Eve picked up the stool. Her back spasmed, flaring like her conscience. Her knees unlocked and she dropped the stool to rub away the cramp at her back, unable to do anything about her mind and inhaled deeply. She reached for the chair and gripped the metal tight. She ground her teeth and lifted. Holding onto the legs, she swung, aiming the hard plastic seat for the middle of the window. The sound of shattering glass echoed in the alley. Eve jerked her head around to peer into the darkened street, watching for movement from the street, praying no one heard. There was no security in the café. Her boss considered an alarm a waste of money. At this moment, Eve was thankful for his parsimony. She used the chair to break off the shards of glass and scrape a narrow path through the glittering pieces lining the floor before she tiptoed through. The small safe was in the office. The day’s takings would be gone to the bank, but there would be the money for the next days till.
She was used to finding her way around in the dark, but not with her heart hammering like she’d have a cardiac arrest any second. Eve stopped and breathed deep, slowing the stampede inside. She searched for movement in her belly and waited… waited. She touched her hard stomach, needing to feel him—to know he was okay. Her stomach was still. The rattle of a garbage can outside jacked her heart rate. Eve jumped and cried out. She gripped the door frame and whimpered. The muscles along her jaw bulged and she ground her teeth. Her fingers pained as her grip on the doorframe hardened. I can do this. I can do this. Eve’s hollow statement became all she thought of—even though she didn’t really believe it. This mantra pushed all of the doubts and the madness aside. Her breathing eased, as did her heart. Slowly she forced herself to straighten. I can do this… I’ve got to do this. I don’t have a choice.
A flutter in her stomach had her searching her bump. The feeling passed as quickly as it came, but the soft touch was real. Her son was okay and his well-being was what she held onto as she stumbled for the office. Her hands shook as she swiveled the dial of the old safe. It took her four tries, as though her fingers had a mind of their own and knew what she was doing was wrong. The lock clunked and the door swung open. Eve knew exactly what she was doing as she reached for the money that wasn’t hers. The guilt hovered around the edges of her determination, trying to muscle its way in. She struggled to rise, clutching the roll of money in her hand. Stepping out of the office—moving quicker now that she’d done the unthinkable—she headed for the old locker she used.
The shoes and jeans looked like the finest designer clothes in the weak light from the rising sun, leaking through the barred glass in the employee lounge and she whispered a prayer as she pulled her bloody sweat pants from her body and jerked on the cold denim. The sound of her sneakers dropping to the floor made her jump in the dark. She worked her feet into her joggers and searched the other lockers for anything warm she could use. No one locked their stuff away. There were no keys even if they wanted to. She found a jumper. The stale scent was sharp and she stifled a sneeze. She pulled the thick garment and the cold retreated. Soon I’ll be warm. Eve rifled through each locker in the short row. Her heart leaped, but this time from joy, when she spied a canvas backpack squished in the bottom of a lower locker. Groaning from the pressure, Eve bent, snagging a strap. Swallowing back the fear and the nausea triggered by her guilt, she thrust the money into the musty pack and turned toward the prep area.
Whatever she could carry, she took. Even though exhausted, she found a surge of energy as she moved behind the counter. She grabbed the container of biscuits and emptied them into a plastic bag which she dropped into her backpack, followed by bottles of water. She lifted the pack, feeling the weight. She was torn between wanting to take as much as she could carry to ensure survival, and fear she’d only weigh her already heavy body down and slow her escape from Hurrow. Speed trumped comfort. Eve turned away from the bottled juice and day-old cakes, trying to swallow back her hunger. With a cry of failure, she turned around again. Grabbing a bottle of orange juice, she wrenched off the lid, wincing with pain. The sun was rising fast now. She could see the sharp splinters of wood from the cradle through the pale skin of her hands. That bought a vision of Mercy, impaled on the sharp stick she had held. Gagging over the memory, Eve resolutely lifted the bottle to her lips. Her son needed this. She couldn’t be weak now, she had to swallow, and then get out of here. As she made her way back out the shattered window, she shivered underneath the thick jumper—but this time it wasn’t from the cold. At this moment there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do to protect her son, first murder and now, break and entering. She didn’t want to think about what was coming next.
