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  Zoë shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. Wanted ‘it’? How romantic! This wasn’t how she’d pictured things with Duncan at all; gentle, sweet Duncan. He’d turned out to be just like all the other guys she’d ever known. Only after one thing when it came down to it. Though why had he waited so long, if that was the case?

  “Oh come on, of course you do! All that fucking teasing!” He leaned in again, and this time Zoë slapped him across the face. His answer to that was to grab her by the arms and shove her back down over the desk. Then one hand was around her throat, while he finished what he’d started with her jeans, yanking them down with his free hand.

  It was only now—as her mind scrabbled for ways to free herself from this, her phone out of reach—that Zoë remembered the screwdriver she still had in her own hand. While he was looking down, she brought the tool up and drove it sideways into Duncan’s forearm, embedding it in there. The pressure at her throat relaxed immediately as he let out a surprised wail. Zoë brought up her knees and managed to lever Duncan away—creating enough space for her to kick out at any rate.

  She half-scrambled, half-fell from the desk onto the floor, trying to crawl away from him. Even during all the terrifying situations she’d found herself in over her time with this band, she’d never felt as scared as this. Never so confused, so shocked that she’d read someone as wrongly as this.

  There was a hand around the back of her neck suddenly, shoving her and slamming her face against the floor, cracking her second pair of glasses in as many days. Zoë felt herself being lifted up, knowing what was about to happen next; frightened that she wouldn’t be able to stop it. “Du ... Duncan,” she managed. “Duncan, please!”

  But as she was lifted further, higher, so that she was facing the splintered glass of the old office, she saw two things simultaneously and could make no sense of either. Saw Duncan’s reflection in that glass, saw what he really was. And then saw the blood out there in the distance on the warehouse floor, a body lying face down covered in that same red substance.

  The real Duncan.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” growled the thing with crimson eyes behind her, tongue lengthening and snaking up the side of her head, licking her ear and causing her to quiver. “I didn’t have time to finish up properly with him, but your other friend was delicious—as I’m sure you will be.” Her eyes flicked sideways, out into the warehouse where Craddock’s body had once been, the bench he’d been lying on empty save for more spilled blood.

  She was aware now that she was being held up by the neck with one hand—one claw—the creature revealing its true strength. Aware, too, that she stood very little chance against the thing, on her own and injured like this. Zoë was also weaponless, the only one she’d had was in the thing’s arm—the same arm that was holding her up so high. If only the screwdriver had been made of silver ...

  Her mind was full of questions: How had it found them here? Had it tracked her after she’d picked up Craddock last night? Or some other way, followed their scent after it had encountered them at the club? Why had it waited until now to strike? Was it because Hunter had been there before and it wanted to pick the weakest off first, one by one? Would it now wait for him, take him out when he returned? What was it going to do to her? Would she be lucky and it would be a quick kill? Or—

  Zoë was thrown forward against the glass of the office window, shattering it completely. There was a pain in her belly as she dropped onto the window frame, dropping onto some of the shards of glass that remained there.

  Her glasses had come off completely, but for that she was grateful—it just meant she couldn’t see ahead of her anymore at the devastation the creature had already caused. Craddock and ... and her poor Duncan.

  At least she knew it hadn’t been him, that she hadn’t been so wrong about the guy—that he hadn’t been a monster. And that thought gave her a little relief at least. But not for long.

  Zoë was aware of the thing’s approach from behind, felt its claws on her hips.

  She prayed for unconsciousness to come quickly, even if it meant her final resting place was in that creature’s stomach. Because she didn’t want to be awake—didn’t even want to be alive!—for what she feared would follow.

  “I’m not sure what I’d do without you, y’know? If you were ...” The beast’s words, she reminded herself, not Duncan’s—oh why couldn’t he have just overcome that shyness?

  Fuck! she thought to herself as pain flooded her body. It just wasn’t fair ...

  It just wasn’t fair.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He could smell death even before he walked through the door.

  Hunter knew something terrible had happened here. It was a sense he’d had many times in the past, and was what had probably kept him alive all these years. Knew when something was about to happen—and when it already had.

  He’d been searching for Rachael for a good couple of hours before giving up. Call yourself a tracker, he’d thought, you’re not worth shit. She’d looked dreadful back there in the coffee shop, before bailing on him. Worse even than the night before; eyes bloodshot while her face had drained completely of the stuff. She’d been staggering about as if drunk, but as soon as she’d got outside seemed to vanish into thin air. That was meant to be his party piece!

  Hunter spent ages trying to find her: worrying that she’d collapsed somewhere and needed urgent medical attention; worrying that he might have caused whatever it was with his questioning. He was dealing with things here he had no experience of, needed a psychiatrist or psychologist—or a bloody witch doctor! Rachael was definitely repressing something, though, that was for sure. And if it was what he thought, then he couldn’t say he entirely blamed her.

