Softness. That was the only way to describe the sensation enveloping her. Her head still pounded, her thoughts fuzzy. She groaned. She had a mouth, at least, so she probably wasn’t dead.

Now, to test the eyelids. They edged open, revealing a white ceiling stained yellow. The softness came from a combination of the plush red couch underneath her—a three-seater on which she barely took up two-thirds—and the fluffy blanket on top. Her nose wrinkled at the penetrating smell of stale smoke.

She turned to her right side, looking out at the room. The door was behind her head, a position that made her wince—everybody sane knew you slept facing the door. Before her lay a coffee table, clean and neat with an ashtray, several coasters, and a laptop.

Water.

Noticing the glass on one of the coasters, she realised how cracked her throat felt. She sat up and gulped it down in one. The thick carpet tickled her bare feet, and she shifted; darkness ruled outside the window, streetlights revealing they were on the ground floor, looking over a well-kept lawn. 

Uniform grey houses, narrow and dull. These lined a road that barely qualified as one, barely enough room for cars to pass each other between the others parked on the kerb.

She didn’t recognise any of it.

So where was she? How long had she been unconscious? Clarity was returning, slowly, and she remembered what she’d been doing.

Somebody coughed.

Her head snapped round, gaze falling on the man sitting in an armchair next to the door. He seemed to be staring at her, but she couldn’t be sure: his eyes were hidden by sunglasses. Indoors. His outfit was completed by a yellow mac and a brown fedora.

She rubbed her forehead, groaning again. “Am I concussed? Please tell me I’m seeing things—you’re not actually wearing sunglasses inside, are you?”

He made a rude gesture.

Her nose twitched. Evidently, her brain was working properly, despite the pain spiking through it. 

“What happened?” she said.

With his palms together, he placed his hands next to his cheek, laying his head on them. Was this some kind of pantomime? Why didn’t he just speak?

He closed his eyes.

“I know I was asleep!” she snapped. “Why don’t you just talk?!”

He shook his head.

“You can’t?”

He nodded.

“I see.” Picking up the empty glass, she wiggled in the air before him. “Luckily, that doesn’t prevent you from refilling my drink.”

With a strange smile—like he’d been told his wife was dead and didn’t quite know how to react—he shook his head again, taking the proffered glass and returning moments later, handing it over.

She sipped, savouring the coolness on her tongue. “So, how long was I out for?”

He held up his index finger.

“An hour? That’s not so bad.”

Shaking his head, he thrust the finger forward.

“A day?” she said, aghast. That was too long—a lot could change in an hour, never mind a day. She needed more information, but his muteness was a problem. She scrutinised him. 

“Are you capable of writing?” she finally said.

His nostrils flared, shifting his glasses, and his mouth turned up in disgust. It was almost palpable. He stood, stepping over and grabbing her by the shoulders, deceptively firm grip dragging her up and shoving her toward the door.

Looking back, her nose twitched as he pointed out. “What is so infuriating about—”

He grunted, waving his arm for emphasis.

“Fine,” she said, waving him off. “Both your assistance and your vitriol shall be remembered when the city is mine. Good day, peasant.”

She made sure to send back a pulse of energy before she left, knocking over the half-full glass of water.

A full day. Should she return to the docks, or try to find the others?

As she walked out, she decided, pulling her phone from her pocket. It still held charge.

Cold air washing over her, she pulled out her phone and stopped, wincing, as sharp pain shot up from her feet—like she’d stepped on a bed of spiked LEGO.

Whirling round, she hammered on the door. “Give me back my shoes, you bastard!”

***

Hannah felt her stomach vibrate as Derren tied her arms behind her. He reached into her hoodie—the only piece of clothing she owned with actual pockets—and withdrew a leather wallet and a buzzing smartphone.

He eyed the screen. “Lydia? One of your humans, I take it?”

