Heidi Evervale
Echoes of Ash
Part Two
DISSONANCE & DECAY
(Sneak peak)
Written, drawn & created by
Wes Lawson Bowie
PROLOGUE
“Ellis!” Heidi shouted as she clambered into bed. “Bedtime!”
She was the only child Ellis had ever known, possibly the only one in existence, who got genuinely excited about going to sleep
“Yeah, yeah! I’m coming!” Ellis burst through the door and launched himself onto the bed, sending Heidi bouncing into a fit of giggles. He did it every night. She laughed every time.
The room was an organised mess, much like the rest of the flat and much like Ellis himself. Worn-in, warm, and full of stories. The walls were a patchwork of band posters, most far too old for a six-year-old to recognise, though Heidi had her favourites. Raised on drum solos and scratchy vinyl, she already knew the difference between a good riff and a great one.
One of her heroes was Nuno Bettencourt, the guitarist from Extreme, arguably the most unaptly named band of their time. Not glam enough for the hair-metal crowd, not dangerous enough for hard rock, but technically untouchable. He’d played the album Pornograffitti so relentlessly that it had wormed its way into Heidi’s bones. The album’s frantic riffs belonged to her now, too.
In the corner stood a child-sized guitar. Not a toy, real, second-hand, scuffed, properly strung. Ellis had meant to wait another year or two, but Heidi had taken to it fast. She couldn’t play anything yet, not really, but she attacked the strings with a concentration that turned noise into promise.
Above the bed, mismatched fairy lights sagged in loose lines. Some blinked, some were long dead, casting a patchy glow over comics and books stacked in uneven towers. A worn issue of Batgirl sat proudly on top of one pile, creased but clearly loved.
Her drawings were everywhere. Taped to furniture, half-covering posters, layered over one another. Strange birds. Shadowy cities. Little monsters with too many teeth or too many eyes, clearly influenced by Mijo. Thick pencil strokes, bold colours, names scrawled beneath them that only she understood.
It was like an ancient world had come to life in her room.
Crayons, coloured pencils, and uncapped markers lived in repurposed tins that once held coffee or soup, now stickered over. Everything had a place. Mostly.
Beyond the window, Pazuzu City shimmered in an electric haze. Towers rose like jagged silhouettes, lit by pulsing colour and slow-moving lights tracing unseen roads. The skyline didn’t sleep. It buzzed, shifted, breathed.
The high-rises had stood for decades, weathered, overlooked, but never abandoned. In the stairwells and corridors, people still nodded to one another, held doors, offered help without keeping score. A quiet kindness that didn’t need applause.
Ellis scrambled upright, only to topple over again with a soft thud.
“You’re going to knock me off!” Heidi squealed, barely able to breathe through her laughter. For Ellis, there was no sound sweeter.
“I can’t help it,” he said, wobbling to his feet. “Every time I stand up…”
He paused, arms out.
“I just faaaaallllllloooooover!”
After a few more theatrical collapses, Ellis reached for the stack of books they’d picked up from the second-hand shop down the road. He always gave Heidi the choice: one or two pristine books from the fancy place, or as many as they could afford from the second-hand shop.
She always chose the latter.
Once, she hadn’t. They’d wandered through the new bookshop, fingertips brushing glossy covers and perfect pages. After a few minutes, she’d tugged his sleeve.
“Can we go to the other place?”
When he asked why, she said,
“The other place only has one of each. These are all the same. It’s like they don’t mean anything.”
Ellis didn’t know if all kids thought like that.
He hoped they didn’t.
That day, they’d come home with five books. Old, worn, new to them. A good haul.
Over time, they’d found handwritten notes tucked inside some of them—scribbles, inscriptions, names. Gifts passed hand to hand. Ellis always explained them as fragments of someone else’s story. Chapters they were continuing just by reading.
Eventually, Heidi asked if she could add her own.
She’d thank the previous owner, like they’d given it to her personally. And when she was ready to donate a book back, she’d sometimes leave another note:
Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Or, occasionally:
Sorry you’re getting this from me. It’s not that great…
Those were Ellis’s favourites. It was easy to pass something on when you loved it. But to admit when something didn’t hit? That was a different kind of honesty.
As Heidi once put it:
“It’s a bit shit.”
That was when Ellis realised he needed to start watching his language.
“No, not that one, Ellis! That one!” Heidi pointed at the pile beside the bed.
Ellis deliberately grabbed the wrong book.
“This one?”
“No! That one!”
He hovered just above it.
“This one?”
“Nooooo!” She teetered on the edge of a tantrum.
“Ohhh, this one?” He finally took the right book. Her face lit up.
“Yes, dickhead!”
Ellis froze, slowly tilting his head.
Heidi shrank immediately.
“…Sorry. But yes. That one. Please.”
She smiled, all contrition.
“I’ll let you off,” he said, flopping back onto the bed. Heidi curled into him.
He held the book up, tilting it toward the light.
It wasn’t a children’s book. Not remotely. A history book, and not a factual one.
“Heidi… did we pick up the wrong book?”
“Nope. I wanted that one.”
He read the cover again.
A History of Behemoths: Beginnings and Endings.
“I don’t think this one’s for kids,” he said carefully.
She stared back at him, unblinking.
“Who’s it for, then?”
The roles shifted, subtle but unmistakable.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s… read about made-up beasts.”
“He’s not made up.”
He.
Ellis stilled.
“He’s… not?”
“No. He’s my friend. I need to know more about him.”
Something tightened in Ellis’s chest.
“Okay,” he said, forcing calm. “Does your friend have a name?”
“Dave. Well, not Dave. I can’t pronounce his real name. I asked if Dave was okay. He said it was.”
Ellis stared at her.
He’d expected a bedtime story. Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.
This felt like something else entirely.
“Who’s Dave?” he asked.
“My friend,” Heidi said. “He talks to me in my dreams. He’s a behemoth.”
She tilted her head.
“Are you going to read, or should I get Mijo?”
She went quiet then, listening.
“Can you hear that?” she whispered.
“Hear what?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at the wall.
“You can’t hear it?”
“Don’t mess around,” Ellis said.
“Shhh.” She held up a finger. “It’s saying my name.”
“You’re winding me up.”
“No,” she said softly. “It’s whispering. ‘Heeeiiiidiii…’”
She leaned close, lowering her voice into a gravelly rumble.
“Hhhhheeeeiiidiiii…”
“Enough,” Ellis said.
“Be quiet,” she whispered. “It’s trying to talk to me.”
“Oh, for god’s sake…”
She lunged at him with a shriek.
Ellis yelped, the book flying from his hands as Heidi collapsed into laughter.
“That’s not funny!”
“Yes it is! You jumped!”
“I did not jump.”
“You absolutely did.”
Ellis shook his head, reaching for the book.
“One day I’m writing a horror story about you. The Gremlin of Bedtime.”
“I’d read that,” Heidi said. “But only if I’m the hero.”
Ellis didn’t answer.
The book lay open on the floor.
He froze.
A full-page illustration stared back at him.
The ink was faded, the paper yellowed, but the image was unmistakable:
A towering creature, limbs jagged and unnatural. Hunched, as if carved from bone and memory. Matted fur clung to its frame, dark, with a faint blue sheen, like moonlight caught in shadow.
Ancient.
Wrong.
Beside it, in elegant looping script, was a single name.
Daevayasna.
‘The Heart is a Lonely Hunter’ - The Divine Comedy
CHAPTER ONE
Eyvinder (1) 1576AD
The land was bleak, the light caught between an endless dusk and the sun still hidden beyond the horizon. Days lingered dim and grey, as though the sky had forgotten how to burn and nights belonged to the sharp, howling cold wind. Long and merciless, freezing the day’s snow into ice-crushed stone.
Eidr moved through one of the many fields, inspecting the crops to see if the cold had turned them to waste. At this time of year, a shawl wasn’t needed for sunlight, there was barely any to speak of. Still, he wore one each time he left the caves, pulling it tight to cover every inch of exposed skin. The gloves helped too against the wind’s bite. It was a far cry from the steady warmth of the caves below.
His only company was the small herd of sheep, their wool thick with the changing season. Their fleece would be sheared and stored, another piece in the cycle that kept the community alive. Though the ones that had fed well, fat and strong, would likely see their final season. The cattle, by contrast, never saw the sky. Too few in number, too precious to risk, they were kept in the lower caverns where fire and stone warmth held back death. Down there, in the dark, they survived: slow-moving, heavy-breathing, and patient.
Eidr was young by the community’s standards. His Turning ceremony, only sixty-seven years ago yet he looked no older than nineteen. The age he had been when the ceremony bound him to the vampires he lived with to this day, halting time. The Turning was less a transformation than a rite: a joining, a way of tying one life to the survival of many. Once, being turned so young would have marked him as an outsider from the community. But after the Ash Dawn, necessity overruled tradition, and survival changed everything for the Vampires.
Even then, acceptance into the community did not always mean being turned. Not all who found shelter chose the life that followed, and fewer still were ever offered it. A role had to be found first, a place amongst them, to see whether the newcomer could endure the demands and whether the community itself was the right fit for them. The Turning was never offered quickly. It required patience, trust, and certainty on both sides. There had even been times when the offer was refused, the life that followed judged too great a burden to carry.
Eidr had been one of ten humans granted entry, his place earned by guiding the vampires to the remote land they now called home: Eyvindir. In those first years his value was simple, he watched through the daylight hours while they slept, when they were most vulnerable. Later, his knowledge of farming gave him a place that would last. Of the ten who came with him, only three remained. Four had been offered the Turning, three had accepted. Eidr was one of them.
To outsiders, Eyvindir was little more than a name, a place whispered of but never found. Its entrance concealed, the paths disguised and the routes shifted until even those who had once walked them would struggle to return. Beyond these fields the land was dotted with settlements, human and NetherKind alike, some within a day’s walk. He knew which would welcome him, which would look away, and which would slam the door before he reached the threshold. The main trading post tolerated vampires but barely. One wrong gathering, one wrong spark, and that tolerance would vanish. Another Ash Dawn could follow, this time of their own making.
Eidr tugged his shawl higher, the fabric rasping over his mouth as fine snow drifted sideways across the fields, settling in the folds of cloth that shielded him from the cold. He adjusted the pouch at his belt and let his gaze sweep the horizon. The wind pressed against his hood, hunting for skin to bite.
A stronger gust tore through the brittle grass protruding from the snow, and something in the movement made him pause. A solitary shape stood where none should be, breaking the landscape he knew too well. His eyes tracked the disturbance, narrowing toward the far ridge below, where pale light caught on something dark, out of place.
A figure. Not unusual; most travellers kept to the ridge, using it as a windbreak, rarely noticing the watchers above. But this one was different. Even at a distance, Eidr could see they weren’t following the ridge. They were heading straight up, towards him.
