1
Vampires? Angels? All I know is they’re both bastards.
And I hunt bastards.
In the beginning, I made games about them. None of it was real, only play. I was human, after all, in a world of humans. At least, I reckoned so. The gamer and developer, lost in make-believe.
Until everything changed, and the monsters fell from above.
Except, they tasted of sugar and blood.
It was a Friday. But not a regular Friday, where I worked with my best mate Gizem on creating the games you play when you stagger in from college or work.
Instead, it was the type of Friday where your new boss circles in for the kill.
I rubbed my palms down my jeans and snuffled against the stuffy office heating. The silver star lights sparked a migraine pulsing behind my eyes.
How could I concentrate on battling to protect our dream project, when I was fighting off a fever?
Not your regular fever either.
It blazed higher, as I clutched my desk. Ever since my twenty-first birthday, I’d been shaken with an illness that I didn’t understand. One that terrified me.
Slam.
A wave of intense sweetness hit me.
The slam of sugar tinged with copper — which I could even taste at the back of my throat — had been crashing over me since I’d turned twenty-one a month ago.
Try explaining that to your doctor.
I’d been knocking back tequila shots with Gizem in a dive of a bar where they played live rock gigs because if there’s one night when you can get drunk and forget…everything…it’s your birthday, when the fever had started.
The heat had begun somewhere between my shoulder blades, before burning inwards and throbbing into my gums.
Then I’d quaked with a rush of rage that had flared the dark bar to violet.
I’d crushed the shot glass; shards had pierced my palm.
Gizem had been hollering, yanking on my elbow. But I’d panted, sweat sticking my ash blonde hair to my burning forehead, unable to sense anything but a new power…waking inside me.
And it’d been monstrous.
A month later, the fever hadn’t died. It burnt higher.
I typed on my Apple iMac in frantic clicks to distract myself, playing with the figures to impress my boss.
The secret voice in my head was in nagging nurse mode.
You’ve been burning up with these sugar tingles for over a month now, Violet-cakes.
I’ve had to listen to J, my resident voice, since birth.
And once the rages, sugar tingles, and fever had broken out like a freaky second puberty, I’d come to realise J had his own power.
J thought he was real. Who was I to say he wasn’t?
Except, no one knows about J but me because who likes to be labelled different?
I was already different enough, growing up as the orphan kid, named after the dead woman whose grave I’d been abandoned on and the violet feather I’d clutched in my hand.
Do you reckon I posted on social media about the sassy bitch who lived in my mind?
I glanced anxiously around the rainbow office of Spirit and Fire Gaming Company, slouching down in my candy pink plastic seat.
You can’t ignore the danger. Or the changes transforming you inside.
What the hell’s wrong with me? It’s more than the slam of sugar blood, J. It’s the anger. I see a flood of violet, the world turns to nothing but that colour, and then I snap—
Bang — Mr. Stanbury smashed his fist down on my cherry computer desk; it shuddered. ‘Are you with us, Feathers?’
Only my boss could say my nickname like a cross between an insult and a come-on.
I grabbed a pencil from my desk, twiddling it between my fingers. The over-bright office lights haloed Stanbury’s Devil in a Suit effect. ‘Sorry, zoned for a moment.’
Stanbury blinked. Then he smoothed his tan wool suit, before wagging his finger at me like I was twelve, rather than twenty-one. ‘The problem is, sweetheart, the expensive project you’re developing for us here…’
I glanced at Gizem, who was marching up and down between the regiment of buzzing computers in her orange dress, like a streak of primal fire. She smiled at me, but her cheek twitched just below the scar.
Crack — I stared down at the remains of the broken pencil in my hands. Dark stained my palms.
Two best friend orphans, one high-flying job, and a bastard of a boss.
Add in the not always friendly voice in my head, and then watch the feathers fly bloody.
Frantically, I scrubbed the pencil marks away on my denim jeans. When I looked up, Stanbury was glaring.
