‘Is this guy dangerous?’ Simon’s face was a picture of concern, the sketch pad and pencil in his hand forgotten.
‘He’s just taken over the biggest organisation in the city. Of course he is. They all are.’ Amanda cast about, looking for her boots. The clock ticked another minute away on the bedside table. ‘Fuck.’
‘But I thought you were staying out of it.’
‘I was. I did.’
‘Then how is it this man can call and you just drop everything?’
‘Because he’s the boss and we’re running out of fucking money. Where are my boots?’
‘What do you think he wants?’
‘I don’t know. He could have a job for me. Or he wants to take a cut like the old boss used to…’
‘What I’m asking is should we be worried? Should I contact my people?’
Amanda stopped, closed her eyes, ran a hand down her face.
To the outside world, Simon was a painter who had made a name for himself after an article on black artists a few years before. Behind closed doors, he made most of his income from art forgeries, a lucrative market if ever there was one. He worked anonymously for a number of groups, most of his dealings online. Both knew what the other did for a living but tried to know as little about the day to day dealings as possible. So long as their work didn’t come back and upset their family, they kept it that way. One phone call and AK was already pushing that. They both knew that Simon calling his people would be a risk. Ultimately, they knew little about them but just because they dealt in art forgeries didn’t mean that they weren’t dangerous. Running to them could get them in as much trouble as what they could be fleeing from.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I think we’re fine.’ She ducked her head under the bed, moving boxes this way and that. She meant it. Mostly. If it was bad, Jamison would have told her to get Simon and the kids out of there. ‘He’s just new. I’ll talk to him. Explain how I like things. Soon as I find my fucking…’
She threw open the wardrobe and started ripping through the shoeboxes at the bottom.
‘I’ve just got to figure out what I’m going to say. Can’t say he likes me much but if he’s calling… Ah!’ The last box yielded a pair of black, low-heeled boots. She fell back onto the bed to pull them on, fumbled at the zips and stood. ‘Right. I’ve got to go.’
‘Hey.’ Simon stood fast in the doorway, not letting her past. He looked cute in his dressing gown, the embodiment of cosy days indoors. He pushed his hand, sketchpad, pencil and all, against her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.
The kiss was warm, smooth and tasted of his coffee.
‘Do what you need to do. I’ll get some bags packed, you just say the word and we’ll be gone. We’ll meet you somewhere. Then we’ll figure the rest out.’
She took a breath. The man always knew how to calm her. ‘I’ve got to go.’
The kids were downstairs. Both she and Simon kept them at arm’s length when it came to business but had never kept secret what they did. Like the unveiling of the truth about Santa Claus they had allowed the children to come to their own realisation and, as such, to them it was only part of the only life they knew. But though they often paid as little attention to their parents’ jobs as any family, they were smart enough to know when something was happening.
Emily was sitting forward in the corner armchair, arms wrapped around herself, the pout she saved for her exams now aimed at her.
Michaela and Darren were dealing with stress the way they always did; by arguing. Darren was making the most of now being the tallest of the three by holding the remote from his younger sister’s reach.
‘I’m out,’ said Amanda, pausing in the doorway.
‘Mum, Darren’s being an arsehole,’ said Michaela.
‘Yeah, I’d say he is,’ she replied.
‘Promise to be safe?’ asked Emily.
‘Yeah, I promise. I’ll be back later.’
‘Can I come?’ asked Darren.
‘You know the answer to that.’ Her son had been asking that more and more, something that both she and Simon discouraged. They had both taken to the life in their own way but hoped that none of their children would ever have to. They would be eaten alive.
‘Yeah,’ said Michaela. ‘When she needs some little boy to leave his sports socks over the radiators she’ll text you.’
‘Hey, fuck you…’ The pair started arguing again.
‘Good luck, Mum,’ said Emily, fixing a smile over her disapproval.
‘Thanks, sweetie.’
She left them to it. Simon was waiting for her by the front door, still clutching his sketchpad, pencil tucked behind his ear. Lazy Saturday thwarted.
‘Just be careful,’ he said. ‘Call if I need to know anything.’
