Red never repaired his Isuzu. A few of the dents busted back into place, but it’s hard to ignore missing windows. At least the glass has been swept away.

  Tires crawl over the pavement, and the cowboy steps outside. He’s in a suit and tie, girth hidden beneath a black jacket, the rawhide replaced with longish, neatly combed hair. Finnerty and Jayden wait on the porch to greet him; the latter in dress blacks and a red button-down, the former, well…

  She’s in a brown tracksuit. With stains.

  Red looks at Finnerty for a single moment, before shaking his head. “No.”

  “Whatcha mean, ‘no?’”

  “This ain’t jes' any club, Ashlin’. They won’t letcha in.”

  “Well ‘ey’re a fookin’ bitch! No one tells me-”

  “There’s a first time fer everythin’.” Red climbs onto the porch, looking down at her. “It’s fer one night.”

  Finnerty looks away, muttering, drumming her fingers along her arm. Jayden just stares at Red. One hand never leaving his hip.

  “What?” Red throws up his arms. “Ya gotta have somethin’.”

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  The clothing pile - or ‘Garm Nest’, as it’s affectionately known - is smelled before it is seen. It’s in her bedroom, halfway down the first storey hall, next to a much more organised cabinet of floppy disks and external drives. It reaches its owner's waistline, or enough to match Red’s knees, everything wrinkled, rankled, and often coated with mysterious, fluffy specks.

  “You wanna find somefin’ neat?” Finnerty gestures to it, a massive smirk on her face. “Be my fookin’ guest.”

  Red squints at it. Sniffs. “When ya run outta clothes, do ya jes’... buy more, or…?”

  He’s cut off by a slurping sound. Finnerty’s returned to her true form, shoving her mouth with her arm's feathers. Biting, licking. The sound gets even louder as she works her way up.

  “What?” She makes a face. “I’m fookin’ preenin’.”

  Jayden, from experience, is already well outside the room. Red sighs, kneels down, and starts working his way through the clothes.

  “Surprised my girl would let ya do this.”

  “Oh, she whined! But ‘is ain’t some fookin’ laundry, Red. It’s art. Nest like ‘is takes years to build.”

  “Ya know they say Dhaoine Crímini get more animalistic as the Wilds take hold of ‘em.”

  “Ain’t heard Her in years,” she smiles back. “Why? Am I actin’ a little too…”

  She kneels down, her eyes sparking.

  “... feral?”

  “No.” Red replies as he throws another baseball cap onto the floor. “Ya’ve always been a connivin' lil’ shit.”

  She puffs up at that.

  “Prolly already know this, but I wouldn’t tell Ms. Lakhani what’s goin’ on.”

  “Not fond of evil undead wizards, Red?”

  “No. But that’s not why. It’s…” He pauses. “Have yer ravens heard anythin’ about Fireside? From anyone outside us?”

  “Naw.”

  “Mine neither. Means this Soteris boy is keepin’ it close ta his chest.”

  She squints. “So why don’t we say somefin’?”

  “‘Cause there are worse fuckers we can be dealin’ with,” Red replies. “And Soteris is smart ta keep them from away from his kill.”

  She bites her lip. “Can we trust Striga? Generally?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You and Harriet ran wiff one.”

  “Yeah, we did.” Red chuckles. “An’ Menowin was a beacon a’ trust.”

  “If it’s true, she’ll be desperate. Nuffin to lose. We can use ‘at-”

  “Or,” Red tilts his head. “It makes her even more unstable.”

  Finnerty frowns, standing up. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, cowboy, but you won’t find shit in 'at pile. Not some Office Kept or double-bitch, I’m a movverfookin’ Freeholder. Bitches wear 'eir Sunday best for fookin’ me, not the ovver-”

  “Found it.” Before she can respond, a yellow golf shirt sails onto her head. Finnerty swipes at it, then reads the logo. Walton Heath - the fuck is that!?

  “This looks like piss,” she whines.

  “I know.” Red throws a pair of jeans at her feet. “It suits ya.”

  She bristles as the cowboy gets up, slaps her shoulder.

  “A’ight, get dressed, an’ make sure ta hide a couple blades.”

  “What, we’s not gettin’ searched?”

