Tommy turned to Dec, scowling. "Thanks for nothing."

Dec was still gaping at the silver disk in his hand. "Are you serious? That guy was a freak."

"He's the leader of the most powerful Nocturnal movement we've seen so far. He owns this bloody club. You could've shown him some respect."

Dec spluttered. So Lazar was the one paying the police to keep the club running. And that's why everyone had his tattoos. But where did he get the get all his money from? "Sounds like a cult, Tommy. They'll use you up, force you to do their bidding, and bail on the ensuing shit storm."

"I'd rather be an idiot stuck in a shit storm saving lives, than hiding undercover, hoping it'll pass," Tommy retorted.

This made Dec reel. Was Tommy trying to say Dec was a skive? "Easy to say when you're not the one being arrested," he blurted, even though he knew it was a senseless remark. Tommy would gladly have taken a black mark on his record if he thought it was for the 'Nocturnal cause'. Hell, he'd probably give his life if he knew it would make him some kind of martyr. Which was what made him a perfect target for Lazar.

A hero thinks with his head, a fool thinks with his heart. Dec's hand came to rest absentmindedly on the front pocket of his jeans where the note from Dirk was tucked away. It should've been given to Tommy, not him.

Tommy was standing now, and slapping the heel of his palm on the pop-rivet corner of the metal casket table. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Then, without so much as a goodbye, he walked away.

Dec watched him go, stomach churning. His mind travelled back to the strange girl, Teegan, with her tower heels and psychology degree. He wondered if she was right about Tommy. Maybe he wasn't such a good friend after all. Maybe it was time Dec stopped trying to keep up with Tommy's outlandish plans.

But then again—

He forced himself to remember the Tommy he knew growing up in Quarry Cove—the small fishing town on the southernmost coast of the Isles, where Dec's mother used to manage their family's wheat farm and where Tommy's family owned land too—land that had been passed down through the generations of his family, making them the longest surviving native owners in the area. It was where they'd skimmed rocks, fished off the jetty, ridden their bikes to the local dump to collect parts to make go karts. Tommy's parents presided over the council for marine park protection, the same council Dec's mum was on. Tommy and Dec used to play at the back of the town hall during council meetings.

Dec never knew his father. His mum re-married when he was five and soon after, Mel came along. Tommy had been like a second brother to her. They used to tease her mercilessly, then get into fights with any neighbourhood kids who tried to do the same. Typical brothers, they alone retained the right to rile her up.

When Adele's marriage fell through and she sold the farm to move to the big city of Atunda, Dec had been forced to change schools. Thankfully, Tommy's parents decided to board Tommy at the same high school, and he was the sole reason Dec didn't go completely friendless that year.

While Tommy become known as the class clown and was loved by everyone except his teachers, Dec faded into the background. Still, Tommy remained a loyal friend who refused to go to any parties unless Dec was invited too. Dec would never forget the time Tommy turned down the advances of the girl he'd been crushing on for years when she told him he'd be better off without Dec as his constant 'tag-along'. Surely that had to count for something. Surely all their history was worth more than a fight about the NYR.

Dec's stomach churned again. This time, not from this fight with Tommy. This time, it was from the beers he'd drunk on an empty stomach, which had been empty since his run-in with the police the night before. He stood and swayed, closed his eyes and immediately regretted doing so when the ground tipped and threatened to buck him sideways. Feet struggling for purchase on the dust-coated concrete floor, he staggered towards the main crypt and leaned on the coffin bar, earning him a scowl from the bartender.

Yeah, now you see me.

"I think you'd better show yourself the door, mate," the bartender said.

Dec didn't need to be told twice. The push of sweaty bodies, the fake smoke, the march-of-the-living-dead organ music and pulsating lights pressed him in, making the crypt feel like a small torture chamber filled with nails. He stumbled towards the exit and pushed open the heavy iron door. It gave a metallic groan and expelled him into the tunnel beyond with a rush of cold, slightly damp catacomb air.

A pre-emptive sour taste filled Dec's mouth and he leaned on the rough stone wall and took three, deep breaths.

The security guard hovered his torch over Dec's face, "Move along," and shoved him in the back.

When Dec didn't move, he plucked him up by his collar and half-led, half-dragged him around a bend in the tunnel out of sight. "Now get outta here before you soil the airspace." He turned and went back to his station.