He ducked behind a moss-covered boulder, watching. Whether the figure had seen him or not, he couldn’t be sure. Either way, the choice of what came next was not his. That decision belonged to the Head of the House.
He turned at once, making his way back through the upper pass and into the caverns. The cold gave way to warmth as he descended, fast but composed. It wasn’t long, wrapped and protected against the sunlight, that a small response party was moving with Eidr back toward the surface. Silent. Swift. Ready. No alarm was raised. No word passed beyond that circle. No sign of unrest, save for the swords concealed beneath their shawls. Eidr had gone straight to Gregory, the peacekeeper, and to those who needed to know. Including Byron, a mammoth of a man whose presence alone promised brute force, if it came to that.
By the time they returned to the overlook, the figure had drawn closer, now climbing the hill that faced the valley. They were also wrapped tightly, swaddled in thick black layers, face hidden except for a narrow slit to see through. A travelling shroud. Functional, not elegant. Built for distance. The proximity also revealed the figure had a companion. A dog. Black as the night sky. Skipping along in front of the figure, head measured low and panting.. The first to stop as their scent gives a sense of hesitation to move further.
“Halt! Come no further!” Gregory’s voice carried across the wind. He and the others moved to the edge of the rise, making themselves visible, present and prepared.
The figure stopped. Calm. Unhurried. The dog let out a low, deliberate growl. The figure hung down to the side and placed a reassuring hand on the canine's head, tilted their head slightly towards the gathering that had sprung up, unfazed.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” Gregory called.
No answer.
Instead, the figure raised both hands slowly, palms open in a gesture of peace. The dig advanced two steps, head still low and shoulders hunched.
Then, just as deliberately, the figure lowered their hands to the fastening at the side of their head covering. Gloved fingers beginning to work the wrap loose.
Eidr shifted his footing beside Gregory, hand resting near the blade beneath his shawl. He knew dogs and vampires were not meant to be companions by whatever law of nature deemed it. He had a clear view as the first folds of fabric loosened from the figure. Black fabric peeled back in slow unfurls until her face emerged. Sharp features. Steady gaze.
For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a faint pink hue shimmer in the stranger’s eyes, or maybe it was just thelight playing tricks.
She didn’t even glance his way. Her attention stayed on Gregory.
“I mean you no harm.” The hispanic accent sliced clean through the gale.
Arms now rested by her side, deliberate to show she posed no threat. The other remained poised. The dog motionless, just focused, on them. Protective, over her.
“Are you alone?” Gregory asked.
“I am. I seek counsel. Your Head of House.”
A ripple moved through the group. Eidr didn’t look away from her, even as murmurs passed between the others.
“Seraphiel Vasker.” she confirmed. The murmurs stopped dead.
Gregory’s voice stayed steady. “Who are you to make such a request?”
“I don’t request,” she said evenly and took a step forward. “I ask.”
“And if we refuse?”
She lowered her arms a fraction, adjusting her stance, not aggressive, but deliberate. “Then it’s not for you to decide. That’s for Seraphiel. Will you summon him? Or shall I?””
Her hand settled on the hilt beneath her coat where the suspected weapon was concealed. Making sure it was seen. The dog dutifully growled in unison, sensing the motion behind it.
Gregory tensed. “Who are you?”
The woman held his gaze. She had come walking blind, guided only by rumours and whispers, with no true knowledge of where Eyvindir lay.
“My name is Evelyn Shaw. But your Head will know me as Eva de Armas.”
The wind caught what remained of her shawl, tearing it free in a single pull, the black fabric twisting away into the storm.
“Also, as Daughter.”
***
They led Eva…Evelyn… through a winding network of stone, far beyond daylight’s reach lit only by the fire lit torches some of them held aloft to guide the way. The dog followed behind them all at the back, surveying, guard and heckles still up.
She’d accepted the head covering, for now, understanding the need to protect the secrecy of the entrance. Thick and layered, it sealed out all light and left her walking in darkness, reliant on the steady pace of her guide. But when shackles were brought forward, she recoiled.
“Never again,” she warned, voice low and bitter. A threat. That was enough to ensure she remained unbound.
Her hand rested lightly on Eidr’s shoulder as he guided her deeper into the tunnels. The others moved in with them, boots crunching softly against the stone, keeping pace at her flanks. The towering silhouette of Byron brought up the rear, his tread slow and deliberate, eyes fixed ahead, the others in his view. No one spoke.
The stone walls narrowed and curved, the decline growing steeper until the cold began to fade from the air, replaced by a rising warmth that clung to the rock.
Inside the covering, her breath had begun to heat the space around her face making the air thick. Sweat dampened her brow. She exhaled slowly, her patience thinning.
She’d played along long enough.
Evelyn stopped abruptly, lifting her hands to the fastening at the back of her head. The escorts reacted instantly, boots halting, hands on hilts, tension rippling through the group. For the first time, the dog barked followed by a continued growl of threat.
In one fluid motion, the cloth came free. She shook out her hair, firelight from the torches catching her face. Her gaze swept over the armed figures, calm and unhurried.
They had her surrounded in a loose half-circle, Three ahead, two flanking. The stone tunnel felt suddenly smaller, the air tightening between them. Every set of eyes fixed on her.
Eidr, standing just behind the defence line that had instinctively formed, caught it first. The same hue he’d seen on the rise. A subtle, faint pink shimmer yet impossible to miss. The others saw it too, their stances tightening, blades twitching in their sheaths. Evekyn crouched, the dog calmed, moved towards her and relaxed. The dog sensed she was in control even if they didn’t.
From the back, Byron stepped forward, calm but deliberate, placing himself between her and the others. His presence alone stalled every twitching blade in its sheath.
Evelyn, ready to strike if needed, felt the tension shift just enough to still her own hands.
“We’re deep enough,” he said, his voice low but carrying. “She wouldn’t recognise the entrance if it was right in front of her.”
Byron stepped closer, his soft shadow surrounding her in his shade. She tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze. The exchange was steady and unforced with no fear, just curiosity and certainty.
“She’s one of us. We’ll treat her as such.”
The tension eased, but Byron’s eyes stayed on Evelyns before he finally turned and disappeared into the dark ahead.
The others remained frozen, uncertain, eyes flicking between her and the shadows he’d vanished into.
Evelyn stepped forward and followed Byron. Into the blackness. He didn’t wait for her. His strides echoed down the tunnel, each step steady and unfaltering. The others fell in behind as she pressed forward. It didn’t take long for her to catch up. Dog by her side.
“Your name?” she asked.
A towering man. His presence alone commanded attention. His voice, even more so.
“Byron.”
“You know of me, Byron?”
“You? No. The tales. Yes. They all do.”
Evelyn glanced back at those following behind her.
The tunnel widened as they descended, the ceiling lifting higher with each turn. Light appeared in small, steady patches. Not torches, but lamps cut into the walls. The glow picked out carvings in the stone: spirals, interlocking patterns, and long curling shapes that might have been rivers or the bodies of great, sleeping beasts. Symbols of endurance rather than conquest. Some looked ancient, smoothed by time; others were sharper, freshly cut.
“The dog?” Byron asked. “Can you control it?”
Evelyn looked down at the mass of black fur.
“I don’t need to. He does what’s right. That’s something I don’t want to control.”
Byron let out a satisfied grunt.
The air grew warmer. The muffled press of silence began to thin, replaced by distant voices, the clang of metal on metal, the faint rumble of movement somewhere far below.
Eidr was still watching her when, for the first time, she looked back. Just a glance, brief enough to be nothing… but her eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer than chance allowed. Then she faced forward again, leaving him to wonder if she’d finally taken notice.
Byron kept his pace steady until the tunnel began to open ahead. He slowed just enough to glance back at her.
“Eva de Armas…”
It had been a long time since anyone had called her that.
The stone path naturally fell away into open space.
Evelyn slowed. Before her, stretched a cavern that seemed to have no end. A sweep of black and shadow broken only by pockets of light reflecting off damp rock. The sounds were clearer now: the murmur of conversation, footsteps echoing across stone, the occasional burst of laughter carried upward by unseen paths. The air moved gently, as if the cavern itself breathed.
“This is Eyvindir,” Byron said.
She let her gaze travel the arcs of stone, the shapes worn by water and time. Of all the sanctuaries she’d visited, this was the most vast. The most alive.
She almost felt guilt, knowing the fracture she was about to cause. But she knew as with every other time, that feeling would pass.
‘Kick Out The Jams’ - Rage Against The Machine
CHAPTER TWO
Cardiac
Day One
(Four days before the City halted)
The locker room stank of sweat and blood, the air sharp with disinfectant that never quite masked the damage that had been caused. Pazuzu’s fight scene stretched back to the seventeenth century, once little more than tavern brawls and courtyard scraps. Over time it hardened into something closer to a sport, a league of its own, small in scale but with a reach far beyond the city. Fighters came from across the map, chasing paydays or trying to carve out a name.
Money kept the circuit alive. Local businessmen saw value in the spectacle, as did sponsors and investors. But it wasn’t only clean-cut faces who showed an interest. Men with murkier ties leaned in too, preferring to keep to the shadows while their influence carried weight. In Pazuzu, the line between enterprise and crime had always been more blurred than anyone liked to admit.
The rules existed, printed on paper and announced before every match, but once the cage door shut they became little more than decoration. Late strikes, long holds, cheap shots. All of it slid through if the crowd was roaring loud enough.
That was the draw. Other circuits promised order and polish. Pazuzu thrived on something else. Raw. Unpredictable. A fight that felt less like sport and more like survival, even when the survival was only for show. Messy, imperfect, alive, just like the city itself.
At the far end of the locker room, voices and laughter rose in a storm of bravado. Fighters joked, shouted, or nursed fresh bruises while others taped up and prepared for their turn in the cage.
Heidi kept her corner, back against a row of lockers that leaned off their hinges or stood doorless, long stripped of their dignity.
One man wasn’t laughing.
Dougie lay flat across a bench, limbs draped like a marionette with its strings cut. From a distance he looked already gone. Only the wet rasp in his throat and the shallow lift of his chest gave him away. Blood bubbled at the back of his mouth.
“Dougie… still with us?” Heidi asked, keeping her voice low.
A hand twitched. A pathetic thumbs-up.
“You know it,” he rasped.
Heidi tightened the strap on her left hand, then pushed herself up and crossed the room. She’d seen Dougie broken before, but this was another level. Up close he was a lump of battered flesh barely holding together. She slid an arm under him and pulled him upright. His breath hitched in pain.
“We can’t have you choking on your own blood. That’s no way for a fighter to go.”
She set him against the lockers, body slumped but head angled just enough to breathe. His one good eye flicked open. “Thanks,” he whispered.
For a moment, she studied him. What kind of life brought a man here, still fighting when there was nothing left to win?
Dougie fought because he didn’t know what else to do. A paycheck was a paycheck, even if it cost him another rib, another tooth, another night spitting blood into a bucket. If you could call it a career, it killed you slowly and paid badly for the privilege.
