Tora 's dark brown hair sailed through the air. The day was so warm that beads of sweat glistened on her porcelain skin. A wicked smile crossed her face as she jested with Carlos, who was several rungs above. Damien didn't need to hear with his ears – he could feel what she was saying and feeling just from the emotions that poured freely from her. He'd never met anyone who was so honest with their thoughts. How could Ross think something this innocent could be a demon?

"Are you gonna join us or what?"

He realised with a jump that she was talking about him. He wasn't so subtle about his wistful observation after all.

"Damien doesn't do physical training," said Carlos, sly. "Ross doesn't make him 'cos he's all brain power."

And he doesn't have the body for it, Damien could hear him think. He flushed. He was right, of course. He was short, spindly, with no muscle mass. All the others were Olympians compared to him.

"Don't be an ass, newbie," she said, giving him a kick from below. It connected with his shin, making him yelp. "Come on – Damien, isn't it? Come join us."

"I'm n-n-no good." He could feel fire spreading to the roots of his hair. He scrabbled sweaty hands behind him, looking for the doorknob leading back upstairs.

"We're not training," she said, rolling those brilliant blue eyes. "Just hanging out... literally. You don't have to do any pull-ups, just sit and chat and... stuff."

She waved her hand to finish the rest of her sentence, evidently not having thought her line through. Her benevolent grin gave him a little stir of confidence.

"We're all friends here, right?" she added, giving Carlos another kick. He yelped again and nodded, baleful.

He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans and shuffled towards the monkey bars. They'd been there for as long as he could remember but he'd never braved it. The shiny steel frame and distance above ground made his knees quake. But under Tora's expectant glance, he grabbed the nearest horizontal bar. Gosh, they were so far up. He couldn't even make out Carlos's expression.

One shaking leg propped him about two inches off the ground. His other hand grabbed the next one up.

About halfway up he made the mistake of glancing down. His stomach did a somersault and his throat tightened up. His joints locked.

"Don't look down, you eejit!" came Tora's playful voice from somewhere above. "Come on, you're nearly there!"

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and immersed himself in pleasant thoughts. The cogs of wheels, neatly slotting in with each other. The subtle beauty of algorithms on the computer, each letter and input corresponding to an instruction and output. In, out. No mistakes.

He looked up. He was nearly there. Somehow he made the last few rungs. Shaking knees rested on the horizontal bars, the metal digging right into his tibia. Tora and Carlos were just across this rung bridge. He could make it. Tora watched him with expectation, her bottom wedged in the space between the rungs and her ankles swinging.

Damien took his time to compose himself and steeled his eyes forwards instead of down. His armpits were sticky, as were his hands. He wiped them on his jeans again.

He knew he'd miscalculated the moment he lunged forward. Perhaps it was his hands that were still sweaty, perhaps it was his trembling legs finally giving out – whatever it was, he found himself missing the next rung. Almost in slow motion, he saw surprise flit across Tora's face. The ground – his heart leapt to his throat when he realised there were no crash mats placed – waited, hard and unforgiving, for his face to connect with it.

"Gotcha!"

A pair of hands clamped around his flailing wrists. A gasp escaped his throat. The ground slipped underneath him. Air whooshed past his face. He narrowed his eyes, fighting against squeezing his eyes shut despite his instincts. The next moment, he found himself landing with a thump with his bottom on one of the resting posts at the other end of the frames, facing Tora – or rather, Tora's long legs. A pair of long-fingered hands grabbed the bars at his feet and the brunette righted herself again, her face pink.

He blinked. She couldn't possibly have moved him so precisely with her mind. Only yesterday she almost had an aneurysm shifting small beanbags across the floor. Had she swung him?

"Nice!" she said in excitement. She rolled her shoulders, making the sockets click. Up close, the adrenaline lit up her doll-like features, a stark contrast to her brutality when fighting demons. "Was that your first time?"

Damien nodded, mute. He hadn't realised his heart could go that fast.

"Well that wasn't too bad," said Carlos from above. It was his best attempt at being friendly.

"So, you're Damien, right?" Tora said, all eager. She shuffled closer until they were about two inches apart, face to face. The proximity made Damien blush more, making him thankful he was already red from the exertion. "You never ever talk at dinners and stuff. And you always look so busy."

He shrugged, not knowing what to say.

"What do you like to do? Surely more than just computering."

