I'd imagined this moment so many times since the Grey who killed Tom had come back into my life.

I'd thought about how it would feel to see the look on his face – the same look of fear that Tom had worn when he'd been knocked down, his heels hammering at the ground, clutching onto this nightmarish creature that was killing him. I'd thought about the delicious kick of revenge and sense of justice I would feel, knowing that I had been the one to kill it, I had been the one to bring about its end. A life for a life. Two years of living with pain that had raged through my veins every single day, pain that had shook every bone, twisted and knotted every muscle until it was all I knew.

Ivy had once told me that grief was like a coat in winter – you wear it every day without thinking, as the rain and snow falls, as the winds howl, and then, one day, you realise the sun is out and you don't need the coat as much as you did before. Day by day, it gets a little warmer, and the coat is put away, discarded, forgotten, until the next winter comes.

She was wrong.

Grief wasn't a coat. It wasn't something you could put on and take off. Grief was a constant. It's woven into your skin, your hair, your organs. It's knitted into your muscles, your bones, your blood. The day the Grey became Tom, I became Grief.

I'd never once believed that killing the Grey would destroy my grief, I had just thought that at least I would be able to say that I'd done something. That I'd righted a wrong somehow. That I'd tilted the Earth on its axis again.

I stared at him. At the blue of his eyes. The shape of his nose. The fullness of his lips. At the way his ears stuck out a little at the top. His jawline. His hair curling at his temples. At his chest where my pistol was pressed against his breastbone.

I couldn't do it.

How could I watch him on the floor, blood pumping from his chest, face full of fear? I could see it. I could picture it all so clearly in my head. So vivid. So stark and powerful and painful and I knew I couldn't do it.

I couldn't watch Tom die again. Fuck, I was the pathetic one. I'd thought about this so many times and the moment I had the chance, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I'd failed Tom. I'd failed myself.

A sob threatened to burst to the surface, just at the same time as the noise echoed through the empty restaurant.

Empty, save for me, Tom and now, another.

The clicking was low, almost like a purr in the back of the throat.

Click-click click. Then again. Click.

Tom's eyes widened, and his gaze flickered towards the direction of the sound. I was desperate to look. Desperate to drag my eyes from him and find the source of the noise, but my hand was still pushing the gun into his chest and I daren't look. He probably wanted me to look. He had probably planned this whole thing, just as he'd planned the ambush.

Tom's hand dropped from mine when he glanced back at me and saw the accusation in my glare. His brow crinkled, his eyes full of denial and he shook his head and raised a finger to his lips, warning me to be quiet. Taking a careful step back, he beckoned me to go with him, and motioned for me to keep as low as I possibly could, still gesturing for me to follow his lead.

I was torn. How could I believe him? Everything seemed too convenient. He'd been the one to suggest going to the Embassy, it had been his plan, his idea. He'd tricked me into thinking he was anxious about being here, when all the while he'd known what I was planning and now this?

He took another step and stopped, realising I wasn't moving.

Please, he mouthed, his face twisting into a panicked plea. Please.

I swallowed.

And lowered my gun.

What are you doing, Evie? What the fuck are you doing?

He begged me to follow him again, and I did, feeling a dark ribbon of betrayal wrap itself around my heart and pull tight.

From somewhere out of sight, the clicking of the Grey continued, and I turned my head slightly to search for it. Where the Hell was it? What was it doing?

We kept low, treading carefully to avoid stepping on the debris scattered all over the restaurant floor, picking our way through the maze of plush red velvet chairs, upturned tables and their white tablecloths torn and smeared with blood and food stains. Each step felt like I'd trip an alarm. Each step felt like torture, not knowing where the Grey was. My skin prickled as if touched by a thousand eyes.

We reached the other side of the restaurant, and Tom moved into the small alcove by the doorway, pulling me to him just in time for me to see a flash of grey dart up the wall. We both froze, his body stiff against mine, his hand firm against the small of my back.

The Grey jumped spider-like from the wall, landing on the buffet table, its elongated fingers curling around the edge of the counter as it bent low, sniffing at whatever residue remained in the serving trays. I was always mildly disturbed and yet fascinated by their ability to go from two legs to four, from humanoid to something more bestial. The creature's expression crumpled a little, as if it had smelt something distasteful to its palate, and its mouth widened, a dark, thin slash across the lower half of its face. Jumping down to the floor, it landed in something wet and it leapt back, issuing a low hiss and then click-click-click.

