Glory woke up first. She was stiff and cold, and smeared with dirt from her nest of curtains. Her mouth tasted vile. There hadn’t been much whisky in the flask, but on an empty stomach, at the end of a long and tumultuous day, it had been more than enough. She squinted at her watch. Nine twenty. They’d overslept.
Lucas was still asleep. He was lying face upwards, his black hair falling back from his forehead, frowning in his dreams. In spite of the frown, the vulnerability of his unconscious form disturbed her, and she turned away.
The water supply had been turned off along with the electricity, but Glory managed to find a scoop of rain water in a tub in the backyard. She splashed her face, rinsed her mouth out and chewed on a wad of gum. It didn’t touch her thirst. Squatting behind a rubbish skip to pee, she reflected that if she’d known she was going to camp out in a derelict building, she’d at least have packed a toothbrush. And some mascara. Her reflection in the window was dismal, unkempt hair straggling around her grey face.
Lucas was up when she got back. Tersely, she directed him to the water. Both were wondering if they had revealed too much last night. They avoided each other’s eyes. However, when Lucas returned, he had a spring in his step. He was holding a small twist of paper, which he proceeded to rip apart with relish.
‘The amulet for Harry’s glamour,’ he explained. ‘If the Wednesday Coven do suspect Harry’s a mole, then I’m safer as myself.’ He looked at his hands affectionately. ‘It’s good to be back.’
Glory also ripped up the undone amulet she’d been carrying. It felt symbolic of something, though she wasn’t sure what. At any rate, some of the awkwardness faded.
At quarter to ten, they set off for the local tube station, where Glory remembered seeing an internet centre. They had decided to start their investigations via the web. Their first stop, however, was a café round the corner. After using the washroom, and ordering bacon sandwiches and tea, they both felt slightly more human.
Glory had turned her phone off at night to save the battery, and also for safety, in case it could be traced. In the optimistic light of morning, this seemed like taking things to extremes. She found she had a curt voicemail from Troy (‘Call me’, received at 2 a.m.), several missed calls from Auntie Angel, one from Nate, and a garbled message from Patch. Word of what had happened to Charlie had spread quickly. There was nothing from her dad. He probably hadn’t even realised she’d been gone for the night.
In the end she sent another text to Auntie Angel to ask her to keep covering for them, and promising to be in touch soon. Then she switched off the phone again. She was determined not to give another thought to the allegation that Angeline was a long-term snitch. Still, better safe than sorry.
Lucas asked if any of her messages had been important.
‘Troy wants to speak to me. It don’t mean he’s on to you, though. Poor sod probably just wants to give me the heads-up on his dad.’ Charlie had made plenty of people widows and orphans, but Glory couldn’t get any satisfaction from the thought of his own family gathered tearfully by his bedside.
‘What’s the deal with you two anyway?’
‘How d’you mean?’
He didn’t quite have the courage to repeat Nate’s insinuations. ‘I just, um, wasn’t sure how close you are.’
‘Not very, considering I’m his future missus.’
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. She was tired and dishevelled, and she should have been plain. Yet when he looked at her face, the strong bones and stubborn mouth, he found himself thinking that she was prettier than he’d realised. Striking, at least. Troy must have seen this too.
‘Makes business sense,’ Glory explained. ‘If I was to marry into the Wednesday Coven, Charlie’d be able to keep me and my fae under his thumb. He might not know I’m a witch, not for definite, but he’s making plans all the same. He’d like me to be a good little wifey, see, breeding witch-babies for the Morgan empire.’ She tried to sound flippant, but it didn’t quite come off. ‘It turns out there ain’t many options for coven girls. Even the witchkind ones.’
‘That’s . . . awful.’
For some reason, his pity annoyed her. ‘Oh, stop gawping. I’ll bet marriage-fixing goes on in the Inquisition too. Ain’t that the best way to keep the fae and other riff-raff out?’
