Prologue I

Lore of the One Tree

The tree maintains the balance,

From root to leaf it holds all,

In one realm to another connected,

If severed, then each one shall fall.

Serving the tree holds no honour,

The service alone is the gift,

For the source knows no light and no darkness,

And severance shall set all adrift.

When opposites merge there is chaos,

And chaos alone cannot create,

But only through purging with fire,

Can the danger be forced to abate.

The warning is clear, left untended,

With time given to eat at the core,

The tree of life will fall asunder,

And those bonded will be but the first to fall.

Prologue II

Brother of Mine

Nicola was speechless. With all that her family had gone through recently, she would never have suspected the arrival at her front door of an old woman and her somewhat peculiar grandchild would be the thing that stole the words from her mouth. And it wasn’t just that she’d lost the ability to think of something to say. Her mind had actually gone blank. Or, more accurately, her memories were in free fall, running back over the last six months, trying to find the pieces of the puzzle that she’d missed.

Not only had the young boy Tommy, been dreaming about the doll – Anarcus – but he seemed to know how to locate it. Something they had been unable to achieve. Since the doll had cut its losses and run, slinking away from the fight like the cunning little monster it was, no trace of the doll’s energy trail could be found.

Admittedly, she’d had more important things to deal with at the time. Like saving Michael’s life.

And now this little boy and his grandmother had come to them with stories of the boy’s dreams. Dreams of Michael astride a horse, a pretty clear reference to Michael being a bonded warrior.

That her son, Michael, had become a member of a mythological band of warriors tasked with the protection of the realm, was not common knowledge.

This little boy would have no means to know that.

Yet he did!

They had all been trying to keep their abilities off everyone’s radars. There were enemies out there, groups determined to help the doll escape its bindings.

Once Nicola had allowed her mind to accept the fact that magic – actual spell casting, lightning throwing magic – had returned to the world, she had been aware of a change in the energies around her, had felt the slow creep as her own perceptions grew. She had always been able to sense the energies flowing through a person and help guide those energies in a healing sense. But now she could harness and wield that energy.

Could this boy be doing the same?

It was not impossible. Her own daughter’s affinity with animals had grown exponentially, to the point where she could shift into the form of a falcon or a wolf at will.

She could accept the fact that the boy had powers. But Marcus being his brother?

And with Marcus thought dead, along with his parents, years before? What was going on?

But she didn’t know how to process the information that she’d just received.

Marcus, the young boy she’d taken into her home because she could not stand by and see him returned to a family that sadistically abused him. The young boy she’d fed breakfast to only that morning: he was supposed to be dead, had been legally declared dead years ago.

Nicola’s mind whirled through scenarios.

She held onto the kitchen bench, enjoying the smooth feel of the granite against her palms. The desire to lay her forehead against the cool surface and just take a moment was almost overwhelming, but the woman’s words were chasing themselves around in her mind. How can a boy that died in a freak car crash when he was five now be living under her roof?

The most obvious solution was that the woman had made a terrible mistake. There was no doubt that there were similarities between the boys’ features, their jet-black hair, blue eyes and elfin shape to their faces. Even the way the boys angled their heads so that they could look at the world through their fringes was so similar. There were enough points of resemblance to have given anyone a moment of pause, especially someone who was under a great deal of stress.

And there was no doubt the woman was under emotional strain. Her anxieties played across her body like she was a string instrument, and some maestro was plucking his way through the composition of a deranged opus. The wringing of her hands, the muscle twitching under her eye, the hesitant body movements, all these tells combined gave Nicola the impression that this poor woman could be experiencing a momentary break.

But this woman was so certain that Marcus was her grandson.

Wouldn’t you recognise your grandchild no matter how many years had passed?

Nicola believed you would. She was certain she would be able to recognise her own children. She knew how they moved, their ways of expressing themselves. From how they held their shoulders to the way they shook their heads. Some of these characteristics could change. But not all of them, so what did that leave her with?

She either had a severely unstable woman on her hands or something more nefarious was going on, and with the little Nicola knew about her neighbours it wasn’t going to be anything as simple as a grief-born misunderstanding.

Nicola was starting to regret her decision to allow Marcus to go for a walk with this woman in private. Nicola knew nothing about her, and Marcus had suffered enough in recent times. He did not need to deal with a woman who wanted him to be her dead grandchild reincarnate, no matter what kind of emotional strain the woman was under.

With a degree of anxiety colouring her own thoughts, Nicola wracked her brain for the series of events that made the situation she found herself in make some sense.

