The sky burns black, sun weeping thick, dark tears, a thin corona of light around an occluding disk that blocked the light. Screams sounded from around him, as the world sank into darkness, scattered chanting coming from empty air, undoing existence, reality melting away into primordial chaos. Fire blossoms from the ground as it cracks open, stone beneath starting to melt and burn, solid ground turning lethal. Brandon’s heart is pounding, as his spirit is torn from his body. Blood pours from a deep wound in his side, something inside torn and broken. It’s fever-hot against his skin, as black strands of power are pulled from him.

The presence he has felt ever since he was a child is gone, severed from him – he could hear her screams, the first exclamation of pain he has ever heard from her. It sears him like acid, cold and cruel, the wound to his soul almost worse than to his body. They’re close, just inside the circle warding stones, black lightning sparking between the ancient runes, barely a dozen paces away. But it hurts, a piercing agony in his soul. Another scream from nearby, this one more human, low and desperate sobbing, their pain making speech impossible, just animal sounds.

He tried to focus, enough to draw on his powers, feeling the energy so close. Trying to draw on it is another agony, a burning, piercing black threatening to scour away his spirit and self, devouring him from the inside out, leaving him an empty husk. She screams from inside the circle, as she’s broken and twisted in on herself, broken apart and used to break the world around her. He can see a figure, skin cracking and breaking, peeling away to reveal utter nothingness beneath, an infinite abyss stretched into human form.

A figure runs towards him, and he instinctively raises his arms to defend himself, reaching forward, grabbing them. They scream as he grabs and twists, their own sounds of pain swiftly dwindling to nothing but pained whimpers. The screams from the centre are louder now, language changing to something primordial and elemental, words shattering the world further.

One of his allies turns to offer help, before bursting into flames, their screams mercifully short before they fall to the ground, tumbling into one of the cracks in the ground, body claimed by the magma, their agony mercifully brief.

Then he woke, body streaming with sweat, old nightmares cold and clammy in his head. His scars were aching again, the ridges stiff, sore and tender against the bedding. What the hell time was it? Dawn light was starting to creep beneath the curtains, so about 4, 5 in the morning? And it was roasting hot already. That must be what had set the nightmares off. The summer was roasting, cars shimmering with heat haze by noon, everyone half-dazed and numb from being too damn hot all the damn time. Tempers were fraying, the piercing stabbing rhythm of arguments now a regular part of the night noises.

He pried himself out of bed, thin sheets clammy against his body, careful not to stretch out his hand too far in case it got bitten, before remembering that wouldn’t, couldn’t happen anymore. He flexed his hand, feeling the slight resistance of the wounds and scars, the stump of his middle finger waggling. At least at this time of morning, it was quiet, the bloody roadworks outside having not started yet.

He got up and shuffled between the stacks of old books and boxes of antiques, glass-fronted cabinets filled with trinkets scavenged from auctions and inheritances, all covered in dust. Thoughts of opening the place trickle into his numb brain, quickly dismissed – sooner or later he would need the money, but not yet, not for a while. He passed a mirror, catching a momentary glimpse of the dawn sun, a painful burst of light blinding him, green-purple blobs dancing in his eyes. The image of the sun, shrouded black and weeping, came back into memory, and he shuddered, wishing he could forget. Two years. How much longer until it might be possible to forget? Did he even want to?

Way too early for such dark thoughts. Although the entire place was dark – the trees and ivy had been left to their own devices, growing over the windows, making the place a cavern filled with remnants of other people’s pasts. He walked past the drift of post, a heap of flyers for takeaways, bills and other junk.

The kitchen was just as messy every surface covered with dirty plates, take-out boxes, empty cans and bottles, except for the table, a heavy old thing of oak, blackened from age. The surface was covered with embedded metal, brass lines and circles set into the surface, themselves patterned with runes. Definitely not for eating off, at least not for anyone that wanted the food to stay the same temperature and shape. One of the metal rings was currently smoking, a thin trail of smoke drifting upwards, towards the thankfully-deactivated smoke alarm.