Eve forced her tired legs to take longer strides, making her way out of the café and down the alley. She pushed her body beyond her limit, eager to leave Hurrow behind. Her hips ached after a while and the strain on her calves turned them hard and heavy, like stone. She slowed. Each breath was like fire in her lungs as she kept to the edges of the darkness. Orange lights flashed ahead. She stopped. Long minutes crawled by. All she could see from her hiding place was the daylight growing brighter and brighter. Clapping a hand over her nose so she didn’t throw up the juice, she wedged as much of her body as she could behind a dumpster that reeked of old diapers and rotting food. The flashing lights grew brighter, bouncing off the blank blocks of the building across the street. Squeezing her nose between her thumb and fingers, Eve’s heartbeat thudded so loud in her head, she thought surely the police could hear. Something darted across her foot. A cordlike something—oh my god, is that a rat?—coiled around her ankle. She screamed, the sound thankfully muffled by her hand. The lights crept closer. She gasped, choking on the acrid stench when the street sweeper rolled slowly into view. Eve didn’t have to push her tired legs to rush from the alley. Which way? The highway was only a few blocks east, so she turned right.
The buildings and streets were left behind with each step Eve took towards the highway. She was leaving Hurrow behind, in her mind as well as her sight. The town was surrounded by cane fields. The tall, bamboo-like stems were almost ready for harvest. They crowded the two-lane road, cutting out the town lights behind her, hiding her. The rustling of the cane was like whispered voices which were haunting. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing as movement cut to her left through the field. Eve bit her lip. There were animals in there, feral pigs and dogs. It wasn’t safe to walk out here alone and she was in no condition to run.
She walked faster, although her legs screamed. Pulling her jumper tighter did little to stave off the cold, wet chill of a wet dawn that headed into morning.
How had this happened? One minute, she was just a woman trying to make it on her own and the next she was someone dangerous… a murderer. Murderer… a voice echoed and a rustling in the tall cane beside her bought her to a halt. She listened, scanning the stalks which moved in the wind.
A chill spread through her body, the tendrils cutting off her breath as those words slithered into her head. I’m coming for you, blonde bitch… I’m going to make you fucking screammmmmmmmm…
Eve cried out. She stumbled, turned, her rubber soles slipping on the loose gravel. She ignored the pain. Instead she grabbed her stomach with both hands as pain flared inside her chest, and fled.
Chapter 9
Rashda
THE SMELL OF charred flesh and smoke overpowered Rashda's reasoning and this vision of the future filled her with panic. Her spirit stood in the burning wreckage of an enormous airplane. Which airplane this was and why it burned, were questions she was here to figure out. But most of all, she was here to stop this from happening.
Her body still felt the effects of the metaphysical voyage. She writhed on the rock floor of the mountain Lythe, clawing at her throat, trying to inhale the air she so desperately needed. She felt as though she was dying, even though part of her knew she couldn't die.
Flames lapped at her spirit’s body in the plane, burning through her clothes. Even though she tried to reason through the panic, she still flailed. Wind-
milling her arms, she slapped at her chest and thighs in a desperate attempt to put out the fire. Humans screamed all around her. They cried out when she passed them, clutching at her to help their loved ones, desperate to survive. It's okay, the Family can stop this.
Flames leapt at her as Rashda moved through the rows of seats. She beat at them, whispering I'm so sorry to those who screamed and burned. A word echoed inside her mind. Bomb. She now knew what had happened here. This plane had been bombed, but why? There must be a reason she was shown this, an important one. She had to figure out what that reason was.
Rashda lingered at the next seat. A mother clutched her son. They were both dead, but their love was eternal. She had sheltered her son before the plane hit, as though the mere presence of her flesh and blood would somehow save him. Rashda's heart ached, although she knew this was only a premonition. It hadn’t yet happened, this thought didn’t stop her for reaching to her chest in response, whispering a prayer to the Mistress to have mercy and grant them a long, fulfilling life before she moved on.