If Marcus had been placed in the care of the people next door for his own safety, as part of some kind of witness protection program, surely some ‘handler’ would be aware that his cover had just been blown. And wouldn’t that same person have been tasked with ensuring Marcus was safe and being treated well? That’s what happened in the movies, right? She was pretty bloody certain that it wasn’t standard operating procedure to send in a doddering old lady, grandson in hand, to inform you that the person living in your home should be dead and by the way folks, this is his little brother.

No, something beyond strange was going on.

Patricia had been genuinely shocked when she saw Marcus – Nicola was certain of this.

Nicola had noted how Patricia’s hands shook as she shifted aside tissues and shells and letters and receipts and a dozen other things as she searched through her purse, looking for the tired photo that she believed would prove she wasn’t crazy. It had been with a smile of both relief and satisfaction that Patricia handed Nicola what was obviously a treasured possession. The corners of the photo were bent, and the image was old and faded. Nicola had taken it gently from her. In the picture, one dark-haired boy, maybe four years of age, stood next to a newborn baby in an incubator. There was no doubt in Nicola’s mind that this woman believed she’d just found her grandson.

Nicola was so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t registered that she was no longer alone, and she jumped when Michael came close to her side.

‘I don’t know about you but I for one did not see that coming,’ Michael said, raising his hands in apology for making Nicola jump.

‘Mum, Earth to Mum?’ Michael said with a patient look on his face.

Nicola ran her fingers through her hair, trying to compose her thoughts. It took a little longer than she would have liked. She must have been standing there for a while gazing off into space if her daughter’s expression was anything to go by. She hadn’t even been aware that both of her children had been waiting for her input.

Nicola looked at them both apologetically and almost laughed at the obvious resemblance between the two of them as she did, understanding the irony of the situation. Standing before her were siblings that looked like twins despite the two year age difference between them. Olive skin, dark blonde hair, one with dark brown eyes that made you think of chocolate and the other with a lighter more wistful shade of brown. But it wasn’t the individual characteristics that made them look alike, it was all in the eyes. Their eyes were what confirmed beyond any doubt that they were related: something about them shone in the same way. And Marcus and Tommy had this same type of familiar resemblance to their eyes.

‘Michael, Dana,’ Nicola said. ‘Has there ever been any mention of Marcus having a brother? At school, amongst his friends?’

Nicola doubted that her children would have heard anything directly but local gossip sometimes contained some truth. Nicola’s family lived in the leafier eastern suburbs of Melbourne where things didn’t stay private for long. The school drop-off routinely took twenty minutes longer than was required because people loved to talk.

‘In case you’d forgotten, Mum,’ said Michael. ‘Until you invited Marcus to live with us, we did not exactly hang in the same crowds. You do remember that it was him and his mates that made it their life’s work to make mine miserable.’

Dana seemed to be suffering the same inability to think that Nicola had been struggling with just moments before. Her long hair had been pushed behind her ears and she’d turned to stare out the kitchen windows as if the answers they needed were sitting outside in plain sight.

‘Are you seriously saying you believe that old lady? That she’s Marcus’ grandmother and that the creepy kid with her was his little brother. I’m not—’

‘That’s definitely Marcus’ brother,’ said Dana. ‘Sheba smelled it on him the minute I let her sniff Tommy’s hand.’

Nicola didn’t waste any time questioning Dana, or Sheba for that matter. Their Doberman, Sheba, had saved them more than once during the last few months. Nicola had no doubt that Dana was correct about the brother.

The entire family had been changed by the rift since it had opened and magic began seeping back into the world. Her daughter no less so than her son. Nicola could almost see the animals lurking behind her daughter’s chocolate brown eyes. Dana’s link to Sheba had strengthened to such a degree that Nicola suspected that they were in constant communication. And, if Sheba knew the two boys were related because she could smell it on them, then who was Nicola to argue.

Dana said, ‘Shouldn’t we be more worried about the fact that the little kid seemed confident that he knew where the doll was? Right now, while they’re outside having a little family reunion, Marcus is having that information given to him.’ Dana paused to let the room ponder things for a moment. Her disdain for Marcus had never wavered. She felt sorry for him, but she hadn’t forgiven him for all that he’d done. ‘We may have freed Marcus, but let’s not forget that Marcus has been working with the doll since the very beginning.’

