IMPOSTER

ONE

Love.

It means something different to everyone. Some spend their entire lives chasing it, others live without ever knowing it. But lying there beside Vivienne, my hand resting on her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin, the heat of our shared passion—it flowed through me like a current. Did I deserve it? That was harder to say. I could make a case either way. But one thing was certain: now that I had found it, I wasn’t letting it go. Not for anything.

I drank in her presence, the shadows cast by the sheer curtains spreading delicate patterns over her face. A light breeze stirred the fabric, setting the shadows into a gentle dance across her features, shifting with each movement, as if the very room breathed with her.

“You’re like the petals of a rose,” I murmured.

“Am I?” she asked, a playful lilt in her voice. Her strawberry curls cascaded around her face, framing her like a masterpiece. “Tell me more.”

“The stem,” I blurted, feeling the pressure of her gaze.

Her eyebrows lifted. “The stem?” she asked, teasing. “In what way?”

“I… I’m not sure,” I admitted, lost in her eyes. “I’m no botanist.”

She rolled on top of me with a mischievous smile. “Maybe I should teach you a lesson then.”

Before I could reply, a heavy thud rattled the door, shaking the quiet of my modest residence. “Come out, Finch!” a voice boomed. “We know you’re in there!”

I cupped Vivienne’s face in my hands, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Stay here. This won’t take long.”

I slid out of bed, hurriedly pulling my trousers up, when the sound of wood splintering echoed through the room—a crack like thunder ripping through dark clouds.

Footsteps. Multiple. Heavy and deliberate. My pulse quickened. It seemed I wouldn’t be taking the fight to them—they were bringing it to me.

No time to think. The dark furniture, the thick draperies—they suddenly felt oppressive, like the walls themselves were closing in. I was caught off-guard, ill-prepared, but the enemy never waits for us to be ready.

Heavy, deliberate footfalls echoed beyond the bedroom door, signalling the approach of whoever lurked on the other side. Then, with a deafening crack—like the snap of a driver’s whip urging horses through the muck—the door burst open. Three men strode in, weapons in hand. Their exact objectives were unknown, but their intentions were unmistakable, etched into the hard lines of their faces.

The lead man approached, his form cloaked in a long, worn-out coat that hung loosely on his wiry frame, frayed at the edges and darkened with grime. A greasy, tattered cap was pulled low over his eyes, shadowing a hardened expression beneath. Beneath his coat, a stained and threadbare shirt peeked out, partially hidden by a misbuttoned waistcoat that looked as though it had seen better days. His trousers, scuffed and patched at the knees, hung loosely around thick, battered boots that clomped with each heavy step. Fingerless gloves clung to his hands, calloused knuckles bared to the cold, a knife in his hands, glinting the morning light streaming through the window.

“We’ve got you now, Finch!”

“Let’s take it outside, Tommy,” I returned. “No point walking mud through the house and messing up the interior.”

But it was too late. His gaze flicked to the bed—to Vivienne—and a wide smirk spread across his face, revealing cracked, yellowed remnants of teeth.

“Grab ‘em, boys.”

Tommy’s two bludgers lunged for the bed. Vivienne screamed as I stepped in front of her and swung hard, my fist connecting with the first man’s jaw, sending him spinning. But before I could recover, the second brute seized me, shoving me backward onto the mattress. A fist cracked against my face, and with Tommy’s help, they hauled me off the bed, forcing me onto my knees.

The man I’d struck, blood streaming from his nose, had already dragged Vivienne from the bed. He held her tight, pinning her against him as she thrashed, her nightgown twisting with every desperate struggle. One hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries, while the other locked around her waist, trapping her arms and keeping her contained. But she wasn’t giving up—her body fought relentlessly, her fury burning through her fear.

“Let her go!” I roared. “She hasn’t got anything to do with this.”

Behind me, the man jammed the end of his club into my kidneys, then placed it under my chin, holding either end while pushing a knee into my back.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tommy sneered, as he looked at her and licked his lips. “I’m sure we can make her part of this.” He looked at me. “My boys need a little reward, if you know what I mean.”

“If you touch her,” I said, “I’ll cut your fingers off.”

“Oh,” Tomy replied, wiping a hand over his mouth. “Is that right?” He sauntered over to Vivienne, who thrashed against the hands restraining her, her wide eyes locked on the gleaming blade as Tommy waved it inches from her face.

I attempted to stand, but man behind me tightened the club against my neck, keeping me in place.

Tommy took his knife and ran it along the gown, popping off some bows, the fabric fluttering to the floor like a wondered butterfly. With each successive snip, I seethed, attempted to stand, but was locked in position, the air supply minimal. Tommy then grabbed a handful of gown from between her legs and pushed the knife through, yanking the blade down, revealing her legs. With venom coursing in her veins, she kicked, narrowly missing Tommy, who arched back.

