Bertram Vixley, head of the Police Special Squad in Farnell, was furious as a thousand devils. His neatly trimmed moustache kept bristling away from his upper lip, making him resemble an enruly terrier. An amusing sight, if one did not know that behind those comical whiskers surged the strength of an experienced shifter.

  He had been driven into this state by a brief but heated exchange with Bryce. The head of the PSS had accused the Earl of Bremor of sowing disorder in his city, to which Uncle had replied with considerable sharpness that the disorder had clearly predated his arrival, if werewolves felt so at ease roaming its streets. And if Vixley had no interest in cooperation, he was free to go to the devil.

  The three of us had temporarily taken over a meeting room. We had not even managed to sit down before the quarrel began. Calmly waiting out the suppressed growl that vibrated from the shifter’s throat, Bryce poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to him.

  Then, in an utterly innocent tone, he asked: “Are you quite certain you’ve not mistaken the situation, Sir Bertram?”

  Vixley’s moustache shot up, this time in surprise rather than anger. Bryce took a sip and condescended to elaborate.

  “You are here not by summons, but by invitation.” He gave the man a full minute to supply for himself what remained unsaid, and there was much of it, including several highly unflattering implications. “I suggest you set aside your habitual assumptions. Do sit down.”

  He indicated three armchairs arranged around a low table by the window. The furniture there had been changed; evidently brought in for this very conversation. While the guest seated himself, Uncle gestured towards the drinks cabinet, inviting me to help myself. Of course, I might have chosen anything without a word of protest… until after the discussion. I therefore acted sensibly and poured myself a glass of cherry cola.

  “So,” Vixley said, “you’re having difficulties with werewolves?”

  Uncle laughed, demonstratively so, even dabbing at the corner of his right eye.

  “My dear Sir Bertram, I am a Bremor. We are the ones who resolve difficulties with werewolves.”

  “Then why call me? And let us speak plainly. I can see, my lord, that you are playing some game, and I have no wish to be a piece upon your board. I am no politician. My duty is straightforward — to maintain order in this city.”

  “Sir Bertram,” I interjected, “it is rather late to play the simple-minded servant. After the way you so deftly provoked Nina Gratch and eliminated her main enforcers… Forgive me, but I cannot possibly believe it. Especially as this is very much in your interest.”

  Uncle pressed from the other side.

  “That is entirely correct. I had not even considered involving you, sir, until Duncan proposed it. But I am rather more pragmatic than my nephew and have no intention of acting merely to spare your feelings. Today we acquired three mangy corpses…”

  “Duncan mentioned two.”

  “I forbade him to speak of the third,” Uncle explained. “However, I believe absolute candour, which Duncan so cherishes, may prove effective with you.”

  Yes, of course. I could plainly see Uncle Bryce laying out every card without omission or embellishment. Vixley seemed to be entertaining similar thoughts, one could tell by the moustache.

  “Let us proceed in order,” Uncle continued. “We intended to deliver the bodies to the police station. You can imagine the consequences for the PSS.”

  He allowed a pause for consideration. Vixley grimaced openly, but did not rise to the bait.

  “It would have been… unfortunate. A reputational blow and the like. Comparable, perhaps, to the werewolf incident in Avoc.”

  “My dear sir, you have no conception of what occurred in Avoc.”

  “Then enlighten me,” Vixley replied, spreading his hands.

  Not a politician, indeed. His tongue was as sharp as an enchanted blade.

  To my surprise, Uncle obliged.

  “The werewolves are trained, armed, and equipped at roughly the level of your fighters, what are they called…” Bryce feigned recollection and snapped his fingers, “the Kilworth brothers. In addition, the mangy creatures are enhanced with magical tattoos. Work of a unique variety. You shall see for yourself when you examine the bodies. I will not attempt to describe the extent of their enhancement. To believe it, one must face them in battle, though that is not the principal concern. The principal concern is that they are well disciplined.”

  Vixley gave a sceptical snort, arranging a doubtful smile beneath his moustache.

  “Disciplined werewolves?”

  “I suspect the runes of subjugation embedded in their tattoos play no small part. They style themselves the Clan of the Bloody Moon.”

