God is in the Rain

by Orionangel

An over-worked and underpaid journalist finds that the immaculately average life she has been leading is anything but. This is the story of how she discovers herself.

God is in the Rain

It was an artificially lit and somewhat blustery night in our area of the city, affectionately called The Downs. I use the term "affectionately" loosely in this context. The streetlamps, desperately in need of maintenance, sputtered, emitting a dim, dull glow which illuminated the cracked, potholed tar of the roads. Every alleyway seemed a menacing threat to the innocent passer-by.

My city is beautiful; strewn with sparkling lights and flashing neon; alive with the rhythmic beat of human hearts, thriving on bustling life. Even at three in the morning, the bars are thrumming and the clubs are thumping as inhabitants entertain themselves and, occasionally, each other. It's intoxicating.

But in the heart of the city lies The Downs. Well, one could say it festers rather than lies.

Every city has its dark corner; an area that no mayor wants to think about and few tourists ever plan to visit. And our dark side has it all: drugs and criminals, shadowed alleys and shattered streetlights. People disappear here. Whole bodies are seldom found. The underworld always seems to be the life and soul of the party down here.

*

I had been working on Nouveau Street for seven years in a small but tidy office, which serves as the newsroom for the Nightly Planet. The paper is a daily (released early each evening), steadily deteriorating under a severe lack of financial support. There are always stories to write, filled with shock-and-horror appeal, but no self-respecting people willing to read them. Residents of The Downs see too much as it is and therefore they have no real interest in reading about the crime rate. It's just depressing anyway. Hell, one always hopes that none of it is real.

In our newsroom we generally deal with... unusual stories. I like to call it a cheap, conspiracy tabloid. A real rag. Headlines often turn out to be "Abducted husband returns!" or "Savage attack: Werewolves?"

It's a load of shit if you ask me. But then, I had been in the office for seven years and I was still landing the follow-ups; the ones no one wants to get stuck with. Early morning shifts between one and four were all mine. Of course they were; no one gets a decent scoop after midnight, or more specifically, not a decent "supernatural" one.

Proving myself hadn't been enough to get me out into the field. Mostly because the chance to prove myself had never come around.

My boss had ensured that I kept the paperwork up to standard for seven years while my colleagues did the "breaking" stuff.

Seven years.

Man, I hated the guy.

So, at three a.m. on a Tuesday morning, I waited for the time to pass, and typically, each second dragged out far slower than the one before it. Norris's office light was still shining, but his shutters were down; it wasn't like him to hang around this late. He usually left the closing up to me: the only piece of responsibility he trusted me with.

We closed our doors at four and re-opened at four in the afternoon. During that twelve-hour break The Downs remained suspiciously calm and quiet.

*

Three o seven.

My desk was tidy. The papers filed. I had picked up the stray paper-clips. The cactus had been watered (though I may have drowned it in malicious spite). I'd even edited a few of Finch's shoddy pieces that he had rushed to complete by deadline.

I glanced over at the news-feed in desperation.

Come on.

BUZZ, DAMN YOU!

Just give me one story… just a little feature, even.

The yellow light blinked at me, docilely. Once again, there had been no stories since I had arrived for the night. Nothing for me to do but work on the old stuff and plan the follow-up interviews.

I threw a dark look at Norris's arrogant door. "Jerk."

*

Three fifteen.

Chewing on a twisted stick of liquorice, I dug through my drawer and pulled out the "Mabel" story. The usual stuff: an eclectic old bat, by the name of Mabel Martins, claimed to have seen a group of "blood-sucking fiends" attack her neighbour, Gregory Husk, on the night that he disappeared in the garbage alleyway between their two homes. This had all occurred, apparently, when Mabel had been trying to lug her load of rubbish out to the bin. The unfortunate business was that Mabel could not seem to tell me why she believed it to be the work of - gasp - vampires; she claims she "just knew."

I was in charge, yet again, of getting the updates on how her already mundane life had altered some four months after the "incident."

Undoubtedly, the story would be cut to approximately half its length and buried somewhere in the back pages of tomorrow's issue.

But the ridiculous quality of the whole affair was gradually drawing me in again as I read through what I had already done. I could at least write the thing well, even if it wasn't really going to be appreciated for its intellectual value. Oh well, at least it would be something to put on my resumé when I finally got out of this place.

Good old Mabel. What really happened to Gregory? Mr. Husk was an old man, pushing eighty-four. He had three daughters, and his wife had died of leukaemia ten years earlier. A retired dental surgeon; who would want to hurt him?

*

Three twenty-seven.

"The vampires are what?!" Norris's exclamation echoed from behind his office door.

The yelling was followed by an indignant crash as he slammed the receiver down.

I stared at the office door, my palms suddenly slick with sweat.

The timing! The perfect timing!

What sounded like a front-page story may have just broken. On my shift!

The blood rushed to my ears, creating a distinctive pounding sound, like a steady drum beat, rolling through my skull. The time had finally come.

I crossed to the office, arrogantly flinging the liquorice into a handy trash-can as I passed. It missed, sailed over, and landed on Finch's desk in a pile of paper-work. My smile was smug. That's right, Roger, eat my leftovers; I struck the big one and you aren't here to swipe it out from under me.

I rapped insistently on the door marked with a large brass plaque which read EDITOR in black, block letters.

"Yeah!" was the bark from within, which I took as my invitation to enter.