Mr Stanbury is going to kick your pretty little ass, unless…
‘Shut up,’ I muttered.
‘Not a chance,’ Stanbury’s eyes narrowed. Then he flicked a button by the door, and a monitor on the canary yellow wall burst to life with our latest game in development.
And the reason behind Stanbury’s important meeting — and tantrum — today.
On the screen, a female warrior angel, with gold wings and blazing sword, fought on the edge of an abyss.
…Slam…
A wave of copper flooded me, stronger than before.
I juddered, sucking in my breath.
Vampires crawled monstrous from the pit, but the warrior hacked through the fanged fiends.
…Slam, slam…
I lurched forward, gasping at the intense sensation of candy blood invading me, until I tingled head-to-toe.
Gizem stopped pacing to watch me instead.
The warrior glowed in her victory, flying upwards towards one more level of perfection.
The game was awe-inspiring. My addiction.
… Slam, slam, slam…
I gasped, pressing my hands down hard in my lap not to have a big ‘O’ moment right there in front of my boss.
And that was the stuff of my nightmares.
‘See, it may turn you on,’ Stanbury paused the computer game, perching on the edge of my plastic desk; when his gaze lingered over my body like grubby fingers, I dragged my khaki jacket closer around me. It only took one look from him to dampen the happy tingles between my legs. ‘But Angels vs Vampires…? Let me tell you something, research highlights one simple fact: men desire guns, cars, and zombies. I guess that’s hard for you to understand, being dickless.’
You show that asshole just what you can do without one of his precious dicks, girl…
Rage. It bunched in every stiff muscle. Flooded my eyes. Scented the air.
A fury so strong, I trembled, hell wept, from it.
Everything became clear and simple when the world flared to violet. Then it was as if I stood above a land of bones, on a mountain of feathers, and I controlled the world.
And all I had to do was ask…
‘Say that again,’ Gizem’s voice was low and dangerous. Her hand curled around a monitor like it was Stanbury’s throat.
Stanbury shrugged. ‘People don’t want to become the hero. They want to let out their monster. And this obsession with perfection...? But then I don’t have to ask where that comes from, do I?’
He leaned forward, staring at my cat’s eye mirror sunglasses. As if he knew what was behind them.
Yeah, he knew.
One violet eye, and one black one. I’d been born that way. At least, found that way in Hackney Cemetery, before I’d been taken to Jerusalem Children’s Home. And Gizem had become like my big sister.
Why do I bother hiding? As if kids hadn’t always called me freak?
For the same reason no one knows about J. We all have secrets to survive.
I swallowed convulsively. ‘You’re shutting down our project.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘More like firing you.’
Gizem gave a strangled cry, before storming to the window out over London. Her curling hair jumped on each step.
I knew what it meant.
The same cold ball froze my guts: Christmas coming up, kid sister, and bills to pay.
We were screwed.
Stanbury stalked predator-like around me; I tensed, at the tap, tap, tap of his brown brogues on the mahogany floor. Musky cedarwood, as if he’d woven the aftershave into his suit, caught me by the throat. When he tucked a strand of my ash-blonde hair gently behind my ear, I startled.
Tell that shady dick to go find a fashion runway for Christian Grey wannabes to die on.
Despite myself, I sniggered.
Stanbury twisted my hair. ‘Why not come out to dinner? We’ll discuss this. I’m certain we can solve our little problem without such…drastic measures.’
I wrenched away from his teasing fingers. ‘I have a boyfriend.’
‘So, hands off, muppet.’ I jumped at the sudden voice from above our heads — for once, not from inside my head — which sounded like an Irish, pissed off god.
We peered at the shining pearl dropped ceiling.
Somebody was hiding up there…
The gleam of the pendant lights shanked icicles of pain through my throbbing forehead. I twisted away, huddling behind my sunglasses.
Thump — flakes of ceiling, like dry snow, floated down.
