"
"He wouldn't like you calling him that."
Marcus gave a dismissive chuckle. They clambered up the steps, pushing their way past the people
swarming down against them, up into the glares of the sun that danced on the gleam of the icy street.

Dan Filliner had seen many strange characters in his time working for the airbase in New Flevo that
employed him. Yet the two men that emerged from the small passenger plane that had scooted down the
runway were among the strangest he had laid eyes on.
Their clothes seemed almost too normal, too uninspired. Jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps pulled down on
their heads. And the one on the right-Dan had seen some big people in his time, but this one took the cake.
Almost certainly ate it too.
He was huge, with great mounds of fat wrapped around his strangely muscular frame. He couldn't see his
face under the cap. He had taken five minutes to gingerly squeeze himself out from the door of the plane, the
walls groaning under the strain.
He held the huge metal suitcase in his massive hands like one might hold a shopping bag. It was
comically tiny in his grasp. They stood, waiting for something. The other one was..Mexican maybe?
Definitely not from round here. Dan wiped off his hands, blackened with oil and trod over to introduce
himself to this strange pair. He called out, friendly, welcoming.
"Hey there!"
They said nothing, ignoring his greeting, the caps still covering their faces. He frowned, quickening his
pace.
"Are you guys waiting for the bus? The station's-"
Another man, the plane's pilot perhaps, cut him short, quickly putting himself between Dan and the men,
arm outstretched.
"You can direct any questions to me."
 No, not the pilot. Dan was being stupid. The man was in a long dark trench coat, grubby, with an
eyepatch and a shock of black hair down his back. Another weirdo. Dan gestured in annoyance at the
peculiar pair.
"Can't they speak for themselves?"
The man ignored him. His voice was strange, the accent certainly foreign. Outsiders, then. Maybe they
didn't speak Dutch. He shrugged.
"No questions guy. Just curious is all. We don't get many unscheduled visits up here."
"Everything has been arranged. I have the paperwork here.” He brandished a thick wad of notes and
signed letters.
Dan chuckled.
"I'm just the resident mechanic. Wouldn't know anything about that."
He heard the hard, crunching sound of wheels on grit and gravel, spinning to see the large trucks roll and
bump over the hill towards them. The two strange men walked towards the front one, clambering inside as it
came to a halt in front of them, the big one hurriedly squeezing inside the cramped interior.
"Are those guys headed for the city?"
The doors of the truck slammed shut. It reversed, turning around and zooming back to the main road.
"It is no business of yours."
Dan felt the anger flush his cheeks, his finger out, pointing at the man, jabbing the air.
"Listen pal, I'm the only man on duty who can work those refuelling pumps over there. Watch the
attitude."
The man raised his hands, butting him away.
"Please continue. The keys are in the envelope."
He gave him one last supercilious glare and jogged over to the second truck. It sped away moments later,
leaving Dan with an empty plane to tend to.
On further inspection of the envelope, he found no keys, no registration licences and no trace of any
identification. He called the police, but by the time they had arrived, the trucks had disappeared far down the
interstate, into the heaving mass of traffic, leaving an untraceable plane behind them.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Shani and Marcus were standing on the side of what might have once been a grand old New Amsterdam
townhouse, ornate chimneys and turrets a stark, homely contrast from the more modern surroundings of the
street.
Yet the walls were cracked, paint peeling pitifully, great swathes of ivy and rubbish strewn about the
untidy front porch. Large boxes and crates were piled high next to the store steps, overflowing bins
contributing to the unpleasant aroma that kept wrinkling Shani's nose.
The wood on the doorframe was blackened, cracking and rotted. One of the ornate glass windows stood
alone, yellow and clouded, its counterpart boarded up with cardboard and old tape. A fat, grey tabby cat
lounged in the slight warmth of the weak winter sun on the step, a single cloudy eye surveying them half-
interestedly. Marcus examined the building amusedly.
"Well, it's a lot better than the last place."
He strolled up to the door nonchalantly, rapping on the door three times.
"Barnaby. Open the door."
"Barnaby?", Shani inquired.
"Barnaby Leicester. Well, that's his Human name. He prefers his surname. Don't ask me why."
There was a commotion from the top of the house, windows creaking open, spraying dust and flakes of
paint down below. Shani blinked. A voice called out from the shadows about the window.
"Leicester ain't here. Fuck off."
Marcus laughed at that.
"Yes, he is. Tell him to stop being a pussy and let us in."
Shani reached out, exploring the house. There was another Eaolin inside; she determined cautiously, that
strange warmth. There was something peculiar about it, warped perhaps, as if the fires of the Aura were little
more than embers, dampened, weak. Marcus scowled.
"I know you're in there Leicester!"
"He's not here man, get the fuck out of here!"
A small china vase came crashing down onto the pavement, splintering into a thousand pieces. Shani
leapt back in alarm. Marcus's feet, however, sprang forward, taking a flying kick at the door. Shani could
sense his Aura rise, burning up in annoyance.
The door splintered, the rotting wood ripped clean off of its hinges. It fell backwards with a steady,
relieved creak. There were yells as Marcus dusted off his jacket and crossed the threshold into the house.
Shani paused, wavering and then followed him inside. The interior of the house was no better than its
front, a mess of discarded food and wrappers about an overflowing bin. Flies buzzed around a mound of shit
in the corner of the room; a dog barked furiously at them from another room, locked up.
The stench was overpowering, Shani buried her face in a sleeve as the pair clambered up the winding
staircase. A young guy, just on the wrong side of his twenties, thinning curly hair, wispy beard and acne,
grubby tracksuit and hoody, bared his teeth. It was not a terrifying sight, a mass of blackened and missing
molars.
"What the fuck do you-"
He paused as Marcus came into view, fixing him with a stern stare.
"Oh. It's you."
The teeth quickly formed a false, uncertain smile.
"Sorry."
Marcus didn't look at him.
 "That shit you're smoking makes you more fucking ugly I come round here, Harris. You'll have no teeth
at all if you carry on. Or any hair."
The corner of the man's mouth twitched in anger, but he resigned himself to a stormy silence until
Marcus spoke again.
"Where's Leicester? No bullshit."
Harris swallowed and nodded.
"Upstairs, to the right."
"Thanks."
Marcus barged past him, Shani following apologetically. The stairs creaked and cracked under their
weight, their voices low whispers.
"What does this guy do exactly?"
"He lives in a squat with a bunch of users, what do you think he does? He sells drugs for a living."
Shani laughed at the joke under her breath. Then as she looked at Marcus's face, she realised it was in no
way a joke.
"Wait, what?"
"Eaolin have a talent for underworld business. Mainly because we know we can snap a Human in half if
needs be."
Shani span, making her way back down the stairs.
"I think I'll wait outside-"
Marcus's hand grabbed her arm, yanking her back painfully.
"Don't be a wuss. He's a nice guy once you speak to him. He'll want to meet you."
Shani was not convinced
"Is that why he's pretending he's not here?"
"I expect he's just a little nervous to see me because there's a big bounty on our heads."
Shani was about to protest further when a door whined, opening out on the platform above them. A man's
head pushed out into the hallway. He was pale, gaunt, a scarlet beanie pulled down tight on his head,
whiskers on his chin and a frown on his face.
"Marcus. Come on up."
Shani stood, unsure.
"Is that him?"
"Yes. Now come on."
They moved up the stairs quickly, walking into the room. Unlike the rest of the house, there was a
permeating sense of neatness, an oasis of order amid the chaos. Books were stacked tidily in an ornate
wooden bookcase, a series of glass tubes and chemistry equipment bubbling away happily on a table.
Shani saw with a stab of recognition, great pieces of parchment hanging from the ceiling. Bloodscrolls.
The windows were wide open, a cold breeze whistling through the room, and a refreshing taste of fresh air.
Leicester gestured to the door.
"Can you close that? It fucking stinks out there man; they live like animals."
His voice was a high urban drawl, calm and detached. Shani had watched enough bad American
television set in New Amsterdam to place it. He was around Marcus' age, pushing forty, with a bony,
weathered face that was yet somehow youthful. Yes, mid or late thirties. Well, he certainly looked that.
Scrawny and short, with a mop of dirty blonde, unruly hair that fell down his face, dwindling to mere
whiskers on his chin. Shani sourced and recognised the sour smell that she detected, from the joint in
Leicester's bony fingers. She remembered being a teenager, a large group of them lurking around Boscombe
pier on a quiet Sunday afternoon, nervously passing a roll-up between them. A lifetime ago.
Sensing her stare, the man raised it in salute. “Do you want some?"
 Shani shook his head.
"Suit yourself."
He let loose a great, wracking cough.
"Man, are you in?"
Marcus smiled.
"Not today Leicester, This is strictly business."
Leicester looked crestfallen.
"I just got a whole new load in this morning. Testing the goods. Just some soft stuff while I wait to hear
from my suppliers."
"Maybe next time."
Leicester gestured with the pipe, pointing at the double bass case.
"So I see you still play."
Marcus's hands tightened around the leather strap of the case.
"Almost religiously."
He laughed at that.
"I can tell you've been fighting. You finally dropped some weight, porky. So who's your friend? She
looks a little goofy standing there so quiet. Cat got her tongue?"
Shani flushed. Marcus’s voice was sharp, patience waning.
"Where are those respects and honours you love to preach about so much, Barnaby Leicester? You stand
in the presence of the Chosen. Shani. Show him the mark."
She did, unfurling her palm. Leicester paled, the pipe loose between his bony fingers, dangling
precariously about his surprise.
"Th-"
He looked at Shani, who could feel the unfelt warmth of Leicester's Aura. Not as intense or burning as
Marcus's, like a warm wind, circling, sizing her up, suddenly very much present and alert about the room.
Marcus coughed.
"I know she doesn't look like much, Barnaby, but you don't have to smother her."
The gentle heat pulled back, sweeping away graciously. Leicester stood silently for a few moments.
"This Aura she has..yes..it's so obvious.."
Shani looked on in astonishment as this peculiar man sank onto one knee, trying to fight back tears."
"So it is. The Chosen is truly here."
He had switched to Iirebos from Dutch, she noticed. Strange, she could have easily not picked up on it.
Shani met the man's gaze. His eyes were pleading, beneath the bloodshot pupils and the tears.
"Oh, forgive me my Lord Father...no, sorry. My Lady Mother. I thought it would never happen. Not in
my lifetime. No way."
"She is no Chosen Child, nor your Lord Mother, Leicester, so long as Aleron sits upon the Golden
Throne."
"Lord Mother..yes..yes, I suppose that is what we would call her.."
Shani felt uncomfortable, watching this man, his head bowed to her, and spoke to try and console him.
"Uhh..Mr..Leicester it?...please, stand. I am honoured, really, but now is not the time."
Gosh, that had sounded almost regal. Leicester rose to his feet, wiping his eyes.
"Oh Lord Mother, please, my Human name. It is of no use here. I am Fourth-Son Of Kraer. In all our
history, we have waited for the Chosen."
Marcus folded his arms.
"You're a Kraer? I should have guessed."
"Oh shut up. The Chosen, he - oh, forgive me - she is here."
 Marcus tutted.
"Yet still Aleron lives and sits on that throne as a false king, Fourth-Son. We're going to correct that. I
need more scrolls."
Leicester coughed.
"Don't tell me you've run out again."
Marcus pulled up his shirt, showing the scarlet tear on his side that the Disciple girl had left him, now a
closed, fleshy scar that Shani winced at.
"The Disciples of Aleron send their regards."
Leicester tutted.
"You took it off too soon. They don't leave scars, not if you use them correctly."
He reached over to the side of his drawer, withdrawing a scroll.
"This one is on the house. Close that thing up properly for God's sake."
"Never mind old wounds, it's the ones that are to come that I care about. Can you craft us some more?"
"Scrolls?", butted in Shani, "I thought you can make those already?"
Leicester scoffed.
"His scrollcraft is amateur at best."
"Hey", retorted Marcus indignantly, “I do a good enough job."
"Yeah alright, you're not terrible."
Marcus turned to Shani.
"Leicester is a healer, a master of Ilenir. He makes a particular kind of scroll for me, the kind that heal the
worst of wounds."
Shani wasn't sure what to say.
"Is it hard to do?"
"Oh yes", said Leicester, a note of pride creeping into his voice, "I come from a long line of Eaolin
healers, Lord F-…Mother, and we pride ourselves on our scrollcraft."
Shani smiled nervously.
"Please don't call me that. My name is Shani."
"Not anymore” whispered Leicester and Shani could not miss the conviction in his voice. “You are the
Chosen, the one destined to take the throne. We are all your subjects now. Soon you will have a name of
your own. Have you decided yet?"
"Decided?"
"On your name? Your Eaolin name. If you like, I can make some suggestions.."
Marcus rolled his eyes.
"We don't have time to be sitting around discussing what we call her."
Leicester rounded on him.
"Where is your respect, Marcus? Do you forget who this woman is?"
"You might bow to her, Leicester, but she will not have my respect until she sits on the Golden Throne.
She is Chosen here no more than you are Fourth-Son in this world. Until that day comes, she is just Shani
Smith."
Shani grinned. Leicester went to the window, taking a drag on the pipe slowly. He nurtured the smoke in
his mouth, before exhaling, the foul mist dancing on the air. He returned to Dutch.
"Perhaps you are right. Aleron's grip tightens over our kind, Marcus. His agents have been here, asking
questions. Aleron the Chosen has spoken.
"He is not the Chosen."
"Lots of folks are willing to ignore that if it keeps the peace."
"Cowards."
 "Families, Marcus. Stranded in the world that isn't their own. False or not, you want to mount a rebellion
against the ruler of our people. Despite all his cruelties, few will stand with you."
"Few are all we need. Please, Leicester. Look at this."
Marcus brought out the map, the old piece of parchment, tattered, yellowing about his fingertips.
Leicester scrutinised the map.
"Wow. It's been a long time since I've seen so much Iirebos in writing. What is it?"
"A map. To what, I have no idea. Could be significant. One of the Disciples carried it."
"Oh yeah, I forgot you're illiterate."
"Oi!"
"Don't get snippy with me. You need to know how to read this. Especially for what's coming."
"Well, maybe I can take a night class. So, can you translate it?"
"Like I said, it's been a long fucking while...I can do it but it'll take time. You killed a Disciple?"
"Yes. Call me when it's done. We'll leave that map with you."
"Payment?"
Marcus sighed and took a wad of notes from the coat.
"Half now. Half later."
Leicester rifled through the green wad, nodded and pocketed it.
His voice grew lower, tight about his throat.
"I hear Aleron infiltrates even more Human governments with our kind. Pushes for more and more power
here. I hear he moves followers high up in all sorts of places, hidden in plain sight."
"You come to the same conclusion as I do."
Leicester sighed.
"I shall start to prepare the seals, Marcus. I'll call you when they're done. Few days probably."
Marcus nodded.
"Oh and I want extra this time. Every time you come in here makes it fucking bad for business."
Marcus grimaced.
"Why do I even bother asking?"
He thought back.
"Well, I suppose I did break your front door."
Leicester bit his lip, brow furrowing in annoyance.
"So that's what that noise was. Goddammit, now the shitheads downstairs are going to start complaining."
"You live in a squat, Leicester. Consider it part of the decor."
"You're paying for that door as well, you prick."
The tone was familiar and joking, but the look in Leicester's eyes was troubled. Marcus laughed off his
insults dejectedly.
"Whatever. Emma's going to kill me. My investments aren't exactly doing well at the moment."
Leicester's bony face lit up.
"Emma! What's she up to these days?"
"Spending a fortune in Times Square I expect."
He chuckled.
"Good for her. Putting up with you, she needs all the breaks she can get."
He escorted them over to the door.
"Good luck Marcus. Be careful out there, and keep this one safe."
He turned to Shani and fell to his knee again. Shani cringed.
"Most of all, I wish to thank you, My Lord Mother."
She was still taken aback, by this peculiar, formal manner.
 "I..thank me? For what?"
When Leicester's head rose, there were tears in his eyes.
"For being here."
Shani averted her gaze uncomfortably. Leicester's words. She felt so self-conscious.
"To defy the Chosen is to betray our blood."
He glanced at Marcus knowingly.
"To deny Aleron, the Chosen, was to risk our honour as Eaolin. But he is false and now that the actual
master of the Golden Throne is in front of me...I don't have to carry such fears, such guilt any longer."
Shani fumbled for an answer.
"I...That's..."
Leicester nodded.
"May fortune be on your back, my Lord Mother."
Marcus rolled his eyes.
"Leicester. Christ. Stop. You don't have to talk to her like there's a stick up your arse. Call me when you
get the map done, OK?"
Leicester wiped his eyes and sniffed, smiling.
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."
Shani nodded at Leicester woodenly.
"Goodbye."
She turned to Marcus, out of the door and back down the stairs, the unpleasant stench no less
unwelcoming.
"That..that was-"
"A lot of us take the Eaolin honour codes and oaths a lot more seriously than I do. I stopped caring for all
that shit a long time ago."
Shani scrambled trod tentatively down the rotting stairs.
"But I'm not..."
She trailed off, finishing the sentence in her head.
"I'm not a leader. I'm not inspiring, or smart, or strong. I'm just..well..me. And who the fuck would ever
want to look up to me?"
They turned out onto the street, rushing past the broken door.
"Your duty as Chosen is bring our people hope, the same duty Aleron has denied. When he is dead, you
will have played your part. Then you are free to do as you wish."
"With the police after me?"
Marcus picked up the pace.
"I'll sort it. Don't worry."
"How?"
He didn't answer, reaching out to hit the crossing control button. They crossed the street, heading back
down to the underground.
"That's that done. Probably best if we head back-"
"-I'm hungry."
Shani's interruption felt churlish as the words left her mouth, but having tasted real food this morning,
she was already craving some more. Marcus raised his eyebrows, shoving her a twenty-dollar bill from his
jacket pocket.
"OK, fair play. That's a good shout. I think there's a pretty good pizza place down this street..."
 The grave talk of destinies was put to one side for a much more immediate urge to grab a slice. The pair
took a detour, diving down into a side road to grab some much-needed refreshment. It was an unexpected,
almost utopian moment of relief. Perhaps, Shani thought distantly; they were in the eye of the storm.

As the pair disappeared into the crowd, they failed to see the man watching them over the top of the
blacked out windows of the Mercedes parked on the side of the road. He gritted his teeth and punched a
number into his mobile.
So, it was him. Cello case and all. Top brass was going to love this. No clue who the black woman with
him was.
"I've got a trace. I can confirm - positive ID. Just disappeared up Eighteenth. He's not alone."
The phone hissed back at him.
"Roger that. We'll keep an eye on the cameras."
The man rolled the window back up. What the fuck was the guy thinking? They were always watching
this city, always waiting. Nothing missed their attention.
Marcus Godfrey was a fool to have come back to New Amsterdam.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Crow waved a fly away from his face, head pushed against the window of the van, Bezek dozed next to
him in the cramped interior, watching roads and Human scenery go by.
He had not enjoyed the flight. Eaolin were not designed to soar above the clouds, if they had been than
the One would have given them wings. That was something Malkyn might have said.
But she was dead in the ground. Crow just didn't like it because he'd chucked his guts up everywhere.
Bezek was behaving himself now. He had been in a sulk for days after he'd had to leave the Foskrane
picture box behind.
But they had a mission to get on with. And with Malkyn dead and Wolff run back with his tail between
his legs, all that was left was Crow and Bezek.
Crow pondered Lord Father's gift, the bloodstone map now nestled in his pouch.
A second Gate existed. But one Aleron wanted to keep secret? It didn't make any sense. None at all.
But he was a Disciple when all was said and done. Thinking was not what he had been tempered for.
There was the screeching as the van came to a halt. Crow spoke to the driver ahead.
"Why are we stopping?"
"Rier would like to introduce himself, Lord Crow. He believes it is best, as he will be aiding you."
Crow shrugged. They had been in such a hurry to get away from the airstrip and questions from the
Humans that there hadn't been time to exchange names.
"Very well."
He wrenched open the door of the van, stepping out into the forgotten light of the sun, blinking.
Waiting for him by the door of his own van in the convoy, the man in an eyepatch with a beard.
Skeletal face and long dark hair. One of Daem's men. A nasty one at that. Crow recognised his name.
This Rier. A murderer who'd won his freedom in the stadiums of the Crowned Isles, decades before.
And now, a cosy life in the Human world. He'd been with Wolff previously, aiding him. Look how that
had turned out.
Crow didn't like him. He'd decided that immediately when the man refused to bow. A shame Malkyn
wasn't around any more. She would have seen that he was taught to follow customs.
But Crow was not Malkyn. So he just nodded.
"Greetings."
"Lord Crow. I am Rier. Daem has tasked me with assisting you on your..well-"
"We seek the Usurper. There is no need for it to be danced over any more. She is in the city, your men
report?"
"There have been sightings. They arrived yesterday by plane. They will not escape us again."
Crow nodded.
"Very good. Take us there."
"Does my Lord have a plan of action? Daem has asked me to relay a strategy to you. One he has devised
to trap the Usurper and kill the Mhorn bastard."
Crow paused. So. The planning was now going on without his saying. Lord Father was right. The
Protectorate did not follow as they should. Daem, it seemed, especially.
"Relay this plan to me on the road. I imagine we have far to go."
Rier nodded, gesturing with a bony hand.
"If you please, travel in my van. Leave Lord Bezek to rest. I am sure he is tired."
Crow nodded.
"Very well."
 He hoisted himself up into the van after Rier, closing the door behind him.
So it had come to this.

Having got the pizza, Marcus had one last stop for the day. An old, Eaolin friend of his mother's. One, he
said, that might listen. The block of flats that the pair now found themselves at were sparse, empty and
soulless in its modernity.
It had none of the character of the smaller townhouses that flanked it either side, a great slab of concrete,
drab, intimidating.
Marcus tapped impatiently at the buzzer of ‘Eileen Lewis.' Twenty minutes had passed and yet, despite
their assertions that she was inside, the constant pestering with the buzzer didn't seem to be working.
The door had a small dent in it where Marcus had tried his forced entry trick. It was made of sturdier
stuff than that of the squat's door, and Shani had had to endure filthy looks from passers by as Marcus had
unleashed a verbal barrage whilst hopping around, nursing his foot.
The sound of the buzzer was becoming relentless on Shani's ears, a dirge about her head, yet still Marcus
persisted, jabbing the button again and again...
"It seems you're not very popular."
"They don't want to know because they're scared of what the Protectorate will do. They'll change their
tune soon enough.”
Shani sensed the Aura in the flat above, rushing down at her, an unwelcome breeze bursting across him.
Marcus laughed.
"We've pissed her off now."
Sure enough, there was a crackle as the speaker in the porch sprang to life.
The voice was hollow, clipped. It was an older woman's voice, stern and haughty, somewhat posh, yet
with an American twang.
"Stop ringing that bell before I call the police. I don't think you want to be drawing attention to yourself,
Godfrey, or you are even more of a fool than I though."
Marcus rebelliously slammed his finger into the buzzer once more. And again.
"Stop that at once!"
"Please, let me in. I have someone else with me here. Someone you need to speak to."
"I expect the person with you is the Chosen, is that right? Or so you'll pretend. I told you last time, to
never come here again."
"Things have changed. I need your help. Please."
A snort of laughter burst down the line.
"Help you? Do you know what the penalty is for those who aid you? Did you not here him? Are you
really so selfish Godfrey, so naive that you'll have me branded a traitor over some stranger? I'll hear none of
your lies."
"Please. We must speak with you. Look upon this woman's Aura yourself. See who she is."
There was a pause, the sound of the woman's breathing. Shani could sense an unwilling presence,
something watching her from afar, dissecting her, Aura under scrutiny. Marcus unleashed the buzzer again.
"Do you see-"
There was a click as the intercom went dead. Marcus pushed the buzzer again. And again.
"Stupid old bitch-"
 "I've called 911. I suggest you get out of here right now.”
Marcus growled and pressed the buzzer once more time vindictively.
"We'll be back tomorrow. We'll keep coming back, do you understand-"
Shani shook her head, grabbing Marcus's arm.
"Marcus-"
He shrugged off the gesture and bellowed down into the intercom.
"You coward. You traitor. You stand by and you keep your silence in the face of truth. What would my
Mum say if she could see you now?! You stupid bitch."
He walked away, cool lost, Shani trailing silently behind him. She glanced back. For a brief second, she
thought she glimpsed a face at a window, shocked and pale, observing them without word. In an instant, it
had vanished. Marcus swore and spat as they rejoined the crowd down the main street.
"The worst thing of all is that Emma will of course say I told you so. Just watch her, for fuck's sake."
Shani struggled to keep up with him.
"So what do we do now?"
"Fuck if I know. I thought she'd listen to me this time, if I had you along with me. I'll think of something.
Don't fret."
Shani had lost track of the promises.
Marcus scratched his head. “Let’s just get back to the hotel. I can't be arsed to do any more today."
Shani nodded. Her feet were killing her; walking across half of metropolitan New Amsterdam was only a
slight reprieve from the physical stresses of the past week. Marcus snorted.
"Aleron's got them all dancing in the palm of his hand. Cowardice, Shani. That is the real fucking enemy
when you think about it. Fear. Fear and apathy."
He scowled and ducked into the subway station, Shani hobbling on sore, blistered feet, trying and failing
to keep up with the furious stride.

"I told you so."