Dec groaned, staggered a few steps, then braced himself against the wall. The tunnel flickered in the glow of citrus flares. The ground wobbled and tilted askew. Dec's throat clenched, his gut tightened and in a series of silent convulsions, the contents of his stomach rose and spilled out, grape red, not so different looking from how it went in.

Dec took three deep breaths and tested his feet again, this time, finding them solid. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he was about to continue down the tunnel towards the Lady Josephine when rough hands grabbed him from behind and thrust him against the wall.

For a second, Dec thought it must be the security guard come to rough him up for soiling the tunnel space. But flint black eyes and a face concealed by the shadow of a black hooded jumper told him otherwise.

His heart hammered. He remembered seeing eyes just like that, not so long ago, in the shadows of the cemetery. They were eyes that bore, as deep as the bottom of two wells and they were narrowed on him in accusation.

It can't be, he told himself as he tried to regain his composure. Either he really was going insane, or someone was playing a cruel joke on him.

Panicking, he tried to push past the hooded figure, only to be thrust against the wall again. This time, with so much force the air was pushed from his lungs in an ugly grunt. There was a flash of glossy, midnight-black hair peeking out from the hood and he realised, with dread, his intuition had been right. The eyes, that hair belonged to a Northerner. The Northerner from the cemetery.

He opened his mouth to call out to the security guard when a blade flashed in the darkness, dropping into the Northerner's hands from a concealment in the sleeve of her jumper. It rose to his neck and pressed, the metal so thin and sharp, it felt like nothing but the scratch of paper against his skin.

"Don't," the Northerner said in a low voice, stepping closer and stretching her leg out so her foot formed a wedge against the stone wall behind, keeping him braced against his side of the tunnel. Taught muscle bunched beneath her clothing. She was stronger than she looked, and if Dec didn't know better, he would never have guessed she'd been badly injured only a few night's before.

A long moment passed between them, a moment suspended in the kind of silence where he could hear his own heartbeat. Was she going to slit his throat? Was she going to rough him up and leave him to die, just as he'd done to her?

To Dec's disgust and confusion, the Northerner's free hand travelled back and forth along his shirt in a sweeping motion, moving inch-by-inch down his body. His muscles riled against her touch, senses revolting. The keen edge of her blade was all that kept him from lashing out.

"What do you want?" His Adam's apple bobbed uncomfortably against the knife blade. "I don't have any money."

She angled the knife across-sinew and rummaged in his back pocket, removing the last few coins he'd been planning to gamble on the Black Knight machine. She narrowed her eyes.

That's not even two sol's worth, Dec thought, eyeing the single golden coin and the assortment of smaller bronze cresols shaped like crescent moons sliding between her fingers.

The woman returned the coins to his back pocket and began scrounging in his front pockets, fingers finding the small silver magnet Lazar had tossed him. She held it up to the glow of flares. "You should wear this." Gripping Dec's wrist, she clipped the magnet to the back of his palm pod before returning to her rummaging. "Where's the note from the law-maker?"

Did she mean lawyer? Dec swallowed hard. How did she know about the note? The knife was pressed too firmly against his throat to answer. So he patted his right pocket. Changing knife hands, she extracted the note and held it up for inspection. "You should've destroyed this," she said. "Hold."

With shaking hands, he gripped the corner of the paper. A lighter appeared in her hand, in much the same way as the knife. Flicking the spark wheel, she brought flame to paper. It curled and blackened, didn't take long before it scolded the tips of his fingers and he had to drop it. Curdled smoke rose between them as it fluttered to their feet and snuffed.

She stood back and tucked the knife and lighter back into her sleeves, confident in his surrender. Her confidence wasn't misplaced. Dec was starched under her keen-eyed scrutiny like a shirt scrubbed and bleached and left in the sun to dry.

"What did that man want back there? The one in the ... " She gestured to her neck.

"Cravat?" he offered weakly.

"Yes. Cravat." Her intonation was a perfect match to his. So perfect, she even added his growled inflection. "What did he want?"

Dec didn't know what to say. How did she know about his conversation with Lazar? Or the note from Dirk? How did she know he would be at the club tonight? "You've been following me?"

"I asked you a question."

Dec squirmed. "He wanted me to join the NYR. I said no."

She nodded. "Good," and released him from her gaze.

He let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Her eyes slipped from his face to focus on a distracted point behind his head.

"Who are you?" he said, voice dry from forgetting to swallow.

