Keys of Time: An Urban Fantasy Novel

Book 1: Soul Dominion

by Georgiana Kent

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Time Travel

Synopsis

No one can escape the call of Time

Erica Shylocke is your average University student, in debt and chasing deadlines. She also has a secret—a curse. One she’s kept hidden her entire life. She was doing a damn good job too, until she was attacked by a Lost Soul, a creature hell-bent on consuming her most valuable commodity: her soul.

Saved by Michael Nicholas, a Time traveller who’s as sexy as he is mysterious, her whole life is about to unravel, and it’s only a matter of time before her secret unravels too...

No longer content to lurk in the shadows, the Lost Souls are readying themselves to battle for dominion over the souls of Earth. When they do, their vengeance will be swift and brutal.

Chosen by Time itself, Erica works with Michael to uncover the truth behind their rise, and it quickly becomes apparent that her secret might give them the edge they desperately need.

As a band of unlikely heroes comes together to face off the army of Lost Souls, the fate of the world rests in Erica’s hands. Can she make the necessary sacrifices, and will they be in time to save the souls of billions?

Soul Dominion is an epic urban fantasy with Time travel, mystery, found family and love. Perfect for fans of Cassandra Clare's The Mortal Instruments and Annette Marie's The Guild Codex!

What reviewers are saying about Soul Dominion:

'Original and Compelling!'

'Fantastic and Original'

'Perfect fantasy and escapism for those who love magic, time travel and mystery'

'Amazing, magical world'

'Excellent!'

'Looking forward to the next in the series'

NB: This is the first part of a trilogy - one story over three books - and not a standalone book

 

Read more

Release date: August 2, 2021

Publisher: Urban Myth Publishing

Print pages: 312

Content advisory: grisly deaths

Sample

Triggers - grisly death ahead! Skip to Chapter 1 to avoid

 

Prologue

~ London, present day ~

It was late as Verity Parker walked Fluffy, her aptly named Pomeranian, wincing against the cold wind. She’d fought with her boyfriend and had stormed out of their flat to get some space: how could he think having dinner with his ex was okay?!

She walked blindly, seething with rage that boiled so much within her that she couldn’t stay still let alone think straight. Blood pounded in her ears, dulling the sounds of the evening traffic. As she stepped out to cross De Vere Gardens she was greeted by the glare of headlights and screech of tyres; the driver gestured colourfully at her carelessness, blasting the horn for good measure. Heart thumping, she stumbled across to the other side and found herself on the outskirts of Hyde Park. It was a clear November evening and bitterly cold. The night sky was ablaze with stars that shone icily down upon the open green space of the Park. Cars, taxis and buses rumbled noisily along Kensington Road, west towards the High Street and east towards the City.

Lights from offices and flats illuminated the edge of the park where Verity walked. She had stupidly not changed and only wore a onesie and Ugg boots and was freezing. Thank God it was dark, or else she’d be embarrassed and freezing. She swore under her breath: this was all Josh’s fault. She felt hollow, tears stung her eyes and it hurt to breathe.

Refusing to give in, Verity turned down one of Hyde Parks’ many dimly lit walkways that led to The Serpentine lake at its heart. There was the odd dog walker even at this late hour.

Her mobile phone sounded. Looking at the bright screen she saw Josh’s face smiling up at her and viciously swiped it, cutting him off. The ass! He was the last person she wanted to talk to right now. Betrayal tasted bitter upon her tongue. She continued to stomp along the path, fists clenched, nails digging deep, muttering as she went; Fluffy happily trotting by her side.

A howl disturbed the quiet of the night.

Verity looked up with a frown.

A responding howl echoed across the green lawns and trees. Then another and another. Glancing down, Verity noticed Fluffy’s fur was now on end. An extra long, extra loud howl reverberated across the park and Fluffy began to growl. Not a light-hearted growl, but a deep guttural one that came from her belly.

“What’s going on, girl?” Verity asked, scooping her up and cradling her. Fluffy’s growls grew more and more pronounced. Verity could feel their vibrations and the thud-thud of her tiny heart beating wildly against her ribcage.

In the near-distance Verity could hear the rustle of grass and splashing of water as something, many things, made their way across the lake.

There was an uneasy silence.

Then, a nearby yelp of a dog and a series of bloodcurdling screams shattered it.