  The smile vanished from the shifter’s face. The spirit of the hound broke through the human fa?ade. Vixley remained seated, yet went utterly still, as though he had caught the scent of prey.

  “You’ve heard of them,” Uncle said, smiling faintly.

  “I’ve had discussions on the matter with the Secret Squirrels.” Vixley used the dismissive nickname for what was, if not the most formidable, then certainly the most mysterious and unpleasant organisation in service to Crown and country.

  “Indeed?” Uncle raised his brows, then frowned in displeasure.

  So the Squirrels were aware of the organization, and took it seriously. Which meant they could hardly have failed to connect it with the attack on Avoc. Interesting. Had they truly expected the clan to come crawling to them? No, best not construct theories just now. Still, Uncle’s decision to deal with the enemy independently seemed, in that light, even sounder.

  “I am obliged to report anything I hear,” Vixley warned.

  Uncle’s smile turned sharp.

  “Then kindly inform the Squirrels they are doing a wretched job. There is a full representation of the Clan in this city.”

  Vixley narrowed his eyes.

  “Are you not, my lord, attempting to rehabilitate your reputation after Avoc by deliberately inflating the situation? I do not even know where or when these werewolves were killed.”

  “In the slums. Today.”

  Uncle recounted the events as they had occurred, not neglecting to run a verbal steamroller over my ‘excessively self-confident person’ in the process. But he confined himself strictly to what had happened that day in Farnell. Of what might yet occur, or was occurring even now, the old fox said nothing. Instead, he repeated several times that the Squirrels were failing in their duty and ought to be disbanded, and that it might be wiser to consult professionals — meaning us.

  When Uncle finished, Bertram did not dig in his heels. He agreed to a modest intrigue. What choice had he? Bryce had secured what he wanted from the conversation regardless. The fact that werewolves had established themselves in the city had now been formally conveyed to two authorities at once. Neither could ignore it without embarrassment before the other. And Bryce had presented it not as a plea, but as a gesture of goodwill.

  Whose heads might roll thereafter did not concern him.

  Vixley, for his part, attempted to carve out an advantage for himself and the PSS. He haggled at length to secure all three bodies. The last Uncle had intended to retain as a personal trophy of the clan, but Vixley promised to give an interview himself, praising the invaluable assistance of the finest werewolf hunters in the world.

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  At the same time, the old servant of the law strictly confined his reciprocal favour to professional boundaries. He would do what he was duty-bound to do in any case, only faster, or slower if required, but he would not openly break the law for anyone.

  Not a politician, indeed.

  In the end, the Earl of Bremor and the head of the PSS parted well satisfied with one another. Each was sincerely convinced he had gained the greater advantage. And even knowing what Uncle intended to arrange with the journalists, I would not have dismissed the head of the PSS lightly.

  The important thing was that we concluded early enough for me still to pay a visit to Ellie.

  Leaving Knuckles at Bremor House, I drove to my appointment and was there within twenty minutes. A cab pulled up directly behind me. The passenger door flew open and an indignant cry burst forth: “Duncan, you swine!” A furious red-haired fury followed.

  “Good Lord, what now?” I barked, leaping aside as Finella fired a beam of flame at me, the same one I had seen her use to slice through metal. It struck the Cooper’s side window, slid across the protective enchantment, and shot onward into the roof of the neighbouring house, leaving a charred streak across the tiles.

  “Oh!” Spark looked momentarily abashed.

  The cab driver slammed the vehicle into reverse, hastening away from his deranged fare. I drew my pistol, fired twice at the idiot’s legs, and dived behind the shelter of the car’s bonnet. Her amulet shield would withstand several rounds without difficulty. I required a different sort of weapon to subdue the hysteric before she demolished half the street, and, more importantly, before she roasted me to a crisp.

  Keeping the pistol in my left hand, I passed my right over my left wrist, activating the spell-form on the bracelet. The crystalline blades had been returned to me. Though drained, they would suffice for a trick or two; my own elemental source would provide enough power.

  With practised motion I grasped the central portion of the spell and pressed. At the moment of activation, I saw Ellie’s father burst from the house, shotgun in hand.