Marcus choked on his pasta but didn't say anything. Shani attempted a mediating change of discussion.
"Could you pass the tomato sauce, please?"
Emma threw her a couple of plastic packets.
"Here."
Marcus had been keen to avoid attention down in the lavish dining room, so the trio had ordered room
service instead. Shani's burger was a divine gift of beef, bacon and lettuce, balancing precariously on a bun
with sun dried tomatoes and peppers.
Any other time in her life, she would have felt guilty about wolfing it down, made a few false promises
about joining a gym. She wouldn't go too overboard though, she reminded herself sternly. The crowds in
New Amsterdam far more often waddled than walked. Marcus attacked his steak with renewed vigour.
"Tomorrow we'll go knock on some more doors, introduce you. I know a few more Eaolin in the city.
They'll listen."
Emma shifted in her chair lightly, nibbling on the cracker.
 "I've had some luck of my own. I've got some interest in setting up a new business arrangement with
some shipping magnate, guy who owns this company down at the docks, wants to move into global
deliveries. I'm meeting him tomorrow for lunch."
Marcus looked at her reproachfully.
"Not such a wasted journey after all, eh?"
She toyed with the chow mein on her plate disinterestedly.
"No, I suppose not. How much longer do you want to run around N.A.C?"
"How about till tomorrow evening? Gives us time to knock on some doors, and you to have your lunch.
No sense in hanging around here too long."
"What? We have to go already?", blurted Shani, failing to hide the disappointment in her voice.
The pair looked at her.
"I mean, I've never been in America before. We couldn't stay a little longer could we? I want to see the
Liberty Statue."
Marcus shot her an exasperated, cold look. The doubt and the weariness of the day had got to him, and as
he spoke, Shani could feel the Aura about his words, prickling her skin, pushing down.
"Shani, what the fuck do you think this is? It's not a holiday. We didn't come here to look around the
Liberty Statue and run up and down like a couple of tourists. We're here to get this map translated and then
we're out of here. And we move quickly. There are plenty more Protectorate members in this damn place
who wouldn't think twice about coming after us."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
Marcus wouldn't look at her.
"You saw how Leicester acted today, as soon as he realised what..who you are. I know Leicester. He
doesn't take any shit from anyone, but then you..you."
Marcus stopped talking, thinking, his words fast paced.
He seemed angry all of a sudden.
"It's like he said. I don't know much about Eaolin honour, but I am aware that it runs deep in our blood.
Suddenly he's bending his knee to you, crying like some bloody kid as soon as he knew you were the
Chosen. You need to take this a whole lot more seriously, Shani. There are plenty more like him, waiting for
you. If we succeed, I'll be just like Leicester, kneeling, prepared to give my life in your name. And all you
can go on about is seeing some fucking statue.."
Shani had felt so comfortable in the warm, cushy hotel room, surrounded by food and conversation.
Suddenly it felt cloying and fake. She took a bite out of the hamburger, aware that it was cold, congealing.
Why did Marcus have to be like this?
She swallowed.
"Sorry. As I say, it's just because-"
"Because what?"
Emma coughed awkwardly. She seemed to know the patterns of this sudden mood swing and knew better
than to question it.
"Nothing."
Marcus finished the pasta.
"Emma. What time can you fly us out tomorrow night?"
Shani tried not to let her hurt show, flushing. She stretched out on the chair, absent-mindedly plucking a
handful of chips off her plate.
Then the door exploded.
There was an intense roar as two small objects span into the room, vast plumes of smoke billowing out
from them.
 Emma gave a cry of surprise as the smoke thickened.
"Marcus!"
Marcus had the double-bass case in hand in an instant, voice a commanding, urgent yell.
"Come on! Move, move!"
He darted to the side of the room as Shani caught on, trying dizzily to discern what was happening as
Emma dashed, head in her hands, in front of her.
There was an almighty snap and the piercing scream of alarms as the fire escape window on the far side
of the room burst open, propelled by Marcus’ weight. It led out onto the roof and the fire escape.
He pushed Emma through the window.
"MOVE SHANI!"
She stumbled after the pair, coughing, eyes watering as the strange acrid smoke filled her nostrils,
clutching her face in hands. Everything was muffled, disorientated about the lack of air and the scream of
the alarms. Marcus was through now, he was gesturing to her.
She felt Marcus's arm pulling, heard his voice, muffled amid the ringing, distant, small and tiny.
Stumbled a few more steps forward, aware of black shapes piling into the room.
Marcus shouting again, she made out his and Emma's feet as they ran down the fire escape, dashing down
into the cold night air that gusted, the smoke billowing from the open door. The wind howled. A yell went
up, American, Dutch commanding.
"GET DOWN! GET THE FUCK DOWN!"
Marcus was screaming at her to jump, leap down onto the platform below where they waited.
Arms outstretched in anticipation, but as she blearily looked down at the drop in the shock of the night
air, her head span. She gasped for air, arms flailing as she stumbled and tripped down the iron steps, skull
crack and cry as her brow caught the edges, palms sticky as she cradled the wound.
The world was spinning, screaming at her.
She could just make out Marcus's hands, grabbing, trying to help her down up off the ground.
"STOP! FREEZE!"
Then the gun shot rang out, a great explosion of the air that sliced through the confusion, the sound
ripping through Shani's head.
Some invisible force, threw Marcus backwards silently plummeting down off the guardrail, a blur amid
the night air. Shani watched him fall quietly, the darkness of the street below swallowing him up.
Shani heard Emma scream out his name, her voice distant, far below the steps.
She wasted what precious milliseconds she had numbly staring out over the drop, straight before high,
efficient hands yanked her back up the stairs and into the hotel room, pinning her to the floor.
The Aura rushed to her mind, anger flaring up inside. Spinning round, she freed herself, yanking the
assailant’s wrist away from her torso. Bending it back, she felt a slight satisfaction as it cracked then broke
under her grip, owner screaming, face obscured about the smoke.
When had she gotten so strong? She'd counted six shadows. Falling forward, her elbow crunched
viciously into the windpipe of the second, arms wrapping its way past the gun.
It fired, the bullet just missing her side as she stepped past his line of fire. Marcus could dodge bullets?
Well so could she, Shani decided.
The man hit the floor as she wrenched the gun from his grasp and threw him forward in an instant.
His head met the glass coffee table, which smashed, blood and shards about the floor. The smoke was
clearing. They weren't Eaolin, Shani realised as she spread her Aura out, reaching through the confines of
the room, only to find…nothing.
No. Humans, like..no not like her. She tried to process the information. So if they weren't Protectorate
men, then why-
 Marcus. Where was he when she needed an explanation?
Then she remembered. Owing to her confusion, she woefully missed the figure in the smoke that
appeared from behind. Sensing the movement, the dull tread of feet on the floor, she turned, raising her
hands to defend herself - but too late. There was a great, searing pain and then everything went white and
fuzzy. The last sensation she felt was the carpet, fibres brushing her cheeks, tickling nostrils.

The NAPD swat team carried the unconscious Usurper swiftly into a van. From the street, an old woman
looked on, Human for all intents and purposes. Coffee in hand, concealed under the dim glow of the heater
lights in the veranda of a cafe over the road. She smiled, reaching for her mobile telephone. Well, well. She
was sure the Protectorate would be interested in this little development.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It was with trembling hands that Yarnaeth dialled the prescribed number on the slip of paper at the
bottom of his desk. He tried to keep his composure, reaching for his whisky cabinet, pouring himself a large
one. He hadn't spoken to the man on the other end since he had arrived in this world. He did not know what
to expect.
The voice sounded, soft and expectant and he mustered his reply.
"Master Crow. My name is Yarnaeth."
"I am not Lord Crow. My name is Rier."
Rier. Oh One. Yarnaeth swallowed. One of Daem's men. He had to tread carefully.
"Yes. I have heard of you, Rier. My Agents in the FIA have the Usurper. They tracked Godfrey and
apprehended her. Godfrey was killed."
The voice chuckled coldly.
"Your Agents? Such gall. Perhaps you forget how you managed to get your position. Lord Father would
not be pleased to hear your words."
"I meant no offence."
"I am sure. We have learned of the Usurper's capture. Lord Crow and I have been waiting for your call
for quite some time. Allegiances can be such a...difficult thing to gauge at times."
Yarnaeth threw back a gulp of the whisky, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
"I assure you. My loyalty to my Lord Father, my King, is unwavering."
"We are on the way to your Human city."
"Lord Crow?"
"Asleep. I thought it best not to wake him."
Of course. Daem's men were running the show. Bastard.
"Hand the Usurper over to us when we arrive. Lord Crow shall deal with the rest, as he sees fit."
"Very well."
"I will inform Lord Crow. He will be very pleased indeed."
The phone cut dead and Yarnaeth wrestled with conflicting emotions. Shani Smith's fate rested in the
palm of his hand. The men knew of his disloyalty, he could sense it, the chill of his conviction about his
voice. Marcus Godfrey had fucked everything up, once again. Taking her into New Amsterdam - what had
he been thinking?
Now what was he going to do?

Her mouth was dry, tinged with the taste of bile, head swimming. Shani tried to contemplate where she
was, recalling the hotel room, the rude awakening. She attempted to reach out past the pain, using all that
Marcus had taught her. Mind over matter. No, it was useless. Marcus was dead. Emma was probably dead
too.
She could barely keep her eyes open. Had they given her something? She was aware of cold steel, biting,
cutting into her wrists. Cuffs, she decided, holding her to the ceiling. The screech of the metal clawing,
scraping of the chair made her nauseous, every sensation a knife.
 The sweat poured down her skin, a taste of salt-tinged her lips, hands burning from the metal grip. She
had pissed herself, she realised, red-hot shame rising in her chest, exacerbated by the heat.
How long had she been out? Her head surged again. It was so hot. She tried to get a grasp of the
surroundings, eyes wrestling with the light and shadow. Look around. Assess the situation.
The room was dank, cramped. Unfeeling stone walls, whitewashed, sleek and glaring. A vast mirror on
one side, bronze rust crawling ups the cracked surface.
She had a good enough picture to imagine her captors on the other side. If she could break the handcuffs-
Shani tried to tense her wrists, felt them numb, cry out in protest.
They must have given her something. The world around felt slow, sluggish, each detail dull. It was as if
she were wrapped in cotton wool.
A ceiling fan droned above, the breeze it emanated doing very little to relieve the heat. The metal bit
further into her wrists, they felt wet, raw where the skin had broken, each movement searing. The chains
were suspended to the ceiling, pinning her in place. The arms had gone dead, she couldn't feel them, hard as
she tried, dangling from them like some grotesque puppet.
The door on the far side of the room opened, casting sharp shadows across the walls, amid the rusted cry
of the door's edge as it scraped across the floor. A figure walked in, murky shapes amid the room.
Tall, scrawny, with tawny light hair, high above his domed forehead, beneath a receding hairline. For a
second, he had reminded of her of Marcus and she felt even sicker. He must have been in his early thirties,
but looked older, more worn.
Wrinkles cut into every piece of his flaky skin, on his weathered face. The smart suit he wore was
undermined, ill fitting, too short around his arms and legs, bony wrists extending out from his cuffs. The
smart clothes were an odd contrast to his unkempt, ruffled hair and unshaven chin.
Blue eyes surveyed her surgically as he slouched into the room, raising a terse hand in welcome, his
voice a somewhat disinterested rasp. A smoker’s voice.
"Yo."
Shani spluttered, reeling from side to side as the chains drew themselves tighter about her arms. She tried
not to let the fear in her voice be heard.
"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing? Let me down!"
She bit her lip. English. She repeated it in Dutch. The strange man tilted his head interestedly, studying.
There was no Aura, for he was Human, but subconsciously, Shani could feel his analysis, taking in all the
details.
She forced the lies out of her dry throat, eyes meeting this strange man's gaze, willing deceit to guide her
tongue.
"I'm just a tourist from New Zealand, alright? Please, let me go. I don't have much money, but I'll pay
you all I can."
She paused, aghast. She'd forgotten the fucking accent again. The man coughed, shifting on his heels,
arms folded, gaze still bearing down.
His silence was agonising, Shani wanted him to shout, to speak, to do anything other than just stand there
quietly, scrutinising. He and Hopkins would have got on like a house on fire.
She felt her lips cascade, speech little more than inane babbling, desperately trying to fill the void.
"Come on let me go, I don't know anything, if it's money you want, then I can try and get it, so-"
"Alright. Shut up. Jeez, Seriously, you're giving me a headache."
Shani faltered in surprise at the man's level but irritated tone. He was still watching her with those blue
eyes as he scratched his head absent-mindedly.
"What's your name, girlie?"
"John-Joan Adams", Shani lied. “I’m a junior contractor back home and I'm just taking a holiday-"
 "Yeah, that's what the fake passport and visa we found in the hotel said. Word of advice, kid - it's all
good and well learning a cover story, but you've got to play the part convincing like. Something tells me you
don't have the balls, literally. I guess you're not an spy...but then where did you get this?"
Without an ounce of humour, he withdrew the slim, green booklet from his breast pocket.
"Very convincing replica. Our boys down at the embassy had to track it back to Auckland and verify it.
Shame you didn't fake up a birth certificate too. You could have had us fooled as one of those nancy Thai
ladyboys, but in reverse."
He chuckled. Shani didn't say anything. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The man let loose an impromptu chuckle.
"Now you listen here, John-slash-Joan Adams. Or perhaps Shani Smith. Oh yes, don't try and hide it by
looking confused. You even got a few mentions in the papers here. I guess you thought you'd flee the
country. Try your luck abroad, is that it? I also assume you're not too smart. We still have the death penalty."
"No..."
"Settle down. We don't care about a shitty little police hunt in some backwater country. You're in the
Dutch Kingdom of America now. No one knows you're here but us. Don't look too smug - trust me, that's
not a good thing."
The room was a sauna. Shani's clothes were sopping wet with sweat, she could feel them, repulsive and
slimy, clinging to her skin. The man came closer.
"You're going to tell me everything there is to know about your dealings with Marcus Godfrey."
She tried to feign confusion.
"Who?"
The man surged forward, jabbing her hard in the tit. The motion sent wracking pains through her. She
choked, toppling backwards a few centimetres, feet dragging down across the floor, thick chains pulling her
arms apart, bones straining under the weight of gravity. Spluttered, trying to breath as the man raised his
voice up a notch, a tint of danger about his words.
"Don't fuck around with me, bitch. Cut the bullshit now."
From his jacket pocket came another slim document, a dull, blow up photograph.
"You think these fucking chains are painful? Outside of this door, there's a team waiting for my go ahead
if you don't start playing nice. They do the whole works. Water boarding you till you're half dead, sticking
electrodes to your pussy, drugging you with all sorts of nasty shit till you puke yourself inside out. They’ll
start with your teeth. Then your fingernails. You won't catch me giving a shit that I gave you over to them
because I'll remember that you didn't help me out when I asked you to. Last chance."
Shani felt the cold sweat pouring down her chin.
The room was unbearable, the heat screaming at him. Her interrogator's face swam in and out of focus.
"I-I.."
"Last chance. What was your relationship with Marcus Godfrey?"
The photograph came into view. Shani's eyes straining to see it, bulging. Didn't recognise the shaved
head, not the prison jumpsuit and the identification number. But the dark eyes of a younger Marcus Godfrey,
no longer jowly and bearded, fewer lines in his face and more hair on top, were undeniable, bloodshot and
hungry.
Above was the equally recognisable smirk that saluted the camera, goading Shani's gaze.
0750109. MARCUS GODFREY.
The stark typeface. The constant cracked foundations of a world she thought she had begun to understand
crumbling about her incoherently.
"Marcus."
The man's head drew closer, hanging onto every syllable.
"So you admit that you did know this man?"
 "That is......Marcus. Marcus Godfrey."
Shani struggled, trying to speak under the weight of the photograph. The voice that replied was
unwavering.
"Marcus Godfrey. He was a wanted killer. Assassin. Six of our agents died chasing him. He was a piece
of terrorist shit. In fact, he had the dubious distinction of a place on our most wanted list with the rest of the
scum of our nation. Shame it had to end the way it did. I hear they're still cleaning the stains out of the street
where he landed. Maybe I'll take you down to the morgue later, let you say your farewells to what's left.
Looks like you knew him well. Fucking you, was he?"
"No, it's-"
He began to pace, his steps infuriating on the ears of someone who could not move.
"I want you to tell me everything you know. What was your relationship to Marcus Godfrey?"
Shani shook her head, which felt like it would split from the shock of the motion.
"I can't tell you."
Desperation clawed at her. Who would believe any of it? The man trod away to the door.
"In that case, I'll be off to talk to the English authorities. If you're no use to us here, you can answer for
your crimes back in your home."
"It wasn't me! It wasn't, I swear. I swear!"
She stopped, struggling. The man waved his hand.
"I don't give a shit. Unless you have anything else, you want to say?"
"I...can't."
The man turned on his heel.
"Fine. Oh, and before I forget.."
He called out over to the door.
"She's all yours, fellas."
Shani couldn't contain it anymore.
"WAIT!"
She resigned herself to the grim reality. Marcus was dead and gone. Emma was probably not much better
off. She was going to speak. The man raised his eyebrows.
"Don't waste my time, kid."
"I'm not."
Shani tried and failed to prevent the sob escape her.
"I'll tell you everything, OK?"
And she did. She started from the beginning, the office. Marcus and the Disciple, the training in the
forest. Aescyme, the Disciple girl. Hyxarn spitting fire. The dead walking. She kept talking all the while
trying to ignore the mounting disbelief on the interrogator's face, the frown that dug deeper into his face,
splitting his head in two. When she'd finished, a heavy silence hung in the air.
"and then I was at the hotel. And well - you know what happened next I guess."
She attempted a weak smile, lost on the man. Noted the ashen face and shocked eyes.
"I'm sorry, I know it's hard to believe.."
The man took four steps backwards, warily examining her. Something in Shani's story had changed his
whole body language; he was tense, nervous. Shani could see it in his eyes; the cocky tone
betrayed...concern?
"Nice story. Real nice. You'll swing an insanity plea easy with that one."
He turned his head towards the mirror.
"Interview terminated at Zero Two Zero hours. Let the subject sleep."
 He stormed out of the room, leaving Shani hanging by the wrists. The last half hour had shattered
whatever sense of coherency she might have had. Her tired mind searched for answers but found itself
trampled, broken into a thousand pieces.

As he left the interview room and Shani Smith, heading for the upper floors of the building, FIA
Investigator Liam Coil was on the phone with Director Thomas. Coil scratched his forehead, nails against
the scalp and his thin hair.
He wasn't best pleased. Marcus Godfrey hadn't been seen since they'd stormed the hotel. A few shreds of
a coat on a window ledge railing and a booking under a false name were the only concrete proof he'd been
there at all.
But Shani Smith didn't need to know that, of course. Coil hated being kept out of the loop. Now that the
weird English woman's cock and bull story had contained a Black Phrase. He felt the hairs on the back of his
neck tingle. The Black Phrases were drilled into every recruit as soon as they entered the FIA. An ever-
changing list of two hundred or so words that every agent had to memorise and constantly be on the look out
for. Some were the names of underground terrorist organisations or the code names of enemy operatives.
But there were other words. Entries that had been on the list for as long as anyone could remember, that
never seemed to change or be removed and that no one appeared to know what they could refer to. Coil had
just heard one in an interrogation.
That meant he had to go straight to the top. He gritted his teeth as the Director's hushed tones whispered
back down the line to him.
"And she said it? Eaolin?"
"Yes sir", repeated Coil, rolling his eyes.
"YOH-LIN, right?"
The Director rolled it off of his tongue excruciatingly slowly, letting go of each syllable reluctantly. Coil
bit his lip.
"Well, I could ask her to spell it if you like."
"Don't be a fucking smartass. Who else sat in on the interview?"
"No one. Just me and the recorder. SpecInt team was outside, but they won't have heard anything from
there."
"Destroy the tapes."
Coil started.
"What?"
"Don't what me. Just fucking do it. And not a word of what she said to anyone. You hear me - anyone.
You keep this girl in lockdown until I figure out what the fuck to do."
The man jabbered under his breath, a bitter mutter that caught Coil by surprise. Frantic mutterings. He
couldn't make it out. Sounded almost foreign.
"Sir?"
The Director bellowed back at him.
"Just get this fixed!"
Coil instinctively ended the call, knowing his boss wasn't accustomed to goodbyes. He seethed. Tried to
digest the subject's story. What did it pertain to? Eaolin. A second race of people, unseen among Humans,
with superpowers.
 Oh and she was the Chosen. He laughed at the absurdity of it. More likely this Smith was some schizo
who had picked up a Black Phrase and was showing off. No doubt that bastard Godfrey had twisted her
fragile mind with such stories. Trained her to cause chaos in the ranks. Just like he'd taught her that shitty
cover story and supplied the false documents.
Well, he'd show the little prick tease not to fuck around with him or the Agency.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Crow tapped his foot impatiently in the van. He observed the world of the Humans around him. They
thought themselves so superior, with their technologies and machines. They swaggered through the streets in
front of the van, unaware of the fragility of the world around them.
Perhaps, Crow could stay in this place. Lord Father did not care for it, but Crow saw potential.
Dangerous ideas crossed his mind, sweet dreams that he knew Lord Father would not approve.
Power and riches would be his to command. He had discarded too much to get where he was today. It
would all soon be worth it, all the sacrifices and severed ties. The parents that had given him up to life as a
Disciple met him every night in his dreams, but in the face of glory and with the wisdom of Lord Father, the
pain was nothing. Or so he had been told.
His parents would have been proud if they could see him now. He didn't need to ask for their love. There
was never time for regrets or guilt in this life, only the pursuit of victory. Yes. Only that.
Where was Yarnaeth? He glanced at the van irritated, the phone on the dashboard. Rier was round the
corner, using the latrines. He'd said he would call soon. Surely he would have the Usurper en route to him by
now? The last embers of the cigarette spilled on the cold pavement beneath his feet.
He had seen Rier with one and asked what they were. The man had laughed and shown him how they
worked, how to use the little metal box and make fire. Crow had his own fire box and cigarettes now. Lord
Father would not be happy, but he didn't have to know.
He stamped down on them, smashing the red jewels into the dull asphalt. He searched the streets around
him. No other Aura, save for Bezek, who slumbered about the inside of the truck that they had parked over
on the side of the freeway station.
A footstep behind him, slow, thin beats on the sidewalk. The dagger strapped to his belt was ever present
in the corner of his mind, finger just a few short seconds from the slender handle. It was a young woman,
dark of skin. A Human.
Crow glanced down at her clothes -or rather, what little clothes she wore. Past her thick coat, dark, flimsy
material made up the loose skirt that climbed high up her thighs, giving him a tantalising glimpse between
her legs for the briefest of moments. She wasn't wearing any underclothes.
Crow blinked before averting his eyes, struggling to maintain the facade of calm. In an instant, he was
hard; he turned slightly, shifting uncomfortably amid the glow of the solitary streetlamp as he tried to
conceal himself. He looked down at the floor.
But couldn't resist the corner of his eye, noting the rest of her figure with equal guilt and interest. The
breasts that fought for freedom against her tight top, nipples just visible beneath the fabric of her
underclothes. Crow imagined touching her, to feel his hands on the soft flesh.
He prayed to Lord Father for forgiveness as he admired ample curves of her body that moved, danced,
towards him, thighs and arse, bare flesh on display. He admired her resolve. Crow had his Aura to keep him
warm. This woman merely had the large coat that she drew loosely around herself as she walked, shivering.
As he examined her, cigarette in hand, he felt a deep-seated shame. How could this mere Human slut, her
cheeks and face coated, smudged with makeup, eyes injected with false interest, bring this wave of lust upon
him?
"You got a light, baby?"
Crow processed the statement, his weak grasp of Human (or 'Dutch', apparently) slow out of his lips.
He'd picked it up along the way. There was no need to draw attention to himself here. Just play along with
this Human. She wanted his fire, for the cigarette.
"Yes. Here. Please."
 He gestured clumsily with the lighter, the tip of the cigarette catching the sparks, burning up with an
orange glow, the white paper curling, browning in the heat. As the woman drew near to catch the flame, he
felt her hand brush his crotch, lightly grasping his cock, stirring clumsily beneath his jeans.
"A hundred and I'm all yours, sugar."
Crow swallowed. There was Human money in his pocket. He wanted to say no; he did, but how did you
say it in Human? Glancing at the dozing Bezek, he nodded slowly.
"Yes."
One part of him protested. What was he doing? But another part of him was more reassuring, whispering
the facts. That cold castle was a thousand miles and another world away. It was true that Lord Father
forbade relations with Humans, or indeed each other. To muddy Eaolin blood was detrimental to their race
and to be in the service of Lord Father was to be pure, untainted by lust and guided by his word.
Humans were filthy; they rutted and fucked like animals, Lord Father had told them solemnly, defying
the design of the Eaolin, their creators. He handed her a chunk of the Human money, praying it would be
enough. She scrutinised it and laughed. She was pleased. Enough, then, it seemed.
The Empire of two worlds would not be built on the bastards of whores but the pure and unsullied. Lord
Father has commanded it; he thought desperately, as the woman masterfully unbuttoned his trousers with
one hand, playing with him below as she kissed him on the lips.
Her breath tasted of the cigarettes and hastily chewed mint. He bathed in the sin. He laughed in Lord
Father's face and decided he wanted to rut and fuck as well. Crow could still be loyal, he could still be pure.
But by the One, he needed this. He slid his hand under her top, fondling the soft breast underneath, gently
caressing a nipple with his fingers.
The woman led him to a collection of rubbish bins, away from the eyes of the world, for what was
simultaneously his first time and one of her most disappointing.
Discarded in the van, Crow's phone buzzed, the vibrations masked by Bezek's snores.
The unfortunate news that awaited him would at least be less dampened by the memory of a cheap
Human whore who had made him feel more wanted and loved than he would ever care to admit.

