FIRECRACKER EXCERPT

Chapter 1

Ava Cassidy jerked awake, eyes wide in the dark. Her heart thumped. She couldn’t breathe. Something was blocking her mouth. Something crouched over her ribs. And that something was alive. The shape shifted, barely visible. For one surreal moment, she feared a demon pinning her down.

Ridiculous.

Ava focused. No. This was an earthly creature. Claws pricked her collarbone. She yelped. The cat yowled and leapt from the bed.

I don’t have a cat.

Thrusting the covers from her, Ava wrenched upright. Without thinking, she tapped her forehead, chest, and shoulders three times. A pattern learned in childhood; something her grandmother had taught her. The room had changed. Orange light painted a slice of the bedroom floor. Ava blinked at it, perplexed, sleep muddling her mind. Then, her body stiffened. That was it. The door was ajar. The door she always shut before bed. But now, inexplicably, London’s sickly streetlamps seeped through a foot-wide crack.

I’m sure I closed it.

Ava’s senses sharpened. She held still and listened. A strange whistling sound came from the corridor, a sound that didn’t belong in a sleeping house. Her skin prickled in the searing cold. Not the normal cold of a November night in King’s Cross, although that was cold enough. This was sharper, more intense. Her breath clouded in the frigid air. The cat gave a plaintive meow.

Her finger hovered over the switch of the bedside lamp. Then she pulled it back. If there were anyone there, she wasn’t going to announce her approach. She slid from the bed and felt for her dressing gown in the dark, slipping it on without a sound. Beside it lay her umbrella, still damp with rain. She brandished it in her fist, testing. If she had to fight, she would. Ava padded towards the light.

The hallway glowed eerily. She peered into its gloomy depths, seeking shapes within the shadows. An icy blast bit hard. She saw now. The front door yawned open; the wind growled through like an angry sprite. She heard her breath hike, sawing and ragged, and waited for it to ease. Then Ava ventured forth, umbrella aloft. Her steps crunched confusingly; she glanced down at her feet. Autumn leaves had drifted from the street like snow, carpeting the frigid tiles. She paused, tuning in. The flat was silent, save the wheezing gusts that seemed determined to tug her dressing gown from her. She pulled it tighter.

A black blur bolted between her legs, screeching a keening wail. A scream spiralled in her throat. Ava stifled the sound before it could be born. Her hand flew to her chest.

It’s just the cat.

Her eyes followed the feline’s path, dead leaves swirling in its wake. A shape emerged out of the murk. A shape that made no sense. Without quite knowing how, her legs carried her to the gaping door. Astonishing. Absurd. Alive against the autumn decay. A pink rose. Casually resting on the welcome mat.

Ava sucked in her cheeks and approached the flower gingerly. Its fresh bloom obscured the last letter of the mat’s cheery message. Hello now read Hell. Ava’s fingers formed a cross. A curious prayer fell from her lips. A litany that seemed to come from somewhere outside of herself, unknown, unbidden.

This is our house

None shall pass

Not living nor dead

For we are kept

In safety and health

Until the end of time

Ava stared into the barren street and shivered.

Where the fuck did that come from?

Another childhood gift from her grandmother that she’d long since forgotten? Ava ran a hand down the edge of the front door, bracing against the gale. The security chain dangled uselessly, the catch wobbled in its housing. She sighed. The apartment was old, the door was old, the lock was old. She’d call a locksmith tomorrow. Ava banged the door shut. Sleep tugged her eyelids. She crept back to bed, pulling the covers tight. The clock winked 3:33. She was asleep by 3:34.