  Shouldn’t have pushed so hard. Shouldn’t have demanded she tell him what had happened last weekend, demanded to know about Will ... But just what was the angle there, he asked himself. Was he jealous of that creature, that thing? He needed to have a word with himself, get his act together. Look at the amount of time he was wasting traipsing through the streets trying to find this girl he hardly knew.

  That was just it, though, he did know her, didn’t he? Knew her and had an overwhelming feeling—at least as strong as his sense of danger, his awareness of death—that he’d failed her once. Let her down spectacularly.

  He couldn’t explain it, didn’t know where to start. But he felt like he owed her, should be looking after her.

  Now you’re starting to sound like her mum! he told himself. It was then that he thought about returning, not to base where he should be, but again thinking of her—of Rachael. Of returning to her home.

  He’d pressed the buzzer a number of times, but nobody answered. Hunter waited until someone else entered the flats, holding the door for a mother who had her child hitched up on her hip and was struggling to carry a bag of groceries. She’d thanked him, he’d smiled, and then slipped into the building behind her.

  It was as he’d begun up the stairs that he felt a terrible sinking sensation in the pit of his gut. Something awful had happened here, and as he stepped out onto the landing to approach Rachael’s door, he had his hand on his knife inside his jacket. It didn’t help that the door was open a crack, like someone had been inside and then it had swung back.

  Hunter trod lightly, creeping up to the entrance—every instinct inside him screaming at him to run. But he didn’t; he had to see. Shoving the door open a bit wider, he saw the blood on the walls. Saw the blood everywhere.

  He was definitely too late. The creature had been here, he’d missed it. The question was, had Rachael been home when it had come for her? Or just her mother? Had he wasted too much time out there searching for her when she’d been back here, being savaged by the beast?

  The further in he went, the more Hunter could see clear signs of a struggle. More bloodstains
on the walls, furniture overturned; some of it—like the sofa—shredded to pieces. Then the body, or what was left of it.

  Mrs Daniels had put up one hell of a fight, belying both her age and her size, but in the end she’d succumbed to the creature: her clothes ripped, her flesh following suit beneath; chunks taken out of her left arm, her right leg, and other bites and slashes covering the rest of her body.

  Her eyes stared up at Hunter as he drew nearer, glassy and lifeless. Say what you like about the woman, she hadn’t deserved this. Nobody deserved this, he reminded himself. Then his eyes found the reason she’d been left alone, that the creature hadn’t finished what it had started. A handbag nearby, contents spilled on the living room floor, a pair of scissors still gleaming in Kathleen’s hand—covered in the creature’s blood.

  A pair of silver scissors.

  She’d wounded the thing, enough to make it think twice about sticking around at any rate. Or maybe the noise from the struggle had put it off? In any event, Hunter knew now how much of a fighter the woman was. A fighter, just like her daughter.

  A noise off to his right and he whirled. Coming from one of the bedrooms. Stupid, stupid—rookie mistake! He hadn’t cleared the flat, made sure the thing wasn’t still around. It could have come up behind him at any moment and attacked. Bloody hell, what was happening to him? Thinking about Mrs Daniels, but also the effect it was going to have on Rachael, poor Rachael ...

  Getting sloppy, he said to himself as he moved sideways like a cat. And getting sloppy in this game got you killed; got you eaten. Didn’t have time to clear the other room now, just had to follow the noise, follow the sound of movement. This might not be a washout after all, if he could take the creature right here and right—

  Hunter crashed through the bedroom door, knife drawn and ready. Stood there for a moment, bewildered. He heard the sobs before he saw where they were coming from. Rachael, knees up, curled into a ball on the floor in the corner of the room, the corner of her room he now saw.

  Her head was buried in her folded arms as if protecting herself, either from whatever had done all this or the sight of what was out there in the living room. Hunter’s heart went out to her if she’d seen that. Christ, what if she’d actually been here when it did that! Retreated into this room when it became clear she might be next? If so, she was lucky the thing had left her alone!

  She apparently hadn’t heard him come through the door, even after the racket he’d made. Hunter went over to her, calling, “Rachael...?” Then a little louder. “Rachael?”

  No response.

  He bent and stretched out his free hand, his fingers. But only when they made contact with her golden hair did she flinch, though not even then did she acknowledge his presence and look at him.

  She only did that when he put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her head out from the nest she’d made with her arms—staring at him with those red eyes again. Red now because she’d been crying so hard.

  “Rachael ... It’s okay,” Hunter told her, realising how stupid those words sounded. It would never be okay again, her mother had been—

  He followed it up with the equally ridiculous: “You’re safe now. I’m here.”

  Yeah, a regular fucking hero! And where had he been while all this was going on? When she’d really needed him? He’d let her down again, the debt still there—in fact weighing even more heavily on him. Should have just come round here that morning and bundled them both out of this place, taken them back to the warehouse. But that would have been kidnapping, and there was nothing saying the creature would come back here today. Except he’d known something was about to happen, hadn’t he? Known, just like he knew Rachael was the key to all this.