Who, or what, the hell was it? As he approached, a blue light appeared, streams of light twisting together, forming into a long cylinder, a sealed scroll fading into existence and dropping onto the table. It started to catch fire, before he grabbed at it and beat it against the table to extinguish it. There was a wax seal on it, bright viridian green, showing a crown wreathed in flames. He sighed, then unrolled the message.

Brandon, some disturbance appears to be happening in the city. I cannot discern any of the details, but it keeps ruining my experiments. Considering the current state of affairs, there are meant to be very few people or entities capable of such a thing. And I am reliably informed that you haven’t left the house for far too many months. Do kindly investigate before I am forced to burn you out, please. This was followed by an overly detailed picture of a smiling face, executed in the style of a Russian Orthodox icon, complete with gilt detailing. Courtessa liked the ideas of emoticons but found the execution vulgar. Although in the background, there was a tiny burning house. She had at least given some information, although it was, of course, entirely termed in terms relative to herself. She did sometimes struggle with the idea that other people didn’t care about the same things she did, and to the same degree. So now he had to go into the city. Right in the goddam centre, with all the people.

He checked what she had said again, trying to think through the morning fug – something was disrupting her flames, making them behave like regular flames, rather than whatever she was trying to enchant them to do. So something must be able to disrupt them. Considering the amount of reinforcement she placed around her spells, anything able to do that must be quite a feat. And since two years ago, there was pretty much no-one left that could do that by accident, and precious few that could do it deliberately.

He’d have to get properly dressed. Or, indeed, dressed at all. And have a shower. Although she would be glad to… He turned aside from that train of thought. Wasn’t there anyone else Courtessa could get to do this? The immediate thought came back: No. And the thought was right – so few of them left now. Well, soon enough he wouldn’t be here either – his family had done their duty, for centuries, as had she, despite being bound to it. And now, it was over.

By the time he was clean(ish) and dressed enough to not look like a beggar, it was proper morning. He made the mistake of forgetting about rush hour, having to cram into the train along with everyone else. It was hot, sticky and damnably uncomfortable, mostly rammed into stranger’s armpits, everyone politely pretending not to be intruding into another’s personal space, despite the crowds.

He exited the stagnant, overly warm air of the underground tunnels, even the hot air of the surface an improvement, or at least the stink of too many cars better than the stink of too many people. He’d barely gotten outside when a pamphlet was thrust towards him, his eyes smarting from the sudden sunlight.

It was a young woman, dressed in a heavy grey robe that must have been murder in this heat. There were several others, all in the same clothing, all being ignored by the commuters. Brandon tried to step past, but she moved to block him, thrusting the leaflet at him again, with a very forced cough this time.

He looked at her, properly, actually seeing her this time, overcoming his instinctive desire to shove her away and keep on walking. Her hair was hidden behind a tight cowl, similar to a nun’s wimple, but not many people could glare at him with that much irritation, as she thrust the pamphlet at him for the third time, her eyes fierce. He took it before she slammed it into his face with a punch, and then she quickly turned away, harassing someone else, not giving him the chance to ask any questions.

He resisted the instinct to dump the pamphlet into the first trashcan, instead walking a safe distance away before looking at it. “The Order of the Ascended Halo”, complete with a badly drawn angelic figure, face shrouded, a glowing halo above their head. More of the usual street-preacher nonsense, it looked like – at least this lot weren’t singing or dancing and clapping! Their stated beliefs were the general vague nothingness, about a “better world”, the “perfection of the inner self” and so forth.

He turned it over – on the back, there was a scribbled note, the pencil not showing up very well on the shiny paper.

Watch out, they know about you. Check the grave, they know she’s dead. Trying to find out more, call me at 13. The woman in white wants you gone, any idea why? There was a scribbled number beneath, Amy’s handwriting as messy as ever. What the hell was she doing? Infiltrating some wacko cult? Although if she was putting the work in, there must be a reason, and whoever this lot were, they knew more than they should, more than anyone should. Still, at least it was a start. The grave wasn’t even that far from here, and should be less bloody busy.