When Maisie woke up the next day, everything was red.

No, that wasn't right. The insides of her eyelids were red. They were also welded shut, though a light source — likely the sun — was doing its best to scorch through. She tried to blink them open. The left refused to part more than a hair's breadth. When she reached up, hard swelling met her fingers.

Everything hurt.

The rest of the night was a blur in her memory. She vaguely recalled being carried to her father's car, drifting in and out of sleep. Alfred had driven her home, their father staying behind to help the authorities. He had tried to question her before she left, but luck had been on her side for once, and her incoherence combined with others vying for his attention bought her a break.

She rolled over and saw her curtains had been left open, a high noon sun beaming in, bathing the room in a cheerful radiance she didn’t reciprocate.

What time was it? She checked her alarm clock: almost twelve. A surprising length of reprieve. She should have been facing a full interrogation, and she'd missed most of the school day.

Her body protested as she dragged it out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom, every ache clamouring for centre stage. The pain in her skull won out, digging a nook in her consciousness.

No one stopped or waylaid her. From up the stairs floated the ebullient tones of daytime TV, in front of which her mother was surely sat, staring with a lobotomised gaze at talking heads. Maisie shook off the small sadness conjured by the image and opened the bathroom door, crossing to the sink.

She rested her hands on the rim of the basin and stared at her face in the mirror. The reflection winced. It was hard not to develop self-esteem issues as a child raised in the public’s scrutiny. Maisie worked to maintain a tough skin, but there was no avoiding that her current visage could send small children screaming.

A vivid purple bruise spread from under her hairline, fading out as it crossed her swollen cheek. She was still wearing the clothes from last night, filthy and torn. They probably stank, too.

She divested herself of them and stepped into the shower, dialling the temperature down to cold. The water made her shiver, but it also soothed some of her pain. She turned her head into the stream, closed her working eye, and tried to clear her mind for a few moments.

Immediately, she flashed back to the circle, looking down at the little packet of Flight lying in her palm. A visceral longing settled deep into her bones.

Yeah, not happening.

She couldn't wash away the events of last night like she did the dirt that swirled around her feet. But damn it, she wanted to.

When Maisie headed downstairs, the swelling had thankfully gone down somewhat. Alfred waited for her at the kitchen table.

Oh, goody.

‘Your school called,’ he said without preamble, not looking up from the piece of toast he was spreading jam on.

She stood in the doorway, watching him the way she would watch a poisonous spider. Over a year had passed since she was alone with Alfred. He had his own home now, and she took pains to avoid him whenever she could. Today, he sat in the same place he had when they were children, as if he'd never left. In the light of day, his washed-out complexion was reminiscent of a Nosferatu out of an old movie.

A vision of the night before, of him refusing to help her, had Maisie gripping the door frame. Perhaps he had more in common with horror monsters than simple appearances.

She longed to know why, to rage at him, to understand when he had begun to hate her. But the words didn't leave her mouth. Even now, she couldn't get herself to confront him.

Unaware of her thoughts, he continued, ‘I told them not to expect you in today.’

Strangely considerate. ‘Thanks.’

‘It wouldn't be good for the family for people to see you in this state. The press doesn't have any pictures yet, and it’s better to keep it that way.’

Not so nice. But she didn't mind not going to school, so she kept quiet, heading over to the cereal cupboard. It might be afternoon, but right now, she wanted breakfast.

As she poured milk onto her cornflakes, she asked as casually as she could, ‘Where's Father?’

‘Out.’

‘Out where?’

‘Not your concern.’

‘Is it about last night?’

‘Not your concern,’ he repeated.

‘You don't know, do you?’

Something flickered behind his eyes, and she knew she was right. ‘Where was he last night?’ she asked more softly. ‘I know I can't be the only one wondering. There's something big going down.’

He clenched his jaw. ‘I said, it's not. Your. Concern.’ He punctuated each word sharply, then he bit into his toast, obviously signalling the end to the line of questioning.

She sat down at the table opposite him. Part of her wanted nothing more than to escape his presence, but her need for answers wouldn’t let go.

She stirred her cereal, listening to it crunch. ‘Did he tell you what the circle was?’

No answer. She took that to mean he hadn't.

‘Have you ever seen Flight? Up close, I mean?’

‘A couple of times.’

