Billingsgate fish market. Damona wore a wide-brimmed hat and overcoat. Protection, disguise. Rain clearing, she leaned against a lamp post, gazing at the swarming Invaders. She was contemptuous and pitying. Pale, soft creatures. How did they ever become so dominant? Looking harder, she saw their activity, their energy, their enterprise. A hint?

She grunted. Where were the Spalnitz brothers? She’d bought copper from them in the past, needed plenty now. Slippery, like most Invaders, but the Spalnitzes were greedy enough to sell to the True People. Damona could work with that.

Olaf sidled up to her. Large hat, tattered velvet coat. A good scout, Olaf was often abroad in the overworld. He was shorter than most of the True People, smaller. Wrapped in his rags he caused no comment. A beggar, one of many.

Damona admired his fortitude.

Olaf squatted next to her. ‘The boy you’re after. The Spawn have him. Here.’

Damona bared her teeth. Finding the boy was good. She could use him to put pressure on Dr Ward. But the Spawn? She spat on the cobbles. They were a problem.

Damona hated the Spawn even more than she hated their Immortal masters. Spawn turned her stomach. She gave Olaf a coin. In case anyone was wondering why she was talking to a beggar. ‘Where?’

He pointed, a barest twitch of a finger. She tossed him another coin, set off in the direction he indicated. Around her the business of the fish market swirled and roared. She ignored it.

The Invaders had a Golden Rule. Damona had heard of it. Treat others as one would wish to be treated. Stupid. Unworkable.

The True People had a Golden Rule: always repay. Good or bad, always repay. Debts were honoured. Revenge was taken. It was natural.

She was sure that the Golden Rule of the True People was observed more wholly than the Golden Rule of the Invaders. Theirs was too complicated. An Invader had to imagine himself as someone else, for a start. Much too hard for most Invaders, from what she’d seen.

The code of the True People was simpler. It took a natural impulse, made it part of their culture. In the past, when the Invaders burned a village of the True People, the survivors sought revenge. Every time.

It was simple. It was clear. It was inborn. It was satisfying.

Damona had had a long life to consider such things. In her heart, she knew that this custom had helped destroy her people. True People sought revenge even when badly placed, outnumbered, hurt, lost. Each defeat had diminished her people. Hot-blooded revenge could be a disaster. Cold, thoughtful revenge, though. That was different. The Immortals were a different case from the Invaders. More dangerous, less predictable. Damona didn’t care what their motives were. She just knew that the self-proclaimed sorcerers were enemies.

It happened many, many years ago, when she was young. A small clan of True People wanted to start their own stronghold. The plan had caused much heartache, families divided, arguing, friend against friend. In the end the self-determination of the True People prevailed.

A year passed with no news. Then a sole survivor of the clan dragged herself back to London. She brought news that the clan had been abducted by the Immortals, and died.

The outrage created anger that had not been seen for an age. Damona was in the troop that went to rescue the missing clan. They found only bones, so their mission became one of revenge. They destroyed scores of the Spawn but weren’t able to find the Immortals themselves.

The Immortals disappeared soon after this disaster. Vanished. No word of them in the Demimonde.

Then news came of them from India. They were ensconced in the shadow world there, breeding horrors.

Damona had spent time learning about the Immortals. Many whispers, few facts. Everyone she spoke to agreed that they were magicians. This meant little to Damona. The Demimonde was full of those who called themselves heirs to Pharaohs, Speakers to the Dead and travellers from other worlds. Claims were easy to make in the Demimonde and hard to disprove.

The Immortals were like a squeaky gear to Damona. Hard to ignore, but not that important. They were in India, the True People were under London.

A smile spread on her broad face. Taking the boy would be of benefit to the True People. It would also upset the Immortals. Two good outcomes, one action. Efficient and pleasing.

Damona went to the rear of the warehouse. Crates stacked high, smelling of fish. She pushed her way through them. Cats scattered, glared at her.

An iron ladder led to the roof. Skylight, easy entrance. A catwalk and she was in a loft with a fine view below.

She peered down. Smiled.

Cobwebs, dust, broken crates. Two Spawn were dressed as police constables. Damona sniffed. No mistaking their smell. Not alive, not dead. Stronger than they looked, she knew.

They were tying the hands of their victim. The boy was tall, well built, curly haired, unhappy. He kicked, struggled. Uselessly. The Spawn had already thrown back a steel hatch in the floor. A Demimonde entrance.

Damona could move quietly when she chose, like all True People. Her bulk was deceptive. She ignored the ache in her hip. Crept along the catwalk to the other end of the warehouse. She found a ladder. It creaked under her weight. Her heart caught a beat until it steadied. Then she was on the cobbled floor.

Damona smiled again. A few steps, a slide around a pillar, and she’d be on them.

She paused for a moment. Hesitated. Was she too old for such nonsense?

Of course I am. But it’s not going to stop me.

She roared and charged straight at them. Stiff-armed the Spawn on the right. He flew backward, squawking. The one on the left stopped blindfolding the lad. Damona swung a fist. He didn’t have time to move. His head snapped back. His police helmet flew off. He toppled, senseless.

Damona pushed the Invader lad aside. She crouched to meet the first Spawn. He hissed, launched himself at her, eyes mad.

She drew her head in to protect her throat. She clasped both hands together, brought them up with all her True People strength. She caught him right under his chin. His jaw crunched. His eyes rolled up. He collapsed at her feet.

Damona bent. She grasped her knees and panted. She definitely wasn’t as young as she once was.

The boy. She lifted her head, found him on the floor, bound and angry.

He growled at her from behind his gag.

She almost laughed, then she saw his eyes. Wild eyes. The eyes of a hunter. She backed away a step or two. The boy had no restraint left in him. He was about to attack.

‘Don’t,’ she said. She kept her voice calm, her movements slow. She reached across the body of the Spawn, grasped a steel rung. She grunted, wrenched it from its mountings. She swung it in front of her. Two feet of solid metal whistled, slicing through the air. ‘I’ll hurt you,’ she said to the wild boy.

He swarmed up and out of the ropes. She gaped. How did he do that? He leaned one way, then the other, looking for the range of the metal bar. He didn’t back away.

Damona kept up a soft chant: ‘Easy now. Easy now.’

He stripped off his gag. Bared his teeth. Growled a challenge from deep in his chest. His eyes darted to the dark hole in the floor. Before Damona could move he took a few steps and dived down it.

Damona sat back on her haunches. She took a deep breath, thinking. She tossed the metal bar away. It rang on the concrete like a bell.

She glanced at the bodies of the Spawn. ‘What were you two doing with him?’ She shuffled over and sifted their pockets, found nothing.

Why would they want a wild boy?

She sighed, climbed to her feet. ‘They can’t have him. I want him.’