Norris is an older man; at least a foot taller than me, with dark hair in a standard gent's cut and large, brown eyes in an open face. Apart from being tall, he is built quite small and his stance is usually hunched over, as if he subconsciously tries to hide his height. I've considered reprimanding him for his bad posture, but I value my job. Sort of.

Despite his congenial face and defensive body language, there is something altogether animalistic about him, a temperament which always makes him seem to be on the verge of snapping at the most minor annoyances.

I stood over his desk with a gleam of triumph in my eyes and a serious, journalistic set to my jaw, "Where do you need me, Sir?"

Norris stared at me blankly, a puzzled set to his lips.

"What?" Comprehension dawned suddenly, "Oh, that."

He became all business as he started shuffling papers on his desk. The phone, I noticed, was lying discarded on the floor with the receiver beside it, emitting a faint dial-tone. "Never you mind all that. Finch is on the case. You can knock off early; I'll lock up in a while." He did not even look up for the dismissal.

The blood began to rush to my ears again, but this time it seemed to be draining away from my face to get there. For the first time I understood the meaning of the phrase "to feel my pulse thundering".

He cannot be doing this to me!

"Bob!" He glanced up sharply at the informal address. "You can't be serious! This is my shift, let me take the story!"

My hands clenched the edge of his desk; the knuckles icy white as I loomed over him.

He stood, slowly, towering above me at his full height with surprise and annoyance etched into the frown of his brow. "I have assigned Finch. Now get going before I double your shift."

"But-"

His carefully controlled tone snapped, "I said No, Jones!"

I winced as he turned away from me and stared out the rain-spotted window onto the grimy streets of The Downs. The streetlamps shining beneath him cast a shadow on the side of his face which was visible to me.

"Go home. I want the "Mabel" follow-up done by tonight."

I had been dismissed.

*

Quietly, I left his office and plopped back down into my chair. Picking up a fresh stick of liquorice, I chewed, morosely.

Great. Taking one for the team. Again.

The office cat, Edgar, blinked contentedly at me, in what I took as a sympathetic manner, from the floor next to my desk. Technically, he was Finch's cat, but for some reason, Roger never took him home. He simply lounged here, basking in all the attention.

I reached out and scratched his fluffy, Persian head, pensively.

It was nothing personal. I really liked Roger Finch; in fact, he was my favourite drinking buddy. But why did I always have to suffer for his glory?

I looked down at Edgar's happy, blank face, "I say it's about time I call it quits, Love. What do you think?"

The cat's ears twitched in time with his tail as he grumbled, blinked, and stalked off to sit on Roger's desk and clean his backside.

"Fine. Be that way then."

I rescued the liquorice out from under him and absent-mindedly shuffled the "Mabel" papers into my briefcase. It was not that I wanted to leave, either. And I had had no other offers for a position, but I needed excitement. Stimulation. And the Powers-That-Be of the Nightly Planet were steadfastly refusing to oblige.

But I knew better.

I would never leave the place unless they forced me out. The work might not be as fulfilling as I had hoped it would be on my first day, but there was something about the office atmosphere. I felt secure here. Safer than I felt in my low-budget, one-bedroom apartment.

I glanced out the window and grimaced in apprehension. The wind was kicking up one hell of a fuss, and I would have to walk as much as four blocks in it.

Besides, by the looks of it, it was about to rain.

This was so not my night for good fortune.

*

As I stood in the middle of the room, contemplating just camping there until the storm passed, the door from the balcony slid open, permitting the violent wind entry. Papers suddenly fluttered through the air from where I had neatly stacked them earlier.

I glanced over in surprise. Norris definitely had not left his office, and the only way to the balcony was through the main room where I currently stood.

A man stood in the open doorway, surveying all with what can only be described as a look of mild contempt.

I suppose he was attractive in a quirky sort of way, although my first reaction was to sneer at the attitude sketched into his posture.

"How the hell did you get out there? Don't tell me you've been standing out in that gale?"

Now, one would usually think "fire-escape" in a situation like this, but this is The Downs; what fire-escape? Not to mention that our office is five storeys up.

He just stared at me, perplexed and disdainful.

"What are you?" asked the despicable newcomer in a voice which was completely neutral, but low and husky with an odd, semi-British accent.

I tried really hard not to feel insulted.

It did not work.

"Excuse me," I said in my calmest, sweetest, most congenial voice, which gradually began to pick up speed and volume, "in polite society, people generally introduce themselves first and politely wait for the other person to give their name. And don't look at me like that; I'm not the one being blatantly unpleasant. And furthermore-"

My indignant tirade was cut short when he smiled and held up a hand.

This man was ridiculously charismatic. It was unusual, because generally, when someone interrupts one of my rage-filled rants, the rant only becomes more heated. Now, however, I found myself compelled to stop and hear what he had to say.

"I do not have time for you, woman. Where is the Alpha?"

At that, Norris's door slammed open and he marched out, furiously gripping the phone by its now disconnected chord. I'd never seen him looking quite as pissed off as this, his eyes flashing with heat.

"Ah," said the creep, "Alpha. I've been meaning to speak with you. I have been sent to grant you due warning of the-"

The boss cut him off, "Firstly, Damian, I have told you before. Do not call me Alpha. Secondly, you are correct, the warning is due. Over-due! You did not consult any of us on the wisdom of your brilliant decision. And thirdly," he looked pointedly in my direction, and that of the sliding door, and then resumed glaring at the intruder, "Have you no tact?"

I could not stay quiet any longer, "What-"

"Not now, Jones!" Clearly Norris was reaching the end of his tether.