The Eaolin Yarnaeth, or the Human John Thomas, FIA Director, depending on whom he talked to, was
facing a tough decision.
He'd dealt with Coil. For now. The Human knew something. Knew of his kind. And he'd pay for
knowing. But that wasn't important at that moment in time. It was Daem's man Rier, with those Disciples in
tow, driving towards NAC that made him sweat.
"Are you intent on betrayal, Thomas?"
He span, gasping at the Iirebos uttered by the figure cloaked in darkness waiting patiently in the shadows.
How had he got in?
"You-"
The whisky glass fell to the floor with a dull, hollow thud as it met the thick carpet, the bitter aroma of
the alcohol rising into the air. The figure took a step forward as Yarnaeth fixed him with a wary eye.
"You had me worried for a while."
Marcus Godfrey brushed his shoulder gingerly, his fingers stained scarlet.
"Managed to get hold of some scaffolding on the way down. Lucky break I know."
 "Sorry you got shot. I didn’t authorise this. Your face set off alarms at the airport. I thought I'd contained
the kill notices on you."
"It's just a graze. Managed to patch myself up on the way over here."
"Why are you here? Do you realise how much risk you're putting me in? And.."
"The Chosen? That is who she is, Yarnaeth. Or are you still so blindly following your Lord Father
Aleron?"
Yarnaeth chose to ignore the comment.
"So you're here. I gave you the clearance to use the American airspace, thought you might be passing
through. I didn't think you'd actually be stupid enough to land in New Amsterdam."
"I thought I told you to expect me."
Yarnaeth glanced over at the cabinet on the side. His sword was there, gathering dust. If he could just get
to it in time.
"I can't help you. No more than I already have. I sorted the airport for you-"
"Oh, I think you can help me. Your people have her."
"Your...friend. Yes, I know. You should be more careful who you talk to, Godfrey. She went around
running her mouth about our kind to one of my agents. A Human. You're lucky I put Black Phrases in place
to bring any and all alerts straight back to me-"
"I'd like to know why your men are even breaking into my hotel in the first place. I was under the
impression that you had all my little misadventures sorted."
"It's like I said. I did. Someone's seen that they've reared their ugly head again. Someone working hard to
close the net on you both."
"’Rufus King’ no doubt. That fucking snake Daem. And when word reaches the Homeworld that Shani
has been caught by your lot... Does Aleron suspect-"
"Aleron suspects everyone. He is an old man. Distrust is in their nature. Now this...girl has emerged; he
has been in contact with us all. He calls her the Usurper, whispers of great riches for any who aid her
capture. He also speaks of the wrath of his Disciples for those who shelter you both."
"Yeah, I got the memo. Shani's face is all over the news in England. You don't want to deal with the
consequences if she's discovered here in America."
"I can't be seen to be helping you, Marcus. Mhorn. I can't."
"Just one more time, please. I need you to-"
Yarnaeth darted, hand outstretched, reaching for the case, wrenching open the door of the cabinet,
yanking it open. His fingers were wrapped around the scabbard of the short sword moments before he felt
the cold steel of Astigan against his windpipe.
"You don't seriously raise your blade against me, Thomas…Yarnaeth?"
Yarnaeth's voice was a hoarse whisper.
"The Protectorate knows I've aided you in the past. Daem knows. Do not judge me Marcus or Mhorn or
whatever the hell you choose to call yourself. I can win his trust back."
"You serve a false king."
"I serve whoever can keep the peace between our two worlds. More war. I would will it on no one."
"So you'd turn a blind eye to everything he's done, all the people he's silenced in the name of peace? He
shall enslave the Humans Yarnaeth, and you will stand by and do nothing because it suits you."
"My wife is Human. You have no right. No right at all to judge me."
The heavy, thick blade tilted, cutting the slightest line into his neck. He did not utter a word, the short
sword useless in his grip.
"Are you going to kill me?"
 "Oh, don't be a prat. You're of more use to me alive, as it stands. I've killed everyone who raised a blade
against me but depending on how you play you'll be the exception to the rule. Besides, you've helped me
before. Let's call this a little bump in our special relationship."
Yarnaeth felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Call your people at the FIA. Have them bring Shani here. Then we're gone."
"No. He will kill my old family in the Homeworld. And he'll send Daem after my wife here-"
Marcus dragged him by his neck across the room, blade still clenched tight across his throat.
"You just had to fucking do this, didn't you?"
He struck Yarnaeth hard in the space between his ribs and stomach with the butt of the sword handle. The
FIA director uttered a small moan and collapsed, crumbling into himself on the floor, stone cold.
Nonplussed, Marcus reached for the phone in the pocket of his suit jacket and began to scroll through the
received calls.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Shani sat in the empty room in silence. Gunpoint had escorted her to a new cell, thankfully one where she
wasn't chained to the ceiling. They had forced her to strip and shower, squat and cough, presenting her with
a drab, faded orange jumpsuit that chafed her thighs.
Cuffed to the chair, Shani could feel her Aura returning, bubbling up inside. Whatever drug they had
given her was subsiding, the skull splitting pain now a dull thump at the back of her head, the waves of
nausea retreating down her throat.
She could snap these handcuffs quickly, she had decided. But the ironclad door looked like more of a
challenge - as did the loaded pistols her captors had holstered to their belts. Shani wasn't sure what powers
she might possess as the Chosen. But she knew that being bulletproof wasn't one of them. At least, not yet.
Marcus's combat training had been a lot more encouraging back in England, where not everyone was
packing heat.
Here, there were guns everywhere, on every policeman and security guard, under shop counters, hung on
walls and in display cabinets. The thought, the notion, of being shot forced her into deathly stillness,
waiting, unsure in the middle of the whitewashed walls.
The strange interrogator had vanished, so now she waited and waited with mounting uncertainty, the two
guards on either side motionless, staring blankly straight ahead, hands waiting tentatively about the holsters
on their belts.
She tried to keep calm. It was all a trick, from this interrogator. Marcus had fought tooth and nail to keep
her alive, up until- Her stomach swooped, the shock of the gunshot still fresh. That face as he had
plummeted over the rail, the black coat wrapped about him.
Now he was dead, she was beginning to wonder. She remembered Marcus' stories, back in the ruins of
that safe house, which seemed so long ago, but couldn't be any more than a fortnight. Telling it to that
interrogator, slowly trying to explain every last detail to him, the idiocy, and the pure impossibilities had
become so glaring.
But so much of it was real, and even if Marcus was dead, they Disciples still coming for her.
She had to escape. She could do it. The Disciple girl swam in front of her eyes, her death mask flowering
under the force of the burning sword. The dead. The office. That had been real enough. Undeniable. It was
all just this interrogator trying to scare her.
Either that or she was insane, that small, vile voice in the back of her head reminded her. Shani banished
the thought forlornly. There was still a constant; she decided, still a certainty. More than ever now, she
needed to escape. Emma might very well still be out there. If they could reach the plane, maybe-
The door opened, the interrogator, scratching his head, slouching back in. Irritations weighed down on
him, making him stoop lower. He sank slowly into the chair, glancing at the paperwork in his hands.
"Seems I've been ordered to keep you snug for the time being while they figure out what to do with you.
In the meantime, why don't we get back to his wonderful chat we were having? I believe you were just
feeding me a crock of shit, which was very entertaining, but pushing us off topic. That topic being - What
was your relationship to Marcus Godfrey?"
Shani blinked.
"I already told you."
"You claim he rescued you. From these Eaolin things?"
"Yes."
"The people with magical powers who are out to kill you."
"Yes."
 "Because their king in another world said so."
Shani felt the anger bubbling in her chest. Or perhaps it was Aura.
"Look, I've already said it sounds stupid. But you've got to believe me. They're coming for me, and now
Marcus isn't around, I need help. Please."
Something in Shani's plea seemed to affect Coil, piquing his interest further. The realisation shook her. It
was the same note that Marcus had carried in his voice, when he had begged Shani to listen, to believe him,
back when she had first woken in the ruins and heard his story. It was a faith that had once seemed so
impenetrable, just as it was now to this man, who sat there with an air of derision and pure; unwavering
denial painted on his face.
"You should believe me", she added uselessly.
Coil laughed.
"You know how many nut jobs have told me that? The conspiracy theorists and the cultists and the ones
who say to me 'the voices told me to do it'?" They've all tried to bring me round to the truths they hold so
dear, and I'm afraid you'll have a hard job succeeding where they failed. Godfrey played on your sick mind,
confused you with these fucking fairy tales. Time to get off your little pedestal and start facing reality."
Shani felt the doubt rattle but spoke steadfast, fixing the blue eyes coldly. What did this man know? What
did he know about anything, to laugh down his face at her like that?
Something inside was starting to seethe, every vibration and sound about the room clearer and clearer.
The hum of the ceiling fan, the buzz of a fly about the halogen lights. It was all pulling back into focus, the
vivid, vibrant life of the room. Aura.
"It's not like that. You're wrong."
Coil leaned backwards in his chair, head back relaxed.
"Show me then. If you're the chosen one or whatever the fuck you called it, let me see one shred of
evidence-"
Shani channeled the Aura to her wrists, feeling the burn about her palms, a lick of invisible flames
beneath her skin. The thick steel cuffs were like paper, the chains little more than toothpicks. Ripped apart
with the force of a bullet train.
Coil flinched backwards, falling out of his chair in alarm as the pieces of shattered metal burst across the
room, clattering against the walls and floor.
She could have laughed, massaging her wrists, the purple-red markings etched deep into the skin, raw
and bloodied. Tried to sound tough.
"Sorry. Those were getting uncomfortable."
Her interrogator's gaze remained cold as he picked himself back up off the floor and returned to his seat,
trying to maintain his psychological edge. Shani didn't miss shock about his delivery, the slight weakening
of his 'bad cop' routine.
"That fat bastard teach you how to do that?"
"If you mean Marcus, then yes, he did. He taught me a few other things too."
The two glared at each other across the table. There was a smart, abrupt rap on the door. A guard
sheepishly entered, mobile phone in hand; voice hushed.
"Sir, if I could have a moment?"
Coil glared.
"What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?"
"There's a call for you. Director Thomas’ direct line"
"Tell him to wait."
"I can't."
 She gestured frantically to the phone. Coil looked back at Shani and stood up quickly from the chair,
snatching the mobile from her.
"Get her new cuffs. The maximum strength ones."
They came over, holding Shani down in the chair. She wavered, considered resisting, before
remembering again she was outnumbered and out-gunned. Coil half-ran out of the room, phone clenched to
his ear as he slammed the ironclad door behind him.
Shani let the guards fit her wrists with what appeared to be a set of sturdy steel blocks welded together,
with grooves for her arms. She let them slap them over her wrists, pinning them back behind her back.
She didn't think she'd be breaking out of them quite as quickly. At least, not right now.

In the adjacent corridor, Coil breathed, calming himself down as he confronted the voice down the other
end of the line. The shit had hit the fucking fan.
"Godfrey. Where's my boss?"
The reply was cold, mocking. Yes, that was his voice. Coil had heard it enough times in interrogation
transcripts. The Northern English accent pasted on some dodgy Dutch.
"Director Thomas is a bit busy to talk."
His mouth ran dry.
"Did you kill him?"
"Not yet. Whether he lives depends on a few key demands of mine."
"Such as?"
"You have an associate of mine. I hope you've been making her feel welcome."
"Oh yeah, she's been telling me all about you. You sure know how to pick'em."
"You've got until tomorrow. We're going to run a little exchange, you and I - come along with her
unharmed and we'll trade. Twelve noon in Centre Park. The benches by the East Lakehouse."
Coil laughed.
"You're full of shit. Give me proof you have John Thomas there-"
A cry floated down the phone, a tortured wail through the teeth of a grown man.
"Speak to your staff Thomas, there's a good guy."
The voice was strained, weak.
"Coil, this is Thomas. He's got me at-"
There was an almighty commotion in the background, cries of pain and the sound of objects falling, glass
smashing.
Coil shook, his voice frantic.
"Sir-Sir are you there? I fucking swear, if you've-"
Godfrey's voice came down the phone again, enraged, frenzied.
"Tomorrow morning, or he dies."
The line went dead, leaving Coil alone in the corridor, clutching the silent mobile phone to his ear. The
aides looked at him.
"Sir?"
"FUCK!"
 ◑

Three short miles away in the house of John Thomas, Marcus gave a weary sigh. He gingerly touched the
bullet wound in his shoulder with bloodied fingers, calculating his next move.
The unconscious body of Yarnaeth sighed in perfect unison, the breath rippling the bloodscroll planted
on his forehead. Marcus had always had a disdain for the more manipulative Eaolin arts, especially
Aescyme, but he grudgingly had to admit that it had paid off.
He'd been able to fake the whole exchange, taking control of Yarnaeth's body. He could have just asked
for Shani in doing so, but that made Yarnaeth complicit as a blood traitor. If he'd been overpowered and held
against his will, it would be a slap on the wrist from the Protectorate. Not execution.
It had been a hard act to pull off, but it looked like the FIA Agent had taken the bait. Marcus calculated
that he didn't have much time until Yarnaeth came around. His head felt like it was starting to split. The
Disciple girl had been able to control a corpse with ease, but it was another thing to manipulate the living.
Even in control of Yarnaeth via the hastily prepared scroll glued to his face, he could feel the Eaolin's
mind pushing back against him, starting to resist. He had to finish this before he woke up - and that was
where it got dangerous. He checked his watch, noting the time and closed his eyes, ignoring the pain.
Focus. Breathe. He let go, vaguely aware of his body collapsing, a dull thud down onto the carpet that
echoed out amid the rush of light.
Left his body, travelling through his Aura, through the blood in his veins, via the seal and down into the
man's mind itself.
Once inside, he got to work.
The mind was a strange thing, floating ideas and memories, silent and unseen, impossible to see, things
that could only be thought, barely noticeable about the darkness. Marcus moved quickly, forcing Yarnaeth's
thoughts to form, shift around his own, bend to his will. One single expression. You Will Obey.
Once satisfied, he severed the connection, escaping back out of the darkness.
As he awoke, he gasped for air, lungs burning, his vision black, and mouth dry. He felt cold, clammy,
limbs numb, skin dull. Pulled his dead arm over to his eyes as it tingled, examining his watch as his sight
came slowly back into focus.
Seven minutes dead. When you took full control, you risked never returning. He pulled himself to his
feet, observing Yarnaeth warily. As the man came to, his eyes dreamily unfocused, he regarded Marcus
without a care in the world.
"Who're you?"
"Go to sleep" Marcus intoned slowly, his voice amplified, commanding, lacing the sound with the
remnants of his Aura.
The man's mind stripped of its defences, buckled without hesitation, nodding as he fell backwards off of
his chair, crashing onto the floorboards. Marcus checked his pulse and bound his wrists to the chair with
cable, cutting it from the appliances with Astigan. He had a few hours at least until the command wore off.
Then he slumped on the side, knackered. To manipulate the mind was an exhausting thing, his Aura was
drained. The call of sleep was tantalising, irresistible. He needed to recover.
He fought sleep just long enough to drag himself over to the sophisticated looking panel on the wall and
activate the flat's security systems, covering every feasible entrance point with six feet of reinforced
titanium. It only worked if the terrorists were on the outside, his tired mind noted, smirking inwardly.
Moments after disconnecting the phone line and snapping Yarnaeth's mobile phone in half, he crashed
down on the luxurious sofa, fast asleep in less than a minute.
He was going to need all the strength he could muster before tomorrow.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Coil was tearing out what little hair he had left as he paced frantically up and down the packed operations
floor. With the head of the Agency in the hands of a hostile third party, every section was on red alert.
Finding Thomas was no problem. Coil was grudgingly in awe of Godfrey's audaciousness - it had taken
less than ten minutes for field operations to deduce that Godfrey was holding Thomas captive at his own
apartment downtown.
Unfortunately, the lavish penthouse's panic security system could only be deactivated from the inside via
an offline computer terminal. State of the art in its protection from hacking and overriding, as it used both
military-grade and FIA algorithms to repeatedly change access codes.
Which could only be found in an encrypted app on John Thomas' cell phone. As a result of this brilliant
piece of engineering, Coil had just spent the last fifteen minutes filling out pink slips for the security team
that had designed it, with some relish. Firing sweaty nerds was a perk of the job. And a stress reliever.
It was coming up to three in the morning - six hours had passed since the SWAT team had stormed
Godfrey's hotel and caught this Watts freak. Now Coil was watching the salvaged CCTV tape from the
penthouse lobby.
He observed the cleaner, cap pulled tight over his face, walking nonchalantly past the front desk. Why
the fuck hadn't the concierge and guards picked up on the instrument case that the man carried so casually
by his side?
Coil couldn't wait to hear that excuse once they came round at the hospital. For now, however, Godfrey
was trapped. The apartment was surrounded, snipers on the roof. It was a siege situation now; the press team
had already created a cover story involving a crazed gunman holding his family hostage in a jealous rage.
Beautiful.
There was no way Coil would be handing Shani Smith over in Centre Park in another six hours time. He
sighed, grabbing a mic in the corner.
"Now. Tell me one more time, so I have someone to blame if the shit hits the fan - you've analysed every
possible exit route?
A woman, short, glasses, efficient, gave him a weary thumbs up from the far side of the room, shouting
over.
"Even the sewer system's been covered sir. Heat sensor data's just gone live. Two signatures. Director
Thomas appears to be tied up, but alive. Godfrey is in the adjacent bedroom."
"What's he doing?"
"He seems to be sound asleep in bed sir."
Coil slammed his hand down on the desk, papers cups and stationary wobbling and toppling on the
surface.
"That dick. He's fucking around with us. Can we get through these shit-for-brains security walls around
the building?
"Tech guys are on it, but they've barely scratched the surface. It's the same alloy we use for that nuclear
bunker out in Nevada. There are three layers of the stuff surrounding all walls and doors."
"And there's no manual release. Swell."
"Theoretically if the electric supply is lost, the system will reset."
"Then cut the fucking power."
"Tried that sir. There's a backup generator. It'll be another twenty-four hours at least until that fails."
"All controlled from inside. Those tech fucks did good, I'll give 'em that."
 Another agent, the fat sweaty guy with that mop of curly red hair and accompanying beard that Coil
didn't care for, raised his head from the table, gesturing at him urgently.
"Sir. Vice Chief wants updates on the situation."
Stupid old fuck was rooting for a sudden promotion no doubt.
"Tell him that the situation is under control, with no current danger posed to the public. Siege is in
progress."
The man looked at him pleadingly, displeasure on his bloated oily face.
"That's what you said to him an hour ago."
Coil exploded. Suddenly he was bellowing, and people were looking scared and angry. He ignored their
faces.
"I'LL SAY IT AGAIN UNTIL THE FAT FUCKER INSIDE DOES SOMETHING!"
The man resigned himself, slumping back in his chair. Another voice confronted him, another addition to
the chaos around the room.
"Sir. What are we going to do about the woman in the holding cell?"
"Keep holding", he replied flatly.
"We couldn't use her as bait? Lure Godfrey out?"
Coil considered.
"Godfrey's not fucking stupid. This woman is our link to him. Lose the bitch and we've got a cold case on
our hands. Keep her locked up."
"Understood."
Coil waved the agent away, blaring down the speaker again via his microphone.
"Get me someone with full archive access up here. I've got a special assignment for one of you."
Something else had to be examined, he decided. This cock and bull nonsense of the girl's. What could her
lies be conveying? A young man, sandy blonde hair, suit and stern glasses, half-ran, half-walked up to his
desk.
"How can I help sir?"
Coil fitted him with a beady eye.
"I want you to get me a file from the Level Sevens."
"Sir?"
The Level Seven archives were legendary, even among the oldest veteran agents within the FIA. There
was stuff in there you'd lose your life for knowing too much about. Coil wasn't surprised to see the man's
pained expression. Everyone talked about them and betted on what might be in there - but no one wanted the
responsibility of the truth.
"I need some information on a Black Phrase."
"But sir-"
"I know. You need clearance from the very top. Unfortunately, he happens to be tied up in his apartment.
The subject in the holding cells has spoken a Black Phrase. That means relevant personnel can access the
files."
"Only with the express permission of the Director sir, and those he deems-"
Coil pushed his face up against the young man's, eyes bulging. He could count the acne scars.
"Until Director Thomas is safe, I am the head of the Federal Intelligence Agency."
The man swallowed, withdrawing a small cloth from his pocket, he polished his glasses nervously.
"What's the phrase?"
Coil looked around, before leaning in, his voice barely a whisper.
"Eaolin. YOH-LIN. No fucking idea how you spell it. Do all possible variants. Take this."
He threw him his security card.
 "Use it for access. This is strictly between us - if you fuck up, not a word until I get over there. You tell
anyone what I've asked you to do, maybe I'll just sign you off as a cadaver for the research department. I
heard they're in short supply."
The man nodded weakly.
"Understood."
He strode off, leaving Coil to pour over the mound of Marcus Godfrey's old case files piled high on his
desk.

Once he was reasonably confident that he was not being followed, the bespectacled young man with the
sandy hair, security card still clenched tight between his fingers, made the call on his mobile. This whole
situation was threatening to spiral out of control. Without Yarnaeth, he had to go up the food chain. Lord
Crow needed to know immediately. He just hoped he could get through in time.
Glancing around, he ducked into a side room past the adjacent corridor, all too aware that it would be
incredibly dangerous to be overheard speaking in a foreign language, in this place most of all. His Iirebos
was not as finely tuned as his superiors, home schooled and inelegant. So he slowed down as he enunciated
his vowels, taking care not to stumble over his words.
"Lord Crow? I hope I haven't disturbed you."
A harsh, raspy voice down the line.
"This is Rier. Lord Crow is preoccupied. Where is the Usurper? Why hasn't Yarnaeth delivered him to us
yet?"
"There is a problem. It seems Godfrey got to Yarnaeth first. He's demanding the Usurper back, or he'll
kill him."
"That fucking idiot. Well, that's very disappointing. We'll have to adjust our plans."
"Understood."
"Lord Father does not permit failure. I trust you will do everything in your power to bring the Usurper to
us yourself."
He paled.
"I can't just take her from the interrogation cell. Coil. That is, the senior agent down here.."
"A Human?"
"Yes, my superior. It seems the Usurper has been foolish with her words. Coil is on to us. He wants me to
pull all information on our kind out of our records."
There was silence, brooding and pensive.
"That is unexpected. Deal with him. Then, bring the Usurper to us. We're waiting at the agreed location."
Williams swallowed.
"K-kill him? Uhh..Rier was it, I don't know if this is wise.."
"No Human who learns of our world or the Eaolin can live. You know this. I trust there are no files?"
"No. Director Tho- I mean, Yarnaeth destroyed anything suspicious years ago, at Protectorate bequest. Of
course, the rest of the Agency doesn't know that. If Coil dies, my position could be compromised."
There was a mocking laugh that tore at his ear.
"Are you afraid of a mere Human?"
"No, I-"
"Silence. You're really a sad little worm, aren't you? What are you? Sixth-born? Fourth?"
 The man swallowed.
"Second-born. Of fifth-born of Giwnerien"
"Terrifying. Surely you want to earn a name of your own? Kill this Human, Coil. Use the confusion to
get the Usurper away. Meet Lord Crow and I in one hour - unless you want me to send word to Lord Father
of your incompetence?"
The young man swallowed. He had family in the Homeworld. Even if he'd never met them.
"I understand."
"And hurry. I don't want to be in this fucking Human shithole van any longer than necessary."
The call ended. A dull whine of the severed line all that remained.
The young man was left pale and shaking as he made his way down to the holding cell, quickly checking
the bullets in the chamber of his standard issue pistol.
He couldn't be doing with fighting, had never had any skill in the arts of war and killing that his people
did so love to idolise.
The Humans were inferior of course, but their weapons, dishonourable, evil as they were under the
teachings, certainly made him feel a lot safer as he made his way down to the interrogation cells.
The gun was heavy in his clammy grip, ready to do its duty.

Shani yawned. She felt like she had been waiting in this room her entire life.
The guards at the door looked forward blankly, guns still, ready at their sides. Shani had asked for some
food. They had kept looking straight ahead. Her stomach grumbled at them. After the briefest of luxuries at
the hotel, it seemed she was back into the starving routine.
There was a commotion as the door mechanism whirred and buzzed. Coil marched in, scratching his
head, showering scalp and dandruff as he went.
"Have you decided to confess yet? Or are you going to continue feeding me a load of fucking lies?"
Shani tried not to let the incredulity show on her face. This man had no clue.
"So you've been thinking about what I told you?"
"Don't make me laugh."
Shani looked down at the floor.
"I don't want any trouble. If you don't believe me - that's fine. So what are you going to do with me?"
Coil chuckled.
"Well, once cleared, I expect we'll have to tell your home authorities about you being here. Your
countrymen will want you back, but you can serve your sentence for whatever you've done in an American
jail. Or swing - on an American gallow."
"I already told you; that wasn't me."
"So you keep saying, but your little stories just aren't sitting with me kid."
He leaned in.
"Why the fuck do you think you can sit there and keep feeding me this bullshit..?"
 Shani lost focus of Coil's voice. She could feel the warmth. Sense it moving towards them, the intensity
itself, increasing. Aura. Fire, trying to conceal itself, embers that licked and spat as if their owner were
trying and failing desperately to douse them with his will. Coil's words grated on her head as her breath
tightened in her throat. She found herself speaking.
"Shut up!"
The agent paused, mid-rant. A vein popped in the temple under his hair.
"What the FUCK did you just say to me-"
"Don't you see-"
The door opened.
A man, straw-blonde hair plastered across his grey face, glasses ajar amid a deranged expression. His
Aura roared. Shani could feel his determination, desperation; his fear within the flames, all intermingled. In
his hand-
As he stepped through the doorframe, he fired. Twice. Shani felt her own Aura flare up in bloodlust as
the shots raised red mist about the room, the guards flailing, corpses before they hit the ground, his shots
deadly, calculated.
The sound of the shots had cracked about the ears; her hearing had gone again, that funny high-pitched
whine, leaving her with just eyes and Aura.
A split second later, the man's hand was rising to meet the interrogator, Coil, to shoot him, the barrel of
the gun a blur...
And Marcus wasn't…this time it was just her.
Shani acted, becoming the Eaolin, pushing her Aura forward, strangely calm, that timelessness about her
mind, every second extended. She saw the man's eyes burning, cold and ready to kill, across the table.
The table-
Grabbed the metal corners in front of her, arms burning, Aura lifting the great weight as it was nothing,
wrenching it out from the foundations in the concrete floor with a great crack. She was power, the scream of
her muscles and bones were inconsequential now.
Survival was at hand. As the finger tightened on the trigger, the attacker was obscured from view as
Shani brought the heavy table up in front of her and Coil, crouching and swearing next to her, a makeshift
shield.
The gun spat in vain, bullets bursting from the demanding iron surface, ricocheting back with great
sparks and the scream of metal. The impacts of the pistol at such close range forced Shani back, each shot
like a punch to the stomach, whole body convulsing. Her chest burned suddenly, a red-hot knife in the flesh.
It was nothing, she reassured herself, not at all. She'd just get a bloodscroll. Bullets and iron sprayed
across the room as Coil dived for cover, screaming into his radio for support.
Shani could see the feet of the man beneath the table. Anger flared. The prick had shot her, she could feel
the searing pain in her side, and the sturdy iron had not stopped all the bullets.
She felt breathless but acted as she heard the empty click of the gun chamber.
"Now. NOW!"
Mind and body seemed strangely disconnected again; suddenly it was that forest again. That knife in that
girl.
She barely registered her arms raising the table up above her head, too busy looking at the shocked face
of the man, fear magnified by his glasses.
"Why are you so scared?"
She thought to ask, delirious from the pain, before realising with a dull stab of horror exactly why, as the
table left her grip, thrown forward with all her might and Aura behind it. It was propelled across the room,
connecting in an instant with the slender frame of her would-be assassin.
 Oh, the sound. The blood-curdling shriek moments before the metal edge of the table crushed his skull
like an egg against the concrete wall of the cell.
A thick silence, permeated only as the table clattered down onto the floor, smashing their ears and the
remains. In a few brief moments, the uniform cell had been decimated, amid the dark red stains and
gunpowder about the air.
Shani became acutely aware of what she had just done. She vomited as despair forced what little she had
in her stomach up onto the floor, until there was nothing. Still she kept retching as she tried to look away
from the man's collapsed face, the table discarded on top of his corpse.
One good eyeball observed her beneath the ruins of his skull beneath the brains that slowly dragged their
way down the wall, pieces of raw meat, amid a few clumps of straw blonde hair. Marcus voice in her ears.
"I've never killed anyone who didn't try to kill me."
As she tried to pull herself to her feet, she found she could not move. Forced herself to talk; the voice
seemed absurdly shrill, like some child.
"You see what happened?! YOU SEE?! Don't you see?"
She caught a glimpse of Coil's pale, disbelieving face, moments before she felt the prick of a needle in
her neck and slumped down onto the soiled floor.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The packet was empty, a small mound of cigarette ends and ashes scattered around Crow's feet. He
coughed reflexively, a harsher sound than he had known. The taste of it tinged at the back of his throat, in
his saliva and teeth.
He was having difficulty in maintaining his usual form, he noticed. The face was a struggle. Something
in the smokes perhaps. Crow reached for another bar of the strange, sweet brown slabs of Human food he
had picked up from the market stall, filled with strangely uniformed, blank-faced drones.
He licked his lips, dried by the sweetness. If he were to blend in, he decided, he needed to act like a
Human as well. He wolfed down the rest along with some great mouthfuls of the fizzy brown liquid he had
procured, failing to repress a soft belch.
He had never known food or drink like it, nor the buzz of the cigarettes. Such flavours, tastes and sweet
sensations. At the Great Keep, he had known only bread and the weak, wanting broths of the palace
kitchens.
Bezek dozed slowly in the seat behind him. His stomach lurched, amid the swaying of the van. The food
did not agree with him. Yes. Too sweet.
He gestured to Rier.
"Stop this thing. I need air."
Rier nodded, taking the van off the road to the side. Crow hoisted himself out of the seat, gut lurching,
bile rising, turning over itself, stumbling out onto a dusty side off of the road.
Once he had gotten it all out of his system, he dialled the number of the younger Eaolin within this 'FIA.'
No answer. He tried again, nothing. Rier was watching him, arms crossed, next to the vehicle. Crow
gestured towards him.
"Make this work for me."
The man pursed his thin lips at that, but didn't say anything, striding over to inspect the device.
"It is all working, my Lord."
"Then why does he not speak back?"
"I know not."
Crow knew. He'd failed then.
"The Usurper still lives."
"I understand, my Lord. What then, is the plan?"
Crow lit another cigarette. Why couldn't he stop? Rier joined him. They stood in silence for a while, both
unable or simply unwilling to make conversation with the other.

"Fuck's sake!"
Coil cursed as he spilled his coffee all down the front of his suit trousers, reaching for a napkin. It was
pushing even further into the early hours of the morning, and the mission to rescue Director Thomas from
his own apartment was going far from swimmingly.
The cordon was still in place, officers milling around on call in case they needed to secure the perimeter,
but inside the building things were silent, as far as the tech boys could tell.
 All sorts of futuristic techno babble aside, all they could report on with any degree of certainty was that
Godfrey was asleep. Apparently he snored.
The coffee vendors were out in full swing, twenty-four hour stands wheeled up all around the circles of
FIA agents and police. One man's police siege was another man's business. He rounded past the stand, still
brushing down his damp trousers with a spare hand, with little effect. Now it just looked like he'd pissed
himself.
Any image concerns were banished from his mind when his phone rang again, buzzing angrily against
the side of his thigh.
"Coil speaking."
It was one of the research lackeys, another one he'd found to do some digging in the archives, with the
reassurances and background checks that meant that this one wasn't going to try to kill him.
"Sir, I've been digging. No leads on Edmonds. His records are missing. Family contact numbers are
defunct, all known addresses abandoned. Whoever he was, he hid his tracks well."
How the fuck had that little weasel gotten past the base screening? More heads were going to roll once all
this was resolved. Shani Smith's testimony rang out in the back of his head.
"They're called Eaolin; they have this Protectorate. I don't understand much of it from what Marcus has
told me, but they're everywhere, living among Humans."
Rantings of a mad woman. Then why had Coil removed the interview tape and snuck it out of the
interview room right after Edmonds’ little rampage, to cover his tracks? He wasn't quite sure himself, but if
there was even a shred of reality in this cock and bull fantasy he wanted it kept out of other's reach.
Disregarding the fucking nonsense about swords and walking corpses and magical people from another
world or whatever the fuck else she'd been spouting. If there was a mole or a cover up within the Agency,
with or without Godfrey's involvement, Coil needed to tread very carefully. He turned his attention back to
the aide.
"Thanks for this. You keep it on the D.L, you understand?"
He'd used all the same threats. He knew the impressionable young agent would do just that; he thought
he'd heard him swallow on the other end of the line.
"Sir."
"Good. Now, has she said anything more?"
"Not much sir. We've put the full restraints on her. Shock collar and all. She's stopped trying to escape."
Showing off, more like, Coil thought, with an almost grin on his lips. That would teach the cheeky little
English bitch.
Nice powers, dickhead.
He looked around bored. It was cold, pitch black, and he had frozen to the bone.
"Keep her awake. I'm coming back over to speak to her."
"Yes, sir. Understood."
Coil ended the call and rushed for the warmth of his car. He passed a second SWAT van pulling in as he
sped off at the end of the avenue. The situation was more than in control.