“Oh, lads,” Tommy said. “Looks like we got a live one ‘ere.” He returned, squatted down in front of me, ran the knife over my cheek. “You see, when we’re through with you, we’re gonna have a little fun with the lass.” I strained against my restraints. “But I get the feelin’ she might not like as much.”

He took the blade and held it to my right ear, slicing through the skin down to my chin, leaving a line of blood that ran down my neck, like a warm river, carving its path through a desert. Just when his hand was close enough, and pushing against the club against my throat, I chomped onto his nearest finger.

Tommy screamed as I crunched, as the man behind me pulled back harder on the club, driving his knee further into my back, but I wasn’t prepared to let go for anything. Out of the corner of my eye, Vivienne stomped down on the man holding her at bay, driving her heel into his toe. He cursed and pushed her away just as Tommy tore his hand from me (minus a finger), a spurt of blood covering my face as he turned.

Vivienne and Tommy met as one. As her eyes widened, breath caught in her throat. They stumbled back from each other. Vivienne slowly reached for the knife handle sticking from her stomach, a dark red patch growing on her front.

In that moment, it felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, like I was in a vacuum. I couldn’t breathe. I felt numb. The world closed in around me, and rage burned within, and then my skin caught fire.

The next thing I remembered, I stepped down onto my front path, Vivienne in my arms, limbs hanging loose by her side, the knife still within her. My face and clothes were covered in crimson, like I had bathed in the blood of my attackers. The world was black and white, the colour drained from my world, the world silent, a ringing in my ears.

Several officers ran up the path towards my house, their whistles in their mouth, the noise missing my ears. Others had their mouths open, like a silent scream, batons swinging above the heads. They pushed their way through my low gate, and I fell to my knees.

They pounded clubs against my arms and back, and I felt none of it. I looked down at Vivienne’s face, then closed my eyes, wishing it was all a horrible nightmare, willing myself to wake up in the bed next to Vivienne.

Something hard—a club—hit the side of my head, and I pitched over to the stones, Vivienne falling from my grasp, and as I fell into the abyss, I heard my name.

Caddius Finch. Finch. Finch!

I gasped for air, snapping my eyes open. A figure loomed above me. Instinct took over. I launched from my seat, hand diving into my coat. In a heartbeat, I had them pinned on the bench opposite, my lightning spanner crackling to life as I pressed it closer to their face.

Then I blinked. Long shadows from the setting sun covered her face, yet the fear in her eyes cut through. Red hair framed her concerned face, her breath frozen, hands raised in surrender.

Shire.

I froze, gasping again as realisation hit. My finger slid off the trigger.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice shaking.

Slowly, I backed away, slumping onto the seat, carefully holstering the lightning spanner back inside my coat. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, barely above a whisper.

“You were mumbling in your sleep,” Shire said. “I was trying to wake you.”

I stretched my neck, shifted in my seat. “Must be from the explosion in the barn.” I stared out the window.

I felt her eyes on me. “Who’s Vivienne?” Shire asked.

I snapped back around. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged. “You were mumbling her name while—”

“No one,” I blurted. I cleared my throat as I shifted again, looking out the carriage window. “How close are we?”

“Close.”

I nodded. Coughed. “Good. I wonder how Carthy is getting on with Bourke.”

“Annoyed, no less. Probably wondering why you aren’t there to update him yourself.”

“Quite. I trust he will see the value in us rushing to the capital, given what has just happened.”

“Speaking of which,” Shire started. “Any thoughts as to what happened?”

I sighed. Deeply. Not in frustration with her, but inability to cease Twix’s plan before it began to unfurl.

“There is a much larger game at play here, something that has implications for the country, if not the world.”

“That sounds rather dramatic.”

“I’d rather be dramatic and right than lax and incorrect.” I leaned forward. “We can’t underestimate them, Shire. These people, whoever they are, have diabolical plans. We must find them and put a stop to their plans before they can be executed.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said whimsically.

“Regardless of what it sounds like, we are no longer in Grace where you know every shadow in every turn in every alley. Your allegiances will be sparse, and the people you can trust are few. Keep your wits about you.”

We stared at each other across the cabin.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Get what?”

She pointed to the side of her face. “The scar.”

I flinched, twitched, as if the mere mention of it dug into my very soul and clenched. I could still recall her face, her pained expression burnt into my brain, the gasp as her lungs expelled breath.

