Chapter One
“Good evening.” I attempt to smile politely at the next customer without stretching my cheeks or making much of an expression. Enough for my lips to move but not enough that I can’t feel my face by the end of the shift.
Retail is lovely.
The job demands you smile as you scan irate customers’ frozen Yorkshire puddings, all the while paying you minimum wage.
Also, the name badge is mandatory. They are so stupid. As if customers use them to say how amazing you are. Nah, they only ever want to complain. Not that anyone complains about me, as I’m a nice person and good at my job.
But having your name pinned to your chest isn’t the best idea. If I had a tenner for every time some creepy guy points at my left breast and says, “If that one is called Kricket, what’s the other one called?” Hardy har har. Hilarious.
No badge, you get a verbal warning, and I can’t… I hate getting yelled at, and I can’t afford another warning. I’d lose this job, my home, and possibly my life.
It’s been a long week.
Today the name on my badge is close to Kricket. Karen’s badge was lying conveniently on the manager’s office desk when I came in, and I might have pilfered it before my shift and changed in the staff room amidst the posted reminders: Smile, you are now going on stage.
Yeah, it’s a stage.
I had hoped for a choreographed dance—a retail flash mob—to practise performance-worthy smiles. I’d be so lucky. Nope, sorry, it’s a bloody supermarket. Now I believe they’re lucky we all turn up for our shifts.
If the staff room signs aren’t annoying enough, there’s a giant yellow smiley face next to the mirror. The flickering overhead tube lights make everybody look washed out and sick. Oh, and if you wear too much makeup, you’re written up.
And heaven forbid you colour your hair. Mine is red, and I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been accused of using box dye or an illusion spell. Once, I had to grab my phone to show family and baby pictures. We all have bright red hair, and even Mum is a strawberry blonde.
The customer I smiled at—lip twitched for—doesn’t bother to acknowledge me as she unloads a massive pile onto the till’s belt. She sticks her hand into a ratty bag, and a hard-boiled sweet disappears in her mouth.
She makes this slurping, spit-filled, wet sucking sound with her tongue.
Ew. I wrinkle my nose and sigh. I can’t stand lip and mouth sounds. Eating. Breathing. Oh, and annoying phones that bloop and beep also send me into an eye-twitching rage.
There’s this one staff member—every keystroke on her mobile sounds like a raindrop. Bloop. Bloop. I swear to fate when she texts her husband, I want to grab the handset and stuff it out the nearest window.
I won’t. That’s rude. But it drives me crazy.
My hands move automatically while scanning, my mind wanders, and… That’s when I see the gargoyle.
A peacekeeper.
He moves with dangerous grace, each step deliberate. His eyes, glowing faint green, sweep over the aisles, ever watchful, ever guarding. He doesn’t seem to notice the people who scatter out of his way.
The peacekeepers frighten me, and his presence here is unusual. They rarely come inside and have everything they need within their buildings, so he isn’t here to buy anything. I’ve never seen this guy before. I’d remember his face.
Not that I stop to chat with the gargoyles; technically, I’m a rule-breaking criminal and it’s best not to stand out for any reason. Unless you want to get caught. I should be freaking out—every instinct tells me to be freaking out with him so near, and I am.
But there’s something else. Something that makes my heart beat a little faster for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. I can feel myself blushing.
Blushing. Me. I’m sure my face has turned the colour of my hair. I’ve never considered a gargoyle attractive, but watching him move… It’s a weird combination: terror and attraction.
I don’t like it. Is this what my friends feel when they swoon over muscles and forearms? The peacekeepers usually scare the crap out of me way too much to find them attractive, but this man—this peacekeeper—is beautiful. I bet he doesn’t chew with his mouth open.
The gargoyle stops at the end of my queue, his wings folded tightly against his back. My heart pounds and I feel tingles running up and down my arms as his eyes brush over the line of customers. They briefly land on me, and his gaze narrows to a single point of connection.
He’s terrifying, yes, but there’s a flicker of something else—curiosity maybe? Or is it my imagination?
