Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
I shove the documents away with a huff of disgust. So much for a break. I’d thought a bit of light reading about my divorce might be a good idea. Big mistake. Now I have a stress headache pounding in the middle of my forehead.
Of course, the Ministry did background checks on me when I was hired. On my second day, they offered me the services of their legal team. Unusual, sure, but one hell of a work perk. The solicitor they assigned to me is a scary son of a beast—thorough, efficient, and ruthless.
Over the past three months, we have tackled everything, ticking off boxes and navigating the process faster than I ever thought possible. I’d been willing to give Paul the majority of our assets just to bring it to an end, but of course, it couldn’t be that simple.
It was all going so well. I signed the forms, we submitted everything, and I dared to hope it would be quick and clean.
Hope was stupid.
I scowl at the stack of papers in front of me. Now Paul’s insisting we talk. He won’t sign the bloody thing unless we meet in person.
So I have to see him.
Shit. I don’t know what I was thinking—somehow getting through this without facing him again? It was never going to happen. Even after all these months, the thought of seeing his face makes me want to puke.
The only saving grace is that our ‘friendly chat’ will be under the watchful eyes of our solicitors.
Despite his Human First political connections, Paul has permission to enter the Enterprise Zone. The solicitor assures me they will keep everything professional and on track. Still, one meeting, one conversation… it feels like climbing into a pit with a poisonous snake.
I groan and flop back in my chair. What I want—what I really want—is to bounce my forehead off my desk until both the headache and my divorce magically disappear.
It’s already been a long, crappy day. Some ancient code decided to implode—legacy stuff from before my time. Not my fault, but I’ve seen the issue before, so I know how to fix it. Hours of running scripts, debugging, and tweaking lines of code later, the system finally begrudged me its cooperation.
The problem? I’ve worked past my hours. Now it’s dark outside, and instead of heading home like a normal person, I’m debating whether to call for a security escort.
The human escort service.
Ugh.
I’ve got a change of clothes in my bag. Maybe I will grab a room and sleep off the darkness instead. That feels safer than braving the streets.
The shifters might have fancy protective walls, but they didn’t exactly kick everyone out when they took over—not here, at least. Not like their shifter-only sector. I shudder. No, that was a bloodbath.
Here in the Enterprise Zone, they conceded, allowing other derivatives to live here as long as everyone followed their rules. The high walls and strict security clearance give the illusion of safety, but unvetted people still wander about. I know it’s been forty years, but that’s nothing to a vampire.
Even the vetted ones—the ones with all the proper identification—don’t guarantee safety. Just because someone has the paperwork does not mean they are friendly or have curbed their nasty appetites.
Zone Two might have beautiful streets and the air of a tranquil park, but for a human like me, it’s like being a deer dropped into the savannah with lions and tigers circling.
Maybe coffee will help clear my head. I groan, the sound echoing faintly in the empty glass corridor as I wander toward the nearest coffee station—what everyone calls the brew room.
These suspended offices feel like they are floating inside a glass shell. I glance at the far wall, which offers an unobstructed view of the atrium, the security area, and the visitor’s lounge far below. It’s an impressive sight, but I’m glad I don’t have an issue with heights. For some, this setup would be pure vertigo-inducing hell.
With my anxiety gnawing at me, I consider working through the night instead. Sleep is overrated anyway, and at least in the quiet, I can get things done without a team of anxious developers hovering over my shoulder.
This late, the codebase is all mine. I can comb through it uninterrupted, troubleshooting in peace. My technomancy often detects issues lurking below the surface, sometimes highlighting problems before they happen. Depending on what I find, I can fix them quietly or submit a request.
I nudge the door open, and the lights flicker on automatically. Sleek black counters gleam under a white lowered ceiling and soft recessed lighting. A row of machines lines the wall, ready to dispense any hot or cold drink you want. There’s a small refrigerator in the corner stocked with various milk options, and a cabinet with mugs arranged in neat, Ministry-approved rows.
I ignore the generic pod machines and head straight for the silver beast. I warm up my wrists, crack my knuckles, and give it a friendly pat. “Hello, Wee Beastie.”
I’m all for giving inanimate objects a personality and a name, and this one feels like an old friend.
I’m chuffed I can use it—I think I’m the only one who can. When I was sixteen, I worked at an amusement park, learning to make doughnuts, candy floss, and the perfect Mr Whippy ice cream cone. I mastered the art of cappuccinos there too. That’s where my love for good coffee began.