Lucas remembered his father with Marisa in the study, reassuring her about Camilla’s witch-free background. I did the usual checks: her pedigree was impeccable. It had never occurred to him that his parents’ marriage might have been arranged. He pushed the idea away.
‘If so, it didn’t work, did it? Look at me.’
Once in the internet centre, they found a quiet corner away from the other customers. The first thing Lucas did was download the file of the recording he’d taken at the Radley from the miniature spy-cam. Then he set up two new email accounts, and sent the film as an attachment from one account to the other. It was now saved in cyber-space.
Next, he logged on to an online news archive his school subscribed to. They were going to use it to search for background on Lord and Lady Merle.
The first item of interest was from the website of the Meadowsweet Children’s Hospice. The charity announced that its patron, Lady Serena Merle, was hosting a fundraising ball on the Easter bank holiday Monday.
‘That’s tonight,’ said Glory. ‘Could be our lucky break. A big party like that should be easy to gatecrash.’
Lucas had lost track of time and dates. It had only been a week since he’d arrived at Cooper Street, yet his old life seemed to belong to another person, long ago and far away. Now he remembered that today was Ashton and Marisa’s wedding anniversary. They were away in Paris for the long weekend. Otherwise, they might even have attended the ball. Marisa had campaigned for the same charity.
The only real news story they found was about seventeen-year-old Rose Merle’s horse-riding accident last December, though the details of her disability were vague. It seemed that Serena Merle kept a low profile after her bridling and subsequent marriage. Before that, Serena Drew, model and actress, had been a regular in the gossip columns. One photo showed her in an embrace with a still-famous rock star. Her smile was radiant, her throat bare.
Lucas peered closer. ‘Hey – isn’t that Vince Morgan behind her?’
Glory leaned in too. The mobster’s craggy profile was unmistakable. ‘I know where that photo was took. It’s the Morgans’ club on the Strand. So that’s where she met Charlie and co.! Did you notice her accent stopped being so la-di-dah when she was talking to him?’
‘Whatever her origins, she moves in high-powered circles these days. No wonder she’s been a good source for the coven.’
They turned their attention to Godfrey Merle and the Cardex News Group. Its dominance of the media was controversial, but remained unchallenged. No doubt it helped that Lord Merle was a major donor to the government.
The scope and purpose of the conspiracy was becoming clear. The arrest and trial of Jack Rawdon would be led by Paterson and his cronies at the Inquisition, aided and abetted by their government and media contacts. Rawdon’s demise would be followed by a general clampdown on witchkind rights that the public, already fearful of a return to the dark days of Endor, would back all the way.
In fact, the only remaining puzzle was Godfrey Merle’s motives. Silas Paterson was a militant inquisitor of the old school, the kind who thought all witches were the enemy and should be treated as such. His ally in government, the minister Helena Howell, was a right-wing Christian evangelical who had made a career out of anti-witchkind campaigning. But Lord Merle himself had made no public gestures or statements to suggest a personal animosity towards witches. After all, he was married to one.
The last website they visited was the BBC news, which had the assassination attempt on Charlie Morgan as its headline. Charlie was described as a ‘prominent businessman, with alleged links to organised crime’. His condition remained critical. They followed a link at the bottom of the webpage to witchcrime updates and the Inquisition. The main story here was that Commander Josiah Saunders had been taken seriously ill. Silas Paterson was now acting head of the Witchcrime Directorate.
‘We have to move fast,’ Lucas said. ‘The next attack, and Jack Rawdon’s arrest, will take place later this week. We need to get hold of some real evidence to show the authorities, so they can stop this thing in its tracks.’
‘Authorities?’ said Glory suspiciously.
‘WICA and the police. Sir Anthony Brady will also have to know.’
‘The Witchfinder General! Mab Almighty, ain’t you learned nothing?’
‘He’ll do the right thing. No, really – Sir Anthony encouraged the Inquisition’s cooperation with WICA in the first place. He’s an honourable man.’