Dana raised her hand to forestall Nicola’s argument. ‘Yes, Mum, I know he was coerced, but his parents spent years brainwashing that kid using the most extreme techniques. Do we really think that kind of reprogramming can just be undone? It’s not safe him having that kind of information about the doll.’

‘Mum,’ said Michael. ‘I agree with Dana. I kind of get your need to give Marcus a safe place to be. But, just because he has been through some stuff, doesn’t mean we can trust him. So far, he hasn’t spoken to us about any of it. Now some grandmother and brother turn up out of the blue. We find out his real parents may be dead. If that is in fact the case, then what the hell is going on? Who has he been living with? That old woman claims her daughter was killed in a car crash. That Marcus was killed in the same accident. Could she just be delusional?’ Michael moved, as he always did lately, to stand beside Dana. ‘Fabricating a story because her daughter, I don’t know, abandoned her kids.’

Dana lifted her phone so that Michael could see the screen. She’d found an old newspaper article. The headline left little room for any doubt.

Local Family Die in Tragic Crash

The old woman wasn’t delusional.

‘But it says here all three occupants of the vehicle were killed,’ Dana said as she handed her phone to Nicola. ‘No-one survived the crash itself. Tommy is mentioned by name as being the only surviving member of the family. Every word Patricia said is true. But the parents in this photo are not the people we have living next door!’

Nicola took the phone and zoomed in on the photo. Michael leant over her shoulder.

Nicola grabbed her reading glasses and studied Marcus in the photo. Dana was right: these were not the people she had met. The mother’s hair was lighter, worn in a casual carefree style. Her face was used to smiling, nothing like the severe dark-haired woman that stalked around next door. The boy looked like the odd one out, almost pulling away from the group. Nicola couldn’t say for certain if the boy in the photo was ‘their’ Marcus, but he was the boy from the photo Patricia had handed to her. They had the same eyes.

‘So what the hell is going on?’ Michael asked. ‘I don’t want to be rude, Mum, but who the hell have we allowed to live under our roof?’ He started to pace.

Nicola was about to reply but the skin prickled on the back of her arms as the wardings she’d set over the house triggered. She motioned for the kids to shoosh for a minute. They all looked towards the kitchen door as Marcus entered the room.

He’d grown in the short time he had been living with them. Nicola noticed that his hair needed a cut. She made a mental note to make sure that got sorted. More disturbing were the dark circles under his eyes and the too pale skin. He was far from a picture of health. When was the last time she’d really looked at this boy? She had offered him a place to live but she hadn’t given him a home. Nicola silently reprimanded herself, but her thoughts must have shown on her face because the side of Marcus’ mouth curled up in his casually mocking way.

Nicola closed her eyes, needing a moment to remind herself of all that this boy had endured.

When she looked back towards him, her own features composed, his smirk was gone.

‘How did things go? Nicola said, trying to sound casual.

‘He’s no brother of mine,’ Marcus declared in a cold, detached voice and, without saying anything further he turned and walked away.

Home Life

The sound of power tools, most noticeably the sharp repetitive strike of a nail gun, was getting on Michael’s nerves. He walked over to the upstairs lounge room window, hoping to locate the source of the racket. Standing on the peak of the roof next door was the man Michael only knew as Marcus’ father. His fists rested lightly against hips and he occasionally raised a hand to point in the direction the materials needed to be placed. Everything about his demeanour reinforced Michael’s opinion that this guy had a military background. He was used to his orders being followed. As always, Michael felt he was watching a performance piece. Everything the family next door did seemed to be orchestrated, as if they were playing for the crowd and Michael was just waiting for the man to glance up and acknowledge him.

As if sensing his growing agitation, Ashul materialised out of the air behind Michael, making the transition from the second realm to the first without fanfare. A slight rippling of the air was the only indication a pathway from another realm had just been traversed. Michael had grown accustomed to even this small disturbance. For the bonded, moving between realms was as simple as walking across a room.

Ashul’s reflection appeared on the smooth surface of the glass next to Michael’s own, but Michael didn’t react to his presence, nor did he greet him out loud.

Michael had known Ashul was approaching. He could feel the distance between them diminishing as Ashul rode through the second realm. It was the nature of their bond. Michael was aware on some level where his fellow bonded were at all times. Each of the bonded, both riders and their horses, had their own unique energy signatures that Michael was able to track. The sleeping warriors, or bonded, as they called themselves, were comprised of fourteen warriors on fourteen horses, and each warrior was paired to their own horse. All the bonded were telepathically linked yet the connection between rider and horse was somehow different, more personal. When Smoke, a magnificent grey mare, had chosen Michael to become her rider, she became something akin to an extension of himself.