Having a commercial-grade machine at work feels like a personal triumph. The amount the Ministry spends on staff perks blows my mind. A machine like this in a human-sector job? Not a chance. But I’m not complaining.
I grind the beans, press a few buttons, and let the silver beast work its magic. A perfect mug of coffee emerges, rich and steaming. I know full well that caffeine this late in the day is a terrible idea, but let’s face it—coffee isn’t what is likely to kill me.
No, I’m far more likely to be eaten by a shifter—and not in the fun way.
I wipe down the machine and pick up my mug, the steam curling upward in warm, comforting spirals. Inhaling deeply, I savour the rich aroma before bringing the cup to my lips. It’s hot, but my ‘asbestos mouth’ handles it just fine.
Then I hear it—a noise outside, sharp and sudden.
I ignore it, focusing on my first sip, but it happens again. Louder this time. A bang. Curiosity prickles at the edges of my caffeine-fuelled calm. I set the mug down and move toward the door, cracking it open just enough to peek outside.
What I see makes me gasp, step back, and oh-so-carefully close the door.
The security guards are down.
From this angle, I can’t tell if they were shot or if the noise came from wands. Stupidly, I left my glasses in the server room. Either way, whoever’s gotten into the building must be professional to get past our military-grade security.
Screams echo from below, interspersed with sharp bangs and barked orders.
“ On your knees! Hands where I can see them! On your knees! ”
Few people are left in the building at this hour, but the intruders are so loud they sound like a mob.
Breathe, Lark. Think.
I’ve trained in Judo for over three decades. While Dove twirled in ballet shoes, I was on the mat, learning throws and falls. Judo didn’t merely teach me discipline—it gave me tools on how to control my magic and temper, how to stay balanced physically and emotionally, and how to remain calm under pressure.
But none of that feels useful right now.
What I miss most about Judo is the beauty of it—the precision of locking down joints, the satisfaction of putting some six-foot meathead on his arse and twisting him into a pretzel until he tapped out.
But the first lesson? The one drilled into me over and over?
Run.
You don’t fight knives, guns, or derivatives bigger and badder than you.
My heart pounds and my entire body shakes as adrenaline floods my system. I take that training to heart and frantically search for a place to hide.
The glass corridors are too exposed, and the brew room offers no salvation. A few tiny cupboards, barely big enough to hide a cat, and nothing else. This modern building wasn’t designed with hiding in mind.
I’m trapped.
I scan the room again, desperate. My gaze roams over every surface and corner until, for some reason, I look up.
The ceiling tiles.
For eff’s sake, no. I shake my head. The idea is ridiculous.
But the voices and banging grow closer.
I spring into action. Dumping my coffee down the sink, I rinse the cup and squirt a generous dollop of bleach down the drain. The sharp chemical smell hits my nose, and I hope it will hide my scent—or at least confuse whoever might come sniffing.
Grabbing a chair from the small table, I step onto it, wobbling slightly. Then, with a reluctant glance at my beloved coffee machine, I climb onto the counter. The surface creaks ominously under my weight as my toes press against the edge of the machine, my heels dangling precariously.
The ceiling tiles are just within reach. I stretch upward, shoving at the white, spongy square until it slides off its metal lip and rests atop the tile next to it. The gap looks big enough for my shoulders. If they fit, the rest of me will follow—or so I tell myself.
Oh, bloody hell. I’m now head-height with the ceiling. There’s no chance. I’m not some spry action hero who can hoist herself up with a single pull-up. This isn’t a movie. Sarah Connor, I am not. I haven’t done a chin-up in seven years.
I glance down at the sturdy coffee machine, grimace, and mentally cross my fingers. The counter groans again as I shift my weight. Carefully, I place one hand against the wall for balance and step onto the machine.
“Sorry, Wee Beastie,” I whisper, as if apologising will make this any less insane. “Please don’t break.”
My head and shoulders disappear into the ceiling, and I crane my neck to get a better look. The thin metal frame of the tiles isn’t built to support a person’s weight. But to my left is salvation, a large, solid duct—part of the kitchen’s ventilation system.
It’s not ideal, but it’s my only option.
I’m going to have to pull myself up.
Gripping the edge of the vent, I try to haul myself up. My arms tremble, and I hiss through clenched teeth.
What am I even doing?
I’m too old for this shit.
But I’m also too young to die.