Sweet Eater impatiently clears her throat, and I snap back to reality. I force myself to focus, scanning the next few items with trembling hands. The peacekeeper resumes his patrol, and I keep my eyes fixed on what I’m doing until he leaves the building.
I should be relieved.
But the absence of his magical signature feels like a loss to me.
To get rid of Sweet Eater, I scan faster, whizzing her items into the bagging area. She keeps sucking, slurping, and unloading her massive trolley, oblivious to my antics. When she notices the enormous pile-up, she glares, tuts, and throws her ratty bags at my face.
I wince as a handle flicks against my nose and I get a whiff of smoke and rotten fruit that clings to the plastic. Lovely. Using a cucumber, I push the bags as far away as possible into the bagging area. I’m not touching them.
Fortunately, we’re discouraged from helping customers pack—a co-worker squished a loaf of bread once and cracked a dozen eggs, causing store policy to change.
Sweet Eater takes the hint. Leaving a half-full trolley, she stomps past me and sweeps the shopping willy-nilly into her stinky bags with a wave of her arm.
The next customer, a skinny lad in his early twenties with three items in his hands makes a pain-filled noise in the back of his throat.
I do my best customer smile, with a bit of cheek action—“Shouldn’t be long now, sir”—and continue to fire the stuff at Sweet Eater until I run out of things to scan. Then I separate items to make her bagging easier.
Still glaring and having a mini temper tantrum, she stomps back to her trolley, shoves the rest of her stuff on the belt, and slams the items down—the till creaks in protest. A two-hundred-gram pack of Traditional Jellied Eels is the first casualty.
The nauseating scent of salt and dead fish permeates the air. Is an eel a fish? I shrug; I think so. Now I’m kind of glad that she’s only eating sweets. She could be munching on one of those things.
The strange floating eel in the package looks off. Now that it’s leaking, it smells off—disgusting. The thought of eating jellied eels makes me want to hurl. It’s a down-South thing, a London delicacy, not here in this glass prison up North.
“I need another one of those.” Sweet Eater points with a long pink fingernail.
Yeah, no shit. “Of course, madam.” My smile is strained as I press the help button to invoke the flashing light at the top of my till. It turns on with a bong. “I’ll get a member of staff over to help, and they’ll fetch you a replacement.”
Sweet Eater narrows her eyes as if it’s my fault she beat the eel into submission.
I give her my best sympathetic customer service smile—the one I’ve practised in the mirror. It’s a skill. Too much of a smile and I’ve been told I come across as patronising. Too little of a smile and they think I’m being rude.
The smile stays on my face as I gather half a dozen crappy plastic bags and bunch them together so as not to get any fishy grossness on my hand, then lean across and gingerly encase the stink, leaving the barcode up so I can scan it.
From under the till, the massive blue roll and spray cleaner come out next. Using the cleaning stuff makes my hands go bright red. It’s horrendous, so I’m extra careful. I groan when the customer attempts to put more things on top of the eel mess. Does Sweet Eater not see… I sigh and count to ten in my head, then with another five-star polite smile, gingerly push everything away from the liquid ooze with a sweep of my forearm.
“If you would please stand back, I just need to clean this mess up before it gets on your other items.” I dramatically wave the bottle of cleaner for emphasis and the shop’s camera’s sake. If there is a health-and-safety inquiry—for example, I splash her eyes—I have covered myself with a dramatic wave.
Just as I predicted, Sweet Eater doesn’t budge an inch. My smile falters, and I raise an eyebrow. Move, lady. She narrows her eyes as if I said that out loud and rocks back a teeny-tiny step.
“Please, if you would move back a little more?” I get a scowl for my trouble, but she moves. “Thank you so much.”
I love my job. I love my job.
I liberally spray, unroll the blue paper, and using a plastic bag again as a hand protector, mop up the eel juice and put the soggy tissues alongside the damaged packet. Spray and wipe, spray and wipe. I wrinkle my nose. I hope they don’t put me on this till tomorrow as I’m sure some fishy liquid has leaked inside, and it will be ripe.
The guy behind watches mournfully at the tills going faster around us and then mumbles he always chooses the wrong lane.
