When Donald grumbled that he’d had to drag the barman in through the front entrance, I hadn’t quite appreciated his difficulty. Now it stood before me in full measure.

  There was a back entrance to the building, but it had been appropriated by the builders — foremen and specialists who needed access to Peter or any of the other supervisors with offices inside. Plenty of labourers and guards were in the yard for another reason as well: originally the site had been a warehouse for construction materials. In a district where everything was stolen, down to the laces from old boots, such precautions were hardly excessive. Now only timber and cement were stored there, yet there was always someone about: working, fetching something, passing through. Still, there were fewer people than on the square in front of the house.

  Knuckles found a spot not far from the entrance, behind a tall stack of pine boards that shielded us somewhat from prying eyes. While he stayed with the car, I went in search of Donald. He wasn’t in his office, so I prowled the building until one of the lads told me he was outside on the square, demolishing a plate of ribs. I hoped he’d finished, because the corpse in the boot needed dealing with, and quickly.

  There were more people on the square now. The first street urchins and vagrants had begun to gather. The local tramps weren’t driven off; the men handed them a chunk of bread and a deep bowl of rich stew, seating them on roughly knocked-together benches set apart from the children. The children were fed nearer the future orphanage, mostly by the girls. The skinniest were given that same stew, or a ragout of meat so tender it fell into fibres, while the better-fed were allowed cutlets and sausages. Within reason, of course.

  While I watched, Sarah Feron scolded one boy for trying to nick a cutlet from his mate. The girls handled the little ones themselves; as for the older lads, to prevent any trouble, the younger members of the clan played at being formidable warlocks. Not that they were merely pretending, there were real warlocks among them, and shifters as well. But the clan’s main strength had gathered at a separate table and did not appear overly concerned: Donald in the company of Uncle Bryce and Burke, Bryan McLilly under the guise of Leslie Bailey, Tim Kinkaid, Arthur Logg, Peter Kink, Archibald Feron…

  The last of these did not boast much power, but possessed the nose of a basset hound. Still, Peter Logg and Alfred McLal were also seated at that table despite being light on strength, so brute force was evidently not the principle of their grouping.

  Bryan-as-Leslie spotted me first. I wondered whether everyone at the table knew who he truly was. I, for one, no longer found it difficult to see through the illusion, though Uncle and Donald spoke of it as exceptional. Bryan pointed me out to Donald and murmured something that drew smiles all round, until Archibald said a word or two, and the smiles vanished as though blown away by the wind.

  The security chief rose sharply and came towards me. Uncle and Burke followed suit.

  “Archie caught the scent of blood,” Donald said.

  “Not mine.”

  “Go on,” the warlock ordered.

  I made a questioning gesture towards the table. Half of them were shifters, no doubt straining their ears.

  “Speak,” Uncle permitted.

  “A werewolf. The body’s in the boot. The Cooper’s parked in the back yard.”

  “Tim. Arthur,” Donald called to the fighters, presumably to employ them as porters.

  “Lead the way,” Bryce ordered, “and start talking.”

  I turned back the way I had come, but did not rush to explain.

  “Perhaps we might do this in an office, without unnecessary ears?” I suggested.

  “In brief,” Uncle said. As a warlock, he understood the value of certain secrets. I, for instance, still did not know what he had received for killing Valentine. Ferrish had undoubtedly been generous, but Uncle would guard that particular trick until the moment came to mortally astonish an enemy.

  “He was tailing my Cooper under a glamour,” I said. “Thought I wouldn’t notice. I did, and set a trap. It worked.”

  “Father didn’t thrash you nearly enough as a boy,” Bryce muttered, though he refrained from dressing me down in front of the fighters. “You should have come straight back the moment you spotted surveillance.”

  “That was option number two. Before attacking, I told Knuckles to widen the gap. If that had failed, we’d have bolted.”

  Uncle said nothing, but his look promised at least a deeply unpleasant conversation.

  The Cooper stood where we had left it. Knuckles had seated himself atop the stack of boards and was ostentatiously polishing the casing of his Thompson, radiating sullen aggression from every line of his posture.

