Bastien vanished again.

Fuck. I had to catch him. He might not know the answer, but he knew more than he’d told me. I rushed for the exit—

A hand grabbed my ankle.

And I faceplanted into straw-like grass, suddenly realising as I did that the cambion’s illusions were gone. The tent was back. Empty of anything other than a large black cauldron, a small table and the huge four-poster bed. I jerked round to look at the figure lying on the floor, my leg captured in its iron grip, hoping it was no longer a skinned, dried-up body.

A male – small, naked, with a purple tinge to his wrinkled black skin and a pair of short, scaly red horns sticking out of his forehead – was clutching his stomach with his other hand, blackish-red blood bubbling through his fingers every time he sucked in air.

‘It’s not supposed to go like this,’ he whispered.

Crap. Had to be the cambion. And he was injured.

‘Let me go,’ I muttered, tugging my foot. ‘I’ll get someone.’

He did, but not before gasping out, ‘Dog. Under the bed. Hurt too.’

Mad Max!

I went for help.

Outside I found Hugh and five other trolls gearing up for my rescue with saline magic extinguishers (similar to a standard fire extinguisher but painted blue with a silver band). There was no sign of Mary, Dessa, or strangely any other witches, or any of the other tents’ occupants. There were, however, a couple of medic teams from HOPE with their usual mix of mundane and magical fixes. I shouted out the Wishing Web was down, that the cambion and Mad Max were injured, and that the Autarch was hidden inside. Hugh and his constables disappeared into the tent, quickly followed by the medics.

The cambion was carted off to HOPE. He wasn’t injured as such, but was instead hosting a Sagan spider – a sort of symbiotic pet that lives off the host’s blood and flesh in return for a magical boost – which was why the Wishing Web had been so powerful. The creature was half-absorbed into the cambion’s chest, and was the source of the bubbling blood. Either the Autarch had killed it when he’d plunged the dagger into the cambion’s illusion of the sun-tortured Malik, or the spider had died when its Web overloaded with too many fantasies coming too fast. Hugh said they couldn’t be sure until all the evidence had been checked out by the Magic and Murder Squad’s witches, and the cambion was in a position to talk further. He was suffering magical blowback from the spider’s death, and was being stabilised so they could surgically remove the spider’s remains.

‘Ick,’ I said, grateful I’d never got too close to the wrinkled, horny little male. And glad I’d dropped Mary with the Stun spell, even if she, Taegrin and Dessa were also at HOPE getting checked out. I’d told Hugh I’d Glamoured Dessa, but as she hadn’t shown any symptoms once she was out of the tent, he agreed to leave that tiny incriminating detail out of my statement. For now. If it was going to come back and bite me (and no way was that thought Freudian), we’d deal with it when it did. As for my actual bite wound, which had the medics pouncing on me thanks to the blood staining my shirt, I said I’d caught myself on something blunt (Dessa’s teeth!), and that it was already healing (itching like a vamp venom bite as it did!), so was nothing to worry about.

Neither was Mad Max. Injury wise anyway.

A call-out over the Carnival’s loudspeakers had turned up a vet (from Brighton on a day trip with his wife and three kids), who pronounced Max the dog was suffering from concussion, judging by the blood-encrusted egg-shaped bump on his head, and had been given some sort of sedative but was otherwise a ‘fine specimen of the breed, and if his owner was ever interested in putting Max to stud, he knew of a suitable bitch, and would be happy to put Max’s owner in contact’.

Hugh grinned, pink granite teeth shining, as he handed me the vet’s business card and repeated his offer. ‘Thought you might like to pass that on to your cousin, Genny.’

‘Ha ha,’ I said. ‘Even if it were possible, I think he’s got enough offspring already.’

Hugh laughed and settled himself carefully into an overlarge, canvas director’s chair with Mini the Minotaurstencilled across the back. ‘So did you get any useful information from Max?’

I grimaced. ‘Not much, the sedative’s obviously screwing with him.’ Dealing with the crazy sonofabitch was bad enough when he was lucid, but trying to get anything out of him when he was drugged made me want to bleach my brain: I was never going to look at a poodle the same way again. ‘But he did say that the Autarch can astral-project which explains how he popped in and out so easily.’

‘Astral projection is rare,’ Hugh said, taking out his notebook and a large troll pencil. ‘And I understand it is dangerous without the proper preparations to return the spirit to the body.’ He made a note. ‘Does Max know where the Autarch’s body is?’

‘Nope,’ I said, shifting uncomfortably on my makeshift seat, one of the leprechaun’s huge balls of string. I wasn’t sure if a spiritwalking Autarch was better or worse than a daywalking one. ‘But apparently I don’t have to worry about the werewolves coming after me since Max has done some sort of deal to deliver me to the Emperor in return for the werewolves letting him escape.’

Hugh leaned forwards. The director’s chair, while large, still creaked ominously. ‘A trap?’

‘Supposedly. Only Fur Jacket Girl appears to be Bastien’s long lost sister and I think they’re in cahoots. So Max delivering me up to the Emperor is probably something to do with the Trojan Horse thing Bastien mentioned he’d sent to Tavish.’ Knowing my luck psycho Bastien’s plan would involve me sweating it out in an actual wooden horse, which would be hell seeing as Regent’s Park was currently trying to put the Sahara to shame. I chugged back the last of my bottled water as I waited for Hugh to add to his notes, then said, ‘Hopefully we’ll find out more when Tavish phones back.’ I’d called him, and yet again my call had gone to voicemail. Hugh had sent a unit to check on him. Damn kelpie better have a good reason for being incommunicado.

Hugh nodded. ‘But Max can’t tell you what the Trojan Horse is?’

‘Nope. He seems to be blindly following whatever instructions Bastien drops into his head. I can’t work out if Bastien’s got him under mind-lock or if Max is knowingly doing the sheep thing. But that might be down to the sedative.’ Or the crazy sonofabitch’s fixation with poodles. ‘It’s possible we might get more out of him when he pops out of his doggy form at sunset.’

‘And he couldn’t tell you anything about what’s going on between the Emperor and the Autarch?’

‘No, but I’m pretty sure there’s some sort of showdown or attempted takeover in the offing. And Bastien seems to think I’m his winning card . . .’ I trailed off as I realised I’d missed something and slapped my forehead. ‘Crap. You know I asked him about the fae’s trapped fertility?’ Hugh nodded. ‘I should’ve quizzed him about the kidnap victims from the zoo too.’

‘It’s doubtful you’d have learned anything, Genny.’

‘Yeah, but I should’ve asked.’ I picked at the plastic tab on the bottle, angry at myself.

Hugh flipped back a couple of pages in his notepad. ‘What about Malik al-Khan? Does Max know where he is, or what his involvement is in all this?’

‘No.’ Questioning Mad Max about Malik had drawn a complete blank. Looked like the pyscho hadn’t given that set of instructions to his pet dog yet. So I was going to have to wait to find out what Malik’s ‘involvement’ was. Just as I was going to have to wait for answers to the rest of Bastien’s cryptic barbs. ‘Damn vamps and their games,’ I muttered, systematically crushing the empty plastic bottle. ‘All secrets and plots and double dealing.’

Hugh gave my knee a concerned pat. ‘Do you want to talk about it, Genny?’