Me too, buddy, me too.
I turn and press the light and bell again. Then go back to scanning.
“What are you doing?” Sweet Eater snarls.
Huh? “I’ll scan the damaged eel and complete the transaction while we wait for the replacement.”
Mr Three Items Guy perks up.
“You will not.” She prods at my face with her finger. “I won’t get pulled by security because of your incompetence in not scanning the correct item.”
I blink at the finger millimetres off my nose. “But I will be scanning it.”
“It won’t be the one I’m taking home!” She slams her hand down. “If you scan the damaged one, mine won’t show on the system.”
I lean back and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. How do I put this? “Erm, it doesn’t work that way. The till system doesn’t recognise them as individual products as they all have the same barcode.”
She growls at me. The hard sweet in her mouth rattles against her teeth, and a bit of red spit works its way out from between her lips and drips down her chin. Her face goes bright red as she draws in a big breath.
Uh-oh.
“I will wait for my packet of jellied eels!” Now that she has everyone’s attention, she sniffs, folds her arms underneath her breasts, taps her foot, and gives me a look of death. “The youth of today—you, girl—need better training or perhaps a few nights in a cell.”
Nice one. My shoulders hit my ears, and it takes all the crappy customer service training I’ve been inflicted with over the years not to get mad or cry.
The guy behind whines.
I want to whine with him.
The tills time us. If we don’t process each customer in a set amount of time, it lowers our average rating. Then we get extra training, and management doesn’t say it, but for weeks, even after your average time comes up, you get the shitty shifts like this one—Friday night of a full moon when all the weirdos like to shop.
As if on cue, a customer in the produce aisle starts making monkey sounds and throws bananas at other customers. You honestly can’t make this stuff up. This place is wild. And not in a good way.
I wonder what that gargoyle is doing.
Chapter Two
Finally, the shift runner stomps towards me, chewing gum. Oh fate, it’s one of those days. “What do you want”—chomp, chomp—“till six?” She says the words without taking a breath of air or looking at me, and gum almost falls out of her mouth as she grins at the banana thrower.
I show her the eels. “Can we have a replacement please?”
“Sure, I’ll be one second.” She holds up a single finger.
The runner will not, in fact, be a second. “Could you take—” I attempt to get her to take the damaged, stinking package away, but she’s off on a slow slog reminiscent of a snail crossing the store.
My cheeks hurt with smiling at the growing line of sighing and fidgeting customers, and I continue scanning Sweet Eater’s shopping until we are all politely waiting for the replacement grossness to return. This entire interaction is going to ruin my average rate for sure.
Inwardly, I want to cry. I’m nineteen. I should be going out with my friends on a Friday night. It would be so lovely. Instead, I’ll be stuck here forever, working.
I drum my fingers on the edge of the built-in aluminium scales. I guess it’s my own damn fault. Naturally, I’m not a follower. I’m contrary like that, and I’ve never mindlessly followed the rules, making me unpopular.
Really unpopular.
I’m not the most pleasant person to be around at the best of times. My mum has told me hundreds of times that I’m too honest for my own good and don’t understand which thoughts should be kept to myself and which should be let out. So now I keep my mouth shut. All the questions I have kind of bounce around in my head and come out in other ways.
Magical ways.
When I was a kid, I questioned everything. I asked a lot of questions. I wouldn’t shut up, and my curiosity and blatant naivety about how the world worked put a black mark on my name.
I got tagged as a problem.
They told everyone at school, including my friends, that I had mental difficulties, and they dragged me through psychological testing, which I failed dismally.
That’s why my job allocation is retail.
I can’t be trusted to do anything else.
Put the troublemaker on sixteen-hour shifts stacking shelves, let her deal with angry customers six days a week, and see the life sucked out of her. She won’t be asking questions anymore, mwahahah.
Well, stacking shelves has made me fit, and there’s something kind of relaxing about facing all the labels the same way. It’s satisfying to fill an empty shelf, so screw them. I like people.
Most people.
Sweet Eater eyes my name badge. Karen, she mouths passive-aggressively as if to motivate me to move faster.
