Chapter 1

Luah

Time is not your friend, a fact that is all too easy to forget when you're young and your life is ahead of you, easier when you're old and your days are numbered. It is easiest to let this fact slip away from you when time flows around you like water around a stream. When you can shape it the way you want it is hard to remember that if it chose it could chip away at you until you crumble into sand.

I fit into the third category. Humans could never understand my place in time. Only Time Lords and Weeping Angels understand.

I never really thought of time as a problem. It was just there, an ever constant in the murky depths of time travel that I surrounded myself with.

My name is Luah as it is the name of the only person I've ever murdered. When we kill a human we adopt their name and characteristics. I stalked the original owner of my name for years before taking it. My name means 'tears,' which I think suits me, as I am a Weeping Angel.

This is the story of my existence, well the interesting part anyway.

I guess it started when I got my name. It's really hard to stake a claim in your own time stream without an identity. So I went out and stole one.

The original Luah was a beautiful girl of eight years old when I took an interest in her; she was sixteen when I stole her. You're probably thinking that this was a horrible thing for me to do but remember, I am a Weeping Angel. I do not possess a conscience and the idea of right and wrong is a simple as; life for me is right and death to my own species is wrong. But that has all changed.

Luah was a beautiful young girl. Since I adopted her I am also quite attractive. So when I was found in the Sahara Desert everyone assumed I was some exotic carving and I was taken to the Museum of London as the newest exhibit.

At first I hated it, I was physically unable to move and the pristine halls stunk of Flesh (that's another story) and human skin. At night I was unable to escape due to a circulating security camera, there were only a few seconds in every minute in which I could move and I had to use up these precious seconds not to escape, but to feed. I just hoped no one would think that it was particularly strange that the night guard had aged a few years overnight or that thousands of creatures from moths to rats had just dropped dead in a 5km radius around the museum.

This pattern continued for months and I settled into the fact I may never leave. I may live out my days trapped behind metal bars in this bleach white room in a museum.

Enter Alistair Glaze…

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