Glory wasn’t convinced. Still, they could argue about it later. ‘OK, so I was thinking . . . this party tonight. It’s at the Merle mansion, the charity said. Now, Lady La-di-dah reckons whoever the prickers have been using to do the witchcrimes is locked up somewhere in the Inquisition. But what if the captive witch is closer to home? Posh pile like that must’ve loads of hidey-holes.’
Lucas was sure Serena Merle would have thought of this herself. All the same, it was worth a try.
‘We can poke around His Lordship’s study too,’ Glory added. ‘If his wife’s been snooping for Charlie, she can probably give us her hubby’s PIN numbers and private papers and suchlike. We’ll need to get her on side first. But it’s not like she don’t want to help.’
‘Good idea. The other place that needs searching is the Inquisition’s HQ at Outer Temple. There are cells immediately below ground, but lots of people have access to them. The catacombs, however, are a different matter. You can’t get down there without a key.’
‘And you’ve got one?’
‘No, but I know a man who does. That’s why it’s best if I take the Inquisition, and you go to the party.’
Glory began to protest, but he cut her off. ‘Listen. I can get into Outer Temple without any trouble. Everyone knows me there. It will be a different matter for you; much more dangerous.’
‘I don’t need protecting, thank you very much!’ She glared at him. ‘I’m being practical, OK? Splitting up is a stupid idea. If something goes wrong, and we’re on our own, we’ll be shafted.’
‘I agree. That’s why we need to get back-up. My warden, Officer Branning –’
‘No prickers. No way.’
The ensuing argument took them out of the café and into the street. The fact that it was conducted in whispers and hisses didn’t lessen the strength of feeling involved. Lucas explained that the Inquisition had such a heavy presence in WICA that if he contacted his handler himself, the enemy might intercept his warning. Jonah, as an inquisitorial officer, could get round the surveillance restrictions. But Glory utterly rejected the involvement of anyone from the Inquisition. None of them were trustworthy, all were corrupt. As soon as this Officer Branning suspected she was a witch, she’d be registered and bridled and bang to rights. And so on.
They were so caught up in the row that Troy Morgan burst upon them as if from nowhere.
In a few brutal seconds, Lucas found himself seized by the scruff of his neck, dragged down an alley, and slammed against the wall.
‘Who are you? Who sent you? Tell me your hexing name.’
Lucas was too breathless to respond, even if he’d wanted to. Dumbly, he shook his head.
Troy hit him across the face. It was a sharp smack, rather than a violent one, but Lucas had never been struck in his life.
Glory, meanwhile, was tugging on Troy’s arm with one hand and thumping him with the other. He ignored her. His hard green stare was fixed on Lucas.
‘Don’t make me force it out of you.’
Lucas opened his mouth, but again no words came.
‘He’s got nothing to do with the car-bomb.’ Glory’s voice was scratchy with panic. ‘Troy, I swear it. I swear –’
‘I know that,’ Troy snarled. ‘But he’s still going to tell me what I want to know. You both are.’
He took out a pair of thick iron handcuffs from his coat and locked Lucas into them. Then he frogmarched him back to the main street, opened the boot of the Mercedes, and bundled his captive into it. Lucas barely had the chance to struggle before the door slammed shut. A passer-by looked at them doubtfully, but Troy held up an impressively shiny badge. ‘Inquisitorial street patrol. Nothing to concern yourself with, ma’am.’
Then he took Glory by the wrist and, ignoring all squawks of protest, hustled her into the front passenger seat.
‘Right,’ he said. He put his hands on the dashboard, making a conscious effort to restrain himself. His voice was like iron. ‘For the first time ever, you’re going to sit in this car and talk to me without lying.’
The first lie Glory told Troy was that she’d only discovered that Lucas was a WICA agent last night. The second lie was the purpose of Lucas’s mission; Glory said he had been sent to the covens to investigate the recent witch-terrorism attacks. The third lie was that she had helped Lucas spy on Charlie at the Radley because she was afraid he’d report her as a witch to the Inquisition.
