Page 1 of The Omega Verse

Cass

“Dyin’ is the easy part,” a gravel-and-velvet voice croons through my portable speaker. “It’s the afterlove that kills you.”

Words that feel particularly barbed today as I lift weary eyes to stare at the clipping on the noticeboard above my desk. It’s a Rolling Stones article from three months ago, with a black slash of a headline: The Sun Goes Down on a Legend. I don’t bother trying to read the words beneath it – I know them off by heart, anyway – but I drink in the picture of Steven “Stix” Rain, drummer of the legendary rock band, The Sundowners.

It’s an amazing shot captured during his last concert. He’s exploding over his drums, long dark hair matted to his cheeks, his inked torso glowing with sweat, and his hands flying so fast his sticks are a blur. He looks so alive, so ferocious with joy, I can barely force my gaze down to the tagline:

Rock legend Stix Rain’s final appearance

Rio De Janeiro, Brazil

R.I.P. 1992 – 2023

Leaving the last few emails unread, I close down the office computer and push away from the desk. I’m late starting on the morning’s baking, but I can’t help taking one last look at the picture. Even though every muscle in his body is focused on working his drums, Steven’s denim blue eyes are staring straight down the lens of the camera. They’re bright; blissful even. A dimple has popped in one cheek and his lips are curling at the corner, like he’s on the edge of a wicked grin.

After I read about his death, I went looking for another dose of that smile. To my dismay, I couldn’t find a single one. Mostly he was pictured with his hand over the camera or a fierce scowl on his face. And according to the other articles and fan sites I checked, Stix Rain wasn’t a happy guy. Or, at least not publicly, where he was painted as a moody, bad boy rocker. He was famous for losing his cool, trashing hotel rooms, public fights with his many flings, and cutting reporters to shreds with his tongue. Everyone talked about his musical genius and his fiery temper in the same breath.

So why does he look like he’s on cloud nine in his last picture?

It’s a question that has plagued me ever since I found out that my long-lost brother Steven Lynch was also Stix Rain, a founding member of The Sundowners, and one of the most talented musicians on the planet.

My gaze cuts away from the picture, but not before snippets of the story have sliced into my soul. A dark, unfamiliar road. Torrential rain. A treacherous stretch of mountains, known for its mudslides. And a motorbike swerving around a spill, before over-correcting on the sharp bend.

The official police report declared it a tragic accident, and even without knowing the gritty details, I agree.

A wave of phantom pain rolls through me as I drag my gaze from the article and head next door into the kitchen. I call it phantom pain because I didn’t really know my older brother. Or at least, not this version of him that the rest of the world seems so familiar with. Steven was six years older than me, and we lost touch when we were both put into foster care as kids. So, the savage emotion that keeps swirling through my insides can’t be grief – not in the way of missing someone you were really close to. Someone you loved.

“Hi, Cass.” I snap out of my reverie as Dusty, one of the other bakery employees, enters the kitchen through the back door. He has a blue streak in his dark faux hawk, gauges in his ears, and a perfect bow pout, but he’s also smart as hell, and only working here until he’s saved for his MBA. While he’s great with customers, he’s always a little slow at just shy of five in the morning, and he makes no effort to stifle his yawn as he tugs on a Cookie’s Bakery apron, rubbing a fist in his kohl-smeared eyes. “Where do you want me today, boss?”

Technically, the bakery is still owned by Cookie Amato, the Italian-born pastry chef who took me in as a sixteen-year-old runaway and trained me up as her apprentice. When she moved into a retirement village last year, she handed her apron over to me, and I’ve been running the place ever since.

“Can you get the coffee machine started?” Dusty doesn’t have the patience for pasty, so I focus on rolling out the extra dough for chiacchiere, the carnival fritters the locals call angel wings. We make plenty of Aussie favourites – meat pies, sausage rolls, and even vegemite scrolls, on occasion – but most people come for Cookie’s Italian pastries.

“You playing this song again?” Dusty smirks as he fires up the coffee machine. Cookie was devoted to a stovetop espresso maker she brought with her from Naples, but demand always outstripped supply, so last year I convinced her to invest in a commercial-grade Gaggia. Sugar might be a pastry chef’s lifeblood, but coffee is what gets me out of bed at three thirty every morning.

“I never knew you were such a Sundowners’ groupie,” Dusty prattles on as I start slicing the pastry into thin strips. “Which I totally get. They’re hot as all hell. And I guess we should enjoy them while we can. I mean, now that Stix Rain is roadkill, the rest of the band will probably break up, don’t you think?”

I’ve sliced through the top of my finger before I even feel the bite of the knife. “What did you say?”

Dusty’s eyes almost bug out of his head as he leaps for a cloth on the bench. “Oh, my God, Cass! What the hell? Are you caffeine deprived or something?” He tosses the cloth at me, his face a queasy green as he starts making me a cappuccino with trembling hands. “You remember how blood makes me faint, right? Jesus, and Tom is going to lose his ever-loving mind when he finds out…”

“Tom doesn’t need to know.” I give him a warning look as I set the knife in the sink and wrap my hand in the cloth. Ouch. As I bind it tightly, my pulse is throbbing under the wound, but it’s not the first injury I’ve had in the kitchen and it won’t be my last. “It’s no big deal. I’m just distracted.”

“No shit.” Dusty makes a gagging sound as he gingerly sets my coffee on the far corner of the blood-splattered bench. The frothy heart on the top is so wonky, I’d tease him if he didn’t look like he was going to pass out. “Want me to grab you a bandage before you bleed all over the town’s breakfast?”

“I’ve got it, thanks. You can go wipe down the booths.” I grab the medical kit from under the sink while he hustles off out the front. I gave our two cherry red booths a thorough clean last night, but it’s a good excuse to give him a breather. Dusty’s never been a fan of the dirtier side of a commercial kitchen, but since he presented as an omega six months ago, he’s become increasingly sensitive. I’m guessing he’ll be handing in his resignation soon – either because he’s over the sights and smells of the bakery, or because one of the local alpha packs has snatched him up.

I pull a sad face as I fish a couple of Band-Aids out of the kit. I can hear him singing along to the next Sundowners’ song on my playlist, and I realise how quiet the place will be once he’s gone. But then he gives a nervous chirp and the front door rattles - the only warning I get that we have an early-morning visitor.

“Why do I smell blood?” The alpha that strides into the kitchen is dressed in his paramedic uniform, but right now, he looks like he’s about to commit murder. His dark brown eyes sweep over the messy bench before raking down my body. I drop the Band-Aids in my haste to hide my injury, but as a growl crawls up his throat, I realise all I’ve done is expose my bloody apron to his scowl. “Show me, Cass.”

I screw up my nose, hating the way my heart gives a guilty lurch. “It’s nothing, Tom. A stupid accident…”

“I’ll decide that,” he rumbles, and then he’s looming over me, his hand out. “Give me a look.”

At six-feet-six with shoulders built to carry a heavy load, Tom Bush is a hard man to refuse. But I still give a reluctant huff as he unwinds the bloody cloth and scowls at my finger. As fresh blood seeps from the cut, his alpha scent kicks up a notch – which is saying something, since it already swirls around me like lemon-scented smoke. “Don’t overreact, Tom. It’s just a nick. I get them all the time.”

“It’s deeper than a nick.” He nudges me over to the sink and glares down at the bloody knife like he’s the one it stabbed. “Did you at least clean it?”

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