Daemons of London Boxset (Books 1-3) The Bleeders, The Human Herders, The Purebloods

by Michaela Haze

  My eyes flicked over Damian's shoulder and I avoided making eye contact with the Pureblood. His stride was forceful and confident as he walked to meet me. His arm extended, our fingers brushed, almost touching. Damian almost had me.

  Come closer, child.

  Henry swayed to his feet and clutched his chest. His white t-shirt stuck to the planes of his torso, slick with his blood. His knees buckled as if he was unable to support his weight. I was unable to think as Henry charged the Pureblood from behind. I couldn’t move out of the way, I couldn’t move at all.

  Damian gave me one last look, his eyes held something I didn’t understand, longing. He stepped to my left as Henry darted forward with his hands curled into fists. Damian disappeared into a doorway that no one could see, the blonde man vanished into thin air.

  Henry watched in horror as a disembodied arm curled around my waist and pulled my body into a space between worlds. I watched as Henry turned towards us and his hand reached for my own, my stomach heaved and my ears popped. No human was meant to experience the way that Damian travelled. It was a place between Hell and ‘Here’, with no oxygen and no life.

  We landed on the other side of the corridor; As if to mock Henry. Damian's laugh was loud and unrestrained. A cat playing with his meal.

  I hunched over and spilt the contents of my stomach onto the floor when a sharp ringing noise echoed through the hall. Damian didn’t even bother to look as he stepped towards Henry. I recognised the fire alarm, shrill and all encompassing

  “If you do not allow her to come to me willingly, brother. I will burn this building to the ground.” The Pureblood's gleamed with lust for pain and death.

  Henry didn’t hesitate. “Why can’t you leave us be?”

  Damian flicked his wrists as if shaking off water from a raincoat, and the doors in the corridor exploded outwards with flames that burst out seeking air. The atmosphere was too hot, stifling. I clutched my chest unable to breathe. Henry grabbed my shoulders and pulled us backwards, away from the Pureblood.

  “No!” Damian snarled, his hands grabbed the space where I had stood a few seconds before.

  Henry and I moved too quickly for my fallible human eyes. I felt the familiar pull, like being in a car during an emergency stop. People were dying in the building. Boiling alive. Blackened, melted skin flashed through my mind. I could feel their energy, their silent screams and death pressed against my skin like a wet flannel. Their deaths were causing a Fold in the fabric between Hell and ‘Here’. I had no idea what a new Fold would look like, where we would go if we slipped through the cracks.

  I dropped to the floor but kept sinking as if it was made of sand. The ground never met me, I fell down the rabbit hole.

  My body slammed into the hard concrete, palms first. I felt the pressure of the fall but no pain. I was a spectator watching my own body. I sat up as my teeth rattled from the fall. Henry was nowhere to be seen. I brushed the gravel from my hands and rubbed them against my wet pyjama bottoms. I groaned when I saw where I was. I recognised the bulbous dome of the building in front of me. St Paul’s Cathedral. Southwark, London, by the Thames.

  I had landed in the centre of the road but there was no traffic to be seen. Long white letters stretched out in front of me, look left, look right. The sky was a dance of grey. The atmosphere was muggy. I instantly assumed I was dead, but when I placed my hands on my chest I could feel the echoing thump of my human heart. It must have been a dream because the world was washed out. The same but different.

  Flakes of black ash drifted into the air. A large onyx growth took over half of the dome of the cathedral, it writhed and shed like tree bark. I blinked and looked closer, the mass was not solid but instead made up of thousands of butterflies. I squinted and looked to the sky, thousands of winged creatures inhabited the world that I stood in. Swallows, Wrens, dragonflies and butterflies. Like the butterfly scar that Henry had gifted me.

  I looked at my hands as if they did not belong to me. They trembled, my right hand was swathed in a thin haze of red energy. I waved my arm and wiggled my fingers but the crimson haze hung around my littlest appendage like a fabric ring, dispersing and reappearing with every movement as if it was alive.