‘And what did you think?’ She tried not to show how much the answer mattered to her.

‘What did I think about what?’

‘Like — did it affect you?’

‘In what way?’ he asked incredulously. ‘It’s not like I tried it. Why would I?’

It didn't sound like he felt the same draw. Maybe it only pulled people who didn't have abilities of their own. But in all the literature she'd read, there hadn't been a word about it influencing people before they took it. Unless it was a new formula, more potent and dangerous. There was a nightmare thought.

She moved on. ‘Have you heard of anyone manifesting the ability to be partially in two places at once?’

‘What is this, twenty questions? No.’

This next bit required careful phrasing. ‘And I don't suppose you've ever heard of a — a weird kind of nickname, I guess, for Gifted? Like 'the blood'?’

Alfred's head snapped up. ‘What? Why?’

Okay, she could have phrased that better. ‘It's just something I heard, that's all.’

‘Where? Last night? Tell me, Maisie, this is important.’

She opened her mouth to tell him about the voice within the barrier. Then she stopped. At the moment, no one except her knew what had happened. The voice said not to trust those of ‘the blood’. Regardless of the voice’s instruction, she already knew not to trust Alfred. The last traces of hope for their sibling bond had died when he watched Bobby beat her and did nothing.

Maisie kept her head down. ‘I can't remember. Around, somewhere. I just wondered about it. Seemed a funny way to refer to you.’

His eyes dissected her, searching for the truth in her bowed face. She tried a mouthful of flakes. And choked, spitting them into the bowl. Blurgh. The milk was sour.

Curiosity and elation took back seats as she pushed from the chair and stumbled to the sink, trusting her tongue under the tap.

‘What now?’ Alfred asked acidly.

‘Milk!’ she gasped through the water.

‘Charming.’

By the time Maisie’s taste buds settled, Alfred had cleared his toast and stood to go. She noted that he left his dirty plate on the table, presumably for her to clear away after him.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

‘Are you leaving?’

‘Soon. I'm going to sit with Mum a while before I go.’

And that right there was why she hadn’t written him off entirely years ago.

‘I think she'd like that,’ Maisie said quietly.

‘Yeah.’ He didn't look at her.

Just before he passed through the door, she called out, ‘Alfred, what's going on? Last night was part of something bigger. Please...’ Please what? Please, for once act like a decent person and level with me? Like that would happen.

For a second, as he turned back to her, she thought she saw a flicker of humanity cross his cheeks, breaking through the cold mask. But he didn't say anything. Then he was walking away, into the living room to join the empty shell of their mother.

She toyed with her rancid breakfast, no longer hungry. Last night had been different. The quiet warehouse, the number of crates, the voice – something bad was building. Maisie barely scraped by in the best of times, as the bruises from last night demonstrated. Father recognised the circle. He wouldn’t confide in her, but he seemed happy enough positioning her in the crossfire.

Despair rose to claim her… and met a spark of rebellion. Her father could command her evenings, but right now, he was out. If he wouldn’t equip her with knowledge, she’d arm herself.

Besides her family, who could explain the events at the warehouse? The answer came to her: Bobby. Bobby, who was at this moment under police guard in Briston General Hospital. Somehow, Maisie was going to get in to see him.

*

The hospital was a forty-five-minute walk into the middle of town. Briston's centre was an odd amalgam of old and new, the cobbled walkways and quaint family-run stores competing with Argos, Tesco's, and other large supermarket chains. The square hummed with activity: parents shopping before the school day ended; people eating a late lunch under the sun while a busker strummed the Beatles; pigeons pecking at crumbs, occasionally squawking in outrage as an inattentive pedestrian almost stepped on them.

Maisie moved through it all like a leper. People parted way, giving her pitying looks and avoiding meeting her eyes.

She hugged the shops, trying not to draw more attention to herself. Every now and again she would catch her reflection in a shop window, and each time it caught her by surprise. At least her new face stopped her from being recognised.

After a while, she became aware of a tickling feeling on the back of her neck. Someone was following her.

She could see them now, flashes of a person wearing a yellow hoodie in the windows, dogging her footsteps, but always partially obscured by the crush of pedestrians.

She slowed to a crawl, dragging her feet. Were they a Gladiator, wanting revenge for the warehouse bust? Surely they wouldn't attack her here, in the middle of the packed high street.