It crept further into the room and I tensed, feeling Tom's hand press me closer as the creature moved directly into our line of sight. If it turned now, it would see us. If we tried to move, it would surely sense it. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. We could do nothing but stand there and wait. Tom's heart beat hard against mine, his breath shallow and warm upon my skin. The seconds dragged agonisingly.

Slowly, he raised his hand, ready to aim the pistol.

The creature jerked upwards from where it had been crouched on the floor, raising itself onto two legs, its body bent at a strange angle, arms held out as if anticipating an attack. Cocking its head to one side, its back still facing us, it waited, as if listening for something. Was it listening for us? Did it know we were here? I tried to hold my breath, certain that even a whisper of breath would lead it straight to where we stood.

Then, the Grey issued a strange high-pitched sound, which echoed shrilly in the large empty room, sending a wave of goose-bumps up my spine. It went on for a few seconds, eerie and plaintive, like no sound I had heard them make before, and then suddenly, just when I was certain it would turn and spot us, the creature skittered across the restaurant, back the way it had come. I could hear its flight, caring not for whatever it trod underfoot, until finally, the sounds faded, and I could hear nothing but the cold, hard silence of the empty room.

I glanced questioningly up into Tom's face.

A small line of perspiration glistened on his upper lip. His eyes met mine, and suddenly I was all too aware of his body moulded against my own, the heat of his hand on my back.

Pushing lightly on his chest, I took half a step back. His eyes clouded over and he blinked, slow, exhaling as he did so.

Gripping my handgun, I craned my neck to look out into the restaurant. The Grey was gone.

'We need to go,' Tom whispered.

I looked sharply at him. 'Why? What was that all about?'

'Nothing.' He shook his head, his face unreadable. 'We just need to go. In case it comes back.'

Not wanting to be around if that thing did come back, I nodded. We left the restaurant, following the path we had taken to get there, winding our way back through to the hotel lobby.

'Shit,' Tom hissed instantly as we entered the reception area, where the sunlight flooded in through the windows. I stopped short just behind him, my heart plummeting through my rib cage.

The street beyond was flooded with Greys, streaming past the hotel.

I didn't get it. They should have gone by now, but instead they will still here, still searching, and that meant only one thing.

They knew we were here somewhere.

They knew their prey still lingered.

Part of me was glad. I was scared for the others, wondering if they'd made it to the safety of the tunnels, or at least, had found sanctuary somewhere where they could hide out until the squadron was gone, but looking at the sheer numbers of Greys outside, I also knew this was no normal squadron. It looked more like a damn army out there.

Grabbing my arm, Tom pulled me down behind the reception desk.

'What now?' I said, feeling despair churning in my stomach.

'Well, we're not going out there, that's for sure,' he replied, his face grim.

'No shit, Sherlock. So, what do we do? We can't sit here waiting for them to come in and book a room.'

Tom looked at me, his mouth twitching as if he wasn't sure whether to crack a smile or not. 'We'll have to find somewhere to hide out until they're gone.'

'Have you seen them out there?' I stared at him, incredulous. 'It doesn't look to me as if they're planning on going anywhere any time soon.'

Irritation flickered in his eyes. 'So, what do you suggest?' he said. 'Did you want to go out there and try your luck? You make a good soldier, Evie, but not that good.' He glanced away, his gaze catching on a doorway on the other side of the lobby. 'Come on,' he said, getting up, but crouching low to the floor. 'Through there.'

I followed him, casting furtive glances towards the windows, feeling exposed and vulnerable as the Grey army still scoured the streets outside. Above the double doorway, a sign read 'Lift & Stairs' in gold lettering embossed on a dark oak panel. Tom pushed on the swing door and held it, motioning for me to duck under his arm as he kept watch on the hotel entrance.

'Is this a good idea?' I said, eyeing the lifts and doorway to the stairwell dubiously. 'Surely it would be better to try and get out through the terrace?'

'And risk walking straight into a squadron? Or our friend from the restaurant? There'll be a fire exit on each floor if we need it. They're not moving on any time soon, so we'd do better to hide out somewhere safer than behind the reception desk.'

One of the lift doors was open, the lift shaft exposed, and the stench of rot and death crept out of the dark, cavernous hole. I dreaded to think what horror was forever entombed down there.

Holstering his pistol, Tom swung his rifle off his shoulder, switching on the light and I did the same, following him through the doors to the stairwell.

'Should we check the basement?' I said, keeping my voice low. 'Maybe there's a way out?'

Tom raised a brow and wrinkled his nose. 'No offence, but with the smell coming from that lift shaft, there could be anything down there. Besides, we'd be blind down in the basement. We're better to go up, where we can at least keep a watch to make sure when they've gone. If they go.'