  The spell collapsed.

  The enormous bull-shifter caught my eye, cast a stern look towards Finella, concealed from me by the car’s body, and demanded: “What is the meaning of this, young people?”

  “This lunatic just tried to kill me!”

  “I wasn’t trying to!” Finella shot back. “I was aiming past you, and it was only a little beam, a burn at worst. You were the one shooting at me!”

  She popped out from behind the Cooper’s rear end while I rose above the bonnet.

  “I was defending myself!”

  “You shot at me, you swine!”

  “That’s what happens when you fire bloody death rays at people, you lunatic! Be grateful I didn’t throw the blades, they punch through shields.” I tactfully neglected to mention that the spell had collapsed.

  “After what you did, I…”

  The blast of a shotgun cut our argument short.

  “Inside!” commanded the head of the Sheridan family, in a tone that permitted no discussion.

  At the noise, the household had already begun to gather behind him. The first I saw was Garfield. Ellie’s brother greeted me cheerfully, waving a cleaver.

  “Hello, brother-in-law, Spark. Ow!”

  Ellie jabbed him in the backside with the point of her blade, forcing him to yield space in the doorway, then asked:

  “What’s going on?”

  “She tried to kill me!” I declared.

  “He’s cheating on you!” Finella announced.

  “What?!” Ellie and I exclaimed together.

  “Brother-in-laaaw,” Garfield lamented, “why? I’ll miss you, mate.”

  Ellie automatically drove her elbow into his stomach.

  “What do you mean, cheating?” Hal Sheridan asked his daughter softly.

  The shotgun in his hands acquired a sudden magnetic appeal. I could not drag my eyes away from it. To hell with everything, I activated stone flesh at once. Later might be too late.

  “Daughter? Anything you wish to tell me?”

  “Brother-in-law!” Garfield beamed, displaying all thirty-two equine teeth, and thrust out a fist with the thumb raised. “You’re the man!”

  “Get lost!” his father ordered in a heavy voice. In his place I would have evaporated, but the lad merely signalled that his lips were sealed and stayed put, still grinning like a happy idiot. Ellie did not even try to swat him this time.

  “Dad!” She held out her hands, forgetting to hide the cleaver. “Dad, it’s not what you think! Duncan and I aren’t sleeping together.”

  The patriarch remembered me, and the shotgun barrel swung ominously in my direction. Finella obligingly poured oil on the fire.

  “You may not be sleeping together, but Duncan, apparently, can’t hold out any longer!”

  “I’ll shoot you myself in a moment,” I promised.

  Not a second too soon. The exchange of fire and shouting had drawn the neighbours, one of whom happened to be Finella’s brother. Blind Fire Flower emerged from his house and headed straight towards our merry gathering.

  I want the werewolves back. They were calmer.

  I hope he did not hear my threats to his sister…

  “Duncan!” Ellie demanded.

  What had I missed?

  “Yes?”

  “Say something.”

  “What?”

  “For instance, about how you grope loose women in clubs,” Finella snorted.

  Ellie instantly forgot she had been justifying herself to her father.

  “You what?!”

  Her eyes gleamed; her features shifted towards the animal. Usually I found it rather charming. Not today.

  “Blast it, Finella, I explained everything to you.”

  “Indeed. So you pawed that girl purely for the sake of your cousin and male solidarity, did you?”

  “What girl? Have you completely lost your wits?”

  “I would ask you not to insult my sister, Lord Loxlin,” James said coldly, arriving just in time for the height of the quarrel. His words were the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  I snapped.

  “Oh, do go to hell, James, you and your sister! She’s clearly lost her wits!”

  “I saw you pinching that hen’s backside myself! Thank Simon he didn’t let me roast you on the spot, you traitor!”

  “Were you drunk, on potions, or drugged?”

  James drew in the air through his nose.

  “Finny, have you been drinking?” James asked.

  “Er… just a sip of champagne, James.”

  “You know how I feel about that, sister! And where have you been, exactly?”

  “Probably in some third-rate club, as usual,” I put in. “She’s been barred from all the respectable establishments.”

  “At least I was there with my boyfriend.”