  “Oh, we will.” Red grunts as a crack resounds from his lower hip. He rests his hand on it. “But ya gotta keep the guards sharp. Jes' bein' courteous."

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “Soho.” Finnerty doesn’t make eye contact, instead squinting at the window, the tunnel speeding by. “You know what ‘at’s close to, right?”

  She doesn’t get an answer. They’re on a half-empty Tube car, churning through the Circle Line. There’s an awkward space between them, Jayden - who still hasn’t spoken - and a gang of drunkard’s swaying in other rows. Finnerty, however, has perched right next to Red, ignoring all the open, nearby spots, so that she has to crane her neck to see the book he’s holding. It’s some Marxist shit. Four Essays on blah, blah, BORING! She didn’t get a uni degree to read.

  There’s a hand over her heart. Since they left the house, she’s been trembling.

  Finnerty perks up, swaying around to the train. “I looked! Only two blocks away. What wuzzit called? Resting? Re-spun? No, Respite! Ain’t it a fookin’ kick ‘at a Shadow-Walker owns it now?”

  Red still doesn’t respond. Slowly turns the page.

  “I like Ombras. Real freak, but least ‘e’s a funny guy!" Finnerty grins. "Not too late to cancel, innit? Or ask Aisha to change spots? Just don’t want you feelin’ uncomfortable. I mean, you even mention Soho to Harriet an’ she’s liable to-”

  “Ashlin’.”

  Red slams the book shut. Leans down. Arm on a handle, so that Finnerty is boxed in.

  She makes a point to not alter her posture. “Yeah?”

  “Are ya tryna piss me off?”

  “Just find it a bit odd ‘at you’re so quiet when we’s goin’ to the place where-”

  “I know where we’re goin’.”

  His voice is harsh. Needly. Clearly pained.

  Red swallows. “Security-wise, the location’s safe. Ombras don’t like when the Reeves get too close, but this place is still too small fer…” His face sours. “Greedy lil’ worms.”

  “But if Ombras is about, Morris could…”

  She goes quiet when Red growls.

  As he returns to his book, Finnerty sighs, leaning back, listening to that chirpy voice list off Moorgate Station. Her heart won’t stop beating. Everything moves so slowly, and she can’t stop…

  … stop…

  “I-I’m just sayin’,” she chimes back in. “They’re prolly gonna kick us out, right? It’s, heh, it’s a really fancy place. T-Too fancy for-”

  “Are ya tryna run?”

  “No.”

  “Are ya tryna get me ta run so that ya aren’t runnin’ first?”

  “No!”

  “Ashlin’. If ya can’t handle it, I’ll do this on my own.”

  “I’m here, innit? Here in me fookin’...” She grabs her shirt. “Piss yellows! But we’re only a hop away from the Shadow-Walkers. An’ I know ‘ey did fooked wiff Harriet’s head. So-”

  “If I have ta relive the Respite a thousand times ta see my girl again… I will.” Red frowns. “Ain’t gonna be a distraction.”

  “Good.” She nods, more to herself than the cowboy. “And I…”

  Her eyelids are heavy. Sleepless, and still can’t sleep.

  “... wish you’d let me take a fookin' hit.”

  The train comes to a slow halt. Doors open, and mortals file through. As usual, they don’t heed her, and she doesn’t heed them. There’s some text on the station wall. Graffiti. She reads it slowly.

  ‘THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED’

  A true statement, probably. But as the train screeches away, Finnerty can’t help but think it’s in a bad place. A bad time.

  She remembers the last revolution.

  It made for bloody great theatre.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Contrary to popular belief - popular belief, in this instance, meaning whatever Finnerty imagines others think about her - she has been in a lot of rich buildings. There were all those chimneys she swept before Ratcatcher, though the hosts usually hit her with a broom if she started walking around. The real prizes came after. The Kensingtons, the Chelseas, that she’d always take dibs on for…

  … you know.

  Jewellery boxes don’t grow on trees!

  All this to say that the allure of the Edgware Hotel and Casino; its gilded halls, its elaborate sculptures, the big glass thingy that sparkles overhead… they don’t distract her the way they were designed to. For one, it’s Art Moderne, which… ew. But really, there’s two objects more deserving of her attention. The bathroom, with a black marble finish that’s just begging to snort crack off it. And the two slot machines in the corner.