  St Paul’s Cathedral was dirtier than I remembered, having only been once before for a school trip. It was in an area surrounded by grey, sleek business offices and shimmering glass walls. I started to walk, conscious of my bare feet but unable to feel the cold concrete beneath my toes. The red energy hugged my fingers and stretched in front of me like a curling pathway, beckoning for me to follow. I walked towards the Millennium Bridge and the familiar banks of the Thames. My bare steps echoed through the empty street.

  I neared the opening of the Millennium Bridge, before the edge of the river. I could see the lines of the industrial buildings on the other side, with their maroon colour and blocky shapes. The Tate Modern was on the other side, but no one was around. I was all alone in Central London. A clawing uneasy feeling reached up and gripped my heart. It was hard to breathe. Every instinct in my body told me to run, but I had no idea where I could go. The only comfort was the red string around my little finger. I could still see the haze of magic on the air.

  I trailed my hands against the cool metal of the bridge railing. When I looked over the edge, I expected to see the familiar murky water of the Thames. Maybe a boat or the water buses. But instead, there was a dark, charred fissure. Cracks of red hot magma peaked through the edges of the canyon. There was no water, just a large opening in the fabric of London.

  “That's a gateway to Hell.” A voice behind me said cheerily.

  I turned on my heel, unsure of what to expect. It certainly wasn’t a Hipster. Flannel shirt and ginger beard, right down to the Wayfarer nerd glasses. I would have expected him to be frequenting the Cereal Bar in Shoreditch, not following around a girl in pyjamas.

  “Where are we, exactly?” I asked, my voice cracked.

  “Limbo. Purgatory.” He shrugged and leant against the railing, pensively looking out at the burnt scar on the landscape.

  “Who are you?” I wondered. I wanted to ask if I was dead, but voicing the words would have made it too real. The Hipster took a business card from the front pocket of his flannel plaid shirt. He held it between his extended fingers but made no movement towards me. A flurry of motion caught my eye as a red-breasted robin landed on his shoulder. Its little body jumped erratically, not staying still for more than a millisecond. It cocked its head to the side, in that way that birds do. Even from a distance, I could see the soulless black eyes. It lowered its head and took the card in its beak and took off to the air, unable to fly in a straight line. It swooped over my head and dropped the card at my feet.

  The Hipster laughed. “I’ve been trying to teach him to put the card in people’s hands.”

  I turned over the thick cream parchment, it felt expensive. “Sharon?” I questioned, turning the card over in my hands. “Your name is Sharon?”

  “Charon.” He explained, enunciating it for my benefit. Kay-ron.

  “Right, well, Sharon of Limbo.” I laughed nervously. “Have you seen a daemon? Dark hair, looks a bit tormented all the time?”

  “His name?”

  “Henry.”

  “I know Henry.” Charon laughed. “Been a while.”

  “How do you know Henry?” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “I’m the ferryman. I know everyone.”

  “Wait…” My brow furrowed. “The ferryman. So, that’s Hell down there? And this place is purgatory?”

  “I thought we established that. Daemons sake, you humans do like to repeat things, don’t you?” Charon adjusted his skinny jeans and put his hands in his pockets. He stared at the grey sky, looking for his little Robin friend, but no other birds landed on his shoulder.

  “How do I get out of here?” I asked.

  “Get to a Fold before nightfall.” He shrugged. “You know what a Fold is, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I
do.”

  “Follow the red string. You’ll find your Henry. Just don’t get caught here after dark, you’ll be stuck here.”

  “What happens if I am stuck here?” I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  “You die, Sophia.”

  I didn’t ask how he knew my name, I looked at my hands, surrounded by swirling red mist like gossamer. I took off without a word and followed the trail on a mission. I heard Charon mutter something as I passed him. I thought I heard the word, Rude, but I didn’t care.

  It took over forty-five minutes to walk to the Denmark Place Fold, the old hangout nearest my Camden flat. I started to walk the banks of the Thames, but blood roared in my ears and screams filled my mind. I did not know if it was real or not, but my head throbbed, and my nose began to bleed sporadically. Instead, I walked into the urban expanse, preferring to be away from the mass chasm of Hell. I walked deeper into the city until the screams ebbed to silence. I couldn’t bring myself to think about it. The Gateway to Hell.

