December 12.

Twenty-four Doors: The Chase, Bloodlines.

Above me the sky is obsidian dark, almost like the angels set to and polished it up. The stars fixed into it sharp and bright. Sharp enough to cut. Moon is casting pathways across the snow, shadows criss-crossed black and white until they get lost in amongst this bit of the old town’s warehouses and alleyways. I tell myself I got this, I know t’ path ta go.

It’s cold, my coat and my dress got from the rag pickers barely up ta keeping me warm. Me shoes are better. For this bad shoes aren’t worth a fart and these ones I nicked will do me fine.

Across t’ river the town hall clock makes the first booming strike of the hour. So this is it, 12^th night afore Christmas and all won’t be well fer me half cut mark blundering and cursing in the street below unless I feck up good and proper.

‘Oi!’ I stand up quitting the shadow of the coal factor’s wall against a nearby warehouse roof and sling the stone I’ve been treasuring in my hand for the past few minutes, bouncing it off the back of his head. He was pissed at me afore I nicked his wallet and more than that right after. Suffering this latest indignity has the steam fair blasting out of his nostrils as he tries to scramble up ta get me.

I ain’t in my first flush of youth nomore, but I’m still quicker than him with his belly full of grog. I’m pretty sure he ain’t a local and there weren’t no mates with him ta come looking. I take the rest of the coal factor’s wall at a run and drop down into the yard on the other side. He’ll be looking for a way in so I haveta keep on my toes. Sure enough he’s having a go at clambering over the gate so I’m off heading for the passageway beside the warehouse. It’s cat and mouse fer a bit, but with him huffing and puffing like one of Mr Watt’s steam engines and me keeping stealthy like the odds are a bit one sided. I need ta keep leading him on, only not letting him get in too close or having him cutting me off from getting ta Lost Souls Lane.

It’s not much further ta go when he starts up with ranting and cursing, his mouth running off non stop. I prick my ears up at that cos it’s likely to mean that he’s wanting to chuck it in and piss on wanting ta chase me about. I’m cold and hungry, only I reckon ta be still quicker in a sprint than him. I look up and down t’street to pick my spot. Snow’s none too deep, I’ll have ta watch for ice unless I want ta have myself some skating lessons. He’d have t’ be blind not to see my footprints what with me now breaking cover.

Stepping out into the middle of t’ street, - makes me a right dafty. Pissing all over me hard won skills as a stealthy dip, but like they say needs must when Old Nick is cracking the whip. I trot along up to t’ corner and there’s Lost Souls Lane in all its unholy glory. Never catch me anywhere hereabouts on All Hallows Eve, ‘cept on 12^th night no ghosty fecks around with Patty Wake.

Not being paying much mind to the clock ‘cross the river sounding the quarters, but I don’t miss the three quarter strike when it rattles my bones. Feck, git on with it girl. Sticking me two fingers in my mouth I fire a whistle down the street that’s loud enuff to wake the dead. Sure and na surprise he’s round t’ corner inna flash roaring like bull. Take a meself a look to gauge his speed coming up the street and feck I’m off.

Gunna be close. Chain will be ‘cross the gates with enuff slack between fer me, but not fer him. Ice, only I kin dart around being lightweight, skinny and all, but he goes down flat hard. Might be by Lilith’s grace, might be not, only she still gets my thanks. Don’t look back girl, git ya arse moving. Every breath I’m pulling in is like fire and me heart is pounding like to break free outta me innards. He’s picked hisself up and is coming on his tree trunk legs shaking t’ ground like thunder.

His hand is groping fer me when I reach t’ gates and I slip in quick, chain rattling above ma head wiv me legs buckling up. Me brain says ta roll away clear, but me body says na ain’t doing it. The bleeding buggar grabs me hair and hauls us up hard against t’ gate, other hand going in ta grip me throat. Only he fergot I got me hands still, grabbing his wrist I pull it close and bite his arm right good hard and deep. Tha makes him squeak. Us Wakes is good at biting. He ain’t letting go of me hair so me other hand comes up and I pokes him in t’ eye.

Got free, ‘cept I’m staggering and kin barely shuffle. He’s rattling about ‘aving a go at climbing t’ gates, ‘cept wiv his arm fecked up he ain’t gettin on too well. I just keep me mind on threading me way past the gravestones. I got the Wake mausoleum close in sight when I hear t’ gates rattle and bang. Always liked how it stands all by its lonesome like t’ dead don’t wanta be seen near it. I got my hand up ta touch t’ door when he runs up behind me, grabs me neck from behind and smashes me face into a goodly thickness of immovable marble at the same time the clock ‘cross t’ river strikes the midnight hour.

Flat on t’ snow where I got tossed down and chilled to the quick I set myself ta keeping breathing while t’ clock ‘cross t’ river shakes my bones like it’s done every 12^th night since I was 12. Shadows drift over me and swirl away worried ‘cause I’m their kin. They can’t linger with me cos they only got til the quarter hour strikes to drink him dry. After what he done I ain’t sorry one bit for picking him out.

Being gently shaken awake has me blinking until I see who it is. “Great grandmother...”

“Yes Patricia, and it is a relief to discover that brute of a man did not kill you.” Giving me her arm she helps me to get up on my feet again. “While you slept your great aunts and I have healed all the manifold injuries you have inflicted upon your body and repaired the damage to your face.” She stands looking at me hard, her black burial clothes and her folded arms giving the impression I’m going ta git a telling off. Only I ain’t in any kind of the usual trouble she has me up about because she says, “You cannot continue with this Patricia. You are forty years old, you have no home and no matter how clever a thief you are one day the peelers will catch you and hang you.”

“So who’s gunna see you right on twelfth night? Curse sez it’s gotta be a woman of t’ bloodline and I is t’ last one since me Mum died, and me bits inside me belly can’t make a baby.” Me great grandmother don’t like the way I speak, but she’s never got at me for it.

“Why should you pay the price for your great uncles’ foolishness Patricia? You were not even born when they brought our family to ruin.”

“Wot, - I don’t give a blinkin fig for them. They gambled off their souls and got et by daemons. T’is you and great aunts Polly and Alice who got stuck in a fancy tomb and kin only come out on twelfth night and can’t go past the bleeding fence.”

“We have made up our minds Patricia. Before you leave this night we will release you from this duty.”

“And wot then? You go in t’ tomb and kin never git out again and ye fade to nuffing. Or are ye goin ta wait fer t’ sunrise and burn yerselves up?”

“I said that Patricia wouldn’t agree to it Beth,” said her great aunt Polly as she stepped out of the shadows. Coming closer she said, “We are not innocents Patricia. The daemon-kin may have cursed us for spite, but this punishment is much less than what we deserve.”

“And them twenty eight I tricked to come and get kilt is nuffing then,” I toss back. “Auntie Poll, if ye go saying ye deserve it, then same fer me.”

“If we stand here long enough arguing,” says my Auntie Alice putting her oar in, “The question of our just punishment will be moot.”

“Feck it,” I say, “Just bleeding turn me. I ain’t under the curse so I kin come and go as I like and me age won’t matter.”

My Auntie Poll is shocked, but Auntie Alice is looking thoughtful.

Great grandmother Beth is frowning at me, The life we three chose is not the blessing you might think it to be Patricia.”

Now this is where you my readers come in:

Should Patty/Patricia give in and allow her great grandmother to tear up her contract.

Or. Will Patty/Patricia persuade her Auntie Alice to turn her despite the protests of Auntie Poll and her great grandmother.

December 13th Aurora, Babylon the Great