  With their flashing lights.

  Spinning fruits.

  And sh… shiny-

  “No.” Red grabs her by the shoulder, halting her advance.

  “You’re not my dad!” she barks.

  “I’m lookin’ to play substitute.” He makes a gesture at an attendant. “We’re good.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Finnerty seethes as a guard starts pawing her sides. She’d win. She’d win so fucking much. But no. She has to roll her eyes and let the guards ask her for fucking IDs. “You look a little young to-”

  She slides a hand down her shirt. Shoves the Glock she pulls out into his chest. Sounds of shock from the long queue of asshats standing behind her.

  “Do better.”

  She skirts past him and walks ahead, giving the next bouncer a harsh enough glare that he opens the door for them. It unveils a bland, concrete passageway with a single flickering light. There's a heavy beat bleeding through the walls that throbs in her still-anxious chest.

  Finnerty listens, hopping a bit to the music as she bounces down the tunnel. It has to be an unhealthy loud.

  “Least the Striga got brains!” She shouts, wandering further. “Even me girls can’t hear through ‘is sound.”

  “Yeah,” Red grimaces. “Me neither.”

  There’s more bouncers in the passage. She can see that they’re carrying billy clubs. Pistols so poorly hidden even Florida wouldn’t call it ‘concealed carry.’ The deeper they go, the darker it gets. More damp. The walls are short, to the point that Red has to stoop. Jayden looks back, clearly on edge.

  “We’s gotta a fahkin’ plan if tings go south?” He asks.

  “Yeah,” Red nods. “Grab the witch an’ run.”

  “Dere's only one exit.” He points.

  “Which is why we really fookin’ run.” Finnerty adds.

  Pipes rattle. The foundation shakes. The music is so rattling that bits of plaster crumple into her hair. Finnerty looks up, squinting.

  “Why ‘is remind me of-”

  A siren blares, even more piercing. The crowd beyond the concrete cheers. Finnerty pales, her skin stiff, eyes going wide.

  “They built a club in a Blitz bunker,” Red says, walking past her. “What’d ya expect?”

  As the siren fades, she blinks, clearly irritated. “Ain’t exactly memories I wanna relive!"

  “It’s been sixty years. The mortals have moved on. Anyone comin’ here is a few generations - ARGH!” Red yelps as his head collides with a light fixture. “God-dammit!”

  Finnerty’s about to laugh at him, before her eyes alight. The tunnel ends. The club begins.

  To call it ‘high-end’ would be an understatement. They’re in Soho after all. But there's light-up floor tiles, the sharp-dressed guests, the smell of intoxicants, a DJ that’s actually fairly good. The ceiling is higher than a normal bomb shelter, allowing for spotlights, a constellation of catwalks. The whole place trembles with music. A series of neon streams tear across the room, adding colour to the pale walls.

  "It's not 'at call," she huffs.

  Jayden smirks. "You'se just vexed you'se dressed like Charlie Brown."

  Finnerty punches him in the arm.

  Something steals her sight. Or, someone. Alone, at one of the distant tables, with a glass of what appears to be juice at her side. The woman wears a red hijab, and a matching dress that sparkles when the inset gems are hit by the roaming stagelights. She appears younger than Finnerty expected, maybe mid-twenties, and her face is soft, even doughy. But nothing hides the age of Aisha Lakhani’s stare.

  The intensity in those rich, orange eyes.

  Finnerty stares back, her feathers - though invisible - shooting straight up at the ends. Red trundles up to her, squints at the same table. Her heart starts to race. “Alright. I’ll make the introductions. Ya-”

  “Bar.”

  She says it quickly. Bobs away. Before anyone can stop her.

  Invisibility rocks. Definitely one of her better powers. Aether doesn’t make her invisible, so much as it lets her… blend in. Unseen. Unheard. Mortals will swerve to get out of her way, and never question why they’re swerving. But right now, it's helping her swipe bottles while she leans over the bar's finish. Not fair unless she gets to swerve, too.

  By the time Red and Jayden find her, she's a quarter-way through her gin bottle.

  “Bird?” Jayden squints. “Youse arright?”