She struggled, but her bindings were tight. Arms behind her back, she sat in a wooden dining-chair, high-backed and hard. The back separated her arms and her body, anchoring the ropes. Her ankles were tied to the front legs, blood having dripped and crusted there, cold air rushing through the hole in her jeans. She shivered. She faced the door of a corrugated container, long and narrow and dark. This stood slightly ajar, flickers of illumination leaking inside.

It didn’t matter. They were vampires, and had night vision far superior to humans.

The air suffocated her, thick and musty and cold, and she felt the chill creeping into her bones. Distant, the noise of lapping waves hit her ears.

Derren dropped the phone, grinding it beneath his heel with a crunch. “You don’t need them, anyway.”

She swallowed, heart in her throat. “How do you know what I need?”

“I’ve been where you are,” he said, walking around so he faced her and crouching. “You think they’re your friends, but they’ll show you in the end.”

“They’re not the ones who were planning to kill me.” Of course this had happened. Why would anyone be legitimately attracted to her? She was grey, bland, a background feature. If she couldn’t do anything meaningful with her life, how could she expect to find meaningful love? 

But she’d let herself hope, and ended up the target of a shallow obsession. How had Derren ended up like this? She refused to believe what he’d shown her was a lie, but like everyone, he’d have many faces.

“But I changed my mind!” he said, trying to catch her eyes. She avoided them. “I actually got to know you, and decided to save you instead.”

“What if I don’t need saving?”

“We all think that, at first.” He sighed. “But the humans, they pass laws, but they never stop hunting us. I was born when our existence was still legend, and I saw it all—they victimised their own kind, Hannah. For centuries, killing and enslaving each other for having different colour skin, or a different religion, or for loving the wrong person. Only to become all new-age and enlightened when there was someone else to pick on. Someone inhuman. They’re the monsters.”

She pondered this. People could be awful, true, but didn’t that count for everyone? Didn’t he see what he was doing? But everyone had the capacity for good, and to change. She’d seen it. She’d lived it. Since becoming a vampire, she’d seen vitriol, but she’d also experienced warmth and compassion. Jack. Lydia. Her mum.

Even Lizzie—who she hadn’t truly interacted with—and Sam, with whom she’d bonded during their stay in the Tower. Their species and religions were different, but they’d found they wanted a lot of the same things. Family. A home. A meaning.

No-one who mattered had ever cared. They endured hardship with her, and gave her advice. With them, she felt she was edging closer toward who she wanted to be.

Finally, she met his eyes, her own full of steel. This boy was deluded, of that she was certain—but he was involved in something bigger. He’d mentioned them, a new world. If she could get to the bottom of his plan, then maybe she could stop him. And save him from himself.

“So,” she said, “what now? You’ve got me tied to a chair, supposedly safe. What’s the next step towards the new world? What will it look like?”

He smiled. “I knew you’d come around.”

Her stomach fluttered. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re right. Damn humans.”

Giddily, he rose, turning and striding toward the door. “I have so much to tell you. But for now, I have something to take care of.”

He walked out, leaving her in the company of the distant waves.

***

A vampire stepped out of the open container Jack faced, eyes lighting up when he spotted him.

Similar containers surrounded him in the middle of the long dockyard, with a warehouse on either end. One, he assumed, where the Firm took care of their business.

The acrid smell of fuel mingled with sea spray. Aside from the occasional gull and the waves, it was silent. Something whooshed overhead, but he ignored it.

“You,” said the vampire, red irises burning with passion. “You’re the one who killed Mr. Crispley, aren’t you?”

Nodding, Jack grabbed Razor’s hilt. “I am, yeah. Guessing you’re Derren, then, which would mean you have my friend.”

With a derisive chuckle, he advanced on Jack. “Friend? Why not just say what you mean? She’s your pet.”

“Huh?” He raised an eyebrow, mouth agape. “Are you an idiot, or something? Do you have a machine that can see into people’s hearts? Lend it to me; I can clean up at poker, this time.”