  “You have a boyfriend?” James asked in precisely the tone Hal Sheridan had used a minute earlier.

  “Oh…” said Finella.

  “Why do I not know about him?”

  “We only just started seeing each other…”

  “You’ve been sleeping together for half a year,” I couldn’t resist adding.

  Oh, what a delightful sensation revenge is. Do something nasty — and the heart sings.

  “Oh…” Finella repeated, shrinking into her shoulders. The air began to smell faintly of burning. The grass beside James rapidly paled and dried. “Duncan, you swine!” she cried again, and then, as if taking a desperate plunge, straightened and looked into her brother’s blind eyes. “Yes, we are! At least I sleep with the man I love, instead of looking for amusement on the side like Duncan!”

  “Duncan!” Ellie hissed threateningly.

  “There’s been no one! For almost two years!” Why on earth had I said that?

  “Oh really? Couldn’t afford the tart?” Finella shot back. “How odd. She looked cheap enough.”

  James reached breaking point. He seized his sister by the ear so hard she yelped, and dragged her towards the house. Hal Sheridan reacted in much the same way, only his obedient daughter suddenly showed her temper and very nearly took his arm off with the cleaver.

  “Duncan! What was Finella talking about?!”

  “Go and ask her!” I retorted. “I don’t know what that madwoman saw, or whom. But if you don’t believe me…”

  “So you started a brawl on my doorstep for nothing?”

  “That’s it,” I said. “We’re done.”

  I got into the car, slammed the door, and started the engine.

  “Then clear off!” Ellie shouted. She hurled the cleaver at the passenger door with such force that even Harry’s protection failed. The Cooper rocked from the impact, and the blade’s tip punched through into the cabin.

  “Lunatic!” I yelled, and stamped on the accelerator to put distance between myself and the madhouse.

  At first I simply drove straight, wringing every last ounce from the engine. I flew across half the city, stirred up the patrolmen, picked up a pair of carriages on my tail that clearly lacked the power to catch mine. I had no idea what magic Harry and Clint had worked on the Cooper, but it flew faster than Kate’s roadster.

  Once I had cooled a little, I slowed, took the first turn, and tried to slip out of the constables’ sight. I seemed to manage it. Then I stopped, pulled the cleaver from the door so it wouldn’t attract attention.

  Ellie had tempered that blade with steel magic in the Cave of Blades. That was probably why it had managed to defeat Harry’s protection.

  The sight of it stirred memories I had once thought pleasant, but now they made me sick. I flung it onto the back seat, got behind the wheel again, and drove on. I was no longer racing, yet I had no wish to go home. I had no wish for anything. The anger had ebbed, leaving only a dull ache I wanted to drown.

  For the first time, my thoughts turned to alcohol. Even when Grandfather Gregor died, I hadn’t considered getting drunk, but now…

  With my tolerance, a bottle of the cheapest rotgut would be enough to send me into oblivion. And then what? I had no idea how I behaved in that state. Perhaps I would fall asleep quietly. Or perhaps I would start doing something spectacularly foolish. Uncle would be delighted if I ended up in the newspapers… on the second page, right after the three werewolves.

  On the one hand, I wanted to see no one. On the other, I didn’t quite trust myself.

  Hm. The lads ought to be at the club by now. A bit of female company couldn’t hurt. I was a free man, after all. And Finella had accused me of it so many times that I was practically obliged to make the acquaintance of some lady.

  Right then — the club. What was it called?

  I did not find Bitter Chocolate at once, but I didn’t wander for long. The semi-basement reeking of cigarette smoke and women’s perfume was easy enough to locate by the thunder of mechanical jazz pouring through the open doors. There were no guards at the entrance, and inside it was packed. Every third person smoked, every second drank, and everyone without exception was enjoying themselves.

  I squeezed my way to the bar in search of my clansmen, didn’t see them, turned towards the tables, and at one of them I found a most curious company.

  In the tight circle, discounting three girls, sat Simon Kettle, Burke Kinkaid… and me. Duncan Magnus Kinkaid, or rather Bryan McLilly wearing my face, was shamelessly pawing some pretty little thing.

  I’m going to kill the swine.