The bonded had been created from a merging of the blood of the magic-wielders and the soil of the earth, compelled to serve both blood and land.

Michael had sort of fallen into the ‘job’.

He was the exception. Michael had not been created; he had been born. He was nothing more than a flesh and blood human. But one that had access to the power of the bonded.

Ashul was the bonded’s leader. It was not something that had ever needed to be explained, it didn’t need to be established, it was just a simple fact. Michael had played soccer all his life and natural-born leaders were few and far between, but once you came across one, you recognised them instantly.

Michael had met many people who believed themselves to be leaders. Some even possessed the essential attributes to be one. But only a rare few had the undefinable quality that made people want to follow them. There was a time or two out on the soccer pitch when Michael had stepped up when nobody else had. A time when the team had needed direction, needed a spark, needed someone to dig deep. Michael had provided that spark, had found that elusive next gear. But Michael knew he was only ever a fill-in. He was able to provide the team with what they needed in that moment.

Ashul stood firm in all the moments.

Michael couldn’t describe it any better than that.

The greeting they shared was through their mental link. Ashul’s hand fell on Michael’s shoulder, and it was impossible not to remember the time that same gesture had provided much needed relief. When Michael had been close to breaking, Ashul had used their bond to share the burden of Michael’s pain and, unbeknownst to Michael, had shared the infection he’d suffered. Prior to Michael’s inclusion in the group, the bonded were impervious to this kind of attack. Their magical shields made them virtually untouchable. But Michael had no such shield and the zombie contamination had used their link to him link as a point of entry to the bonded. Ashul believed it made the bonded stronger somehow. Michael wasn’t convinced.

They had been fighting together for only a few months, but for Michael, it felt like they’d been in the middle of this war for years.

‘We suspected they would return,’ Ashul said quietly.

‘I was hoping we would have a little more time.’

‘We are rarely able to control the when. We are fortunate if we are able to control the where.’

‘Geez, Ashul, can you talk like a normal person for just one second?’ Michael shook his head and flicked at the fly buzzing around on the inside of the glass. ‘Fortunate if we are able to control the where… Geez!’

‘Actually, I quite liked that one.’ Dana chuckled as she walked into the room and dropped into the corner of the couch, legs curled underneath her.

‘Dana.’ Ashul nodded in Dana’s direction. ‘I am here only to serve.’

Michael shook his head and used some less than polite words to describe Ashul and his method of speech.

‘Michael, you realise he is taking the piss, yeah?’ said Dana. ‘I must admit, I am a little puzzled by the timing. First, we have Grandmama and little Tommy popping in for a visit and now we have Marcus’ family getting their house in order. I assume so they can move back in.’ Dana rubbed at her cheek. ‘And this talk about Tommy being able to lead us to where the doll is hiding. Because the ants can show him no less. Is there any chance that what he is saying is true? Ashul, could he be able to communicate with ants? Or do we think this is just more of the doll’s games?’ Dana chose her next words carefully. ‘Because Aunty Sarah and Dad are confident that the doll isn’t drawing any energy at the moment. It has effectively gone off the grid.’

Michael could feel Ashul considering how best to phrase his response. He probably did not want to remind Dana of what she had so recently endured. Since Dana had been held captive by the imps and subjected to what could only be described as torture, she had changed. She was prone to thinking long and hard about things before speaking. This almost reserved aspect to Dana’s nature was not something Michael was accustomed to. He wanted the ‘talk first, think later’ Dana back.

In the end, Ashul’s words came out without being softened. They rarely did. ‘Unfortunately, we are only too aware that there are ways for energy to be hidden,’ said Ashul. ‘The faeries’ realm resides behind a veil. The imps were able to disguise not only their location, if we are to speak plainly, even the extent of their numbers was easily concealed. I need not remind you: they were able to pull your energy signature from this grid.’ Dana held Ashul’s gaze, only the slight tightening around her eyes indicating how much this memory hurt her. It had been less than a month since her imprisonment and, although she tried to hide it, the memory still pained her.

‘Although we have access to information the likes of which I have never had access to before, much remains hidden,’ Ashul added, as enigmatic as ever.

Michael expected Marcus’ father to turn towards the window at any second, sensing somehow that he was the topic of discussion, but instead he seemed to be purposefully ignoring Michael. What he would do if the man did turn and look him straight in the eyes, he wasn’t certain but it was hard to shake the feeling that he was in some strange non-staring contest.