‘It’ll be fine. What were you drawing?’ she asked.
He turned the pad so she could see. Her own face stared back up at her, her head back, mouth open in a full-bellied laugh. ‘You. Before you picked up the phone.’
Powers to the people!
The streets were thick with protesters, the air saturated with the steel-edged taste of illegal magics. Homemade placards jabbed at the rooftops, held aloft by students, skinny jeans, tweed jackets and chips on their shoulders. Prohibited homemade sigils were sewn into their clothing and worn defiantly before the watching gendarme. Amanda saw wind and water wards, defence against tear gas, pepper spray and water cannon.
Not that they’d need them. Their main defence glowed in every free hand; smart phones ready to record every transgression committed by the watching police.
Re-legalise magic!
Head down, shoulders up to her ears and twenty minutes late already, Amanda pushed her way through them.
Trains rumbled on their tracks across the bridge high above their heads, bringing in more of them. Reporters fought for good camera angles. The social media networks were a battleground already.
Magic = economy!
The tubes had been a nightmare. She should have opted for the longer route. Instead, stomach churning and sweat running down her spine, she barged her way past a tangle of bearded men casting minor glamours over their placards to make the paint glow and shift.
Her mouth was full of the taste of tin, like she was chewing foil. There was an ache behind her eyeballs. Her shoulders burned with tension. She felt like a caged animal, ready to lash out or run back home.
Fucking children, they didn’t know what they were talking about.
My future is magical!
The placard almost hit her in the face, painted in bright rainbow colours, stickered haphazardly with My Little Pony stickers and glazed in glitter. The sparkles travelled all the way down the handle and up the arms of the child who held it, like some contagion.
The sight made Amanda itch. She resisted the urge to snatch it from the kid’s hand. The idea of bringing a child to something like this made her ill. She wondered if the girl had any scars under her sleeves.
She kept on pushing. She trod on toes and left behind a wake of indignation until she broke through the skin of the crowd.
The police were out in force – a neat military line of riot shields, helmets and batons. Their sigils were factory made. Uniform buttons gleamed.
Behind them, the tattoos around the government sanctioned mage-officers’ eyes were sharp as they picked out trouble makers in the mass with their enhanced vision. The horses beneath them whickered and shifted uneasily at the magic-tainted air.
The two sides squared off against one another, police stone standing against the tide of idealism. It would end in blood and another wave of hangings by tonight. Just like the time before and the time before that.
Magic, regulated for the past two hundred years, outlawed since the 1940s, was back on the debate table. Camberley’s death six months ago, if anything, had acted as a clarion call to the movement but that wasn’t the only reason. It was harder and harder to control something when a kid could just post a charm on the internet and reach millions. Harder still since India had completely deregulated its use.
Amanda just wanted the whole thing to fuck off. Even organised crime stayed away from it these days. After her father had died his organisation had collapsed, the legacy of the war and his actions tarnishing the appeal of illegal magic for good. Magic was something they stayed away from, the risk of attracting anti-magic enforcement far outweighing the reward when there were easier pickings like drugs, guns and people to be had.
She paid both police and protestors little attention. They paid her in kind as she slipped up an empty street, walking fast without running, breath hard in her chest.
It had been six months since the boss had died, only a month since the subsequent war had ended and his successor decided upon. It had been hard on everyone; murders, arrests, disappearances and worse. For someone like Amanda, the safest way through had been to stay out altogether.
But that didn’t mean to say that she was happy with the outcome. AK was young, arrogant and the two of them were far from friends.
Thank God for Jamison. The old man had played it canny, as usual. Instead of picking a side, he’d made himself part of the prize. Win the throne and the wise old advisor with the police contacts came with it. Jamison knew everybody. He knew which lawyers to hire, which politicians owed him favours or had something they’d rather be kept quiet. And more importantly he knew how to work everyone he knew, how to get them, no matter how briefly, to align their thinking with his. It was what had kept Henderson’s gang from jail for decades and it would do the same for the new boss if he let Jamison do his thing.
That worked for Amanda. Nothing like having your eldest daughter’s godfather be the right-hand man to the new power in town.