  “Why?” I asked him.

  The lad nodded towards the large pool of blood that had spread beneath the boot.

  “They’ve already been over, asking questions. Those two,” he said, indicating a pair of workmen.

  “Tim,” Uncle ordered, “have a quiet word.”

  “And you, Arthur,” Donald added, “ask those chaps to take a smoke break. Somewhere well away from the timber.”

  Once the fighters had dispersed the onlookers, Uncle decisively opened the boot. Burke immediately leaned in from the side and let out a low whistle.

  “Not bad!” he pronounced cheerfully, but one look from Uncle silenced him. Bryce shook his hand, drawing a dagger from the air, sliced off the top buttons of the shirt, then hooked the collar aside with the tip of the blade to examine the tattoos.

  “Have you completely lost your mind?” Bryce demanded of me. “Or do you imagine yourself immortal?”

  “Grandpa, come on…” my cousin tried to defend me and received such a cuff round the back of the head that he nearly lost his footing.

  “Use your brains! I told you about the tattoos. One of these creatures tore your father’s arm off.”

  “It was a trap!” I reminded him quickly, before I too earned a blow. Uncle’s hand was heavy.

  “Come along,” he hissed. “You can tell us about your ambush.”

  From his tone I gathered that if he disliked my account, my head would be removed and placed on a shelf for safekeeping.

  Before we left, Donald instructed the men to fetch a tarpaulin, wrap the body, and take it down to the cellar. I added that they were to extract the crystalline blades and return them to me.

  We secluded ourselves in Donald’s office. I told the story from beginning to end, placing emphasis where it suited me: that I had used spells and potions in preparation, that I had forced the werewolf to accelerate and struck at a vulnerable point, that Knuckles had been ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Conversely, I modestly omitted how close the creature had come to reaching me.

  Uncle frowned, searching for a flaw in my reasoning. Finding none, he began to quibble over trifles until Donald asked the important question.

  “How did you manage a head strike? Used the etheric target again?”

  We had encountered the problem of bullets stubbornly skirting tattooed bodies half a year ago in Avoc. Back then I had employed Simon Feron’s trick, the one that nearly sent me to my grave, an enchanted target and a bullet bound to it, which flies true regardless of intervening spells.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “No. I was controlling the blades in real time. They go where I direct them, and overcoming different sorts of barriers is simply a matter of expending more energy.”

  Donald and Bryce exchanged a glance.

  “Do you have a guided casting?” the security chief asked.

  “A spark. A weak one. Enough to light a candle, no more.”

  Burke perked up at once, sensing a chance to redeem himself.

  “I’ve got a magma bolt. It doesn’t take tight turns, but at five metres I can adjust its course by twenty or thirty degrees.”

  “Excellent,” Donald said briskly. “Let’s make ourselves useful while Lord Bremor thrashes Lord Loxlin.”

  “What for?” I protested.

  “He’s in a foul mood,” Donald explained, giving me a covert wink. “In this state he might thrash me as well.”

  “I daresay you could use it,” Bryce muttered. “Nicholas has spoilt you rotten.”

  Still, the jest had its effect. Uncle realised he had been somewhat unfair and cooled a little. I gave Donald a subtle nod of thanks, which did not mean I had forgiven him for tricking me into that volunteering arrangement.

  McLal reached for the door handle, but it turned of its own accord, and Donald barely avoided colliding with his father. Behind the elder McLal stood two youths: Luke — once a member of Knuckles’ gang, now Albert’s assistant, and a small ragamuffin whose waistcoat I had used to set Hunchback’s jaw. The child looked dishevelled and frightened out of his wits.

  “The werewolves have begun to push back,” Albert announced from the threshold.

  Bryce cast a meaningful glance at the boys. The elder McLal waved it aside.

  “They brought me the news. As I understand it, this one,” Albert rested a hand on the ragamuffin’s head, “and his mate took our offer to another gang, but encountered a werewolf there who forbade the children to accept it. Threatened them and took the boy’s companion.”