‘On that note…’ Michael nudged his sister, who was still sitting on the couch, as he made his way to his room. ‘I need to get my stuff together. I need to be at training in about forty minutes. Dana, are you driving? You have to get those hours up.’ Michael knew Ashul wasn’t entirely comfortable being a passenger in any car. It was a control thing. He had endured it once or twice in the past, but Dana was still learning and this being the case, Ashul would prefer it if she drove at 40 kilometres an hour on the freeway. Michael didn’t even attempt to hide the smile from his face as he walked past the leader of the bonded, mentally laughing at Ashul’s discomfort.

Ashul’s expression held a clear silent rebuke to Michael, yet his words to Dana were chosen with care. ‘Not wanting to be a burden, perhaps I will meet you there.’

Dana, never one to let anything go, was as quick to respond: ‘Ashul, are you suggesting there is some kind of problem with my driving?’ Dana leaned forward, attentive, daring Ashul to say the wrong thing.

‘Lady Dana, I question not your skill but it would seem that since having experienced the speed at which a falcon can fly you now try to emulate that same…’ Ashul paused searching for the correct word. His face remained stoic, but Michael thought he could detect a faint twitch near his left eye.

‘Rush?’ Michael jumped in. He’d had his fun. He couldn’t leave Ashul hanging like that. Dana could be scary when she wanted to be.

‘Yes, rush! You try to recapture the rush when you drive.’ Ashul’s expression remained calm, but the lightness in his tone showed that he felt he had negotiated the topic well. Michael paused in the doorway, curious to see Dana’s reaction because although Ashul might be thousands of years old and a natural-born leader made from earth and magic, Dana was, well… Dana was Dana.

When she burst out laughing, Michael left the room to grab his soccer gear, glad that Ashul had managed to negotiate his way around a potentially difficult conversation.

* * *

Dana got Michael to the soccer ground with time to spare, so Michael embraced the opportunity to just sit on the sidelines and take everything in for a moment. The smell of the pitch, the grandstand rising high in front of him, the slow build-up of people as they arrived at the ground were all things that made Michael feel centred. He’d been playing soccer since he was four and there was no place where he felt more at home. After strapping his shin guards in place, he dropped the black tape back into his bag, making sure the boots signed by Timmy Cahill were sitting snug at the bottom. Since the day Marcus had stolen his lucky boots, Michael just did not feel comfortable leaving them at home, especially now they had Marcus living with them, walking around like he owned their place.

Well, that was a little unfair.

Marcus barely moved from the back room he’d been given. He probably sat in there watching TV, listening to music, playing video games. But the truth was, Michael had no idea what he did in there. Rarely did Michael hear any noise coming from the back room. There were times that Michael was certain Marcus was home, only to have him saunter through the front door a couple of hours later. And it seemed a bit ridiculous asking his mum to check the wards to see if Marcus was home; that felt a little too much like the flags you could get for doggy doors that let you know if Fido was in or out. Michael just wanted to walk into the kitchen and know whether Marcus had just left the room or, more importantly, if he was about to enter it.

He found himself less likely to walk downstairs to grab a drink and would stay in his own room for hours just so he could avoid contact with Marcus. Michael felt like his family were becoming hermits in their own home. He made a mental note to talk to his mum and dad about the whole Marcus situation. It was all well and good to want to be good Samaritans, but Marcus’ father, or the man that claimed to be Marcus’ dad, was supervising repair works next door. Michael wasn’t advocating that Marcus be sent back to live with the family who had ritualistically tortured him, but now there was his grandma in the picture. Surely that changed things. It just didn’t make sense anymore for Marcus to stay with them.

But right now, Michael had other things to focus on. He was training with the state team. First, they would run through some basic drills, and then there was going to be a practice match.

To say his first couple of training sessions with the state soccer team hadn’t gone as well as he would have liked would be an understatement. The sessions had been unmitigated disasters, each and every one of them.

He’d managed in just a few short weeks to generate a reputation of being a little unstable. Maybe a flake was closer to the mark. If some residual of the zombie virus had remained in Michael’s blood, leaving him aggressive or a bit erratic, he could have used that to get into the other players’ heads. Michael was not that lucky. The vampire Lorcan had done exactly as he’d promised, wiping all traces of the zombie poison from Michael’s system. The strength and the rage had been eradicated by the brutal cleansing process. Michael was glad that he had no memory of the event, with his soul residing for a time in the gypsy book – his connection to his body had been severed. It was a small mercy he was eternally grateful for. He’d endured a diluted version of a vampire cleansing, and it was not something he ever wanted to experience again. Those few snippets of memory were enough to disturb his sleep, forcing him awake from remembered pain. No, it was the time he’d spent healing in the faeries’ crystal cave that had damaged his soccer reputation.

