Chapter One

Before I was woken from my much-needed and greatly-feared sleep, I had been dreaming.

It was harder to stay awake tonight. Perhaps I had pushed myself too far: I knew that I didn't need as much sleep as other people did, but maybe I was depriving myself. I don't know, but whatever the reason, the concrete floor felt more comfortable than it ever had. As I lay cocooned in my worn-out sleeping bag, I found my eyes closing unstoppably.

I was dreaming a familiar dream. It was the same cave; the same rough stone floor; the same stalactites dangling precariously from the ceiling. The same dim light. And the same terrifying, larger-than-life man sitting on the throne of bones, gazing down at me. Sometimes there was also a woman, sat on a chair wound with flowers- but she tended to only be there in the cold, winter months. The man sat alone, wearing a flowing black cloak. His face, as ever, was an unfathomable mask. And as he spoke, his voice reverberated through the walls, making the stalactites tremble:

'Are you ready to accept the truth yet, my young hero?'

I swallowed. This man- why did he continue to enter my dreams? I didn't know who he was. I didn't want to know who he was. He was scary, but I wasn't scared of him. Just of what he might say.

'That would depend on what the truth would mean to me," I answered, trying to seem as formal as him.

He laughed. Loud and long. It made his face look kinder, broke the mask he normally wore. "That is a very good answer, Tanitha.' The fact that he knew my name, even though I hadn't ever told him, didn't faze me. The first time we met I was terrified. Now he was just a reoccurring annoyance, something that made me dread sleep, test my limits. I had a sudden thought. Having to sleep in my clothes wasn't that bad; I would be mortally embarrassed if I had to stand before this man in nothing but a thin t-shirt and trousers. I smiled without humour.

'Thank you.' I replied. I wish he would let me sleep, I thought. I wish he would stop bugging me. In a sudden flash of deep-rooted anger, I asked: 'Why do you continue to enter my dreams? Why won't you just-' I clenched my fists, spoke every word carefully, attempting to keep my temper under control. '-leave me alone.' His face was suddenly serious. All traces of laughter had been irradiated- he had put back on the emotionless mask.

'I continue to enter your dreams because you continue to flee from the facts. You need to stop running away from the truth, Tanitha.'

I clapped my hands over my ears, attempting to stop his painful words from penetrating my amour. Angry power spilled into my voice, and I yelled; 'Shut up! Shut up! I don't want to know!' In the corner of my mind I think I knew that I was being foolish, but I didn't care. I willed myself to wake up, willed myself to escape from the man, the room, I hated. It worked. My anger gave me strength, and the room began to vanish. The last thing I saw was his face. I could read his expression like a book. He was disappointed. Then he vanished, and I woke as suddenly as if a light switch had been thrown.

I didn't move. I kept very still, continued breathing deeply and evenly when I wanted to curse and yell. A useful trick- people talk more when they believe the person they are gossiping about is fast asleep. But nobody was talking, so I sat up. My sleep-deprived brain swam as I thought about my 'dream'.

That man... he knew me. Everything about me. Every deepest, darkest secret- and that made him a threat. If he found the right words, he could destroy me like an ant. Why did he do this to me? Wasn't my life hard enough? Didn't he think that living on the streets was bad enough? No! Of course not. So he decides to haunt my dreams, to follow after me, to tell me to 'accept the truth'. All he was succeeding in doing was making me terrified of falling asleep. Who did he think he was? I hated him so much...

I gulp in the chilled night air. It calmed my anger, made me think straight. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was go curl up somewhere and cry. I had to get away from here. But had I woken the rest of the gang? I peered through the dim moonlight at the teenagers sleeping around me. After being with them for seven hard years, they where properly the closest thing I had to family.

Pockets slept nearest, his dirty face turned my way. His eyes flickered underneath his closed lids. He looked- younger, when he was asleep. I liked watching him sleep. He was the one I trusted most in this gang. If this was my family, he would be my twin. The youngest of us, Questions, was snoring quietly. I felt very...maternal for him. Silence was being absolutely- well, silent. She lay, as still as a statue, her back to me. I didn't know whether she was asleep or not. Knife lay close by her, enveloped in shadow. Sweet-Face lay on her front, her vivid red hair splayed across her pack. As I watched, she murmured and turned over. I hadn't disturbed them with my dreams.

I didn't know any of their real names; just as they didn't know mine. To live on the streets means you have a painful past, and one which you don't want to share with anyone. Your name is the key of your past- to lock your past away, you have to have a new name. Some of our names where chosen (or given) due to our 'talents'.