When he got back to the interrogation room at HQ, the armed guard was still in place outside the new
cell, a more secure room in the lower basement. Each of the guards he knew personally, had worked with
them on and off on cases over about ten years.
 Not one hundred percent trustworthy of course, but then again, who was? For the moment, however, this
was the best he had got.
"Thanks, fellas. Swell job. Appreciate it."
One of the helmeted guards blurted out a sardonic chuckle.
"Fellas, chief? You're aware I'm not a morning person right?"
Coil tapped her on the helmet.
"Shut up Stacey. I'll have the boys bring you up some coffee. She said much?"
"Not a peep since you left."
Coil was relieved though he didn't let it show. Apparently, he'd built up a bit of trust here. Just keep that
up. It would lead him straight to Godfrey and maybe finally that damned promotion.
Hell, if Thomas were saved, maybe he'd get the top job out of gratitude. It didn't bear thinking about if
the Director of the FIA were to die in the line of duty. He banished the notion from his mind, deciding to
focus on the job at hand.
"I'll see if I can get her to speak."
"Gonna turn on the charm? Not the prettiest face, but there's an alright pair of tits on her."
"Ha. Ha. Tell that lot in there to clear out."
She nodded, twisting the thick door lock and entering the cell. She returned a few moments later with the
interrogation team. Coil didn't care for them, but he knew they were good at what they did.
"I hear you're having some difficulties getting our little canary to sing."
Leatley, head of the unit, shaved head, broken nose and disappointed expression frowned.
"She's way tougher than I gave her credit. Conditioned, I reckon. Strong too. We very nearly couldn't get
her down for waterboarding. Fuck all difference it made. I've turned grown men into infants, but her little
black ass hasn't even cracked."
Coil had expected as much. Godfrey had been the same, as far as his files said. Leatley frowned.
"Did you say she was shot?"
"Yeah. Back when that dickhead was trying to kill me."
"Can't find a wound."
Coil looked at her. Yes, she had been shot. He'd seen it. What was the secret here? Unusual pain
threshold, physical strength. He'd put it down to steroids before, but what she had said was ringing true
enough.
"I'm not Human. I was born in another world."
He snorted. Ridiculous, wasn't it? He kicked his heels. Pathologists were still scraping Edmonds’ brains
off the previous cell wall. Could any rational person even do that? Throw a table. Her eyes had been cold,
hungry. Just for an instant before she'd realised what she'd done. Looking at her then, Coil wouldn't have
called her Human at all.
"She's all secured?"
"Beyond reasonable force. We had to put the whole works on her. The shock collar, titanium restraints
and the sedatives have just about been keeping her cordial. Plus a little extra..persuasion."
He was uneasy, as far as Coil could tell, who nodded at him. “I’ll sort it. Don't worry about charges. Go
and take a breather."
Human rights were optional on any good day at the FIA, let alone while their head was being held
hostage. Leatley returned a curt nod.
"Yessir."
They filed out, leaving Coil to enter the room, taking a sharp intake of breath as he did so. Leatley was
known for a thorough job and as the woman's face now resembled a plate of raw meat and black pudding
he'd say the reputation was well deserved. Shani Smith blinked at him through two purple eyes.
 "Not very big on hospitality in here are you? I saved your life, remember?"
Coil slammed the door.
"The hell you did. Trying to break you out, was he? Your friend with the gun?"
"He shot me!"
"My guys say otherwise. Don’t worry about your little friend Godfrey by the way. We found him."
"He's alive?"
Coil paused.
The grog of sleep deprivation. One massive step wrong. Shit. Time to come clean, he guessed.
"Yes. Marcus Godfrey has a hostage. Someone we'd like very much to save. So if you start talking,
maybe we can work out a deal, extenuating circumstances and all that. What is Godfrey doing in the US?"
"I've already told you."
"Oh yeah, you've fed me the biggest crock of shit this side of the state about your magical powers,
faraway worlds and false kings. But I'd like an account closer to reality..."
He trailed off. The white mist was rising from her face. At first, he thought something in the shock collar
might have short-circuited, but he saw the steam was rolling down her face, a slurry of drops falling from
her nose. A nose, that second earlier had been broken but now seemed to have straightened itself out, with a
sickening pop. The black eyes were slinking back into their sockets, split lip reunited, loose teeth refastened.
She was taking the whole process with some alarm, writhing in her constraints.
"I can't control it!"
Those pleading eyes again, like before.
"Do you believe me yet?"
The face that confronted Coil was the same one he had thrown into that first cell, unscathed, fresh and
fearful.
"I have told you nothing but the truth!"
Coil sank into the chair, calling on a God he had neglected for the past twenty years. It was a trick. He
couldn't be deceived. Wouldn't be deceived.
He tried to shake off the awe. Bloodied sweat and steam formed a puddle at her feet. Bang. And the
wounds were gone. How?
"How?"
He wished he'd never asked, standing up abruptly from the chair as if it were burning. She looked at him.
"I don't know. I can do it now without really knowing. Marcus explained it all to me..Ilenir or
something."
"Ilenir?"
Another made up word; he added it to a growing compendium.
"Look it doesn't matter. Doesn't this prove my story?"
He paused.
"You've been baiting Leatley into hitting you so you can show off this little trick. Get my confidence."
"No, I-"
"It proves nothing."
Coil's blood was starting to boil.
"You fixed your face. Very smart, bitch, I'll have him give you a ten-fold reward."
He paused.
"Why me?"
A puzzled look flashed across her face.
"What do you mean?"
 "Why tell me all of this? You keep resisting the interrogation team, but you only tell your little lies to me.
Why?"
Her response was indignant.
"You just seemed like you'd listen."
"Well listen to me, Eaolin, Human or whatever the fuck you are. I don't care if you're delusional, the
second coming or a fucking mutant from outer space. I want Marcus Godfrey. Where is he?"
"I don't know. You shot him, last time I saw. Difficult to keep track."
"Fine. You keep spouting your bullshit. Because if you don't think I can't break you- think again. Godfrey
wants you in exchange for his hostage, but I'm afraid he's surrounded. It's only a matter of time until we
storm the building he's in."
She laughed.
"Because that worked so well last time. So why are you here then?"
Coil snorted.
"It's fucking freezing out there and I figured I fancied a little chat. Work out if you're acting under
duress."
"Really? Are you sure you're not starting to believe me?"
Coil didn't say anything to that, turning out to the door, passing Leatley. The interrogator gasped as he
saw Shani Smith, now fully recovered from his beating only five minutes earlier.
His confused swearing was echoing down the hall as Coil made his way to the exit.
 CHAPTER FORTY

Marcus awoke invigorated, swiftly checking up on the still subdued body of Yarnaeth, which lay on a
sofa in the corner of the room.
He acted quickly, shrank his Aura around him, cooling his body down, down until his head cried and
teeth chattered, skin turning white.
Low enough to disappear from the heat sensors. Lower than any Human could survive. He pumped the
imaginary ice through his veins. Easy technique. It hurt, but it was only temporary.
The blood scroll keeping Yarnaeth docile was holding up nicely though he doubted it would continue to
do so for much longer. It was almost six in the morning. A shame that the famous New Amsterdam sunrise
had hidden behind a few feet of solid steel.
He was due a meeting with Coil at Centre Park at nine, for a spot of hostage negotiation. It was time to
leave - and that was the tricky part.
He crossed over to the ornate telephone in Yarnaeth's study. Tapped, but he knew Emma was smart
enough to throw away the phone on her end. He punched in the number with shivering hands. A brand new
mobile package she'd bought the day before. False name and address, no ways to lead it back to her.
She didn't answer, but he could hear the sound of the street outside. Time for the go-words through
chattering teeth.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
He slammed down the line and reached for his sword case.
Showtime.

Down in the courtyard, Emma Flynn discreetly dropped the mobile phone down a sewer grate by her feet.
They’d all be scrambling around for it down there before too long. She didn't intend to be around by then.
She'd tied her hair into a ponytail, the usual red frizz straightened out, professional. The FIA cap now
topped this brave new hairstyle, along with the vest, uniform, jacket and ID card at her side. All pilfered and
faked of course.
None of it had been cheap, and for the sake of Marcus' bank account, she hoped it would pass as the real
thing.
Now to get moving. She affected the same sleep-deprived pose as everyone else, miming a mix of fatigue
and irritation. Emma had a spare phone prepped, which she now clamped to her ear, barking out a half
conversation in her best American-accented Dutch.
"No, yeah he'd still in there. Not a lot of public interest as far as I can tell.."
She rounded off towards the communications van, key card poised, drifting in front of the reader.
Moment of truth. It opened, a friendly green light chirping at her encouragingly. So far, so good. Emma
eased her way in, nose wrinkling.
A sweatbox, even with the sharp cold night outside and the air conditioning working at full power. Too
much equipment to keep the heat down. A less than fragrant aroma of unwashed bodies and mild halitosis.
She ignored it, doubling up on her best smile. The three men in the van didn't even look at her, absorbed in
their screens, tapping away, absorbed in their headsets.
 "Can I get anyone a coffee?” Emma ventured, with her best attempt at American sass n' service.
She couldn't quite shake off the Irish brogue. Not to worry. She was only breaking about seventy K.D
laws. Some of them punishable by lethal injection.
If her accent slip had been noticeable in her Dutch, they had paid it no heed. Possibly they were just too
knackered to notice.
"Yeah, that'd be good. Could you grab me a latte?"
The request came from a podgy technician, sweating away in the corner, blinking back beads from small,
beady eyes. It was a call to action; suddenly the other three inhabitants of the van were all demanding their
beverages.
Emma took down the order flashing her best smile. Thankfully they'd been neglected by their superiors in
the van, with strict orders not to leave. The result was a sense of resentment and distinct decaffeination. She
could have murdered a cuppa herself.
Time to be quick. No time to rush to one of the numerous coffee stands that had materialised around the
police cordon. Here was some she had made earlier.
With promises of a swift return and a bobbing of the head, she exited the van clutching the list of coffee
orders, before slinking back around behind the vehicle. She dipped into her rucksack, taking out the hefty
flask and some pilfered cups from a local chain.
All to plan so far. The coffee in the container was Columbian, fairtrade, filtered and topped with just the
right cocktail of drugs to make sure those tech guys would be getting that long overdue bout of sleep.
She waited two minutes, stirring the concoctions with a biro. Satisfied enough time had passed, she
popped the cups back on and came back through the door, smiling mode turned up to American.
"Thanks for waiting, guys. I'm so sorry..uh..?"
She gestured to the technician in the corner.
"Paul."
"Paul! Sorry! No milk left at the stall. Think they're all running to the Seven Eleven so I got you a black
to hold you over. I can go back over if you want?"
"Ah, no need. Black's fine..."
He was leaning towards the ID badge, gloriously faked, that hung around her neck.
"...Marilyn?"
She kicked Marcus inwardly.
"Yeah! That's me!"
"Hey, no kidding? Like the movie star?"
"What can I say? Mom and Dad love all the classics. You should meet my brother Carey."
She forced a laugh and perhaps more from the tiredness and brain drain; they laughed along. Emma
edged towards the door.
"I'll let you guys get on with it."
"Ah, OK. Nothing was going on anyway. Bastard's asleep. Like watching paint dry in here."
Asleep? Not for long. They, however..She flashed a final beam of sick, sugary charm.
"See ya!
Yankee fucking doodle doo. Fucking Marcus, choosing joke names. Marilyn, ha! She checked her watch.
Leicester had mixed the doses for her earlier that evening after Marcus had called. When the Feds had
busted the hotel, she'd managed to make it down the fire escape and away while Shani had distracted their
pursuers. Poor kid.
Leicester's mixture wasn't enough for any long-term neurological damage (or so he claimed), but it would
keep them sleeping soundly.
 As she exited the trailer, she heard the first one fall out of his chair. She estimated five minutes max till
they were discovered. Walk-running round to the back of the entire FIA convoy, she ducked behind a
second unit, a rough concrete building, housing the entire power unit for the apartment building.
Time to make it dark. She’d done a quick do-over of the blueprints. When the power went down, that was
Marcus' signal to move his fat arse. She broke off the lock of the power unit building, with the miniature
bolt cutters from her bag and swept inside, a cramped, dark and musty interior.
Panels and switches, a thick coating of dust on the walls and equipment. Time to trip a few bits and bobs.

Up in the apartment, Marcus was waiting, supporting the unconscious Yarnaeth on one arm, the
bloodscroll flapping limply against his forehead. He wasn't enamoured with the prospect of dragging the
twelve stone Eaolin along for the ride. But he just couldn't be trusted to cooperate, not with FIA swarming
all around, trying to find a way to get in.
The power was the second signal, Marcus knew that any top-level security system could weather a power
outage, but the FIA electrics all hooked up to the street power supply likely would be less than fortunate.
That wouldn't stop them storming once the security doors unlocked, however, which was where the next
part of the plan came into play. There hadn't been much time since his waking to hunt down all the various
cleaning products and get the gas stove going, but Marcus certainly hoped John Thomas has a decent
insurance policy.
The bulb in front of him flickered and died. Second signal. The hum of the emergency generator, sickly
floor lights illuminated.
He walked over to the door and hit the large UNLOCK button next to the reinforced door, the cumulative
din echoing as the reinforced shutters groaned, crawling back up. Every second was golden now, he was
faster than any Human any day of the week, even being the out of shape piece of shit that he was, but
carrying Yarnaeth and the sword case, he was going to be slowed down significantly.
The door in front of him popped open as the electronic lock beeped; he pushed forward amid the dim
lighting. The emergency stairwell. The first level of security was about three floors down, now disabled he
could hear the stamping of boots up the concrete steps, the crackle of radio communications.
Time to send them the other way. One thing Yarnaeth's apartment thankfully hadn't been devoid of was
alcohol; a combination of the spirits in his liqueur cupboard had given him a handy supply of makeshift
incendiaries. The lighter snapped open, igniting the brandy soaked shreds of curtain and bed sheets.
Flames licked his sleeve; he tossed the first one down the foot of the stairwell, taking some care to avoid
directly hitting the owners of the rush of footsteps coming closer up the stairwell. No point in taking any
lives, not here. Just doing their jobs, no matter how you looked at it. Shouts and cries were floating up as the
armed police lurched back from the gathering flames, the glare of the fire illuminating the grim stone
confines, smoke rising.
He wasted no time in tossing the rest of the arsenal down the stairs. He needed to turn up the heat. That
police armour looked considerably fireproof, from the glimpses he could snatch amid the gaps of the steps.
The fires roared, catching the trail of everything Marcus had doused the room in, every flammable
concoction and product that he could find.
He needed an explosion. And it was about to arrive.
Even in the darkness, Marcus knew there would be snipers and gunmen training the building from all
angles. He just needed to take their eyes away from him.
 He ran, yanking the substantial body of Yarnaeth with him in one hand, case in the other.
The window. The shutters had risen now, the glass behind them exposed. Guns on all side, bullets ripping
amid the air. He sidestepped them, perceiving the ripples of the rounds about his Aura.
He came up to the glass, pulling Yarnaeth behind him.
Marcus felt the burst of warmth and light behind him as the explosion engulfed the chemical-soaked
room, a great ball of fire, and glass shattering as he stepped through it-
The light was so intense; he knew all eyes around would be on it.
They plummeted. The world was a blur, breath trapped in his throat; he kept Yarnaeth gripped tightly
next to him, pulling the tag of the parachute he had commandeered from Emma's plane and spent fifteen
minutes squeezing onto his back.
He saw where he needed to fall, where the whole plan dangled on him landing. The pavement was only
metres away-
Then a sudden, gut-wrenching shock engulfed him as the parachute caught air. Bones were screaming as
an invisible force yanked him upwards; he clutched onto Thomas tighter as they were pulled back up into
the back draft of the explosion, the fabric alight.
He pulled the second cord; the parachute flew upwards into the flames, while they plummeted, the rope
severed.
But they didn't have far to fall, ten or so metres perhaps. Marcus rolled on the hard concrete, nerve ends
screaming, Thomas' limp body not so deft as it hit the ground. He was over to him in an instant, shaking off
the confusion and pain of the fall. No broken bones, just cuts and bruises for both of them. They were lucky.
So far.
Every second counted, with the blinding flash of the fire now eating away at the top half of the building,
all eyes would be away from the street. As far as they knew, Marcus and Thomas were still inside; he'd
timed the jump well. Almost too well, in fact, he batted the smoking, singed corner of his jacket.
It had been one hell of a flash and a bang; he knew they would have had to shield their eyes, looking
away instinctively, even for a few seconds. No one could have noticed him drop down in those choice
moments, not from that height. At least that was what he was banking on.
The parachute had been sucked up back into the flames, dissipated. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. That
had been the one big what-if.
The stupidest yet most brilliant plan he'd ever concocted.
They'd landed right behind one of the blacked-out FIA cars that made up the convoy, shielded from the
view of the snipers in the building across the street. Marcus could see the feet of the FIA convoy just thirty
feet from where he was. They crouched for cover from the rippling heat and the debris raining down on the
street.
Totally unaware that their man was a few feet away behind the car parked right by the wall. And that car,
if she'd followed the plan correctly, would contain-
Emma poked her head out of the door on his side, gesturing at him, hissing.
"Quick! Don't let them see you."
He nodded; hauling Yarnaeth up, bundling him into the backseat before sliding in, head down.
"Get going before they catch on."
They drove away. Now to get Shani and get the fuck out of this city.
 CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Coil's face was sickly white, phone clamped so tight to his head that he could feel the bones against the
hard plastic.
"What kind of explosion?"
"We don't know, Sir."
The agent on the other end of the line sounded exhausted. Coil glanced at the clock, coming up to three in
the morning. Sleep was a luxury that few had in the FIA, less so in times of crisis.
"Where's Director Thomas then? Was he caught in it?"
"Firefighters are on the scene now. No trace of him or Godfrey. They were right in the heart of the blast.
Snipers were trying to neutralise Godfrey, and we had a team on the stairs when the shutters came back up.
Then there was just this explosion."
"How?"
"SpecOps said Godfrey threw explosives as they approached. Molotov’s. It's possible he rigged the whole
apartment."
"And then what?"
"I- maybe something went wrong?"
Coil laughed at that.
"You're telling me that Marcus Godfrey, with more hits to his name than some of our best contractors,
blew himself up in error? Or this was some last-minute suicide bid?"
"With respect, Sir, anything's possible. We're investigating."
Coil paused for thought. Anything was possible. And Marcus Godfrey was far from flawless. That stupid
murder case a decade back, he'd been too reckless, led the FIA straight to him. That was how he'd ended up
on the inside. Albeit far too briefly.
"Fuck's sake. Keep me posted. Call me the second you learn anything, understood?"
"Sir."
The phone went dead Coil breathed. He needed a fucking cigarette.

Emma's foot slammed down on the pedal, the car jerking forward, wheels spinning. Marcus hissed at her
from an uncomfortable gap between the seats and the floor.
"Steady on! Don't look suspicious!"
Her voice was just about calm, just.
"Shut up. You've asked for too much this time. Breaking you out of a sodding FIA operation. Didn’t I say
I wasn't going to be involved?"
"You're the only one I can trust to do it."
"Nice try. But you're on your own from here on our, soon as we ditch this car. You, this unconscious man
in the backseat and your little girlfriend in custody. Mhorn - I've had it."
Marcus bristled.
"That's -"
 "Your fucking name isn't it?!" The Human one, now that isn't good enough for you anymore, is it?"
He didn't say anything to that.
"It's your plane, Emma. Take it wherever you want."
"I'm flying out tonight."
"Fine."
"Fine."
She pulled the car down into a side alley.
"Get out as quick as you can. I'd give you a few minutes at best until they find a van load of techies
drugged out of their minds and a missing car and put two and two together."
Marcus grabbed Thomas with all his strength, keeping the bloodscroll in place on his forehead. He'd
managed to slip a hooded top on him. Emma had a fold-up wheelchair stored in the boot of the car; he
assembled it and shoved the Eaolin in it, who flopped around like a ragdoll. Nodded at Emma.
"See you. Thanks for everything."
"Goodbye. Good luck."
"Are you sure you can't -"
"NO!"
Then she was gone, pushing open the driver's seat and bolting around the corner to the nearest Metro
station.
Marcus sighed. He didn't have any of the easy options. He needed to get to the park.
After all, he had a meeting scheduled over there in a little under two hours. Pick up Shani and drop off
Yarnaeth and then find a way out of here.
Wouldn't that be fun?

Human girls just weren't like the Eaolin ones, Daem mused, running his hands through the prostitute's
hair, as she prostrated herself in front of him, running her hands down his ample frame as he teased her rosy
nipples, cupped her breast in his meaty hand. It always felt like there was something missing. When Eaolin
made love, it was not just with their bodies, but their Aura as well. Fucking Humans, now that always felt
like a half process. Yes. A process in itself.
But there were a lot more choices, at least. Sophia was a regular of his whenever he visited New
Amsterdam; he'd ordered her earlier. A beautiful, white skinned Russian woman, with auburn hair and
ample bosom. Since he was expected to follow the Disciples wherever they went, Daem was more than
happy to turn this little Protectorate business opportunity into a bit of a holiday.
She didn't mind getting roughed around a little either, as long as she received the envelope with her fee at
the end of the day. That was what Daem loved about her the most. Money bought you the most beautiful
women, regardless of your own outward appearance and your age. That was at least one shining truth in both
of the worlds, Human and Eaolin. One that Daem was very grateful for.
He leaned back, sweating, as she held him in her mouth, moist hands gripping the duvet.
"Good..yes..very good.."
She winked at him, purring, speaking between motions.
"You're so big, Mr. King. You're -
He gave her a gentle slap on the cheek, more of a tap, really. The smile remained, frostier somewhat. He
chided, massaging her behind.
 "Shh..Sophia..Just make me cum already. I'm not paying you to talk."
She didn't argue. Daem leaned back as the orgasm hit him, groaning.
The moment was interrupted by the wail of Daem's telephone. He scowled, removing himself from her,
pushing her away. She protested and he raised his hand. The flinch and the small squeal. Such a tease.
"Get out. I need to take this."
"But darling, we've barely started-"
"Don't fucking remind me. You'll get your money, Sophia my love. As usual."
"Till next time?"
She leaned in and kissed him, before slinking out in her high heels and underwear. Daem swore under his
breath. Spoiling his fun. Always spoiling his fucking fun. He took the call. Rier's number.
'What?"
"Not going great. This Mhorn kid, Marcus Godfrey, he's still got Yarnaeth. Blew up his apartment and
escaped right under their noses. He's going to try and swap him for the girl."
Daem chuckled. Predictable as ever.
"Lovely. So the FIA still have the girl and now we can't rely on that waste of space Yarnaeth to get her
back to us. Alright, we go with the other plan. Heavy persuasion. Get our little Disciples in on the action too.
They want to kill Humans, now they finally get the opportunity."
"I was thinking the Bluewater."
"The hotel? Yeah, works for me. They stiffed me on a drinks tab once. Always meant to get back to them
on that."
"I have a few Eaolin working there as staff. They'll set it up. Get the place ready tonight. All rigged up."
"Give this FIA stooge one last warning beforehand. No point in this if we can avoid it, but my patience is
running thin. Oh, and don't forget to set the big charges. Go to the stash down in the docks. Always good to
have an insurance policy. Blow the fuckers up if things get out of hand. Plus it looks good in the papers the
next day."
"Understood."
"Get the girl, give her to the Disciples and let them deal with her. No more interruptions, understand? I
want to be back in Los Angeles this time tomorrow."
"Yeah, Daem. Gotcha."
He ended the call. Thought about calling Sophia back, go for another round. Decided against it, he was in
a bad mood. Last thing he needed was to deal with another dead whore in his room. Yes. Always ruining his
fun, Protectorate work. Oh, when would it end?
The sooner this Usurper was dead, the sooner he could get back to keeping his dick wet and his stomach
full.

Sheltered with a fag round the corners of the street, Coil's tired eyes and fingers weren't having much
success in getting a light. Wind and rain were blowing sideways, spraying his fingers.
"Come on.."
He glanced at his watch. Seven A.M. Morning had come, though with the winters long nights, you
wouldn't know it.
He growled under his breath. Still nothing, the flame flickered and popped, hiding, snug inside the
lighter. Taunting him.
 "Sonofabitch."
He fiddled with it, fumbling in the cold when the phone in his pocket buzzed, rattling his thigh. Dropped
the lighter, concentration lost.
"Fuck!"
The growl rose in his chest; he snapped up the phone.
"WHAT?"
"Miss me?"
Coil gritted his teeth, lighter forgotten.
"Godfrey?!"
Asshole, bastard son of a bitch was alive. Somehow, he'd known.
"I do hope we're still on for our meeting in the park. I know Director Thomas is looking forward to it."
Coil wavered, wondering if there was time for him to dash down twelve sets of basement steps and
security to grab a techie out of his seat and get the call traced. Nonsense, he decided crossly. No way
Godfrey would stay on the line long enough.
"How do I know Director Thomas is unharmed? Sounds like you really did a number on his apartment.
Maybe you'd like to tell me how you escaped."
"Nah. But I'm a man of my word you know. Centre Park at Eight. Bring me a coffee and a bagel would
you, I'm starving. Oh, and, of course, Shani."
"Listen to me-"
Godfrey hung up. Coil stood with the phone still in hand silently. The rain was pounding on his scalp.
He was about to venture back inside when he received one further phone call. An unknown number.
Godfrey again, no doubt. He picked it up, but the voice on the other end was not the sneering tone of the
man, but someone else.
The accent was strange; he couldn't place it. Middle Eastern perhaps. Though maybe that was just
because he didn't really know what a Middle Eastern accent sounded like. It was like the man on the other
end of the line was shifting between a mix of dialects, struggling to nail one down.
"You Coil?"
"Yes?"
"We want the girl. Shani Smith. Bring her to the docks in one hour. Otherwise, something terrible will
happen in your city. We will kill civilians."
Coil barked with laughter.
"The docks? What the fuck is this, The Daring Action Hour? Call in a threat to get us all in a panic and
make us look the other way? You tell Marcus Godfrey, he isn't getting away that easily."
"This is an ultimatum. Bring her or Human lives shall be forfeited. The docks. One hour."
The call cut off abruptly, the voice almost rushing to get off the line. Perhaps he had said something he
shouldn’t. Coil paused. Human lives. He'd said something along those lines unless he'd misheard. Did this
tie all into that bullshit of Smith's'?
No, he decided. All of this was just a trick of Godfrey's. Smoke and mirrors, nothing more. Eaolin his
bony ass. He chucked the sodden cigarette to the ground, unlit and unloved. No time now, there was work to
be done.