Twenty-five minutes late. Not far now, she told herself. The home straight.
‘You’re late.’ Caleb was waiting at the nightclub entrance, sunglasses on against the hot morning sun.
‘I know,’ Amanda hurried the last few steps. ‘Traffic. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.’
‘Good. Because I really need another job.’ Caleb thumped a fist on the nightclub door. ‘How’s the family? Enjoy having you around?’
‘Hard to tell if they’ve even noticed.’ Amanda touched her lucky pack of cards in the breast pocket of her shirt. ‘They’re asking for you. You’re invited to dinner.’
‘Whatever’s good for you.’
Amanda took a deep breath. They’d apologise, go straight up, start pitching. ‘Fuck but I do not need this.’
The door opened. Amanda blinked as she stepped inside. Sleek, stylish and full of mystery at night, under the clinical strip lighting the club was just cheap, scratched Formica and indelible sticky patches. The place hummed with the buzz of the aircon. To the right, a staircase led up to the VIP area which overlooked the DJ’s pedestal, the dancefloor and bar. Stools performed headstands on tables, legs reaching for the ceiling and casting neat shadows.
When it was quiet, the rumble of a passing Central Line train could be felt up through the toes.
The old doorman nodded to them from his stool, his brown, sun-leathered skin at odds with the anaemic lighting. ‘You’re late.’
‘We’re sorry. My fault.’
‘Don’t worry. Boss is behind, anyway.’
The old man went back to what he was doing – balancing a pound coin on its edge. Biting his lip in concentration, he was trying a simple incantation to spin the coin. It was kid’s magic, something you’d see on the playground but the best the man could achieve was a slight wobble. Every time he flicked his hands the air would take on the battery taste of failed magic. It faded quickly but not enough to prevent Amanda from feeling uncomfortable.
‘So how they doing?’ asked Caleb, picking up their earlier conversation.
‘Simon’s good. Sold a few pieces. Talk of a new exhibition. Michaela’s always on her phone, Emily’s studying every minute and if it didn’t happen in a video game Darren doesn’t give a shit.’
There was a flicker of a smile on that big, wrinkly mug. ‘Just like his godfather was at his age.’
‘Fuck, if it wasn’t me had the baby I’d start to get suspicious. So, dinner tonight?’ She watched her friend furrow his brow around the decision. It always did. Caleb was rarely a man for snap decisions. Years ago, it had been his partner, Michael, who had been the social one, always with a ready ‘yes’ and a wide smile, teasing his big, gruff soulmate from his shell. In a way, he had been so like Simon that Amanda and Caleb had only needed to sit back and watch. Drinking and smiling to themselves, their partners had filled the room with laughter and jokes, allowing the two friends time to bask in the presence of their significant others.
They still invited Caleb round after Michael died. Simon insisted. Amanda felt a knot in her guts every time she asked him. Michael’s absence was always there and Amanda’s guilt at what she’d done was as real to her as the empty chair at Caleb’s side.
‘You’re late.’
Everything about Jamison was smart. Even this early, in a windowless nightclub, his suit was pressed, his grey hair coiffed. He told people he was in his sixties. Amanda suspected he was actually in his seventies. His face was weathered, his sagging cheeks making him look like a basset hound, but the way he skipped down the stairs there mustn’t have been a single creak to his bones.
‘Amanda. Caleb.’ They would normally have embraced but each was keenly aware this was no longer their house. Instead, Jamison shook their hands, one hand to their elbows like a trained politician, his warm eyes drinking them both in. ‘How have you been?’
‘Bored,’ Amanda replied. ‘Care to give us a hint on how this is going to go?’
‘Come on up. We’ve got a few minutes.’
‘Still sucking up to the Indians?’ Caleb took the stairs three at a time.
Amanda shot him a look.