Crash — the ceiling was falling in, or someone was falling from the ceiling.
I shrieked as I was showered in shattered PVC panel…and punk.
The plastic swivel chair cracked, and we both tumbled backwards in a tangle of limbs.
Of course, it’s hard not to notice a bloke when you have a lapful of him: red leather bondage trousers and leather jacket studded into armour. His hair was a spiked mess of red flame. And his kohl smudged violet eyes...?
I hissed.
Don’t get excited, Feathery-toes, just because the punk has violet eyes too.
Although he also has an ass that’s just begging to be ridden to the Grand National. That’s right, grind against mama…
A strange punk Irishman’s arse on my crotch.
What. The. Hell.
Why’ve I never seen anyone else with the same colour eyes as me?
Slam.
I doubled up, as sweetness, like thick treacle, choked me.
At least by the bulge in the gorgeous punk’s scarlet trousers, and the tremors quivering through him, I wasn’t the only one struggling.
Help me, or I’ll have a Harry Met Sally moment right here with this stranger on my lap.
I thought you’d never ask.
And just like that? The fever died.
Whatever was affecting me, the voice in my head could control it.
Or control me.
I shoved off the punk. He tumbled harder than I’d expected to the side, banging his head under the desk.
I smirked, until he turned the puppy dog eyes on me.
How was the punk able to look innocent, with that spiked black collar around his long pale neck?
Tap, tap, tap. Brown leather brogues. Tan wool suit. And Stanbury’s immaculate wave of brunet hair above a sour, prim face, as if he hadn’t just been sexually harassing his staff. A.K.A – me. ‘Boyfriend?’
I shot up, scrambling for my saddlebag. ‘I’ve never seen him before. But I’d go with stalker.’
‘Stalker?’ Stanbury squealed, fumbling to pull out his mobile from his trouser pocket, forgetting his Mr Suave act.
‘Hold on, now,’ the punk straightened in a twirl of red and black leather, ‘I made a balls of the entrance but—’
‘You fell through the ceiling, wallad.’
‘Hold on, no need to be calling me an idiot. Nobody’s perfect. Not even an angel.’
‘Right, that’s it. Security?’ Stanbury jabbered into his iPhone as he edged towards the door. ‘Get your fat arses up here. We’re trapped with a nutjob. For god’s sake, he could have a gun!’
The punk’s eyes widened. He peered around our office, which looked like a rainbow had vomited it up, as if he’d catch sight of the nutjob. Then he stepped towards me, his voice low and urgent, ‘I’ll save you.’
I slipped the pepper spray out of my saddlebag and blasted it into the bondage punk’s face.
He screamed, before rolling about on the mahogany floor like he’d never been sprayed with pepper spray, bleach, or acid until now…
Bitch must never have lived in Hackney.
‘I’m blinded!’ The punk gasped, clutching at his streaming red eyes (points on the waterproof eyeliner), but then he grinned around his panted pain, ‘Fair on you, princess.’
You go, girl, teach him to be a peeping tom. Next time though? Not the eyes. Those babies are for the gods.
The sun glinted through the long windows out over London. I winced, even with my sunglasses. The feathered line of skyscrapers and tower blocks winding around the Thames were greyed to ghosts.
When the punk dragged himself to his knees, I caught a blur of orange and…
Gizem drew back her Dr Martens and — boot — got in a hard kick.
The punk groaned.
‘You come to my yard and bother my girl...?’ Gizem shoved her hair back from her forehead, shrugging. ‘Let’s bounce.’
The punk was struggling to his knees again, wiping his sleeve across his weeping eyes.
I nodded, tiredly. ‘We’re fired. I don’t need it shared on the company website to get the message.’
‘You’re not leaving me alone with him...?’ Stanbury threw himself towards me like I was his guardian angel, digging his fingers into my shoulders.