Jumping out of her skin, she scanned the dark trees before her, heart in her throat. Fluffy’s growls reached a whole new octave as the hackles on the back of her neck stood on end.

Hurriedly backing away, she hadn’t gone far when she saw the silhouette of a small dog emerge about ten metres from her. It looked like a Chihuahua. That wasn’t so bad, maybe she was over-reacting.

“Hello gorgeous! What are you doing out here all on your own? Are you lost?” Her voice was shrill, even to her ears. There were no signs of any owners. She really ought to take a look at its collar.

Licking her lips, she took a tentative step forwards and Fluffy immediately started pawing at her, barking frantically.

Flinching, Verity hesitated.

Just then, the silhouette of another dog appeared next to the Chihuahua, and another, and another and another. Strays?

“Alright, sweetie, it’s alright.” She soothed as Fluffy continued to bark. “Shh. It’s okay, we’ll go home.”

Gripping the little dog tightly, she slowly backed away, throat dry. Bravely turning, it was as they began walking that Verity heard the howl.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw the Chihuahua with its head thrown back howling loudly. The other dogs copied and within seconds more dogs appeared, big and small, until thirty or more dogs were gathered.

In the darkness she couldn’t make out their features but the fetor that came off them was unreal: a heady cocktail of putrid flesh and rotten blood. Dread and nausea overwhelmed her as she turned and ran; though her legs refused to work properly, and she lost her footing more than once.

Behind her, a growl erupted from the Chihuahua and was picked up by the rest of the pack until they hummed in frightful unison. Glancing back, Verity saw the Chihuahua lurch forward, the rest of the pack behind it. Screaming, she ran as fast as she could with Fluffy cradled in her arms.

Within seconds the dogs were upon them bringing her to her knees with an almighty crash. Rolling over to shield Fluffy, she screamed in agony as teeth gorged her arms and legs, face and body. The pain was so intense she wailed as everything went black. Their stench smothered her. Despite her efforts to fight them off, there were too many and they were too strong; she was overpowered within seconds. Howling, she cried as they savaged her, lacerating her stomach, scattering her innards and tearing her limbs.

It was only when she lay dismembered and bleary eyed in a pool of growing blood, that the Chihuahua approached her. Gasping for breath, blood bubbling at her mouth, she noticed it to be a dark swirling mass of shadows, darker than the night. It bent down to sniff her, casually licking her blood from her face. Verity let out a whimper, tears trickling down her mutilated cheeks. Looking at her, it formed eyes of the deepest, darkest red, filled with loathing. Then, lowering its head, it gently, teasingly, nibbled through her jugular.

When the convulsions had finished and her soul lost its grip on her body, it was expulsed, a shimmering shower of black petals. The Chihuahua watched in satisfaction as they swirled and drifted away, lost and confused.

They would find their way, they all did.

Only then did the Alpha Blood Hound step aside, allowing its pack to feed.

A new member, a Pomeranian-shaped mass of shadows, approached the Alpha Hound, bending before it, paws extended. The Chihuahua welcomed it, licking one of its paws and inviting it to enjoy the feast: the more the merrier.

It had been a profitable night.

Sire would be pleased.

 

Chapter 1

Wrathful

 

“Are you still here?!”

Nineteen-year-old Erica Shylocke poked her head up over her barricade of books at the sound of the Library Technician’s voice as he entered the reading room. It was deserted apart from her.

“You know I was thinking of moving in. I could pitch up camp over there, get the kettle on and I’d be well away, wouldn’t I?” She smiled wickedly, and he laughed. She began to gather her things into her bag.

“The day you do that is the day I go and get you help!” The Library Technician said as he went about straightening up chairs, tidying up scraps of paper and stacking his trolley with discarded books.

“Spoilsport!” Erica joked as she stood up. Flinging on her scarf, coat and rucksack, she stopped to eye the pile of books.

“If you’re planning on borrowing any of those the desk’ll be closing in ten minutes.”

“If?”

He then watched as she stacked the books up. “You can’t be seriously thinking of borrowing them all?!”

“Needs must. My tutor wants blood, so I’ve got to finish this essay double-quick!” She lifted the pile and grimaced under their weight: maybe he could kill her after all?

The Library Technician held open the door for her and she bid him goodnight before stumbling downstairs and joining the other book-laden students at the front desk. Once she’d all her books stamped, she exited the library.