The magic of the faerie was at its most potent in the confines of the cave, and it was this healing energy that had left a kind of residual intoxication. Colours seemed brighter, sounds more melodic.

In his first training session after the healing, he’d stood for a full thirty seconds after the whistle had blown, waiting for the musical trill to come again, trying to follow the sound as it bounced around the field for what seemed like minutes. That momentary lapse had earned him an elbow in the ribs with an angry ‘Wakey-wakey!’ from his teammates. Things had not gotten any better from there. Too many times Michael found himself chasing random lights, colours, sounds – some real, others imagined.

But today was the first day that he’d felt like himself again. Colours were just colours and sounds remained simply noise. As he ran through his final preparation, checking his shin guards and laces, he reached into his bag and brought out his lucky boots. They no longer fit him; he’d grown in the last couple of months, but he liked to have the boots with him – they helped him compose his thoughts.

Today, he needed to get past the stigma that had built around him and remind the other players why he was the youngest person selected to train. He jumped up, bouncing on his feet a couple of times, and ran off to join the group.

* * *

Dana watched from the sidelines with her father by her side. True to his word, Ashul had chosen to make his own way to the ground. He wore jeans and a long-sleeve hoodie, casual on anyone else but somehow less so on Ashul. At first glance, Ashul looked like any of the other teenage boys come to enjoy a day at the soccer, blonde hair, cut in the relaxed style of a surfer, maybe even a skateboarder, but the way he held himself suggested otherwise.

Maybe it was the way he walked over, always monitoring his surroundings, that suggested he was ready. Not for a fight exactly, but he always appeared to be expecting something. She supposed that if you only got woken to fight in wars, kicking back and enjoying a soccer match might not be such a simple task. His manner was in no way aggressive, he just appeared poised in a way that the rest of them did not.

When Ashul moved to stand beside Dana, he smiled warmly and gave her a barely perceptible nod, but all the while his piercing blue eyes roamed, never staying fixed on one thing for long.

Even though Ashul had been to the sportsground before, Dana knew he was assessing everything from a tactical standpoint. He would already be aware of how the light would change as the sun dropped behind the grandstand, and he would have noted the excavation work taking place nearby and the impact this would have on other sounds if anything unexpected were to approach. Ashul would have observed the wind direction, the temperature of the air, even the humidity.

She knew because she’d taken note of the same things. Dana was nothing if not a quick study and, in the last few months, she had learned some of the skills required to assess her vulnerabilities.

She had seen Ashul fight against the ethereal vampiric white women, had brought down her share of the imps when she fought beside him as a falcon as well as the messier battle on the roof of their next-door neighbours’ house where she had to fight with her bare hands because she had yet to discover her ability to shapeshift. Although she knew him for what he was, a warrior bound to protect the source and those of the blood that stayed true – she wished that for just a second, he would relax and watch the soccer.

Michael was going to play well. Dana could feel it.

Not through any special magical ability, but because she could read her brother like a book and his eyes shone in a way they only did when he was fully switched on, happy with how his body felt, knowing his head was in the right place. He was laughing with his teammates, joking about something as they passed the ball around during warm-up, but Dana could see by the way he held his body, how he anticipated every touch of the ball that he was in his element for the first time in months. Dana loved seeing Michael this way, loved watching him play, always had.

She nudged Ashul playfully, trying to get him to loosen up a little. ‘Before you even start, yes I am aware the light will drop in around half an hour. Yes, I took note of the construction noise in the background. And I am aware that the bins to our right could be used as cover.’ Dana smiled at Ashul. It was such a gorgeous day. Blue skies with minimal cloud cover so there was little or no glare, perfect for soccer. And as the sun set and the floodlights came on, it was hard not to let some of the tension from the last couple of months drain away.

‘Dad is even watching the electrics in the background, if that makes you feel any better?’ Dana leaned across and tapped her father on the arm. ‘Just out of curiosity, how many of the bonded have joined us?’

