When Connor Andrew Temple was seven years old, he broke his parents' rules for the first time, and the decision to do so would carry with him for the rest of his life.
There was a covered bridge in Bradford, West Yorkshire, that had been condemned. It was twenty feet across, spanning a narrow river that'd carved a deep gully over the centuries, and it sagged in the middle, dangerously close to collapsing. It was due to be demoed soon. There was a chain-link fence across the mouth of the bridge at either end, bearing a tin sign which read: DECLARED UNSAFE BY ORDER OF BRADFORD PD in big, bold letters. It was called the Shorter Way Bridge, as when it was built, it was indeed the shorter way to get into town, rather than driving another 45 minutes to the main road. To the locals, it was said as one word: Shortaway. Now it was a place for delinquents, derelicts, and the deranged. It was where stoners went to light up, where teenagers went to have a quickie, where homeless people slept in the rain or snow.
Connor Temple rode his bike to and from school every day, unless it was raining; then his mother would take him. The fastest way to school was to take the shortcut through the woods instead of on the road. Every day, he rode past the Shortaway Bridge. It had always frightened him, the sides of the bridge swarmed with overgrowth and rot, the dark mouth gaping open like a toothless giant, the ominous creaking of wood whenever the wind blew too hard. He was forbidden to go anywhere near it. Last year, 14-year-old Louis Valle had tried to run across it on a dare, and in the dark, had fallen through a hole in the floor and drowned in the river below.
Today, though, Connor Temple was going to go inside. Not necessarily because he wanted to, but because he had dared himself to do it, to take ten steps inside. Never mind his father's threats or the tin sign. He'd dared himself to do it, and Connor Temple was never one to back down from a dare, especially one he set to himself. Propping his bike against the fence, he crouched and wriggled through the gap in the chain-link that delinquents used to get in when they were too high or too drunk to climb over. He walked up to the dark mouth of the covered bridge. His palms felt clammy, his pulse was in his mouth, and his stomach was rolling.
He took a step inside. It was dark, smelt of slow rot and damp, and of animals. The wood creaked under his feet, echoing eerily in the quiet, and he could hear bats peeping shrilly in the overhead darkness. Two steps. He couldn't see where his feet were, and remembering the ill-fated Louis Valle, carefully probed the floor with one toe before placing his foot down.
Three steps.
Four.
There was a light further down in the bridge. Connor could see it from where he stood. In the middle of the bridge, where it sagged lower than the entrances, was a gleaming, flickering light like a will-o'-the-wisp on the moors.
Eight.
Nine.
He walked closer, heart jumping whenever the bridge groaned underfoot. Overhead, bats peeped and chirped from their daytime roost.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
The light was stronger now, and he could see the floor better, able to skirt around the gaping hole that had claimed the life of an adolescent. He was so close to the light now, and it looked like a tiny sun, surrounded by pieces of broken glass. He reached out to try and touch one of the pieces, but it passed right on through his hand like air. It wasn't solid at all. Carefully, slowly, he reached forward, towards the light; it was warm and tickled a little. He could feel a breeze on his hand, though there wasn't any breeze inside the bridge.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Connor Temple emerged into the warm sunlight of midday, in a park, and a terrible agony ripped into him. He fell to his knees, sobbing, clutching his stomach, retching at the awful, tearing agony. Shards of ice splintered into his veins, slivers of glass pushed beneath his skin. Tears streamed down his cheeks, blood burning. But then, just as quickly, the terrible pain was gone, leaving only little aches in his bones. Where it had been, there was now a new sense of…something, right in the middle of his chest, beside his heart, in his heart.
Slowly, he opened his eyes again only to find himself staring back into a mirroring set belonging to a small tabby cat. "Hello. My name is Rakhavālā. You don't need to be afraid of me. I'm your soul," said the small cat. In the meeting of gazes, invisible threads extended from her to him, weaving together and tightening into an unbreakable bond, but it was more than that. It was the movement of magma far beneath the earth, too deeply to be consciously felt, moving and melding and forming, then being solidified, in a dousing of water and a gush of steam, into something inexorable and irreversible.
Connor didn't realise that he had crossed between timelines, had strayed into an alternate universe parallel to his own. All he knew was that Rakhavālā was telling him the truth and that he would never have to be alone again.
When Connor Andrew Temple was fourteen years old, Rakhavālā ceased to change forms. Before then, she had always flickered from one shape to the next, becoming whatever creature fit her fancy that moment.
He had learned much from his own soul in the seven years since he had crossed the Shortaway Bridge. As a seal, she had taught him how to swim. In the form of an orangutan, she taught him to climb trees without falling. As a cheetah, she had helped him to run fast and far without getting tired. He never told his parents of his crossing the Shortaway Bridge, nor did he ever show them Rakhavālā. She would always become something very small when he was at home or in school, so nobody else could see her. Only when they were alone was she free to become whatever she wished.
She had told him years before that once he got to a certain age, she would settle into one form forever. It was a part of growing up, she informed him, just like liking girls and growing hair. It would happen eventually. At first, he hadn't wanted her to stop changing, but by the time he was twelve, he was beginning to wonder what she would end up being, as her permanent form would represent who he was as a person. She was about the size of a housecat, but a head sort of like a weasel or a ferret, with grizzled grey-brown fur on her face and body, but her legs were black, and her tail was white. He had to do a good bit of browsing on the Arkive website before he found the animal that matched. She was a white-tailed mongoose, the biggest extant species of mongoose in the world.
Connor bought a knapsack big enough for her to fit in when he was at school, and it was here that his habit of wearing many layers began. Borrowing his mother's sewing box, he stitched new pockets on the inner lining of his bigger coats and jackets so she could hide inside them, and he would wear several layers of clothes so nobody would notice the bulge in his jacket.
It was a stifling existence, and there were days Rakhavālā was certain she'd end up going mad.
When Connor Andrew Temple was twenty-four, he was working inside the Anomaly Research Centre, catching creatures from every epoch and tracking down the anomalies, which he now recognised as the light which had taken him over the Shortaway Bridge and brought Rakhavālā into his life. It was harder to keep her a secret at work, though when they were at the flat, the flat he shared with Abby Maitland, Rakhavālā could be let out.
Connor had told Abby that Rakhavālā was an exotic pet. Abby was suspicious at first, but given that she had a coelurovasaurus living illegally in her flat, she couldn't say much. Rakhavālā was careful never to speak when Abby was within earshot, and she never came close enough for the blond woman to touch. She had told Connor that it was the greatest taboo there was, to touch another person's dæmon. It was a violation of the basest sort.
It occurred to Connor once, sitting in his loft with Rakhavālā lying on his feet, that if Helen Cutter had been travelling the anomalies for the past eight years, it might very well be possible that she had ventured across timelines as well and had a dæmon of her own.
He didn't find out for certain until nearly eight months later, when Helen came to them on the M-25. He almost didn't notice it. But there, curled around her neck inside her jumpsuit, out of sight, was a snake. An Egyptian sand cobra, curled snugly around her throat beneath her scarf, watching everything with eyes too intelligent to belong to a simple animal.
Connor Andrew Temple knew then that this woman was going to be his enemy until one of them was dead. Rakhavālā knew it too, in her bones and blood.
Rudyard Kipling had known it, too, all those years ago.
The cobra and the mongoose were always to engage in the killing dance together.
The only question remaining was who would be left standing when the music ended.