  For her part she just gaped at him, uncomprehending, saying nothing. Then Rachael leaped into his arms, falling into them as they both sat there on the floor, the tears coming harder than ever. “She ... she ... My mum ...” was all he could make out as Rachael wailed into his shoulder.

  “I know,” Hunter told her, patting the back of her head. “I know.”

  Hunter could hear sirens coming from somewhere a little way off. Didn’t even know if they were on their way there, but he couldn’t take that chance—not after what had happened last night. Wouldn’t be able to explain this away, wouldn’t be able to stop the cops from jumping to the wrong conclusions—digging around in his past, matching his face to a few wanted files.

  He held her away from him, looking right at her. “Rachael, do you trust me?” he asked.

  She continued to stare at him, but finally nodded.

  “We need to get out of here. I need you to come with me, someplace safe.” It was what he could do for her, even though it was too late. “Do you understand?”

  Another nod.

  Hunter began getting her up, to her feet. He thought about taking her back out through the living room, but asked instead if there was another way out of there. Rachael pointed to her window, mumbled something about a fire escape.

  Hunter nodded now, putting his knife away and holding her hand as he led her in that direction.

  * * *

  Rachael recognised the place, but didn’t know how.

  She’d never been here before—or had she? It was in an abandoned part of the city, the part that used to be a home to industry before the days of the recession. Now it was just littered with empty buildings, and it was to one of them—a warehouse—that Tom took her on his bike.

  Rachael had clung to him all the way, head resting on his back, trying not to think about what they’d left behind; the horrors she’d seen back in the flat. Trying not to think about how she would never see her mother again, how even after all the rows they’d had over the years, she’d miss arguing with her. Knew Kathleen Daniels had only had her daughter’s interests at heart. Knew also, in the end, that her mum had been right—that the city was dangerous, and it had cost that woman her life.

  She didn’t care where she was going now, where Tom was taking her. He’d just promised to get her away, keep her safe. Rachael didn’t want to talk to the authorities, answering question after question; she didn’t have a clue what had happened. Tom was the only person she’d be willing to talk to ... at some point. Not now, not today—she was just too ...

  God, she didn’t know what she was. Where she was ... except she did. This place was familiar to her, this warehouse that Tom explained on arrival was doubling as their base while he was in town. It didn’t look like somewhere a policeman and his team might hang out, but then what did she know?

  Knew that they shouldn’t enter the place, knew that if they did they’d see sights that would make her flat pale by comparison. How she knew, she had no idea, but she could also feel Tom tense as they went to the door, saw him take out a knife—what kind of detective had one of those instead of a gun?—and move cautiously inside, keeping her behind him with his free hand.

  Rachael knew what she was going to see, even before Tom saw it. The blood, the redness once more. This place was covered in it too, bodies torn apart, fed upon. Just like her mother had been.

  Tom let out the breath he’d been holding, told her to look away—close her eyes. But that wouldn’t do any good, Rachael also knew that. She could still see the images, the parts of what was left of Tom’s team scattered about. Not one of them left alive.

  How? How could she know that? she asked herself. How could she still see it when her eyes were shut? How had she seen it before they’d even entered this place?

  Maybe she’d developed some kind of sixth sense or something? They say that in moments of severe stress your mind, and your body, could do unexplainable things; only used a percentage of its capacity. It was a sense that Tom had probably developed as well in his time—had honed and utilised.

  She didn’t need to see any of this to know it had happened. Just like she didn’t need
to see, after Tom had secured the area and told her to stay in the nearby jeep—they were switching to four wheels now it seemed—that he’d broken down and cried inside that warehouse when he went back in.

  Knew that he’d shed those tears even before he returned to the jeep, clutching a long holdall (that she also knew was full of weapons); knew it even before she saw his red-raw eyes.

  His family had been wiped out, same as hers, and by the same thing. No one left now but each other. Two strangers who somehow felt like they knew each other. Could trust each other. Only ... only as Tom gunned the engine, setting his jaw firm, her mind was filled with doubt.

  Not about Tom, she could trust him—how, she didn’t have a clue. No, these were doubts about herself.

  And about what had happened before she’d woken up in her flat at home. Opened her eyes to see the devastation in front of her. Managed to make it to the bedroom, before bawling her eyes out the same as Tom.

  If only she could remember ... But then a voice inside was asking her if she really wanted to?

  If she really wanted the truth?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Elaine had received the call late afternoon, putting her mind at rest ... a little.

  Her sister had finally cropped up, she’d been informed, much to her relief. Hadn’t been the first time Steph had gone off the reservation, under the radar or whatever you wanted to call it. And when she did, there was usually a fella involved, especially given her batting average. Elaine’s sister had got herself entangled with some proper brutes in her time, proper animals; twats who’d egged her on to just take off, or demanded her undivided attention long enough for Elaine and her family to start panicking. She’d even gone off and got married once, back when she was in her teens—to an older guy, someone who’d turned her head with his ‘worldly ways’. What a load of crap! Their dad, may he rest in peace, had to bail her out of that one, demanding not just the guy’s attention but that he annul the marriage before he got battered into the ground.