Damian's eyes narrowed as his lips set in an incredibly effeminate pout. Again, I had to admit, he was kind of dashing. Long, black hair pulled back into a tie. Neat, sleek, goatee and shadowed black eyes. When I got past his face, I finally noticed the rest of his Rock appearance. He was dressed in skin tight black leather pants with black boots, and a red, silk shirt, slightly open at the collar. To top all of this off, he had a long, black trench coat hanging over one crooked arm.

"Unfortunately, Wolf Man, the council no longer values your people's opinions. We are trying to do something to eliminate the problem. Whether it works or not is irrelevant." His voice was calm, low, and blasé. But I could see him clenching his fist in what was either agitation or fear. It was clear why he would be scared, though; the boss was livid.

"Wolf Man?" I really could not have stayed quiet on that one. Alpha was one thing, but Wolf Man?

Maybe Norris kept German Shepherds.

He turned his furious glance on me and I shut my mouth before anything else could slip out.

Damian looked at me too, and his posture suddenly took on a snooty, mock-questioning air, "I'm curious, Al- Robert," He said the name with an audible sneer, "Why the concern for this irritating piece of mortal flesh?"

"Hey!"

"Jones!"

"Sorry, boss! Shutting up."

"You are treading on thin ice here, Damian. My employees are none of your business. And as for your pathetic council," the sneer was returned with interest, "We all know who runs this city. Your lot have been careless. You are nothing but a bunch of flouncing idiots."

Damian folded his arms, taken aback by the boss's aggression. "The situation is completely out of control," he said quietly, "What would you have us do? I mean, obviously, you know best, what with you having done nothing so far… at all." His voice bled sarcasm all over the cheap, linoleum floor.

Before Norris could retort, the office door opened and Finch rushed in, completely out of breath. I had never been so relieved to see his thin, spindly frame.

"Finally," stated Edgar, "Someone who can talk some sense into this lot."

*

It took me a moment.

My brain ticked over slowly as I watched the cat's flicking tail, following its movement back and forth.

Edgar turned his flat, white face towards me.

"I mean, meow."

The voice coming from him was perfectly human and male with a high, cultured lilt to it.

I just kept staring at his tail. My palms were sweating again and my heart fluttered behind my ribcage like a trapped butterfly; certainly not the thundering certainty of its earlier beating.

"Oh. Kay. How about purrrrr?" His mouth was forming the words and the sound was definitely there, but I could not connect my eyes with my mind. It was thoroughly impossible that my favourite cat had just attained human speech.

I took a horrified step back towards the front door. I seemed to be gulping in a lot of air because I suddenly felt quite faint.

Roger looked from me to the cat-thing, a look of understanding blooming over his features.

Norris did not look happy.

Edgar looked uncertainly from one human to the other (as far as it is possible for a cat's face to appear uncertain). "What is happening?" he asked. Since when can she hear me?"

My feet just continued to move backwards. I couldn't have stopped them if I tried. This was utterly inexplicable. I wasn't dreaming and I certainly wasn't concussed. Optical illusion? Ventriloquism? Unlikely.

"Oh. This is charming." I heard Damian say with a stifled laugh, "An unidentified and unlicensed initiate blooming under the protection of you two imbeciles. The council is going to love this. And to think," he grinned as his words became steadily slower, "You were the one who became so worked up about us not following protocol."

"Shut up, Damian!" snapped Roger, moving into the room and scooping Edgar into his arms. "I'm sorry, Boss, I read the signs earlier and tried to get here as soon as I could, but I was waylaid by this Git's flunkies."

"Flunkies? Now, that's not very nice," Damian quipped. "Anyway, they were just keeping an eye on things. Well, I think I will leave you all to your little balls-up. It seems I have interesting news for the council after all."

I couldn't understand why (and truthfully at that moment I didn't really care), but he sounded remarkably smug as he swept out the way he had entered, coat flapping theatrically in the wind blasting through the open doors.

There was a lot for me to digest: apparently I was an "initiate" of something, some council was planning something which would prevent something else from happening, and of course, there was the fact that this Damian person had found a way down from the balcony. But all this was drowned by something slightly more pressing. And it was watching me with large, green, concerned cat eyes.

*

The cat leapt down from Roger's chest and came striding towards me.

"I don't get it. What did the signs say? Surely not yet?" He wasn't speaking to me, but to the room in general. However, he was staring at me as though I were a specimen in a large, invisible cage of anxiety.

I could do nothing but stare, speechless, back at Edgar. The same cat I had loved and petted every morning. The cat who had shared my liquorice on occasion.

Finch and Norris were also staring at me, but their all too human features were currently displaying grave concern.

"Jones," Finch had come to stand next to me with his hand on my shoulder, "maybe you should sit down? You know, gather yourself." From the flickering direction of Norris's gaze, it was clear that he and Finch were exchanging very pertinent looks over my shoulder.

"I don't want to." My voice sounded very far away to my ears, much like the crackling of a voice over a phone line with bad reception. "I want someone to explain to me why the cat is speaking."

Roger's fingers clenched on my arm and Norris's eyes narrowed.

Edgar advanced on me, sinewy and sinister. The sight of him coming so close to my vulnerable feet after all I had witnessed and heard in the last ten minutes was just too much. Something snapped in my mind.

I closed my eyes and shrugged Norris's hand off of my arm, trying to be nonchalant, as though I just wanted a moment to myself.

And then I ran.

*

Lunacy!