◑
 A short distance away, hunched in the front of the van, Rier paused, having come off the line with the
Human, Coil.
"He's been told", he informed Crow, trying not to let his uncertainty show in his voice.
Crow nodded, looking through the window of the van.
"And?"
"He's not going to budge."
Crow considered. So it had come to this. The ultimatum had been given and ignored. Now it was time to
start putting the threat into practice. His bow hand quivered. The Usurper's life, or the lives of every Human
in this city. Starting with those in the building in front of this van.
"Wait till sunrise. Then we move."
 CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Bluewater Hotel was one of the largest of its kind in New Amsterdam City. Tucked just around the
corner from the prestigious Upper Eastside, its clientele and guests ranked among the richest and most
famous across the globe.
That mattered very little to Niels Riley, as he barged his way past several film stars, an up-and-coming
boy band and a presidential aide. Niels was pissed off. Attending a business conference on behalf of
Ultimurax, the corporation he worked for, was a stressful enough endeavour as it was, without the pressing
matter about which he needed to speak to the hotel's staff.
He rounded the corner into the lobby, not bothering to dampen his groan of disdain at the workers
installing a Christmas tree in the corner. It was more than a month away, for Christ's sake.
He stormed up the front desk, the immaculately presented clerk flashing him her patented million-dollar
smile.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Niels leaned on the desk, fixing her with a most unamused eye.
"I'd like to make a complaint."
That smile was less enthusiastic. A blight on the hotel's spotless reputation was not to be taken lightly.
"I'll fetch the manager."
"Yes, you will."
She scurried off, leaving him to tap his finger impatiently on the desk, as the guests bustled around the
lobby; concierge and porters worked off their feet across the floor, pushing trolleys to and fro. The manager
arrived on the scene, a portly man in a waistcoat who fixed him with a wary stare.
"Is there a problem sir?"
Niels leaned closer.
"I couldn't sleep. A lot of ruckus upstairs. People were doing renovations or some shit. A lot of drilling,
really fucking early in the morning."
The manager raised his eyebrows at this colourful outburst but said nothing. He turned to a book on the
desk side and examined it suspiciously.
"Beg your pardon sir, but are you sure? I don't have any records of works being done there. It's highly
irregular - I can assure you that we don't let out wings of the hotel undergoing renovations to guests."
Niels gritted his teeth.
"I don't listen to excuses OK? Now I'm going out to this conference this morning, and when I get back - I
want this sorted. You understand?"
The manager nodded slowly.
"We'll investigate the situation and find out. I can assure you that we take all complaints extremely
seriously."
"Well, I hope so for your sake. Ultimurax might have to consider sending their employees elsewhere if
I'm less than satisfied. Perhaps the Queen Sasha?
The manager swallowed. The Queen Sasha was the hotel's fiercest business rival for the clientele of the
area.
"We shall sort everything, sir."
"I'm back at four o'clock. I will be tired. I will be pissed off. Don't push me any further."
He turned on his heel and strode out, satisfaction rising in his chest. He was content that he would sleep
well tonight. Niels emerged into the outdoors, the glow of the weak sun and the frost on the sidewalk a stark
contrast to the lush, warm and centrally heated interior of the hotel.
 He began to make his way down the steps to the taxi queue. The doorman raised his hand in greeting.
Niels ignored him.
The first arrow glided, unseen over the roofs of the cars and the heads of the rush hour crowd. It struck
Niels in the side of his face, ripping off his jaw, bone and muscle torn from place. Continuing its deadly
path, it exited from just below his ear, a crimson mist dashed into the air.
For a few agonising seconds, as the crowd turned in the direction of the commotion, Niels stumbled,
limbs flailing like a possessed rag doll, the strings cut. Then he fell, and the screaming started.
Crow reached forward, pulling the string of the bow back into place as he picked his next target from the
crowd. He was too spoilt for choice. Humans as a sport. It was no contest, and it brought him little pleasure.
But the mission. That was its cost.
His hands were steady, eyes calm. The scenes unfolding down on the street below from the building
rooftop were distant, uninvolved over the vast space between them and him. He fired again, the next victim
thrown backwards by the force of the shot.
And again.Again.Fire.Fire.
He reached for his earpiece the Protectorate had given him. More Human technology. This was, of
course, the beginning of the show. The Iirebos he spoke to Bezek was barely audible amid the screams and
crying in English and Dutch.
"Do it, Brother."
Far below in the street, Bezek clad in an old bomber jacket, his cap obscuring his face, had been enjoying
the dramatics, caught up in the midst of the bloodbath he was a willing spectator. Now, however, it was his
time to show off.
He clenched his fist, the Aura rushing up his veins, pulsing around his fingers, making his bones pop
painfully. He gritted his teeth, as the Aura gathered in his arm, it grew dense and hot. He could feel the
invisible flames scorching his skin.
It hurt more than words could describe, but he did not care. He would make Lord Father proud. He was a
good boy.
He hit the ground with a scream and the street exploded, sending bodies and debris across the Bluewater
Plaza.

Coil was in the van with the Smith woman tussled up and sedated in the back when he got the call, an
urgent spatter of radio chatter grating along the old speakers. Coil frowned, next to him, Anders, reliable,
black, shaven head and cheap aftershave, went for the mic.
"Repeat that, please."
He rolled his eyes at Coil.
"Fucking amateurs."
"All units to Bluewater Hotel. Sixth Avenue Quay. Urgent assistance, hostages are being taken in
building. Multiple casualties."
Coil stole a glance at Anders.
"Shit. What the fuck's happening over there?"
Anders examined the rear mirror.
"All units he said. What to do?"
 Coil considered. There was a whole operation working for him at Centre Park. Meticulous planning and
manpower hung in the balance. Was this all a ploy by Godfrey to divert attention? No. He was already at the
park. Agents had visual. The strange phone call he'd had. Could it be?
He put it to the back of his mind. Coincidence. That was all. They were fifteen minutes away from Centre
Park.
"We keep going. Let's get this fucker first."

FIA agents surrounded Marcus. But they wouldn't do anything. No, not yet, they couldn't risk causing a
scene. He was sitting on the park bench, still in the increasingly grotty clothes he'd jumped out of a burning
apartment in, Yarnaeth next to him amid the hustle and bustle of New Amsterdam's Centre Park.
It was the school holidays, plenty of families and tourists milling around to provide ample distraction.
Coil wouldn't try anything. Thomas was next to him, stolen shades over his eyes, still dozing in the
wheelchair. Marcus was beginning to worry how much longer he could keep him in this forced sleep. There
was a risk of brain damage though slight, but the scroll itself was starting to weaken, Yarnaeth's Aura
pushing back against the prison his body had become.
Not much longer. As soon as he had Shani, they were leaving. There were other places to look for a Gate
to the other world; New Amsterdam was too dangerous now. The Disciples wouldn't be too far behind
either.
Marcus had counted twelve FIA agents so far, a rather paltry number, which meant there were almost
certainly more milling around, as backup. He was too big a prize to pass up.
Their Auras, being Human, were faint, barely there at all, like the slightest breeze in the air on a still day.
If you didn't concentrate, you'd miss it, indeed Marcus wondered whether the unique nature of his parentage
gave him a sense of Humans that pure-blooded Eaolin just couldn't perceive. One to test later, perhaps.
There was an edge of determination and bloodlust in the air, however, hatred. On this perfect sunny
morning in this beautiful park, Marcus had little doubt who that was directed towards. He’d killed too many
of their colleagues. There was little need to concern himself with such matters though.
He didn't even have Astigan, which he'd stowed with Hyxarn in the case, back in the boot of the latest car
he'd stolen. Who could be fucked to walk in this city? Parked two blocks away behind a run down
restaurant. Too much was riding on the life of the man slumped next to him. Coil would behave himself. No
need for bloodshed.
Marcus added three more agents to his roster, the old man trying hard to look disinterested a hundred
metres away and the young couple cooing over the lifeless pram in front of them. A shame, the act was spot
on, but they hadn't counted on his non-Human senses. Definitely nothing living inside the pram. He
wondered what was in there instead. Guns, no doubt. Humans did love them, especially Americans.
The only people even coming close to him were the unassuming public. You didn't want to get too close
to Marcus Godfrey; he thought with a sense of smugness. The agents were becoming more evident, the only
ones keeping a ten-metre radius at all times. He mentally upped the count to thirty-four. A bit more like it.
He scanned again, wincing as Yarnaeth's Aura flared, suppressing it, gritting his teeth. He couldn't hold
on for much longer. No other Eaolin nearby, save for Yarnaeth and himself. Could Coil be prepared to call
his bluff and have him murder the head of the FIA right here on this park bench?
 It would be the gravest moment in the organisation's history. No. Coil had to accept his terms. We do not
negotiate with terrorists worked well enough with civilians. Not when the boss's head was on the line. Shani
was small fry when you chalked it all up. Marcus was the prize. This trade would be the perfect opportunity
to get his boss back and capture him.
Though the chances of the latter were, of course, slim to say the least. He checked his watch. Twelve
minutes past. Where exactly were they? It had all the makings of a grand operation. But no bait to lure the
target out?
Something was wrong. He heard the sirens far in the distance, a crowing of screaming mechanical beasts
on the horizon and felt the faint ripple of unease across the park. He reached out further, touching the centre
of the sound, trying to hone in on the quiet Human Aura, and then pulled back sharply, gasping. Fear, pain.
Death.
He shook his head, attempting to dispel the feeling, his body numb. He looked around. The mother of the
gun baby was on her chunky black mobile telephone, whispering frantically down the line while trying to
mask the facade that even the public weren't fully embracing anymore.
The restaurant worker with the tattoo was on his mobile too. Marcus knew a waiter was unlikely ever to
use a mobile while working. The whole deception was unravelling in front of his eyes - but what was pulling
it apart?
The entire crowd of deceivers was talking, whispering into mobiles or radios. This was all wrong. It
wasn't just the agents, the buzzing and singing of phones spread across the park, an ominous symphony.
Everyone's gaze was behind him, hushed whispers and cries. Marcus relented, giving in to the urge to
take his eyes from the agents, just for the slightest of moments.
There was a plume of smoke, rising from the horizon, a thick black chimney that swept into the sky, an
inkblot on the cold blue around it. Marcus felt the vibration under his feet, the low boom in the distance.
The faintest hint of Aura, trying to conceal itself, failing amid bloodlust. Eaolin. The Disciples. He felt a
surge of anticipation and fear. He willed himself to get it under control. No time to be scared now. Yes, there
was no doubt about it, he reached out as far as he could, his head splitting from the pain of keeping Yarnaeth
under his will.
Many Eaolin, the sensation of multiple Auras growing stronger. Not even bothering to mask themselves.
Something had changed. They were attacking Humans. Presumably killing them too.
And it had to have happened now. Fuck's sake.
 CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Bezek released the Aura once more from his fist with the force of a cannon, shrieking, skin and bone
impacting with the concrete. His knuckles had bloodied to the bone, cartilage worn away. The street was in
tatters. And so were the Humans that had once stood on it.
The next great boom rocked the foundations. Crow felt his skin crawl. It was that forest again. But this
was no forest. The Human machines, cars, screamed veering from side to side, unable to keep balanced amid
the disturbance, crashing into buildings, lampposts, pedestrians.
Crow saw one engulf a Human woman, disappearing in an almighty metallic red streak of grey. The road
cracked again. Sunk with the force of the blow, the great cracks splintered out from beneath Bezek,
crawling, rooting their way towards his target.
That great behemoth of glass, metal and stone that towered above him, the skyscraper that loomed over
all of them. That was where he was concentrating his blows. An almighty shudder filled the air. The street
shifted; concrete ripped out from the ground, dust and debris cloaking the air. Crowds ran screamed and
shouted, great swathes of Human bodies moving past him.
Bezek stood, transfixed, captivated. Giggled. The building shook. A high, scraping groan of twisting,
shattering steel escaped its foundations. Time seemed to slow down. He looked on, gleeful, as it swayed
from side to side. The screams. A cacophony of souls and voices drowned out by the sounds of destruction.
It fell. Ripped from its foundations, with a heart-rending groan it toppled down over the smaller buildings
behind and below it, debris raining down on the street, obliterating the streets beneath it. Crow's heart was in
his mouth. The humans inside. How many were there? They streamed, like ants in the distance, screaming.
He felt sick. This..this was..
The shadow of the building vanished as vast clouds of grit and dust coated everything, concealing the
ruined street from view. The sky was darkening, plumes of smoke swirling out, cloaking the sun from view.
Bezek clapped his hands together; eyes lit up. A giggle escaped him.
"Freeze! NAPD! Stay where you are!"
Bezek's actions had not gone unnoticed. A group of strange men in matching light armour, (Rier had
called them police) had seen this strange, impossibly large, hulking man in a bomber jacket behaving
suspiciously, even before Crow had struck at the crowd with his arrows.
As the hordes of Humans streamed away from the death and destruction, the officers sprinted towards
him, their Human guns drawn. Bezek turned at the source of the shouting.
"On your knees, hands above your head! Do it now!"
Bezek didn't like being shouted at very much. His brow lowered, a frown pulling tightly on his flabby
face. He brought his foot down, stamping hard on the ground, fists clenched.
"..N-NO!"
The pavement shattered, the officers stumbling, fighting to stay on their feet.
"He's aggressive, shoot him!"
The guns rang out, striking Bezek's neck and stomach. His gargantuan form stumbled backwards. The
bullet holes spilled red. High above, Crow saw his fellow Disciple take the shots and paled. He raised the
crossbow and fired.
An office fell forwards, the hat he wore blown off from the impact, the face crumbled. Bezek cradled
himself on the floor, a great cry escaping him. A fat tear rolled down his cheek as the shuddering sobs
intensified, great heaving sounds of outrage and confusion.
The police ran for cover as Crow fired again. To the observers who cowered behind the cars, his aim was
calculating perfect, impossibly so. But that was his gift, after all. Well, one of them.
 His slender forefinger pulled down on the trigger; He concentrated, channelling his Aura down into the
specially prepared arrow moments before it flew from the bow. It was flying now, at breakneck speed. He
could see it, sense it. Feel it closing in on his target, guiding it down towards the man's heart in his mind's
eye. The bloodseal carved into the arrow broke into a thousand pieces as it struck the officer, piercing his
heart dead centre.
More officers fell. A lucky few hid themselves behind the row of cars parked on the side of the
pavement. Bezek staggered up, his face flushed red, great streams of furious tears cascading down fat
cheeks. His first came down again as he thrashed around in an enormous tantrum, arms flailing. The heavy
feet broke the ground, thudding heavily into the pavement, the impact echoing all around.
The surviving police officers sheltered themselves, peering out from behind the car as Bezek yelled and
moaned. There was an almighty crash as a car flew through the air, colliding with the officer's cover.
The sound and life that thrived around Bezek were unfamiliar, unsettling. He put his giant head in his
hands and bawled. Disorientated, he threw his hands around, swatting more cars and objects out across the
seat.
This mummer's farce had gone on for long enough. Crow reached out with his Aura, the headset would
not be enough to placate him. He touched Bezek's mind.
"Brother. Calm down. Calm yourself."
He gestured to the Protectorate Eaolin at the sides, shooting down the Humans at random, on Rier's
orders. The man with the eyepatch was relishing the chance to get his axe dirty, Crow could tell. The guns
were no fun. But no more for now. It was enough.
"Assist Lord Bezek and get to the next point. Go! Now!"
They nodded, spilling out into the street black booted feet on the cracked ground. Their destination was
the hotel. Like a tavern, but fancier, Rier had told him. They flanked Bezek, a small sea of black rushing to
the unprotected building, coaxing him with them.
"Come Brother."
"Follow us."
The Iirebos in Bezek's ear, though far from perfect, was a comfort. Relaxing, calming amid the sea of
unfamiliar voices and language that surrounded him. Crow watched him lumber, stumbling up the stone
steps of the hotel, batting aside the debris and bystanders that streamed out of the doors. They ran through
the rotating doors, inside.
On the roof, he breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was back under control.
"Brother. Stay there. Have them heal you. Let no-one leave."
In the lobby, the Eaolin men brandished guns, strange, hefty bags worn at their side. The swords and axes
strapped to their sides were for later. The Humans feared semi-automatics more. They fired high into the air,
screaming at the unfortunates still trapped inside, rounding them up, directing them with the barrel of their
guns, shouting in Dutch.
"Stay where you fucking are! Get in the fucking corner!"
A stout man, bespectacled, balding, tried to break loose, darting towards the glass rotating doors. The
chatter of gunfire stopped him in his tracks tainting the cold white marble. He took a few straining breaths
and died. The men were content to shoot anyone who didn't do as they were told.
As the squad took control, Bezek danced gleefully about the lobby, his wounds temporarily forgotten. He
whooped and giggled, smashing the walls, overturning the counters, arms flailing in unrestrained delight.
He was having fun in the midst of the unfolding bloodbath. Rier came over to him warily, his voice slow,
soothing, as Crow had told him.
"Lord Bezek. Have us assist you."
He withdrew a phial of liquid, a peculiar dark, brownish green.
 "Lord Crow gave this to us. It is of Lord Father's hand."
A great look of terror passed over Bezek's infantile, bloated features. He hated needles, it turned out. A
woman screamed, involuntarily perhaps from shock, a great sobbing, shrill heave amid the silence as the
hostages crept low to the floor. The rattle of machine gun fire sang out and shut her up.
"All of you - shut the fuck up or you're next!"
You could have heard a pin drop. Bezek nodded slowly, frowning as the man gently pushed the needle
into one of the bulbous, blue veins that crawled up his flabby arm..a small wail escaped him, biting his lip,
choking down tears.
"Good” the man soothed, “This shall help you."
He took a slow step back. The steam started rising from the wounds in Bezek's side, the bullet holes, red
punctures about his massive girth, began to close over. Bezek howled as it billowed, the heat searing into his
flesh. The other Eaolin took further, wary steps backwards.
He thrashed from side to side, writhing as his skin simmered, scorched red, the raw dark wounds,
shrinking boiling away. As the steam rose with such intensity, the hostages shifted uncomfortably from the
heat, shielding themselves from the fiery condensation that floated in the air.
His companion's words were soothing, encouraging,
"Lord Bezek. Lord Father himself specially prepared this. Do not fear, it shall be over soon."
Bezek stamped his foot and moaned, throwing his arms from side to side, eliciting a few shouts and
screams from the captives on the ground. The man turned, eyes bulging, spitting in fury as he screamed.
"Silence! Not another sound!"
He spoke true, the steam was slowing, diminishing. It rose into the space of the room, the ceiling starting
to drip as it cooled. Bezek took a few clumsy steps backwards and collapsed, grotesque, fat thumb in his
mouth, snoring gently as he curled up on the marble ground.
The other Eaolin shot each other knowing glances and made their way further into the building. Less than
fifteen minutes later, the residents and staff had been rounded up and shoved into one of the main
boardrooms, stripped of their technology and threatened with death if they even spoke.
Rier left the rest of the team guarding the hostages and the exits. Confident the hotel was secure, he
called Crow back.
He was waiting patiently, concealed perfectly out of sight just a few hundred metres away from the
sizeable police blockade that surrounded the hotel, yelling banal threats at the building through a
loudspeaker.
As his phone chimed, he looked up from his cigarette, stamping it to dull embers on the cold ground. It
was a filthy, Human habit. Had to stop it, really, had to. He cleared his throat before hitting the call button.
"Is it secure?"
"Yes Lord Crow. All exits are sealed. We've got hostages and men on all doors."
"How many hostages?"
Rier smiled, eyes gleaming, teeth fangs.
"We count forty-seven."
"Good. Splendid. The countdown begins now."
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"One every quarter hour. As Daem proposed. Keep it up until I call again. It's coming up to time now.
Best get ready. I'll be with you shortly."
"Yes, sir."
 Rier ended the call, before tapping in another number off of the bat. He had another call to make.
Another life to take. Such fun, to murder with your friends. He could have laughed at how well things were
going, even with that little Disciple fool playing boss. King, no, Daem, would be very pleased. He'd been
waiting for this day for years.

"Hand her over to us or Human lives shall be forfeit."

Yes. That was what Coil had been told. He fumbled for his phone, scrolling down the number that had
called him again. Tech didn't have much more information other than the fact that it was from a phone from
Brooklyn, recently activated number, false name and address.
He hadn't called it since, assuming it was Godfrey, behind some false threat. But why would he
coordinate an attack and go and sit so nonchalantly on a park bench in the middle of the city? One way to
find out.
The tone was buzzing down the line, punctuated by that strange voice, the weird accent he couldn't place.
"You remembered our terms?!"
Coil edged away from the speaker, wincing. He was yelling down the line, trying to make himself heard.
He could hear every breath and click of the tongue; he must have been holding it right up to his mouth. And
behind that voice. Was it screaming? Gunfire? Coil tapped Anders on the arm.
"Pull over. Get a tech team to trace this call."
Anders nodded, knowing better than to ask questions, flicking up the indicator and spinning the wheel,
gliding the van into the hard shoulder. Coil turned his attention to the phone.
"Are you responsible for what is happening at the Bluewater?"
"Absolutely. We have the building. If anyone other than those we approve attempt to enter, we shall kill
everyone inside. The building is rigged to explode."
Coil swallowed.
Multiple fatalities. It seemed these people weren't bluffing.
"Well, we certainly don't want that-"
"We want her."
Coil's mind raced.
"The Englander? What makes you think I'll hand her over?"
"What makes you think you have a choice?"
"How do we even know the hostages are alive?"
It was a purposely dumb question to end this volley of queries, but Coil needed all the intel he could get."
Anders gave him a thumbs up, whispering.
"Traced it."
Coil gestured back at him, questioning, mouthing.
"Bluewater?"
Anders nodded. Coil's mouth ran dry. No empty threats here.
"Don't worry about the hostages. Just tell your men to look up."
Coil reached for the radio.
"All units at Bluewater. What's happening on the roof?"
There was a momentary pause and then the radio crackled back to life.
"We have visual. One hostage up there."
 "Anything else?"
"She's got a megaphone."
Coil gritted his teeth, bringing his attention back to the phone.
"What are you playing at?"
"Just making sure you get the message."
The radio again.
"Sir, am patching you in now."
The voice was distraught, terrified, speaking out tremulously amid the crackle and whine of the
megaphone. With the added filter of the radio, it sounded like she was talking underwater.
"Humans. Be warned. You are sheltering an enemy of the Y..Ya..Yo-lin."
Eaolin. Had to be. Even through those terrified chords. A thousand thoughts flashed through Coil's mind.
The story was gaining more water with every word.
"B-bring the person we require here and your hostages..like..l- like this one shall be released. This is a
message."
He bit his lip. Anders was looking at him. There was another screech from the megaphone.
"D-Do, as we say or-, stop- no! WHAT ARE YOU-"
There was a nerve ending scream amplified through the feedback of the megaphone a whine and then
silence.
"Someone tell me what's going on up there!"
The voice on the other end was trying its best to remain level.
"Sir, she's gone."
"Gone?"
"Pushed, sir."
He felt as if all the energy had been drained out of him, sinking into the car seat, reaching with trembling
hands for the phone. The voice on the other end was mocking.
"Do you get the message? You don't deny us. Human lives are nothing to us. We are your masters. You
should have known better than to put the phone down on me."
"You fucking-"
"No more time for chat. Bring her to us. Every quarter of an hour we're kept waiting, we throw another
one off. Your choice. No time for negotiation."
"Wait!"
"I'm turning this phone off now. The clock is ticking. I suggest you hurry."
The line was dead. Anders looked at Coil's ashen face.
"What's happening?"
Coil pulled his senses together.
"Get us over to the Bluewater. Call off the operation on Godfrey. All eyes on the hotel."
"But-"
"JUST FUCKING DO IT."
He sprang into action. Fifteen minutes to save the next life.
"Divert all the traffic, get all the patrol cars on it. We've not got long."
He tried to shake off the despair. He’d scoffed at that first phone call, and now there was blood on his
hands.
"Put your damn foot down Anders!"
They sped away down Twelfth Street, breaking every traffic law in the book as they gained on the
cacophony ahead of them.
 CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Time for Marcus to show the Humans what he could do. He leapt off the park bench. The agents were
watching him, but with the milling of the crowd, would they pull a gun?
Oh, wait. American, of course, they would. Make it quick then. He moved, feet drumming, lungs
heaving, bearing down on the concrete path, on the grass verge, pumping his Aura across the muscles,
forcing them to leap high into the air.
Time slowed down as he pumped it through his head, bringing the world around him to a halt.
He felt the crowds’ reaction, some heads turning slowly, others still yet to react, frozen in wide-mouthed
confusion at the smoke overhead.
Marcus counted eight bullets. Less than a quarter had bothered to fire, distracted by whatever was
happening on the horizon.
Even like this, with his head roaring as he willed the water of the fountains to slow, caught in a fine spray
across the air, every beat of the bird's wings discernible as he charged past them, the bullets were fast,
impossible to see, a shimmer in the air.
But it was enough. He ducked under the first, sidestepped the second and avoided the rest entirely,
leaping off the path, the first screams of the crowd slowed, a low burr, like the warm up of some hideous
orchestra.
He was over the fence in a matter of seconds, or moments depending on how one looked at it, the coat
just missing the black, uninviting spikes that adorned the top. There was another volley of fire, the shots
small cannon booms behind him, but he was already far out of sight.
Marcus broke free, draining the heat from his head, time returning to normal, breaths heavy as the rush of
the street returned to him, some onlookers agape. His chest was burning. Had to quit the cigarettes, needed
to. The car was just a few hundred yards away.
Had to find Shani. Find her and sort out this mess. Any way they could.

Crow had finished the cigarette, extinguishing the stub on the rooftop under his feet. From the building,
he'd had an excellent viewpoint of the carnage below, watching as the buildings had toppled, and the
Humans had died.
He didn't know how to feel about that, so he chose not to. His stomach turned. Wait and see. It could go
either way. Whatever was about to happen, he couldn't stay here.
The Humans were setting up their weapons, training them on the roof. He would prefer somewhere a
little more sheltered. He needed to get to the hotel now. Rier had used him as a lookout, in essence. A
Disciple as a lookout. Rier was lucky Crow didn't feel like caring right now.
His skinchanging would let him stroll in, unheeded. In all the chaos, who would see someone running the
other way? He chose a face. Shrewish, shrunken and bald, with the remnants of brown hair around the
temples, a weak watery chin and green eyes. Someone he'd killed earlier.
Made his way down from the roof, past the empty rooms, the alarm screaming in his ear. In the street, the
Humans were either dead, dying or had run off. A few stragglers. Officers of the Human law and well-
wishers. Possible witnesses.
 And witnesses could not survive. If they weren't running away, they were dead. That was how it had to
be. Rier had made that point very clear. He fired the bow once, hitting one of the officers square in the chest.
Turned, used the crowd as cover. Changed skins again.
A tall, black man with a high bush of curled hair above his head. The clothes hadn't changed, but who
was paying attention? They were Human enough. Fire again. More down. More screaming. Confusion
running rampant.
New face. An elderly woman, an arrow shot from the hip. A young teenager with a mop of golden curls
plucking the bowstring. A squat woman with a shock of red, frizzy hair. An older man, with a large mole
plastered across his lip.
He ran through all the faces he could, changing rapidly, using the confusion. Crow had a thousand faces
to hide, within a thousand more. They were all running for cover now, screaming about a mystery shooter.
Chasing shadows.
He could see the hotel steps, firing once more at the retreating Humans. That was enough. Daem's little
plan, he begrudgingly accepted, was going well. Inside he went, quick as he could, feet light on the floor.
Changed his face back, to the one the Protectorate knew. To be shot now would be most unfortunate. Rier
was waiting for him
"Lord Crow. All going to plan. Bezek is just resting. We await the Usurper."
"I shall go to the roof, keep the Humans at bay. Keep an eye on things out there; stay here with your men.
Secure the Usurper and await my arrival as soon as you have her.
Yes. Then it would be quick. As to the point as possible. A sharp blade across the throat. Collect the
blood. Then..to whatever Lord Father needed next. And become head of the Protectorate.
Yes. That would do nicely. Probably. He could still taste the cigarette in his mouth. The taste of the
woman the night before. He shook his head. Nodded at Rier.
"As soon as you have her."
Crow turned tail and walked over to the stairs. Relented and chose the lift instead. He was too tired to
climb all that way. And he wouldn't be in any rush once the Usurper arrived. He smiled to himself bitterly.
And this Rier thought he could control him.
As he passed by Bezek's door, he reached out with his Aura, comforted him. This test was coming. There
was a good chance he'd die. Or that he'd live.
For Crow had decided. He was going to leave it to chance, now. He couldn't decide. This world. It had
such a grip on him. Such a dark, hateful hold. So he'd wait and see what the Usurper could do, before he
came to a decision.
But perhaps he already knew his answer.