I didn't like the way he said it or the expression on his face. It was as if he knew something. Suspicion itched under my shirt collar, that horrible touch of paranoia that scratched at me whenever I sensed that everything wasn't quite as he would have me believe.

I followed him cautiously up the stairs. The Chesterfield was a small, boutique hotel, that once would have boasted five levels including the ground floor and just over one hundred deluxe rooms and luxury suites. Tom's sister, Tania had stayed here once when she'd briefly dated some arrogant wanker who worked in IT for a top firm in the city. At the time, I remember telling her she was too good for him. Now, of course, I can see why they got on so well. She'd swept into our home one Sunday afternoon, uninvited, as was her thing, and regaled Tom and I with tales of how amazing the rooms were and how much Mr. Snotty-and-Stuck-Up had spent on the meal and room service and, it seemed, everything else she'd desired.

I wondered now if Tom remembered and had connected the dots between Tania's story and where we now were. He hadn't often paid much attention to Tania's tales. He'd loved her, of course, but he always said how she irritated the fuck out of him, and his eyes would glaze over whenever she began wittering on about some new bloke she'd started seeing and later, would barely even remember what she had said.

The stairwell was plushily-carpeted, the kind of red patterned thick-pile carpet that might have looked garish anywhere else, but only served to make the Chesterfield seem more elegant and distinguished with its oak panelling, carved cream coving and heavy tapestry drapes. The cream walls in the stairwell were grime-stained with handprints smeared over the wallpaper. At the top of the first level, the door was propped open, the body of a woman lying face-down in the doorway, her skirt hitched halfway up her thighs, the back of her head caved in. Tom swept his torchlight into the corridor before backing away and nodding for us to continue upwards.

On the next level, the smell of smoke still haunted the stairwell and in the corridor beyond, the walls were thick with black, as if a fire had raged here and been contained and extinguished. Sure enough, two discarded hand-held fire extinguishers lay on their sides and a faint chemical smell lingered in the air.

'We need to keep going up,' Tom said, 'top level, if we can.'

'Why?' I said, puzzled, my torchlight sweeping down the corridor catching sight of a large charred and blackened lump not far from where the fire extinguishers lay. I backed away and reluctantly followed Tom up the next flight of stairs. 'Why?' I asked again, irritated that he had ignored my first question.

'I just need to see clearly what they're doing,' he said, offhand, barely even looking back at me. 'Besides, they rarely climb up buildings too far. If they think we're in here, they'll come from inside and we can at least get out onto the roof.'

'Will they do that?' My heart juddered thinking about getting trapped in here, with those things swarming through the hotel. I still remembered the days after the Final Wave, when what was left of the human race hid from the creatures that had claimed our world. I still remembered what it was like to hear the many scuttling footsteps of the Greys overhead as you folded yourself into the tightest of spots, desperately praying they wouldn't find you.

'If they think there's a chance we could be here, yes, of course,' Tom said, bypassing the next level, where someone had spray-painted 'How we survive makes us who we are' in bold, red letters.

I stopped and stared at it for a moment.

How we survive makes us who we are. Who was I now? Here I was, looking for somewhere to hide with the creature that had killed my husband, and now having to try and put what little trust I possessed in him, I wasn't sure I knew who or what I had become.

'Evie, come on,' he called out, with urgency, already halfway up the next flight of stairs. He looked jittery and anxious, almost as if he expected the Greys to start streaming up the staircase behind us.

I picked up my pace and followed, eyeing him suspiciously as he sped upwards, sometimes two steps at a time. Finally, we reached the top level, and he pushed on the door, waiting there for a few seconds as he swept his torchlight down the length of the gloomy corridor. Cocking his head to one side, not unlike the same gesture the Grey in the restaurant had made, he strained to listen out, but the hotel answered with nothing but an eerie silence.

Seemingly satisfied that no Grey lingered here – apart from him, of course – he moved into the passageway and began checking each room in turn. Some doors were already open, some shut. The one to my right was locked, and I pressed my ear to the door, listening for signs of life. I crinkled my nose, detecting the familiar pungent, nauseating odour drifting from the gap at the bottom of the door and backed away. I didn't need to see what was behind the door to know that death lived in there now.

'Evie,' Tom called out softly. He was standing in an open doorway at the other end of the short passageway. There were less rooms on the top level, and I followed Tom into the one where he'd been standing, noting the sign on the door that said, 'The Philippe Suite', my gaze roaming around the décor.

'Wow,' I said, casting my gaze around the suite. 'They really went all out with this print.' The busy royal blue floral print was repeated on the wallpaper, the bed covers and the heavy drapes, which Tom was now busy drawing, pulling them down so there was just a chink of light coming though the two windows.

