Chapter 2 : The weight of Concrete

The London rain didn’t feel like a cleansing spray; it felt like a cold, wet shroud .

Cat Watson pulled the collar of her oversized denim jacket tighter around her neck, her thumb tracing the jacket edge of a hole in the pocket. It was 3:30 PM. The caffeine rush from the latte she just splurged on was already losing the war against the bone-deep exhaustion of working three double shifts in a row.

The bell of the coffee shop chimed behind her , but she didn’t look back . She couldn’t .

Ever since she’d walk into that shop, she felt a prick at the base of her skull. A heavy, magnetic pressure, like someone was pressing a hot thumb against her spine. For a fleeting second, her eyes had snagged on a man by the counter - a man who looks like he stepped out of a high fashion funeral. He was beautiful in a way that made her stomach turnover, but his eyes…. They had looked at her as if he were watching her drown and wasn’t sure if he should reach for a rope or a stone.

Probably just another billionaire looking for a charity case, she thought bitterly, dodging a puddle.

She turned onto the main road, the shard looming over her like a glass needle piercing the gray sky. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

New message: Marcus

I know you’re off at four. I’m waiting at the flat. Don’t make me come find you at the bar tonight. We need to talk.

Cat’s heart didn’t flutter ; it sank . A cold, oily sensation of dread settled into her gut. Talking with Marcus never involved a speech. It involved his hands on her throat, his voice low in a jagged way , reminding her that she was “ damaged goods “ , and that he was the only one who would ever want her.

“ Leave me alone “ , she whispered to the pavement.

She had moved three times. She had changed her number twice. But Marcus was like a rot in the floorboards- no matter how much she scrubbed, he always came back.

As she walked towards the bus stop, the “ glitches “ started again.

It happened when she was tired. The modern world - the screech of the red buses, the neon signs, the smell of burnt rubber - would suddenly thin out like a cheap fabric. For a split second the concrete under her boots, felt like a soft, damp earth. The smell of the city was replaced by the overwhelming, sharp scent of wood smoke and dried lavender.

She blinked, and it was gone. Just a dizzy spell. Her doctor said it was “dissociative symptoms caused by prolonged stress. “ Cat just thought she was losing her mind.

She boarded the 149 bus, heading toward the drab , crumbling Estates of Hackney. She sat at the back, leaning her head against the vibrating glass.

She closed her eyes and saw it again.

A tall man standing over a wooden table covered in parchment. He was wearing velvet, the color of a forest at midnight. He held a brass instrument to his eye, measuring the stars. He looked at her and smiled - not the terrifying, predatory gaze of the man in the coffee shop, but something tender. Something that promised safety.

“ Catherine” , the voice in her head whispered. It sounded like the wind through tall grass. “ The maps are finished we can leave tonight . “

The bus hit a pothole, and cats’s eyes snapped open.

She wasn’t in 1612. She wasn’t Catherine. She was cat, she was 22, she had 4 pounds in her bank account, and a man who hated her was waiting in her kitchen.

She got off at her stop, her legs feeling like lead. The estate was a labyrinth of Greystone and flickering Orange street lights. As she walked towards her block, she felt that prickle again. That heavy, suffocating sense of being watched.

She spun around, her heart hammering.

The street was empty, except for a black SUV idling a block away. The windows were tinted dark, reflecting nothing but the rain . It sat there, silent and lethal, like a shark in the shadow water.

Cat didn’t wait . She bolted for the stairs, her breath hitching in her chest.

She reached the third floor, fumbling with her keys. Her hands were shaking so hard she dropped them twice. When she finally jammed the key into the lock and push the door open, the smell hit her first.

Cheap Cologne and stale cigarettes.

“ You’re late Catty ,” a voice rasp from the darkness of her tiny kitchen.

Marcus was sitting at her table, tossing her spare key-the one she thought she changed the locks for-up and down in his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw set in that familiar, terrifying line.

“ Marcus, please,” she said, her voice small. “ I told you. It’s over. Just go”

He stood up, his large frame filling the cramp space.” Over? After everything I did for you? After I waited for you?” he took a step toward her, his shadow stretching across the peeling wallpaper. “ You don’t get to decide when it’s over.”

Outside, 30 stories up in the rain, a man stood on the ledge of the building across the street. He didn’t have a coat, and the wind didn’t seem to touch him.

Elias Thorne watched through the window, his pupils blown wide, his fangs aching behind his lips. He could hear Marcus‘s heartbeat - loud, arrogant and thudding with violence . He could hear Cats heartbeat - erotic, terrified, and singing in the same song it had sung four centuries ago when the witch finder had come for her.

Elias gripped the stone of the ledge, his fingers crushing the masonry into dust.

“ Not this time “ he hissed into the night . “ Not ever again “ .