Derren growled. “I don’t need a machine—you’re all the same.”

“How would you feel,” said Jack, drawing Razor as Derren drew closer, “if I reversed that phrase on you?”

Snarling, the vampire pounced at him.

***

The door creaked.

Derren couldn’t be finished already, right? What had he even been doing? She’d thought she heard a conversation, but she wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t Derren who stepped in.

A tall man, face shadowed by his hat, leather duster trailing along the floor—the vampire hunter.

“I see your leg has healed,” he said. “Undoubtedly through the sacrifice of innocents.”

Oh great, another one. Was she a magnet for people lacking the emotional maturity to see shades of grey?

Grey.

Her colour.

He produced his gun, levelling it on her face. “Any last words?”

Perhaps it was her lot to fade into the background. To never be interesting enough for a main character, and live in others’ shadows.

But from there, she could observe. And she could understand.

The world was full of all kinds of people—including those with such simplistic mentalities. It had to come from somewhere. Every personality was individual, unique, and she had the pleasure to pick them apart. If she delved into this man’s past, would it become clear to her?

Not that she’d have a chance.

“Bite me,” she said, hoping the irony would give him pause.

And then she sparkled.

Light exploded and the hunter collapsed away, screaming as he clawed at his eyes. She felt a swell of pride: served the bastard right. His gun clattered away, a leather sheath tumbling from his pocket at her feet. Her breath caught.

If she could pick it up…

***

Leaping away, Jack swung his sword down on the advancing Derren. The vampire slipped aside, but not quick enough to avoid a score on the shoulder, which healed before he’d had time to hiss.

Cocking his head, Jack said, “what do the Unseelie have to do with this? Why did you want Hannah?”

“I’m saving her!” He sprinted at him, aiming for a tackle. 

Jack stood firm, fighting the tremble that came with fighting—his heart worked on overdrive, adrenaline urging him to hack and slash and slice.

Derren wrapped his arms around his hips.

“Saving,” said Jack. “Liberating. All seems really noble until you stop caring if people want it.”

With a grunt, he smashed the pommel into the vampire’s skull.

He retreated, moaning, and Jack pressed his advantage. Chest alight, he charged at Derren quicker than he could react, and sliced across his midsection. Blood burst like a hydrant. The vampire crumpled, clutching at his wound.

Not fatal, but debilitating enough.

“You know,” said Razor, “that was almost satisfying.”

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” said Jack, passing the kneeling Derren and ignoring his sword. “And you’ll tell me about the Fae.”

He didn’t get far before the container door pulled open, Hannah staggering out and rubbing her wrists. She regarded Jack with wide eyes, those flicking between him and Derren, and sighed. 

“How did you not see the vampire hunter?!”

Jack started. “What? Tall bloke, leather coat, stupid hat?”

She glared at him. “Yes.”

“And you’re still alive?”

“I sparkled at him.”

Cupping his chin, he nodded. “You should probably use that more; a blind man never shot anyone.”

“What are you even doing here?” She smiled, sagging. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Working a job,” he said. “Your assumption was wrong.”

As he spoke, Hannah’s face dropped, so he looked at Derren—a purple shimmer had opened in the air beside him.

From it stepped a Sidhe.

Tall and heavy, he had silver skin and white hair flowing to the small of his back. He wore a deep crimson shirt and tight trousers—with shoes shined to perfection—and a longsword adorned his waist.

His face was square and blocky, with a gnarled scar carving through his upper lip and nose.

“Erich!” said Derren, pained. “Thank the saints you’re here—I was almost done for.”

He regarded Derren with a sneer. As he opened his mouth to speak, however, he took note of Jack gawking and peered over.

“I come to clean up an idiot’s mess,” he said, fingering his weapon, “and instead I find you. What a pleasant surprise. Did you come prepared to die, Scourge?

“It must be Christmas,” said Razor. “I get to cut this one too, right?”