I rushed down the dingy, narrow staircase to the front door which leads into the office building. From the angle at which I approached the entrance hallway I could almost see through the grubby, handprint-smudged Perspex to the storm brewing outside.

I came to a stop in the foyer and sighed at the sight of the wind blowing all sorts of lost objects through the city streets. Bits and pieces of unidentifiable paper were swept by, discarded or forgotten by their owners. I would have to walk out into that mess of damp, near-storm weather in a moment and I'd be lucky not to get blown off my boot-clad feet.

Rather that than have Finch catch up to me. By the look in his eyes, it was clear what he had been thinking.

A comfy padded cell, all for me.

Great.

This is just what I need. Delusions.

And now they all think I'm nuts.

*

I put my shoulder into the effort of shoving open the door against the blasting wind howling through the streets. As I managed to swing it into the current, the wave of rain began to pour in a clear sheet across the paving in front of me. Perfectly illuminated by those streetlamps which were still in working order, the rain seemed to follow swell after swell, growing in strength and then waning only to build up again in a crescendo of water. I, however, was not too keen on marvelling at it at that exact moment as the first draught had just caught me across my stocking-covered legs.

Shit! This is hurricane weather!

My mother would have called it nasty. I just call it inconvenient.

Following instinct, I didn't pause to think. I simply ran out the door onto the sidewalk and started jogging home, head down against the pounding rain. At least I managed a good view of the pavement being rinsed clean of the last week's filth that had built up on it.

It was only four blocks. I could do it.

*

I rounded the corner of Nouveau into Dante Drive, the soles of my boots pounding onto the pavement's soggy surface, and stopped to catch my breath which was burning through my chest; a dull ache to complement the sticky, wet feel of my soaked clothes against my skin. Ahead of me I could see the city sloping down into more respectable areas, gleaming with the crystals of colour which were just so many streetlamps combined with the headlights of cars and the ever-burning lights inside office buildings.

As I stood on the corner waiting for my feet to move, since they seemed to be bolted to the tar with the distinct ache of overuse, my eyes caught the sight of a trashcan toppling over in the alleyway across the street. It was the exact sort of dark corner that I usually took great pains to avoid on my walk home: the type of alleyway where all you can make out is the first two yards into it as the shadows engulf the rest in darkness.

This time, however, I found myself taking a tentative step towards the road. I couldn't be sure with the rain drawing curtains across my vision, but I thought I had seen someone being pulled through the alley's entrance and into the shadows.

A mugging?

Not unlikely in this part of town. In fact, considering the area, it could be a crime far worse than that. A shudder swept up my spinal column as I considered the possible horrors in store for the unfortunate victim.

I was still undecided on whether to call for help or just try and chase them off myself when a scream wrenched through the rain.

Before my thoughts could catch up with them, my feet were already thudding and splashing across the tar in the direction of the alleyway.

My mind still seemed to be in some control of my body as I subconsciously calculated the importance of pools of light and lakes of shadow as I made my crouched way closer to the alley's entrance. If I could just sneak close enough to gauge the situation, I could then get away to call the cops if the need arose. At least I knew my approach would be unheard through the streaming rain.

I was more concerned with being seen. I am not the most graceful of people.

I snuck up to the wall of the building next to the alley, which was conveniently drenched in darkness as the streetlamp on this stretch had been shattered by a stray rock. Creeping along the wall and ignoring the grime still clinging to it (despite the downpour) I made my way closer to the entrance where the scream had been cut off earlier.

No sound could be heard now, except for a distinct groaning. Possibly the sound of pain but not violent exclamations or terrified sobbing. Coherent thoughts started returning to me as it occurred to me that I must have mistaken what I had seen. With only one voice present in the alley, this could only have been some sort of accident. No immediate danger.

I stood out of the crouch, my knees creaking and aching at the feel of having been forced to work in the cold and wet. I quickly turned the corner, sliding open my phone as I did so and typing in the number for emergency services.

Light did not exactly stream in from the road as most of the lamps were out or on their way out, but light did stream in from the warehouse on the right, the wall of which I had been creeping along. It illuminated the very back of the alley, a fact I had been unaware of up until now as I had always avoided this place entirely.

The aforementioned light was not exactly bright and cheerful as it seemed to have been filtered through a dust-covered window three storeys up. However, what I saw in the dimly lit alley stopped all sane thought and rationale from entering my brain.

A shimmering, sticky pool gleamed ominously under my gaze. Unwillingly, my eyes followed it to its source, a mangled, pulpy form lying broken in front of one of the rear dumpsters. At first it was unrecognisable as anything other than meat, but as I continued to stare at it, willing myself to turn away, I made out the unmistakable sight of fingers lying discarded about a foot away from it.

Confusion shattered my horror for a split second as I stared at the mess, intent on the groaning I could still hear.

No. This thing could not still be alive. Not with all that blood, and definitely not with all those pieces missing from it.

Oh, God, please let it be dead.

Understanding seeped through the dank disgust and a chill followed swiftly in its wake as I pinpointed the sound's location.

The sheer chaos of emotions that filled my mind was indescribable. All I knew in that instant was terror as I realised I had walked into a trap.

Whatever had done this was here.

Right behind me.

I turned with the painfully slow motions of someone caught in a nightmare where all one's movements and reactions are weakened. Slow and terrifying like pulling yourself up from the depths of a lake when you are seconds from running out of breath.

In the darkness, my eyes strained to identify the shape of some sort of animal.