  Alright. Of course she’s alright! She’s just about to talk to the super witch that can KILL HER INSTANTLY.

  Red blinks as Finnerty chugs her spirit directly. “Er… I’m not sure our new Moslem friend’s gonna appreciate it if yer-”

  “Moslem?” She skirts back, speech slurred. “Fook off, Bush Jr. Gonna call her a Saracen next?”

  The drink’s working. Which is good. The world might spin, and her stomach is… not grand… but her brain feels focused. Her heart’s relaxed.

  Red gives her a look. “She’s clearly devout. I don’t wanna-”

  “Here’s an idea.” She shoves the bottle in his hand. Half-finished now. “‘Ow ‘bout we don’t greet her wiff the guy who looks like he’d stop ‘er at an airport, an’ leave ‘is to the fookin’ expert!"

  “You?" He scoffs. "Yer an expert on Ayrabs?”

  “I’m halal as shit. A fookin’ akhi!”

  She bobs her head, stepping back, but only manages to drunkenly careen into a pillar.

  “Bird!”

  “I’m good! I’m good!” She hops back to her feet, stumbling about.

  “Lissen, Bird, Red’s gotta point. I tink-”

  “I don’t pay you to fookin’ fink!” She exhales, turning to the Poisoned One. “Just gotta…”

  She plods along. Fully aware that if she doesn’t go first, she might be not be there when Red looks behind him.

  The music bounces in her skull. She keeps falling into people. Her eyes always on the table. Bad idea. Bad idea. Should never have come. Should never-

  “Um…” Aisha blinks a few times as Finnerty slides into a seat. “Excuse me?"

  “Asalaamu alaikum," Finnerty smiles.

  “Uh, sorry, the music’s a bit-”

  “ASALAAMU A FOOKIN’ LAIKUM!”

  Finnerty juts her hand out. Aisha stares at it. Then stares at her. “Alaikum a-salaam?”

  “Aisling. Finnerty. I’m Aisling Finnerty.” She hiccups. “You nearly blew up me house wiff your fookin’ al-Qaeda letter.”

  Aisha pales.

  Finnerty slides her arm back, leaning against her seat. The drink... hittin' a bit too hard, now. The music is hurting her skull. “You couldn’t ‘ave found a fookin’ quieter-”

  There’s a crack. Orange flares all around them. Aisha’s hand is raised, wrist bent at an uncomfortable angle, but the music has suddenly dimmed. Every sound has dimmed. Finnerty blinks, looking around the table. The passers-by look smeared, like tinted glass.

  “Shit.” Anxiety's back again.

  Aisha throws her sleeve back over her hand. “One of the last Freeholders of East London. Hm. I was expecting someone-”

  “Taller?” Finnerty offers.

  Aisha squints. “More composed.”

  “Yeah.” Red says as he approaches, Jayden behind him. There’s a brief pause as he adjusts to Aisha’s magic. “... We all were.”

  He blinks, then takes a seat, his girth stuffed between chair and table.

  “Howdy. Josiah.”

  “Red Eddards?” Aisha’s English is surprisingly clear. Unaccented. Practiced. She turns to Finnerty. “I thought you two split after the Miners’ Strike.”

  “We’re not working together.” They say in unison.

  She turns to Jayden. “What about him?”

  “Cacabel.” He doesn’t smile. “Dat’s all you'se gettin'."

  “Don’t mind ‘im.” Finnerty smiles. “‘E’s just a bit pissy ‘bout Darfur.”

  She gets multiple looks for that.

  “I think we could all use some drinks.” Aisha pulls out a purse from behind her seat. “Even if, for some of us, it’ll be water.”

  Finnerty doesn’t hear the barb. She’s too focused on the handbag. It’s bright pink, with sparkles and… the Powerpuff Girls?

  Aisha slides out a bill and brings it near Jayden. Fifty quid. He’s immediately off-guard. “Uh…”

  "Enough, right?" He meets her warm eyes. Aisha's smiling.

  “... Oh… kay.” He nods, snatching the cash and dusting his shirt. “Right, yeah, more, uh, cranberry juice, comin’ up.”

  “An’ whiskey,” Red calls after him before scowling at Aisha. “Bribery won’t getcha too far with the Unbound, Ms. Lakhani.”

