Chapter 1: The ID that Sparked a War
The Queen’s Picture House hummed. It was the deep, warm thrum of a dozen overlapping conversations, the clatter of glass on wood, the scrape of a stool leg on worn floorboards. A 70s rock anthem fought its way out of the jukebox, tangled with laughter from the corner booth. The air was thick with the scent of ale, salty popcorn, and the faint, permanent ghost of old film reels—a relic from the cinema it once was.
Casey moved through it all on autopilot, a smile fixed in place. “One more of the same, coming right up.” Her fingers were deft, tipping the pint under the tap with a practiced twist. The dark brown liquid foamed up, then settled. She slid it across the bar to a regular, accepted a fiver, and made change without really looking.
Then a new voice, sharp and impatient. “Two vodka-cokes. Doubles.”
She turned. A guy, maybe mid-twenties, with a tight jaw and eyes that didn’t quite meet hers, was leaning on the bar. Next to him, a petite woman with fading pink in her hair stared at the chalkboard menu as if it held the secrets of the universe.
“Sure,” Casey said, her bubbly tone feeling thin. “Can I see ID from both of you, please?”
The guy—Liam, she’d learn later, for now he was just a menace. Its lips pulled back from yellowed fangs, a low growl rumbling in its chest as it focused on Freya, who was now alone and vulnerable. It was a vile, monstrous creature that moved, muscles coiled like springs beneath coarse, matted fur. Its eyes reflected the embers, burning with a feral hunger. It crept directly toward Casey’s side of the bar, where she stood frozen, the barrel of its body tensing for a pounce.
Casey’s breath hitched. Her hand closed around the empty pint glass in her hand, her only weapon.
Matty’s voice cut through the silence, not from the door, but from the shadows to her left. “Hey. You lost, pup?”
The Worg’s head swung toward him, its lips pulled back from yellowed fangs. Saliva dripped from its maw. Its hackles were raised, and its focus was now fixed on Freya’s still form.
“Matty,” Casey breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
Before she could even scream, Matty was there. Not from the bar’s entrance, but from the storage alcove just behind the cash register. Its eyes glinted with malicious curiosity as it stalked forward, its head dipping to sniff at Casey’s abandoned jacket on a stool.
Liam’s girlfriend, Freya, was sleeping soundly, unaware.
“Problem here?” Matty’s voice was a different sound entirely. It wasn’t loud. It was a low, cold vibration that seemed to snap the air. He stood from where he’d been restocking napkins, his presence uncoiling from the shadows beside the till. He didn’t shout. He simply took two slow steps, putting himself between the beast and Casey, his body a silent, solid line.
The Worg turned, a growl building in its throat. It was easily the size of a pony, all sinew and matted, black fur.
Matty didn’t reach for a weapon. He picked up the metal bucket they used for broken glass. “Last chance,” he said, his voice conversational. “Piss off.”
The Worg snarled, spittle flying. It feinted toward the horses, then darted toward Freya.
Matty moved.
He didn’t heroically charge. He stepped in front of its path to the horses and threw the bucket. Not at it, but past it, the clang against the brick wall a shocking, sharp noise. The beast flinched, turning its head.
In that second of distraction, Matty moved again. He grabbed the iron fire-poker from its stand beside the hearth. He didn’t brandish it. He held it low at his side, point toward the ground.
“I said,” Matty repeated, his voice flat. “You’re lost.”
The Worg lunged. Not at Matty, but at the easier target—Casey, who was frozen, a statue behind the bar.
Matty was faster. He swung the poker not in a wide arc, but in a short, brutal jab. The iron caught the beast on the shoulder with a sickening thud of metal on bone. It yelped, skidding on the wooden floor, its yellow eyes blazing with new, pain-fueled fury. It turned its full attention on Matty now, hatred burning in its gaze.
Casey finally found her voice. “Matty!”
He didn’t look at her. “Back door. Now.” His command was absolute.
The Worg gathered itself, haunches bunching. Matty widened his stance, the poker held in both hands now, a grimy, makeshift spear. The beast leapt.