'Lock the door,' he instructed, not even looking my way as he stood by the windows, adjusting his angle so he could see as much of the street outside as he could, his gaze searching everywhere his eyes could touch.

I rolled my eyes. 'Sure thing, boss.' I clicked the lock into place and for good measure, picked up the long, padded stool that stood in front of the dressing table and wedged that against the door too.

Turning around, I watched Tom as he moved from one window to the other and back again, his face infinitely troubled. He'd swung his rifle onto his shoulder again, and his hands fisted by his sides, every now and then bringing one to his face to either wipe his mouth or drag his fingers through his tousled, damp hair.

Something wasn't right. He'd been rattled ever since we'd seen the creature in the restaurant and even more so when we'd seen the number of Greys searching outside the hotel. Both of those were enough to disturb anyone, but there was something about his demeanour that seemed off. Something in his eyes that looked like he was teetering on a knife edge of panic. He wasn't even looking at me, and considering I'd held a gun to his chest not so long ago, he didn't seem that concerned I might do the same again. The threat, it appeared, was something else now. Something that raged behind his eyes, something that toiled inside his head.

'What happened downstairs in the restaurant?' I said, not moving from where I stood by the doorway. 'Why did that thing leave?'

Tom shrugged off the question, still keeping his gaze fixed on the scene outside. He scraped his teeth over his lip and chewed gently on it. 'Maybe it heard something, I don't know.'

He was being evasive, pretending it had all meant nothing, when I knew it did. I could sense it.

'I don't believe you.'

Tom exhaled, and finally, turned to glance at me, an accusation in his stare. 'You never believe me. About anything.' Dismissing me with a shake of his head, he looked away again, moving to the other window.

I took a step forward, noting how stiff he looked, the way he held his body as if each muscle was primed and piqued with tension.

'You know, I always knew when he was lying,' I said.

The Grey clenched and unclenched his fists.

'Not that Tom ever really lied about much,' I continued. 'Definitely nothing bad or sinister, or anything like that. Just little lies. You know, like how he ate my last bar of chocolate and tried to pretend I'd eaten it and just forgotten. Like, how he stopped for a beer on the way home because he'd had a tough day at work and instead, pretended he'd stayed behind to do some marking at school or something. But I always knew. You might think being so much like him is an advantage for you, but it's also your downfall, because you forget how well I knew him. That's why I know you're lying.'

He swallowed and turned to face me again, his shoulders drooping in a weary resignation. He wasn't going to avoid my question this time and he knew it.

'Why did the Grey leave? What did it hear?' I said again.

Tom gave a defeated sigh. 'It heard the call of the hive. The sound it made was when it answered the call.'

'You mentioned the hive before. I don't understand,' I said. 'What is it exactly?'

'The hive is...' He trailed off, tilting his head slightly and blinking, as if he was looking for the right words. 'The hive is a collective consciousness, something that connects us all to each other. With the hive, we are one. We think the same, we want the same.'

'But how does it work? Are you born connected to the hive, or are you like, conditioned to be connected?'

'Born?' He frowned, his brow crinkling deeper. 'Um, we don't really have that word. I guess you could say, the hive is all we ever know.'

'No offence, but a collective consciousness sounds a bit like brain-washing to me?'

Tom smiled then, small and shaky, but a smile, nevertheless. 'Some among us would agree with you. Those of us who don't want to be controlled. It's hard to understand, I know. You humans don't have anything remotely like the hive.'

'Oh, we can be brain-washed, it's how we end up in cults,' I said, then gave a wry smile. 'Or how we end up voting for political leaders who can say and do what they want and we all just turn a blind eye to it. Or at least, we did when we had political leaders.'

'It's not really the same thing,' Tom said, rubbing his thumb over the top of his knuckles. 'The hive isn't something which happens to you. It is you. It's part of you. Think of it like a circuit board, all the lines joining you to the next one and the next, every single one of you connected back to the central core.'

I moved closer. I hated to say it, but I was enthralled by his explanation. I didn't understand it, but I wanted to know more, morbid fascination winning as it often did with me. I might not like what I'd hear, but I still wanted to know everything.

'But what exactly is the central core? Is it a thing, can you see it? I'm imagining a giant pulsating mutant brain or something, all hooked up to a computer network.'

Tom smiled again, warmer, deeper, more genuine this time. 'You always did have a weird imagination. It's not a giant pulsating mutant brain, Evie. Definitely not. It's...' He trailed off again, and instead of looking like he didn't know how to explain it, this time, he looked like he was trying to choose the right words. The ones he wanted me to hear. 'I suppose it is like a computer network. Yes. That's the best way to describe it.'