She glared. His question seemed to have spoiled an important train of thought. "I've been employed to keep you out of trouble." She glanced left and right. "Only you haven't exactly been making that easy."

"Employed?" Dec swallowed. "By who?"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge such information."

Dec did a double take. He'd heard that excuse before. From the mouth of the lawyer only just the other night. "Dirk Regulski," he breathed. He didn't know if he meant it as a statement or a question. All he knew was that it had to be the link between the two strangers.

The Northerner narrowed her eyes. "Is that the name of the lawyer?"

So, she didn't know Dirk's name. He mustn't have been her employer. Then, who was she? "What do you want?"

"I need you to stay out of trouble."

"What's my trouble to you?" He blurted, then stopped. He did not want to inspire the return of her knife.

"What's it to me?" An ironic smile curved on her lips. Her hands moved to the hem of her jumper. At first, he thought she was reaching for another concealed weapon. So, he was surprised when she lifted the fabric to reveal her torso, which was wrapped in a tight white bandage.

She unfurled the bandage. A long, jagged cut scored her skin from her sternum to navel, held together with fresh stitches. "I got this when I destroyed the bot on your tail." She re-tucked the bandage. "And this is from when I fought one of Montague's men to steal back incriminating footage of you and Tommy throwing eggs at Daylighter businesses." She turned her head. Her neck gleamed in the light of the flares, a vivid white scar outlining the curve of her jaw, an anomaly against the perfect pastel of her skin which was creamy smooth and the colour of the core of an almond. "Of course I could send that footage back to Officer Montague if you'd like."

Dec couldn't take his eyes off the scar. The Northerner had disabled one of Montague's armed men? That meant her knife was no mere accessory. And the scar? Until that night in the cemetery, he'd assumed all Northerners were cold, emotionless beings, who didn't bleed, didn't feel pain, didn't experience normal human empathy and certainly didn't scar. But this Northerner was ... different. And she could speak his language.

"Who are you?" he whispered, breath coming out in short puffs.

Her body went rigid, and she rose on her toes as though she might flee. Then, she took a deep breath and said, "Rain."

"Rain?"

"Yes."

Strange, Dec thought.

Voices and footsteps cut through the silence, echoing down the tunnel, moving rapidly closer. Suddenly, Rain had Dec by the shoulders and her fingers had found pressure points in his neck."Agh—"

Black spots appeared behind his eyes at the pain and the exclamation dried in his throat. The fingers on his neck pushed harder, sending spasms of pain through his body. He couldn't move, couldn't make a sound.

The voices grew louder, drew alongside them in the narrow tunnel, then passed. Their footsteps echoed along a narrow bend before fading into silence once more. Only then did Rain let go, the impression of her fingers still burning his neck. Dec sucked in air. The world spun. He'd forgotten to breathe again.

Rain stepped back and searched his face before letting out a hissed breath. "It's true."

Dec coughed. "What's true?"

Rain's gaze pierced. "You're... like me. You're a ... Shadow Walker."

Dec, nursing his swollen neck, stood tensed for another attack.

But Rain didn't reach for the knife. "It's just as I suspected in the cemetery. But Kai never said anything about Southerners being like us... He said you people were too caught up in being heard, being seen. Being ... selfish." She shook her head. "I guess that's not the only thing he was lying about."

After a long moment of scrutiny, in which Dec felt as though she was trying to see directly through his eyes and into his brain, she continued, "Stay away from the man in the cravat." Adjusting her hood to shield her face, she turned to leave. "And if anyone asks, I was never here. And if I find out you've told." She paused. "I'll cut out your ... " she motioned to her neck again. "Voice maker ... "

Larynx? Voice box? Dec didn't supply her with an alternative word. He didn't have time for as stealthily as she'd come, she slipped away, an elusive shadow between the flickers of the citrus flares.

Dec stood stunned into place, breathing hard.

"Shadow walker?" He tested the word. It fit easily to his tongue. A remembered word. A familiar saying. He stepped forward as though to catch a last glimpse of raven hair.

But Rain was gone.

He drew back, remembering the burn of her fingers on his neck, the threatening press of her knife. Realisation sunk in. So many questions. So many things he should've tried to find out. Who was she? Why was she following him? Who was her 'employer'? How did she know the NYR were bad news?

Shadow Walker. He'd been so distracted by the strange yet familiar whisper, he'd forgotten himself.