I might dress frumpy when I’m off the clock, but I’ve kept myself in decent shape. I’m strong enough. Besides, the thought of intruders bursting through the door and finding my bum hanging out of the ceiling spurs me on—both mortifying and potentially fatal.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I channel my inner badarse. I pull, tug, and scrape my way through the gap, softly grunting like a woman possessed. The ceiling’s metal frame tears into my stomach and thighs, sharp and unforgiving. Pain flares, but I grit my teeth and keep moving.
Almost there.
I wiggle forward, my breaths sharp and uneven. My chest burns, my arms ache, and I can already feel bruises forming. But somehow, I manage to pull myself into the ceiling.
The metal duct beneath me makes an unhappy bong with my weight, and every tiny movement draws an ominous groan from the structure. I nudge the roof tile back into place, doing my best to leave no trace. Then I flip open my phone, its weak light barely cutting through the gloom.
I squint, tracing where the vent connects to the wall. It’s boxed in tight—no way forward, no escape route. Just me, stuck in this cramped, creaking space. And, of course, no phone signal.
Fantastic.
Slamming doors, pounding footsteps, and harsh voices grow louder. They are getting closer, not even trying to be quiet. I close my eyes and pray the bleach I dumped in the sink is enough to mask my scent.
Taking a shallow breath to avoid inhaling whatever metal shavings the construction team left behind, I shift into an uncomfortable cross-legged position. My legs ache, and my ankles feel seconds away from mutiny. Rolling my shoulders, I settle in, preparing to sit still and silent for as long as it takes.
“We need to clear every room on this level.”
My breath hitches. They are below me.
“Oh, I could really do with a coffee,” one of them drawls. “Shooting Ministry staff is thirsty work.”
My stomach twists violently, a cold shudder racing down my spine. I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep my breathing quiet. There’s nothing I can do for anyone else right now. I have to stay hidden and wait this out. For once, stuffing myself into the ceiling feels like the smartest decision I’ve ever made.
“You’re a bloody lunatic,” his companion snaps. “We don’t have time for your crap. Do you think the Ministry won’t notice we have raided the building? We’re on a tight schedule, you idiot. We’re only here for the Alpha Prime’s mate.”
The Alpha Prime’s mate? My mind stumbles over the words, trying to make sense of them. Is he even mated? I had no idea. Obviously, he must be if they are attacking the building.
Not that I’d know anything about it. I’ve been neck-deep in work all day, and VIPs like that are way above my pay grade.
Their voices move farther down the corridor, and the banging and smashing restart.
I can only hope the Ministry’s people will get here soon.
Time crawls. Ten minutes, maybe more. The noises grow faint, and I begin to relax, my breathing evening out.
Until she screams.
I can’t see her, but the voice is unmistakable—high-pitched and squeaky. It has to be Sophie. Sweet, smart Sophie. She is only twenty-two, a shifter intern who barely started her placement here.
A loud bang echoes down the corridor, the sound of a door slamming open, followed by something heavy being dragged. My stomach clenches. Are they dragging her?
A dull thud follows, and the crying woman’s voice carries upward, muffled but clear enough to make my heart race. The distinctive click of the door closing sends a chill through me, followed by a chuckle so low and vile it makes my skin crawl.
It’s the most evil sound I’ve ever heard.
“Please, please, I don’t know anything. Let me go. I’m only an intern. Please, let me go!” Sophie’s voice cracks with desperation.
I slap my hand over my mouth, choking back a gasp, and stare at the nearest ceiling tile in horror. My breath comes fast and shallow, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Oh no, love,” the man says, his voice dripping with malice. “You will answer my questions and tell me what I want to know.”
There’s a series of distinctive clicks. I picture him removing his weapons and placing them on the counter. All the while, Sophie begs and cries, her voice growing more hysterical.
“I’ll show you a photo, and you will tell me where she is,” he snarls. “If you don’t, I’ll cut out your tongue.”
I can picture him holding a knife to her throat.
She is just a kid.
I can’t bloody sit here, safe and hidden, while she is down there being interrogated and tortured. Be the person you needed when you were younger, Lark.
My breath catches as I lean forward, every movement deliberate, every muscle screaming at me to stop. Carefully, I grasp the edge of the ceiling tile, its spongy surface irritating my fingertips. Slowly, I slide it out of its metal track, the faint scrape sounding impossibly loud to my ears. The tile shifts, and I ease it across until I can see into the room.
Ah, shit.
This is going to hurt.