It seemed quite large, although that may have been the play of shadows, and from the way it slouched between the dumpsters, its head turned towards me, it could have been a dog. Its body had the same distinctive droop of a long, rugged tail as that of a street dog: a stray which has been living in muck and filth with no decent care. And its greyish torso was painfully thin and jutting with bumps and ridges which could have been ribs and a spine.

Sure, it could have been a dog.

But its eyes said different. Floating in the shadow above its clearly snarling muzzle, were two green orbs. They had to be eyes, but they were unlike any I had ever seen in my life. Burning with necrotic malice, they were so aflame they seemed to reach out into the darkness, like the illumination of a flashlight. As it turned its head, my stomach churned sickeningly. Even in the darkness I could see that its snarl was not so much of a snarl as the fact that it no longer had lips. All that was left of the flesh of its muzzle on the right side of its face were two curling, grey strips of meat, creeping away from its upper and lower jaws.

And quite unexpectedly, a new thought reached through to the sane part of my brain. The smell permeating the alley, the smell of rotten flesh and decay, was too prominent to be coming from the rubbish spilling out of the dumpsters against the walls. The source of the smell was the dog, which was slowly walking towards me, its eyes seemingly fixated by my form.

Without thinking, I took a step back from what, I was fairly certain by now, should be dead. Its unstable jaws snapped, and for one humorous moment amidst the horror, I thought its lower jaw would give under the pressure and fall off. But the monster held itself intact and gave chase with a skittering of claws against concrete.

I spun on my heel and ran for the street, not thinking my actions through. Not even taking the time to breathe. It wasn't until I was almost in the street that I realised I was running, but I already knew it was too late.

Something grazed the back of my calf, and I heard a rip behind me as the dog tried to grab my leg, missed and tore my stockings.

A small yelp of shock escaped my lips and I almost crashed down to the ground and my imminent death.

I had to concentrate on something else. If I thought of the dead thing chasing me, I would lie down on the ground and let it devour me.

I looked to the light. To the rain in the street.

To the barely illuminated sign post on the opposite sidewalk, and I ran.

As I dived through the entrance, desperately hoping for a passing car or any other sign of aid, I felt my toe catch on something. In slow motion I looked down to see the strap of a bag. It had obviously been dropped by the alley's unfortunate inhabitant in her struggle. And my heart slowed as I realised it was over.

I was falling to the ground. I could hear the snarling snapping right behind me. Under me. Above me as my hands connected with the tar and I desperately clawed my way forward, feral, terrified screams escaping my throat.

A numb, warm feeling spread from my hip, and my body was pulled backwards, dragging through the dirt.

The dog had me; my body just hadn't had time to register the pain of the bite.

I sucked in enough breath for one scream; one loud, momentous yell of terror and let it out as I felt something sharp pierce my ankle.

As the sound ripped from my chest, burning my throat and tearing some chord within me, my body was jerked into the air and there was a yelp somewhere behind me, followed by a distinctly wet thud.

"Well," exclaimed a familiarly obnoxious voice, "That was unexpected."

*

I looked up to see a hand extended down to help me up.

I knew the hand; it had the same haughty aura as the voice.

"Damian," I breathed out the name as I lifted my bruised body off the ground, wincing as I placed my weight on my scraped up-hands.

I had not accepted his help in standing. It was bad enough that I looked like a drowned rat, but my skirt had also ridden up to my waist and my hair must have looked a sight; a proper crow's nest. For some reason, the thought of him seeing me like this was most upsetting. And to add insult to injury, my ankle gave as I put my weight on it. "Fine then," he smirked (I could see at least that much of his face) and let go of my arm which he had grabbed to stop my descent, "be that way." His voice had an annoying lilt to it of mockery that provoked my annoyance and I found myself imagining how liberating it would be to slap him. Or worse.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Despite my annoyance, I had to admit, he had saved my life. Admitting it to myself, however, was as far as I was going to go. He would be lucky if he received an apology from me.

"Just passing by, I suppose."

I peered at him through the dark of the alley. I couldn't make out much of his face, but there had been a slight pitch deviance in his voice. It had gone from low and certain to high and trembling. A sure sign of guilt and falsehood.

"Okay." I deflected.

"What?"

His voice had suddenly changed, presumably to accommodate his sheer annoyance at the fact that my reply had been laden with sarcasm and amusement. I smiled to myself. So he was keeping something from me.

Never try to fool a journalist. I'm sure Norris would be happy to hear he was lurking around the corner. Whatever was going on between them, at least I knew on which side my bread was buttered.

I ignored his exclamation. "What happened to the dog?"

Just as the words left me, I saw a broken bundle lying three feet away from me, clearly not capable of getting up again. But, all things considered, I was not going to make any decisions predicated on assumption. That dog had definitely been dead before, but it had still found the 'life' to chase me.

Of course I was not planning on sharing this morsel of information with anyone. After all, I was already nuts, what with being able to communicate with cats.

"I took care of it. Damn zombies."

I was on the verge of replying with something about strays and the need for correct animal training, my mind still focused on how the truth would land me in an institution, when I realised what he had just said and my body shuddered with a chill which had nothing to do with the rain and the wet.

"What did you just say?" The voice spilling from my mouth sounded nothing like me: it had the dark undertones of lunacy, of an approaching mental breakdown.

His voice in comparison was light and unfazed, utterly at peace with the fact that he was broaching the subject of the walking dead as though this was an everyday occurrence.