The next row was empty. She saw nothing that would indicate someone had sat here at all, and if not for the seat belts which were unfastened, she would have moved on. Those empty seats disturbed her.
Rashda reached up and touched the melted overhead cabinet. The metal singed her fingers. She cried out and gripped her hand. The pain blossomed and flared. She had to open the compartment… she had to know. She gripped the latch again with her burning hand and pulled it open. Bags and debris of wallets, cards, lipsticks, and books were strewn everywhere. A mobile phone and a set of car keys sat in front of her. The vision of who owned them filled her. A young woman stood at the window of an airport. Her soft auburn hair shone under the fluorescent lights as she stared out onto the tarmac, waiting for a plane which would never land, waiting for her husband… Stop it! You have to focus. She closed her eyes, willing the image away.
She had to concentrate. Answers would only come if she cleared her mind and listened. She was their only hope. Rashda left the bowed and buckled plastic door open and turned to the belly of the plane.
The mid-section had been blown apart. The explosion punctured the top half of the cabin, leaving the metal hull in jagged shards. Her steps faltered at the sight. She didn't want to go any further. She didn't want to see anymore. Each time her gift forced her to see, she bought back a piece of the horror to dwell inside her, and left a piece of herself there, floating in the etheric world.
She swallowed a hard lump in her throat and stepped forward. She couldn't quite see where she was going. The black haze in front of her face hovered like a curtain that wouldn't part. Rashda reached down, steadying herself on torn leather seats. She tripped on something that wound around her leg. She cried out, shaking her leg in hopes of getting whatever it was to let go, but the slick coil wouldn’t budge. The restraint wound tighter and tighter. She ran her hand over her thighs and her legs until her fingers felt something thick and rope-like. She pulled and it came away in her hand. The soft texture made her think of a handbag, the handles ready to ensnare those who walked past. But when she lifted it through the smoke she could see there was no bag, only some kind of rope which went on and on.
She tested the substance. The rubbery texture left behind a thick, slimy muck on her hands. Intestines—and that's their blood all over my hands. The hijacker’s blood.
Back in the mountain, her body reacted. She screamed and shook her hands. The drops of blood flew into the air. Her breaths came in short, sharp pants. “Get it off me. Please, get it off me.”
It’s hijacker's blood, but it’s not human blood... She rubbed her hands against the soft fabric of her dress, staining it bloody and black. But, if not human, then what?
Her hand shook as she bought her finger to her lips. At first her mouth refused her commands to open. Even though her stomach heaved and her mind screamed, she knew what she had to do. “It's not real. And I'm not here.”
But the bodies around her demanded this. This was her gift, this was her sacrifice. She parted her lips. She touched her tongue. And even though she’d never tasted their blood before, her gift knew them instantly. Her eyes widened. Vampires.
She should have known. They had been the cause of too much devastation. Vampires were slowly taking over the immortal world. Their half-bred offspring infiltrated human communities and industries until it was hard to know who was and who wasn't undead anymore. This wasn't the way it should be. The subversion of nature went against the unspoken laws. Laws that had evolved throughout time. Laws which hid immortal from mortal.
The vampires were changing this, making their own rules, blurring the lines of existence. And this bombing was just another example of how far they had gone. Rashda released her finger from her mouth and rubbed her hand across her thigh, eager for this to be done. The who was now accounted for, but the why was still a mystery.
The screams of the passengers had ceased, leaving only moans and whispers of prayers in their quiet moments of desperation.
“It's okay.” A voice came to her through the smoke. A man? She moved forward, straining to hear his voice. “There’s something better out there for you. You’ll be safe. Rest now. Go with peace.”
She couldn't quite see him. The smoke was too thick to see more than a foot in front, but she could hear him—most of all, she could feel him.