For Heidi, this was different. She wasn’t here for a career. She was here for the money, plain and simple. Money she stashed away, every note folded and kept. Her plan wasn’t to stay under Pazuzu’s skyline forever. She wanted out, to see the cities she’d only ever read about in books. The books Ellis had let her pick out because they carried the fingerprints of people who’d lived other lives. She loved Pazuzu, and she loved the people in it, but sometimes she couldn’t help wondering what else was waiting. What she might be missing.
“Well, that’s the worst piss-poor job I’ve ever seen of wrapping hands.”
Heidi looked up. Abi stood in front of her, dressed for anywhere but the locker room. Hair done, heels clicking on the concrete, an outfit that made it clear she wasn’t staying here.
“Don’t suppose you know anyone who could help me out?” Heidi asked.
Abi smiled, flicking her eyes to Heidi’s bandaged hands. “Yeah, get that crap off. I’ll sort you out once I’ve finished up.”
“Thank yooooou,” Heidi sang back, grinning.
Abi shook her head but kept smiling as she moved on. Heidi watched her go and let out a breath. One friendly face in the room was worth more than she’d admit.
She glanced at Dougie, still breathing, barely, and wondered if he’d ever had an Abi. Without Abi, she’d have shattered her hands a hundred times by now.
Since her first fight, Abi had wrapped her hands. Heidi had been ready to charge in bare knuckle, but Abi stopped her cold. It wasn’t just about Heidi getting hurt, it was about whoever she was facing, too. Fists without protection broke bones, shredded skin, left damage that lingered long after the fight was done. Abi understood there was a responsibility of care, even here. Every fight since, Abi had been there with the tape, methodical and steady, pulling it tight around Heidi’s fists. Over time it had become their ritual, unspoken but absolute.
“Who’ve they got me up against tonight?” Heidi asked.
She never wanted to know until the last moment. Abi had learned to keep it that way. Names and reputations only made the hours before a fight heavier. Better to drop it just before the walkout, when there was no time left for nerves to gnaw at her. Heidi was considered a wild card. She’d either win you a ton of money, or lose it. Added pressure never helped.
“Some guy called Cardiac.” Abi said, cinching the last strip of tape.
Heidi snorted. “His looks?”
“Hell no. He’s one of the ugliest bastards I’ve ever seen. Nah… he punched someone so hard he actually stopped their heart.”
“You know that’s impossible, right?” Heidi said, though the smirk on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Abi didn’t smile. “Everyone loves a good story. But this one stuck. Careful with him, Heidi.”
Abi tied off the last strip of tape with a neat pull and a press of her thumb. Heidi flexed her hands, feeling the firmness, layers locking her bones in place.
“Good to go,” Abi said, and without waiting for thanks, she stood and headed out toward ringside. She always waited there, the first face Heidi would see when the cage door opened.
The prep part was done. The rest was on her.
She leaned back against the wall, shutting out the noise of the locker room, the groans of fighters coming off losses, the bark of trainers pushing the next one in. She had learned to strip it all away before a fight, to leave only the beat of her heart and the slow rhythm of her breathing.
She pulled her headphones from her bag, slipped them on, and let the world dull to static. The song was always the same, the one she played before every fight. She hit play, closed her eyes, and let it take over, rhythm syncing with her pulse until everything sharpened into focus. Kick Out the Jams. Not the crackling MC5 version Ellis raised her on, but the cover by Rage Against the Machine. It hit harder, meaner, closer to the rhythm she needed. Still, it was a ritual they shared. Ellis’s record, her version.
The ring was the only place she could truly let go. Out there, she didn’t have to temper herself, didn’t have to hold back the strength that frightened people when it slipped through. Here, at least, unleashing a little of it made sense.
The tannoy in the locker room came to life with a cackle. “Heidi Evervale. 10 minutes. That’s Heidi Evervale. 10 minutes.”
As she stood up, she wondered if she’d ever earn a name like Cardiac. Or if Heidi Evervale was already enough.
***
Connor shouldered through the mezzanine crowd. He didn’t belong up here with men in suits and heavy watches, but Dante liked eyes everywhere and tonight, those eyes were his.
Below, the cage crew scrubbed dark streaks into pale towels. The crowd roared at nothing in particular, just to fill the lull.
Connor turned to the rail behind the glass. He told himself he was killing time. Truth was, he was looking for her.
He'd spotted Heidi by the locker room entrance when she first turned up. A calm in her own storm. Harder around the edges but still her.
A figure stepped onto the opposite balcony, too clean for this place even up here. Posture sharp enough to cut through the haze and heels that clicked with purpose. Heads turned; she met each stare without flinching, taking in the room like she was weighing it. A passing waiter drifted by and she lifted a champagne flute without looking, already moving again. The people near her parted without realising they’d done it. Even from across the room, Connor felt it: a person you noticed, whether you meant to or not.
Evelyn Shaw. That had to be her.
She drifted toward his side of the mezzanine, coming to rest by the glass wall overlooking the cage. Connor followed, keeping a respectful distance.
Without glancing his way, she lifted the champagne flute and took a measured sip, eyes never stopping their sweep of the crowd. She watched the cage, drawn less by the sport than by the pulse of the place, the roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat and adrenaline rising through the vents.
Then came the guitar. A single, distorted note.
The crowd erupted.
From the far tunnel, a figure emerged. Hood up, head down, steps deliberate. Evelyn’s gaze locked instantly on the girl. Connor’s breath caught a beat later.
Heidi.
The reaction from the crowd was instant, electric. Evelyn said nothing, but something in her expression tightened. Connor, beside her, couldn’t look away either.
“She’s the reason half this place shows up,” he said quietly. “A little chaos in boots.”
Evelyn’s eyes followed the girl below. “She’s not chaos,” she said, voice low. “She moves with purpose.”
Below, the crowd roared again as Heidi threw up her hand, the sound rolling up through the glass.
For a moment, Evelyn's and Connor’s reflections caught side by side in the glass. Two strangers drawn to the same flame.
Then Evelyn turned away to face Connor directly. Her gaze to him, cool and precise.
“Miss Shaw,” Connor said, straightening. “Shall we?”
He gestured toward the roped stair to the private level. “Dante is on the upper level awaiting your arrival.
Evelyn moved first. Connor fell in half a step behind.
***
The crowd roared before she’d even stepped out.
Heidi didn’t keep them waiting. Hood up, grin sharp, she pushed through the curtain and the place went wild. She didn’t head straight for the ring, not yet. She stopped, leaned into the barrier, and let a couple of fans snap selfies, pulling a face for one, throwing up horns for another. The crowd surged closer, hands out, and she gave a few quick high-fives before moving on.
Every step was a tease, a build. She banged her fists together and the noise doubled, like she was conducting them, working them up the same way she’d work a gig crowd.
Abi, watching from ringside, shook her head with a smile. Heidi pretended it was all routine, just business, but Abi knew she loved every second of it. The spotlight, the noise, the chaos she stirred up just by existing. And the crowd loved her right back. It was attention that she allowed. And thrived on.
By the time Heidi climbed into the ring and tugged back her hood, the place was shaking. She circled once, slow and deliberate, soaking it in. Then she leaned in her corner, all grin now gone, waiting.
The music cut. Lights dimmed. The crowd hushed.
A low thud pushed through the speakers. Once. Then again. A pulse. Clipped, synthetic, steady. It landed in the chest, forced breath and body to fall in line with it. A heartbeat.
Heartbeat by Childish Gambino.
There was something almost ironic about it, a fighter called Cardiac, a man named for the heart he once stopped, walking out to a track built around its pulse. But irony didn’t matter here.
The crowd lapped it up.
Cardiac stepped out from behind the curtain. He didn’t storm through. He emerged. Slow. Deliberate. Each step down the aisle landed perfectly in time with the beat, shoulders squared, gaze locked on the cage. No showmanship. No wasted motion. He moved as if the pulse of the music belonged to him.
Scar tissue twisted his face into something close to a snarl even at rest. He looked carved from stone. Solid. Inevitable.
Then the light caught him properly. Horns. Curved and brutal, carved with intricate care. A Julpa.
Heidi’s stomach dropped. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. Abi hadn’t mentioned that part.
She twisted toward her corner.
“Oi, Abi! You forget to tell me I’m fighting a bloody Julpa tonight?!”
Abi didn’t flinch. She just leaned against the cage wall, arms folded.
“You said you didn’t want to know until the bell.”
“That rule’s for names, not bloody horns!” Heidi snapped back, but the roar of the crowd swallowed her words as Cardiac reached the cage. He squeezed himself through the entrance by shuffling sideways, never taking his gaze off Heidi. The cage was most definitely smaller with him inside. The crowd loved it. They wanted blood, and they thought they already knew whose.
The ref milked the moment, strutting to the centre of the cage like the star of the show.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, voice cracking with fake gravitas through the mic.. “On my left, your reigning nightmare! Weighing in at way too much for anyone’s good, the breaker of ribs, the crusher of dreams…The stopper of hearts! Cardiac!”
Cardiac didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. He just rolled his shoulders and kept his eyes locked on Heidi.
“And on my right,” the ref grinned, and his gaze flicked toward Heidi, “standing five foot nothing, with a mouth that works harder than her fists in more ways than one!” A ripple of laughter broke from the crowd. The ref held the pause like a comedian who thought he’d landed the line of the night. “The one, the only. Heidi Evervale!”
Heidi’s jaw flexed. She raised her gloves, banged them together above her head, and the crowd roared. If the ref wanted to get his little digs in, fine. She’d make him announce her as the winner by the end of it.
The bell clanged.
***
The exchange between Dante and Evelyn had been brief. Efficient, almost surgical before cutting straight to business. Neither had time for pleasantries beyond an introduction and a handshake. Neither needed to impress the other, and both knew they would likely never meet again after tonight. Pretence was unnecessary; their people had arranged the meeting, and their task was simply to conclude it.
The private suite on the upper floor was invitation-only, a perch above the crowd with an unbroken view of the cage. No wire, no distractions, just the raw, unfiltered violence below. These were the best seats in the house, and they belonged to Dante, shared only with those he allowed.
For now, the crowd below had settled as the announcements were in progress. Waiters moved with silent precision, refilling glasses before anyone needed to ask, each one knowing their customers’ orders by heart. But in truth, the people up here were no different from the ones below. When the bell rang, they too would press against the glass wall, faces lit by strobing lights, cheering as every punch and kick landed.
Connor set the case on the tall table between them. It landed with a soft, deliberate thud. Sleek and black, its smooth surface was secured by a coded catch and pin.
Dante watched Evelyn with the stillness of a man accustomed to control. Broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that didn’t quite conceal the tattoos crawling up his throat, he exuded quiet authority. His eyes, sharp, heavy-lidded, measured value in silence rather than words. There was nothing loud about him, no posturing or threats. They weren’t needed.