"I know. I was shocked too. I had thought it was only the humans rising. But, apparently, whatever this ridiculous pandemic is, it is affecting not only humanoids, but animals as well. I mean, for weeks we have been trying to weed out the dead, but fighting humans, even dead humans, is no easy task. Very wily creatures, you know. Oh," he paused with a chuckle, "of course you would know. Stupid, stupid, you are one. I am sorry, I often forget that I am not speaking with one of my own. One could say it is the natural egotism of my species.

"Anyway, so these creatures have been rising in hordes, but not a single animal. Now, suddenly, we have an un-dead dog? It makes sense, I suppose. After all, humans are so much more complex than animals. The obvious choice for any demonic power would be to begin with the path of least resistance. Don't you agree?"

He looked at me, expectantly.

I felt my face freeze into an expression of utter bemusement, "What are you on about?"

He began to respond, but unfortunately I didn't catch a word of his answer as the world began to fade at its edges and the ground rose to meet my face for the second time in one evening.

*

A soft, silent whispering tickled my ears as my mind drifted in a pool of calm and warmth. I could not tell what the whispering was saying: it sounded like a dim chanting, but it also seemed desperately unimportant for the moment.

I opened my eyes and squinted at the sharp sunlight, rolling over onto my side, my hands crunching the brown, autumn leaves I lay on.

How odd. Autumn leaves in the early summer.

Not really confused, simply at peace, I stood up, pulling dry leaves from my hair. A smile slipped onto my face as I felt the still warm, but slowly growing cooler breeze blow through my hair, rustling the leaves around me. I had not been so at peace with simply existing since…

Stretching my arms out like a cat I looked down and marvelled at my softly glowing skin, bronze and shimmering. My fingers reached out into beautiful, sharp claws, shining in the light of the sun. I smiled.

Something pulled at my mind, insisting; slightly irritating, but not really unavoidable; like fingers stroking through my hair, getting stuck on the strands and tugging slightly, somewhat painful, but gone before they could really hurt me.

The whispering grew louder and I could make out what sounded like "wake up" repeated over and over again. Steady as a chant.

As the volume increased I realised that there was more to it: a buzzing chant, growing faster and louder like an angry beehive, "Wake up! Release!"

The sound became unbearably loud and I sank to the leaves, the crunching joining in with the ruckus of the chanting as my eyes began to water and my head thrummed with pain.

I closed my eyes and started to scream.

My eyes snapped open as I slapped my hands over my ears instinctively.

Nothing.

The room around me was quiet.

I had been dreaming, regardless of how vivid it had felt, like a vision more than a dream. I could still feel the sun melting through my skin and warming my core through my body. The breeze playing off the heat of the sun gave me a chill that only the subtle combination of heat and warmth can. And I could still hear the screaming in my ears. The noise. The noise driving me to run. Or explode.

Or both.

Just a dream.

I shook myself, ignoring the remnants of the last few hours' insanity and glanced around, trying to make out my surroundings. What had happened after I had fainted in the alleyway?

The room around me was definitely not familiar. I had no idea where I was or who had brought me here and this only served to make me more uncomfortable. More terrified.

Someone had dressed me, removed my sopping wet and torn clothing and had put a gown over my shoulders, black and fluffy. A bathrobe.

My fingers stroked the comforting material, trying to wipe away my insecurities which seemed content to rattle my brain.

A clock ticked somewhere, and, following its steady rhythm, I located it above an empty hearth which looked lonely without a roaring fire. Wherever I was, the room was lavishly furnished. The sofa I lay on was a deep, rich green and suede, and in front of it was a glass coffee table, not a single ring mark anywhere on it. It rested on a rug, Persian by the look of it, and immaculately cared for.

It was also very dark. Thick drapery had been drawn over the windows. I stood up and walked over to them, wincing as my ankle throbbed; a sharp reminder of the incident I desperately wanted to forget.

I pulled one edge of the drapes back to see out through the floor-to-ceiling-length glass windows. My sense of insecurity grew. How could anyone live somewhere with so much glass and so little wall?

Yup, still in the Downs.

Across the street from the building I could see the Ambassador Hotel. More of a motel, really, not nearly as fancy as it sounded. Its brass-letter sign was falling off of the wall in bits and pieces, making it read A BASSADO OTEL. There's not much left in the Downs that can be considered to be in pristine condition.

Letting the drapes fall back into place I turned to see a figure watching me from the door.

I had not heard him come in and a sharp rebuke left my nerve-wracked mouth before I could stop myself.

"Jesus! Don't you knock?"

The man stepped hurriedly into the room, the look on his face one of sheer ennui. His dark blonde hair gleamed slightly in the gloomy room. He did not even register that I had been rude and seem not at all interested in what I had just said. In his hands he had a neatly folded pile of clothing. Mine. And he placed them down politely on the sofa I had recently vacated.

His voice was soft and calming with the same note of disinterest that his face held, "I hope you slept well, Miss Jones. Your ankle has been seen to by a professional, but you must be sure to re-bandage it regularly and place salve" he held up a small tube which had been wrapped in the clothing, "on it twice a day. Mr. Thomas sends his regards and hopes that you recover soon. He also said to inform you that you are more than welcome to extend your stay here for as long as you desire."

He turned to leave the room and I could not help but notice that his words had the exact quality of a perfectly recorded telephone message.

"Wait," I needed some answers from him, "Who is Mr. Thomas?"

His brows puckered in confusion as he turned to look at me and then his face brightened for a split second before it returned to its calm, unsettling appearance, "I believe you know him as Damian."