Beyond the mad rantings and threats, Coil knew very little about the hostage-takers or why they wanted
the sedated English woman in the back of his car. She was still out of it; he'd tried to shout a few questions
at her through the partition, but had no reply.
What he was increasingly aware of however was the proximity of these terrorists. The first few blocks,
he'd seen the numbers dwindling off the streets, whether merry or despondent, wrapped up in the collection
of distractions that comprised of most of their everyday lives.
 The closer they got, however, the more the facade lifted, worried faces, hushed voices, mobile phones,
antennae out, searching for loved ones. The crowds grew forlorn, shocked and scarcer, scurrying past the
car, away from the commotion.
By the time, the duo reached the police cordon, the only indications of any sense of normality were the
colourful rows of cars being patiently diverted by the traffic cops away from the scene. Anders rolled down
the window, flashing his ID.
"I take it the area's all secured officer?"
The policewoman on duty nodded.
"Almost all the public has been evacuated. Two blocks on all sides. Few stragglers being rounded up
now. The usual lot."
Coil nodded, leaning past Anders to show his badge.
"Good work."
The praise went unnoticed, she looked nervously around, presumably trying to spot anyone else who
needed to be moved on.
"It's bad sir. Very bad."
No, Coil realised, she was nervous for her safety, eyes darting, looking for any dangers. Behind the
measured training and under the uniform was a brave face that was soon to break. Fear crept up his veins,
turning his blood to ice. Bad. The Big B.
"Thanks,"
Anders pulled away, leaving her to coordinate the police tape they were starting to drape down either end
of the street. It was getting lonelier, save for a few more police officers, running quietly back from the
Bluewater Plaza. They looked just as desperate to keep themselves together. The road was deserted, though
with all the signs of recent life now extinguished.
Papers and personal possessions were strewn here and there, presumably dropped by panicked crowds,
trying to get away, A few specks of blood, here and there, smashed windows and wailing fire alarms. The
smog from the next street, smoke and dust, was rolling over into their path, black fine particles in the wind.
Something was burning. The Bluewater Plaza was just round the corner, as they turned, the billowing
smoke grew thicker, a black floating flood that swirled across the windscreen. Anders cursed under his
breath.
"Jesus Christ."
Coil looked down at the pavement, the one visible feature amid the dust and the smoke. That was when
he saw the first body, head and shoulders obscured, legs poking, sprawled unnaturally, frozen silently on the
ground in the moment of the kill.
Something was protruding from its back, at first he thought it could have been a blade, but as they
crawled past, he gave a sharp intake of breath. He could better make out the shaft of an arrow, poking out
from the exposed flesh, dark black feathers crowning the kill. They didn't stand a chance.
Rush hour, one lunatic with a crossbow. Fish in a barrel. Heat crept up his face, sweat, shaking.
"Keep driving."
As they pushed forward, Coil could see more of the dead, lining the streets, newly slaughtered, not just
the victims of arrows but other weapons. Knives, perhaps? Cleavers? Axes? Great gashes across the torsos,
punctured, dismembered limbs absent from their owners. His head was reeling, Anders voice barely a
whisper next to him.
"Who's done this?"
"No firearms", Coil noted to himself out loud, taking large intakes of breath, holding back nausea as best
he could.
 He had to push everything to the back of his head. Emotion was unprofessional in this situation. There
would be time for soul searching later. Anders crawled down the road further. It was a laborious process as
he tried to manoeuvre the van past the carnage. Eventually, Coil grew frustrated.
"Why the fuck haven't they moved them?"
Anders thought about it.
"The smog I guess. All this smoke no way anyone can log a crime scene like this."
Yes, Coil thought savagely, crime scene. Keep it clinical. The shock had thrown him; suddenly the
remembrance of the death threats jolted him out of the stupor, going for his watch. Eight minutes till they
threw someone off again.
He looked at Anders.
"We're walking. Help me get her out of the back of the van."
"Are you sure-"
"Did I fucking stutter?"
Anders didn't say anything to that. He was a good agent who knew when to shut his mouth. He unclipped
his seat belt, van engine grinding to a halt, Coil following his lead as they stepped out of the vehicle.
As soon as he slid open the door, he felt the acrid sting of the smoke in his eyes and nostrils, burning. He
coughed and sneezed, reaching for his jacket, wrapping the sleeve around his mouth. Anders followed suit,
yelling at Coil through the muffled tones of his handkerchief.
"Keep moving! We can't hang around!"
They dashed around the side of the van, sidestepping one poor dead soul, yanking open the back doors.
Six minutes. Coil could feel the time pressure pushing down on him, just as the smoke washed over
everything, the contained air of the van billowing outwards.
The back of the van was empty, save for the handcuffs, now in pitiful fragments on the ground. The
moment Coil had processed this information was the same moment that he felt the cold steel at his neck.
"Where the hell were you?" said Marcus Godfrey.
He gestured behind him.
"Shani, keep an eye on the other one."
Almost on cue, the radio crackled to life.
"Sir. We've lost Godfrey at Centre Park."
Behind him, he could hear Shani Smith almost apologetically threatening Anders with a sword. He could
have cried. This was insane.
"You fucking bastard. You did this so you could get away. This whole thing was a set up. How'd you put
all these people up to this? Why?"
"I didn't. It was a good distraction, but I just took the opportunity. Now you're giving Shani back, I guess
we'll be on our way."
"Wait. They want her."
"Obviously."
Coil's mind was reeling. Not just the smoke, but desperation. He wanted to cry. Wasn't sure if he could
blame the smoke.
"If we don't hand her over, they're going to kill everyone in the Bluewater. There's no time.."
"Is that a plea for help?"
"It's an offer. You hand her over to me, and I let you go. All charges dropped. You leave a free man."
"That's the stupidest thing I've heard all day. I already have her and quite frankly, I've already escaped
from your lot today. And you and I both know you're lying about dropping charges."
"I swear-"
 "No, but here's a better idea. You get me in the Bluewater; I'll save your hostages and kill the whole lot of
them in there. Free of charge."
Coil blinked. Godfrey smiled at him.
"Tempted?"
"Why would-"
"Oh, do keep up you stupid twat. Because that's what I'm going to have to do, obviously."
 CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The sedative was almost out of Shani's system, save for a slight numbing in the back of her head. She
breathed, running the plan - the stupid plan - through her head again for the umpteenth time.
Pretend to give herself over to the Protectorate members and the Disciples and then? Not do that. Let
Marcus handle the rest while she sat down and took a break. Genius. She could feel Hyxarn's cold touch, the
sheath strapped to the side of her leg, beneath her trousers.
Coil was cooperating with Marcus. With all the chaos, there hadn't been much time to think the whole
thing through. A desperate alliance. She was following the FIA agents now, in unlocked handcuffs, Coil was
bluffing his way through, throwing his voice and badge around.
"NO QUESTIONS, top authority. Move!"
This last statement he directed at the lead officer standing at the very front of the police cordon.
Right now, everyone had other stuff on their plate, so few were appreciative of Coil bulldozing through
them with her in tow. She glanced at the stricken building, caught in a horrified awe. It looked so peculiar,
sprawled like that. Dead and smoking across the length of the street.
Firemen and rescue teams were swarming over it, trying to pull out all they could, coated in soot, black-
faced, despairing. Shani didn't miss the sight of the black body bags being carried away from the hastily
erected tents, not the blood and dust that seemed to cake everything in sight.
One Eaolin did all of this. She could feel the Aura all about the building. Just one. A Disciple.
Coil muttered at her in her ear.
"I think I'm starting to believe in your bullshit."
It was the worst thing she'd heard all day. She couldn't shake the Aura in the air and on the rubble like
fingerprints left behind. Something twisted, amused. Shani shook her head, trying to hold back the panic.
The world around her felt distant, her body numb.
"You might think yourself Human", Marcus had once told her, “but soon you'll start seeing the world as a
Eaolin. You will be so much more."
She caught a glimpse of herself in the window of a shop in the street as they passed. Disheveled, hair
unkempt. Wide-eyed from tiredness and the weight of the day's events. But there was something else there.
The face that stared back at her was not Shani Smith, the Human. Not just that, not anymore. The world
drew back into focus. Suddenly, the presence of Hyxarn strapped to her side did not frighten her; rather it
was comforting.
The disarray and suffering around her. She could stop it. Yes, that was what she could do. Shani the
Human had snuck away somewhere, leaving the Eaolin to fight the good fight.
She felt Coil push her to the front of the cordon line, the Bluewater Hotel rising in front, ears ringing as
Coil turned on his megaphone and started to speak.
"Release the hostages!"
There was a pause. A minute. A chaos without noise. Shani could feel the Eaolin inside, Aura. Lots of
them. No sign of Marcus, shielding himself, withdrawn in a dark corner somewhere, waiting.
Then the doors of the Bluewater creaked open to reveal a vast crowd of people. All professions, ages, and
races. Perfectly still in their crowd, flanked by a group of Eaolin, balaclavas, blades held to the necks of as
many as possible, little interest in subtlety. They'd gotten rid of the guns and gone for the old school swords.
Coil took a step forward; Shani didn't need Aura to tell he was nervous.
"No need for this. We do a trade, right now."
An officer was shouting in their direction.
"Sir, who's this woman? What's going on?"
 He ignored it. The tallest one seemed to speak for the group. His accent was strange, but Shani knew it.
Iirebos impressed on Dutch. Not a Disciple then. They only spoke Iirebos.
"Half now. Then the rest of them once we're back inside. One wrong move and we kill them all."
Coil nodded.
"Agreed."
The man gestured. Half of the Eaolin sheathed their blades, gesturing and kicking the terrified Humans
away from them with malice. They streamed past Coil and Shani, down the stairs, to the waiting police
officers. Coil gestured at her.
"Get moving. Good luck."
He pushed her forward, the tallest of the balaclavas taking a prudent step-down, a large ceremonial axe
heavy in his grip. Shani stumbled up the steps, past the gun-wielding line of Americans to this even stranger
group of enemies.
The owner of the Aura on the rubble wasn't among their number, she determined. No Disciples here. Just
the grunts.
They were waiting inside for her. A vice grip, squeezing her forearm painfully from the leader. She
sensed the man's arrogance, a cloying, overpowering Aura, he pulled her into a tighter grip, axe edge around
her throat.
"We've been expecting you."
A sour breath in her ear. Coil was still ranting through the megaphone behind Shani, oblivious to the
exchange of words.
"Now, please. Release the hostages as we agreed."
He didn't even offer him a second glance, instead electing to frog march Shani up the stone steps, still
hissing in his ear, Iirebos flicking the side of his face with that foul saliva.
"The Disciples are waiting for you inside."
She didn't say anything, too focused on Coil's frantic shouting as the group of Eaolin turned away.
Pulling the other hostages back inside the doors with them. She caught a final glimpse of Coil's ashen face at
the point of screaming into the megaphone before she too was dragged inside.

Any grandeur of the Bluewater was barely present within the carnage that had enveloped it. The drapes
were torn to shreds by the blades, chairs overturned, lush mahogany carpets reddened further.
Portraits watched the scene from afar, disapprovingly, their eyes scratched out, canvases torn to ribbons.
The stench of death, a sickly sweetness that blanketed the air. Human hostages were huddled in the corner,
bedraggled, unshaven, soiled. Several bodies were piled up in the corner of the room, unloved in their
haphazard stacking.
Shani felt the man release his grip on her arm, pushing her forward into the centre of the oval lobby. Free,
at least, from that malodorous breath. They all pulled off the balaclavas. So many different faces, colours
and genders. The tallest revealed himself as a bearded, wolfish man, with an eyepatch and a mane of black
hair.
The Eaolin laughed, a mocking cacophony that bounced, echoed up the sprawling marble stairways and
the high glass ceilings.
 "She thinks herself fit to sit on the Golden Throne?", a pug-nosed, thin woman leered, a short spear
dancing in the air masterfully, testing her mettle. It whipped across Shani's face, missing her by millimetres.
She bit her lip, trying not to flinch, glaring.
Not to react. Marcus had told her, they wouldn't dare lay a finger on her. Make no trouble, until he
showed up. The woman leered, gesturing back at her comrades.
"She is no Eaolin. Just some Human with high designs. Perhaps I should slit her filthy throat here and
now."
The man with the eyepatch barked at her.
"Hold your hand, Fifth-Daughter! The Disciples have her life. We don't interfere with their mission."
The woman scoffed, drawing back ever so slightly.
"Might be Lord Father makes us all his Disciples, Master Rier? And time is running out. How many will
have to fall to this blood tribute if she does not die?"
She could sense a strange Aura from the top floor of the hotel, aware of her, looking at her. A few
minutes away at most. Top floor. But it wasn't moving. Why? And another one..yes..the same as on the
rubble. Lower down.
"A better idea then", the woman grunted, stepping forward from the circle, "We get some sport with these
Humans, Rier. No good to you are they?"
The one called Rier tapped his foot impatiently.
"Enough. For One's sake, where is Lord Crow? What is he doing?"
Shani knew the gaggle of distressed hostages in the corner of the room couldn't understand a word of the
Iirebos, but the meanings and gestures were universal. The tears and begging were breaking out across the
sickly, colourless faces, not just in Dutch, but Chinese, French..the Bluewater's clientele, summoned from
every corner of the globe.
"I have money!", one young blonde woman in a blue dress, stained and tattered was screaming, "I'll give
all of it to you, just please don't kill me!"
Rier, the eye-patched man, laughed at that, translating to the less Dutch-linguistic in the crowd.
"The Human woman offers me all her riches. Every piece of treasure."
"The only good Human is a dead one", another Eaolin called out mockingly, "The greatest gift she can
give is her filthy blood all over the floor."
One of the Eaolin, the woman again, with the spear and burning eyes, strode forward, yanking the mass
of shrieking, blonde hair, the spearhead at her chest.
In an instant, it had opened the woman's neck wide, a second, dribbling smile.
"NO!"
Shani wasn't sure who had shouted so loudly or with such denial until she realised it was herself. She was
surging forward, Hyxarn pulled loose from the sheath strapped to her trouser leg, the tape that had held it to
her shin ripping away at skin and hair and jeans. One denim leg was in tatters, Hyxarn breaking out from the
fabric, tearing away.
But she barely felt it. Time had slowed down, her head was buzzing, pulsing, every detail in the air
around her frozen in motion, this blonde Human woman falling forward, eyes rolling in the back of her
head.
She didn't want this. Not anymore. Not ever.
The other Eaolin were still slow, moving in shock, faster than the Humans who were frozen in motion,
but caught unaware.
Hyxarn loosened the forearm around the handle of the spear, flesh and bone sheared away. The Eaolin
woman's hand was hanging limply, by a stringy flash of red and white. With a second swing, Shani tore the
whole arm away; it fell through the air, away from its owner.
 The blond head of the Human was still arcing back, gaping hole in the neck already glistening as the
blood rose to meet the air.
"You can save her."
It was that unknown voice in the back of her head, the same one that had saved her in the forest of the
dead. Not confidence, nor hope. It was absolute truth. She could save her. She knew.
Dropping Hyxarn, Shani felt the Aura turn her fingers hot, channelling all she could as she caught the
Human, cradling the blonde head in her lap, a river of blood. She placed her hands on the wound, bathing
her fingers red and willed the flesh to join.
And it did. The other Eaolin froze; agape as Shani felt the warmth travelling down her hand, even as the
chill of death rose to claim this stranger. She had seen many people die. This would not be one of them.
The strands of tissue were weaving back together deftly, the gap in the neck closing, even as the blonde
head convulsed, Shani held her firmly. The stares of everyone in the room were on her, the unease of the
Eaolin to come closer, even though Hyxarn lay at her side, temporarily forgotten. The Eaolin woman,
cradling her lost arm was moaning for a bloodscroll from her stunned comrades; her pleas went unheeded.
The wound had closed, not even the faintest red line on the fake tanned, thin neck of this Human. She
wasn't breathing, so Shani made her breath, Aura exploring the empty cavern of her veins, squeezing the
heart, feeling her take control of the body. Aescyme and Ilenir. Together, she brought life.
The breaths were weak at first, inaudible gulps, but in a few seconds, the Human was reeling, gasping for
the air. Shani felt the buzzing in her head dying down, the sounds around her to screams of anguish and
warning. Intent to kill.
She turned, the now-armless Eaolin woman lunging at her, the spear held clumsily in her remaining hand,
off balance. The sound of panic behind her. They were going to the Humans, like lambs to the slaughter, she
realised with a stab of horror, barely aware of the moment in which she sidestepped the lazy slash of the
spearhead and thrust Hyxarn through the bitch's cheek.
She tried to will the buzzing back, for time to slow down again, but only felt a sharp, dull pain under the
immense exhaustion. They were feet away, converging on the bawling crowd.
But they didn't get there in time. Astigan carved into air, flesh and bone, Marcus tackling the onlooker,
grunting as he met their mass with his considerable own, emerging from one of the side doors.
Two had fallen; he was duelling four more. Shani had never seen him fight, not properly, against those
who knew how to wield their blades. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcus dodged, wheeled, slashing and
stabbing as the Humans cowered back in fear into the walls as far as they could go, scrambling for coveted
spots at the back.
She saw one of the blade edges miss him by a hair's breadth and saw him react with alarm, pulling back
warily even as they came in, pushed on the defensive. He couldn't do it alone.
She focused on Rier, the one with the eyepatch, axe swing aimed at Marcus. Throwing herself towards
the impact with a less than calculated parry with Hyxarn, the force of the axe as it bounced back narrowly
missing the pair of them.
She sped back towards Rier, Hyxarn raised, Marcus using the opportunity to even the odds; another body
hit the floor, the pressure falling. Rier was fast. Shani could just see the axe arching down towards her
midriff-She spun away, feet wheeling, and moved towards him, Hyxarn in place, he was a black blur in her
eyes.
The sword smashed into the solid face of the axe, Rier grunted and brought the axe round in a deadly
horizontal curve. The heavy edge could have easily torn Shani half, but she just ducked out of the way, the
roar of the axe in the air echoed around the lobby.
 The axe smashed with a deafening crash into the side of the hall wall. Shani realised. She had tricked
him, somehow, without even knowing she'd planned to. With the axe wedged into the wall, he was
defenceless.
He strained to wrench it from the wall, but it was firmly impacted in the old stone and wood. This
struggle brought her the milliseconds she needed. Shani brought Hyxarn up with all her might towards the
man's throat.
She got her bloody satisfaction spinning on the back foot for more force, pushing the kill through to the
end. A song of battle was singing in her head, Hyxarn at her side. She felt Marcus finish with the last of the
group, the enemy Auras hissing and dying around her.
They turned to face the final three. They were still unaware, unsure, hovering, the weapons tight in their
grasp. They were the leftovers, Shani realised. None of the ceremonial clothes of the others, all jeans and
shirts. Groupies, along for the ride.
She looked into the eyes of the youngest one, Younger than here, almost a kid. And terrified. Marcus
cleared his throat, Iirebos blazing.
"There is no shame in surrender. Throw down your weapons and leave."
They paused, conferring, speaking back his words slowly among themselves. Marcus rolled his eyes,
switching to Dutch.
"Is this better? Put your fucking weapons down and we don't have to kill you."
The oldest one nodded uncertainly, an unshaven young man with blue eyes and curly hair, whose clothes
were Human even if his blood was not.
"Thank you."
The swords clattered to the floor, they turned tail and fled down the steps to the police cordon outside. It
was like a call to arms, Shani screamed at the unwashed group of shaken Human faces.
"GO! Get out of here!"
They took uncertain steps past her before breaking into full-blown sprints, dashing out in the direction of
their ex-captors. In a few precious seconds, the lobby was empty, silent save for the wail of police cars
outside.
Marcus scowled.
"I wish you hadn't done that Shani."
"Why?"
"Because now there's absolutely no reason for the police-"
Windows were smashing, SWAT teams, gunmen armed head to toe in full black get-up. Shani was
yanked aside by Marcus up the stairs, but too late as the black mass screamed at them, over a dozen gun
barrels aimed in their general direction. No way to dodge that many.
"Get down on the ground!"
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
They relented, falling to their knees, hands on their heads.
"Sir!"
The shout came from behind Shani; Coil was running out of breath into the lobby, waving papers and ID.
"Stand aside, you shitheads. Coming through!"
Shani felt handcuffs clamp around her wrists, a ceremonial gesture if anything. Coil paused.
"Take the cuffs off."
The officer blinked. “Sir, I-"
"That's a fucking order."
The steel stopped biting into her wrists, almost as soon as it had started. Coil gave Marcus a stern nod.
"You scratch my back..you say there's two more inside?"
 Marcus grinned.
"Two more of our lot. Your men should stay away and let me deal with it if you know what’s good for
you.."
"Uh huh? Well, you've got five minutes. Then we're storming the rest of the building. Five minutes. Then
we're coming after you."
"Fine. Five minutes. Got it."
Marcus was dashing up the staircase, Astigan up, his Aura flaring, tending to the deep cuts and gashes
from the last fight. Shani could feel the flames spitting, forcing the wounds to heal, struggling.
"Marcus! Slow down! You're hurt!"
"Never mind me! You stay down here-"
"No!"
He stopped in his tracks, weighing up Astigan in his grip.
"It's too dangerous."
"That's never stopped me before!"
"We have no idea who's up there and you're the biggest target going-"
"Look time's running out. Five minutes, right? I'm coming, and that's that. Got it?"
Marcus paused. And relented
"Fine. But stay behind me, no heroics. We'll start with the one three floors up.."
And they ran up the stairs.
 CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

So many rooms and corridors. They were a blur, the pair running down them, numbers on all sides,
running past them, counting up and down. It didn't matter. They were both following the Aura. It was
stationary, on this floor indeed. Waiting for them.
They'd reached a large door at the end of the corridor. Thick, ivory handles. Marcus nodded, hands
turning on the handle. It opened with a slow creak. In the centre of the room, very much preoccupied with
the buzz of a television set in the corner of the room was a Disciple. Yes, the same white robes as the girl.
Shani couldn't hide a gasp. He was huge, the biggest man she had ever seen, his legs were like tree
trunks, hands the size of dogs held in his lap. The face turned to face them. She swallowed. The same scars
and welts trailed across a squat, bald face. Two deep brown eyes and a lipless mouth. Grinning at them. A
Burned Child, a Disciple. Another enemy.
Marcus drew Astigan.
"We've come to kill you."
Shani swallowed. Yes, the same burns and welts. Skin melted, the features barely visible. Her stomach
crawled. The scarred giant didn't have a response to Marcus' statement. He was still grinning inanely, mouth
opening to speak.
Shani was expecting a low, guttural groan. It was so high pitched and innocent that it set the hairs on the
back of her neck in a standing ovation. And the words. They were hardly a sentence, incoherent words.
Iirebos.
"You..like..like?"
Shani looked at the television set. It was an episode of that show, the one for kids, with the dog that
solved mysteries. The Disciple was miming along with it; hands outstretched, with the actions. His attention
didn't seem to be with them, Shani leaned over, whispering.
"What do we do Marcus?"
He was just as caught unawares as she was.
"I-"
There was the sound of the flush of a toilet in the adjacent bathroom. Yes, another Eaolin, they'd been so
busy focusing on the Disciple, they'd missed his Aura. He walked in, zipping up his fly.
"Master Bezek, what shall I-"
Marcus turned, Astigan carving across the startled man's chest before he could react, the sword at his side
not even drawn. It kept travelling, meeting the television set.
"ENOUGH FUCKING AROUND!"
Blue's Clues (oh yes that was it) ended abruptly, the TV smashed.
The Disciple stood up. Bawling. The sound made Shani's teeth jitter. It was just like a small child, an
infantile klaxon. What was going on? Big tears rolling down scarred cheeks. Marcus lost it, Astigan at his
side. Shani screamed at him.
"Marcus stop!"
He heeded her warning too late, Astigan swinging at the giant. The leathery melded fingers pinned the
sword against the wall, massive hands swatting it away. Marcus tried to wrench the blade away, but it was
useless.
"BAD MAN!"
The Disciple span, his leg given horrendous momentum, foot powered into the side of Marcus's head
with a sickening crunch. It was a frightening blow, bone met bone with such force that Shani turned cold.
 Shani leapt at the giant, mistakenly seeing an opening in his attention. She whipped Hyxarn round,
clenched in her right hand-
He easily evaded her swipe, returning the force with his palm. Shani raised her arms in a panicked
defence, absorbing most of the blow, but the sheer power of the strike sent her backwards into the wall once
more.
Something in her back had popped; she set the Ilenir to work, felt the burning rush down her spine,
soothing the pain. She gritted her teeth, spitting blood. This creature, for all of his bulk and his manner,
performed so effortlessly. There was impossible, unthinkable might in his assaults.
He eyed her nervously, like a baby at a petting zoo. But..such childishness. The giant examined the blade
that he had wrenched from Marcus's grip.
"YAY!"
Astigan hit the ground in the corner of the room, a good five metres away. Marcus rose to his feet,
ignoring the stout stem of blood that was slowly starting to dwindle from his nose.
"You're a smug fucker, aren't you?"
"Marcus! Don't! You're hurt, let me-"
But he lunged, close to the floor, trying to reclaim Astigan. The Disciple smiled. The bait had been taken.
His hand came up, a fierce uppercut.
Marcus spat blood as it crunched abominably into his abdomen. Outwitted by this..Disciple. This child,
really. Marcus wasn't thinking. Shani could see. He was letting rage get the better of him, and now he didn't
have Astigan- He wasn't as strong as this creature. Not even close.
And the giant brought his fist down to the floor. There was what sounded like the burst of a cannon;
Shani felt her eardrums pop as the whole room shook. He was showing off, pounding significant chunks
away from the concrete of the walls and the floor. Reminding them of his strength.
They struggled to find their footing. He was moving in, straight towards Marcus. Shani understood–
Marcus was whom he wanted to hurt. Make suffer. He was the one who had made Bezek angry - and like
any petulant child, he was after payback.
The Disciple leant in, his hands wrapped around Marcus's hair, wrenching him up off the ground, who
roared back in pain. Marcus tried to hit him, but those meaty, broad hands just plucked his fist out of mid-
air.
A sneer.
"NO, HIT!"
Marcus's arm cracked; he whimpered. The giant laughed, releasing his vice grip, and Marcus hit the
floor, stirring feebly on the ground. Shani edged closer, Hyxarn in hand.
"Stop it! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"
"YOU LIKE BAD MAN?"
The foot came down, crushing Marcus's chest, grinding into his ribcage, he screamed.
"BAD MAN! BAD MAN DIE!"
"MARCUS!"
Shani charged, ready to strike him again with Hyxarn. The giant turned; eyes filled with glee. All a game.
But Shani was playing it too.
As she darted forward, she pressed the blade into the palm of her hand, and wiped it across the carving on
the handle. The handle burned against the wound and the blade exploded with the flames. She stopped a
metre from him.
 The giant's expression changed in an instant. Suddenly, the room was alight and he was a terrified child,
shaking like a leaf, stepping back from Marcus. Shani merely touched the wall with the tip of the blade and
it went up in flames, the whole room illuminated, heat creating waves in the air. She didn't need to try and
sound threatening.
"YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE, OR I'LL DO THIS TO YOU! YOU HEAR ME?"
The Disciple stamped his foot, face scrunched up, red. His fists were clenched, cheeks wet.
"NO!! NO!! BAD MAN DIE!! NO! NO! "
"I'M NOT KIDDING!"
Shani waved the blade threateningly, fire carving across the air, great swings of heat and light. The
flames seemed more ferocious than before, in greater number and in power, the floor was blazing. Marcus
raised himself slowly off the ground, trying to speak.
"Sh-Shani..stop it.."
"NO TALK! NO TALK!"
The giant screamed at Marcus, taking another step forward, gigantic foot raised, ready to crush him
again.
"MARCUS!"
Shani was in front of the Disciple, slashing Hyxarn across the giant's face, the red-hot tip meeting his ear
to his forehead, a brand new burn in the canvas of warped flesh. He screamed, a shrill, hellish sound that set
her hair on end, edging backwards. He kept screaming, Shani waved the burning blade again, moving in.
"DON'T YOU TRY AND TOUCH HIM AGAIN!"
She tried to move again, but found she couldn't. Some unseen force had taken all the energy from her
legs, suddenly she was on the ground, the burning blade still in hand. What had happened? She couldn't
move..
But Marcus had pulled himself to his feet. He took Astigan and struck, taking advantage of the Disciple's
writhing and crying, mourning at the molten scar that dripped boiling blood over the hood of his robes.
Right into the base of his fleshy neck. A white, scarred cocoon, carved open. The Disciple howled,
squirming as the sword wound wept dark red.
"N-o not...FAIR!"
Twice with Astigan. Red, silver and white. The giant screamed, mouth agape.
"N-n."
"Not fair", Marcus said.
Three times. Then four. It took Marcus almost six attempts to break through the muscle and bone of the
Disciple's neck. He panted, eyes manic from the strain and the pain, the gigantic head separated from his
shoulders. Wiping his brow clean of a mix of blood and dust, Marcus looked at her.
"Shani, stop it now. Turn it off, release it!"
Shani couldn't move her arms. Everything felt numb. Cold. Barely enough strength to speak. The only
warmth was in the sword, still spitting fire and heat. She tried to dampen the power, drain the sword of the
flames with her willpower.
"I-I can't!"
"SHANI, TURN IT OFF NOW!"
"I-"
Marcus was at her side, ignoring the heat of the dwindling flames, dust-caked face white, looking right at
her.
"Shani-"
She screamed, recoiling as she felt cold waves pierce her face, shooting right through her whole being-
 The whole world was falling away. Marcus had her in his arms, running with her, shouting. She tried to
tell him something.
Then she died.