Connor undid the locks with steady hands, each metallic click cutting cleanly through the muffled sounds from the crowd below. He lifted the lid to reveal the contents, precisely what Evelyn had come for.
Her face remained composed, unreadable. Not a flicker of reaction betrayed her thoughts. But for the briefest moment, Dante caught it. The faintest intake of breath, almost imperceptible. Something heavy and long-buried had shifted inside her.
He said nothing. He simply watched, that same stillness anchoring him while the crowd roared beneath their feet, unaware of the quiet exchange between the two figures above them.
Evelyn leaned forward, her tone measured and cool. “It’s in good condition,” she said.
Dante gave a slow nod, one corner of his mouth curving just enough to suggest amusement. “It would be,” he replied. “I made sure of that.”
At Dante’s instruction, Connor slid the case carefully across the table toward Evelyn. The movement was respectful, almost ceremonial.
“Go on,” Dante said, his tone casual but his eyes fixed on her. “Inspect the piece for yourself.”
Evelyn unlatched the final clasp that anchored the piece inside the case, releasing it from its final bind.
Inside, cushioned in black velvet, lay a weapon of remarkable craftsmanship and impossible age.
The katana rested in stillness, its steel so dark it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. A faint, irregular ripple ran the length of the edge, the ghost of a thousand folds. The tsuba was plain, oval, worn smooth with use; the hilt wrap, once deep crimson, had faded toward brown. A trace of pine oil lingered, as if the forest it was present.
Dante’s gaze flicked to the blade. “The Kogarasu Maru (小烏丸),” he said quietly. “Little Crow. Older than anyone left alive to claim it.”
Evelyn hesitated, her hand hovering over the hilt as though touching it might stir something. Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, she grasped it.
Nothing happened. Only the weight of centuries settling into her palm. For the briefest moment, her composure tightened, invisible to anyone but Dante.
He leaned back, faint amusement ghosting across his face. “Careful with that. If the Cat Sisters find out their property is in your possession, you can expect a visit. And they’re not known for polite conversation.”
Evelyn’s gaze lifted to meet his, calm and cold. “I know who the original owner was,” she said. “And I don’t fear the Cats. The blade belongs to no one except who it was crafted from.”
“By,” Connor corrected quietly, instinctively.
A small smile touched her lips. “By,” she finished, placing the sword gently back into its velvet cradle. “The funds are being transferred.”
Dante gave a subtle nod of approval as the lights began to spin in the area downstairs, signifying the fight was about to start.
“One more thing. Connor? I’d like to place a bet. And I’d like to go downstairs to watch the fight.”
***
The Julpa didn’t move fast. He didn’t need to. Each step toward her felt like a wall closing in. Heidi circled, gloves tight, testing the space, the give of the mat, the rhythm of her breath against the pounding crowd.
Then he struck.
Not a punch, not at first. A shove that landed like a battering ram to her chest. Her back smacked the cage, breath snapping out of her lungs. The second hit was the real one: a hook that clipped her temple so hard her vision blinked white. She hit the floor after her head had already bounced off the cage before she even realised she’d gone down.
“Three! Four!” The ref’s voice cracked over her, the count already climbing.
She pushed up, forcing her legs to hold though her skull rattled like loose change in a tin. Couldn’t look rocked. Couldn’t look broken.
The ref gave her a once-over, then waved them back on.
The Julpa came again, all weight and reach, swinging hard. Heidi blocked high, barely. The shot still launched her sideways across the cage, feet skidding on canvas. She steadied herself, breath ragged, ribs screaming.
Too close. Too strong. She couldn’t trade blows. Not with him. She needed space. Time.
He lunged again, this time with a straight meant to take her head off. She ducked, pivoted, and slipped past, but he was already there, waiting with the other fist. It hammered into her gut, folding her in half and spitting the air out of her lungs.
She’d thought she would collapse again. But she forced her legs steady, forced herself to lift her head and push through the ache.
Heavy steps shook the canvas. Heidi wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her glove and grinned, looking Cardiac straight in the eye.
“That all you got?”
The Julpa’s eyes narrowed, and then he swung.
The next minute was punishment. Every block rattled her bones, every dodge left her a half-second from collapse. His reach was brutal, fists like wrecking balls, and when they landed she swore she could feel her ribs bending. The crowd roared at every hit, drunk on the spectacle.
Another haymaker came for her head. This time she slipped under it, pivoted, and let her body move the way it wanted to, the way she usually kept chained down. Her fist snapped out, clean and vicious. With intent to take this fucker down.
It cracked against his jaw like a gunshot.
Cardiac’s head snapped sideways, his whole body rocked back half a step. The cage shook with the crowd’s eruption.
And for the briefest moment, Heidi felt it…the release, the reminder of what she really was when she stopped holding back. Dangerous. Very. Fucking. Dangerous.
His glare cut through the dazzle of lights as he straightened, tongue running across bloodied teeth. For the first time, his grin split the scarred mask of his face.
The bell rang.
She staggered to her corner, lungs burning, every muscle screaming. But under it all, a wicked smile crept onto her face. She was still standing.
But so was he.
Heidi sat on the stool Abi had already shoved into place as soon as the bell rang, handing her a bottle, crouching low, deliberately blocking her view of Cardiac.
Heidi scanned the crowd, trying to read the room. Confusion. Worry. A few men already counting money that wasn’t theirs yet. Mostly just bodies and noise.
And then. Connor.
Great. Not only was she getting the shit kicked out of her, it was happening in front of her ex.
But his attention wasn’t on her.
It was on the woman beside him.
She stood out immediately. Still. Composed.
“Hey! Are you even listening to me?” Abi snapped.
“Every word.” Heidi took a swig of water, but her eyes drifted back despite herself.
The woman met her gaze.
No expression. No reaction.
“Okay… that was…” Abi began.
“Painful?”
“To watch.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“You’re really good at this pep-talk thing.”
Abi shifted closer, voice raised just enough to cut through the noise.
“That song he came out to,” she said. “You know what it’s actually about, right?”
Heidi blew out a breath through her nose, rolling her shoulders once.
“Heartbeat?”
Abi nodded. “Yeah. It’s not what he thinks. He wouldn’t have chosen it otherwise.”
Heidi frowned, finally looking at her. “Meaning?”
Abi flicked a glance toward Cardiac’s corner.
“It’s about insecurity. Trying to sound solid so no one notices you’re rattling.”
Heidi blinked. Then huffed a short laugh, more surprise than amusement.
“Seriously?”
“Or maybe he just picked it because it’s a sick beat,” Heidi added.
Abi snorted.
“Yeah. Probably.”
She leaned in closer, voice firm now.
“But this is my pep talk, so let’s go with the insecurity thing.”
Heidi’s smile settled into something steadier.
“Alright,” she said. “I can work with that.”
Abi’s mouth curved.
“Good.”
Abi stayed close, hands already working, fingers quick and efficient as she checked Heidi’s ribs.
“Listen to me,” she said. “He’s big. He hits hard. That’s it.”
Heidi snorted. “That’s a pretty glowing assessment.”
Abi didn’t smile.
“He wants you to slow down. Wants you planted. Wants you trading.”
She tapped Heidi’s thigh once, sharp.
“Don’t.”
Heidi met her eyes now.
“He’s breathing heavier than you,” Abi went on. “He hates it when you disappear. Every time you move, he resets.”
She leaned in, forehead nearly touching Heidi’s.
“You don’t beat him by being tougher. You beat him by making him chase. And when he swings wide…”
“I’m already gone,” Heidi finished.
Abi nodded.
“Exactly.”
She straightened just as the ref started pacing toward them.
“One more thing,” Abi added. “If you get hurt…”
“I’m already hurt.”
Abi’s mouth curved again, this time sharp.
“Good. Then stop worrying about it.”
The bell rang.
Round Two.
***
From the private tier, Evelyn took her seat.
She didn’t watch the Julpa. She watched the girl.
Something had shifted in her.
Evelyn smiled.
There it is.
***
Two minutes. That was all she had, and her head was still a storm. Heidi moved her attention back to Cardiac. Staring across the cage, watching the Julpa roll his shoulders like he was loosening up for slaughter, Heidi thought it could be the longest two minutes of her life. The striking woman would have to wait.
The break had been enough to breathe, enough to think. He had the speed and the weight, no denying that but she’d seen cracks in the rhythm. And she wasn’t about to fold in front of him, in front of Abi, in front of the crowd. In front of Connor.
They met in the centre. His shoulder dipped, a tell clear as daylight. She didn’t wait. Heidi charged, head down, no guard. His fist came exactly where she knew it would, slicing the air above her skull as she dropped low, sliding forward on her knees.
Her forehead rammed straight into his crotch. Full speed as she slid.
The sound was ugly. His whole body folded.
The crowd gasped, then howled. Half cheering, half jeering. This wasn’t clean, but it was a fight, and fights weren’t always meant to be clean.
Heidi rolled backwards, springing to her feet. She expected fists raining down, but when she spun, Cardiac was on his knees, gagging, clutching himself like he was trying to hold his guts in. The ref darted in, checking him, scowling at her.
“You know what the fuck you did,” he snapped, herding her toward the side of the cage.
“I know. Deduct the point and let’s keep it moving.”
“Heidi, I should disqualify you right here…”
“But you won’t.” She cut him off, eyes burning through him. “Not here. Not tonight.” Eyes burning through him. Then she jerked her chin upward, a sharp nod toward the balcony. Dante sat above it all, arms folded, gaze fixed on the cage.
“You could,” she said, voice low but carrying. “But then you’ll have to explain it to him.”
The ref’s jaw locked. He followed her glance, swallowed, then spat a curse under his breath. Finally he threw his arm wide.
“Point deduction. Low blow!”
The crowd split in half again. Half booed, half roared.
Heidi just smiled, bouncing lightly on her heels, staring down the Julpa who was finally dragging himself upright. Fighting back the nausea.
For the first time all night, Cardiac looked uncertain. Not broken, not beaten, but thrown. He’d fought scrappers, giants, even men who outweighed him by fifty pounds, and every single one had fallen the same way: fast, hard, final. No one had put him on his knees before. And no one had grinned about it. He looked even more angry and determined to put her down. Shit.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders again, chest heaving as he found his rhythm again. Gaze locked on her. A promise.
Heidi winked, then tapped her temple with her glove. Come on, big man. Think faster.
The bell rang.
Cardiac charged. His first hook blurred through the air, but Heidi was already gone, ducking low, feeling the wind whip past her ear. The second came just as quick, she slipped under it, pivoting, letting the cage wall take the brunt of his momentum. The impact rattled the chain links.
She darted in, snapped a jab across his jaw. Not much, but enough to sting. Enough to remind him, and herself, what she could do when she stopped holding back.
Cardiac’s head jerked sideways, but he didn’t stumble. His lip split, blood bright against his teeth as he smiled.