  “My brother,” the child sobbed, breaking down. “They took John!”

  “Where did this happen?”

  Albert looked uncertainly at the weeping boy, then at his assistant. The lad responded exactly as he should have.

  “The Beauties’ gang, my lord. I can show you.”

  “Just give us the address, son.”

  “Er… I don’t know the address. But I know the place.”

  Bryce and Donald exchanged a look. No one relished the idea of dragging a child into a fight. On the other hand, letting the werewolves slip away was hardly appealing either.

  “Then tell us how to get there,” Bryce decided.

  “Does Knuckles know where it is?” I cut in.

  “Yes, my lord,” the boy replied.

  “Knuckles drives well. And my Cooper’s enchanted against any damage.”

  Bryce merely shifted his gaze. Donald was already at the door; he only glanced back to ask:

  “You staying?”

  Uncle gave a firm nod. He did not intend to sit idle. I sprang up as well to follow Donald, but was stopped by a voice that had lost its steel, no longer Uncle Bryce speaking, but the head of the clan.

  “You’re not going anywhere. Give the driver his orders and come straight back.”

  “He’s not my servant,” I replied automatically. Everyone seemed to forget that only Harry could truly command Knuckles.

  “Be that as it may,” the clan head said. “You’re needed here. We prepare to repel an attack.”

  I nodded, seized Luke by the elbow, and hauled him towards the car. By the time I’d passed on the instructions and Luke had explained the route, Donald and Peter Kink had joined us.

  “Right!” the security chief declared, wagging a finger at me. “You don’t play hero. You obey like a good little lad.”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “Thank God,” Donald exhaled, only to be dismayed by the sudden appearance of Burke.

  “I am.”

  “Blast it!” McLilly swore, shaking his finger again. “You obey…”

  “Like Mummy,” Burke finished for him, then added in a fair imitation of Bryce, “No charging ahead. Keep your eyes open. Provide support.”

  “Grrr,” Donald growled, though he was no shifter. “Get in!”

  Doors slammed, and the Cooper shot off, raising clouds of construction dust. I was left coughing and brushing myself down.

  Back inside, I slipped into a secluded corner beneath the stairs and activated the spatial pocket spell on my bracelet. I tried to align the two components carefully, but failed. The inner segment slipped from my will and dissipated. A pity. A pair of fully charged crystalline blades at hand would not have gone amiss, assuming I had time to fully recharge the terrakinesis spell.

  Abandoning the attempt for the moment, I went out into the yard and found Uncle. He was seated at the same table as before, in the company of Albert McLilly and Peter Logg, chewing sausages and pretending to drink beer. Only the alertness in his eyes betrayed his readiness to spring up at any instant.

  “You wouldn’t let me go, but you sent Burke. I may not be as strong as he is, but at least I know what those creatures are capable of. And I see them more clearly.”

  “That’s precisely why,” Bryce replied. “Burke hasn’t faced powerful werewolves yet. Let him have a look. The team with him won’t let him come to harm.”

  “That’s if there’s only one. What if there are several? What if it’s an ambush?”

  “Archibald won’t walk into an ambush. You know what his nose is like. And the lads are prepared for that possibility.”

  “With a scent-neutralising draught even Archibald could be fooled. I might have spotted something.”

  “Then look,” Uncle said. “That’s why I kept you here.”

  “You think they’ll attack?”

  “Why else stage that little performance?”

  “I doubt the mangy lot appreciate how we’re taking control of the slums. Obstructing us is the logical move.”

  “Timing, Duncan. They responded too quickly. That’s only possible if they knew of our plans and were preparing to counter them, or if they’ve long been searching for a pretext. Either way, our main fighting force is absent, and we’re surrounded by ungifted civilians. You couldn’t invent a better moment to strike. So if you truly see through illusions as well as you think you do, keep your eyes open.”

  There was sense in what he said. Uncle was recalling fighters from overseas assignments, yet our forces in Farnell remained limited. However important the projects here, Avoc mattered more. Home mattered more.