IN ANOTHER WORLD

Atop the Golden Throne, Lord Father was poised, Aura spread out across the vastness of the room.
Emese and Wolff looked on, still kneeling silently; heads bowed as ever.
"I no longer sense your brothers, my children. The Sight is failing me - or it means their fates are
decided. No doubt the Usurper's dark influence has found them too. Your sins have brought the fury of the
Great One down on us all."
They knew better than to respond. They knew the tantrums, the vitriol, were only soon to be inflamed.
"What are left of my Burned Children? A eunuch and a whore."
Emese could sense anger bubbling in Wolff's veins at the taunts, with the dread she knew Lord Father
would sense it too. She inched her bow, down, deeper, her spine protesting painfully.
"Mercy, Lord Father. Aleron is merciful."
"Mercy is to be earned, slut. How dare you raise your voice at me! You shall learn the-"
There was a vast crack, at the first instant; Emese thought with horror that Wolff had struck out at Lord
Father in anger, but he looked at her just as confused as she was.
The Golden Throne was crackling, high white sparks and flames that licked at the robed, wizened ankles
of Lord Father. He screamed and yelled, batting at them in pain and confusion. "What is this? What have
you done?!"
Emese ran forward, panicking.
"My Lord! My Lord Father, what can I do?"
"It rejects him!", Wolff breathed aghast.
"The Throne rejects him!"
There was another crack and a flash, a clap of thunder that sent them all reeling, crying out, as the figure
fell, cast out from the heights of the white marble and oak seat by some invisible force.
For a few, peculiar moments he seemed to float in mid-air, white robes flying, muscles contorted back
amid the flashes and bangs of the throne as the lightning danced amid the seat.
Then he dropped like a stone. With a sickening sound, the broken body of the old man writhed on the
floor, limbs splayed, choking through blood and bile, each word stuttered, distorted through lost teeth and a
broken jaw.
"Emese..heal me...quickly.."
Wolff grabbed her wrist.
"The Golden Throne has rejected him. You know that means. It means-"
She looked at him.
"He is still our Lord Father. We serve him. Remember our vows."
Aleron was croaking through a reedy, bloodied splutter."
"The Usurper. This is on her hand, do you understand? Some dark force, trying to destroy my will. A
blood ritual, perhaps.."
"I understand, Lord Father."
 She brought out the scrolls and blades for an Ilenir ritual from the inside of her robes. His children's
blood for his own. The old eyes were so confident, still mocking her even through the pain.
"Tend to me. Hurry, girl, what are you waiting for?"
She leaned in, taking the old man's hand tenderly. It felt clammy, lifeless and cold. For a moment, her
head tilted to his, lips brushing the puckered forehead.
"This pain shall pass Lord Father."
Then she took the blade and brought it firmly across the wrinkled throat in one fluid motion. The skin
tore so smoothly that for the briefest of moments, no blood flowed, the small gasp of the man almost
musical as it hovered in the new opening.
Then it poured forth, staining her white robes glorious crimson. She stood up quickly, turning from
Wolff's quiet eyes.
"Lord Father has taken to his room. A deathly sickness. No one shall see him."
"What have you done?!"
"What you, with all your agonising and your bravado could not. The Throne rejected him. You know
what that means. He is false. False as the Redcloaks always knew. Help me. We'll bury the body and wait."
"Wait for what?” Wolff said, thickly.
The room seemed smaller, less grandiose as the shrunken man bled silently, glazed eyes laughing at them
behind the scars. If she didn't know any better, she might have thought he was smiling. Wolff tugged her
arm.
"Wait for what?"
"For her. For Lord Mother. Our true Chosen."
If he could have taken her then, in that bloodied hall, Wolff would have. Mutilated as he was, they could
only embrace piteously, clutching each other even as they took the old man away and buried him in the
forests under the cover of darkness, waiting for whatever the dawn would bring.
 CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

SOMEWHERE

It was dark, so dark in fact that Shani could not see herself or the environment around her. The throbbing
sensation in her temple had subsided but blind as she was, she had no idea where she had come from and no
idea where she had been going.
A hotel room. Something said. Why had she been there? She was laying flat on her back, at least, she
thought so, blinking through eyes that perhaps were not there. Nothing. Nothing at all-
"SHANI! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
A voice. A man's voice. Northern. Strange. Familiar. She tried to open her mouth to speak but found she
didn't have a throat or a mouth, attempted to pull herself up with arms and legs that simply weren't there.
Shani was falling backwards, forwards writhing and steadily still. A face swam in front of her mind,
enveloping her whole being. A sneering boy, pieces of loose stone shards dashed upon a gloating laugh.
Bill Grange. The worst day. She was being pulled; kicking and screaming into that past she'd tried too
hard to erase herself from.

It had been a class trip to the Scottish castle town, an hour and a half drive from the school in Aberdeen.
Some geography class, they had raced raindrops on the windows as the coach made its way down the
motorway.
How many years ago had it been now? She couldn't recall. But she remembered the vivid light of a lazy
afternoon sun behind the dappled trees. A memory as mocking as ever, dark and insoluble. They had all
been put into groups, Shani forgot why, with the purpose of finding wildlife in the streams and ponds around
the forest. Catching newts, toads, minnows, sketching some pictures for a project book.
The more nervous children had edged cautiously around the water, preferring not to get wet, while others
whooped and shrieked, tiny hands snatching the cold water, scouring for life. Shani couldn't recall who she'd
been partnered with, some round-faced girl with pigtails whose face had faded gradually into memory,
leaving just her hair and oversized school uniform.
They had finished pencilling in their latest discovery - a sliver of tadpoles and frogspawn nestling under a
dark stone in the water, covered with moss and undisturbed until now.
Shani had picked up the stone to take a closer look at the inhabitants underneath it, feeling the smooth,
mossy surface. The pair of them had marvelled as they wheeled and spurted out in the blind panic, from
forces they could not comprehend encroaching on their existence.
It had started with the piteous mewing, at first indiscernible from the barrage of birdsong around them,
but clearer as the children played on.
Shani's companion had spotted it first, a flash of matted, dull orange amid the shock of vines and fern
leaves. A tiny fox cub curled up in a ball.
At first, the children had surrounded it with a sense of wonder, which soon dissolved into disgust and
loathing. Peered at its misshapen face and missing ear, screeching at the top of its tiny lungs for something
that would not answer, with so much effort that some of the children cried too.
Immediately the chaos started. A few of the children were screaming at each other, falling back in alarm
into the woods, the more sensible ones urging their classmates to leave it alone, others egging each other on
to touch it.
 Bill Grange and his gang of supporters had circled it, prodding and laughing.
He'd picked it up, amusement turning to derision at the grotesque little thing kept bawling through eyes
that would never open. Some of the girls were screaming at him to put it down, another throng laughing and
squealing.
Bill met his detractors with venom.
"Shut up you spastics. My dad kills foxes all the time; you're all just wusses!"
Shani had eased forward; trying to get a closer look at the bundle of patchy fur in Grange's beefy hands
but was pushed away by the larger boy.
"Piss off Shani, you black bitch."
The chant grew, predictably, not just at Shani's expense, but a call to action.
"Black bitch, weird bitch, Shani Smith's a big bitch!"
White-hot hatred had crawled up her skin, burning her cheeks. The other children were still squealing,
squabbling among themselves.
Then Bill, perhaps sensing that the spotlight had left him in favour of the chant, threw the fox cub hard at
Shani's feet with one final jeer of "bitch!"
It had flopped lifelessly over her wet sandals, piteous in its death throes as it had been in life.
It found relief when Bill stood on its head, miniature hush puppies sparking the gristly crack of bone.
The other boys in the circle were all getting involved, kicking and stamping, laughing among themselves
as the other members of the class watched, torn between anger, amusement and tears.
Then Grange had turned his attention to Shani, feet waving dangerously in her direction, coated with
something reddish and foul smelling.
"You're next, black bitch!"
The anger had been all over her, burning hot, impossibly hot. The shout had gone up though she didn't
know whom from.
"Have her Bill!"
"Whack him Shani!"
The eruption brought in fighting among the class, with shouts of support cut short as Bill kicked Shani
hard in the stomach. Wind knocked out of her as she blinked back furious tears, doubled up in agony as the
boy stepped around her cautiously, basking in the shouts and cheers.
Then Shani had hit him back.
Hard in the head, she could still feel the impact in her fingers, as the boy gloated she had been taken alive
by some invisible force, body no longer responding to reason, even as her brain screamed at her to stop,
fearing retribution.
Some other part had taken over her as she hit him. Again. Again. Then, as the cheers turned to screams
and wails, shocked silences and the shouts from afar. And then Shani had realised.
She had still been clutching the river's stone, pale green moss now stained red as Bill's lifeless little body
slumped to the water's edge, half submerged in the ebb of the stream.
That was the worst day and even now, Shani felt the tears, choking in the back of her missing throat.
The memory faded and she shrank back into the cloud of blackness, alone and forgotten.

◑
 "SHANI! SHANI! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
"Marcus? How?"
Yes. Marcus. She'd remembered. The darkness that clutched her was clearing, loosening. Her ears rang.
"Stop shouting!"
"Sorry. Is this better?"
"Where am I?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter?!"
Look, the Disciple's dead. The other one's done a runner. But you've just got just to keep talking to me.
Keep talking, you understand?"
She didn't miss the fear in that commanding tone, the fuzz of the dreams lifting. Yes, she was in the hotel
room and then she'd used Hyxarn...
"What's happened to me, Marcus?"
"I can't tell you."
"Yes! Yes, you bloody well can!"
"Look. Don't panic. I just need you to keep calm."
As Shani struggled to understand her surroundings, she began to realise.
"I can't feel anything. I can't see anything. Am I dead? Is that is? Am I?"
"No. Don't be fucking ridiculous, course you're not dead. But you will be unless you do as I say!"
"Please Marcus, please tell me what's happened."
"Hyxarn. It's done something. I don't know what-"
Some great buzzing drowned out Marcus, silent yet so loud it cut her.
"I can't hear you."
"Just keep your attention on me. I'm tethered to your Aura, anchoring you to your body, but I do need
you just to stay still."
"Tethered?"
"Blood link. And one vein to another, I'm not exactly in much of a better condition myself. The fucker's
roughed me up."
"How bad is it?"
"Just a few scrolls, I'll be fine."
"Not you! ME!"
"Honestly?"
"Yes, honestly!"
"In Human terms, you've been dead for about three minutes."
"What?!"
The darkness was drowning everything out.
"FOCUS ON MY VOICE!"
"I am! I am! What do you mean dead?"
"Hyxarn's done something, I don't quite know what. Drained you somehow. Your body has shut down
completely, but I'm keeping you alive, in a sense."
"Bullshit. If my brain's shut down, how the hell could I even be talking to you?"
"Good, keep up the conversation. Just follow my voice."
"Just answer my question! Explain like you always do."
"Don't think too much about it."
"So I'm just dying slower than a Human?"
"Course you're not dying. Stop panicking."
 "Well, it sounds like-"
There was a great flash of light, darkness burning. White.
"What's happening?!"
"Paramedics are trying to resuscitate you."
"It's not working!"
"Yeah well, top marks for trying."
"Marcus. Tell me honestly. Please. Am I going to die?"
"You're a dead Human. But you're far from a dead Eaolin. As long as I keep your Aura alive, you'll be
fine."
"But what about my body? If it's dead.."
"Oh trust me, it's fixable. Not by me mind, I'm no healer. I've called Leicester, but I need you not to die.
So keep up the conversation, please."
A great roar and Shani was in darkness again.
"Marcus! Marcus!"
Everything was going, cold, dark and silent.
Marcus! Or God, Great One, Buddha, Allah, Jesus. Anyone would do just about now- I'M
DISAPPEARING. I'M NOTHING. I'M NOTHING. Shani Smith is disappearing forever.
"OK. CALM THE FUCK DOWN AND LISTEN TO ME."
She was out of the pool of cold again, back above the surface, lifted up by the voice. If she had a heart, it
would have burst with relief.
"Marcus. You're back!"
"Course I'm back. Some twat of a paramedic pulled me away and I almost lost the blood connection. He's
out cold, incidentally. Listen you're under the operating table. They put you on the ice. Don't ask me how,
but they've got your heart started again."
"Surgery?"
Every single scene of Holby City that had made her look away from the television screen came flooding
back.
"Oh for fuck's sake. Don't think about Holby. Look, just stay calm. Keep talking."
"Stop reading my thoughts! Wait, so how did they let you into the surgery theatre? Especially if you laid
out a paramedic?"
There was a pause.
"..I plead religious reasons. Look, Leicester's here, we're about to do the blood ritual."
"So a group of medical professionals let you perform a Eaolin blood-letting ritual right in the middle of
their sterile work environment."
"Oh fine. We're in the morgue OK?"
"The morgue?"
"Look, forget it. I was just trying to keep you calm. Remember, I'm still here."
"How do I know I'm not already dead?"
"Is there any other alternative for trusting me? Leicester's almost finished preparing. We're meant to be
paying our respects but we've dealt with the security and locked the door. He's about to do a big blood
ritual. But re-tethering your Aura and reviving your body is going to hurt understand? REALLY hurt. You've
been disconnected for so long and we weren't able to find any painkillers. Not much use for them down
here."
"What?"
"It's child's play for Leicester but it will be bad. So are you ready?"
"Yes, just stop talking and fucking do it!"
 There was no response.
"Marcus Ma-"

IN HER WORLD

Pain. So much. Nothing like it.

Limbs and sinew and bone all once so comfortably distanced in that darkness came rushing back to her.
Her heart weighed a tonne; each slowly laboured beat sending fresh waves of agony throughout that familiar
yet suddenly strange body.
Something was worming its way out of what she could only assume was her skull, clawing thick handfuls
of flesh as it burst away, the great warm liquid burning her eyes. Or was it her feet?
Mobility was lost, she could feel gravity playing tricks, and the sensation of strong hands, holding down
what she now confidently thought might be her arms. She couldn't hear her screaming. Was everything
being pulled from its socket?
Surely every piece of skin was being flensed in front of her? She could feel the volume and breadth of
her shrieks even if there was no sound, save for a high-pitched whine that split her eardrums. Blurred vision
made out great green flames, licking at her head and arms, soothing cold flesh.
It might have been hours or minutes, but soon a shivering, naked Shani Smith was lying on the morgue
stretcher in a white veil of the dead as Leicester and Marcus shouted silent words at her. Then there was a
great burst of sound as her ears finally kicked back into action, each utterance, syllable and exclamation a
new wave of pain.
"Shani! Shani can you hear me?!"
Marcus' voice.
"Marcus, let her be. She needs rest."
Leicester, hands bloodied, the remnants of scrolls in his grip, looked exhausted, pale, barely standing.
Shani looked at the pair of them.
"Am I alive?"
Then Marcus did the most shocking thing of all, as with a cry of relief, he hugged her, arms clenched
tight around Shani's numb torso.
"I didn't think you'd make it. Sorry, but I honestly didn't think- Fuck me, that was a close one."
He was almost crying, she realised. Holding back big sobs with as much effort as he could muster.
Then the door came down as ten security guards lurched past the makeshift blockage crafted with
hospital trolleys and boxes. They were met with the sight of a drug addict covered in blood and close to
unconsciousness and a chubby man with a sword hugging a naked breathing corpse who was very bemused
by the turn of events.
 CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

"Well that's very disappointing. Ok. Ok, I understand. Yes, pull everyone out and await my instructions.
I’ll sort it all out with Festen."
Daem pressed the END CALL button on his phone, reaching forward to place it back on the side next to
the massage table. Anton, an excellent New Amsterdam masseuse who might have to join Laurent the chef
on his permanent staff once his regular one lost his edge, grinned at him, pressing down hard on the knots in
his back. He was unperturbed by the Iirebos Daem had been speaking; he guessed he got a lot of foreign
clients. Daem could see why, the man was doing a good job.
"Work bustin' your balls Mr. King?"
Daem grinned at that, wincing under the heavy hands of the man, kneading his doughy back. It was
always good to have something to take the edge off of bad news. The Bluewater operation was a failure.
Bezek was dead and Crow had vanished. Godfrey had the girl. Vanished as well. Oh well.
He'd have to have a sauna after this, he decided. Sweat out the disappointment. Perhaps hit the hot tub.
Order some coke on the way home, and an entourage along with it. Mourn Rier in his own special way
before leaving New Amsterdam and getting back to Los Angeles. It was the skinny one-eyed cunt would
have wanted.
"Something like that, Anton. It never stops, does it? Oh, that's beautiful."
The man had begun the chopping motions on the edge of his spine. Hammering out the tension. Why on
earth had the Human race discovered massage before his own kind? Sometimes life was strange.
"Yeah. Never stops, Mr. King, you're right."
Well of course Mr. King was right. He was paying Anton a few grand for this little spruce-up on his
lower back.
"Never does, Anton. Never does.
Anton reached for the lotion.
"Still, the festive season's coming up soon. You doing anything nice?"
"Oh, you know. Just getting my house in order. Getting ready for some risky investments for the New
Year. I'm thinking it's time for a change. A different approach. Things are getting a bit stale."
"Well, you know what they say Mr. King. Variety is the spice of life."
Yes, thought Daem. Yes it was. And now the Disciples were out of the way, it really was time to start
making a few changes here and there.
He groaned. Oh, Anton was a genius.
He tipped him another grand on the way out. He was prone to generosity, time and time again, even to
Humans. And this whole affair really hadn't put him in much of a bad mood, thinking about it.
Marcus Godfrey and Shani Smith might have actually done him quite the favour. The Protectorate was in
turmoil. Turning on each other. Whispers of Redcloak sympathisers had become outright accusations. No
one had been able to get hold of Lord Father. It was ripe for exploitation. Yes. Exploitation. He still liked
that word.
Los Angeles beckoned. Time to go home. He was sick to death of New Amsterdam.

◑
 From the roof of the old warehouse on the edge of the docks of New Amsterdam, you could hear the life
and inquisitiveness of the city below, the hum of Human life, hundreds of metres beneath the two of them.
As Yarnaeth and Marcus, double-bass case in hand, emerged out onto it, however, they weren't alone in this
strange in-between place, beyond the city but still far from the sky.
The Disciple was waiting for them, leaning against the wall of the roof outbuilding, looking out over the
expanse of the horizon. As they approached past the EXIT sign at the roof entrance, Yarnaeth did a double
take as he noticed the cigarette in the Disciples' fingers. Marcus gave a little chuckle, dry and humourless.
"Human habits die hard."
Lord Crow didn't say anything. Yarnaeth guessed he was around the same age as the others, with black,
sullen curly brown hair and an equally dour demeanour. Ill-fitting Human clothes. But no scars. The skin
changer.
"You killed Bezek then."
Marcus nodded.
" Yes. I understand the Protectorate is looking for you as well. Absconded from your sacred mission,
didn't you? You'd vanished before they stormed the hotel."
"With Bezek dead, I needed to consider my options. Where is the girl?"
"I wasn't about to let her anywhere near you. But she's safe, if you're wondering."
Yarnaeth cleared his throat.
"Lord Crow. We agreed to meet you here, per your message. You know who this is, of course."
Crow looked at Marcus.
"You're Mhorn. Lord Father told me about you. So you really did survive."
Marcus nodded.
"I'm sorry about the other Disciple. I understand he was your friend. If it's any consolation it was quick."
"He was just a halfwit,” Crow continued, “He couldn't help himself. I won't hold it against you. Some
people might call it a relief after what Lord Father put him through."
"Your Lord Father is a Usurper", Marcus added fiercely, brandishing Astigan, "Your fellow Disciples
tried to kill the Chosen, your Lord Mother. I call that treason."
The Disciple shrugged.
"Maybe you do. Not that it matters either way."
"What do you mean, doesn't matter? You do realise I could kill you right now?"
"I mean, because I'm about to offer you a deal. I can see you want my blood, I'm no fool. It's two against
one, and even my bow hand can't stand those odds."
Marcus looked at him. The Disciple had yet to leave his teenage years. But he was determined. Age
beyond years.
"So what's your deal?"
"You let me go free and I give you this."
He took something out of his jacket pocket, a shred of parchment. Marcus bristled.
"A map to the Gate?"
"Yes and no. Lord Father created it for me mere days ago, through the bloodtalk. Explicit directions,
complete with a blood marker. Simple enough even for you."
"The Gate stone broke, you know that. This means nothing. And we already have your map, from another
of your Disciples. You've got nothing to offer us."
"Fine, how about I tell you what the map's for? Though I think you
 already know. This is for a second Gate to the Homeworld."
Yarnaeth felt Marcus' triumph in his Aura. So he had been right.
"I'm listening. So this Gate?"
"Lord Father kept its location secret. He did not wish for the Protectorate to know about it. I don't know
why. He planned to have me find it once I killed you."
Marcus bristled but didn't say anything. Yarnaeth ventured the next question.
"Why do you trust us? You realise we support Lord Mother, and the Redcloaks in the Homeworld. And
why should we trust you to let you live knowing that?"
"I'm not stupid, I'm a step ahead. Daem, King, whatever he calls himself, had his men prepare this place
in case we needed it to do the exchange. Same stuff they put in the hotel. I won't pretend to know how the
explosives they planted work, but I gather that all I have to do is put my finger on this, and we all die."
He brandished something in his hand, a lump of black and metal plastic. Marcus paled.
"Ok. A detonator. You're really not bluffing are you?"
"Of course not. The Protectorate will hunt me to the ends of this world. I want protection. That or a quick
death."
"Why do this? Why not just follow your mission? Why try and hold us to ransom?"
"I was thrown into the flames, just like the others, though you wouldn't think it, to look at me. My name
was Lord Father's poisoned gift to me after he'd so graciously plucked my burned corpse from the flames as
one of his Disciples. Crow."
He spat the name. Yarnaeth decided on diplomacy.
"Lord Crow. We have no desire to kill you, whatever you may have done. There has been enough dead
Eaolin today. And dead Humans too. Lord Father's actions disgust us as much as they disgust you."
"I have no desire either. Being here has opened my eyes. I only wish my brothers and sister could have
done the same."
Yarnaeth's voice was a whisper.
"You like it here then?"
"Imagine my amazement in this world. Food is so plentiful. Life is abundant. I had not lived myself, I
believe until I set foot on its surface. After the life of a Disciple, perhaps this can be my paradise."
Marcus' voice hardened.
"No. You've killed Humans. Lives have been taken. Innocents."
"What will you do? Take me back to the Homeworld with you to face justice under your new Queen? My
master is far from dead yet. And I have lost my appetite for blood though frankly I have never had such
inclinations. I have stayed my bow, where I can. I had to kill to survive. I killed today. It brought me no
pleasure."
"But you stood by and let others do the dirty work instead. Look around you. Do you see what you've
done today?"
The skyscraper was visible in the distance, near the Bluewater Plaza. Toppled rubble, a scar across the
skyline. Crow shuddered.
 "I've been following orders! Do you know what Lord Father does to those that displease him? Did you
see Bezek? He was my friend. The strongest and shrewdest of our family of the Disciples. Lord Father grew
to distrust him and his talents, sought a way to limit the mastery of the gift he bestowed, that sheer brute
power he had taught him. He feared Bezek could grow to be more powerful than him. So he beat all sense
out of him one night in a drunken rage, overfed the wretched remains and produced that creature you so
heroically put down. He never has been one for subtlety."
"Even so-"
"This is my escape; you get it? The others were bound so tightly to their vows, but you have to
understand, I never wanted this. Never asked for it!"
The thumb was inching from the button. Yarnaeth froze. His eyes were manic.
"Lord Crow-"
"You help me live in this world. As a Human. I don't care where, or how, or who. I'll give you this map,
I've told you what it's for. Look, here-"
He crouched down, hand still on the trigger, reaching into his robes. Pulled out something. Yes, Yarnaeth
realised. A scrap of A4 paper.
"I had the blood map looked at by Daem's men. Here it is, translated to the Human maps. Exact
information to find the second Gate."
Marcus paused and walked over, taking it gently from the shaking hands of the Disciple.
"OK..interesting. If it's genuine-"
"It is. But I have no interest in finding it. That's your problem. I can choose my face. Lord Father taught
me the skin change. I can hide here.."
"Prove it."
The boy's expression was pained.
"Fine, if it pleases you. I thought the lack of scars would be proof enough. But you have to believe me."
Yarnaeth's eyebrows rose. Godfrey held back a gasp. The face was shifting, melting. Skin tensing and
shifting, rippling like a hideous sea of human tissue. In a few moments, there were two Marcus Godfreys.
"See?"
Shifting again. Shani Smith. Bezek. Rier. Yarnaeth. Then other faces, ones he couldn't recognise, more
and more, faster and faster, shuttling through. Finally, it was the face they knew again. Marcus nodded.
"Clever trick."
"I can hide here, you understand? Leave all of this behind. Learn the language and disappear. You'll
never hear from me again, I promise. That information is my price. Or I blow us all up. Please.."
Marcus shrugged.
"Works for me. I don't give a shit what happens to you. Yarnaeth, your thoughts?"
"Very well. You'll tell us everything you know about Lord Father's plans for this world. Then I'll set you
up. A new life. A new Human identity. The FIA can do it. And you'll never talk to us again. You'll live and
die as a Human."
Crow lowered the detonator and put it down on the ground. Smiled.
"Thank you."
Marcus shrugged.
"Shame. I was quite looking forward to killing you, Lord Crow."
Crow's smile was a begrudging grimace.
"You know, Mhorn. I was going to say the same thing to you."
 CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

"So what happens now then?"