‘Sucking up can get you where you want to go,’ Jamison replied, ‘like winning a war for example. Or getting a position in a new organisation. A bit of kowtowing and the man you are about to meet has found himself with a lot of people begging for a share of what he has. Some come with money, others with information and they all come with their opinions. Who he should recruit, what jobs he should be doing, how he should be running things. So you both should be glad that the one opinion he actually listens to is on your side. But one quick remark like that behind those doors and all the groundwork I’ve done won’t mean a thing. So today you are polite, courteous, cooperative.’
‘He’s sorry,’ said Amanda. ‘He’s nervous.’
‘Good. I pulled favours for this meeting, I hope you understand that. Your absence in the war was noted.’
‘We didn’t feel we had anything to add,’ said Amanda.
‘And to the likes of me that doesn’t matter. But to men like AK it’s the show of support that counts.’
Despite the hour, the VIP area maintained its nocturnal habits, the low-watt bulbs in the lamps doing little to illuminate the black leather sofas and chairs. There was a polished black bar at one end, next to the double doors that led to the boss’ office. Two guards were lounging beside it, feigning deafness to the laughter coming from the other side.
‘How are the children?’ the old man asked.
‘Good. They were asking after you.’
Jamison gave a little laugh. ‘I’m sure they were. Teenagers can be so thoughtful. Let me fix you something.’ Jamison slipped behind the bar. He didn’t wait for a reply, fingering out three glasses, setting down some top-shelf whisky.
‘Truthfully,’ said Amanda, lowering her voice so the bodyguards wouldn’t hear, ‘I didn’t think this one’d be the one to come out on top. Or the one you’d support.’
Jamison slid the drinks over – on the rocks for Caleb, neat for Amanda.
‘Thought you’d have looked good behind the desk,’ said Caleb.
Jamison looked down into his drink. ‘I’m not sure I’d have wanted it. And AK, well, when he came to me, he had quite the proposal on the table from the Indians already. I was just…’ He sighed. Amanda hadn’t spotted it before but the old man looked tired, his wrinkles deeper etched into his features, bags like bruises under his eyes.
‘So why are we here?’ Amanda pushed. ‘It was a straight “yes” or a “no” you could have done it on the phone.’
‘I want you to promise me that you’ll stay calm.’
The office door opened, laughter and light spilling across the floor.
Jamison, his eyes pleading a moment before, stood straighter, twitching his suit. The mentor was gone and the crime boss’ right-hand man was back.
The boss’ office was decorated a lot like the room before except for the expensive-looking mahogany desk and plush rug.
The furniture had been rearranged. Henderson had preferred to have his desk in the corner, sofas and seats taking up the middle of the room. Now the desk was front and centre, a balustrade from which to dictate to the smaller chairs before it.
The room erupted with fresh laughter, the new boss’ loudest of all.
Andrew Kavanagh, the new boss, was helping himself to another line of coke. His suit was as sharp as that of his second-in-command. Or at least it had been the night before. The top buttons of his shirt were open. The tie lay coiled to one side of the desk. His eyes were bloodshot and there was a touch of stubble to his jaw. On the street, he’d have looked like just another city-boy wanker slouching home. To Amanda he was young, twenty-eight. To his cronies he was the eldest. To the Indian gang that had backed him with money, guns and the odd problem smoothed over, he was a foothold on the market.
Lads in various chemical states littered the room, draped over chairs, holding up walls. They tried their best to make Amanda feel unwelcome.
Most criminals now under AK’s dominion were like Amanda, they did their thing how and when they liked and paid the man a percentage. Failure to pay meant violence, maybe against you, maybe against your family, friends or property. In exchange, AK offered criminals in his fiefdom the security of not having the tar beaten out of them.
But these lads were the new breed, the tip of the iceberg that made up Kavanagh’s empire. These were AK’s favourites. The ones with his ear. The ones who got given the choice jobs that those with the brains but not the nerve or skills brought to him. This was the room to be in.
When Henderson had been alive Amanda had her pick of the seats. Not any more.
Kavanagh stared as he cleaned up his nose.
‘What the fuck they doing here?’ Skeebs pushed himself out of his seat. There was a glass of champagne in his hand and from the burn in his eyes, bubbles and coke were sizzling in his blood. Like everyone else in the room, he looked like he was on the arse end of a great night out but he wore it better. Skeebs had a way of looking correct even when he wasn’t. ‘That’s the bitch put my brother away.’
