3 SCOTT

Two evenings before Gallus reached Sydney, Bowen did date nights small.

Fairy lights tangled through the fig trees on Herbert Street, pretending winter couldn’t bite. The Coral Sea breathed beyond the breakwater—hush in, hush out—like the town was trying not to wake itself. Inside

La Piccola Marina, a busker’s guitar smoothed over clinking glass and low talk. For an hour, Scott Masters

and Faith let themselves be ordinary. He’d shaved—she had insisted. Demonslayer, his one

sword, was at home in its scabbard, leaning against the cedar chest like a sleeping dog.

Faith’s fingers found Scott’s. “You know, after everything at Hideaway Bay, your parents must be so

proud.”

“Yeah, they are, since we moved in with each other,

life has been so much clearer,” Scott said, looking in her blue eyes. They both smiled at each other and sipped on a glass of St. Hallard’s wine.

The barman nudged the TV volume up for the footy.

The picture stuttered—

—and snapped to BREAKING NEWS.

They broke their gaze and turned to the television, interested.

On the Samsung flat screen, handheld phone footage lurched across a Sydney street. Sirens. People running. Something too big and wrong vaulted a car and vanished out of frame. The chyron burned at the bottom:

SYDNEY UNDER ATTACK FROM MONSTERS.

Audio caught a beat later: a woman’s thin, hopeless crying; helicopter rotor thump; a rain of glass. The phone swung and froze on a taxi roof where a furred shape stood howling in daylight. Blue lights smeared the frame.

Faith turned from the television to Scott, who had that look on his face.

“Scott... that’s Sydney.”

“Yeah.”

He dropped notes on the bill. “We’re going.”

Scott picked up his jacket and put it on, while Faith picked up her purse.

* * *

They stepped into Herbert Street with that caption still burning behind his eyes.

From a distance, a faint sound of wings could be heard.

“What is that?” Faith asked.

“I don’t know,” said Scott as they crossed the road to the truck.

The wind changed—metallic, sharp. Wingbeats

threaded it, too big for gulls.

A shadow banked over the clock tower and dropped, skimming awnings, trailing the stink of carrion and

ozone. “Ah, ah, food, feed I must.”

It came low and fast: not a harpy, not a bird, not anything a sane person would name. Skin like scorched

parchment stretched over bone. Wings webbed and ragged, edges smoking as if it carried its own chemical

burn. Eyes glowing a bruised gold. Claws scraped sparks from the bitumen as it screamed in two voices—one shrill, one buried in gravel.

“Faith, get to the car!” Scott barked.

Faith sprinted for the 1980s Back to the Future tribute Hilux. The creature pivoted midair, tracking

motion with the simple intelligence of a hunting thing—smart enough to pick a target, dumb enough to

do it in front of him. “Ah!” it hissed.

Scott’s boots slid on the wet road as he hauled open the tray and closed his hand around the old aluminium bat. No tricks. No symbols. Just leverage and timing.

“Come on, then!” he shouted, squaring up.

The demon shrieked and dived, wings cracking thunder. Talons reached—razor-long, wet, black.

Scott swung. The bat cut air, missing by inches. The gust off its wings hit like a wave, knocking him sideways. He rolled, boots scraping asphalt, came up ready again,

breath loud in his own ears.

“Come on, you bastard!” he spat, planting his feet as the night terror demon swooped around in the darkness, readying itself for another attack.

At the same time, Faith fumbled for the keys at the Hilux’s door. She found the key and opened it. She

quickly jumped in and slammed the door shut as the night terror swooped above. Faith nervously fumbled

the keys in her hand and tried to start up the 80s Hilux truck. “Come on, start, you piece of—” Once, twice—the engine coughed—then roared alive. Headlights blazed through the rain.

The demon laughed—at Scott, at effort, at the smallness of towns. It dropped lower, skimming close

enough that the heat of it prickled his face.

“Smiter!” it roared, voice doubled, the word shaking

windows—as it perched itself on a power pole that had a

transformer under it.

Its eyes burned hotter. Flesh split along old seams;

smoke hissed from the cracks as if something inside it

was overheating.

“You cannot defeat us all.”

“Okay! I will start with a smelly shitbag like you first,”

Scott said, measuring the arc for a second swing.

The demon dived off the power pole and banked for

another strike, eyes flashing like molten glass, body

unfurling for his head. As it flew towards Scott, the

demon caught a set of truck lights in the corner of its

eye. They were coming fast.

Faith floored it.

“Scott! Down!” she yelled.

Scott hit the deck and rolled out of the way.

“Here goes nothing,” she said through her teeth.

Tyres screamed. The bull bar hammered the demon

mid-dive.

