Chapter 4 : The Surveyors Grid

Cat didn’t use the car.

She couldn’t. Every instinct in her body screamed that Elias Thorne was a predator of a different species than Marcus. Marcus was a shark you could see coming by the fin in the water; Elias was the deep, cold trench that simply swallowed you whole.

She spent the night pushed against her front door, a kitchen chair wedged under the handle, clutching a bread knife until her knuckles turned white. But when the sun crawled over the jagged London skyline, nothing had moved. No monsters had come through the window.

By 8:00 AM, she had to move. Poverty was a more immediate threat than a mysterious billionaire. She had a shift at the dive bar near the docks, a place that smelled of stale beer and regret, and she couldn't afford to lose the tips.

But when she stepped out of her building, the world had... shifted.

The trash that usually choked the gutter was gone. The graffiti on the entryway—crude words Marcus had spray-painted weeks ago—had been scrubbed so clean the stone looked new. And parked at the curb was the same black SUV from the night before.

The driver, a man with a face like a stone wall, stepped out and opened the door.

"I’m taking the bus," Cat said, her voice cracking.

"The 149 is delayed, Miss Watson," the driver said tonelessly. "Engine failure. Four blocks away. All of them."

Cat froze. "All of them?"

"A statistical anomaly," he replied. "The car is faster."

She walked past him, her heart thumping. She wouldn't be handled. She wouldn't be mapped. She walked three blocks to the tube station, only to find the shutters down. Technical difficulties. She tried to hail a taxi; three passed her with "Off Duty" signs flicking on the moment they saw her.

It was as if the city itself was closing its doors, funneling her toward a single path.

When she finally arrived at the bar, twenty minutes late and breathless, her manager, a greasy man named Miller who usually spent his time eyeing her chest and docking her pay, was standing outside. He was holding a cardboard box.

"You're late," he said, but his voice wasn't booming. It sounded hollow. Shaken.

"Miller, I’m sorry, the buses—"

"Doesn't matter." He shoved the box into her arms. It contained her spare shoes, her apron, and a framed photo of her mother. "The bar’s been sold. New ownership. They’re turning it into a private library or some rubbish."

Cat felt the floor drop out from under her. "Sold? Since when? What about my shift? I need the money, Miller!"

"Check your phone, Cat," he muttered, looking over his shoulder as if he expected a ghost to appear. "I got my payout. You got yours. Just... stay away from me, yeah? I don't want no trouble with people like that."

He scrambled away, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Cat pulled out her phone. A notification from her banking app was waiting.

Deposit: £10,000.00

Reference: BACKPAY_ADJUSTMENT_THORNE_GEOM

"No," she whispered, her fingers trembling. "No, no, no."

It wasn't a gift. It was a claim. He was clearing the board, removing every obstacle, every person, every reason she had to look away from him. He was isolating her in a gilded cage of her own life.

She turned around, expecting to see him. He wasn't there, but she felt the weight of him. She felt the eyes that had watched her through four centuries of dust.

She ducked into a nearby alleyway, needing to breathe, needing to escape the feeling of being a piece on a map. She leaned her head against the brick wall, closing her eyes.

The woodsmoke hit her again.

Suddenly, the brick was gone. She was standing in a field of tall, dry grass. The sky was a bruised purple, and the air was cold—sharper and cleaner than London air.

“You must hide the measurements, Catherine,” a man’s voice said. It was Elias, but younger, his voice full of a desperate, human heat. “If the King’s men find the maps of the ley lines, they will say it is witchcraft. They will say we are marking the devil’s path.”

“I am not afraid of the King,” she heard her own voice reply—but it wasn't her voice. It was deeper, melodic, fierce. “I am afraid of the smoke, Elias. I dreamt of a great fire. I dreamt of a city made of glass where you are a king of shadows.”

Cat’s eyes snapped open.

She was back in the alley. The smell of exhaust and trash returned. But her skin was tingling, and for the first time, she realized the "glitches" weren't just madness. They were memories.

She looked down at her arm. The bruise Marcus had given her was gone. In its place was a faint, silvery mark—a tiny, perfect symbol of a surveyor’s compass, etched into her skin like a brand.

He hadn't just fired her manager. He had touched her while she slept.

"You bastard," she hissed into the empty alley.

"Language, Catherine," a voice purred from the shadows.

Elias stepped out from behind a stack of crates. He wasn't wearing a suit today. He wore a dark, high-collared coat that made him look like a shadow given form. His hazel eyes were bright, tracking the pulse in her neck with terrifying focus.

"Take the money back," she snapped, stepping toward him, her fear momentarily eclipsed by rage. "And stay out of my head. I’m not your map. I’m not your 'Catherine.'

Elias moved so fast she didn't see him step. Suddenly, he was inches away, his breath—cold as a winter morning—fanning her cheek. He reached out, his gloved fingers hovering just a fraction of an inch from the mark on her arm.

"You are exactly who you are meant to be," he whispered. "And I have spent four hundred years learning that I do not take 'no' from the universe."

He looked down at her, his expression a haunting mix of reverence and hunger.

"Marcus is at the police station. Miller is in hiding. Your debts are ash. You are finally free, Cat."

"Free?" she laughed, a jagged, hysterical sound. "You’ve trapped me! I can’t even take a bus without you breaking it!"

"The world is a dangerous place," Elias said, his voice dropping to a primal growl. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "I am simply ensuring that the only danger you ever face again... is me."

He pulled back, his eyes darkening to that bottomless black.

"Now," he said, offering a hand that looked as steady as a mountain. "Will you get in the car, or must I make it rain until the streets are impassable?"