  “That wasn’t a bribe. Just a gift."

  Finnerty’s silent. Trying to get a read on this woman. She’s clean. Sits straight. Her expressions are far calmer than they should be for the Court's top fugitive. “Not very often a Poisoned One sends me fan mail.”

  “Nor is it common for a Poisoned One to get a reply.”

  “We’ve had incidents.” Red scowls.

  “With the Veneficii as they are, I’m unsurprised,” Aisha nods. “But I came in here expecting to bargain. I’m more than willing to prove my resolve.”

  “By ‘avin’ us meet in fookin’ Court Town?”

  “Not Court Town. Ombras’ town,” Aisha replies. “And I consider Ombras a friend.”

  They both look at her.

  “Well…" Aisha blinks. "A-as much as one can be friends with a five-hundred-year-old being.”

  “Does he know we’re here?” Red asks.

  “No. I made sure.”

  “You fuckin’ better be sure-"

  “Ombras has no more loyalty to the Court than you to the government.” Aisha keeps her gaze on Finnery. “He won’t be surprised by my escape, nor will he act to stop it. I’d bet my life on that.”

  “You are.” Finnerty scowls. “Now..."

  “Wait.” Aisha’s leaning over the seat again, ruffling through what sounds like paper. “Sorry, I just…”

  Finnerty, still scowling, tilts her head to see under the table. It’s a backpack full of loose leaf and white binders. Pink. Just like the handbag. So is the small case Aisha pulls out. All of it's themed Hello Kitty. And why does it smell like strawberries?

  “Apologies.” Aisha springs back right-side, adjusting the large glasses on her face. “I wanted to see you both clearly.”

  Finnerty slides back up, deep in thought. Something’s off. Really off.

  “I’m sure you have questions.” Aisha’s calmly folds her hands. “Ask-”

  “Do you know Magic Missile?” Finnerty asks.

  Aisha blinks. “Pardon?”

  “Magic Missile?" She points at the air. "Spell ‘at shoots ‘em little darts around.”

  “Why would I know how to do that?”

  “‘Cause you’se a fookin’ wizard, dumbarse.”

  Aisha’s eyes dart to Red. The cowboy clears his throat, then leans into Finnerty. “Ashlin’, I’m sure this is all very excitin’-”

  “No, no, no. She knows it.”

  “Veneficii don’t have ‘spells.’” Aisha explains. “Our powers are linked to the unique humouric properties of the base aether we had as mortals, mixed with-”

  “So you don’t know Plant Growth?”

  “No.”

  “True Strike?”

  “No.”

  “Fireball?”

  A slight hesitation. “No.”

  Red sighs. “Ashlin’, sorry, what the Hell are ya talkin’ about?”

  “She knows Magic Missile!”

  “I do not know Magic Missile!”

  “But it’s a fookin’ cantrip!”

  “It’s Level One, you-”

  “IIIIIIII KNEW IT!” Finnerty slams into the table, pointing an accusatory finger at Aisha. “You’re a fookin’ nerd.”

  “Am not!”

  “Am so! You play D&D!”

  “I…” Aisha straightens herself, inhaling through her nose. “I might have a passing interest in-”

  “Bet you got a party wiff the ovver Poisoned Ones.”

  Aisha glares at her.

  “Bet you all pick Wizards.” Finnerty leans in, grinning. “Bet you all play as yourselves!”

  Aisha’s eyes flare with orange light. “Enough!”

  “Ashlin’, sorry, but I don't think her hobbies are all that important ta-"

  “She's young."

  Aisha pales.

  “Young enuff ‘at it’s a problem. Young enuff 'at she don't wanna tell. No experience. No contacts."

  "And you know all this from the class I play in D&D?"

  "No." Finnerty tilts her head towards the pink case. "I know it 'cause you robbed a fookin' primary schooler."

  Aisha’s less calm now. She takes deep breaths, clutching the dress. “Raven-"

  “‘Ow old are you, Aisha?”

  A pause. “Thirty-one.”

  “And vamp years?”

  Longer pause. “Three.”

  Finnerty frowns. “I’m guessin’ three ain’t enuff to make you a full wizard?”

  “Not technically.”

