“Probably,” Meera sighs. “I was just saying maybe…”

“What will she do with them?” Marian asks.

“I guess she’ll drop them off in a city somewhere,” Shark replies. “Let them run wild. Maybe collect them at the end and take them on somewhere else.”

“But why?” Marian frowns. “Why not build bombs, poison a city’s water supply or develop chemical weapons? Hijacking hundreds of werewolves to use as crazed assassins… it’s like something out of a Batman comic!”

“Crazy people don’t think the way we do,” Meera says glumly. “They have all sorts of warped ideas and plans, and if they gain enough power, they get to inflict their mad schemes on others.”

“Like Davida Haym in Slawter,” I note.

“There’s another possibility,” Terry says. “She might have done this for humane reasons. Maybe she suffered a moral crisis. Decided they’d been mistreating these creatures. Took them somewhere isolated, to set them free.”

“Unlikely,” Antoine says with a cynical smile. “Her people killed seventeen of our staff during the breakouts. Many more were seriously injured. Hardly the work of a good Samaritan.”

“I’ve seen fanatics who think animals are nobler than humans,” Terry says. “They’d happily kill a human to save a dog or cat from abuse.”

“Prae Athim isn’t an animal rights activist,” Antoine says firmly. “I refuse to entertain the notion that she did this to free the specimens, that she stood waving them off as they returned to the wilds, happy tears in her eyes.”

“He’s right,” Shark says. “We have to assume this was done with the intent of creating maximum havoc.”

“So let’s track her down and stop her,” I snarl. “We can’t just sit here and talk about it. We have to… to…” I throw my hands up, frustrated.

“We all know how you feel,” Meera says sympathetically. “But until she makes a move, there’s nothing we can do. The world’s a big place. You could hide seven hundred werewolves just about anywhere. We can’t—”

“I could find them,” Timas interrupts. “If I had access to your mainframe,” he adds, smiling at Antoine.

“I told you—the records have been wiped,” Antoine scowls.

“It’s virtually impossible to wipe a mainframe completely clean,” Timas says. “That’s one of the reasons I was surprised you still used one. I can perform at the very least a partial restore.”

“We’ve had experts working on it for the last six weeks,” Antoine says sharply.

“I’m sure you’ve employed some of the best people in the business,” Timas says earnestly. “But I’m the very best.”

“Even assuming you could restore it,” Shark rumbles, “how would that help us? She’s unlikely to have outlined her secret plans on a work computer.”

“You can’t move that many bodies around without leaving a trail,” Timas says. “If I find out more about the creatures, I can use that information to fish for clues on the web.”

“What do you mean?” Shark asks.

“They didn’t take the cages,” Timas notes. “That means they transported them in cages of their own. Once I know what the cages are made from, I can search for companies who specialise in this type of construction and find out if they’ve filled any large orders recently. If they have, I’ll learn where they delivered the cages to.

“If I can determine how the werewolves were tranquilised, I can track the drugs back to where they were manufactured, then trace them through delivery records.

“How did they transport the creatures—aeroplanes, articulated trucks, trains, boats? I’m assuming they moved at least some of them across international borders. There will be a trail of red tape, no matter how surreptitiously they went about it. I’ve followed such trails before and enjoyed a large measure of success.

“Do you want me to continue explaining or shall I get started?” Timas addresses this question to Antoine Horwitzer.

Antoine’s torn. “Is he really that good?” he asks Shark.

“Yes.”

“If he can do what he says… he will have access to confidential information. He’ll have to sign a privacy clause. We need absolute affirmation that he’d never reveal—”

“You present the forms, he’ll sign them,” Shark cuts in.

Antoine struggles with the idea for a couple of seconds, then sighs. “Very well. I’ll log you in and provide you with the relevant security codes.”

“No need,” Timas says, sliding on to Antoine’s plush leather chair. “I can crack them. The exercise will serve as a useful warm-up.”

“How long will it take?” Shark asks as Timas’ fingers dance across the keyboard.

“A few days, I imagine,” Timas replies absently. “Quicker if we get a lucky break. Longer if she’s hidden her trail artfully. I’ll need complete privacy. And my equipment from the helicopter.”

“I’ll have it sent down,” Shark says and ushers us out.

“Perhaps I should stay and keep an eye on him,” Antoine says nervously.

“No chance,” Shark responds firmly and pushes out the suave chief executive, ignoring his spluttering protests.

Some of the rooms on the uppermost floor have beds, or couches which pull out into sleeping cots. Members of the higher echelon move around a lot between buildings owned by the Lambs. Given the secretive nature of their business, they often prefer to stay onsite rather than check into hotels.

I’m sharing a room with Spenser and James. They don’t speak to me much. They know I’m part of Beranabus’s world of magic and demons, but they’ve had little first-hand experience of that. They find it hard to think of me as anything other than an especially large but otherwise unremarkable teenager. I’m not too bothered. I find most of their conversation pretty boring—weapons, planes, helicopters, war, battle tactics. I’m happy to be excluded.

I spend my spare time experimenting, testing my powers. I don’t know how much I’m capable of doing on this world, in the absence of magical energy. I want to find out what my limits are, so as not to exceed them and leave myself exposed.

I’m pretty good at moving objects. Size doesn’t seem to matter—I can slide a heavy oak wardrobe across the floor as easily as a telephone. I spend a couple of hours moving things around. I’m pretty beat by the end, and not back to full fitness until the next morning. It’s reassuring that I can recharge, but worrying that it takes so long once I’ve been drained.

Other manoeuvres are more demanding. I can heighten my senses—to eavesdrop on a conversation, or view a scene from a few kilometres away—but that takes a lot of effort and quickly eats into my resources. I can’t change shape, but I can make myself partially invisible for a very short time. I can create fire and freeze objects, but again those demand a lot of me. I can shoot off several bolts of magical energy, but I’m good for nothing for hours afterwards.

There are all sorts of compensating spells which I could make use of if I knew them. But I refused to dabble in magic when I lived with Dervish and I didn’t need spells in the Demonata universe—if a spell was required there, Beranabus took care of it. He wasn’t interested in training Kernel or me, just in using us to bully and kill demons.

I wish I’d demanded more of Beranabus and Dervish. Mages can do a lot with a few subtle spells. As a magician I could do even more. I get Meera to teach me some simple incantations, but we don’t have time to cover much ground.

I worry about my uncle constantly. What’s he doing? Where is he? Time moves differently in the other universe, usually faster or slower than here. Years might have passed for him, or only minutes. Is he alive or dead? I’ve no way of knowing. Beranabus taught me how to open windows, so I could go and find them. But I couldn’t guarantee how long that would take.

I have to remain here until our mission’s over. I’m the reason the others are involved, the one who vowed to track down Prae Athim and uncover the truth. I can’t cut out early. That would be the selfish act of a child, which I’m not. I’m a Disciple. We see things through to the end. No matter how scared and alone we feel.