She was in the second year of her BA History course at University College London. Whilst things were more than familiar, she still had to pinch herself as she walked along its Art Deco corridors, with its lavish marble flooring and glamour-drenched buildings. When she’d first arrived as a Fresher last year she’d been totally overwhelmed and, even after all this time, it still made tingles run down her spine. It couldn’t be more different to home.

Walking out into the chilly November evening, the white tower of Senate House loomed overhead like some mighty guardian angel keeping its watchful eye over the City. The night sky was clear and the moon bathed her in its light. Stars sparkled high in their heavens: the bitter cold having already encouraged ice to glisten on the pavements.

Re-adjusting her books, Erica walked across Russell Square, towards the Underground station and home.

 

***

 

The train thundered into the station and stopped with a squeal of brakes and a screech of metal. Erica woke with a jerk and looked blearily out of the window: it was her station. Gathering up her books once more she braced herself against the inevitable cold as the doors clattered open. Shivering, she made her way up the stairs to the exit and noticed she was joined by some of her ‘regulars’. The young lawyer, dark-eyed and sporting a stubble; the middle-aged man with a comb-over, buried deep in his newspaper; the singer dressed for another night’s work. London was such a huge city where anonymity and indifference reigned that Erica was glad to ‘know’ these people—even if it was only by sight.

Erica and the singer smiled at each other as they swiped their passes at the ticket barriers. It was then that Erica noticed another one of her ‘regulars’.

He was African, with skin the shade of ochre, and tall. Wrapped up in a smart three-quarter jacket, lined silk muffler, top hat and leather gloves, he looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a Victorian photoshoot for Giorgio Armani. She slowed as she walked by, surreptitiously studying him out of the corner of her eye. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties but there was a sense of agedness about him that fascinated her. Not to mention his good looks. What with his broad shoulders, chiselled jawline, full lips and aquamarine eyes, she felt weak at the knees.

He stood to one side of the circular entrance to High Street Kensington’s Underground station, bathed in the gloomy evening light that filtered through the vaulted glass ceiling. As usual, he was keenly watching the embellished date carved high up on the frieze. He’d been standing in this same spot this past week, night after night, waiting for something. But what?

Slowing, Erica let her gaze follow his. Sure enough, the carved date read ‘1960’ just-as-it-always-did?!

For, just then, the embossed numbers quivered and warped; morphing soundlessly to read ‘1781’. After a few moments, just as quietly, they shuddered and returned to their original date.

Stunned, Erica came to an abrupt stop, mouth agape, eyes wide in disbelief. She felt someone approach and found herself looking into those bright aquamarine eyes. Her stomach fluttered.

“How much did you see?” he asked, his voice euphonic.

Quickly composing herself she gave a shrug. “Not much.” Anyway, she had to be mistaken. Buildings don’t just change. She was tired, that was all.

Just then the lawyer pushed past her, giving her a look as if she'd lost her mind. He shook his head, muttering something about ‘nutters’ before continuing up the Arcade.

“Meaning everything,” the man quipped, watching the lawyer leave thoughtfully.

“It’s late and I’m tired. Please, leave me alone.” She shifted the weight of the books onto her hips.

“Allow me, Miss…” he said, reaching for her books.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I wasn’t born yesterday!” She scoffed, dodging round him to continue down the Arcade towards the lights of the High Street beyond. She’d met way too many weirdos during her time in London to be taken in by another. Even if he was hot.

Staggering on to the quiet High Street, she turned left, straining under the weight of the books. Why, oh, why, hadn’t they invented teleportation already?

Scarcely halfway down the street her mobile sounded. Cursing she stopped by a shop window, precariously balancing the pile of books as she fished for her phone in her pocket. It was Lizzie Brennan, her best friend.

“Erica! You took ages. Am I interrupting?” Her friend’s voice asked hopefully.

“Yes, I’m trying to navigate London with a pile of books,” Erica said, setting off with the phone tucked under her chin.

“Get a life, Erica! You should be out partying!” On cue, loud music filtered down the phone.

“I know, I can hear. But I’m not you, Lizzie. Plus, I’ve got a deadline. This essay won’t write itself.”

“Screw deadlines! You only live once! Man, Erica, your brother’s fit,” Lizzie said suddenly, swooning.