Fantastic. Lucky me.

"Right," I did not allow my sentiments to reflect in my voice, not that I had thought he would even notice, "And, where exactly am I?"

"You are at my home on Park Street. I have been informed that you work at the office block on Nouveau? Mr Thomas's driver will ensure that you arrive safely at work this evening if you so wish, but I do suggest you keep the weight off of that ankle for now. Sit. I will bring you breakfast."

He disappeared out the door before I could ask why Mr Thomas was giving him orders as to who could stay in his home and for how long.

I reached over to the drapes again and could now see that the sky had turned a mild, smoky lilac colour. However, it was still raining, so instead of a heart-warming sunrise, I was greeted with a mockery of one, gloomy and wet.

I sighed as I looked around the room. I so did not feel comfortable being in a stranger's home, but after last night, I was terrified to go home on my own. At this rate, I didn't think I would ever feel safe by myself again.

I quickly located my phone and dialled Finch.

His number rang repeatedly and, as it went to voicemail, my stomach dropped out of my throat, a weird mixture of relief and disappointment flooding through me.

"Yo Finch, it's me. Give me a call when you can. Please." I snapped my cell shut and flopped down onto the couch, digging through my clothes to see what I could salvage after the incident. I could not think of a more appropriate term to refer to it as.

Folded in two between my torn up stockings and the neatly pressed skirt was a sheet of white paper with my name written on it. It was a letter from Damian.

How did he know my name? Not even Finch knew my first name. Only Norris did, because he had to sign my pay cheques.

Disgruntled I opened the paper and read:

What happened in that alleyway last night should stay between us. I implore you to remain where you are for the evening. I will make your work excuses for you. My driver will pick you up at 17:00 from Xavier's apartment and bring you to me. Ultimately this is your decision, but I do believe you have registered the brevity of last night's events for yourself.

-Damian

I sneered at the pomposity and assumption his note so brazenly oozed. But I had to admit, he had a valid point. I could not possibly explain to Finch or Norris what had happened during the incident, and I needed to have words with somebody over it. Who better than Damian? He had rescued me after all. That, and he seemed to know something about what was going on. He had said something to that effect before I fainted. I just could not seem to remember his exactly what it was he claimed to know.

I must admit, I was curious. He seemed to have some idea of what had happened, and I wanted to know. The journalist in me just could not pass up the chance to grill him for information.

I would have to meet with him if I wanted direct answers.

Shit.

*

The day passed by with very little excitement and not much company. Xavier brought in breakfast and then disappeared with as little aplomb as he had arrived. When he spoke to me it was only to relay messages from his boss or to make arrangements for the evening. Although I had to give it to him, he could cook like a demon. Breakfast at Xavier's was the most excellent food I had ever been fortunate enough to eat. Perhaps I was just hungry. After all, it was only eggs, bacon and French toast. But the French toast had a delectable sweet and savoury flavour to it, the eggs were scrambled up to a perfect fluffy texture, and the bacon was just crispy enough to crunch, but not burnt.

I tried to compliment him when he re-entered to collect the plates, but his unwelcoming demeanour left me so ill at ease that all I could muster was "Good."

So much for coming across as polite and eloquent. Somehow I had managed to confuse it with Neanderthal.

By approximately four, I was bored to tears, having slept most of the day away, and woken to find that I was still in a stranger's home. I didn't even have any work with me to sort through. I wistfully recalled the Mabel story. Norris would have a seizure when I told him the piece was still not ready for the paper.

Quite honestly, I had no idea why the Mabel story was taking such a great deal of time to complete. It really wasn't all that difficult a concept, and I had finished much less coherent tales in my time at the Nightly Planet, but all of those had been utterly absurd. Usually involving abduction and probing. There was something about this story that seemed too impossible, and yet…

I had all the pieces of the puzzle. All the rewrites had been concluded and the interviews were done with, but the story itself just refused to glue. I suppose I would have to ask Finch for his advice.

At the thought of Finch, my stomach rolled nauseatingly. What would I say to him? He had to think I was completely round the bend by now.

At that moment, another naggingly uncomfortable thought weasled into my mind, why hadn't he called? Last night or today? Usually by now he would have given me some kind of sign to let me know he was worried, especially after my flip out last night, but I hadn't heard a word from him… And his phone was off. His phone was never off.

Panicking slightly, I pulled my phone out and dialled the last call with slightly quivering hands.

No answer.

I tried Norris too, flinching at the notion. I so did not want to be told off for any number of reasons. Knowing Norris, he may not have been concerned at all last night, just furious. He was always furious.

No answer.

I flipped the phone shut and sat on the edge of the sofa staring at the mantle. What if they were ignoring me? That was also a huge possibility. Or… Or maybe they had arranged some sort of man-hunt for me because they thought I was mentally unstable and required severe medical care. Of course! Because I had apparently disappeared from the face of the planet last night. Surely neither of them knew where Xavier lived or who he was? Or how he was involved with Damian. Come to think of it, neither did I.

Okay, so maybe I was acting a little around the bend. Time to take a deep breath and calm the fuck down. No need to flip out over some misplaced paranoia.

I deliberately unclenched my very stiff hands from where they had been clawing into the sofa's edge and refocused my glazed over eyes.

I had been staring at a small wooden box on the mantle.

There was nothing exciting about the box itself, just plain and well-polished, but it looked to be the sort of box one would keep something private in.

So I picked it up and tried to open it.

