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  Alex bit down his fury and grabbed Peacock by the front of his shirt. ‘Lock this place down. Hold on to that and let me out. It should stay with you.’

  Peacock looked up into Alex’s eyes, trembling, his mouth working silently. Alex grabbed the book and thrust it into the man’s hands. ‘Start putting up your wards or whatever you do to protect this place.’

  Magesign wafted lightly off Peacock and Alex felt the protective shields overlapping each other all around him. He opened his vision, looked through the normal range of sight and watched for magic. He saw the wards, shimmering in a plethora of impossible shades. He could see the impenetrable bubbles of magic yet at the same time he could see where they pressed together. Using his own ’sign to cleave a path, he slipped in and among Peacock’s wards, letting them close tightly behind. He heard Peacock’s gasp of surprise but ignored it and left the shop. He turned towards Welby’s house and ran as fast as he could.

  He managed to flag a taxi and gave the driver an extra ten pounds to jump every red light back to Welby’s. Standing in the street outside, looking up through the witch’s fingers of the leafless trees, he could see movement in the supposedly invisible third-storey room. A lead ball of dread sat in his gut.

  The front door stood damaged and ajar. As he tentatively stepped into the hallway, he could see the remaining impression of massive bursts of magic, visual echoes of an arcane struggle. He felt a coppery charge in the air. As he stalked through the house, evidence of fighting lay everywhere. Broken and turned-over furniture, scorch marks on walls and ceilings, torn, smouldering carpets. He tried to sense ahead of himself.

  As he climbed the stairs, he felt Welby moments before he saw him. Sprawled on the first-floor landing, twisted unnaturally, the old man’s eyes were wide and quite blank. Blood pooled darkly around his head, soaking into the luxurious carpet. Alex could feel the creatures up above. He crouched, double-checking what he already knew to be a fact. Welby was dead. Swallowing his fear and anguish, Alex closed Welby’s eyelids and looked up the stairs to the secret floor.

  As carefully as possible, he reached into Welby’s shirt. The locket on its leather cord still hung there, burning with magic under Alex’s palm. It was like the book, had the same urgent desire to be held, owned, used. Alex recognised another tipping point in his life. Upstairs or down? Take the locket or leave it? A fundamental moment of choice and probably his last opportunity to get away. Or was it?

  He lifted his hand slowly to his chest and pressed. The small hard rectangle of the Darak Uthentia sat hot and desperate in his pocket. Alex’s head dropped. One hand on the book in his jacket, the other on the locket inside Welby’s shirt, the power of those unfathomable objects coursed through him. Muffled as they were, they made the magic in him expand, swell.

  And the creatures that had killed Welby had been sent to get what he held. Alex’s eyes crept up to the top of the stairs. In the shadows he saw two pairs of deep, red eyes staring back.

  His heart raced, adrenaline dumping into his system. His stomach felt liquid, his mind suddenly wrapped in cotton wool. And his training kicked in. Centring, gathering his energy and his focus, he slipped the locket from around Welby’s neck without taking his eyes from the malevolent silhouettes above. When he dropped the leather cord over his head the stone sang out to him, a crystalline song of belonging and joy. The book in his pocket cried out, sending desire across subconscious airwaves he couldn’t begin to explain. A flood of power washed through him like an orgasm. He gathered that power, along with his adrenaline, breathed it through his flesh. He let his shields down, let his ’sign wash forth, and stood. ‘Come on then, you fuckers!’ he yelled.

  They burst from the shadows with a rush of leathery flapping and snapping of grotesque, tooth-filled snouts. They reached for him with black-clawed hands, sinewy muscles beneath dark, warty, thick hide flexing, twisting, fast and strong. He’d expected them to be made of stone.

  Alex stepped between them as they swept down. His vision enhanced, he saw their intentions with ease, read their shades effortlessly. He grabbed one by its reaching arm and used its momentum to send it past, tumbling and squealing down to the ground floor, cracking stairs and tearing the wall as it went. As the first fell, he drove his elbow into the snot-riddled snout of the other. A satisfying crunch and wail made up somewhat for the impact-blossom of pain that lanced through his arm. They didn’t look like stone, but they felt like it, tough leather stretched over moving boulders. Pushing the creature across the landing, Alex made space and powered out a front kick, driving his heel up under the gargoyle’s chin. Its head whipped back and dirty ivory fangs snapped and spiralled into the air. The creature howled.

