Page 7 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

And then I turned and walked away as fast as I could without actually running, leaving behind my dignity, my pride, and any hope of ever being able to look Felix in the eye again.

Behind me, Wren’s voice rang out, bright with laughter. “Well, that was interesting. Turns out you were right. He really is a bit weird.”

I really, really needed that sinkhole now.

4

Felix

There was no doubt about it: I was being stalked.

It started small. A prickle at the back of my neck on the walk home from Killigrew Street, that feeling of being watched that made my pace quicken without thinking. Made my shoulders tense up near my ears, my fingers curl around my phone in my pocket.

Must be going mad, I told myself. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep. The usual Felix cocktail of poor life choices.

But it kept happening. Even on weekends.

I’d pop out to the corner shop for supplies—Oreos, instant ramyun, the occasional banana when guilt got the better of me—and there it was. That crawling itch between my shoulder blades. The absolute certainty that someone was watching.

I started taking different routes. Ducking down side streets, doubling back on myself like some sort of paranoid spy from a terrible film. Still nothing. Just me, my headphones, and apparently my overactive imagination.

The logical part of my brain—the part with the Masters in Cybersecurity and a mild obsession with digital forensics—pointed out that I had no proof. I’d never actually seen anyone. I had nothing but gut instinct and a growing collection of sleepless nights.

But the thing about working for Killigrew Street was that we’d made ourselves a right proper rogues’ gallery of enemies. Being London’s unofficial supernatural crime task force came with its challenges. Supernatural crime bosses with grudges, rogue Gifted who didn’t appreciate having their money laundering schemes exposed, a growing collection of vampires who took our interference rather personally. Not to mention GREY—Greywatch Reconnaissance and Elimination Unit—the shadowy entity that had left Kit with nightmares, and very recently, snatched up shifters from our city streets.

The list went on, and frankly, it wasn’t getting any shorter.

Which meant I needed to tell Seb.

Sebastián Salazar. Centuries old vampire, and fearless leader of Killigrew Street.

The thought of telling him made me nauseous. Our boss didn’t exactly do touchy-feely emotional support, and turning up in his office with nothing but paranoid feelings seemed like a brilliant excuse for him to laugh at me.

I still remembered all too well the first time I had the pleasure of being in his office—that rainy day he’d popped up in front of me on the street and demanded I come with him.

Two years ago, I’d been wandering around London, laptop bag slung over my shoulder, putting off sending job applications for the third day running. My mother kept texting asking if I’d heard back from QuByte’s graduate programme, and I kept finding increasingly creative ways to avoid answering. The last thing I wanted was to work for her company, brilliant as it was. I needed to prove I could make it on my own.

I’d been working on this portfolio project—documenting cybersecurity vulnerabilities in small London businesses. War-driving, really, but with good intentions. Academic curiosity mixed with a healthy dose of procrastination.

That’s when I’d walked past the old hotel on Killigrew Street.

The app I’d built on my phone had gone mental. Signal strength readings that made no sense, encrypted data bursts that had no business coming from an abandoned Victorian building, and security protocols that looked like someone had bolted military-grade encryption onto a home router. It was like finding a cardboard box with a Bank of England vault lock.

I’d whipped my laptop out and sat on a bench across the street with a coffee from the nearby cafe. I told myself I’d just document the anomaly for my portfolio. One quick scan, maybe a gentle probe to see what kind of setup they were running.

Six hours later, I was deep inside what turned out to be one of the most sophisticated surveillance networks I’d ever encountered.

That’s when Sebastián Salazar had materialised beside my bench like some sort of extremely well-dressed nightmare, rain dripping off his coat, and said, “Mr Chŭng, I believe we need to have a conversation.”

I’d nearly passed out from the anxiety, shaking all the way into the hotel, nine-nine-nine typed into my phone, finger hovering over the call button.

An hour later, I walked out of his office with a job.

And a great deal of trauma.

It was safe to say Seb’s office was not my favourite place.

That was exactly why I found myself rehearsing what I needed to say to him with Dolly. She was a great conversationalist, after all. Really listened without judgment.