I recoiled at the enshrouding musky cedarwood; bruises ached under my skin. My pulse pounded. My legs trembled. My cheeks flushed.
It’s happening again… J?
Silence.
Don’t go all Queen Bitch on me: I need you.
‘I thought blokes like you craved guns, soldier?’ I didn’t recognise the hardness in my voice, or the crushing grip I used to prise Stanbury’s fingers from my shoulder. He whimpered. ‘Anyway, what can I do? I’m dickless, remember?’
Stanbury clutched his injured hand under his armpit. He scrutinized me like he could see through my sunglasses. ‘I guess I got it wrong. You’ve already let out the monster.’
Light-headed, I bounced up to the balls of my feet. I cocked my fist, only for one cool arm to encircle my waist from behind and another to close gently around my fist.
I struggled.
Spikes and studs dug into my skin. A roaring rush ballooned louder and louder in my ears.
Slam.
Stronger than ever before, the sweet coppery tang exploded on my tongue. I’d never eat again because it’d be like the beat of a single drum after dancing to the heaviest tunes in banging unison.
I was lost in it: the rage, heat, and desire.
Then the world bled to black.
Violet.
Confused, I gaped at the toes of my violet knee-high boots.
My arse was numb; I shook. Then I turned my head to the side and hurled.
Someone nuke me from orbit.
And you call me the drama queen.
You’re back, then? Way to help a girl.
I was never gone. And who says I’ve ever helped you?
J was like having both an angel and a devil trapped in my mind. I never knew which one would battle for control and sass me.
‘So, I made a holy show of myself before,’ the punk peered down at me. He lounged against the glass front of Spirit and Fire with infuriating ease, his hands in his pockets.
I mumbled something. I’m not sure it was English.
Then the fog cleared and…
My gaze cooled. The numbness of my arse was because someone — this punk — had carried, and then dropped me, with my head between my knees, on the veined marble steps outside my own office.
Except I reckon it’s not your office, if you’re fired.
‘Where’s everyone else?’
‘With that muppet of a boss. I trapped them in when you swooned, and then—'
‘I don’t swoon. Who are you?’
‘My name’s Rebel.’ The punk took a wary step towards me.
‘Rebel? What the hell sort of name is that?’
His eyes sparked with flames, and I gasped. ‘The sort you earn.’
I scrabbled up, clasping my saddlebag to me like a shield. I couldn’t taste anything now but my own watery sick. The dizzy exhaustion from my migraine was catching up on me.
Migraine induced hallucinations…? Today was messed up.
When Rebel stuck out his hand towards me, like he was following through on a learnt script, I shied back. ‘You get me kicked out from the one job I’ve ever… You’ve no idea how hard it was for someone like me to even be allowed through the door of a company like that. And then you reckon I’ll shake hands with you?’
He raised his pierced eyebrow. ‘Cop on! You didn’t need me to lose that job. You did that all on you own.’
Boom! The collared redhead has just read you some realness.
I shoved Rebel against the clouded glass skyscraper, pinning my arm across his throat. The safety pins in his ripped black t-shirt pricked my guts. His breath was fast and hot across my cheek, but he stilled. His thick eyelashes curved onto his cheeks as he looked down. ‘Belt me one, if it’ll make you feel any better, princess.’
It coiled — like it’d been coiling for months now — a darkness.
I could mess up his sweet face. Teach him what happened on the Utopia Estate when you disrespected. Take what was offered sacrificial from the stranger.
This angel.
But I didn’t believe in angels. And definitely not ones that fell out of the ceiling into my lap.
I snorted. ‘I don’t gank crazies.’
I pulled away from Rebel, but couldn’t help waiting for the moment his eyes opened, before I marched towards Hackney.
Gizem was locked with Stanbury. The worst that could happen to her was dying from boredom, until security freed them. But I had a sister who’d be home from college and I needed to get back and explain just why I’d lost my job…almost a month before Christmas.