“Is he playing?” she asked, turning left onto Wrights Lane and walking wobbly past a café. It was still busy; comforting chatter spilled out onto the pavement as the door opened. She breathed in the warm coffee aromas with an appreciative sigh. Maybe she’d have a latte when she got home. Better yet, a Bailey’s latte! Or maybe even a Bailey’s hot chocolate! With a marshmallow. Or three.

“Yeah, they’re so good! He’s asked me to join them backstage later.”

“Well, call me when you get home, I’ll be up.”

“Okay. If I don’t, it’s because we’re ‘busy’! If you know what I mean!”

“Please, I don’t want to bring up dinner. I can’t afford another.”

Hanging up, Erica gazed at her phone worrying her lip with a furrowed brow. What if Lizzie did get together with Guy?

Shaking herself, she continued down the road, cursing in between her huffs and puffs. She was so unfit.

The sound of dried leaves skittering along the road filtered through into her thoughts. Ears pricking up, she glanced back the way she’d come. There was no breeze; the night was quiet and the leaves gathering in the gutters remained still.

She scanned the street and its shadows. Some shadows seemed to warp, yet, if she focused on them, they looked nothing more than shadows.

Chiding herself, she carried on past a hotel and round past a block of Edwardian flats. She dreamt of the hot chocolate she’d make once she got home, ignoring the ache in her shoulders. Not far now.

There was a fizzle as the streetlights flickered once and died, plunging her into total darkness.

She froze, instinctively rooted to the spot. She couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction, though the shadows seemed to undulate and quiver every few seconds. She looked up and frowned; it had been a clear night but now it was pitch black, as if someone had blanketed the moon and its heavens. Fear gripped her. She suddenly felt massively disoriented as if all clarity had gone. Her chest tightening, she fumbled with her mobile and turned on the torch. Its beam of light, normally so bright, failed to pierce the churning blackness. Her heart sank: not good.

The skittering sound echoed somewhere to her left. This time it sounded like dried bones being dragged along the tarmac. And close.

She took a tentative step away. Nothing.

She took another step and another until she found herself running blindly in the darkness. A face with blank eyes lurched out of nowhere, its sharp teeth snapping at her. Screaming, she flinched as another dove at her. Then, the next instant, the darkness lifted, though the streetlights failed to turn on.

Gingerly she looked around the dimness, eyes coming to a stop on a writhing lump of shadows which swelled and oozed in the middle of the road. Erica watched in horror as it gathered within it the remaining darkness and shadows nearby, bulging further as it devoured their mass, growing larger by the second.

She remembered her books. The thought of throwing them at the weird shadow-monster crossed her mind. Taking aim, she grimaced. Nope. She couldn’t bear damaging them. Cursing, she ripped open her rucksack and stuffed the books inside, its straps straining with their weight. Then, using both hands, she proceeded to swing it at the thing which hissed with each blow. She was encouraged to see some of its matter disperse in thin tendrils when struck but, despite her efforts, the thing continued to grow; bloating grotesquely until it heaved with blackness. Her gaze was now transfixed. Because, as it grew it took on a shape and, as if watching through a camera lens being brought into focus, the shape became more and more defined, until a shadowy face full of foulness and loathing bore down on her, malicious red eyes blazing.

She tried to tear her gaze from it but couldn’t: it wouldn’t let her. It wanted to see her suffer.

With the weight of its wrath pressing down heavily upon her, she felt her spine crunch as she tried to resist, then her knees buckled and she felt the cool tarmac slam against them. Her grip on her bag slackened and it tumbled to the floor. She became aware of a choir of shadows emerging from its bulk to encircle her. Her vision flashing red as they whispered in persistent, fierce unison. An overwhelming rage swelled within her, strangling her heart. Hot tears fell from her eyes, scalding them, making them bleed: how dare they?! How dare they doubt her! She’d make them pay, even if it killed her, she’d make them pay!

The choir of voices whispered to her soul: join us, sister… Together we can make them pay.

Unable to resist any longer, her body bowed in submission.

Together… Her soul replied.

As one, the blank eyes of the shadowy choir snapped open and smirked at her knelt form, baring teeth as sharp as needles. An air of malevolent satisfaction settled on the monstrous mass as it bent to feed.

There was the sound of running feet, a whispered command and an explosion of light, so bright and pure that it engulfed all shadows, bleaching the world.