‘I’d say just about all of them,’ Joseph said before Ashul had a chance. ‘You can feel the static shift in the clouds.’ To Dana the clouds appeared normal. They rolled in a slightly contained way, but nothing that gave away the fact that the bonded were circling above the pitch.

The sheer absurdity of the situation was not lost on Dana. A smile still played at the corners of her mouth but remained only until she saw the game officials arriving. Her thoughts of clouds and the bonded disappeared. She could feel her face hardening into a scowl.

She would recognise that short arsehole of a referee anywhere.

He had reffed against her in the past and he was always the official that liked to make the game more about himself than the players, always tooting his whistle and calling a foul. But to her, he was the man who had stood over the unconscious body of her brother and threw a red card in his face. Spit flying from his mouth as he continued to rain obscenities down upon Michael, when he was clearly beyond hearing anything that was being said.

Dana knew when she saw Michael’s rhythm shift for just a moment that he had seen the referee as well.

* * *

Michael couldn’t believe his luck. As he tapped the ball towards Jonah, he saw the officials arriving and, for the first time in months, he felt like himself. He tried not to react, but his jaw was already clenched. He shook his hands out and flexed his fingers so that he wasn’t standing there with balled fists. In his mind, Michael was already playing ahead to the moment at the start of every game when he would have to shake the hands of the other team as well as the officials. Would he be able to?

His memories of the time when the zombie infection first took hold of his system were foggy to say the least, but the face of this ref, covered in the membranous sack of the doll’s influence was a crystal-clear moment amongst many disjointed memories.

This image was clouded by red.

Whether it was the red of the referee’s rage or his own zombie-edged delirium, Michael would never be able to say. When Michael had been able to resist the coercion of the Nachzehrer influence that taunted him to lash out and attack, the referee being manipulated by a similar compulsion from the doll, had not found the will or even the desire to resist.

So, yes, he felt he was justified in holding a little bit of a grudge.

He knew how the doll worked: it could get into your mind and twist and manipulate what it found there. Michael knew because he’d experienced it himself firsthand. But, and it was kind of a big but, the doll could only work with what it had available. It could whisper rage-filled words into your mind, could foster resentment and feelings of betrayal, but it could not plant the seed. It could only help any existing malignancy grow.

So whatever issues this ref had, they were his and his alone. And Michael was more than a little interested as to how much of the doll’s perversion remained now that the doll’s whispering had been removed from his mind.

This guy actually owed him a debt, if you wanted to look at things in an old school kind of way. How this referee had acted was unforgivable. And Michael had no intention of forgiving him. The more Michael hung out with warriors that had been created in a different millennium, the more he found his thinking was coloured by the simplicity of the ideals of the past.

When the doll’s connections had been severed in the second plane, the minds the doll had been feeding upon were freed – this included this referee who now strode around the pitch like the reincarnation of Napoleon.

Michael had a slightly more biblical notion of obligation and debt than Ashul did. The bonded were created to serve, to fight the doll and any other forces that tried to upset the delicate balance of things. The source – the power that gave life to all things – had to be protected.

No debt could arise through duty. He could almost hear Ashul speaking in his mind.

Michael’s mum would have thought the same thing, just not in quite such an archaic form, but his sister would get what he was thinking. She would understand, and Michael had a sneaking suspicion most of the bonded would lean towards his more unforgiving approach.

With some apprehension and a hefty dose of righteous indignation, Michael jogged over with his teammates to shake the official’s hands, pushing all connections to the bonded to the back of his mind. He would draw on no power now because soccer had to be played without such aid.

The linesmen Michael barely made any note of. His eyes were fixed on the referee who stood at the end of the line with arrogant indifference. When he locked eyes with the man who had verbally abused him while he lay semiconscious, Michael allowed his vision to shift, viewing the world through the scars that marred his eyes. Whether it was the shift in his eye colour from light brown to milky white that caused the man to flinch, Michael couldn’t say but it was with some satisfaction that Michael noted recognition had caused the ref a moment of pause. He was aware of who stood in front of him, and it made him uncomfortable.

While Michael didn’t squeeze the ref’s hand, much to his disappointment, the man before him held no such qualms. The joints of Michael’s knuckles ground together as the grown man, who had no whispered words to coerce his actions this time, chose to inflict a little pain on a fifteen-year-old kid.

The second sight Michael had gained as a result of the Nachzehrer scarring allowed him to view things others could not. In this instance, Michael did not see any membranous sac or umbilical connecting the ref to the doll, so he knew with certainty this man was operating without outside interference.