  Was that where I was going to go when I died?

  No Shit Fia. You’re a murderer, of course, you’re going to Hell.

  I walked through the familiar apple red vehicle doors, comforted by the novelty of being near my old home. I hadn’t walked these streets in a year. Something about London felt like home to me in a way that no other place could. The crackle of excitement underlined my every thought, the city was always awake. A city of Daemons. Blood. Magic. Witchings.

  It was where I had grown up, and where I had loved and lost.

  My sister, Melanie had walked the streets, the same as I had. Even the double yellow lines reminded me of her.

  The tall burgundy building was colourless in Purgatory. The image from my memory layered over what I saw, tainting my vision. I saw the lights inside the building. It was full of people. The swirling red string slipped right through the door, beckoning me inside but into a different place altogether. It wasn’t the entrance that I had used almost every day when I had been a Bleeder, it was inverted. A different world.

  I pushed against the titanium double doors, but they did not budge. I knocked, unnerved by the lack of feeling in my knuckles when they met the metal.

  “Hello?” I shouted. The door was never locked. To a human on the human plane, the building was a photography studio. To a daemon or anyone Marked, it was a Fold. It was a Latin-themed bar between worlds. The lingering death from a massive fire years ago had caused a rip in the fabric between the human dimension and what I had discovered to be Limbo.

  I heard screeching chairs against the floor inside. Panic. Hushed voices and confusion. I wondered how many times someone had tried to come into a Fold through the front door rather than the Human world. I knocked again.

  “Henry?!” I shouted desperately. “I’m out here. Let me in.”

  The red string attached to my little finger warped and grew fat, all my worries eased when my daemon opened the doors. I flung myself through and wrapped my arms around his neck. I buried my head into the crook of his shoulder. I had missed his smell, fresh and clean soap coupled with sandalwood. Suddenly conscious of my soaked pyjamas, I broke the embrace and hugged my torso.

  Physical sensation crashed into my body like a roaring crescendo, coming back to the human world felt like being reborn.

  “You’re safe.” Henry breathed.

  “I met Charon”

  “You did?” Worry coated his tone.

  “I did,” I said, my teeth chattered from the cold. Henry draped his blazer over my shoulders.

  “Did he say anything about me?” He asked, his tone was pensive.

  “No.” I blinked, confused.

  “You aren’t hurt.” Henry sighed in relief and ran his cold hands over my shoulders, taking in every inch of my skin.

  “How did you get here?” I asked.

  “I landed in Leicester Square and walked. You said you lived with the Blood Scratcher in our time apart.” Henry rubbed the back of his wild mahogany hair, nonplussed. “This is the Fold closest to her residence, I believe.”

  I shivered and the rush of voices pushed against my inner ears. It suddenly dawned on me that we were stood inside of a bar full of daemons. As if sensing my awakening to their presence, the wall of people turned away and busied themselves with whatever they were doing before I burst in through the doors. Wordlessly, I took Henry’s hand and watched the crimson energy meld my skin to his, sinking under the service of our fingers. He pulled me forward and the room melted into the street outside. We left the Fold, daemon magic left a sharp tingling feeling in my stomach. The roar of humanity built up until my ears thrummed with a familiar pain. We were back in the human world.

  A woman in a business suit walked past, she took one look at me and her face crinkled in disgust. I was still in my dog-themed pyjamas and soaked to the skin. Henry's broad shouldered blazer hung on my body. My nipples were hard enough to cut cloth. Henry wore a white dress shirt and black trousers, very different from the white scrubs that I had seen him in at Tranquil Hill.

  “Did the … facility burn down?” I asked shakily, as we hurried down the London street. Darkness lowered over the city as night began to fall.

  “Yes. Damian killed everyone. It was enough to create a Fold.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything else. I concentrated on the feeling of Henry’s hand gripping mine and took a deep breath to steady my lungs as I tried to calm down. We had been so close to dying and so close to being caught by Damian.