“A maniac’s blade,” I muttered. “Routine questioning in a dark alley. I supposed I hit a pressure point for the assailant.” After the initial delay, the well-rehearsed words rolled off my tongue with relative ease. It was the same line I gave every time someone questioned it. Another wall up, another strategy to separate the memory and put it back in its box, lid closed tight and stored in an impenetrable vault. Memories like that wouldn’t help anyone or anything, and certainly would not assist me in uncovering who is behind the devilish conspiracy that threatens to take over the capital.

“Sir,” the voice came from the driver. “We are approaching the capital.”

The horses’ hooves clattered against the cobblestones, slowing as they entered the capital. Through the small, soot-smeared window, I glimpsed a city gripped by chaos. The driver, perched high on his mount outside, cracked his whip, urging the horses forward, their nostrils flaring at the stench of burning rubble and ash that thickened the midday air.

The smoke was unmistakable, curling up into the sky in dark, twisting plumes. It carried the bitter, choking scent of scorched metal, mixed with the sharp tang of chemicals—perhaps oil, gunpowder, or something far worse. The explosion had accomplished more than simple destruction; it had poisoned the air, leaving a chemical bitterness that coated the throat and made breathing feel like swallowing ash.

As we passed the epicentre of the blast, the horses whinnied and snorted, hoof clops stuttering as shattered glass and chunks of stone littered the road. Broken carriages, their wheels snapped or bent from the force of the explosion, lay abandoned like upturned beetles, gears and upholstery spilling out of their undercarriages. I could hear the distant hissing of steam leaking from ruptured pipes beneath the ground, punctuated by the groans of structural beams still struggling to hold up what remained of the ruined building.

A constable, waving a hand lamp, barked orders, trying to keep order amid the rising panic. His voice was hoarse, fighting to be heard over the distant creak of collapsing beams and the rumble of machinery still coughing from within the debris. A group of engineers—goggled and clad in leather aprons—worked frantically near the smoking ruins, their tools flashing as they attempted to contain what damage they could, perhaps trying to prevent further collapse or a second explosion.

The driver called down through the carriage’s small opening. “It’s madness here, sir. The road ahead is all blocked off.”

“This will do,” I shouted.

Affixing my bowler hat, I opened the carriage door before the driver could tend to it, and burst out into the street, Shire just behind.

The normally wide, cobbled streets had become a battlefield of debris, cluttered with bits of splintered wood and jagged steel. The sharp, acrid scent of sulphur hung heavy in the air, and each breath tasted of smoke and ruin.

Amongst the ignited street lamps, people lined the streets, their faces masked by kerchiefs or scarves, eyes wide with fear and curiosity. Vendors who once filled the market stalls had fallen silent, their carts overturned, fruits and vegetables rolling through the filth-strewn gutters. Some bystanders whispered frantically among themselves, while others pointed toward the towering wreckage, their hands trembling with disbelief.

The fire brigade had arrived, their steam-powered engines spewing mist into the already dampened air, but their efforts seemed too little against the sheer magnitude of the destruction. Overhead, an airship hung in the sky, its brass hull gleaming dully beneath the veil of soot, hovering like a silent sentinel. Its engines sputtered, faint wisps of steam escaping as it circled the wreckage, observing the devastation below with mechanical indifference.

I stood before the wreckage of what was once the Magistrate’s building—the headquarters for the city’s policing force, from detectives to patrolmen. It housed holding cells for high-profile prisoners, small claims courts, and an array of judges. And, of course, the infamous Catcher’s Division. Now, the entire structure had been reduced to rubble.

Where sandstone walls once rose with authority, only jagged chunks remained, half-buried in the ash-covered ground. Granite pillars, once solid and unshakable, lay shattered, like bones across the street. Twisted shards of steel beams jutted from the debris, while broken glass glistened among the wreckage— the raw materials now stripped of their purpose.

A patrolman barked orders as workers passed large blocks or down the line and into a carriage. I rushed up to him.

“The Chief Magistrate. Is he okay?”

The officer turned toward me, his expression a mixture of frustration—someone daring to interrupt his already chaotic day—and the annoyance of being expected to care. But as soon as his eyes met mine, his posture stiffened. The irritation vanished, replaced with a guarded formality. He stood upright, as if the chaos behind him no longer existed, his attention fully on me.

“Yes, sir. Surprisingly unscathed… mostly.”

“Where is he?”

“The Chief Magistrate is receiving attention at the Capital Bank around the corner.”

I looked up the street, where debris and wreckage choked the thoroughfare, mingling with stunned faces and frantic movements. The explosion had shattered the very backbone of the capital. Policing lay in disarray, the confidence of the people fractured alongside the city’s peace. What had once been a place of order was now a scene of chaos, and with an election around the corner, fear and uncertainty hung in the air.