Michael had endured more than bruised knuckles in the past few months, but the malicious intent still stung.

How were they to defeat the doll if some people required no encouragement at all to abuse power?

The clouds above Michael grew darker as the bonded circled in agitation.

Past Grievances

Dana paced the sidelines, following the play as it moved up and down the pitch. Although she loved watching the game, she had no delusions about what it did to her nerves. Her heart rate would be lower if she were out there playing compared to the elevated beat she now felt in her chest. Movement was the only thing that calmed her. Dana couldn’t watch with Joseph for too long. To say he was passionate about sport was like saying he only liked cars. Joseph had an Italian background and his passion for the world game made him loud and oftentimes outspoken as a spectator. If Michael was playing, forget about it. Nicola and Joseph rarely watched a full game together – Nicola barely tolerated Joseph’s antics as a spectator. Nicola and Joseph were like chalk and cheese in so many ways. Joseph was dark-haired, olive-skinned and fiery, whereas Nicola was blonde-haired with blue eyes and liked to think she was the composed one.

Her mum always said she didn’t care that her children looked like Joseph as long as they thought like her. Dana wasn’t sure how that was going for her.

Her parents stood together, watching from the halfway line.

Michael had been placed in a defensive midfield position as part of the opening line-up. Not his favourite spot, but one he was always happy to play. He had started strongly with a decisive tackle, quickly flicking the ball off to his right. Dana breathed a sigh of relief. The first tackle was always difficult. You needed it to show your strength, put your stamp on the game as quickly as possible, but it needed to be restrained enough to not draw any unwanted attention from the referee.

A good five seconds after the play had been completed, the whistle was blown and a foul was given against Michael.

‘That’s how it’s going to be, is it?’ Dana was speaking to herself, but she knew that everyone around her was thinking the same thing. The small shifts in the crowd were always a dead giveaway as to how they viewed the game. People who had been leaning casually against the fence were now standing straight, mumbling amongst themselves.

Michael gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and ran back without dispute. Within seconds of the free kick being taken, the ball had been cleared. A quick throw-in. Michael broke away from his man. He made it past one player, saw his teammate break away, and sent a diagonal ball to his feet.

The whistle blew again, this time for offside. The small crowd that had come to watch the practice match yelled their disapproval.

The linesman’s flag had never gone up.

And so it went on.

Michael was called as fouling another three times. Each time, he just ran back into position and reset. But he adapted. If every long ball he sent was going to be deemed offside, he started to deliver short fast passes. At one point when no opening was available, he went for a run down the line, slipping past two players, ready to turn towards goal and was clipped on the shoulder by the referee who not only refused to move out of the line of play but had stepped directly into it.

The referee threw his hands up in an apologetic gesture towards Michael’s coach, but then stood in front of Michael, not saying a word, like a petulant child. He forced Michael to walk around him.

Dana saw Michael’s eyes cloud over, appearing frosty white for just a second or two, then return to their usual colour. There was no doubt that Michael had registered the targeted behaviour of the referee, and he was continually checking to ensure there was no involvement from the doll. By the fact that Michael had not contacted Ashul, it was evident this guy was just being a prick.

Already on edge, Dana jumped when someone from behind spoke to her, so close that she felt the speaker’s breath on her ear.

Lorcan said, ‘Do we intend to just stand by and watch as this official, once again, interferes in what could be an entertaining game?’

Dana spun around, but the ancient one was already standing beside her. Ashul seemed to sense Lorcan’s presence and nodded in his direction. Ashul remained next to Joseph, arms folded across his chest obviously thinking thoughts that ran along the same lines as the vampire.

Lorcan was the very epitome of the tall, dark, enigmatic stranger. He was broad-shouldered and always wore clothes that accentuated that fact. Even in a T-shirt and jeans his clothes looked like they’d been tailored to fit him. His hair, always freshly cut was dishevelled in a way that looked effortless. If Dana didn’t know better, she would say he had a personal stylist. His speech was clipped in an old school kind of way.

‘Oh, and what would you suggest, Lorcan?’ said Dana. ‘Should we get Mum to blast him with a bit of wild magic, or maybe Dad could electrocute him where he stands? Perhaps we should ask the bonded to fly down and trample him to death. I’m as furious as you but I don’t believe there’s much that we can do about it.’ Dana flung her hair over her shoulder and turned to look back towards the pitch.

In the time she’d been talking to Lorcan, half-time had been called, and she now felt like an idiot staring at the ground as the players