  “What did he want with me?” My voice broke.

  He squinted and looked at the sky, the giant dark cloud had opened, and it had begun to rain. The concrete was covered in a sheen of water, disturbed only by the dull patter of raindrops. We kept walking as night cloaked the streets. I was thankful for the daemon blood that had clung to my veins because I wasn’t cold. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had escaped Limbo. I wasn’t dead yet. I had Henry, and that was all that mattered.

  “When you are Shrouded from the Purebloods, I will tell you everything.” He promised.

  4.

  I didn’t expect to be nervous to see Beatrix Klein, my old Bleeder buddy. My stomach churned as we walked up the familiar stairs to my old flat, which was above a corner shop. Camden hadn’t changed much. It was dark outside, and people lined up by the Underground club, waiting for some famous band to play.

  When we stood outside of the pebbled glass of my old front door, I held the buzzer longer than necessary. I fully expected Trix to be out on the town. She could have moved out long ago for all I knew.

  When a woman's head appeared behind the distorted glass, I swallowed the lump in my throat. I was suddenly very conscious of the fact that I wore soaked pyjamas, with matted hair and a medical bracelet from an asylum. I pulled my lips into a smile, but my cheeks strained and twitched with effort. It had been too long since I had held an expression like that.

  The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open. My best friend stood, no less intimidating despite her short stature. Her hair was no longer dyed lavender, but was instead a bright rosy peach colour that could only come from having platinum blonde hair underneath. It was longer than before. Trix had added more tattoos to her right sleeve, which was unfinished the last time I had seen her.

  Trix was always emotionless, deadpan. My eyes drank in her every feature; I was unable to help myself. I committed her to my memory. I had missed her. When our gazes met, she inhaled sharply.

  “What the fuck are you doing here Taylor?” The Witching put her hands on her hips, as she glanced between Henry and me.

  “Did you hear what happened?” I whispered as I tugged self-consciously at a lock of my hair.

  “Hear what? That my roommate upped and left in the middle of the night, leaving me without any rent and a room full of sketches of him.” Trix jabbed a tattooed finger in Henry’s direction.

  Henry stepped forward and held a hand outstretched for the Trix to take. “Henry Blaire.” He whispered, introdu
cing himself.

  Trix didn’t take his hand. “Right.” She muttered and turned on her heel, gliding along the Paisley orange carpet and down the hall into the living room. Henry crooked an eyebrow as I shrugged and followed her.

  The flat smelt the same, the lingering stink of dust and artificial jasmine candles. When I entered the living room, I was relieved that not much had changed since I had lived there. The black leather sofa was new, but the folded massage table in the corner and the chalk painted table with Trix’ tattoo machine on it had remained the same. Trix sank into the patchwork armchair and crossed her arms, inviting us to sit with the incline of her head.

  “Where the hell were you?” She said, her cheek twitched and that was as much emotion as I going to get from her. Although for Trix, that much expression was akin to her throwing herself at my feet and declaring that she missed me as much as a limb.

  I shrugged. “I was in an asylum… or Mental Health Facility, whatever they call it nowadays.”

  “Well, I always knew you were nutso. Not that you were, you know, nutso.” She said calmly.

  “I met a Pureblood,” I explained. “It wasn’t a fun experience.”

  Her hazel eyes widened minutely and she sat forward in the chair. Her hands rested under her chin, intrigued. “Do tell.”

  I explained about how Damian had found me, how he had given me his blood. I talked about how I had lost my mind. Henry nodded along as I repeated my story.

  “And then I found Henry again. And we need a…” I looked at Henry for confirmation on the word.

  “… Shroud.” He finished. “A shrouding spell. Fia told me that you are a Blood Scratcher.”

  Trix nodded absently. “Yeah. I’m a Scratcher.”

  “Can you do it?” I asked.

  Trix sighed and eased herself out of the armchair and gestured for us to follow. We walked to the doorway of my old room, all the sketches of Henry remained on the walls. The bed was made but the rest of the room was as I had left it, down to the loose-leaf paper on the floor from when Akim had found my journals.