Even so, she told him more of the truth than she’d wanted to. This included the fact that she was a witch, and Lucas’s real identity.
She expected Troy to react explosively to both. Instead, he gave a twisted smile. ‘I’ve got the Chief Prosecutor’s kid in my boot? Mab Almighty . . . this day is getting more surreal by the minute.’
As for her fae – ‘Like I didn’t see that one coming.’
They were parked in a side street only a block away from where Troy had picked them up. Glory did her best not to get too distracted by thoughts of Lucas’s welfare. She needed to concentrate on making her story fluent, the lies persuasive. She didn’t know how much Troy believed, but at least he heard her out.
‘How did you find us anyhow?’ she ventured.
He produced a pocket mirror and a wad of black felt from his pocket, plus two slivers of fingernail. The materials from the shroud.
‘I got the details of Dad’s meeting from Uncle Frank at the hospital. Then I went to take a look around the Radley. As soon as I found this little lot, I set one of the Wednesday witches to a scrying-bowl.’
Scrying could be done with any personal item up to half a day after it had been taken from the target. It had been horribly careless to leave the materials of the shroud behind. However, to scry on somebody, you also had to know who you were looking for. The witch must have been told who the fingernails belonged to. ‘How –’ Glory began. But Troy was already giving her the answer.
‘I’d asked Nate to keep tabs on the pair of you, and though he’s a feckless idiot, he did at least spot that you were both away from home last night.’ He grinned, enjoying her discomfort. ‘So I told the witch who I expected to see, and showed her both of your mugshots. Then she described the result of her scrying. Imagine our surprise when your partner in crime showed up as someone else entirely! Now, it was possible you were in the company of a different boy to Harry. But since your little pal’s a witch, it wasn’t hard to imagine he’d had a makeover. Just like he did for the Blake Gordon business.
‘Lucky for us, my scryer could see the shop front behind you clear enough. Once we’d identified that, it didn’t take long to track you down.’
Glory bit her lip. ‘You said you know Lucas weren’t responsible for the car-bomb. How come?’
His face darkened. ‘Because we found out who was. Jonesy, in security. You might have seen him at the Gemini: built like a tank, shaven head, bad teeth.’
This description applied to most coven muscle. She made a non-committal sound.
‘He’s been with us for nearly seven years. The tip-off came too late. Uncle Vince caught up with him early this morning but Jonesy’d already put a bullet in his head. Apparently he’d been blackmailed into it. Someone had got hold of his kid – this sweet little three-year-old called Tess. She was returned to Jonesy’s ex this morning. Neither of them can tell us anything.’
Glory knew the only UK outfit to rival the Morgans’ was the Craven Side Coven, up in Manchester. ‘Could it’ve been the Cravens?’
‘Maybe. Or one of the Russian gangs. They’ve been trying to muscle into UK turf for a while. Either way, we need to find out – fast.’
‘And how . . . how’s your dad doing?’
As far as Glory could tell, Charlie and Troy had a good relationship. But she had never seen any demonstrable gesture of affection between them. From the look of Troy now, unshaven and with bloodshot eyes, it was clear he’d been up all night. But he was tired and angry, not distraught.
‘It’s pretty bad. If he does pull through, God knows what state he’ll be in. Mum arrived this morning. She and Skye and the uncles are at the hospital now. Which means the thorny issue of what to do with you and your snitch-pal is my responsibility.’ He looked at her soberly. ‘And I’ve got to tell you, Glory, this is one hell of a mess you’re in.’
Glory’s mouth was very dry. ‘Y’know, before you take any decisions, you might want to have a look at the film what Lucas made at the Radley.’ She had not yet told Troy what, exactly, the two of them had learned from Lady Merle.
‘Dad’s last meeting . . . Yes, I should see it.’
Glory waited. Troy was staring out of the window at the wall in front, one hand tap-tapping on the wheel. ‘I just thought I’d have a bit more time,’ he said at last, very quietly.
‘Time? For what?’