It was a week later, a week of languishing in a hospital bed for Shani and of clearing up the mess that
their time in NA had caused for Marcus.
The last Disciple might have vanished, but the Protectorate was still very much after them. Yarnaeth (or
John Thomas, Shani still found the name thing tricky) had put them in some safe house, though Marcus'
eyebrows had told Shani exactly what he thought of that little gesture. They hadn't been able to find the
Eaolin who had attacked her. A Protectorate member, no doubt.
Coil had been part of all the arguments; Marcus had been ready to whack Shani after she had confessed
that she had told him everything. He’d vanished. Yarnaeth was looking for him. It was a sore point for all
involved. Neither Marcus nor Yarnaeth were happy that Coil knew all about the Eaolin and was missing.
Yarnaeth had kept it all out of the media, played it all off as a terrorist attack. Enough doctored footage and
plenty of Protectorate money to smooth everything over. The FIA boss was still begrudging towards Marcus
about the whole kidnapping, ransom and destruction of his apartment but had been willing to find them
shelter while they recuperated.
Shani suspected this was more due to her presence than Marcus'. Yarnaeth seemed determined to curry
favour with her, alert, attendant to her health and well being, always checking up on her. She found it
unnerving. What did he think she would do to him if she were displeased?
She was sitting with Yarnaeth and Marcus now in some diner, the thick, lurid decor and roller skating
waitresses at rude odds with their sombre conversation.
"Aleron has gone silent. There are rumours of infighting within the Protectorate. Even killings. Those
who find solace in their old loyalties and those who start to question them. It's been building for some time,
but this whole affair has brought it all to the surface. Lord Mother, I will continue to serve you, at least
within my heart if not, outwardly in my actions. You are the true Chosen, and your throne is waiting."
Shani winced. Lord Mother was a term she hated but was simply too polite to challenge.
"So. Are you not just going to leave me alone now? Let me get on with my life?"
"Not while a false king rules over our world. This is your path, Lord Mother, and you must walk it. You
are no Human. This world around you is a mere distraction. You are the Chosen, the ruler of all Eaolin - and
you place lies with your people."
Next to Yarnaeth, Marcus shifted uncomfortably.
"How much does the Protectorate know about Shani? If she comes with me-"
"Now, wait a moment!” Shani said angrily, “you all sit here deciding what I should do but do you even
think to ask me if I want to go to your..your Homeworld?"
Yarnaeth looked at her solemnly.
"Our Homeworld, Lord Mother. This is no longer about some selfish Human need. Your people are
dying every day, supporters of the True King..forgive me..the True Queen.. hunted down, executed. The
deaths that have maintained your cosy life in this world must be avenged."
Shani stood up, chair legs scraping against the restaurant. Shouting. Face flushed. Voices cut short
around them.
"FUCK YOU! Fuck you. You've got no idea, no idea at all, what I've been through!"
Yarnaeth didn't offer up a rebuke as he steadied himself and met her gaze.
"I understand that all of this has been a dreadful burden-"
"Don't you fucking dare put down what I've had to see and do. Don't you fucking dare."
Realisation struck her back, hard; she wheeled on Marcus.
 "You planned this from the start! Once the Disciples were dealt with, I could go back to an ordinary life.
Isn't that what you said? Isn't it?"
Marcus couldn't look at her.
"There's no normal life here for you. Not anymore. There is only Eaolin life now. That is your future.
You must cut off your ties to this world, as must I."
"How can you say that? You're half-Human! You're less Eaolin than I am, but you don't see me turning
my back on everything!"
"Stay here and you bring even more death with you. More Human lives under threat from the
Protectorate because of your mere presence. And that's not all. Remember what Crow, that Disciple, told
us."
"You'll have to remind me!"
Marcus tried to keep his irritation in check, only antagonising her further.
"Shani. Please, control yourself."
She glanced around the anger that flushed her face diminishing, the fresh breeze from the AC unit above
their head suddenly distinctly tangible. Half the diner was watching them from the corner of their eyes, the
other staring glassily ahead or down, trying to ignore them.
A girl with an unremarkable face was shouting something about calling the police. Her ears strained to
decipher the words. Was she speaking some foreign language? No, Dutch. Human voices, she realised. She
found it harder to hear them now.
They'd been talking in Iirebos at the table the whole time, and she hadn't even noticed.
She felt her hands go clammy. Yarnaeth was yelling something back at the waitress, slamming his fist
down on the table. Marcus gestured at her, trying to lead her away.
"Come on. Let's get some air."
"No! We're talking about this!"
"Yes, outside. Now let's go."
Shani tried to calm down, glancing at her clenched fists.
The faces were a blur amid the sweet, gaudy glow of the retro arcade machines and fluorescent lighting.
They ascended the steps of the restaurant into the dank streets and the scream of the cars.
If it was cold, she did not notice, preoccupied with the city, now basked in the sickly sheen of the moon
that had managed to wrest it’s way out from behind the clouds.
"I won't go. You hear me? This is my home, Marcus! Please. Yarnaeth can just do the same thing with
the media like he did with the hotel attack. Get me proven innocent. Let me go home free."
"Yes, he could. And you could keep living in the world that is in great danger. From him."
"He wants this world?"
"There is famine in the Homeworld. War with your Redcloak loyalists, disease, suspicion. And all the
time, messages from the Protectorate back to a false king barely clinging to power. That the world of
savages we were always taught to disparage, mock and shun is prosperous, food plentiful with weapons and
technologies we could only dream of, which even match our abilities."
She laughed at that, bitterly surprised.
"I thought Eaolin were superior to Humans. Superior in every way. You're not having a change of heart
are you?"
"I'm half-Human, as you say. You can consider me a moderate in my opinions on the issue."
She was beginning to understand. Jealousy guided this whole mess, pure and simple. It was all hatred
then those Humans; beings so crude and mocked to the Eaolin could flourish. That creatures with none of
the wondrous powers of Aura that were still so new to her could be so much better.
 Marcus kicked a can as they made their way down the pavement, it clanked and clunked down the soaked
concrete.
"Hunger and despair erode everything you believe in. Aleron's rule is fragile. Conquering this world
would be a victory, both for morale and resources. Turn attention away from his failings. Sure, a
Protectorate of a few hundred can kill and worm their way to the top of the Human hierarchy, but Humans
outnumber them - and they recognise that. An army of a million doesn't bear thinking about. You've seen
what we can do first hand."
Shani remembered.
Laura Harding, cradling lost limbs in death, Dave Machter torn in half across that grimy office Carpet,
Watson split open, steaming innards, his body cracked open like some grotesque boiled egg. Bill Grange, his
little head dashed open next to those cold river stones. How could she ever forget?
Marcus watched her quietly, brooding over what to say next. He was worried, she realised, tentative that
a word from her, a mere refusal, could surely bring everything he hoped for down around him.
"It will be genocide, Shani. Armageddon. Holocaust. Humans under Eaolin rule face only slavery or
death."
The seams of a freshly slit throat dancing, flesh sewing itself back together. A life saved. Protected.
Shani Smith knew so little about this Homeworld she was meant to owe so much to. But the one she had
always known, mundane and impossible as it was, had in the last few weeks, become oh so precious.
Marcus was pulling something from his top.
"I found the second Gate. What I don't understand is why Aleron tried so hard to keep it hidden. Or how
he found it. It's at the very tip of the Russian peninsula."
Shani shook her head.
"Can't we wait?"
"Wait for what? The Protectorate to find you and try and kill you again? The blood tribute still stands,
even if Aleron has stopped talking. You are a part of this, Shani. No matter whatever pretences you throw up
to keep yourself here."
"YOU DON'T KNOW ME!"
"I know enough. I know there's something you're ashamed of, Shani. Something that happened.
Something you try to hide."
Shani froze. She felt numb, clammy, Marcus avoiding her gaze as the words stuck in her throat, croaking.
"...How?"
'I'm sorry. But there have been times. When we've been connected, by our Aura. I've seen things in your
mind. I know I had no right. When I was trying to save your life, when I tethered myself to your blood-"
"That's my head, my past; you've got no fucking right, no right at all!"
"I was trying to save you."
"Well, maybe you should have just let me die. Maybe that's all I deserved, alright? All I've ever fucking
deserved."
The words hung heavy between them, Marcus wincing as if they had cut him. He spoke carefully as if
each syllable carried some heavyweight, monotonous. Almost rehearsed. He’d been trying to think about
what to say.
"It wasn't your fault. You should know that. You weren't to blame. You were a child. A Eaolin child who
didn't know her own strength."
"I was angry. I wanted to hurt him, hurt him so badly. So I did. And now I live with it."
She wiped her eyes, hot tears on her freezing skin.
"Do you know what the guilt is like? You've killed people. Lately so have I. But every day, I see it. I
want to reach in, stop myself. But I can't...oh God! "
 She had sunk, sobbing, Marcus’ broad figure leaning, precariously, trying to support her. He held her,
uncertainly.
"Shani, it wasn't-"
She pushed him away.
"No, you shut up! Shut up! All the tales I've heard from you, and yet you didn't ask anything of me! All
this time, you didn't care about what Shani Smith had done, what life she'd lived. I was just the Chosen. You
were just so determined to get me back to your fucking world that you didn't even listen."
"That's not- I mean. I’ve killed people too-"
"So have I. But he was a little boy. Not some fucking maniac with a sword. Does a Human life mean so
little to you? Do you really think it just doesn't matter? That you can lump them all in together?"
"Of course it matters. Of course it matters, Shani. But you were just a child, there was no way you could
control your strength, not at that age. I tried to make them listen, but they didn't care.."
"What do you mean-"
"Look, it wasn't your fault, OK? It was mine."
The revelation was like lead in the air, dragging everything down. Shani's head was spinning. She
grasped what he was saying.
"You knew? You knew I would do this?"
"It was always a possibility."
"A possibility?"
"I lost track of you. I left you alone and I meant to come back but then, well, you know the rest."
Realisation dawned.
"It was you! With the first foster family."
That scowling, dark-eyed teenager with the golden hair who had no time for her. Yes, she could see the
traces, in that unshaven, doughier face, the mop gone, lifted up to bare threads across that high forehead, the
slender figure almost invisible within that heavyset, stooping frame.
How could she have missed it before?
"Foster family? No, that was my family. Well, most of them. My mother died, so it was just you, my Dad
and I. But things got complicated. Do you remember why you were taken away?"
"Because they didn't like me. I was out of control, and they didn't like the idea of living with a rapist's
child."
The words were so natural, rehearsed. She’d forgotten that they were now bare lies. It was the story she
had told herself all her life, after all.
"No. The Protectorate killed my dad. I had taken you out that day; you weren't allowed contact with
Humans. It was before your abilities had started to manifest, but you hated being kept indoors, so we would
take turns in escorting you around the street, tire you out. When we both got home one afternoon, Dad was
dead. Eaolin blades. Someone high up in the Protectorate was responsible. He was a Human at the end of the
day. Didn't stand a chance."
It was a cold retelling of the events, dull and matter of fact. Trodden over so many times, that the
meaning or significance perhaps, did not matter anymore.
"I'm sorry."
"For what? You were only three years old. My parents were dead, the Gate was closed and I was left with
a toddler and an old sword."
"You didn't stick to the plan, did you? I wasn't meant to stay here at all."
"In this world, you'd be safe, living with me and my Dad. When the time was right, I'd go back through
the Gate with you, use your blood to break my Mother's ritual. Rejoin the Redcloaks and put you on the
throne. My dad hated the idea of course, but I was a teenager. I loved the idea of going against his wishes."
 "So what happened?"
"I couldn't see straight, after what the Protectorate did. Went after them, put you in care. I was too
cocksure, too obsessed with vengeance. Thought I was untouchable, till I killed a Eaolin in the higher
Human power circles. Ended up in jail and it took me seven years and Yarnaeth's help to get out."
"So you missed your cue."
"I..I was a mess Shani. War started on the other side, the Redcloaks losing in the Homeworld. You never
showed up, the myth of the true Chosen, of Lord Mother, I should say - was looking like a lie. And then
when I finally escaped jail, I couldn't find you."
Marcus’ voice was wavering.
Shani looked at him, almost astonished. This.This was the guilt he carried, as she brought hers.
"You took one life. I lost an entire war. Do you know how many people died in the Homeworld because
of me? I went a bit mad trying to find you. Dark places. The worst places I've been. Drink. Drugs. I couldn't
cope. You had no Aura I could use to find you; it hadn't awakened when I left you in care. Became my
undoing."
Red eyes. Marcus was struggling to contain himself, his voice broke, a heavy burden on his tongue. His
voice cracked.
"Then, the fucking Eclipse loomed in the Homeworld, and the Disciples were coming and I realised it
was finally time to put things right. Do what I was meant to so long ago."
"You let me kill."
The words were like lead in her mouth.
"I know. I know, I know. But I am Mhorn now though I don't fucking deserve it. And this is what I have
to do."
Oh. He was crying now. Sobbing.Big strong Marcus, tears rolling down bearded cheeks.
"All because I fucked up. A stupid little dick that thought he could take on the world on his own."
"Look-"
"I had to take that bloody sword, didn't I? Go after Daem, I couldn't even finish the job, close as I got."
"Daem?"
"High up in the Protectorate. Calls himself Rufus King. He hates Humans. I couldn't take his life. Never
been able to get close to him."
"I'm sorry."
"But he's not important now. Look. We've got to go home. This is our chance to put things right. Please,
Shani. Take the Golden Throne. For both worlds."
"But-"
"Look. Listen to the city. Can't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"The city. New Amsterdam. Humans, life. You worry that you can't hear Humans anymore, but if you're
like me, you can hear them every single moment. Use your Aura. Reach out and listen."
She did, Marcus coaching her as they stood on the bridge, overlooking the skyline, lit up by a million
lights. At first, there was just the noise.
The clanking of shop shutters, the shouts and yells, the cars, horns, birds, footsteps, bottles clanking,
water running, phones, trains, clocks, radios, music, bicycles.
"..I can't..?"
"Shut it out. Make yourself small. It's all there, trust me. You just have to find it."
She tried again, attempting to seek it out over the Aura of Marcus, her own and the faintest Aura of the
other Eaolin, who so brazenly occupied this very Human city.
 And then, as she peeled it all back, delving under the glare, she found a million more lives and Auras,
puny, small whispers, devoid of power or shine of the Eaolin.
But unified, they were a roar to the heavens, ascending from the city, emanating up into the night sky.
Not harsh heat or malevolent cold like Eaolin Aura, but warm, pleasant.
"Human Aura." Marcus said softly, "Most Eaolin don't know it's even there, but I'm half-blooded, so I
find it a little harder to ignore."
Shani breathed. It was overwhelming, lives upon emotions upon dreams, dancing and hurtling all around
her. It made her feel weak, faint.
"How do I turn it off?"
Marcus chuckled, wiping red eyes.
"Focus on me. Move out and away."
She did, concentrating back on the larger, more tangible Eaolin Aura, and the Human flow vanished
around them, as quickly as it had been there.
"That's what you're fighting for", Marcus said quietly. “Not just our world. This one too. Don't you forget
that, Shani Smith. Now I need your answer. Will you come with me? Back to the Homeworld?"
Shani clenched her fist, looking up at him.
"Did ever have a choice?"
"Probably not no. But I figured it would be easier if I don't have to drug you and drag you over to the
other side myself."
She almost laughed at that. He looked at her.
"Well?"
"Yes. OK, yes. But I want to come back, you hear me? I have friends here."
No. That was a lie, she realised, with a mix of sadness and relief. She had no one here, not really. Pete
and Katie thought she was a murderer, as did the rest of the country. Benny hated her, most probably. James
Dawes was dead. And she owed almost a thousand pounds to Mrs. Brown. Suddenly a new world seemed
more appealing. Marcus looked at her.
"You'll come back. I promise."
"Thanks. Because your world? Well, it just sounds terrible. I mean, you've barely told me anything about
it."
He laughed.
"It's up to you to make it better. Let's go and get a drink. I could use a pint. Hopefully, there'll be
somewhere around here that served something a bit better than that American piss. And I'll tell you as much
about the Homeworld as you like."
He strolled ahead. Shani glanced back at the view of the bridge, the autumn moon setting back beneath
the clouds. Followed in his path.
Marcus paused. Stopping. As if struck by some great inspiration. Shani gaped at him.
"What?"
"Your name!"
"Sorry?"
"I mean..now's as good a time as any. You don't have a name. Well, a Eaolin name."
"Do I need one? Why can't I just be Shani?"
"Too Human. Sorry. I won't be Marcus for much longer either. On the other side, I'll be Mhorn. But
you.."
He pondered. “Yes. I think I've got it."
"My name? My Eaolin name?"
"Yeah."
 "Well, let's hear it then."
Marcus smiled wearily. Let it loose from his tongue.
"Scyldaren."
"Scyraken?"
"Scyldaren. It means,"Lightbringer. And that's what you'll be. To our people. A beacon of hope."
Scyldaren. She spelt it out on her tongue. Yes. She could see that.
"At least get some drinks for me before we go all cheesy here.."
He laughed.
"Yeah. Sorry. Come on, let's go get something to drink."
And so they did.
Their final night in New Amsterdam passed quickly and drunkenly. A blur of bars and clubs and shots.
Suddenly, Shani loved it more than anything else in the world. A last hurrah. In the morning, they were
borne away, heading east. East to a new world.
 EPILOGUE

IN HIS NEW WORLD

Toby Watts, formerly Crow, Disciple of Lord Father Aleron, Chosen Child and King of all Eaolin,
yawned, sipping the cup of instant coffee as he glanced at the clock that hung on the far side of the wall of
the office where he worked.
He ran his fingers through his short, brown hair, instinctively feeling his face with his hand. He still
hadn't gotten used to the face he'd settled on, but it was too late to change it now. A bit too unassuming,
perhaps. He could have gone handsomer. Still, he'd had a few looks from the women in the office. That was
something, he supposed.
Eight hours left. Nine, counting the work break, and the inevitable jaunt outside for a quick smoke of a
cigarette. He still wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing, but he was a quick learner. He just
about knew the Human - English, sorry - alphabet by now, the job involved sorting letters - similar to the
parchments messengers carried in the Homeworld - into different trays, by name. No one had gotten angry
with him yet.
Yarnaeth had smuggled him across the sea to One - no, God, that was what Humans said - knew where.
Somewhere tucked away, in Europe, back where they had found the girl. London, Yarnaeth had called it.
The Protectorate had fewer interests here. He would remain safe, providing he didn't draw attention to
himself.
There was a house, with a key to open the door. And a lot of food and drink inside, which he had to
purchase with the weird Human money. And a strange picture box of his own, the TEEVEE that Bezek had
loved so much. Crow was starting to enjoy it as well. Last night he had watched an odd sort of show that
was supposed to make you laugh. A woman kept falling over. It had been quite amusing.
The cover story was that he was from another country, Yarnaeth had suggested. On an exchange work
rehabilitation program, whatever that meant. He just said those tricky magic words as best he could and
people stopped asking questions. Something the Government here had dreamed up. One of the office
workers - after some difficulty translating - had said his name didn't sound very foreign. Crow had just
nodded.
Crow - no Toby, he was Toby now - was slowly picking up the language. It was different to the one Rier
and the other Protectorate had spoken, completely new words. Different languages in one world? It was so
confusing.
He bit into the toast, (yes that was what it was called) on his desk. He'd learned how to use the machine
that made it the previous day. He was starting to really get a taste for Human food. And drink. His head was
pounding, after the previous night, where a whole group of them had gone to a local tavern - pub - after
work was over. He'd drunk a lot of the odd tasting ale the Humans here seemed to love. Too much really.
But it seemed to have impressed them. There had been a lot of smiles the next morning. Toby wasn't sure
when he'd ever seen anyone smile in his old life.
A pretty girl walked past his desk, turning his head. Toby tried not to stare too hard. Perhaps he would try
and talk to her soon, when the time was right. Oliver, a short, nervous man with acne who seemed to be
engaging in conversation with him quite frequently recently, appeared round the corner with a smile.
"Mate, do you mind helping me out with the deliveries?"
He spoke slowly, for his benefit. Toby nodded, still trying to sound as natural as possible. His voice
didn't sound much like theirs; it was still thick, stumbling over the new sounds.
"Sure. OK."
 Oliver gave him a thumbs up - another Human quirk Toby was trying to get used to, and disappeared
round the corner. He hoisted himself out of his seat with more difficulty than he was used to- sitting down
all day was an odd practice for an ex-Eaolin- and followed after him.
Perhaps he'd make himself another coffee later (he was becoming increasingly reliant on it for some
reason.) And then have another cigarette. It was odd why everyone he saw wasn't smoking them - and
apparently you weren't allowed to do it indoors. THAT had gotten him in trouble. But they'd put it down to
him being foreign, an outsider. Toby would have to find out what he had done wrong at some point. But he
was learning quickly.
Yes. Nine hours. He was quite looking forward to it.
He smiled to himself and went to help Oliver with the deliveries. He barely thought of the Homeworld
for the rest of the day.

IN HER OLD WORLD

Mischa warmed her old bones by the fire. The blizzards had been fierce recently, swooping in from the
very top of the world, relentless in their pursuit. She hadn't seen weather like it in a long time, a very long
time indeed.
Veined hand quivering, (to be so old was a horrible thing), she picked up the rusty old poker from the
side of the fireplace, poking at the embers, making them tumble and glow. It was the same rusted poker from
all those years ago when she had tended the fire for the soldiers, almost certainly the last relic of that old
cottage she had shared with her Papa.
She had a modern house now, built by her grandsons and youngest daughter. They chastised her for using
the fireplace when there was a boiler, but there was nothing else to keep the cold at bay, and she could feel
the draft.
The fires warmed like nothing else. Basking in the glow of the flames, pleasant but harsh, reminded her
of the famine, the time she'd survived.
More often than not, she tried to forget. Papa had not, of course, made it through the winter. Though his
stomach had been content by the gifts of the soldiers, he could not have accounted for the sickness in his
lungs.
It had manifested itself a month later, condemned to bed and bloody handkerchiefs before finally Mischa
had found him at peace on one dull morning, shrunken and cold between the sheets. She had felt nothing and
still wasn't sure if she ever would. The cold and hunger had taken away her tears.
Time had hardened her. She had outlived one husband and two children. Her own time was coming and
frankly, she was almost looking forward to it. The bones grated as she threw another log onto the flames.
Yes. To grow old was a horrible thing.
There was a blast of cold air, she moaned, waving her shawled arms at the open door.
"Close it! Close it!"
Her youngest grandson, Slava, earrings, tattooed and wearing a garish ski jacket and jeans with day old
stubble on his face (what was wrong with this generation?) was impassive to her grumbling as he pushed the
door back into place.
"Sorry, Grandma."
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out with that girlfriend of yours? Petra, isn't it?"
"Yes. We were just out collecting wood."
"Ha! A likely story. Smoking that foreign rubbish with her like you always do, no doubt. It makes you
stupid, Slava. Don't think I've not seen you."
 He ignored her. She was amused. Now she was old, she could say what she liked without much fear of
reprisal. It was one of the rare positives of her advanced years.
"So why are you here then my boy?"
"Mum said to come check on you. Some strange people were around earlier. Not from the town."
"Strange people?"
"Barely spoke any Tsar's Russian. Asking for supplies, bought some food from Valery. One of them was
a nigger; another one was this man with a guitar case, like a big one.. It's very strange. We don't like it, Vlad
and I are going to do a patrol with the dogs. See what they want."
She snorted.
"Good luck with that. Those dogs are as stupid as you are. Where did these strangers go? I shall lock the
door."
"Down to the forest. Might be they're out to steal wood."
"Well, it sounds like they certainly came a long way for some timber. Though they say, the wood is the
best around here."
"I don't know what else it would be, Grandma. There's nothing else around there."
There was something else, she knew. Something she'd never been able to explain and never wanted to
remember. But the similarities. The same kind of blizzard, strangers from beyond the country. It could be.
She smiled at Slava.
"Thank you Slava. I'll lock the door."
"OK, Grandma."
He shrugged, making his way out and letting the cold back in. She bristled. Yes, all very familiar.
It wasn't difficult to slip out of the house unnoticed through the back door, lest Slava wondered what she
was up to. A thick shawl and hood wrapped around her, thicker than the last time she had attempted this
journey.
With the extra comfort of her snowshoes, she hurried down the path towards the trees, holding her gloved
fingers in her coat pocket, thankful for the hot water bottle she had stowed there. Her eyes were not as sharp
as they had once been, but she could make out the footsteps, two sets past the trees.
The same destination as those soldiers. All those years ago. Perhaps they were demons too. Even as she
tried to tell herself that she was scared, something else egged her on. She knew deep down that she wasn't.
She was too old to be scared now. Fear was something she had outgrown.
She scoffed. Slava take the dogs out indeed! The lazy bum was probably getting high back by the fire
with that stupid girl. She could do with the warmth herself, she shivered, pulling the shawl closer.
Not much longer now. It was all so familiar. The snow had changed nothing in the last seven decades. All
preserved for her return. She remembered the blood. She wondered what she would see.
She found them fifteen minutes later, creeping down the slope, adorned with the thick trees. Brushing
snow off something in the clearing.
She recognised the black surface, red stains now turned brown. Slava had been right in their description,
at least his mind wasn't as addled as she thought.
A man and a woman, one thickset, older, light thinning hair and a fierce expression under his wooly hat.
The other was a girl, well a young woman, brown skin, just like those soldiers. Beautiful, in a haunting
sort of way for a negress, even with her hair cut short. She supposed that was the fashion where they came
from; she found a girl with short hair unflattering, but perhaps that was old-fashioned of her. That girl of
Slava's, Petra, her hair was short too.
The two hadn't noticed her, peering at them from behind the tree. She was loath to get any closer,
knowing she had neither the dexterity nor the will to sneak up on these two.
 They were talking to each other in some strange language. Not Dutch. Something else. Spanish, perhaps.
She had never become as educated as her father though she had certainly tried.
What were they doing to the stone? Her eyes were blurry from the flakes of snow and deterioration; she
rubbed them, trying to make it out.
The girl was saying something. Was that a sword in her hand? Czerwinski's words, she couldn't
remember his voice, any more than she could see his bones, struck her. The man. Yes, a sword, huge in his
hand, tight in a gloved grip.
"He carries a sword- can you imagine such a thing?"
She wiped her brow, old eyes stinging from the sweat and the chill. There was a roar, a great gust of the
wind that blew the snow off the treetops, soaking Mischa as she tried to see. She caught a glimpse, the
smallest sight..
The two had vanished. Now they were only footsteps in the snow. From this world to wherever they
came from and whatever demons awaited them on the other side.
She gathered her shawl and made the track through the trees back to her house.
 Acknowledgements

The acknowledgement I can give is to you, the reader. Thank you for getting here. Eaolin is my first shot
at a novel, which I have worked on with no professional assistance or a proof-reader to help me.

No doubt the more eagle eyed among you have spotted the odd out of place comma or speech mark or
grammatical faux pas.
This will be my fourth major revision and hopefully my last.

I will not beat around the bush - I am sure there are better books you could be reading.

But thank you for giving my characters and my writing a chance. I am currently working on more books,
and I am confident that they will surpass this one, if they ever see the light of day.
THE STORY SHALL CONTINUE IN...

SYLDAREN