Touch me and burn

Chapter Two: The Ghost in the Glass

‐Amara POV

I woke to the taste of salt—tears or sweat, I couldn’t tell. My flat was silent except for the hum of the radiator, and the rain drummed a steady staccato against the windowpane. I sat up, heart hammering, blanket pooling around my waist. The dream still clung to me like a second skin: black mist seeping into my mouth, a man’s voice whispering Touch me… and burn.

I rubbed my eyes. Bloody typical. Some mornings I felt like I’d sleepwalked through someone else’s demise.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and padded barefoot across the floorboards. Rubbing my calves, I flicked on the kettle. The tiny kitchen stank of stale coffee, so I ground fresh beans—thank God for that one small ritual. As the water boiled, I checked my phone: eight missed calls from Dr. Helena Pryce, my boss at the Institute of Antiquities. One text at the top:

“Amara, get to Brixton ASAP. Another body. Call me.”

I dropped the mug with a clink and scalded my fingers grabbing it. Perfect start.

I arrived at the crime scene before dawn—police tape flapping in the wind like a wound undone. Brixton Canal was eerily quiet, the towpath slick with rain. Yellow floodlights painted the water in harsh strokes. I hugged my coat tighter, mood as bleak as the clouds overhead.

Detective Sergeant Lyle gave me that look—equal parts pity and impatience. “You’re late,” he said, though it wasn’t quite seven.

“Traffic,” I lied, tucking damp hair behind my ear.

He led me to the edge of the towpath where a body lay. Mid-thirties, pale skin splotched blue, limbs arranged in a cruciform. On her inner wrist, a symbol burnt into flesh: two crossed keys encircled by thorny vines. I swallowed. That sigil… it wasn’t Celtic, but it echoed the runes I’d seen in my dreams.

I knelt beside her. The woman’s blood still glistened, rain-water mixing into a grotesque marbling on her wrist. “Tell me what you know,” Lyle murmured.

My gloves tightened. “This… ritual feels personal. Not random.”

He exhaled, scanning the canal. “We’ve had three this month. All with the same mark.”

I forced myself to breathe. “Curses aren’t limited to myths, Sergeant.”

He quirked an eyebrow, but something in my tone made him nod and step back. I reached out, fingertips hovering over the blistered skin. Every fibre in me screamed that I was touching history—dark, unfinished business.

I closed my eyes. Present tense now:

I feel the burn before my fingers touch. A flash of roaring flame behind my lids.

When I opened them again, the world snapped back: rain, police radios, and my own ragged breath.

Later that morning, I sat in my office at the Institute, dripping onto the Persian rug. Books and relics towered everywhere—gothic arches, stone idols, unreadable manuscripts. Helena Pryce peered over her glasses. “We need answers, Amara. The Media are having a field day.”

I rubbed my temples. “Maybe they’ll move on when I tell them it’s supernatural.”

She huffed, but didn’t laugh. “Grant it credibility, not a headline. You know the history: these murders mirror the legend of the Thorned Key. Betrayal, fire, rebirth. The story goes …”

My mind drifted to last night’s dream. The man with storm-grey eyes, leather jacket drenched in ash. He pulled me close by the throat, whispering—

“No.” I cut myself off. Helena shot me a look.

“Too soon?” she asked.

I swallowed. “They said fated souls, right?”

She eased back. “And each death heralds the next. Until the final sacrifice.”

I closed my eyes. “Then we better stop this before it starts again.”

That afternoon, I walked through Borough Market, trying to clear my head. The air smelled of roast chestnuts and damp stone. I bought an espresso—black, no sugar—and perched on a wooden crate by a stall selling antique maps.

As I studied the lines of old London, I almost missed him. First a shadow at the edge of my vision, then the click of polished boots on cobblestone. My heart stuttered.

He stood a dozen yards away, two shopping bags in hand—groceries, maybe—but his posture was rigid, alert. He wore a charcoal overcoat, collar turned up, and his hair was still that midnight black, tousled just so. I’d never met him, not really—yet I recognised that silhouette everywhere: in my nightmares, in every reflection that flickered too long as I passed a window.

He caught my gaze. Time paused.

For a breathless second, I thought: This is him. The man I saw in flames, the one who’d whispered in my ear.

He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge me—just let his eyes drill into mine. A spark of recognition? Of warning?

Then a van roared past, splashing water up my ankles. I blinked, and he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

My coffee trembled in my hand.

“Oi!” someone shouted. I jerked, nearly spilling the espresso. A street performer was juggling knives nearby—typical London hustle. I forced a laugh, but my mind was racing.

He’d followed me.

I stood up, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Every instinct screamed to run, hide, forget. But I couldn’t. Not with the murders, not with the key-sigil burning across her wrist—and not with him out there, a ghost I couldn’t escape.

I squared my shoulders and walked on, eyes scanning every shadowed alley. Because fate had just made its first move—and I wasn’t about to let it win without a fight.