The choir that encircled her jolted as one, withdrawing back within the monster, hands raised; their cries of rage following in their wake.

Erica gasped for breath as the creature’s hold on her broke and immediately threw up. Wiping her mouth, she blinked against the glare, shielding her face with her arm. The massive body of shadows towered above her, but it was contorted in pain and trying to wriggle free from its assailant. For upon its shoulders, small and elfin, was a form of brilliant blue-white light. Its surface crackling and swirling with energy: it was from this that the bright light pulsed and glowed, leaving the world scratchy and drawn.

The shadows screeched and writhed as one, trying to buck the thing off. Its screeches turned to screams of pain as the form plunged a tiny fist into it.

Twisting and turning, the engorged mass screamed in rage as it diminished, drowning in the light that filled it from within. It made a final violent attempt to claw at Erica before succumbing, erupting in a blinding flash; its howl of rage echoed into the night.

All that remained as Erica looked up, was a swirling flurry of black petals, which drifted as one into the night, bewildered and lost.

The brightness subdued, and the little figure landed nimbly before her, cocking its head with interest. Pulses of energy flared across its skin and upon its head were fine wisps of light, resembling hair. A command was spoken and with a flash it streaked to where the gentleman from the station stood, vanishing within a medallion: the stone in its centre shimmered once.

Pocketing the medallion, the man ran over to where Erica was slumped on her knees, gasping for breath.

Shock then catching up with her, she began to cry. Tears gushed down her blood-streaked face. “What the hell was that”—she tried to think of a word to describe the creature that had tried to kill her and failed—“That thing?!”

“A Lost Soul, but first, let us attend to you,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket to produce a red vial. Uncorking it, he wafted the salts gently under her nose. Her eyes widened as soon as the bitter odour hit her nostrils and she began to sneeze violently. The tightness in her chest then melted away as air filled her lungs.

“And this is for your eyes,” he said gently once she’d finished, handing her a handkerchief.

“Thank you.” Taking it, she wiped her eyes and face. Traces of watery blood stained it. She shuddered.

Trying to stand, she trembled involuntarily, knees buckling. She fell back to the ground. Offering her a gloved hand, he helped her to her feet, steadying her.

“I am truly sorry that you should have had such an ordeal tonight,” he said. “I noticed the blackness on my way home and came as soon as possible.”

“It was real?” she replied dully.

“I’m afraid so. Most nightmares are… Pray, which direction to your house?”

She hesitated, folding her arms around her protectively.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I should like to ensure you get home safely.”

She looked at him, eyes raw. “How do I know?” she asked, her voice breaking.

He regarded her tenderly. “You have my word.”

A tremor ran down her spine and she took a deep breath. She noticed the concern on his face. Sniffing, Erica looked around her, trying to get her bearings. She must have run down Abingdon Villas in her panic. She indicated to the left turning at the mini roundabout.

Taking her bag, he offered her his free arm. Steering her forwards, they walked in time, their shadows elongating then shortening as they passed under the orange glare of the streetlights. The cool air was helping, her head felt clearer and she was no longer trembling. Although she found her heart still beat fast and wondered whether he could feel it also.

“What was that thing?” she asked, finding her voice at last.

“It was a Wrathful, a Lost Soul, a soul that died with vengeance in its heart and, consequently, with wrath for its demise—its revenge pulls it back to earth.” He paused. When he spoke again, sadness coloured his tone. “All Wrathful are deadly,” he continued, “some more so. The one you were unfortunate enough to encounter was particularly vile due to its large Choir. If a Wrathful reaches earth, those out in the field should be notified immediately, regardless of their station, they are that dangerous; but we were not.” He finished darkly, eyes glinting under his brow.

“‘Those in the field’?”

“People like me,” he said cautiously.

Erica looked at him, thinking back to the little creature that had plunged its fist into the Wrathful. “And what are you?”

Nice, Erica. Real subtle.

“Someone who wanted to help.”

“And I’m really grateful, but it still doesn’t answer my question: what are you?”

“I cannot say. Contact is strictly prohibited.”

Contact? She yanked her arm free and rounded on him. “You’re the one who started it!”

“And you would be dead if I had not,” he said bluntly. “Sometimes, rules are worth breaking.”