  On any other day, nothing of the sort would have occurred. But today, with this project underway, nearly half the slum’s inhabitants had gathered in the square before Bremor House. Even a single werewolf bursting into that crowd could wreak havoc. Weak, unprotected people. In moments he would bathe in their blood. After such a slaughter, the clan would spend centuries restoring its reputation, and the orphanage project would be finished forever.

  So far I saw nothing suspicious. But my view of the square was not complete.

  “I’ll take a walk,” I said.

  “Just don’t go looking for trouble. If you spot anything — call me.”

  I nodded. This was no longer a matter of pride. Starting a fight was one thing, killing a werewolf without civilians getting hurt was quite another.

  For roughly two hours, until sunset, I moved through the crowd. In that time, I managed to calm down and fully recharge the spells in my bracelets. The people kept coming. There were not many children, as it happened, but the adults, drunks, addicts, and the general dregs, began to misbehave.

  My petrification spell proved most useful. After a couple of demonstrations, several living statues had appeared on the square, and the troublemakers’ swagger diminished noticeably.

  An hour in, Knuckles returned and helped the girls organise the older teenagers. A few firm punches were administered, but the young gentlemen of the streets did not dare object. Two hours later, the fighters’ cars rolled onto the square. Donald looked pleased with himself, shining like a newly minted silver piece.

  Before he had even fully stepped out of the motorcar, he flashed two fingers at Uncle. I hurried towards the table Bryce had not left and arrived just in time to hear the beginning of their exchange.

  The clan head spoke first.

  “Ours?”

  “Just a couple of scratches…” Donald glanced around, smiled, and added more quietly, so only we could hear: “Two tattooed corpses in the boot.”

  Bryce exhaled and drained the bottle of beer he had barely half-finished over the past two hours in a single long swallow.

  “Distribute the men across the grounds. We await a response. The body Duncan brought — load it with the others and take them to the station.”

  “Just a moment,” I interrupted. “We need photographs of the tattoos. At least of the one that was tailing me. There was something new, mist-based.”

  Uncle nodded and amended his order to Donald.

  “See to it. By tomorrow every dog in Farnell should know that the Bremors killed three werewolves.”

  I did not envy the police. After that, the whole city would rake them over the coals, especially the PSS. Werewolves fell under their jurisdiction. Vixley would not be pleased.

  Vixley! He still owed me for pulling his son out of Gratch’s cellar. Me personally, not the clan, which was why Uncle had not factored him into his plans. Perhaps he did not trust him, perhaps there were other reasons. But the situation had changed.

  I understood Bryce’s thinking. After such a public incident, the police would have their tails twisted so tightly they would peer into every crack and crevice, which would make life considerably harder for the werewolves. The head of the PSS would receive his share of ‘gingerbread’ in the general distribution as well.

  “Uncle, what if we share the trophies? Say we brought them down together with the PSS. Vixley would be grateful.”

  “Stand down on sending the bodies,” Uncle said, considering, though only for a moment. “The resonance will be smaller, but such an ally would not go amiss.”

  “We could leak to the papers that we took them down ourselves,” Burke suggested, only for Donald to disappoint him.

  “The Farnell Daily won’t print that. They’re under de Camp’s thumb, and he won’t allow it.”

  “What about the Evening Herald?” Burke asked again.

  “The yellow press?” the security chief raised a brow.

  “Exactly the place for rumours. Besides, I know precisely to whom and how to leak them. Picture it: two young wastrels,” Burke gestured at me and himself, “celebrating a successful hunt, slightly the worse for drink in the favourite club of a rising star in journalism.”

  “What club, what star, and how do you know all this?” Bryce asked.

  Burke answered in strict order.

  “Bitter Chocolate. Olivia Foxtrot. Girls. She’ll bite, no question. She’s written about Duncan before.”

  “Duncan is needed as intermediary with the PSS,” Bryce objected.

  “And I’m not going!” I said at once. “I’ve a prior engagement this evening. Take him.” I nodded towards Bryan, still wearing Leslie Bailey’s face.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Uncle decided. He clapped his hands once. “Gentlemen, to work.”