Matty didn’t try to meet its weight. He sidestepped, and as the Worg flew past, he brought the poker down across its back leg. Another yelp, this one sharper. It stumbled, crashing into a table, sending glasses shattering. It whirled, limping now, snapping at the air between them. It was hurt, but not out.
Matty’s gaze never left it. “I won’t ask again.”
For a long, terrible second, the beast stared. The intelligence in its eyes calculated the pain, the odds, the unyielding figure in front of it. With a final, vicious snarl, it backed away, melting into the shadows from whence it came. The sound of its retreating, uneven gait faded into the night.
Silence rushed in, louder than the noise had been. The only sounds were the pop of the last ember in the hearth and Casey’s ragged breathing.
Matty slowly lowered the poker. His knuckles were white. He turned, his eyes finding Casey’s in the gloom. The cold, commanding mask was still there, but something flickered beneath it—a fierce, focused intensity that made her stomach flip.
“You okay?” he asked. His voice was rough, stripped of its earlier steel.
She nodded, unable to speak. Her hands were trembling violently. She clasped them together to make it stop. It didn’t work.
He glanced at the shattered glass, the overturned table. “Right.” He walked over, righted the table with a scrape. He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “Grab the brush and pan. Before anyone cuts themselves.”
It was so mundane, so perfectly Matty, that a hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. She swallowed it down, a metallic taste of fear still coating her tongue. She obeyed, her movements robotic. As she swept up the shards, she watched him from under her lashes. He was checking the door locks, his movements efficient, his shoulders a tight line under his shirt.
He was just a grumpy manager. A nerd with a spreadsheet for the ale taps. He’d just faced down a Worg with a fireplace tool and told it to piss off.
“Why didn’t you shout?” she finally managed, her voice small. “Or yell for help?”
He finished checking the bolt and turned. “Shouting escalates. It wanted an easy meal. I convinced it we weren’t easy.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
He grunted, unconvinced. He walked behind the bar, past her, and she caught his scent—not cologne, but clean cotton and the faint, sharp smell of adrenaline. He pulled a small, first-aid kit from under the counter she’d never noticed. He took out a foil packet, tore it open, and handed her a shock blanket. It was silver and crinkly.
“It’s not cold,” he said. “It’s shock. Put it around your shoulders.”
She took it, the material absurdly loud in the quiet pub. She felt silly. He watched her drape it, his gaze analytical.
“You did the right thing,” he said abruptly. “Freezing is a right thing. It didn’t run. It kept you still. If you’d screamed and bolted, it would have been on you.”
She hadn’t thought of it like that. She’d just been terrified.
“Thanks,” she whispered. “For… you know.”
“Part of the job description,” he muttered, turning to assess the damage again. “Can’t have my best bartender eaten. Hiring is a nightmare.”
It was the closest he’d ever come to a compliment. The oddest warmth, separate from the blanket, spread through her chest.
The dawn was beginning to bleed grey at the windows. Matty sighed, a long, weary sound. “Go home, Casey. I’ll finish up here.”
“I can help—”
“You’ve helped enough.” He said it without malice. It was a simple statement of fact. “Get some sleep.”
She wanted to argue, but her body felt like lead. She nodded, shuffling to the staff corner to grab her bag and coat. When she turned, he was standing by the door, holding it open for her. In his other hand, he held a large, black umbrella she recognized from his office.
“It’s raining,” he said, as if it were an accusation.
It was. A fine, chilly drizzle misted the deserted street.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
He shoved the umbrella into her hands. “Take it. I don’t need you calling in sick with a cold tomorrow.” His tone was its usual grumpy bark, but his hand brushed hers as he passed her the handle. The contact was electric, a jolt that cut straight through the numbness.
She stepped out into the damp, silver morning. As she turned to say one last thank you, she saw him through the glass door. He wasn’t watching her leave. He was already bending to pick up a larger piece of glass, his brow furrowed in concentration. The heroics were over. The cleanup had begun.
She opened the umbrella. It was surprisingly large, shielding her completely. As she walked, the rhythmic tap-tap of the rain on the nylon fabric was the only sound. Her heart finally began to slow. The fear was receding, leaving behind a strange, buzzing static. And at the center of that static was Matty’s face, calm and lethally focused, standing between her and the dark.