‘Nothing that you’d understand.’ He looked at her with impatience, and a kind of envy. ‘You’re big on inheritance, aren’t you? The Starling Girl Destiny . . . Must be nice and simple for you.’
Before she could respond, he opened the car door. ‘All right. Let’s go chat with Little Lord Fauntleroy.’
Lucas had been locked in the boot of the Mercedes for nearly half an hour. He was very hot and cramped when he came out, the discomfort of his confinement intensified by the dizzying effect of the iron cuffs. These stayed on when Troy shoved him into the back seat.
Glory turned around from the front. ‘I told him how you was sent to investigate the witch-terrorism,’ she managed to say before Troy cut her off.
‘Stay put and shut up,’ he told them.
Although Lucas didn’t really think Glory would rat on him, he felt a flood of relief. He had spent most of his time in the boot agonising about what she might reveal, and boiling with frustration that he couldn’t be there to hear whatever cover story she came up with. At least this took his mind off all the things that Troy might be planning to do to him.
Troy’s destination was a run-down office block behind Kings Cross. There was a private gym in the basement that was used as an informal drop-in centre for the lower coven ranks. Nobody was there now. The air was thick with stale sweat and aerosol spray; treadmills and weights gleamed dully under the fluorescent lights. Troy marched them through the fitness suite into the office behind.
It was only then that he released Lucas from the cuffs. ‘Glory seems to think the meeting you snooped on last night is something I ought to know about. So before I decide what to do with you, I want to see what you’ve got.’
With nervous hands, Lucas attached the tiny spy-cam to Troy’s laptop and pressed the playback button. WICA’s equipment had not let him down: the picture was clear, the sound crisp. Troy watched the discussion between his father and Serena Merle in grim silence. He didn’t say anything afterwards either.
‘You have to understand,’ said Lucas, as the silence stretched on, ‘that the only reason I came to Cooper Street was because WICA thought a coven witch was responsible for the terrorist attacks. Now I know differently, what goes on in the coven doesn’t matter to me any more – it’s the corrupt inquisitors I’m after. I haven’t got anything on you, let alone your organisation. I’m not any kind of threat.’
‘Threat! Don’t flatter yourself.’ Troy’s voice dripped scorn. ‘Do you want to know why you’re still here, still breathing? Because you’re not just a kid, you’re incompetent. An amateur.
‘I don’t care how fancy your fae is. You didn’t spot I had Nate checking up on you. You left traces of witchwork all over the place. You either didn’t bother to remake your elusions, or you forgot. WICA must be in a bad way if they’re putting untrained schoolboys on the job.’
Lucas flushed resentfully. ‘If they’re in a bad way now, it’s only going to get worse. We have to look at the bigger picture. This is a matter of national –’
‘It’s a matter of an evil stinking pyro plot,’ Glory interrupted. Lucas’s lord-of-the-manor air would do nobody any favours. ‘What d’you reckon, Troy?’
‘You heard my dad,’ he said slowly. ‘Whatever we might think of the situation, it’s not the Wednesday Coven’s business.’
‘That was then. This is now,’ Glory replied. ‘With Uncle Charlie on life-support, everything’s changed. You said yourself that car-bomb could be the start of something bigger – a turf war, even. So whether your dad recovers or not, the Wednesday Coven is going to face one hell of a mess. It’ll be a coven blood feud on one side, and a witch-hunt on the other.’
Troy didn’t respond.
Lucas took a deep breath. ‘Look. I went to Cooper Street with a lot of preconceptions about the coven world. Some of those ideas were wrong. I didn’t appreciate that the covens came into being to protect people, by giving witchkind opportunities and rights they didn’t have elsewhere.’ He wasn’t sure he believed in what he was saying. It was part coven propaganda, part myth. But myths were powerful things, and sometimes there was truth at their core. ‘That’s why so many witches still trust them. That’s why they give them their loyalty, and why the Inquisition and the police find them so hard to break. Maybe a witch-hunt’s good for recruitment, like your dad says. But if people find out you guys had a chance to stop the lynching and the burnings, and didn’t . . . Well. Doing nothing – it’s not that different from collaboration, is it?’