The crowd erupted. They were getting a show.
Heidi backed off, gloves up, chest heaving. She knew she was still taking a beating tonight, but the truth rang in her bones: she wasn’t here to survive him. She was here to show him, and everyone else, that she could dance with monsters and make them bleed.
The cage rang like a drum as they collided again. Cardiac swung heavy, wild, and Heidi stopped dodging. She stepped straight into the storm.
No guard. No grace. Just fists.
Her first hook cracked across his ribs, the second slammed into his temple. She didn’t stop to breathe, didn’t stop to think. Elbows, knees, fists, everything she had, hammering into him like she was trying to break stone with her bare hands. Each blow cost her, shocks running up her arms, her knuckles screaming, her lungs tearing at the air. But the crowd was howling, Abi screaming at ringside.
Defence was slowing her down even more. So she burned it. She couldn’t dance around all night. If he wanted blow for blow, then that’s what he’s get.
Cardiac staggered, then planted himself and swung back. His fist caught her jaw, snapping her head sideways. Another buried itself in her gut. He grabbed at her, ready to crush her against the cage. On the floor, spitting blood, the ref counting. And directly in the line of her sight, the striking woman.
Heidi jumped to her feet.
The ref checked her for clarity.
The bell rang. Cardiac came at her harder and faster. She dodged back and forth, narrowly avoiding everything he was throwing at her. Looking for an opening. And then…
Heidi surged up his body like a climbing hook, clinging to him, piggy-backing a beast twice her size. Her legs dug into his back, boots grinding into his ribs for leverage. He stood on the spot swinging wildly trying to loosen her off. Heidi had one arm hooked over each side of his head, hands clamping tight around the base of his horns. The horns that with most Julpa’s, protruded from his temple.
She pulled. Hard. Arms wrenching back, feet driving forward, her whole body a lever against his spine.
Cardiac’s panic ignited into rage. He lurched backward, ramming Heidi into the cage wall. The metal rattled like thunder, her spine screaming with each impact. Still she clung on, teeth bared, arms locked tight around his horns. He drove her back again, then again, every slam sending shockwaves through her chest.
Her vision blurred. A copper tang filled her mouth as her teeth cut her lip. The roar of the crowd dulled, muffled like she was slipping underwater. She tasted sweat and iron from each jolt, her skull rattling against steel.
But her grip never loosened. Blood smeared across her knuckles as the Julpa’s thrashing grew wilder, desperate to shake her loose.
Then the sound came. A dry, awful creak. Like wood beginning to splinter.
The Julpa froze. His roar faltered, cracked, turned into something else. Panic, disbelief. Horns were sacred. Unbreakable. Untouchable. But here he was, ribs groaning under her boots, temples burning under her grip, staring into the impossible.
Her teeth ground together, her voice a rasp in his ear. “Tap!” she hissed. “Or I finish it!”
Cardiac said nothing and tried once, twice, three times again to throw Heidi off. Her grip held firm. And another creak. Louder than before. The give was closer.
He dropped to his hands and knees and yelled in rage. At the frustration. Fighting against his every instinct, he patted the floor heavily. Signifying that he had yielded.
The ref was already waving, leaping in, shouting over the cage din. “That’s it! It’s over!” The bell clanged as Cardiac finally sagged, knees buckling, both hands raised, checking his horns for signs of damage.
The noise hit like a tidal wave. Half of them roaring Heidi’s name, half booing in disbelief. She let go all at once, dropping to the mat in a crouch, chest heaving, hair plastered with sweat. Her fists trembled, not from weakness but from the adrenaline still flooding her veins.
Cardiac stumbled back, eyes wide, a hand hovering over his horn as if to check it was still there. He didn’t look at her again. Not once.
Heidi rose slow, arms finally raised by the ref, the crowd surging louder. She glanced over towards Connor, mainly to find the striking woman again in the crowd. They were both nowhere to be seen.
But inside, behind the roar, she felt something else gnawing, something sharp and certain.
She hadn’t given everything. Not even close.
***
Heidi picked up her bag and headed for the exit. Having already collected the winnings, she had no reason to linger and wanted to get to The Salisbury as soon as possible. Her bruises were already starting to fade and the tooth that had been knocked out would be back by morning. She healed, but it didn’t stop the pain; that always lingered for days. Whether that was normal or not, she didn’t know. There was no one like her to ask. She had never even seen, let alone met a full-blood vampire. All she and Ellis had to go on were history books and a handful of YouTube videos, most of them conspiracy fodder either denying vampires existed at all or insisting they secretly ran the world. She cared about the truth, but she’d also made peace with the likelihood she might never fully understand herself.
From the far end of the locker room came the hiss of the showers. Dougie had managed to get to his feet, good. She glanced at the battered row of lockers and found the one he had claimed for that evening: door hanging crooked. She opened it and slipped out the envelope, counted five £20 notes and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket. No note. No speech. Just enough to cover a week of meals and a night where he didn’t have to fight.
Heidi closed the locker quietly and shouldered her bag. Maybe he’d wonder where the money came from. Maybe he would know, and was too proud to say. Either way, she hoped he spent it on something that made him happy. After all, the money she made had to give somebody some happiness other than Dante.
She turned down the service corridor, the roar thinning to a low throb. Rounding the corner, she stepped aside to let two figures through. Connor at half-pace, and the striking woman at his shoulder.
The woman paused just long enough to meet her eyes.
“Good win,” she said, almost an afterthought.
“Wasn’t clean,” Heidi replied.
“That’s why it worked,” the woman said, and was gone, already moving, Connor lingered and leaned in slightly, voice low. “You meeting the others later?”
Heidi nodded once. “On my way there now. Abi already left.”
He gave a small nod, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he followed after Evelyn.
Heidi watched them fade into the light from the stairwell, a prickle running along her spine she couldn’t place. Then she hit the exit.
‘Sweet Jane’ - Mott the Hoople
CHAPTER THREE
THE SALISBURY
The Salisbury was heaving, warm lights, loud laughter, bodies packed tight the way they always were on a decent night. The smell of stale beer and spilled spirits hung in the air. Old gig posters lined the walls with bands long since split, and the jukebox in the corner belted out rock anthems people had lived by for the price of a quid.
Abi waved from the back booth, half-standing to be seen. Heidi pushed her way through, smiling at the regulars she knew by face more than name. People you never made plans with, but knew exactly where to find them. Not quite friends. Not quite strangers.
She stopped at the bar first, while the crowd surged around her. The bartender slid a fresh pint glass under the tap, knowing what she’d have without asking.
The pint was pushed toward her. She lifted it in thanks, tapped her phone on the card reader and turned away, dissolving into the rest of the room.
She slid past the last person and into the alcove Abi and the others had claimed for the night. Abi was already handing her a pint of cider before she’d even sat down.
“Here, you deserve this after almost getting your arse handed to you.”
“And now I’m already double parked.” Heidi said, indicating to the pint she just bought and taking a long gulp. “And please, I had him right where I wanted the whole time. Everyone was having fun, right?”
Abi smirked. “Yeah, well, watching you nearly get folded in half isn’t my idea of fun.”
Heidi leaned back, letting the noise of the conversation between Kyle, Chargrill and Supes soak through her. The fight still buzzed faintly in her veins, but here, the only thing that mattered was who played the better Batman, which vision of whatever is the best. It was a revolving rota of subjects that had been caroselled around for years and no one ever changed the others' mind. Tonight it was who is the greatest living guitarist. A very different conversation from who is the greatest guitarist of all time. Heidi’s entrance had been acknowledged with a nod of their heads as the discussion went on without an interruption.
“Slash, there’s no contest.” Kyle threw his opinion in.
“You’re on fuckin crack or something mate! Slash?” Chargrill voiced.
“I mean, he’s probably in the top five I guess?” Supes ever the one on the fence.
Abi gave her a look, then laughed, entertained by the back and forth of the boys. Heid cradled her pint as a silent viewer.
Kyle was leaning forward, elbows on the table, grin lazy but warm, pretending not to notice Abi every time she looked his way. The rest went on arguing, voices overlapping until none of it made sense.
Abi caught Heidi drifting. “You okay?”
Heidi nodded. “Yeah. Just… winding down. Enjoying…this.”
Abi reached down under the table and pulled a fresh T-Shirt out of a bag. “Here. You’ve got blood on that. Can’t have Ellis asking questions.”
“Shit.” Heidi looked down at where Abi was gesturing.
Abi smirked. “He’d lose his shit. When you get changed, chuck me that one and I’ll get the blood out.”
“Come on Heidi, settle this for us.” Chargrill interrupted.
“You’re all idiots. Everyone knows it’s Nuno.” She said casually. The boys looked at each other in disbelief.
“The fucking “More Than Words” guy?!?!?” Kyle blurted as they all burst out laughing. “From Extreme?!”
They laughed, and the world felt normal for a while. Pints refilled, stories looped back on themselves, someone kicked the jukebox until it started working again. A night that wouldn’t feel special until later.
When last orders hit, the crowd spilled out into the drizzle. Streetlights glazed the pavement gold. A taxi horn blared somewhere down the road.
Abi’s phone buzzed as they were pulling jackets on.
She frowned at the screen.
“You okay?” Heidi asked.
Abi hesitated, then nodded.
“Yeah. Just… my Dad. You know what he’s like.”
The drizzle had settled in properly now, slicking the pavement.
Abi touched Heidi’s arm and called out to the others.
“Hey. Do me a favour tonight.”
She held her phone up, a quiet signal that she had news.
“Stick to the main roads,” she said. “Don’t cut through.”
Heidi clocked the shift immediately. “Why?”
Abi shook her head and shrugged the seriousness off.
“Just Dad being Dad.”
“Fine,” Heidi said. “Main roads. Scout’s honour.”
Abi pulled her into a hug, tighter than usual.
“Text me when you’re home.”
The others peeled off, Ubers arrived, hugs exchanged, promises made half-drunk and half-meant.
Heidi lingered, phone in hand. Connor’s name sat near the top of her messages. She typed:
Want some company?
She stared at it. Then sighed, thumb hovering.
Delete message.
The screen went dark.
She was already walking home.
And the dawn wasn’t far away.
‘The Rip’ - Portishead
CHAPTER FOUR
THE TRUTH IN THE EYES
Evelyn stepped inside the apartment and set the case on the table with a soft, deliberate thud. It slid across the surface, stopping just shy of the boots propped up there.
“Not exactly an impulse buy,” said the man attached to them.
“Some things aren’t meant to be,” Evelyn replied, shrugging off her coat and slinging it over the back of the sofa.
Byron sat up as she flipped the clasps and lifted the lid. For a moment, the room filled with the quiet gleam of steel. The Kogarasu Maru, resting in its cradle like it was asleep.
“She there?” he asked.
The question hung as she reached for a can in the fridge and cracked it open. No fizz escaped. She took a drink, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then turned to face Byron.