The thing sprawled across the bonnet, screeching,

gouging the hood, talons punching dents like fists. “You

can’t defeat me, human!”

“No,” Faith snapped, “but that can!”

She slammed the brakes.

Momentum did the rest—flinging the demon forward

into the transformer and power lines that strung above

the street.

The lines sang. Blue-white fire raced across its wings,

outlining every bone. Sparks poured from its back and

pinions; smoke threaded its joints and spat across wet

road.

The creature twitched, hovering for a

heartbeat—wings flapping raggedly, muscles refusing

instructions.

Its head snapped towards Scott.

Then a different voice forced its way out through the

dying throat—lower, harsher, like something else was

pushing air through damaged lungs. Just a message

delivered by whatever put it here.

“Smiter... we are many.”

The power lines screamed. Current crawled up the

poles and burst across the wings. The thing convulsed,

caught fire, and dropped—slamming into the gutter in a

hiss of steam and ash.

Faith jumped out, rain streaking her face, running

straight to him.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” Scott steadied her as she clung.

She looked over his shoulder at the smoking heap.

“And what the hell was that? Why did that thing come

for you?”

He nodded once. “Not too sure. But, message

received.”

Across the restaurant window, the TV still looped the

grainy footage of George Street—sirens, fire, chaos—and

the same headline burned along the bottom:

SYDNEY UNDER ATTACK FROM MONSTERS.

Faith’s voice shook. “No. No, no. You’re not

thinking?”

“Thinking what?”

“That look you have. I know what you’re going to say.

You’re not going to that.”

“Looks like I have to, Faith.”

“Well, I’m coming.”

“No,” Scott said—too quickly. He cupped her face,

thumb brushing away rain and salt. “You stay here. Lock

up. Get Bruce and David. If this spills north, Bowen’s

going to need you.”

She glared through tears. “You don’t get to leave me

behind.”

“I don’t want to,” he said, roughly. “But I need to

know you’re safe. If that’s Sydney...”—he nodded at the

TV—“...then I can’t fight looking over my shoulder.”

She stared at him, angry and scared and loving him

enough to let him go.

“You come back to me.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I love you. You know that?”

Faith smiled and replied, “I love you too.”

They kissed as the power transformer sparked in the

background, while the night terror melted away to a

liquid, its body deforming in a bubbly decomposition.

* * *

They drove the two blocks home with the windows down

and the radio off, listening to a night that had learned a

new note.

“First of all I’ll need Demonslayer, fuel, and first aid.

I’ll take what’s left of the Hilux. You take the Prado. If

anything feels wrong—sirens, sky, power—get inland. Go

to Bruce and David’s. Do anything but stay here. Don’t

wait for me.”

“I’m not running.”

“It’s not running,” he said. “It’s keeping the lamp lit.”

“If you can’t call, text me a full stop so I know you’re

breathing.”

He kissed her—long enough to hurt, short enough to

leave them both standing. “I’ll bring the truck to the

door.”

* * *

In the bedroom, he lifted Demonslayer from its

scabbard; the blade took the light like a tool pulled from

the box when the job turns ugly. He shouldered a

pack—gauze, tourniquets, water, flares—checked the old

satphone, slid it in. On the hall table, he left a note that

only said: Ditto.

At the door, Faith stood in his jacket, hair pulled

through the collar, trying not to cry again. He pulled her

into one more hug and felt something settle in his

ribs—resolve, not romance, the mental click of

committing to a hard road.

“I’ll watch the news,” she said. “And any chatter on

the net.”

“Keep an eye on the neighbours,” he said. “If anything

weird shows up, you take them with you. Lock

yourselves in the panic room. Lights off. Curtains

closed.”

She nodded, swallowed a bitter pill, and she knew

what he must do; it wasn’t fair, but Scott was the Smiter,

a holy guardian of this realm. He kissed her one more

time. “Go, before I regret it,” she said with a tear in her

eye.

He stepped onto the porch, the weight of the sword

finding its place across his back. The Hilux turned

over—steady, sure. He paused at the gate and looked

back; she lifted a hand and held it between them like a

bridge.

“Come home,” she said and crossed her arms after

holding his fingers in hers.

“You are my home,” he answered—and he meant

Sydney was something between here and there;

whatever was going on there had to be dealt with.

He set Demonslayer—sheathed—on the passenger

floor within reach, climbed in, dropped it into gear, and

rolled onto Herbert Street. In the rear-view, Faith stood

on the porch with her arms crossed against the rain.

Bowen tried to be small in the mirror. The road south

unspooled in his mind as distance, fuel stops, and what

he would do if the wrong shapes showed up again.

He didn’t know anyone in that city.

He didn’t have to.

He knew what he was again.

The Smiter.

And Sydney needed his help.