Sweet-Face, the girl whose innocent face always meant that when she begged strangers where more than willing to part with their money. Pockets was a shoplifter. He always wore a jacket with huge pockets- he could walk out of a shop with half of the merchandise in those pockets and nobody would look at him twice. Silence is silent. She steals into peoples houses at night, when they're asleep. She burgles money or jewellery, anything expensive. And if the owner of the house wakes up, Knife will be there to take care of that. I don't trust either of them; we may be living rough, but we don't have to stoop that low. And Questions is so named because when he first joined our gang he asked so many questions that Knife named him that out of spite. My name? Well, they call me Fingers. My 'talent' is pick-pocketing.

Sweet-Face murmurs again and I jerk back to the present. I wiggle out of my cosy sleeping bag; the cold night air gives me goose bumps. I roll up my still-warm sleeping bag, pull a threadbare jumper from my pack and slip it on. Stuffing the sleeping bag away, I shrug on my pack and start walking. It doesn't matter where; I just had to get out of hearing of the gang. I march through endless alleyways. I know this area so well, I could walk it blindfolded.

When I knew I was far enough away from the gang, I sat down on the cold pavement. My aching head rested in my hands and I stayed still. I was so tired; sleep just led me back to that man. A few salty tears escaped. I tried to stop them, but I couldn't. Instead I dropped my barrier- put down my armour- and cried. I sobbed until my eyes where dryer than desert sand. When I stopped, the sane area of my brain thought: thank goodness the gang isn't here. I act so tough and streetwise in front of them. I ignored the voice and gently lay down and closed my eyes.

I didn't know I had fallen asleep until I was woken by a noise. My bones where frozen, and my lips chapped and sore. I stood up. For a second, my sense of direction was thrown. The noise came again, and this time I recognised it. My heartbeat quickened, my eyes widened. Oh, no. Not again. These kinds of noises only meant one thing for me... Trouble.

The ground vibrated again, and again. Footsteps. Something was coming for me. I shouldered my pack, tightened the straps and started walking briskly in the opposite direction- away from the thundering footsteps. I ducked into alleys, crawled under crates, tried to lead... whatever it was on a wild-goose hunt. But I could tell it wasn't working. Stones scuttled with every step it made and I could hear deep, rasping breaths.

I began to run. Even though I had tightened the straps, my heavy pack still managed to thump painfully against my back. Left, right, left again... Sprinting through the maze of alleyways in the middle of the night when you haven't had a decent nights sleep in... well, a very long time isn't advisable. And when your running for your life from some terrifying monster that could quite possibly eat you alive... yeah, not great either.

My breath was coming in ragged gasps. My legs felt like they where on fire with pain. I kept running, dodging, ducking and weaving, trying to escape from the roaring creature behind me. It wasn't working.

Its hot, smelly breath was ruffling my hair. It was right behind me, its footsteps jolting the ground and making me stagger as I ran. I wasn't going to make it. I had a sudden thought and drew my knife. It was a good knife- it had protected me on countless occasions. I ducked into an alley, nearly tripping over my own feet as I sprinted to the other end. I was so close to the end...

I felt a sudden, jarring pain. I looked down and then immediately wished I hadn't. A clawed hand clutched me around the waist, the razor tips imbedded in my side. I shrieked and wildly jabbed at the claw. The claw retracted and I began staggering to the end of the alleyway. The pain in my side was so intense, it was nearly impossible to think of anything else. I was exhausted, terrified and injured. For a fleeting moment I thought I felt something resting on my shoulders. Then I burst through the end of the alleyway, momentarily blinded by a streetlamp lighting up the dark night.

I wasn't alone.

In a split second I took in the scene before me. A boy and a girl stood across the street. The boy wore a yellow baseball cap, pulled low down over his forehead so his eyes where in shadow. His mouth was open in shock. I suppose my appearance must've been shocking. A girl with a wild expression, wielding a blood-stained knife with a whopping great wound in her side.

But back to the boy. He had brown, wildly curly hair, escaping from under his hat. He looked about... eighteen? He had a hand on the girls shoulder. The girl also had brown hair, but lighter than the boys and very straight. They couldn't be related. Her skin was sun-kissed. She looked young, about eleven years old. She didn't look shocked. Her expression was more of one of sadness. For some reason, I felt like I knew her. But then the moment was over.

I staggered forward. I felt a hot sensation reaching from my wounded side, spreading through my chest and making my heart feel tight. My legs failed me and I fell to my knees, my knife clattering out of my hand. I couldn't move. I dimly saw the girl reach down and pick up the knife. I wanted to say, Hey! Put that back, its mine! but my voice wouldn't obey me. She held it like a dart, ignoring the blood. She narrowed her eyes and threw it. I heard a muted roar and the ground shook.

I heard the girl say in a very surprised voice, 'Dylan, I killed it!' The boy replied, 'I know. That was a very good shot.' The girls face swam into view. Her forehead was puckered and she looked concerned. 'What's wrong with her?' I heard her say, but her voice seemed to come from miles away. I felt like I was underwater. My last sane thought was: she had green eyes. Then I passed out.