“She’s nothing special,” Evelyn said finally. “Could be any girl in Pazuzu.”
His brow twitched. “You don’t believe that.”
Evelyn didn’t answer. She reached up, pinched at her eyes, and slid free the contact lenses. The shift was instant, pale irises fading into that unmistakable rose hue beneath.
Byron watched. The change never failed to unsettle him.
“Get over it.”
“It’s jarring. You. Hiding what you are.”
“I’m not hiding,” she said. “Hiding’s what you do when you don’t want to be found. This…” she held the lens between finger and thumb “...is strategy. It serves its purpose.”
He nodded toward the open case. “And that?”
Evelyn’s gaze followed his. The sword caught the light, the faint ripple of its edge alive with memory.
“That’s something I should’ve left buried,” she said quietly. “But it has a way of finding me.”
He hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Did you touch it?”
Evelyn nodded once.
“Anything?”
She looked down, her voice low. “Nothing. There’s still nothing.”
The silence between them deepened, filled only by the hum of the city below.
“It’s started again,” Byron said.
Evelyn didn’t look up. “I know.”
“Another body was found this morning.”
She took a slow breath through her nose. “Too close together.”
“Same pattern,” he added.
Her mouth tightened. “Of course it is.”
“Are we set?” she asked at last.
“Nearly. A few more things to finish and we’re good to go.”
“Good. I need to ask her first. Before we move. Give her the chance.”
“You think she’ll help?”
“No.”
“This hurts you, doesn’t it?”
Evelyn nodded once. “There’s me. And there’s her. That’s it. No others. I have to give her the chance.”
“You’ve given everyone the chance, Evelyn.”
“And soon,” she said softly, “it’ll all be done.”
Byron stood and hesitated. “We’ve got an issue, though.”
Her eyes lifted. “With who?”
“Eidr. Again.”
Evelyn exhaled through her nose, slow and measured. “What now?”
Byron’s jaw tightened. “Same as before, only worse. He’s not being careful. People are noticing.”
Evelyn’s expression barely shifted, but the air around her cooled. “Deal with it quietly. Before it becomes another problem I have to fix.”
Byron nodded. “Understood.”
She didn’t thank him this time.
Evelyn set the can down and crossed to the window as soon as Byron had left. She took a curtain in each hand and yanked them wide, letting their own weight carry the rest.
The first light of dawn was gathering behind the hills that surrounded Pazuzu.
From this high up, Pazuzu sprawled beneath her. Fractured, alive, and utterly unaware.
Her eyes drifted back to the sword. The blade caught the light, faintly, like a living thing breathing in its sleep. One that she was unable to wake.
‘Crazy Life’ - Slash
CHAPTER FIVE
Morning Disorder Dash
Day Two
Three days before the City halted
A sliver of sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtains, landing square on Heidi’s bare leg. She lay sprawled on her back, snoring softly, oblivious to the low hum of morning traffic rising from the street below.
The city was awake.
Heidi wasn’t.
And she was already late.
Her eyes snapped open.
She fumbled for her phone, blinking through the blur until the screen came into focus.
8:23 a.m.
Band practice was at 8:30.
“FUCK!”
With a spring, she launched out of bed and yanked the curtains open. Sunlight hit her skin, sparking that usual first tingle before fading.
Still in the T-shirt Abi gave her in the Salisbury, her hair a white-and-black swirl of chaos, she dove into the heap of clean clothes that hadn’t quite made it to drawers or hangers.
Truth was, everything in that pile followed the same cycle: worn, tossed in the laundry (a scattered mess across the floor), washed, then dumped back on the ‘clean’ pile.
Never folded. Rarely hung. Just an endless loop of barely managed disorder.
A shower would have to wait. The morning was already derailed.
Last night’s jeans, that were also the days before that, would have to do. But a fresh T-shirt, clean grundies, and socks were non-negotiable.
Hair? Always a lost cause. Even if she tried.
She threw herself into the routine, scrambling to shave off every second she could.
Clothed and half-ready, Heidi flung her bedroom door open and bolted across the hallway to the bathroom opposite, nearly colliding with Ellis mid-shuffle.
“Jesus!”
Ellis wasn’t usually this animated at 8 a.m. having only just woken up himself.
“Mine first!” Heidi shouted, already disappearing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her. The lock clicked.
“I’m going to be late!” Ellis barked at the door.
Silence.
Muttering to himself, he padded back down the hall. If nothing else, it was an excuse for Frosties. With extra sugar.
He was an adult after all. He could do what he wanted.
Except, apparently, use his own bathroom.
Teeth brushed. Face splashed and ten minutes later, Heidi burst into the kitchen.
Ellis was leaning against the kitchen top, only just starting on his bowl of Frosties, calmly observing the chaos unfolding in front of him.
“How’d it go last night?” Ellis said snapping Heidi up in a panic. Did he know abot the fight?
“What?” her attempt at looking innocent was poor but went unnoticed, Ellis was still half asleep. If he knew this would be a very different conversation. “Oh yeah, it was good to see the guys, you know.” Off the hook she went back to her choatic search. Ellis nodded and scooped at his Frosties.
“Keys!” she shouted as if they would appear at her demand.
She rummaged through the mess of paperwork on the kitchen table, fully aware it wouldn’t make a difference to whatever order it was supposedly in. There was no system. Ellis didn’t comment.
Heidi froze, wide-eyed, hands raised in theatrical panic.
“Have you seen them?!”
Ellis, mid-chew, gestured lazily with his spoon toward the side pocket of her denim jacket. The one she was already wearing.
“Poc’t,” he mumbled. Milk dribbling into his beard. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Her hand darted to the pocket. A jangle. Found.
She bounced over, kissed him on the cheek, and disappeared down the hallway.
“Oh!” Heidi popped her head back around the door. “You know what day it is today, right?”
Ellis nodded, eyes fixed on his cereal. The spoon floated in what little milk remained.
“Yeah. Your mum’s birthday.”
The answer caught Heidi off guard.
That wasn’t the day she’d been thinking of.
It had completely slipped her mind.
She paused, then stepped back into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway.
“Yeah… yeah, it is, isn’t it.”
Heidi had never actually celebrated Nina’s birthday.
It was more of a mourning day for Ellis and trying to make it anything else never felt right.
How do you get excited about someone’s birthday when you never really knew them?
For Heidi, it was about being there.
For Ellis.
For Pop-Pop.
Nina existed in stories Ellis sometimes shared. When he did talk about her. Which wasn’t often.
Pop-Pop was the same. Quiet. Wounded. The two of them alike in more ways than they’d admit.
“You okay?” she asked gently.
“Yeah.”
Ellis shrugged it off. “Just another day, in’it.”
He scooped up a mouthful of cereal.
Heidi knew better than to push.
She wouldn’t get anything else out of him.
But he was getting a hug, whether he wanted one or not.
“Watch my cereal!” he grumbled as she reached up and pulled him down to her height.
She held him for a moment. He leaned in, chin on her shoulder.
“Oh, you know what else today is?” Heidi called as she pulled away and headed out of the kitchen.
“No. What?”
Grabbing the soft case that held her guitar, she turned, walking backwards toward the front door.
“IT’S MAVIS DEACON DAY!”
Her voice echoed down the hallway.
In the kitchen, Ellis blinked. Confused. Then it hit him.
He dropped the spoon into his cereal bowl, snatched up his phone and located the calendar.
Shit.
It was, in fact, Mavis Deacon Day.
“...FUCK!”
Heidi giggled as she pulled the front door shut behind her.
The latch clicked into place, sealing off the flat and leaving one middle-aged man inside, now fully spiralling.
‘Welcome to the Deadzone’ - Manic Street Preachers
CHAPTER SIX
Welcome to the Deadzone
The car approached the Westward Arches, the west entrance into Pazuzu City. The walls stretched out on either side, running left and right into the distance, curving gently until they met the city’s Northern and Southern gates.
Rose sat in the back of the car, the landscape outside the city flicking past in sun-washed stretches of green and gold.
It was reminiscent of the scenery from the short destination break Helen had insisted on.
“You don’t have to fix everything, love,” Helen had said, catching Rose’s hesitation just before they left.
Rose had almost backed out, convinced she couldn’t possibly go. Not with everything she’d left unresolved just hours earlier.
“Just this once,” Helen had added, “let it go.”
And she had.
Even when Helen, half joking, half serious, called Pazuzu “the Deadzone.”
“You go back there, it’s going to suck the joy right out of you.”
The moment they’d reached the coast, blue skies, salt air, the slow hush of waves. Everything else drifted away.
Now it was all tumbling back.
For five days, there were no press briefings. No strategy meetings. Just wine, wildflowers, Helen, and the sound of water brushing against pebbled shores.
One night, after too much wine, they put on the album Lovesexy and danced around the apartment with the volume far too high. It had been years since either of them moved like that. Slower, sure, but the rhythm was still there. So was the laughter. Prince’s music had always been one of the few things they’d agreed on from the start. Some things didn’t need to be discussed. You just hit play and go with it.
But now she was returning to her usual routine: governing a city held together by policy, politics, and bureaucracy that at times, felt entirely made up on the spot.
At least the drive had been pleasant. The countryside stretched wide and still, and she was high-profile enough to have a chauffeur. Better yet, one who understood that silence wasn’t awkward, it was necessary. She heard enough nonsense most days. Today would be no different.
Bruce, the driver, slowed the car as it approached the checkpoint.
Ahead, a short queue of vehicles waited to be scanned through. Engines murmuring, windows cracked open, drivers leaning out in that heat-drowsy posture of routine.
A lorry driver had his music blaring, bass thumping hard enough to rattle the loose trim on his door. His bioluminescent markings, bands of turquoise and amber, flared and dimmed in perfect time with the beat, spilling light across the steering wheel. Even from her seat, Rose could feel the faint vibration through the car’s frame, the rhythm bleeding into the morning air like a heartbeat the whole checkpoint could hear.
The car ahead of them had a woman in the passenger seat painting her nails, her brush strokes steady despite the soft sway of the queue. She leaned toward the driver now and then, her relaxed posture making it clear she had nowhere else to be.
Behind them, a Nyssari couple in a rusted hatchback exchanged clipped words, their tone sharper than their expressions. Even in disagreement, there was a rhythm to it, a quiet control that never tipped into chaos. The woman’s hair was threaded with a bright woven band, its colours catching in the sun each time she turned her head.
Pazuzu life. Always moving. Always humming.
Bruce said nothing. He never did unless prompted. That’s what Rose liked about him.
She took a breath, eyes scanning the line, the barrier, the familiar silhouette of Pazuzu’s west side rising just beyond. Artistic graffiti layered over scaffolding and plain brick, old stone framed by glass, bikes weaving through taxis, and banners fluttering with election colours that had already started to fade.
Bruce leaned out and scanned his card.
A beep. A flicker of green and the barrier lifted.
