19 
VIOLET
I clamp a hand over my mouth, biting down on my knuckles with rage. That two-faced, wormy, weasel of a bastard. How could he work against the Imps, after pretending to be part of the alliance, after clutching Rose’s body to his chest?
Willow speaks again. ‘And one day, everyone will thank you for what we are about to do . . . even my son.’
I peer through the darkness, trying to stop my face from trembling so I can get a proper look. Although the resemblance to Willow is striking, this man is older, his skin stretched as though it’s had the wrinkles smoothed away, and his eyes hold none of the warmth or kindness. Even though he’s stepped from the shadow, the light doesn’t reach his eyes, and I doubt it ever will.
‘Who’s that?’ Katie mouths at me.
‘Willow’s dad,’ I mouth back. ‘Jeremy.’
‘Dilf!’
We turn our attention back to Nate. He looks awkward, small.
‘What news do you bring?’ Howard asks.
‘Two girls have arrived,’ Nate says. ‘Young women. Late teens, early twenties. They’re both Imps, and they’re kind of . . .’ He pauses for a moment. ‘ . . . familiar.’
I gaze at Katie. A flicker of a smile crosses her face, making her freckles dance.
‘Baba was expecting them,’ Nate says. ‘They’re researching the London alliance. They seem harmless enough.’
Jeremy Harper nods. ‘Well, Oscar’s been working night and day. Night and day. And soon, the solution to our little infestation problem will be ready.’
‘Did you plant the canister?’ Howard asks Nate.
‘Yes,’ Nate says. ‘At Headquarters, they don’t suspect a thing.’
My brain works slowly, numbed by cold and exhaustion. Canister? Does it contain a toxin of some kind?
Howard reaches out and pats Nate’s back, as though he’s a proud dad at a football match. I want to run up to Nate and shout: He shot you. He killed you. Run away from him as fast as you can. But I’m paralysed by fear and ice and rage.
The three figures move closer together for a moment and I can no longer hear what they say. They shake hands and Jeremy and Howard step back into the helicopter. Katie and I scrabble beneath a sheet of scrap metal as the helicopter takes off, just in case the lights find us, hunched and shining in the dark. The chug of the blades sounds deafening after straining in the silence for so long, and the ground around us illuminates so that I can see every speck of dirt. I fear that the light is so fierce it will somehow penetrate through our metal shield, revealing our semi-naked bodies. But it dims and the chop of the rotor falls into nothingness.
We lie completely still. I don’t feel cold any more. I just feel really, really tired. Like my body is filled with weights and I’m sinking into the ground. The world closes in around me as I drift off to sleep.
‘Violet?’ Katie whispers. Her voice sounds far, far away. ‘Violet? You need to wake up now.’
‘I am awake,’ I reply. Or maybe I just think the words. The line between reality and dreams becomes flimsy, permeable, like a piece of tracing paper.
‘Violet,’ she snaps, her voice suddenly loud and close in my ear.
I open my eyes with a start.
‘Where were you just then?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know, I . . . I just wanted to rest,’ my voice sputters out.
She grunts. ‘Great, hypothermia. Come on, we need to get back before we both pass out.’
I stumble into the river, barely aware of the silt beneath my shoes or the water lapping against my skin. I watch my arms extend before me. They could be someone else’s arms. Two dead, corpse arms stuck to my body, moving of their own accord like they’re possessed.
I think I’m kicking but I can no longer feel my legs . . . I can’t feel anything.
I’m about half way to the shore now . . . the river is at its deepest . . . the expanse of water beneath me must feel so soft and still.
My eyes flicker shut, my corpse arms float at either side of me, my legs give up.
The comfort of dreams awaits me now. No more exhaustion, no more cold, no more fear . . . only the gentle push-pull of my breath as I slip into unconsciousness.
ALICE
That evening, Fanboy posts again.