  “Not technically.” Finnerty licks her lips, leaning forward. “Aisha. Lemme level wiff you. I don’t deal wiff liars. Red? Even less.”

  He growls in support.

  “So everyfin’ you’se say next best be honest, innit? Good, bad, doesn’t matter. ‘Cause if it’s not, you’ll be wishin’ you fookin’ stayed in your Kept dorm playin’ Three-Point-Five. Arright?”

  “Alright.”

  “Good." Finnerty folds her arms. "Introduce yourself. Properly.”

  The Poisoned One bites her lip. The fear Finnerty expected is more evident now. Desperate. Overwhelming.

  “... My name is Aisha. I came here from Bursa when I was eighteen. I like cooking… and anthropology... and….”

  She puts a hand on her heart. Breathing, rapidly. Red moves to help, but she waves him off.

  “I’m trying to do the right thing." She looks at Finnerty. “But if I do it alone, I’m going to die. Help me.”

  Finnerty slowly nods. “I’m still confused how you even got the fook out."

  “I am… was… an inquisitor for the Office of Court Heraldry. Its nominal head, Yuri Anastasov, is an oafish buffoon who does not deserve his position. It was easy to fool him.”

  “But he’s still your Keeper?"

  “He wasn’t. When I left.” Aisha blinks a few times. “I performed a rite that… removed his hold.”

  Red and Finnerty both stare at her.

  “It’s a hard ritual. A taxing ritual. On the body, the ingredients-”

  “Ya have a way ta break Keepin’s?”

  “Yes. No. Temporarily.” She lifts her hands, struggling to explain. “It doesn’t… remove the Keeping so much as it transfers ownership. For about thirty minutes.”

  “Who the fook wants to switch Keepers for thirty minutes?”

  “It has its uses.” Aisha pushes up her glasses. “The woman who made it, Symphonia-”

  “Symphonia?" Red asks. "As in Symphonia Stockton?”

  “Yes. You know her?”

  For a moment, there’s no reply. Red and Finnerty look at each other, and start to snicker.

  “Heheheheheheheh-”

  “-hahahahahahahah-”

  “Why are you…?” Aisha searches their faces. “Is something funny?"

  They both turn to her. Dead silent. Even the music stops. But then the tension in the air dissipates. And they both roar with laughter.

  “Aisha. Aisha!”

  “If…” Red takes slow breaths. “If… if ya had any idea…”

  “You wanna know what she was usin’ ‘at fookin’ spell for!?”

  “To escape.” Aisha squints. “Obviously.”

  They start to wheeze. Red, slamming the table with his fists.

  “Ms. Lakhani…” Red tries to quiet down, squeezing his arm. “As ya might know, some Nocturni have… peculiar tastes…”

  “She was a fookin’ Keep Freak!” Finnerty shout.

  “A what?”

  “An order-lover. A gimp! ‘At spell’s not for breakin’ Keepings, dumbarse! She was gettin’ off!”

  Red howls. Aisha’s eyes go wide.

  “Imagine it!” Finnerty gestures, her tone dramatic. “You’re at the height of the Empire. Surrounded by fookin' prudes! Dreaming of nuffin’ more but to be stripped down an’-”

  “No.” Aisha shakes her head. “Symphonia was respected. Th-these rumours-"

  “Rumours!?” Finnerty pipes up. “‘Ese ain’t fookin’ rumours! I kidnapped her in ‘70! Ratcatcher wanted a fookin’ ransom, but I kicked her off the wagon when I started hearin’ moans!"

  Red looks at her. “No.”

  “She did!”

  "Well that's nothin'..." Red smiles mischievously.

  Aisha pipes up. “We are really off task-”

  “Harriet ever tell ya 'bout the time she asked out Morris?"

  "You're fookin' dead!"

  "Naw, naw. She kept askin’ ‘bout his time in the Navy,” Red snickers. Can barely keep it in. “Wanted to know if they…. If they taught him ‘bout ropes!”

  They both cackle. Aisha's face is stone cold while the others gasp for air.

  “An’, an'... hahahahah when she learned that he had ta whip bad sailors…”

  Finnerty falls out of her chair.

  “Hi. Sorry.” Aisha’s standing up. “Can we get back to my imminent execution!?”