Warm air slipped past the air con and into the back seat as they rolled forward.
Behind them, fields stretched out, unbothered by the weight of politics.
Ahead, the city thickened. Brick by brick, car by car.
Traffic was dense but moving.
And Rose...
Rose sat back, watching the skyline sharpen. The ache in her shoulders returned.
She hated the decisions some days. Hated the posturing, the red tape, the meetings that went in circles because one man couldn’t admit another had a point. Hated being polite to people she’d rather throw a folder at. Or something bigger. Hated being the one who had to speak calm into a storm she didn’t cause.
But God help her, she still loved this job.
More importantly, she loved this city.
Its unpredictability.
Its mess.
Its music and bad manners and constant need to be better than it was the day before.
This wasn’t just where she worked.
Much to Helen’s annoyance at times, it was home.
And today, it would need her more than ever.
Rose’s phone buzzed against the seat beside her, the first call of the day.
She stared at the screen for a moment. So much for the break.
She picked it up.
“Adam, I’m about fifteen minutes away.”
No pleasantries. There never were.
But the tension in his voice made her sit up straighter.
She listened. Briefly, sharply.
“Understood. Does the press know yet?”
A pause.
“Good. Keep it that way for as long as you can.”
She ended the call and leaned forward.
“I need you to get me to the hall faster.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bruce pressed gently on the accelerator.
Rose sat back. The sea air was already gone. The day had started.
And it was already testing her.
‘The Touch’ - Stan Bush
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two Warriors and a Needle Drop
Ellis pulled into his usual spot, the car groaning like a dying animal.
It clattered to a stop with a final, wheezing rattle. Loud, dramatic, and unmistakably fatal-sounding. Several things were clearly wrong under the bonnet. Most of them felt one bad day away from killing him.
He let out a slow breath, just like the car.
Mavis. Fucking. Deacon. If he could’ve drowned himself in the shower he would have done it.
Behind The Pit, the alley was unofficially sacred. Reserved for unloading battered drum kits, half-working amps, tangled lighting rigs, and whatever else bands insisted they needed. Most of them were happy to lug it themselves. Some weren’t.
Ellis still remembered one gig years back: three bandmates, red-faced and swearing, trying to haul a crate so heavy it needed all four of them, including him, to get it up the narrow steps.
When he asked where the lead singer was, they just nodded toward the box.
He didn’t push.
Just went back to his office and tried not to think too hard about it.
Ellis had no time for bands that leaned on theatrics like crutches. Especially when those theatrics had nothing to do with the music.
Thankfully, the lead singer wasn’t dead.
He emerged later that night, pale, brooding and emo to the point of parody. One of those frontmen too sad to be truly angry, too self-serious to laugh at himself.
The music matched.
They were shit.
Mijo’s van was already parked in its usual spot, making Ellis’s rusted heap look almost shiny by comparison.
He grabbed his rucksack, locked the car (habit, not necessity, no one in their right mind would steal it), and took the narrow ginnel alongside The Pit, cutting out onto the pavement at the main road.
As he stepped out of the ginnel, he saw them. A small queue was already forming along the front of the shop. Folding chairs, takeaway coffee cups, people in faded tour shirts.
The guy at the front was hard to miss. A Julpa with short, forward-swept horns and a battered vinyl sleeve, clutched like it might blow away. It wasn’t even one of the classics Ellis had played on in the early days. He felt slightly insulted.
“You were meant to open at nine,” the man called, checking his watch. “It’s half nine.”
Ellis stared at him for a beat.
“And yet… here we are.” He nodded at the vinyl. “Bold choice, by the way.”
The man huffed, muttering something about professionalism. Ellis climbed the concrete steps and headed for the door.
The Pit had always been a labour of love with emphasis on the labour.
It had nearly broken him more than once: physically, financially, emotionally.
By day, it was a record store.
By night, a live music venue.
Great idea on paper. Brutal in practice.
He worked the shop all day, then went straight into the bar for the evening show if one was booked, which was most days. Double shifts. No glory. Just grind.
Mijo and Heidi worked just as hard in fairness but they also had more of a life for themselves, away from The Pit.
Pop-Pop… mostly held court at Brew-hemian Rhapsody, drinking from open until close. Ellis was pretty sure the man’s tab alone could bankrupt them one day.
He jingled through the wrong keys until the familiar brass tooth found its place. One grunt, one stiff twist, and the lock gave way with a reluctant click.
The door creaked open. He stepped inside and let it thud shut behind him.
The Pit was quiet, dusty and dim. Still carrying the scent of beer, vinyl, and last night’s musk. He started down the centre aisle, boots echoing softly against concrete.
And there it was.
Right in his path, before he was even properly inside: a life-size cutout of Mavis Deacon, arms outstretched, face frozen in that trademark smirk that had once lit up festival stages and magazine covers.
The placement was deliberate. The day before it was in the window, and out of sight. Mijo the prick had obviously put it there to tease him. Fair play.
Across the bottom, in bold red letters:
MAVIS DEACON will be signing copies of her new album and performing LIVE. Exclusively at The Pit.
The gig was tomorrow. Today she was just here to sign. Two days of her. Great.
Ellis eyed the cutout like it might blink first.
She looked the same. Ageless. Iconic. Intimidating, even as cardboard.
The thought of tomorrow had hit harder than he’d expected.
He and Mavis had talked about this place once, in that blurry, half-serious way you do when you’re young and drunk and full of ideas.
A record shop. A venue. A refuge for the good stuff.
But she’d gone one way.
And Ellis… stayed and made it real.
Now here she was, looming large in six-foot promo board form, smiling like she’d always been part of the story.
“Of all the gigs in all the city…” he muttered.
He moved past her, resisting the urge to flick the cutout.
Ghosts in eyeliner could wait.
Mijo hadn’t turned on all the lights, so not technically open yet. But enough glow spilled from the windows to outline Mijo’s shape behind the counter.
Completely still.
Finger raised. Pointed to the ceiling. A warning.
Eyes locked on Ellis.
Ellis froze mid-step.
It was happening.
A musical standoff.
Neither moved. Neither spoke. Not even a blink.
The challenge was issued. Silent, unmistakable. And Ellis, like always, had no choice but to accept.
They’d done this a hundred times before: two old warriors on opposite ends of the same battlefield, armed not with weapons, but tracklists and instinct.
Never planned. Never discussed.
It just happened.
One locked gaze. One pointed finger. The rules fell into place.
No speaking. No flinching.
And whatever played next, the other had to know it. Really know it.
Mijo’s pointed finger tilted to face the floor and he began to lower his hand, slow and deliberate, like a record needle descending toward vinyl. Eyes still locked with Ellis’.
Ellis narrowed his eyes, trying to read the intent. Obscure? Embarrassing? One of those deep cuts he had no business forgetting?
The ritual went both ways over the years. Sometimes Ellis the hunter, sometimes the hunted. Each challenge was a test of memory, rhythm, and nerve.
Lately, though?
Three wins. No misses. Confidence… with a healthy dose of paranoia.
Mijo’s finger hovered above the turntable’s start button.
Stillness. Silence.
Then. Click.
The turntable spun. The needle lowered.
The soft crackle of static rolled through the speakers like the whisper of a storm about to hit.
Their eyes stayed locked. Not a word. Not a twitch.
Ellis braced.
Mijo never picked at random. He chose with precision. With intent.
Once, Mijo had tried to trip Ellis up with Boom! Shake the Room.
Big mistake. Ellis had crushed it. Every line. Even the awkward bridge no one remembered.
The static popped again.
Then…
A swell of organ.
Mijo’s eyes lit up, a slow grin forming like he’d already claimed the win.
The organ hit. Cue air keyboard.
Then came the power note. Huge, cheesy, glorious.
Air guitar joined in, followed by full-body commitment. Ellis naturally took the drums, pounding the imaginary kit like it owed him money.
They nailed every beat.
Stan Bush. The Touch.
Ellis grinned wide.
This was the song. The one that started it all. The track that made him pick up a pair of sticks and never look back. You never forget your first love. Or, sadly… your last.
‘Kiss Off’- Violent Femmes
CHAPTER EIGHT
8.Only Monkeys Point
“You’re kicking me out of the band?!” Heidi put a hand to her chest in outrage. “Me?!”
“Heidi, you turned up late! Again!” Mechala snapped, pupils narrowing to sharp vertical slits as she closed the gap between them. The faint green shimmer along her skin shifted like oil, catching the garage light with each movement.
Abi glanced up from the lyric sheets spread across her knees, already bracing for where this was going.
“At least I turned up this time!” Heidi fired back.
“You know that’s not the strong defence you think it is,” Tom muttered from the old armchair he’d claimed as his personal throne. He didn’t even look up from restringing his bass, the pale glow pulsing faintly along the markings on his forearms shifting with his tone.
“How are we supposed to rehearse when you’re never here?!” Mechala shouted, her voice echoing off the drum kit behind her.
“Alright, chill!” Abi snapped, lifting both hands like she was trying to press the heat back down into the floor. “Shouting isn’t going to fix anything.”
Mechala’s jaw clenched. Tom grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. The garage fell into a tense quiet.
Abi let her shoulders drop and turned to Heidi, her expression softer but weighed down with honesty. “But Heidi… we can’t keep making excuses for you,” Her arms folded tight, not defensive, just done. “We’re all waiting on you. Every week.”
“How are you supposed to rehearse when you don’t have a guitarist?!” Heidi shot back, arms flung wide like she was on stage already.
“We can’t! We haven’t! And that’s the point!” Abi finally snapped. “We may as well not have one because you’re never here, Heidi!”
Heidi stared her down, lips pierced, eyes blazing. “Tom! Third vote. Democracy and all that!”
Abi raised a brow. “Heidi, I haven’t even…”
“You don’t need to if Tom’s smart about it,” Heidi cut in, sharp and fast. “Right, Tom?”
“Yeah, sure it is,” Tom said, pushing himself up from the sunken armchair. He looked from Mechala to Abi, as if waiting for someone to tell him he was wrong, then sighed. Abi didn’t say anything.
“Which is why you’re out, Heidi. We already voted. I sided with Mechala.”
Heidi’s head whipped toward him. He moved between them, closer to Mechala than to her. That said everything.
“You agree with her then?!” Heidi jabbed a finger at Mechala, sharp and wild.
“Oi! Monkey’s point!” Mechala slapped her hand away.
“I do, Heidi. We just wanna play, y’know? We all do. And we can’t do that if you’re never here. So… we’re going to find someone else.”
Abi shifted her weight, jaw tense. She didn’t look at Heidi. Not out of shame, but because she didn’t want Heidi to see how frustrated she was.
“It’s not what we wanted,” she murmured, “but it’s where we’ve ended up.”
Heidi’s silence simmered. Her glare bounced between them like a lit fuse.
“…Fine!” she snapped. “But you’re not using the band name. I’m taking that with me.”