She halted and peered into a bridal boutique, using the glass to keep an eye out behind her. Maybe she was being paranoid.

But no, he'd stopped too. And he was watching her. She couldn't quite make out his face, overlaid as it was by the pink frills of a hideous wedding dress — either that, or he was suffering from a truly dreadful skin condition.

He didn't move any closer. Surely he could tell that she'd made him.

What to do? She tried to calm her breathing and think through her options. She was only a hundred yards away from the entrance to an alley that cut behind the stores to an Asda parking lot. It was the quickest way to the hospital, but leaving the crowd of potential witnesses to enter a dark, cramped space with little room to manoeuvre was a bad idea. She didn't think she could run, either. The parts that she'd landed on last night were still tender and aching.

A distraction, then. Crying, ‘Stop, thief!’ probably wouldn't work. She could go into the Asda, try to lose him among the aisles... As she stood there thinking, he made his move.

He darted through the crowd.

Maisie spun... And stared up into a kind, weathered face that watched her with earnest concern. Her eyes travelled down the man, and she saw that the yellow hoodie had, blazoned across it: Jesus is Lord. Under his arm, he held a stack of pamphlets advertising the local Methodist church. An evangelical.

She deflated. Her nerves were getting the better of her.

‘Excuse me miss,’ he said in a soft, raspy voice that sounded like he had smoked too many cigarettes in his life.

‘Hi,’ she muttered, ready to get out of there.

‘I couldn't help but notice your bruises,’ he said. ‘We at the West Chapel Methodist church can offer you support.’ He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘You don't have to deal with this alone...’

Oh. The realisation of what he thought made her cheeks warm. She stepped back, forcing his hand to drop.

Stammering slightly, she said, ‘I — I thank you. But my attacker is already in police custody. I don't need... But thanks, anyway.’ She took another step back. ‘I've got to go.’

She turned and fled.

‘Congratulations for leaving him!’ he called out after her.

Maisie didn't stop to correct his assumption.

She pulled up the hood of her coat after that, tugging it forward to cast her face in shadow. The only odd looks she got after were of the suspicious variety, the kind a teenager wearing a hood on an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon always elicited. Soon, she was in the alley, the cool shadow a welcome relief from both the warmth of the sun and the heat of her embarrassment.

Her hip was on fire when she finally arrived at the hospital. The woman at the reception glanced up. Her eyes widened as she took in Maisie's sorry state.

‘A and E is in building D, dear. Do you need assistance? I can get someone to wheelchair you, if you don't think you can walk.’

It was going to be one of those days.

Maisie attempted a lopsided smile. ‘Thank you. I'm not here for myself, though. I'm visiting someone.’

‘If you're sure...’ The woman sounded doubtful. ‘Do you know where you're going?’

Asking where Bobby Furlong was being kept would get her nowhere. If she told the receptionist who she was, it might open a few doors, but she didn't want to play that card yet. So she nodded, said her thanks, and tried to walk confidently down the corridor to the right, as if she had a clue where she was headed, while her leg screamed in protest.

As soon as she was around the corner and out of sight, she stopped and leant against the wall. If they'd brought him in last night with back injuries, where would he be? Opposite her was a site layout map. She scanned through the list of departments in her mind. Outpatients — no. Cardiology — no. Trauma and Orthopaedic Ward — maybe? Early Pregnancy Advisory Unit — definitely not. Eventually, she got to SIU — Spinal Injury Unit: that had to be it. It was in the next building over.

She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, trying to push the pain into a back recess of her mind. It kind of worked; when she pushed away from the wall, her leg didn't collapse under her.

She had to press a button and wait for admittance before she could enter the ward. It made her even more nervous, half expecting to be asked what the hell she was doing there at any moment, but the continuous stream of harried medical staff never gave her a second glance.

When she found the private rooms, it was easy enough to work out which one Bobby occupied. The two bored-looking police officers guarding the door were a dead giveaway.

She slowed to a dawdle, trying to fix a strategy.

Just then, one of the officers looked up. A flash of surprise rippled through her. She knew him. It was the one Samson had talked to last night. What was his name? Aaron Stephenson.

The beginnings of a plan formulated in her head. She straightened and strode forward, trying to project an air of confidence. When she reached them, Maisie held out her hand.

