Taegrin chatted quietly as the van trundled along about his weekend with Mr Travers. The pair had spent Sunday walking the Troll Trail on the Thames – a sort of troll spiritual pilgrimage that involved crossing all the bridges, and included the occasional stop at participating ‘watering holes’ to sluice their blowholes. They’d set out at dawn from the Queen Elizabeth II Suspension Bridge at Dartford (the last bridge before the sea), headed upriver and, even with the required ‘watering hole’ stops, had reached Battersea Bridge by sunset.

‘That’s seventeen out of the hundred and one bridges, Genny,’ Taegrin said proudly. ‘Not bad going for a day’s trekking. Now we’re planning on how we’re going to tackle the rest. We thought . . .’

The initial stupor phase of the Hot.D hit, and I listened with half an ear, watching the sun glint off the gold specks in Taegrin’s polished black skin, happy for them both and, since I’d sort of introduced them last Hallowe’en, basking in a vague mother-hen-like delight that they’d found each other through me.

My pulse sped as the Hot.D kicked in with a caffeine shot.

I checked my phone.

Three missed calls from Hugh when he’d tried to contact me.

And a message from Malik.

My thumb hovered . . .

At some point before the vodka had induced its dreamless sleep, I’d sent him a text:

We need to talk. You know I need to see the Emperor about the fae’s fertility. Ignore Tavish and don’t cut me out of the loop. Whatever’s going on, I can help.

And here was his answer. I swallowed, heart thudding erratically against my ribs. Only the caffeine. Pressed the button:

Genevieve. I fear it is unwise for there to be any more direct communication between us. Should you require any assistance, in any matter, know that Maxim is tasked to put your needs above all others, including himself. Your servant, Malik.

I frowned. Why the hell was he telling me to talk to Mad Max?

I reread the message, disbelief closing my throat.

The words didn’t change.

He’d dumped me. By text. After what happened at the lake. Fury ripped through me. Okay, so I got that he’d ‘lost control’. That he was worried about his curse. And that he’d discovered he could use my magic. I got that it all scared him. And I got he probably thought he was protecting me. But even if Malik did think that fucking ‘direct communication was unwise’, he could at least call me and tell me in person. Not send a fucking text.

And if the bastard vamp thought that was the end of it, well, he really didn’t have a clue. I’d had enough of males doing what they thought was right. Or just doing whatever they wanted. Or not giving me answers. It pissed me off. Not to mention this wasn’t only about him, or me, but about the fae’s trapped fertility. I resent my text, adding:

Stop fucking around, Malik. V important we talk. Meet me at midnight at Tir na n’Og, tonight, or I tell DI Munro to open the letter.

I pressed send. Now he had to have ‘direct communication’ with me, or I’d shop him to the cops and witches.

The van braked to a stop and Taegrin’s bass rumble in my ear took on meaning. ‘. . . so we think we should reach the Thames head by the August New Moon.’ He turned to grin proudly at me.

‘That’s great,’ I said, forcing my mouth into a smile as I mentally shoved Malik and his fury-inducing texts somewhere where the sun shone hot, and knocked back part two of the Hot.D potion, almost gagging on the bitter aftertaste. Calm, clarity and a sense of purpose spread through me, smoothing out my emotions. Good thing too, as I had a job to do.

Taegrin pointed at the glovebox. ‘There’s consultant ID badges in there, Genny. Best if you wear one.’

I snagged a badge, followed him through the zoo, and to the tiger exhibit.

We entered the same shaded corridor as before with its U-shaped windows looking out on to the tiger enclosure. I skirted past a yellow ‘Warning: Wet Floor’ sign, leaving footprints on the recently mopped floor and nearly gagging on the reek of chemical pine-scented cleaner. About halfway along the corridor, Hugh, Mary and a coven’s worth of WPCs were gathered around a salt and sand circle with something green lying in its centre. As I neared I realised it was a folded piece of clothing; the blood-splattered kurta belonging to the kidnapped woman’s bodyguard.

Hugh turned, his pink granite teeth gleaming as he smiled a concerned welcome, then I jerked to a halt as the pine smell was gone, replaced by another, more familiar scent.

Blood. Its metallic odour was flooded with adrenalin, its very freshness telling me it was recently spilled. Without conscious thought, I inhaled deeply. Underneath the coppery aroma slid another. Meaty and rich with the smell of wet fur. I’d smelled it before, here, yesterday. Only now that recognition was deeper, more visceral than a day-old scent warranted, as if it was one I’d known long ago—

Static flashed in my mind.

The zoo corridor disappeared.

I stood at the centre of a wide, moon-bright plateau. It stretched out to both sides of me, one edge hugging the steep mountain face, the other falling into the clouds boiling below. The ground was covered by an ankle-deep blanket of snow, unmarked as far as I could see. For a moment all was still, silent, a breath out of time . . .

I was back in Malik’s dream/memory. The one I gatecrashed the first time I used the Morpheus Memory Aid.

A distant wolf howl split the air, icy snowflakes stung my cheeks and a chill wind whipped my hair over my eyes. I pushed it back, and the snow-covered plateau was no longer white and pristine. Instead, pools of fresh blood stained the white expanse around me like a scattering of crimson rose petals.

The blood-scent intensified, laced now with arousal and the sweetness of ripe figs.

Rage curdled in my stomach.

Genny?

The voice was a distant rumble, like thunder in a far-off storm. Hugh.

Static flashed again.

I looked down.

A man sprawled naked in the snow at my feet. Black curls matted his scalp. Green eyes, vivid against the dark olive of his skin, gazed up empty above a long aquiline nose and thin, sculptured lips. Splinters of bone gleamed sharp and white in the red ruin of his throat. Thick black hair furred the hard muscles of his chest. Below his ribs, a long wound gaped wide, the flesh ripped open by something sharp and clawed, the ragged end of his aorta dangling into the internal cavity; evidence that his heart had been ripped out. A tangle of intestines wriggled over the lower edge of the wound, glistening slick and wet as they spilled from his abdomen on to the snow.

A distant analytical part of my mind catalogued the dead male’s injuries, and concluded they were recent. So recent, so immediate, in fact, that his body hadn’t caught up with the reality of his demise. Since, from the thatch of black hair between his wide-spread legs, his sex still jutted, still erect, and still smeared with the girl’s blood.

A growl jerked my gaze to my right.

To a ten-foot circle cleared of snow. Ash marked out the circle. Glyphs glowed with magic around its circumference. Inside the circle was the girl. She was on her hands and knees, head thrown back, long dark curls streaming over her shoulders, her prepubescent body naked except for a wide leather collar around her neck. A thick chain stretched from the collar to a spike driven into the rocky ground at the circle’s heart.

Genevieve!

Malik’s voice calling my name was drowned out as the growl came again.

From the girl.

She lowered her head and glared at me with eerie yellow-green eyes.

Shock sliced through me as I recognised her, despite her being a few years younger than when I’d seen her last night.