Rashda focused her energy on him. The wave of peace washing over her felt so pure, it left her breathless. His energy was unlike any human's she had ever felt, calm, serene, and purposeful. Yes, this human had a purpose.
She stepped forward, fighting through the smoke to get to him. He was so close. She could hear his breathing, his murmured words and yet it wasn’t until she was almost standing on top of him that he materialized. He was hunched over a woman who lay on the ground. His dark hair fell to cover his face. His words seemed to embrace her spirit as he spoke. He must have sensed Rashda coming, moving through the ruptured metal, because he looked up and stared at her. His face was blackened and bloody. Truth, love, and a fierce determination radiated from his brown eyes.
His essence was a beacon for her spirit. She felt herself wanting to reach out and touch him, to help him. He lifted his gaze. His eyes widened. A surge of hope, compassion and understanding flowed between them. A knowing of both the greatness and hopelessness they faced. They were two beings on opposite ends of the scale, mortal—immortal, who fought for the only thing that mattered—love.
Rashda felt as though they were lost in this moment, until he turned back. He held on to those who were passing, as though he wanted their last moments to be filled with love and not pain. He waited, holding on until he was sure he was no longer needed.
His voice wavered. “I need to help them. I have to do something.”
He stood and looked around, ready to find the next person to help, to comfort. Before Rashda could reach him, his knees buckled. His hands grabbed the aluminum frame of the nearest seat to stop his fall but missed and he fell to his knees. “I have to help them.”
Rashda wrapped her spirit around him, holding him against her as he faded into her arms. “But who will help you?”
His last word was a whisper, an echo lost in time and space as she felt his spirit leave. “You.”
Rashda came back to her body in a rush. The awakening forced her back into her physical form. She rolled over and wrapped her arms around herself as the vision receded. This was the Balance. This was what she had given everything up for. This was why the Family needed her.
Cause and effect was their nemesis. What happened to humans because of immortals was felt like ripples throughout time and ultimately impacted on the struggle between the Master of Light and the Mistress of Shadows. So, what happened now—or in this case—what could happen—needed to be stopped.
Cold mountain water trickled through a crack in the wall. Over time, the fissure had widened, worn down by the steady stream until it made a hollow in the hard floor below. Rashd
a came to her body. Rising on trembling legs, she stumbled to the small pool. She dipped her hands into that frigid puddle, letting the reviving liquid run over her hands, her face and down her throat. The cold ripped through her head, driving spikes through her temples. The pain was instant, bringing her back to her surroundings. She required neither water nor food to survive. Her body lived in a constant state of balance, her immortality absolute. But the intense feeling of the water grounded her to the mountain, to the Earth, and to her body once more. Rashda breathed and coughed, ridding herself of the acrid taste of smoke in her still-burning lungs. When she was recovered, she called to her sister.
The connection between them was delicate. It was a one-way call that always went unanswered. She yearned to hear her sister’s voice, to hold her in her arms and talk like they had done for centuries. There had never been two sisters more opposite; their dark hair and pale complexion was where their similarities ended. But it was their love for each other that kept them here, fighting for the Balance in their own way.
Her Master and Mistress would be watching. Her vows to them were the shackles which bound her heart. She would say no more than was necessary and there would be nothing back. She was forever alone.
Flight AC033 from Vancouver to Sydney, in one week. There will be vampires aboard who have a bomb. They must be stopped at all costs, my sister.
She felt her Master's touch. Normally his warmth filled her, comforted her, knowing her sacrifice never went unnoticed. But this time, comfort was not what she felt at all. When the feathered, warm touches of her Master left her, Rashda felt fear.
Chapter 10
Edric
EDRIC HASTING WAS wounded, but not in a way his new body could heal. Mercy had been killed, and as a consequence, severed his connection to this new immortal world. He tried to swallow the thickness in his throat, but it was stuck like a piece of rotten flesh. How he’d changed. In mere months, he’d become so powerful and yet so weak. Mercy was the only thing he needed, the only thing he craved, and now… now she was no more.
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