  Alex heard the other scrambling to its feet, clawing at the walls and stairs as it rushed back up to him. The voice of his Sifu rang in his memory. When the fight isn’t fair, be sure you fight dirtier than them. When there is more than one enemy, use them against each other.

  Alex grabbed the gargoyle he had kicked and swung around behind, slipping one forearm under the creature’s chin. He cranked up, bracing with his other arm against its back. It stood up taller, trying to shake him free. As its fellow appeared, Alex shifted the gargoyle in his grip and used it as a shield, his muscles straining with the effort. The rushing horror slammed into the chest and belly of its mate, snapping and clawing around it, reaching for Alex’s face.

  Driving forward, thighs burning as they worked, Alex forced the creatures to the top of the stairs. His chokehold had no effect, the gargoyle thrashing in his grasp. With a roar of rage he used all his strength and pushed the creature away. He pumped out a leg and kicked hard in the centre of its spine. It arched in pain as something cracked and the momentum carried both abominations down again.

  Grabbing a leg from a broken table on the landing, Alex leapt down behind them, gathering all his own energy and wrapping it up with the power from the stone at his neck. He could see with such clarity, feel every mote of dust in the air around him, every sensation of the monsters below. He could smell the leather of the furniture, musty books, his own sweat. He could hear every sound. He was alive with the instant, knew everything. The gargoyles fell into a tangle of pustulent flesh and Alex landed on them, stamping down with both feet, desperate to break whatever bones these things might have. As they struggled to part, he lifted the table leg high and drove it down, broken end first, flooding it with energy from the shard of the Darak, directly through the eye socket of the gargoyle on its back beneath him. It screamed an ear-shattering wail, scrabbling at the wooden table leg, before spasming and dropping still. Alex felt the stone against his chest singing out in joy again as he utilised its power. He knew the book’s insane elation at the murder, not revelling in the magic, but in the death, and it was dark. He concentrated on the Darak, as though it were a part of him, its energy flooding through his veins, invigorating and terrifying.

  The second gargoyle twisted and pushed away, knocking Alex over. He landed with a grunt of rushing breath and the thing dropped onto him, grasping for his throat. He grabbed both its rough, hard wrists and tried to force it up. It snapped and spat at him, turning and pressing. Alex had the strength of years of training, but nothing compared to this. He knew he had only seconds before its might overwhelmed him.

  Bucking up, using his hip to escape the weight of the creature, he slipped free, keeping a grip on one of the gargoyle’s wrists. He stood and turned the wrist, wrenched the creature’s arm up and back, forcing it to move sideways. His muscles screamed in protest at the effort. Without letting go of the wrist he stamped hard into the hideous face. Twisting the wrist further, using the creature’s own shoulder joint against it, he kicked again. Hanging on against its thrashing desperation, Alex twisted, kicked, punched, again and again. Teeth and claws swiped this way and that, but Alex refused to release his grip, doggedly hanging on to the one small advantage he had. His abilities gave him extra milliseconds to move, yet even then he couldn’t avoid every blow. B
ruises thundered into his body, burning welts from flailing claws danced across his chest, stomach, legs. A leathery wing cracked into his head, made his vision cross. His hands and feet felt battered and broken as he repeatedly struck the stone-hard creature’s head and body.

  The strength began to wane in the gargoyle’s thrashing defence. Its head lolled dizzily and Alex let go of the wrist, leaping into the air, drawing up both knees and landing with a double stamp on the creature’s skull. He drove down as much power as he could muster, letting the force from the stone rush through him, and the gargoyle’s head cracked with a sound like a gunshot.

  Alex stood panting, shaking, bruised and bleeding. He looked from one gargoyle corpse to the other as they both lost colour. Pale grey seeped across their skins and in moments they were broken granite grotesques. They shivered and shattered into dust and gravel.

  ‘Defeating two gargoyles barehanded? Impressive.’

  With a gasp Alex looked up into the blue eyes of the blonde. His vision swam. She stepped forward, reached out for him. ‘Easy there,’ he heard. ‘Looks like you …’

  Strange sounds washed in Alex’s ears, a soft whump, whump, whump. Keeping his eyes closed, breathing deeply, he realised it was his heartbeat. Every inch of his body burned with pain, as though he had been flayed. The image of the blonde swam into his mind and his heart rate increased. As his senses came online, he knew he lay on something soft and she was still there, right beside him. She felt strong.