She stopped short, guilt pinching her. “Fine,” she said, bottom lip sticking out. “But I will get it out of you, you and your little glow bug! You can’t expect something this weird to just happen and me to be okay with it.”

He doffed his top hat in acceptance of the challenge.

“What did it want? Or can’t you tell me that either?” she said, reaching for her rucksack. It weighed a tonne but at least she could swing it at him if he tried anything funny.

“Your most valuable commodity: your soul. For without it, what would you be?”

She shuddered as a chill ran through her and pulled her jacket closer for comfort. “How many are there?”

“Thousands and growing.”

“Growing? How?”

He caught her eye then and she saw grief there, grief that had hardened over the years but remained grief, nonetheless. “Any person that falls victim to a Wrathful does in turn become one of its Choir, those with a grudge are targeted first since they are easy prey. As part of its Choir, they then seek revenge on those they believe failed it and brought about its demise. The number of Wrathful is not measured by their single form but by their Choir: the larger their number, the stronger they are.”

Erica stopped abruptly: the voices…

“You saw them?”

She blushed and nodded. She’d forgotten the malignant group, cajoling her in her revenge. She was glad when he didn’t press the matter. She herself hadn’t realised the depth of her resentment until the Wrathful bore down on her: to be honest, it shocked her.

“I arrived just as you attacked it—that was very brave,” he said warmly.

“A fat lot of good it did though. How do you kill those things?” She swiped away her tears.

“Light. You must fill it from within with light.”

“Not exactly easy for people who don’t have glow bugs,” she scoffed, blinking against her sore eyes.

“No, it’s not. And it’s not a ‘glow bug’, it’s a Færie,” he said, hiding an amused smile.

“Of course, it is,” she said, her voice weary. At this rate, her Bailey’s hot chocolate would be more Bailey’s than hot chocolate.

She hesitated, voice suddenly dry. “Do many die?”

“Not as many as before—security is tight. Well, it was…” Anger crept back into his voice.

“I’ve never heard of any; and I’m positive the media would never pass up on a story like that!”

“There are security measures in place, so such things are not reported—for people’s safety.”

“Ignorance is bliss, right?”

“It does appear to be the best way to avoid pandemonium.”

They walked past quaint mews and down windy cobbled lanes. They were not far from her flat now. Passing under a grand stone archway they found themselves on a wide street lined with white stucco houses.

“Well, we’re here,” she said, coming to a stop. “I’m just over the road.”

She turned to find him quickly masking a look of shock.

“Thank you… Sorry, I don’t know your name, or is that something else you can’t tell me?” she said with a crooked smile.

“Michael, Michael Nicholas.”

“Nice to meet you, Michael. I’m Erica Shylocke.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Shylocke. Please accept my profoundest apologies once more.” And he gave a little bow.

“If you hadn’t found me, I’d probably be dead or, or worse…” She stopped, voice fading to a hoarse whisper.

He bowed even more deeply. “You are too kind.”

She extended her hand. Smiling, he shook it.

“Well, goodbye. It was…” Her voice drifted off as she felt him place something cold against her palm. Looking, she saw his medallion. In its centre was a precious stone that winked iridescently at her. It was tear-shaped and encased in silver filigree, its edging intricate and tactile. Within the filigree was a tiny key-shaped relief. It was beautiful.

“It’s a periapt. Keep it for now. It’s talismanic; it will help keep you safe. Tap it and Ashayla will notify me. Ashayla is my ‘glow bug’,” he explained on seeing her confusion.

“I couldn’t!” She looked up in shock.

“I would feel happier knowing you had it,” he insisted. And with that he closed her hand gently over it.

Crossing the road, he watched as she got out her keys and entered the building.

Once inside, she breathed a sigh of relief, depositing her bag to walk over to the window. She could still make him out in the glow of the streetlight, looking up at her.

Just then, her mobile rang. She waved nervously as she answered Lizzie’s call and drew the curtains firmly shut.

“I gave up waiting,” whined her best friend. “What took you so long?”

 

 

Chapter 2

The Actualle

 

Erica had a penchant for all things vintage, amassing an outlandish collection over her years of trawling markets and sales. Lizzie described her preference for skirts and pretty tops ‘frumpy’, whereas Erica preferred the term ‘eclectic’, especially as they hid her thighs so well. Provided there was an element of purple, she considered her outfit complete and made a quirky sight on most days. As a rule, she avoided wearing black (it reminded her too much of death), only wearing it for work.