Amanda froze her expression. Danny’s arrest had been front-page news. The case was next year but everyone knew he wasn’t getting out.
She felt Caleb stiffen behind her. ‘Say that again?’ the big man growled.
‘They’re here to see Andrew,’ Jamison cut in. ‘About the matter we discussed.’
‘Thought we were doing this tomorrow,’ said AK, slouching back in his chair. ‘You getting addled? I don’t want to do this. We’re celebrating.’
‘I said tomorrow, yesterday,’ Jamison replied, the insult rolling off him. ‘Our partners expect progress and you’ve been putting this off—’
‘Fine. Whatever. You two sit down.’
His chair too small for him, Caleb took a moment to squeeze himself in place, attracting a couple of snorts. He glared around the room.
Skeebs sat back down, contenting himself with eye-fucking the pair of them.
Elbows on the desk, clasped hands to his chin, AK studied them.
Amanda stared back.
‘Keep hearing about you,’ said AK. ‘People, the old man here, keep on about you being the best. But every time I hear it, know what I think? I think, how come a woman smart as all that wasn’t out fighting for me? All these guys were. Where the fuck was she?’
‘We’re not really ones for fighting,’ said Amanda.
‘In the business of making money,’ said Caleb.
‘Then let me make this clear. Right now, you ain’t to earn a fucking penny in this city without my say so. I even hear a whisper about you two pulling a job, these guy’s will kill your whole fucking families. You want to work you’d best start by proving what you can do for me. Because unlike your last boss, I don’t have time for cowards.’
Amanda could barely breathe. Already she could feel her temper fraying. ‘Well if we’re done here—’
‘Amanda, please.’ Jamison held out a hand to stop her from rising.
‘I told you,’ said AK, raising a hand like Amanda had fulfilled his every expectation. ‘How can you trust anyone who won’t fight for you? How can I be expected to work with this?’
‘Because that was what was asked of us,’ Jamison replied, heading for the drinks cabinet to refill his empty glass. ‘To prove to our friends in Kolkata that they’re getting what they paid for. You agreed to this.’
At the mention of his benefactors, Kavanagh bristled. ‘You fucking agreed to it. If I’d known they were going to start sticking their hand up my arse—’
‘You accepted their help, Andrew. You sit in that seat because of them. You came to me with their proposal and asked me to facilitate. That is what I’m going to do.’
‘Sit down before you break a hip.’
The boys in the room exchanged looks, smirking, tittering.
Amanda looked to Jamison at this new display of disrespect and watched with dismay as the man did nothing but finish pouring himself a drink. Time was, even Henderson would have got an earful if he’d done the same.
‘So, what’s this about?’ Amanda asked. ‘What have I got to do with your deal?’
The aircon whirred as AK spent a moment staring at Amanda, coke straw tapping on the desk, something being fought behind those bloodshot eyes.
‘Someone I’d like you to meet,’ he gestured over her shoulder. ‘This is Fergusson.’
Amanda twisted around. There was a woman sitting by the door, so quiet Amanda hadn’t even noticed her.
She was dressed in a simple black suit and polo neck, round, soft features, blonde hair in a ponytail. A glass of brandy was cradled in her hand, her knees and shoulders cinched together like she wanted to make as little contact with the room as possible. She straightened uncomfortably under Amanda’s gaze, staring back with wavering defiance like she expected a barb to be sent her way. Her eyes were watery behind thick glasses. Amanda’s gaze proving too much, she tried Caleb.
The big man just looked straight back, the rasp in his throat like a razor on a leather strap.
‘You called me here to introduce your new accountant?’
For the first time AK grew a wide grin, his eyes flicking to Jamison.
‘Tell her what you do, Bridget,’ said Jamison, quietly.
‘Well,’ the woman coughed. ‘I suppose you could say I’m a lot of things. I would describe myself as—’
‘She’s an Abra,’ said AK. The grin had gone but there was a gleam to his eyes now.