“You’re welcome to it! It never made sense anyway!” Mechala shouted as Heidi grabbed her guitar still in its case, untouched.
“I never got why your zombie was wrapped in bandages, to be honest. Isn’t that a mummy?”
Heidi froze mid-step. Even the mascot was suddenly up for debate.
“Wait… what?!”
“The band mascot thing you draw,” Mechala clarified. “It’s all wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy.”
“Who cares? It looked badass,” Abi snapped, like she was done pretending otherwise.
Heidi blinked, more irritated than shocked. She’d always thought it looked cool. Undead and mysterious. A nod to Eddie, the mascot from Iron Maiden. It had never even occurred to her that she’d crossed the streams of her own mythology.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “How did I miss that?” She held the guitar strap tighter, knuckles whitening. “Now you tell me this?!”
“You drew, like… a lot,” Tom offered with a half-grin. “We didn’t have the heart.”
And there it was. The sting.
What else had they been talking about between themselves? About her?
The old paranoia crept in that she thought she’d buried years ago. Bubbling up like it had been waiting for this exact moment.
She hated how quickly her brain could turn the smallest remark into something it probably wasn’t.
She hated that it still worked that way sometimes.
She forced a laugh that landed too sharp, too thin. “I don’t care. I quit! And I’m taking Zombie Ninja Rock Vampire with me!”
The echo of her boots thudded across the corridor as she stormed off with her guitar case banging against her hip.
They’d been a band. Her band.
Now it was just her again.
***
Heidi shoved the garage door open and stepped into the warm morning air. Her Vespa leaned against the wall, helmet dangling from the handlebar.
She was halfway through jamming the key into the ignition when footsteps slapped across the concrete.
“Heidi…”
“Don’t.” She didn’t turn. “I’m not in the mood for a pep talk.”
Abi slowed to a stop behind her, breath still dragging from the sprint. “I’m not giving you one.”
A beat. Not softer. Just honest.
“I get why you’re angry… but you’re still wrong.”
Heidi’s fingers tightened around the handlebars. “They didn’t have to kick me out.”
“You didn’t have to make it so easy.” No heat, no pity. Just a fact Abi refused to pretend wasn’t true.
Heidi yanked on her helmet, the strap snagging before she forced it into place.
“Not today, Abi.”
Abi took a step forward, but only one. “You could’ve said something. We’re not mind readers.”
The Vespa engine coughed to life. Heidi didn’t answer.
She was a streak of noise leaving Abi there with the thing she hated most. The feeling that, on a day like this, Heidi would rather outrun pain than share it.
CHAPTER NINE
Dr. Pepper
The building thrummed with nervous energy. Thomas could feel it in the air. Tight, unsettled as he passed each tense face. There was a low-level chaos brewing, barely contained, and it was only going to get worse before the day was out.
No one seemed to know the full story. Just fragments, scattered and twisted through rounds of Chinese whispers, evolving into hushed gossip passed from one mouth to another in corridors and corners.
Thomas and Daniel were no different, their conversation clipped and quiet as they moved down the corridor of Pazuzu’s main government offices. A stone in his gut from the message he sent Abi the night before. A warning, that was all.
They were heading toward a meeting, one called at short notice, one that had drawn every important name in the building.
And Thomas knew exactly what it meant.
At some point during that meeting, someone was going to ask him the one question he wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Do you know how long it’s been since it happened?” Daniel asked quietly, leaning toward Thomas as they walked. His voice low, as if that would disguise what they were discussing.
“Fifty-five years,” Thomas said.
Daniel gave a low whistle. “Never even seen one up close. Part of me wants to know what kind of person…” He stopped himself, glancing at Thomas. “...or thing, would do something like that.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. He forced his expression back to neutral, keeping his pace measured. Years in uniform had taught him the value of holding the line, even when someone was testing it. Daniel, oblivious, kept talking.
They pushed open the double doors in unison, stepping into the room with purpose. It was already packed. A few empty chairs remained scattered around the vast oval table at the centre, but most had already been claimed.
“This is the biggest thing we’ve seen in years…” Daniel whispered, his tone far too eager.
“I wouldn’t get too excited over one attack,” Thomas muttered back, irritation creeping in. “And I wouldn’t get excited about any attack on anyone, for that matter.”
Daniel was starting to get on his nerves and worse, he was starting to attract attention. It was becoming unprofessional.
They passed the empty chairs without pause, taking their places along the perimeter of the room. Dozens of others stood shoulder to shoulder around the room, bodies without titles or pay grades high enough to earn a seat. Quiet conversations buzzed in every direction, tension rippling beneath the surface.
As Rose Calloway entered, every seated figure rose, and every whispered conversation fell silent.
Rose had never worn a uniform, yet she commanded a room better than any soldier Thomas had ever met. She didn’t bark orders; just made suggestions and people followed.
Rose remained standing behind her chair while the others took theirs.
A subtle power move. Deliberate. Effective.
“We control the story before they write it for us,” she said. “If they find out first, we lose control.” She turned to Adam. “Draft a statement. Now.”
“Rose,” a voice said cautiously. “If this gets out, it’s global.”
“I’m aware,” she said flatly.
“The last time…”
“We don’t need a history lesson, we all know.” she cut in.
“Any suspects?”
Silence. Rose read the room and it was clear who most of them wanted to point their finger at.
“Any real suspects? Not the obvious one.”
“We have to consider her,” Thomas spoke up.
Rose scanned around looking for the face to the voice. “Some one here knows her?”
Thomas raised his hand, slow and deliberate. “That’d be me.” He hated saying it out loud, but there was no avoiding it. “Our families are close.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught Daniel’s head snap toward him. The look said everything. Surprise, disbelief, and the unspoken ‘you never told me.’ Thomas kept his gaze fixed on Rose, shutting Daniel out just as he had in the corridor.
“So, you know her better than I do?” Rose asked.
“Yes.”
“Then tell me… do you think she’s a suspect because of what she’s done, or because of what she is?”
Thomas held her gaze, the room silent around them. A couple of seconds passed before he spoke. “I think we need to talk to her. Early. By the book. Clear her, and we kill the story before it starts.”
Rose studied him for a moment, then smiled. Not warmly, but in recognition.
“Fine,” she said. “Get Heidi Evervale in for questioning.”
Thomas gave a single nod, the motion felt heavier than it should. The order sat between his ribs like a stone. Somewhere deep down, it felt like a betrayal. To Heidi, and to Abi. But if bringing her in early was the only way to shield her, then he’d carry that weight himself.
The room emptied quickly, everyone scattering to their assigned tasks.
“That was quicker than I thought it’d be,” Daniel said as he and Thomas headed for the door, among the last to leave.
A tap on Thomas’s shoulder stopped him. He turned to find Adam, iPad glued to his hands, as always.
“Rose wants a word before you go,” Adam said, then vanished into the crowd before Thomas could reply.
Thomas glanced across the room. Rose was mid-conversation with a knot of people he didn’t recognise and didn’t care to.
“Well, look who’s the new teacher’s pet,” Daniel smirked, giving him a parting slap on the back before disappearing down the hall. Thomas tolerated him out of politeness, but his patience was wearing thin. Even ‘peace’ was starting to feel like too high a price.
Thomas hung back, just outside the small circle Rose had whittled down to three people. He always felt slightly out of place here. Most of the staff seemed split into two types. The ones desperate to keep Rose happy, and the ones desperate to avoid her wrath.
Thomas was neither. He’d seen what Rose put up with daily, hourly from people who somehow held higher positions than him. The reason she snapped when someone brought her an ‘alternative’ was simple: nine times out of ten, the alternative was just plain stupid.
Thomas didn’t care what anyone thought. He spoke his mind, and on the rare occasions their work overlapped, he’d call her out if she was wrong or offer a better solution. He wasn’t scared of her, and he wasn’t trying to please her. He thought she respected that.
When she finally dismissed the last person, Rose’s demeanour shifted. Some of the steel in her posture eased as she looked at him.
“Thomas, sorry to keep you waiting. Some need more…”
“Guidance?”
She smiled at his diplomacy.
“I was going to say ‘sense,’ but let’s go with yours.”
He returned the smile. He liked this side of her, and was quietly grateful to be one of the few who saw it.
“Come, let’s walk.”
They left the now-empty room together, stepping into the corridor where staff bustled about on their own errands. Even Adam was nowhere in sight, a rarity for Thomas.
“Do you like Dr Pepper?” Rose asked. Not the question he’d been expecting.
“Uh… it’s okay, I guess.”
She took that as a yes.
“Good. Only one vending machine in the building stocks it, and it’s on the far side of the place. You don’t mind walking and talking, do you? Saves time.”
“No, not at all.”
They stepped through a door into a stairwell, Rose taking the lead with brisk, confident steps. The echo of their footfalls bounced off the walls as they descended, passing a pair of junior staffers who instantly straightened when they saw her. Rose acknowledged them with a curt nod and kept moving.
“So, what did you want to see me about?” Thomas asked.
“I want you in Manchester by this afternoon. There’s a summit tomorrow I’m meant to attend, but with all this going on… I can’t leave the city. Especially once we go public.”
They pushed through into a busier corridor, weaving between clusters of people carrying files and coffee cups. Conversations died mid-sentence as Rose passed. She didn’t break stride.
“Rose, I’m not quali…”
“I need you there,” she cut in, taking a sharp turn into a quieter wing. “I need someone to represent me. What you said back in that room, you didn’t falter, you never do. More importantly, you were right. Most people quiver in front of me. God knows why.” She gave him a quick, knowing smile before pushing open another heavy fire door.
The next corridor was almost deserted, just the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. After a few steps, Rose stopped and turned to him.
“When I visited Heidi after her and Ellis arrived in Pazuzu, a few years after we won the case, there was another girl there. Dark hair, quiet. Was that Abi?”
“Most likely,” Thomas said. “The two of them only really had each other back then. Still do, in a way.”
Rose nodded, filing the answer away without comment. They kept walking.
“Rose, I don’t think I’m…”
She stopped dead, turning to face him. The smile was gone; her voice was steel.
“You’re going to be asked about Heidi, and I need someone in that room with conviction. We do not waver on this. At all. Do exactly what you did upstairs, don’t give them an inch, and don’t give them a fucking excuse to pin this on her easily.”
Thomas held her gaze, seeing her own conviction burn back at him.
“Understood.”
She resumed walking, and he followed. The corridor was empty, save for the vending machine at the far end.
Without breaking stride, Rose took out her phone, punched in the number for a lone can of Dr Pepper, and tapped to pay. The machine whirred, dropping the can into the tray.
She picked it up and handed it to him with a smile that felt almost maternal.
“Here you go.”
“Oh, uh… thanks.” He took the can as she turned back down the corridor.
“Not getting one yourself?”
“God, no,” she called over her shoulder. “I hate the stuff. I just like the walk… and the peace and quiet.”