Sadly, today was such a day and her black uniform of skirt and blouse smothered her petite pale frame. Black hair framed her face, setting off her emerald-green eyes. Though at this precise moment, they were bloodshot and bleary: dull shadows hung heavily beneath them—she hadn’t slept well.

Admittedly, her encounter with the Wrathful had left her plagued by dreams of snapping teeth and malevolent shadows eager to feed on her soul. But she’d been disturbed several times during the night… She glanced down at the burns on her forearms, where fresh, unsightly blisters pocked the skin. There was a bluish tinge to them…

Fetching a glass jar from her kitchenette, she slathered on the pungent ointment, sneezing as the oils tickled her nose. Ensuring the burns were well covered, she bandaged them deftly, wincing as she tugged on a baggy cardigan. She pulled down the cuffs. Perfect, no one would know.

Just then, Lizzie video called her. She was back home in Bonsall opening The Bonsall Tea Rooms, her parents’ business.

“Erica! Come on! You’ve not even left yet!”

“I know, I know,” she said, fetching her coat and winter woollies.

“You look rough. Bad night?” Lizzie was peering into the screen. The morning sun dancing across her auburn hair. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Thanks. You know you’re a little too honest sometimes, Lizzie,” Erica said, rubbing them—they were still sore.

“Sorry! Guess what!” Lizzie’s face suddenly alight with excitement.

“You’re going to have lunch with Guy.”

Her excitement fizzled away. “How did you know?”

“It’s Saturday. He always eats lunch at the Tea Rooms on Saturdays.”

“He does? I made him his favourite: Chocolate Dandelion and Burdock cake,” she admitted, blushing. She was wearing one of her favourite slogan t-shirts with IN MY DEFENCE I WAS LEFT UNSUPERVISED emblazoned across her bosom. Paired with her signature leather jacket and skinny jeans, she was rocking it. Definitely dressed for Saturday lunch with Guy.

“Will you just ask him out already!” Erica moaned, grabbing her bag and locking the front door to her flat behind her.

“No way! He should ask me out. That way I'll know for sure.”

“Okay, yeah, you’ll know he likes you, but you already know that. We all do,” she said. “But isn’t loving someone about opening yourself up and being vulnerable? Letting them know they’re loved even if you risk not having the same feelings returned?”

“Erica, this is all a bit heavy for a Saturday morning. Why don’t you—”

“I’m not getting involved.”

“He is your brother,” Lizzie pointed out, turning on the till.

“Exactly my point! Anyhow, I’ll call you later.”

“Are you going to run?”

“I don’t think I’ve got a choice.” Erica sighed, bracing herself.

“Wish I was there. You always make me laugh when—”

Erica hung up.

What followed was the usual mad dash to the Underground station, weaving in and out of people and dodging traffic. She found the Tube a cheerless place full of Londoners too glum to smile, who shot laughing tourists accusatory looks over the tops of their newspapers. What’s more, the airless tunnels and compressed darkness reminded her of catacombs twisting deep below the city. The one good thing was that these deep tunnels provided some respite from the chilly winter’s morning above ground. Plus, no one spoke to you, so you could read in peace.

As the train clattered from station-to-station Erica took the opportunity to continue reading one of the books for her essay; reluctantly stowing it away when she finally reached her stop.

She worked in Piccadilly, at the flagship store of a major book chain near to some of London’s most popular tourist attractions and theatres. As a result, her station was always busy with people coming and going and tourists ambling along with their noses buried in guidebooks.

“Excuse me!” she apologised, squeezing past an excited gaggle in matching hats.

Climbing the stairs up into the bright winter sun she was momentarily blown away by the grandeur of the buildings that greeted her. Not to mention the chaos as Piccadilly, Regent Street and Shaftsbury Avenue collided in a whirl of neon and noise. She doubted she would ever get used to it.

It was then she noticed a young girl frantically handing out fliers to passers-by—her older sister had gone missing.

“She’d never leave without telling us!” The girl insisted, as Erica accepted a flier. A smiling face beamed up at her as she scanned it: she’d failed to return home last night from walking her dog. Unbidden, the Wrathful leapt from the shadows of her mind. A chill ran down her spine: could it be?

To be continued...