I pulled my jacket tighter around myself against the bite of the wind as I trudged past the Caribbean supermarket — which was a red and green vegetable blaze in the grey day — and the boarded-up Vietnamese one next door. The line of empty properties squatted in tattered threads, amongst Turkish kebab shops and the hard glare of CCTV cameras. A greasy pall blasted from a burger bar.
I grimaced, wiping my face.
Don’t look now, your Feathery-highness, but someone may be following our fabulousness.
The pretty boy in red leather will get himself beaten up looking like that on these streets.
My, one would almost reckon you cared.
Don’t push it.
Or what...? You’ll punch yourself in the head or not talk to yourself?
I grinned.
I’ll stop playing, that’s what I’ll do. Hasn’t this all been a game? Since I was born?
I’m hurt. You’re mine. I raised you. I’m inside you. I don’t play about that.
I shivered. The bass of a grime song blared from a beat-up Ford cruising by, pounding my migraine harder. I stopped, before calling over my shoulder, ‘You’re not stealthy, bro.’
Rebel’s head popped out from a side alley. He bit his lip, before sauntering towards me, as if his pale skin wasn’t blushing. He shrugged. ‘Look, I’m not awful good with all the…blathering and…’ His pink tongue licked out, swiping his lips. ‘It’s been a long time, what with…’
‘Being locked up?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘Wild guess.’ A gang of kids on bikes circled like eagles. They’d pulled up their hoodies and dragged scarves over their faces. Their gazes were sharp and assessing. ‘Trust me, you’ll be shanked wandering around all punk rocker without a clue.’ One of the boys spat in front of a bin; another swiped his hand through the globules of spit. A drug deal gone down. Then they both patted their navy schoolbags like a salute. We all knew the warning; they were carrying a knife, ammonia, or meat cleaver. I snatched Rebel’s hand, tugging him after me. ‘What is it with me and strays?’ I muttered. ‘You don’t even know my name.’
‘I do: Violet. But your mates call you Feathers. It’d be a fine thing if I could call you…’
I crushed Rebel’s wrist; he howled.
‘Listen here, you’re not my mate. And I don’t need a fanboy. So, you’re going to tell me how you know all this. And if it involves cameras and the internet...?’
I rolled his wrist from side-to-side; the bones rubbed against each other with a crunch.
‘Jesus, will you stop that woman and wise up. I already told you,’ Rebel’s smile through his pain was suddenly dazzling, ‘I’m an angel.’
‘Yeah, and I’m a unicorn, not the Bitch of Utopia Estate.’
He laughed. The punk stood there quivering in my hold and he laughed.
I threw down his wrist like it’d burnt me. ‘You’ve been watching me?’
Shame flooded Rebel’s face. He dropped his gaze to the pavement, rubbing at his bruised wrist. ‘Can’t help it. I’m addicted. A month now.’
‘You…?’
The slam of sugary copper couldn’t be because of Rebel…? I imagined the taste of his blood in my throat and its sweet kick, before shaking my head. I was a freak, but angels weren’t real.
I staggered back from him. ‘Whatever you are, don’t come near me, you get me?’
‘It’s not safe…’
A flash of silver, tumble of black, and then Rebel was yanked into a side alley.
I froze.
A bald bastard clutching a knife — his face tattooed with wings, like birds had exploded free from his mind — pinned Rebel to the redbrick wall, before punching him in the guts. A hook to the chin, and Rebel crashed into overflowing recycling bins.
Rebel struggled up, shoving back the attacker.
‘Just give him your phone,’ I growled because I’d seen enough muggings to know the drill.
Distracted, Rebel glanced over at me, and missed Bird Tattoo’s knee to his balls.
I winced, creeping closer. But when I peered into the shadows, the sun glinted off the shank…
My knees buckled; I swayed. The new powers burning through me since my twenty-first meant nothing in the face of that blade.
And despite a flush of guilt, I abandoned Rebel and I ran.