‘Hi,’ she said, doing her best to imitate Samson at his most charming. ‘We met yesterday evening. You spoke to my brother. I was a little out of it, I'm afraid. Maisie Arthur.’

Out of apparent reflex, he took her hand and shook it, expression bemused. His partner, a grey-haired woman, watched with interest.

‘Yes, I remember. What are you doing here?’

With what she hoped was total assurance, Maisie said, ‘I need to speak to Bobby Furlong about the events of last night.’

To her chagrin, Officer Stephenson’s reaction was to frown.

‘On whose authority? Kid, you're what, sixteen? You should be in school — scratch that, you look like you should be in a hospital bed, yourself.’

Maybe that was the wrong approach to take.

‘My father—’

The frown deepened to irritation, bordering on anger. ‘Your father is not in charge around here. Listen, I liked your brother, but the way your father orders us around, like we're his lackeys, is plain wrong. If he wants to be in law enforcement, he should join the police. And I don't care about his friends in high places. He keeps secrets at the cost of lives.’

A rare man who didn't kiss her father's boots. Bad for her.

Maisie glanced at his partner. The woman’s expression was flat and stern. ‘Aaron's right,’ she said in a smoker’s rasp. ‘There's no place for vigilante rule in our city.’

Maisie’s shoulders slumped. In some of her more subversive thoughts, she found herself wandering down similar lines. A different tack was in order.

‘My father doesn't know I'm here. I can’t tell you his secrets — I don’t know them. But I do know something he doesn't.’

Now she had their full attention. ‘What are you saying?’ the woman officer asked.

‘I'm saying I have information about last night that I haven’t told him. And I'll tell you, if you'll just let me speak to Bobby for ten minutes.’

Officer Stephenson snorted. ‘What's to stop us from hauling you down to the station for obstructing an investigation? If you have relevant information, you best disclose it.’

‘If you do that, I'll be out in under an hour. My father’s buddies with the Commissioner. You'll never hold me long, and after he was through with you, your job prospects would be canned.’ Maisie didn't like resorting to blackmail, but she couldn't think of another way.

Thunder cloud glares. She’d made no friends here.

‘You have until one,’ Officer Stephenson bit out. ‘After that, our shift changes. You better be gone before then, otherwise we'll all be up the creek. Your information. Now.’

Maisie nodded in acquiescence. She was almost in. ‘Before you arrived, I got into a fight with Bobby.’

‘No kidding.’ The woman snorted. ‘We can see that.’

Maisie ignored the interruption. ‘When he hit me, I went through the chalk circle. The one that stopped my father.’ She waited for the implication to sink in. She wasn't disappointed.

‘What? He told us it prevented anyone from crossing. You were the one to make us stop!’ Aaron Stephenson’s eyebrows formed an irate line, cheek twitching.

‘It stops some people,’ she hurried to explain. ‘It genuinely did throw my brother and Bobby, and you saw it stop Father. It might only block those with powers, but when I shouted my warning, I didn't want to risk anybody else getting hurt.’

A flat, ‘Go on.’

What should she tell them? She decided on more of the truth. ‘There was someone in there with me. I spoke to them.’

‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed. ‘We cremated everything! Are you telling me that we—’

‘No! At least, I don't think so. I don't think they were physically there. Like in a projection way.’

‘Someone on Flight?’

‘I don’t know. They didn’t seem like a Gladiator.’

He tipped his chin and motioned for her to continue.

‘They implied they were under the command of someone else. A woman. It was she who set up the circle.’

‘You think someone got there first,’ the woman said.

Maisie nodded.

Officer Stephenson looked to his partner, tapping an index finger on his leg.

‘That would explain the missing…’ He snapped shut his jaw, but Maisie's brain had already latched to the meaning.

‘There were more Gladiators than the six outside, weren’t there? It shouldn’t have been so quiet. They’re missing?’

Two hawk stares. ‘What do you know about them?’

‘Nothing. Only that it felt wrong. But… whoever got there first, they didn’t take the Flight. It was all there in the crates. That’s all I have. I don't understand what's going on, but because of my father, I'm in the middle of it. Please, I'm here for answers too.’

A moment’s silent conference, and wordlessly, they stepped aside. Officer Stephenson opened the door for her.

She'd done it. As she stepped past them into the room, he told her, ‘I hope you know what you're doing, kid.’

So do I.