And it’s amazing. Watching my father, his power. My father, here, so close to me. But still, he should have come years ago.

“I don’t care how time moves. I said, why didn’t you come before now?”

“You are my son, and I expect a certain amount of respect from you . . .” He seems to breathe in and then out with a long exhalation that disperses a few more snowflakes hovering low to the ground in front of him.

“And you are my father and I expect a certain amount of responsibility from you.”

He makes a sort of laugh. “Responsibility?” His head inclines to the right and then straightens again. “It’s not a word I’m used to dealing with . . . And you? Are you familiar with respect at all?”

I hesitate but say, “Not that much up to now.”

He waits, picks up some snow and sprinkles it from his fingers.

He says, “Mercury was going to give you three gifts, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“What did she want in return?”

“Some information.”

“That sounds cheap for Mercury.”

“She wanted something else as well.”

“Let me guess . . . it’s not hard: she wanted my demise. Mercury is very predictable.”

“I’ve no intention of killing you. I told her that.”

“And she accepted it?”

“She seemed to think I’d change my mind.”

“Ah! I’m sure she would have fun trying to change it.”

“You believe me then? I won’t kill you.”

“I’m not sure what to believe yet.”

And I’m not sure what to say. You never ask someone to give you three gifts. Never. And I cannot ask him, but if he has come now, on my seventeenth birthday, then he must be here for that. Surely?

“What information did she want?”

“Stuff about the Council and my tattoos. I haven’t told her anything.”

“I’m not fond of tattoos.”

I stick my hand out, show him the one on my hand and the one on my finger. They are a blue-black and my skin looks milky white in the darkness. “They planned to use my finger to make a witch’s bottle. To force me to kill you.”

“Lucky for me that you still have your finger. Lucky for you that you didn’t tell Mercury. I think she would have taken your finger.”

“She wanted the Fairborn too.”

“Ah, yes . . . where is the Fairborn?”

“Rose stole it from Clay but . . . things went wrong. She was shot by the Hunters. I lost the Fairborn.”

Silence.

He looks down, pinches his nose between his eyes. “And inevitably this is where I find things a little harder to believe. Where exactly did you lose it?”

“In the forest on the way here.” And the pain in my side stabs me so that I shiver. “I was poisoned or something.”

“What’s happened? Are you hurt?” he asks, leaning toward me. He sounds concerned. Concerned! And I want to cry with relief.

“A Hunter shot me. I heal it but it keeps coming back. The bullet’s still in there.”

“We need to get it out.”

“It hurts.”

“No doubt.” He sounds amused now. “Show me.”

I open my jacket and shirt.

“Take them off. Lie on the snow.”

As I take my shirt off he gets up, walks around me, and picks up the knife Gabriel gave me.

“What are these?” And he traces his fingers over my back. The touch of his skin on mine is strange. His hands are as cold as the snow.

“Scars.”

“Yes.” He laughs again but I can only just hear. “Who made them?”

“Kieran O’Brien, a Hunter. A long time ago.”

“Some think a millennium isn’t a long time.” He runs his rough palm over my back and his touch is strangely gentle.

“So . . . Lie back. Keep still.”

He doesn’t hurry.

I clench my jaw; my flesh feels like it’s being ripped off my rib, like pulling chicken meat off a bone. The meat is attached surprisingly strongly.

I start to count. After nine the numbers become swear words.

Then the pain stops.

“The bullet was lodged behind the bone. It was hard to reach. You can heal now.”

I do and I can tell he is watching how quickly my skin knits together.

I’m buzzing; already my healing is better with the bullet out of me.

I start to push myself up and my father grabs my hair, pulling my head up and forcing me onto my front. His knee is in my back and the knife is at my throat. He strokes the flat of the blade over my skin, then turns it so the edge is pressed against my neck. I’m not cut yet.

“Your life is mine, Nathan.”

The blade is so close that I daren’t swallow. I’m arching back so far I could snap.

“However, I’m in a giving mood, so please accept your life as a gift from me today.”

He lets my hair go and my head and body drop forward. And I’m on my hands and knees in the snow wondering, Is he going to do it? Does that count as a gift? What time is it now?

I turn and he’s sitting cross-legged near me. He’s in a suit but he isn’t wearing a tie; his top button is undone. His face is darkness.

I put my shirt on and sit cross-legged opposite him.

He holds the bullet out to me. “For you . . . another gift. Perhaps it will remind you to be more careful around Hunters.”

The bullet is round, a metallic green, with markings cut into it.

“Fain science mixed with witch magic. Not elegant, but like so many things, it can still kill you.”

The way he says it I know he’s talking about me.

“I won’t kill you. Mary told me about your vision. I won’t kill you.”

“We’ll see.” He leans toward me, his voice low. “Time will tell.”

“Mercury won’t give up, though.”

“She thinks I wronged her. And I suppose I did. And she will think I led the Hunters here, but you can tell her I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to her. The Hunters are very good, Nathan. They don’t need me to help them. Tell her that they have found a way of detecting her cuts in space. She will have to be more careful in future.”

“I’ll tell Mercury, if I see her. But . . .”

Doesn’t he want me to go with him?

Silence. Stillness. Snowflakes waiting.

“What now?” I ask.

“Between me and you?”

I nod.

“I’m not a great believer in prophecies, Nathan, but I am a cautious man. So I suggest you keep away from Hunters and take care not to lose your finger, as you say that you have lost the Fairborn.”

“But . . .”

And I can’t ask him if I can go with him. He’s my father. But I can’t ask. He would say if he wanted me.

“Why did you never come for me?”

“I thought you were doing fine. I caught glimpses in visions. You did well enough on your own. I saw nothing after they took you away. They had you well hidden, even from visions. But you escaped. I’m pleased about that, Nathan, for both our sakes.”

He looks at his wrist but I don’t see a watch there.

“It’s time for me to go.”

He pulls a ring from his finger and takes my right hand, slides it on to the index finger.

“For you, my father’s ring, and his father’s before him.”

He takes the knife and cuts his palm and holds his hand out.

“My blood is your blood, Nathan.”

And his hand is there, his flesh, his blood. Carefully I take his hand with both of mine. His skin is rough and cold, and I raise his hand to my lips and drink his blood. And as I suck and swallow I hear the strange words that he whispers in my ear. His blood is strong and sweet and warm in my throat and my chest and stomach, and the words curl into my head, intertwine with my blood, making no sense but wrapping me in what I know, and I smell the earth and feel its pulse through my body, through my father’s body and from his father before and his father before that, and at last I know who I am.

As I let his hand go I look up and see his eyes.

My eyes.

Marcus gets to his feet and says, “I take my responsibilities as a father seriously.”

And as he moves back, the snowflakes begin to slowly, slowly fall again. The wind strengthens, buffeting me and picking up the snow from the ground. I can only just hear Marcus say, “I hope we meet again, Nathan.”