Glory tensed. She wondered if Lucas had gone too far.
‘You told me you trusted this boy before,’ Troy said to her, his expression unreadable. ‘He was lying to you then. He might be lying to you now. Or you’re both lying, and always have been. What do you think?’
‘I think this thing is bigger than any of us.’
‘Hmm. And what do the pair of you intend to do about it?’
Hesitantly, they explained about Glory going to find Lady Merle at the ball, and Lucas searching the Inquisition’s HQ.
‘I’m sure you’ll be right at home,’ Troy remarked. ‘In fact, I’m curious as to why you’ve not yet run to Daddy Dearest. Unless, of course, you suspect the Chief Prosecutor’s mixed up in this.’
‘My father’s not corrupt.’
‘Oh yeah? He’s a High Inquisitor who’s spawned a witch but kept his job. I would’ve thought there was something in the rules about that.’
‘There is. He’s going to resign at the end of the Goodwin trial. In the meantime, my . . . condition isn’t widely known. That’s why WICA recruited me.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why you haven’t asked him for help. Or aren’t you on speaking terms, now you’re an out and proud witch-kid?’
‘It’s nothing like that. I need to get proper evidence first.’
‘Your dad won’t believe you without it?’
‘Of course he would. But he’d insist on doing things by the book. By the time he went through the protocol, and got search warrants issued and witnesses subpoenaed, it might be too late.’
‘If the conspirators suspect we’re on to them,’ Glory chipped in, ‘that witch they’re using is as good as dead. They won’t risk keeping him or her alive to tell tales.’
Lucas nodded. ‘Supposedly, only a handful of top-ranking people at the Inquisition know I’m a witch. However, as soon as we make our accusations the truth will come out. The enemy’ll be quick to turn it to their advantage, so that Dad’s credibility is damaged as well as mine. Getting him involved could backfire.’
This wasn’t the whole truth about why Lucas wasn’t ready to ask his father for help. He might have failed to infiltrate the Wednesday Coven, or keep the Goodwin trial from collapse, but now he had a new opportunity to prove himself – to stop an even greater crime, against even worse odds. He would use his fae to purge the Inquisition of the enemy within. He would be a Stearne worthy of the name . . .
But Troy was laughing to himself. ‘I see. You don’t know when or what the next witch-attack will be, where the witch responsible is being held, or how to bring the guilty parties to justice. You can’t trust any of the authorities. And you want start your crusade by gatecrashing a high-society ball.’ He leaned back on his chair, fingers laced behind his head. ‘OK . . . First, you need to get Glory on to Lady Merle’s guest list. This isn’t a school disco – you can’t just turn up and hope for the best. You’ll need to look the part and have an escort, as well as a nice fancy invitation card.’
‘An escort?’ Glory repeated.
‘If you’ll do me the honour.’ He gave a mocking little half-bow. ‘And preferably wash beforehand.’
So they’d won Troy over! Glory felt a rush of optimism. Lucas wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or alarmed. But perhaps any help – even the criminal kind – was better than nothing.
Ironically, Lucas’s best hope of infiltrating the Inquisition would be to play the part of his father’s son. Most of the guards and officials there knew who he was, but hardly anyone knew of his condition. His records would be kept under a false name until the Goodwin trial was over, just in case an over-zealous inquisitor learned of his condition, and insisted that Ashton Stearne stand down. This evening, he explained to Troy and Glory, he would simply turn up at the gate and explain that he’d come to collect some paperwork for his dad.
‘I’ll need to stop off at home first,’ he said. ‘My father and stepmother are away, and I know where Dad keeps his keys to the catacombs. But once I’m in the Outer Temple compound, I’ll be able to wander about undisturbed.’
