Page 219 of Love at First Fright

A black blur streaked from the burning manor.

I blinked. Squinted through the smoke.

The cat.

It bolted across the overgrown lawn, paws barely touching the ground, a shadow made flesh. Weaving between fallen branches and puddles, heading straight for us with single‑minded determination.

Charlie crouched just as the cat launched itself into his arms. Tiny claws dug into his jumper, and the creature buried its face against Charlie’s neck, body trembling. Its fur was singed at the edges, whiskers bent and blackened. But alive. Whole.

“Hey there,” Charlie murmured, stroking between its ears. “You made it out.”

The cat purred. A smug, rattling sound. His tail wrapped possessively around Charlie’s wrist.

Of course he survived. Of course he found us. This precious creature that let me wear his skin, that had eaten spiders for Charlie and smirked whilst doing it.

Charlie glanced up at me, eyes soft. “Oh! Well, I guess that’s settled, then?”

“Right, then.” I grabbed Charlie’s free hand, laced our fingers together. Warm. Real. Forever. “Let’s get the fuck out of this manor.”

We headed toward the gate, toward the mechanic with his clipboard and his very sensible concern about the massive fire. Toward whatever came next—police questions, probably. Explanations we’d have to invent. A whole new life to figure out in a body that wasn’t mine but somehow was.

The sirens grew louder. Blue lights flashed through the trees lining the long drive.

Behind us, Grimthorne Manor collapsed with a roar. The entire east wing caved inward, sending up a shower of sparks that danced against the grey sky like dying stars.

But Charlie’s hand stayed warm in mine.

And for the first time in my entire existence—both lives combined—I had a future worth walking toward.

Epilogue

Charlie - 2 Years later

The lights went down.

The crowd hushed—that electric silence before music breaks loose and pulls everyone under. I gripped the edge of my chair, blood rushing hot behind my ears, like it always did when Bat stepped onto a stage.

Two years since Grimthorne Manor burned. Two years of building this life together, piece by piece. And I still couldn’t quite believe it was real.

The spotlight snapped on.

Bat stood centre stage, electric guitar slung across his chest. Black jeans that clung to his thighs. A sleeveless band shirt—some obscure post-punk group from the nineties—that showed off the tattoo on his upper arm. A bat in flight, wings spread wide. Identical to the one he’d had before. Before he died. Before he came back wearing Brad Harrington’s face and decided to make it his own.

That tattoo had been one of the first things he’d done—reclaiming his new skin inch by inch. The piercings came next, then growing his hair out until it fell across his forehead the way he remembered. Small rebellions against a body that didn’t feel like home yet.

He wasn’t quite as muscular as he’d been two years ago, but not far off. We’d eaten our fair share of salt and vinegar crisps, but we’d also had lots of sex. Lots and lots of sex. It had balanced out, apparently.

Bat’s fingers found the strings.

The opening chords rang through the venue—a proper London venue, not some dingy pub side room. Actual acoustics and a stage that didn’t wobble. I felt so proud of him, I almost didn’t know what to do with myself.

Then Bat leaned into the microphone and sang.

Nothing lasts forever, that’s what they all say

But I’d trade my soul to make you stay

I knew every word by heart now. Had heard him work through this song a hundred times in our tiny Brighton flat, perfecting each note, each pause. He’d been collaborating with some producer who took a shine to him—polishing it, recording it, mastering it into something that could actually be released. Something real.