‘I’m not sure such a crass term applies but…’
Amanda’s shoulders clenched like a knife had sunk between them. The alcohol boiled in her stomach. She felt her fingers tighten around the glass.
AK smirked. His eyes hadn’t left Amanda for a second.
‘This a joke?’ Amanda asked Jamison.
The man didn’t flinch at her tone. ‘The organisation is moving into Black at the behest of our new benefactors.’
‘And it’s going to make us a shit-ton of money,’ said Skeebs.
Amanda’s mouth was dry. Black was a term for some of the darker sides of magic. The kind of stuff her father used to get involved with. She took another sip of whisky and regretted it.
The old man took a seat beside her, moving close, voice low. ‘I know what you’re going to say. But you have to listen.’
‘What’s this got to do with me?’ she asked, voice down to match his. ‘With us? I can’t believe…’
‘See?’ said AK. ‘What I fucking tell you? Get back on the phone and tell them she said “no”.’
Amanda blinked. ‘You promised them me?’
‘You wouldn’t fight,’ Jamison hissed. ‘I made you part of the prize. Every side, every side, would have rather seen you dead than standing against them. I did it for you.’
‘You didn’t even ask me.’
‘You would have refused.’
Amanda stared, aware her mouth was hanging open. She explored her old mentor’s wrinkled face, his eyes imploring her.
‘I’m refusing now,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry but I’m not going to… of all people you should…’
‘Get them out of here,’ said AK, waving toward the door. ‘She never works in London again. Pour us a round while you’re up. Indians going to have to do without her. Leaves the work to us real boys!’
The men around him laughed in appreciation.
‘Hang the fuck on,’ said Amanda. ‘Neither of us asked for this. We make good money. And we pay our dues. You ask—’
‘Why the fuck should I let you work for me?’ AK stood up, fists on the table. ‘I don’t know you. Jamison, the door.’
‘Please, Andrew,’ the old man clasped out his hands. ‘If you’d just… Amanda.’ He placed a hand on her armrest, his eyes pleading with her, desperate.
Amanda didn’t know what to do. She was caught between anger and guilt, knowing the man who had taken her in when her father had died was still trying to protect her. But working with magic, it turned her stomach. Still, she paused, watching Jamison as he composed himself. Gut tight, she prayed her old mentor would reveal some solution – an alternative that allowed her to work without looking over her shoulder for AK’s thugs.
‘Did you see the protests this morning?’ he said.
‘They won’t change anything,’ said Amanda, despair ready to pounce on her again. ‘There’s a reason this country got out of Black. It’s dangerous. It’s unpredictable. And the people who use it…’
‘That’s going to change, whether we want it to or not. Opinions. The internet. Magic isn’t something confined to a few back-alley texts any more. All someone has to do is post a hex online and it’s everywhere. There’s gangs in China already using it. Organisations in India are nothing but Abras now. We have to change with the times and we’ve been urged by our benefactors to start recruiting. Legalisation is coming, laws relaxed, markets opened and they want us to be ready. Britain’s about to be the frontier of a whole new land of opportunity and there’ll be others looking for a foothold if they aren’t already. There’s no hiding from this. Magic is returning to Britain and the Indians wanted to know the Abra killer was on their side as… I suppose a fixer.’
A train rumbled beneath them, the throb and racket of it vibrating the pictures on the walls, felt through the veins rather than heard.
‘This isn’t the war,’ said Jamison, lowering his voice so only she could hear. ‘It won’t go away. I can’t guarantee your protection.’
‘This is a mistake,’ said Amanda. ‘I’m not a hit man.’
‘Nor will you be. More of a consultant.’
‘Yeah? Then I advise you tell the Indians to fuck off, get that woman,’ she pointed to Bridget, ‘out of here and forget the whole thing.’
Jamison flashed a warning.
‘Good it’s not your call then,’ said Skeebs. ‘’Cause we ain’t even got to the best part.’
‘Skeebs,’ Jamison warned. ‘I don’t think we should be divulging—’
‘Fergusson, here,’ said AK. ‘Reckons she can bind a demon.’