It was not, in fact, quite so simple – although Troy and Glory weren’t to know any different. Lucas had indeed visited his father at the office and in court on plenty of occasions, but he would still need a good reason to be there unsupervised at night. The Inquisition was a 24-7 organisation. Even though it was a bank holiday, there would still be people about, and strict security controls.
Luckily, Lucas had the perfect cover. He’d had the idea in mind ever since he’d thought of searching the catacombs. His way in would be through the Hammers: the members of the young inquisitors’ club who met at St Cumanus’s church. Lucas wasn’t an official member. But last Christmas, at some Inquisition event, one of the younger officers who was keen to ingratiate himself with Ashton Stearne, had offered to take Lucas along to a social. ‘Come as my guest,’ he’d said. ‘Any time you like. Just give me a call.’
Now was the time to take him up on the offer. The Hammers met on Wednesday nights, but they also marked religious holidays – Christmas, Balefire Night and Easter. Tonight would be a big event.
I’ll say I’ve got over my illness and want to celebrate, Lucas thought. I’ll get one of those hooded robes they wear, and a bottle of booze, and if I do get caught somewhere I shouldn’t, I’ll just be a drunken idiot who got lost en route to the party. If the worst comes to the worst, they’ll only phone my dad.
Since Lucas’s arrangements seemed to be in hand, the three of them got down to the practicalities of attending Lady Merle’s ball. Although the tickets were sold in benefit of the children’s charity, and the Merles were hosting the event, the actual organisation was done by a professional party-planning service. Troy used his IT skills to hack into the files. They discovered Silas Paterson was on the guest list, presumably to support his good pal Godfrey Merle.
‘Even though it’s sold out, I can still add us to the list,’ Troy said. ‘There’s a picture of a ticket on the website, so you can knock up fakes with a fascination.’
‘What about the Morgan name, though?’ Lucas asked. ‘That might set off alarm bells.’
‘My family are major charitable donors,’ Troy informed him coldly. ‘It happens that Dad gave an endowment to the Meadowsweet Children’s Hospice earlier this year. Besides which, I’m a fine upstanding citizen without a stain on my character.’ He turned to Glory. ‘You should maybe think about a glamour, though.’
‘I ain’t so sure. If we’re going to persuade Lady Merle to trust us, I don’t reckon we should hide behind witchwork.’
When she left for the toilet, Lucas felt suddenly vulnerable. Sure enough, as soon as Glory had closed the door, Troy leaned across the table and fixed him with his red-rimmed glare. ‘I know who you are and where to find you,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever forget it.’
‘Er . . . OK.’
‘Now,’ Troy continued, ‘it’s true my organisation can’t afford a witch-hunt, not with our boss down and a blood feud in the offing. It may be that provoking war between the covens is part of Paterson’s plan, and so he arranged the car-bomb to frame one of our competitors. If that’s the case, then I need to know about it.
‘However. That doesn’t mean I like you or I trust you. So if anything bad goes down tonight, I and my coven will hunt you down, and make you pay. You and Paterson both. Understand?’
Lucas nodded.
Troy pinched his cheek, in a parody of affection hard enough to leave a bruise. ‘Good boy.’
Soon afterwards, it was time for Lucas to leave. Arden House, Lord Merle’s country pile, was a forty-minute drive outside London, and Troy and Glory would have to set off around quarter to seven. Lucas aimed to get to the Hammers by seven thirty, but he had to stop by home first. It was already half past three, and there was a lot of preparation still to do.
When it was time to say goodbye, he felt constrained by Troy’s presence. Glory seemed constrained too. She was uncharacteristically quiet, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes on the floor. Lucas was gripped with foreboding. None of them really knew what they were doing and how it might end. Then he remembered the night in the Gemini, just before going to see Charlie, and Glory’s warm breath in his ear. ‘We’ll be OK,’ he told her softly, and touched her on the hand. ‘They’re greedy murdering scum but we’re better than them. I know you can do this.’
Glory smiled a little, crookedly.
‘Look after her,’ Lucas said to Troy.
What an idiotic thing to say, he thought as he left them.