The look from those intense blue eyes made him sweat even more.

"I like v-v-video games."

"Oh?" Carlos sounded interested at last. "What kind?"

"I have l-l-loads. Caudal Wombat, Time: No Land to See, Tario, Fever, Fan Left Lotto, Maul of Cruelty, Siege of Ligands..."

"Oh my god, so we can actually have fun here?" His jaw dropped. "It's not just working out and butch girls?"

"Screw you, newbie," remarked Tora.

"Aw, man." A massive grin spread across Carlos's face. "Looks like this place isn't too bad after all. No offence," he added, tilting his head down at Tora. "Sparring with you is fun and all, but it's not exactly fulfilling."

"Want me to hand you your balls on a plate, assface?"

They all laughed.

Damien blinked in the darkness before settling back with a small smile. That had been one of the better memories he'd journeyed. Lately all the ones he'd relived were bloody and painful – he might not feel the physical pain, but the terror and adrenaline rush reacting to injury still replayed clearly in his head. It was just as well he couldn't dream; all the horrors and deaths he'd seen and sensed would make his subconscious go wild. Reliving the bad past memories was bad enough. His heavy lids drooped; his breathing slowed.

The shriek of the alarm tore through Damien's peace.

He sat up, his heart racing. Cold sweat broke out. It was a few seconds before his mind settled back to reality from one of his favourite memories. The blare became information instead of the source of blind panic.

Impossible. He swallowed. He hadn't felt anything. It couldn't possibly be a rip again. All of the other rips, even the unscheduled ones, had at least given him a tiny bit of forewarning that was notable in retrospect, but this one – not even a hint.

Nevertheless, his system had seldom malfunctioned. A false alarm was better than a missed one. Without another thought, he leapt out, kicked off his pyjamas, and threw on his emergency hoodie and jogging trousers. Rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes, he yanked the door open and was the first down the stairs.

Well, second. Markl was standing at the computer already, his face pale.

"Where is it?" Damien said, peering. His stomach dropped. "Crap."

"Aw, bloody hell," said Ross, materialising from the kitchen with a roll in her hand. She yelled upstairs for the rest to hurry, rolling up her striped sleeves, and turned back to scowl at the screen. "I remember that place."

Damien did, too. Braverley was the worst rip they'd had, just over two years ago. The demons resembled grim reapers, with ghostly black cloaks made of no manmade material, no feet, and skeletal hands that protruded from their sleeves. Freezing air moved in and out of their gaping orifice of a mouth, their other facial features hidden beneath a thick hood. What was most terrifying was how they drew in warmth and life around them and expelled death and terror. Their very existence seeped into the deepest crevices of his soul and drew out his darkest memories, almost smothering him with his own mind. Damien's own ability was their best weapon.

They'd barely made it out alive back then. He couldn't even remember how they managed to push those monstrosities back, for they were almost wholly resistant to brute force. He made triply sure he'd sealed that place for good. He'd never want to see them again. But there was no mistaking that dot at the train station; it had to be them. A shiver ran down his back at the mere thought of the return of those demons.

Perhaps now with Carlos and Tora in the team, they stood more of a chance. Either way, he didn't fancy the odds.

"Where the hell is Tora?" said Ross, glaring at Carlos as he stumbled down the stairs, one leg still sticking out of his pyjama bottoms and his arm sticking through the hole of his t-shirt where his head should be.

Markl's fingers flew across the keyboard, throwing up exact coordinates and time estimations. The rip occurred fifteen seconds ago. Damien tugged at his fingers, making the joints crack. The nausea of a new rip still hadn't hit him yet. It must be the adrenaline combined with exhaustion. Markl paused.

"Tora's gone."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"What?!" Carlos stared, still stuck in his peculiar stance. "What the hell, man?"

"She left a few hours ago."

"You didn't stop her?" Damien's voice cracked. He felt winded, disorientated. Tora was gone? She didn't say goodbye? Wasn't Markl going to talk to her?

Something wasn't right. She wasn't the sort to run away – her of all people.

"That's not the issue now," said Ross, zipping up her hoodie and shooting another wary look at the screen. "We need to get to Braverley quickly – especially as we're a telekinetic down. It's probably going to be hellish like last time."

"Hellish?" said Carlos, his mouth down-turning. He pulled a face. "Is it that bad?"

Ross turned to him with an ice queen stare.

"You've no idea."

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