What can I say? I thrive on invading privacy. Besides, it was something to do with my hands so I wouldn't be tempted to wring them in anxiety.

The box was not locked, and when I opened it, I was sorely disappointed to find nothing but a bunch of old letters with no addressee on them, but they were all signed by Xavier. I knew I shouldn't but I read through them anyway, attracted by the fact that the ice-man refused to converse with me at all, and I had to wonder what sort of individual had evinced any manner of social behaviour from him.

As soon as I began reading, it became apparent that this was more than just invading someone's privacy, but I read the first one to completion anyway.

I realise you must be furious with me and I don't blame you. I am furious with myself. Of all the people I have known in my life, I have loved you the most…

But that was before he happened. Now there is nothing else.

I can't give you all the answers for why I am gone, but I know I owe you at least a part of the story, so here it goes.

You remember that night when I called you from the gallery and said you should meet me at the station instead of at home? The night I left you there? Well, there is an explanation.

That night, just before I left the gallery, a man came in. He said he needed to discuss business with me and asked if I had time for a drink. Something about a promising new artist looking for somewhere to have his first Showing. I knew I still had about an hour before we had to meet so I took him to The Loading Zone, that pub on Broad Way Avenue.

I'd like to say that I should have known at the time, but honestly Dom, he seemed so normal. Well, maybe normal isn't the right word… Perhaps interesting would be better. Like a millionaire mingling with the common people.

We ordered drinks and talked for some time, seemingly never coming to the subject of the young artist. And it wasn't until he prodded me to look at my watch that I realised I had missed you by hours.

I panicked and drove home as fast as I could, where you were waiting for me.

Remembering the fight now, it feels like an aeon has passed, but really it has only been twenty years. Strange, but I don't remember any feelings of shame or guilt as you screamed recriminations to me. I never told you that I had planned to propose that night. I had wanted to sweep you away to some place, the name of which I forgot years ago, and have a seaside wedding… or was it a wetlands wedding? Maybe somewhere in the desert? The details seem quite frivolous now. But I do recall that I never explained to you why I had not been there, and I never removed the ring from my pocket. I forgot about it and fished it out of my dry-cleaned pants the next week.

Something happened between that first drink at The Loading Zone, and the time I left frantically, waving goodbye over my shoulder to a man with nothing better to do than buy me a drink. But from that night, he was all I had in mind.

I tried to act like a good boyfriend after that. I tried to show remorse for leaving you at the station. I even tried to remember why I had wanted to propose to you, but it all seemed somewhat unimportant in comparison with him. I felt like a faker whenever I was around you. And I only began to feel like a real person again when I saw him. And I did see him again.

It was two weeks later that I left the gallery early. I did not go home. Nor did I visit any of my usual haunts. Instead I went to him. He took me into his home and provided everything for me that money could buy, but he did so with slavery in mind. From that day on, it was no longer some illicit love affair between us… It was business.

Should you ever wonder, I still love you, but my intoxication with him has over-powered every other emotion I could possibly think of entertaining.

Damian Thomas is all there is.

And one day, when he least expects it, I will destroy his life the way he did mine.

With wide eyes and a curse under my breath, I neatly folded the letter back up, placed it in the box, and put the box back in the correct position. I understood that human emotion was complicated, but damn. What sort of an individual could have you love and loathe them all at once? And what would one have to do to elicit such an act from another? That hewould leave his girlfriend, job, and life just for Damian, seemed a little extreme. I'd met the man, he was not that fantastic. In fact, he was a bit of a prat.

My nerves rattled under my skin as I heard the heavy wooden door of the living room being opened by Xavier. Calming myself, I rearranged my face into an expression of boredom and tiredness. It wasn't too difficult to fake the second part, as my hair and clothes were still slightly mussed up from the nap I had so recently woken from. I wouldn't want him to suspect I had been spying on him. Particularly not after reading how cold he felt about his vengeance plan on Damian. Anyone who could plot and marvel over the demise of his supposed nemesis with such clinical callousness ought to be admired from a distance only. I so did not want him to turn that vengeful aggression on me.

Xavier entered and gave me his typical apathetic gaze.

"Mr. Thomas's driver is waiting for you downstairs. Are you ready to leave?" He couldn't have sounded more uninterested in my response.

I just nodded. I couldn't bring myself to answer him without giving away my confusion. I felt uncomfortably close to him after reading his dead letter. Something like that would never be sent, and I had the feeling that he hadn't confided any of this with anyone… except me. Regardless of how unintentional it was.

"Very well, Miss Jones. If you would please follow me. Mr. Thomas will meet you at the Golden Swan in approximately ten minutes. And he does not abide tardiness." He said the last with something of a strain in his voice. Now that I had had some insight into his emotion, I imagined I could see something of old bitterness hidden in there.

I followed him down the stairs and into the rest of a beautifully decorated home, filled with velvet and leather. And a great deal of paintings. Some I recognised, and some I didn't.

We didn't stop to marvel, and before I knew it, I was running through the rain to get from the safety of the entrance hall to the open car door waiting for me.

*

Mister Damian Thomas. Tall, rich, impeccably dressed, groomed to perfection, undeniably attractive, and waiting at the bar with a Pina Colada… for me. I had to admit, this was surreal.

Tonight he had chosen a more demure look, while somehow maintaining his cultured appearance. He wore a silky-looking charcoal suit with a black, cotton shirt and a striking red tie. While he wasn't flashing black leather and a trench coat, he still struck me as dashing.