‘Her theories are compelling,’ said Jamison, quickly. ‘That’s all. Nothing tried yet. We’re helping her develop them.’
‘But they’ll work,’ said AK, no room in his tone for disagreement. ‘And when we have a thing that powerful working for us, sky’s going to be the limit. Won’t even need a consultant. Fucker’ll be able to do everything for us. Killing. Robberies. The lot.’
Amanda worked her left hand, stretching her fingers, palms beginning to sweat. ‘Why don’t you just get her to turn lead into gold instead? It’ll be safer.’
‘My theories go beyond—’ Bridget started, only to be calmed by a gesture from Jamison.
‘We’re aware of the history,’ said Jamison. ‘Bridget was very upfront about the complications.’
‘Like how no one’s ever done it?’ There was nothing that could keep the pure poison from Amanda’s voice. This had gone beyond worst-case scenario. She’d lost this fight before she’d even stepped through the door. ‘Like how everyone who’s tried ends up dead alongside their friends and families?’
‘Well not this time,’ said AK. ‘We’re making history. And we’re going to get rich doing it. Indians will end up working for us by the time we’re through.’
‘We don’t want to antagonise them,’ said Jamison.
‘Fuck them. No one tells me what to do. Or who I work with. Magic, fine. There’s money there. But I don’t know this woman and I don’t want her in this city.’
Amanda rolled her glass in her hand, watching the light sliding on the rim. A throb was starting in her temple.
Jamison poured himself a fresh drink. How many had that been?
‘We just want to work,’ said Amanda. ‘That’s all we want. You all want to kill yourselves, that’s your business.’
‘It is a chance we’re willing to take,’ the old man said. ‘That we have to take. This is the twenty-first century. Magic isn’t mixed with mysticism any more. It’s mixed with science.’
‘Which is why it got banned in the first place.’
‘Other countries are changing the world,’ Bridget erupted. Allowed to talk without interruption, Amanda could hear now that her accent had a Scottish lilt. ‘The war resulted in terrible misuses but to let that hold us back has been nothing but shortsighted.’
‘Then why are you here? Why aren’t you in one of those other countries with your fabulous theories?’
Bridget flushed, her mouth pinching closed.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Amanda. ‘Bottom line is this is going to unravel. You even try summoning it, if her theory that she can put a leash on it is out even a little, then there will be such a shit storm—’
‘We’re going to make millions from this,’ AK roared. ‘This time next year—’
‘This time next year you’ll be dead or in prison.’
‘Is that a threat?’ AK’s eyes bugged. He leaned across the desk, hands planted, vein pulsing in his forehead. ‘Did she just fucking threaten me?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ said Jamison, holding out a hand. ‘Of course she didn’t. Amanda—’
‘It’s a fucking promise,’ said Amanda. ‘If a demon doesn’t rip your tongue out your arsehole first, the police will sling a noose round all your necks.’
AK scowled down at her, breath snorting from his nose like a boar about to charge. When he spoke, he clouded the air with spit from between his clenched teeth. ‘Everything you’re saying, know what I hear? This is all about your fucking dad. Coleman hates magic because her dad used to bleed her like—’
The glass caught AK square in the forehead, whisky splashing like brains over the back wall.
The boss blinked, slack-jawed. Even his blood was stunned, frozen in a bright red line before it realised it should be rushing down the creases of his nose to his chin.
Amanda looked down at her empty hand. ‘Shit, I—’
‘Fuck, man. What the fuck?’ Skeebs bolted from his chair.
Caleb was on his feet, filling the room. The sheer weight the man exerted was enough to keep AK’s boys in their seats.
The boss was looking down at his desk as though wondering where the long, red drips were coming from. He flinched as blood pooled in his eye.
‘Jesus.’ Jamison reached into his suit pocket, whipping out a handkerchief and stuffing it in the boss’ hand.
‘I told you,’ shouted Skeebs. ‘I told you, you couldn’t fucking trust them.’
Amanda spluttered. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Out.’ Jamison grabbed Amanda under the arm, pushing her towards the door.
‘He shouldn’t have said—’
‘Out!’