I want to throw my arms in the air and yell, “Look, lady, I can’t make the runner move any quicker!” But I don’t.
She isn’t trying to remember my name ’cause of my sparkling personality. When she gets home, Sweet Eater will fire up her computer and go to the store’s review site to moan about my poor customer service.
Meh, she’s entitled to her opinion. But more fool her. My official name badge is still attached to yesterday’s garish green polo shirt and currently sitting at the bottom of the washing machine, all nice and clean.
I wince. Sorry, Karen.
If Sweet Eater does complain, I’ll own up and take the hit.
Stupid name badge.
I hate it here. Not just the supermarket but here. This town. This supernatural community of around five thousand living in what I not so affectionately call the glass prison—though it’s not made of glass.
No, it’s a massive, immovable, powerful wall of a ward that stretches around and over the town’s nine-mile circumference.
I once asked my dad why no one thought having a vast warded circle in the middle of England was strange. He shrugged and said, “Kricket, people believe what they’re told.”
The circulating consensus back then was that a spell had gone wrong and they had to evacuate the town and block it off.
Trapped.
We are all trapped here.
Others say we’re protected. Safe. But what is safety when you can’t see anything beyond your cage? Besides. It’s not that protected.
Everyone—or almost everyone—in town has dragon blood.
Cool, huh? Dragons.
Some say dragons evolved to be able to turn into human form and not vice versa. Some state these human-shaped dragons are ten feet tall and must have specially made clothing. That they’re beautiful. But dragons, real dragons, are rare. I’ve never seen one, and I don’t want to see one.
No, thanks. I’m tiny, squishy, and crunchy.
This town is full of the lost and the stolen. A mix of creatures, entire families grabbed in raids to snap up all people with the correct DNA.
Anyone with the blood of dragons.
We came here when I was six and my twin brothers were babies. Mum had a complicated birth, and Aleric, the youngest twin, had a medical issue that resulted in them taking a DNA sample. Within days, our entire family was uprooted and relocated here.
We’ve been squirrelled away here for the past thirteen years, nice and safe. It’s not just English people either. People from all over the world were ripped away from their lives and dumped in this town—to rot.
Oh, I’m sorry. Even in my thoughts, I must get it right. The propaganda script is that we are to be kept safe and protected, along with our unique alienesque blood.
Shady as fuck if you ask me.
No one asks me.
I don’t enjoy being in a cage, in a town I can’t escape. I find it strange that some long-dead relative of mine bonked a dragon and consequently we’re stuck here.
I wish I weren’t trapped. We get heavily censored real-world television, so I know it’s more challenging outside than here. The real world is dangerous: vampires, demons, the fae, and all manner of scary creatures roam outside the ward, living their lives and killing each other. Still, I’d love to see it all.
I continue with my nervous tapping and sympathetic queue smiling. “Not long now,” I say brightly.
It feels like forever until the gum-chewing runner returns with the packet of jellied eels. She shoves them at me and then hurries away, leaving me with the bag of funk that I slide under the till. I’ll have a break soon and will throw it into the damaged-item area myself.
I keep eye contact with the sweet eater as I scan the new eel packet barcode, give her another smile, and tell her the total.
She pays with her card.
“Thank you for shopping with us. Have a lovely evening.” I hand over the receipt, and the fake smile slips as the seconds tick and she doesn’t move.
Come on, lady, please move.
Sweet Eater meticulously checks the receipt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the duty manager making her way down the row of tills. Her eyes are fixed on me.
Uh-oh.
I clear my throat and ensure my voice is extra monotone, without a shred of irritation or panic. “Excuse me, um, there’s a line of people waiting behind you. Would you please step aside? If there’s a mistake with your order, the customer service desk will be happy to rectify it.” I point helpfully to the customer service desk and the employee staring into space while biting her nails.
Please leave. Please, please, please.
Sweet Eater lowers the receipt and lifts her chin. “I’m going to report you, Karen.” She spits out the name, huffs, snatches hold of her trolley, and—
Outside, a loud boom! makes the entire store shake.
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