  “Roight!” Finnerty slides back into her seat, still grinning. She blinks. "Why do 'ey care?"

  “What?”

  “The Court? The Reeves? One of ‘em got shot few weeks past. Why care 'bout you?”

  “Beyond my powers?” Aisha lifts a brow.

  “You don’t even know Magic Missile.”

  Aisha chuckles at that, briefly. It's followed by silence. An awkward silence. But Finnerty catches it. A hint of movement.

  Towards the floor.

  It happens quickly. Finnerty flings herself under the table. Eyes on the backpack. But Aisha grabs it before she can see.

  “No!”

  “Bitch!”

  “You can’t! It's-"

  Something flies out. A white binder. Laminated pages, thick and bulky. Finnerty’s eyes grow wide as she scans the title. It’s not a language she understands. But she knows those fucking runes.

  Fwoosh. Finnerty skirts back. Between her face and the binder, Aisha’s hand. It glows with a bright orange light. A small flame dancing in it's palm.

  “Please.” The voice is soft. Mousy. There’s a surge of aether, and the flame grows. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Finnerty crawls backwards, until her back's against the chair. “You know, most woulda fookin' started by sayin' 'ey know Fireball."

  The flame flickers. "Most would."

  Finnerty her brows. “I need to know what’s in ‘at binder.”

  “No.”

  “Aisha…”

  “Court Inquisitors have access to research. Important research. And the Court might think this research is the most important of all. It offers them a solution."

  “Ta what?” Red asks.

  “Themselves.”

  The flame dies. Finnerty clambers back to her seat in time to see Aisha's eyes. "The fook you mean?"

  “The Court is in crisis. Losing control. Eating itself alive.”

  Seconds pass. For the first time since she’s entered, Finnerty can only hear music.

  “No,” Red shakes his head. “That's... mighty wishful. But they’ve got ten-thousand Kepts. Agents in every city. Fingers in each political honeypot since the Duke a’ goddamn Wellington.”

  “Lip service, and no more. Blair listens, but does not obey. He makes more police. More surveillance. More wars. All of it, against the Court’s approval.”

  “They don’t approve?” Red growls.

  “If ‘ey’re sniffin’ out terrorists.” Finnerty replies, scowling. “‘Ey’re gonna smell the fookin’ rats.”

  “Since its inception, the Court has had an edge on humans in money, information, power.” Aisha’s voice turns serious. “Now, none are true. They have bombs, scanners, drones. A new ultra-rich that demolishes markets quicker than an Elder can wake. In every direction, the Court's influence wanes. And they can’t just spawn more Kepts, summon more Oathsworn. The Reeves have forced limits for years…”

  “Limits?” Finnerty asks.

  “The Court doesn’t live in a world where it can hide its secrets. A photo can travel the world in an hour. Make it to global news in half a day. The Law of Secrecy hangs by threads. And if those snap…”

  “Boom,” Red replies.

  Aisha frowns. “We saw what happened when the Towers fell.”

  “So when the people a’ Britain find out there’s an actual, real cabal of immortal monsters stealin’ their wealth an’ drinkin’ their blood…”

  “... we’re dead. Very dead. And it’s probably deserved.” Aisha reaches for her backpack. “But I’d like to think that God went through all this trouble to make us for more than that."

  She throws a map onto the table. Clearly hand-drawn.

  “Keep me and my research safe, and you will be rich. Keep me and my research safe, and the Court dies.” She taps the page. “As proof: Yuri Anastasov’s estate.”

  “Thought you just left the bitch,” Finnerty folds her arms.

  “I did. Which is why I know he has millions in antiques. Tens of millions in artwork. I know every secret, every entrance, half the guard’s names. You want money?” Aisha taps the page. “There for the taking."

  Finnerty looks at it. Sneers. “It’s good. But I want more.”

  “Anything,” Aisha nods.

  “Need your help wiff somefin’ else,” Finnerty keeps voice low. “Somefin’ much bigger than Yuri fookin’ Anastasov.”

  “Ashlin’...” Red warns.

  “We need to know if she can do it.” She hisses back.

  “Do what?”

  Red and Finnerty both turn. “You ever ‘ear of Randall Avery?”