I eyed him suspiciously, suddenly feeling cheated that there was something again that he wasn't telling me. Something that wasn't ringing quite true in what he was saying.

'So, the hive called and what we heard was the creature answering? Could the hive hear it too?'

'The sound itself isn't important,' he said. 'The sound it made was instinctual. Just a natural physical reaction. It couldn't stop it, even if it wanted to. The answer wasn't in the sound it made. It was in here.' He tapped at his head with his forefinger. 'The hive doesn't hear, it... just knows.'

'Why did the hive call it?'

Tom's face suddenly changed, a tightness around his eyes, his jaw clenching. Gone was the warmth from just moments before. Gone was the smile. 'I... I don't know,' he snapped.

His whole body seemed suddenly coiled tight, ready to combust. I was puzzled by his sudden change in mood, when a thought hit me, cutting through my confusion. 'Did you want to answer the call?'

He noticeably bristled at my question. 'I'm no longer connected to the hive. I don't hear it and I don't feel it. I haven't since...'

Since he killed Tom.

He looked pointedly at me, his eyes dark and angry.

I knew what he was doing. I could see it so clearly. He didn't like my questions, because for whatever reason, it stirred up something inside of him that he didn't want to think about, so he was throwing Tom's death back at me. Treating my questions like an attack. Trying to get in a counter punch that he knew would knock the wind out of me. He was angry, uncomfortable, defensive, but there was something else behind his expression. Anguish. Exhaustion. Pain.

I ignored his attack, nursed the bruise it created, and pressed on, moving closer until I was at the foot of the bed and he was just on the other side. 'What did it feel like to disconnect from the hive?'

Pain again, in his eyes. So much pain that it hurt me to see it, and all at once I regretted the question.

'Agony,' he whispered, almost to himself. 'Like being on fire. You're burning. In here.' He touched a finger to his head again, but this time gingerly, as if the skin was really burnt and he was scared to touch it. 'You think the pain will never stop. But it does, in time. It does.'

He blinked and then smiled, as if the pain had never been there in the first place, but I could see it for what it was. A mask. The smile was nothing but a mask. I wondered if he really knew how to stop putting on an act.

Turning away from me abruptly, he went back to the windows and peered out again, that same troubled look appearing on his face.

'Why are there so many out there?'

I shrugged the rifle from my shoulder and placed it carefully on the dresser, noting how he glanced at me suspiciously as I did so. I was dropping my guard. I rarely dropped my guard around him, and he knew it.

'I'm not stupid. I've seen enough to know that's not your average squadron. We haven't seen this kind of presence in the quadrant for months.'

I stepped closer. Just one more step. I could have reached out and touched him, I was that close.

'Did you set this up?' I persisted. 'Did you do this?'

He turned his cold, hard gaze on me, and I almost recoiled from the Grey in him. 'If I had, you would all be dead already. I didn't set this up.' He paused, switching back to Tom so seamlessly, I almost doubted what I had seen in his face. Now, he appeared pensive. Hesitant. 'But it is my fault.'

I needed to stay calm. Any signs that I might turn on him and he'd be ready. I could see it in his face. 'Why?' I coaxed, gently, even if the storm raged inside me. 'If you didn't arrange the ambush, why is it your fault?'

'Because they're looking for me.'

I couldn't help it. My mouth dropped open, his words hitting me with the kind of punch I never saw coming.

'You?' I shook my head. 'I don't understand. They were chasing us. It's just what they do.'

Tom shook his head. 'The fact you were all there was incidental. You would have been a bonus, nothing more. They would have discarded you as quick as they caught you.' He looked back out of the window, his hand touching the thick, patterned drape, his finger tracing the heavy embroidered pattern on the fabric. 'They're here for me. They're hunting me.'

I opened my mouth to speak, and shut it again, struggling to find the words, not knowing what to say. Coldness crept into my bones. 'Hunting you?' I said, finally. 'But you became Tom two years ago. Before the invasion. Before the war. Before the Final Wave. Why on Earth would they still be hunting you? What makes you so important?'

Maddeningly, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the Greys – his kind, his species – scouring the streets, streaming like a tide, all apparently searching for the one who disconnected from the hive two years before, the one who stood right next to me. The one who wore the face of my husband.

So much had happened since then. Why would they still be hunting him?

'Tom, why do they want you so badly?' I said, moving closer and touching my hand to his arm, where goose-bumps raged over his skin. 'Who are you?'