CHAPTER 26

I knew the address of Will’s flat but I didn’t know where it was in this rabbit-warren city. The tail end of rush hour clogged the streets and I fought for every step toward Oxford Circus. I’d I find a place to search my map once I was in the station’s ticket lobby—I’d make one if I had to. There were eddies near the big maps on the wall that I could stand in long enough to find his street, people I could ask to direct me, poor befuddled American that I was. I’d even play the helpless female if I had to. I’m not religious but I do take the words of gods seriously these days. It’s safer.

Will’s flat was on Whitcomb Street, which my map showed as northwest of Trafalgar Square. Two Underground stations were nearby on a line directly from Oxford Circus and another on a different line. Of the three, I chose Piccadilly Circus, since it was only one stop away. I assumed a famous tourist site like Trafalgar Square would be a madhouse at rush hour on a sunny Friday afternoon, so I hoped I was making the right choice by avoiding it to start at the north end of Whitcomb.

I had no idea what the distance was—my maps didn’t seem quite to scale sometimes, though I knew they must be. The twists and turns of London’s thoroughfares and byways made every street seem longer and farther from the previous one. I ground my teeth impatiently while waiting for the train and then standing in the crush.

I shoved my way out of the train on arrival and dashed up the stairs heedless of others and raising a commotion in my wake. I didn’t care. I ran on, two long blocks down Coventry to Whitcomb and south on Whitcomb.

I was nearly all the way to Pall Mall, almost to Trafalgar Square after all, before I spotted the number I wanted and had to turn sharply, cutting across the street, dancing between cars and trucks as irate drivers honked at me, to dive into a gated courtyard on the other side.

The fact that it was commuter hour and I was wearing business clothes worked in my favor; a man in a business suit was just unlocking the gate as I dodged up, panting, “Lost my key.”

He held the gate, smiling. “S’all right. I’m on my third—flatmates keep takin’ ’em.”

“Thank you,” I said, catching my breath. Now I just had to shake him while I looked for Will’s flat. “I just can’t seem to keep track of things,” I added with an inane giggle.

His smile got a little cooler. “Ah. You’re American.”

I nodded.

“I suppose you know the fellas up on the second floor, then?” he asked, looking a little hopeful, but of what I wasn’t sure. Conversation? A date? Maybe it was just his natural expression, but I really didn’t want him to take too much interest in me, since I was sneaking in. “They seem quite nice.”

“You mean Will and Mikey? Oh, yeah. They’re sweet! It’s so nice to hear a voice from home, y’know?” I scratched my nose, then inspected my nails. “Eww! I can’t believe how dirty I get here!” There’s nothing like offhand insults and bad personal hygiene to make someone wish they’d never seen you. Cary used to say the easiest way to get someone to stop looking at you was to pick your nose in public. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go that far.

The man coughed and picked up his briefcase before turning away. “Umm. yes. Gets a bit filthy during tourist season. ”

Left on my own just inside the gate, I only needed to get up to the second floor to reach the Novaks’ flat. I’d gone up one flight and along the corridor for a few feet before I remembered that the British start numbering above the ground floor. What I thought of as the second floor, they called the first. I hurried back to the stairs and up another flight. Then down the hall to number twenty-two.

There was no bell, so I pounded on the door.

The building was old but recently renovated, and the doors were thick so I didn’t hear anything until the sound of the locks scraping back.

Michael Novak, shaggy flaxen hair hanging in his eyes, opened the door, saying, “Jeez, Will, can’t you just use the key?” He stopped and stared at me. “Umm. Hi. Harper.”

I knew I was mussed and out of breath but the awkward effect of my phone call from LA apparently lingered, as he tucked himself back behind the door and peeked out through a narrow opening.

“Will’s not here.”

“I got that, Michael. Do you know where he is? He hasn’t been at Sotheby’s for days.” I believed Sekhmet and I’d look a fool if she’d deceived me, but I’d take the chance.

“What? No. He goes to work every day, even part-time on Saturdays.”

“Not recently. I think he’s in trouble. Please let me in.” I held out my empty hands. “I don’t mean either of you any harm. I’m just worried about Will.”

“I don’t know. ”

“Oh, come on, Michael! Call Sotheby’s and ask! If I wanted to hurt him, don’t you think I’d be the one who took him?”

“Will isn’t gone! He’s—Hey! There he is!”

I didn’t look immediately but shoved my foot into the open doorway and turned my shoulder into the opening as I glanced back down the hall. But Michael didn’t try to shove the door closed; he pulled it farther open and I found myself inside the flat, looking back out at Will Novak.

Tall, thin Will with his prematurely silver hair and small rimless glasses blinked at me. Then he smiled.

“Harper.” Something funny about his voice.

I narrowed my eyes and stared at him as he stepped into the flat.

A large dark blot wrapped in bands of energy—blue, yellow, red, and green—moved where Will should have been. It moved toward the kitchen. Michael and I followed him.

“Will,” Michael said. “What’s going on? Harper says you haven’t been going to work.”

“OK,” Will said.

“No, not OK,” Michael objected, going through the kitchen doorway after Will—if it was Will.

“Michael, I don’t think that’s Will,” I warned him.

He scowled at me over his shoulder and turned his back.

A sandwich sat on the counter by the sink, resting on a paper towel with the knife and makings piled beside it. Will trailed a hand along the counter edge, knocking the knife onto the floor. He walked past it.

“Will? Hello?” Michael said. “What’s with you lately? Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

I went into the kitchen right behind Michael, stooping to pick up the knife.

Will stopped and turned sharply around. “Harper,” he said again, but the voice was worse than before. Not angry or upset, but just wrong, like the chorus of the city’s Grey energy was funneling through his mouth. His eyes gleamed, both in the normal and the Grey, with a red glitter. He reached out and grabbed my arm—I was getting damned tired of that—and yanked me toward him, knocking Michael aside.

“Will!” Michael shouted, dismayed at his brother’s violence. “What—?”

“It’s not Will!” I shouted back as the thing occupying Will’s shape dug its fingers into my arm. It opened its mouth and let out a shriek of red and black light that struck at me like a cobra.

I slammed my other fist into the Will-thing’s chest, cutting off the magical scream and nicking its flesh with the knife. The thing rocked backward. Then it raised its other hand, clawed, toward my eyes, grimacing.

From behind us Michael yelled, “You’re crazy! Get away from him!” He lurched forward, grabbing me around the waist and hauling backward.

I dug in my heels, reversing the kitchen knife with a flip and driving it into the hand descending toward my face. The blade cut into the flesh with a damp shushing sound. The hand kept coming. I pushed on the knife and twisted. Then I yanked sideways, cutting through the fingers of its right hand. They pattered to the floor and lay twitching there as I wrenched my other arm free.

“No!” Michael screamed, jerking me back.

We fell down in a pile between the sink and the serving island. The thing that wasn’t William Novak came forward, flailing and silent, with its mouth gaping. Light in ugly colors started to pour out of its mouth, flowing toward me and Michael.