  Fear. For a split second, Aisha’s entire body recoils. Finnerty’s stomach twists. Not a good sign. “I’ve... heard rumours.”

  “Go on.”

  “Staunch loyalist. High Inquisitor type. If he had his way, the veneficii system would apply to the entire Court. All of them, permanent Kepts."

  “Oh,” Red scoffs. "Lovely."

  “He’s built some runes,” Finnerty continues. “I need ‘em gone.”

  “Why?"

  Finnerty glowers at her.

  "Fine. Then how many?"

  “‘Nuff to cover a fookin’ skyscraper.”

  For the first time Finnerty can recall, Aisha looks away from both of them. Hand on her chin. Clearly deep in thought.

  “Aisha.” Finnerty gets close. “I need a simple answer. Can you do it? Yes or no.”

  Aisha exhales. Slowly. “I..."

  Her expression falls. Finnerty's, too. A viscous black fluid drains onto the table from somewhere high above them. Pooling until it drips off the edge as fog.

  Finnerty’s breath steams, her feathers bolt up. It’s cold. She stands, looks around. The music has stopped, the conversations gone quiet. Guests rapidly queue at the entrance, leaving behind drinks, shirts, wallets. All of them filing out in a straight line without a single word.

  Red sees it too. His face shifting as realisation comes. “Ashlin’...”

  “Agh!” Finnerty yelps. Flings her foot in the air. Something crawled over it. Something thick and bulbous and slimy. More black fluid falls from one, two, five different places. Slowly covering the floors. Red starts backing away, pulling Finnerty with him.

  “We need ta go! Now!”

  "The fook is-”

  “Spare change.”

  Everyone turns. The black pool still spreads on the table. A face has formed out of it; voidlike and featureless. It whispers from a petulant mouth. Its muscles pulled back, as if constantly screaming.

  “She’ll take me back…. Take me back…”

  “FUCK you, man!”

  “Come on come on come on!”

  A black arm stretches from the mass, reaching for Aisha, clutching her dress. She watches it, pale, paralysed. Finnerty’s about to leap and pull it back, when she hears footsteps on concrete. Jayden calling.

  “Bird!” He doesn’t see the rifle until it’s butted into his cheek. “Bir-krk!”

  “JAYDEN!”

  Three men pull him down. Three guns trained on his face. Black suits. Black glasses. Oathsworn. She’s running. Sprinting. Ignoring the slime, the cold, the grabbing. It’s only when the pull is too strong, when she can’t move her legs at all, that she realises what they’re dealing with.

  Who.

  She’s thrust up. A dozen tendrils, playing with her limbs like a marionette’s strings. Red swears. Aisha screams. There’s no grace to it. Finnerty slams into the catwalks, face-first, ears ringing. The tendrils surge where they need to. Ankles. Waist. Neck. Pulling pulling pulling. Until she’s tight against the catwalk grate. Can’t move. Can’t think. The sensation is repulsive. Terrifying.

  A cold grip on her wrists.

  “You know, I don't actually own this one."

  He approaches upside down. His feet waltzing across the metal grating. He’s sharply dressed: a green suit with a matching bowtie. Finnerty watches his hat, his coat, his umbrella get plucked away by tendrils surging from beneath his skin.

  “I was worried what the lack of competition would do to me.”

  “Ombras!” Red shouts.

  Behind him, Aisha sobs.

  Henri Ombras puts a finger on his chin, his eyes a constant black, his face a Cheshire Cat smile. “But I don't need to own a business to hear their secrets."

  He lunges towards Finnerty, kneeling down. Rather than tilt his face to meet her eyes, his head rotates, flipping on the neck by 180 degrees.

  “It’s just a matter of pressure.” He grasps her chin, forcing her to look. “And the weight you give your threats."

  Something inside her twists. “Shadow-Walker."

  “Three fish, bagged with one net.” He tuts, shadows still spooling from his shirt. “I expect better, Raven. Your standards are getting soft.”

  “St…” She curses, quietly. Hating how weak she sounds. “We… we can talk about this.”

  “No.” His voice hardens. “You’re helping a striga. C’est simple.”

  Aisha shouts from behind. “NO!"

  “There’s not much more to say.”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++