A tiny drone flew through the open bedroom window and hovered before Nate. He thought for a moment that it looked like a massive bug, and wished he could swat it with his shoe. But instead, he plucked it from the air, pressing a fingertip against its glossy side. The drone emitted a faint beep, as though acknowledging Nate’s identity, and then unfolded in his palm to reveal a tightly rolled note.
Nate smiled. All this technology and it still boils down to note passing.
He read the words with nerves growing in his stomach.
Tomorrow night, 12 a.m. Bank Station.
Beneath the writing sat the tail-gobbling rat. Nate traced the shape of it with his finger.
His first Taleter meeting.
Howard smiled as the gadget in his hand lit up, confirming that somewhere in the stinking Imp city, the Imp-boy known as Nate had received his message successfully. Howard reclined in his oxblood chair, swilling back a glass of Scotch. Tomorrow he would finally reveal the last piece of his plan.
And then nobody could stop him.
He closed his eyes, tears of joy threatening to tumble down his cheeks. In just a few days he would achieve his one, true goal: the annihilation of every Imp on the planet.
Horror forms in the pit of my being. I can’t swallow, I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. The words begin to merge together on the screen so they look like a load of lines and dots. The annihilation of every Imp on the planet. In just a few days.
Holy shit.
I slam my laptop shut, sweat and tears mingling on my face. What the hell am I going to do? I have to get Violet and Katie to that meeting so they know what they’re up against. Could I write some more fanfic? No. There’s no guarantee that would work.
I have to send Violet a message.
I pull on a pair of jeans, borrow Dad’s argyle sweater and tuck my hair into one of Mum’s berets. At a glance, I’ll pass beneath the radar.
Just before I leave the house, Danny messages. His name lights up my phone and my chest in equal measure.
Al, I’ve found the IP address. I reckon
Fanboy’s using a local internet café.
You fancy a stake-out tomorrow? x
Sure thing 
x
Bloody Fanboy, if I find him at that café I’ll wring his scrawny neck.
I get to the hospital in record time. Crazy-mop-top-Millie doesn’t wave at me like she normally does, which means I’ve foiled at least one person. I glance at my watch. If I’ve learnt one thing hanging out with Nate, it’s when the meds trolley does its rounds. I pull my beret over my ears and head to the ICU, expecting the normal glances, but it seems my outfit has succeeded in making me invisible. I’ve got the same brain, the same personality, the same body. I’m still me. Funny how a few items of clothing can make such a difference.
I approach the ICU. There’s the trolley . . . sitting, waiting, inviting me to knock it over. So I bide my time, ignore the palpitations in my chest, and watch as the nurse pops into the ward. Then, I storm down the corridor and shove into the trolley with all my might. There’s a loud crash, followed by the pitter patter of pills scattering across the tiles. I duck inside the ICU and conceal myself behind the nearest partition curtain, too scared to even breathe.
The staff rush to the commotion, cursing their bad luck.
Quickly, I stride towards Violet’s bay. Adam is fast asleep beside her bed. Bollocks. I really didn’t think this through. But if trolley-gate didn’t wake him, I doubt my next move will. I study his sleeping face, unable to stop the jealousy growing inside – my parents never slept beside me when I was unconscious. My mouth fixes in a thin, determined line. I realized a long time ago that my shit parents don’t matter, my friends matter: Nate, Katie and, of course, Violet. I run my fingers through her thick, dark waves, releasing the scent of flowers.
When I was there last time, in the world of The Gallows Dance, I gave up everything to save her. Living as a Gem. Willow. And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. I’d do anything for her.
Even if it means hurting her.
I pull a small kitchen knife from my handbag. The blade catches in the glow from the corridor, and for a second, it looks like an angry, sharpened tooth. My stomach hurts, my throat burns, and yet I have to do this. Because if rat tattoos and bullet wounds can cross between worlds, then so will this.
I kiss her on the forehead and carve the words ‘BANK, MONDAY, 12 A.M.’ into the fleshy part of her forearm. And then, just in case she doesn’t work it out, I carve my initial.