  ‘I know you’re awake,’ she said softly. Her voice had a Scottish lilt, almost lost but defiant.

  Without opening his eyes Alex assessed his energy levels and the extent of his injuries.

  ‘You’re safe for now,’ the girl said.

  He had just had a fight to the death, almost his own, with two living, moving, deadly creatures that should be nothing more than adornment on gothic buildings. What the hell was happening to him? A flash of realisation branded another image on his mind: Welby’s corpse, broken on the landing above. That fucker Peacock had gone medieval with all the wrong assumptions and left Patrick Welby dead and Alex lost and broken. All because of this fucking book. He should never have left Sydney.

  The stone against his chest, like a second heart, pulsed in its locket. What would it be like to open the locket, wear it right against his skin? Power throbbed through the tiny shard. Only a third of the whole? If only it was a wishing stone and he could wish himself back to his peaceful house surrounded by paddocks and cows, with no knowledge of it or the grimoire or Welby. Or magic and gargoyles and idiot booksellers. Or beautiful, mysterious blondes.

  ‘You going to open your eyes and talk to me?’ Her voice had an amused edge. He could imagine her crooked smile and it fired his desire.

  His eyes flickered open. Even his eyelids hurt. He lay on a sofa in the front room, the blonde kneeling beside him. She watched him with humour. ‘Hello there.’

  ‘Hey.’ He sounded like a wino after thirty years on the streets with meths and old cigarette butts.

  ‘I’ve patched you up a bit. Luckily there was a pretty good first aid kit in the kitchen. I’m sure you hurt all over, but it’s all pretty superficial, nothing broken. Which is a surprise, given what you were hitting.’

  ‘Lots of practice.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  Alex laughed softly and winced at the pain it put through his chest. ‘Well, not against … those things. It’s always been people before now. But the conditioning still counts, it seems. Who are you?’

  ‘You can call me Silhouette.’

  ‘Which isn’t your real name, I’m guessing.’

  ‘It’s what everyone calls me.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’m Alex. Alex Caine.’

  They watched each other for several moments. Alex had to assume he had an ally in this girl, though he was still suspicious. She hadn’t helped with the fight, but she had fixed him up afterwards. At the very least she was no immediate enemy. He felt lost and keen to hang on to anyone friendly, but remained wary. More than anything he wanted to be back home, on his own. He was fairly sure he would never again enjoy the simplicity of the life he had known.

  Without a word Silhouette stood and left the room. He heard her in the kitchen. She returned with a glass of water. ‘Hold this.’

  He struggled up into a sitting position, grimacing at the needles of pain in his body. He gritted his teeth, took the glass.

  Silhouette dug around in a small leather pouch on her belt and pulled out what looked like a screwed-up green leaf. She carefully unwrapped it and took out a pinch of dark brown sand between index finger, middle finger and thumb. She dropped the sand into the water, brushing every last grain off her fingers. It sank lazily, spiralling slightly. With a burst of tiny bubbles the water effervesced and turned dark purple. ‘Drink it.’

  Alex looked at her with concern.

  ‘Alex, if I meant you harm I’ve had plenty of opportunity. Quickly, drink it all before it’s wasted.’

  With a shrug he took a deep breath and gulped the glassful down. It was strong, like over-stewed tea, and so sweet it tasted thick like treacle. He winced as he forced himself to swallow the last of it.

  Silhouette smiled. ‘You like that? That’s the definition of bittersweet, huh? It’s good for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not of this earth.’ She flicked him a wink.

  Alex felt the liquid spread through him. His muscles relaxed, the burning in his skin and the ache in his bones softened. A lopsided smile twisted one side of his face. He felt inexplicably happy, almost silly. ‘Is nice,’ he slurred.

  Silhouette rolled her eyes. ‘I gave you a bit too much perhaps.’

  Alex giggled. ‘Not at all. In fact, I’d like a bit more …’ He was getting sleepy. As his eyes closed, he saw Silhouette shake her head. He was sure he heard her say ‘Humans’ in a derisive tone as darkness folded in from the edges of his vision.

  6

  When Alex woke he saw light outside. Silhouette was lying on the floor on her stomach, chin propped in her hands, reading a large leatherbound book that lay open before her. ‘Morning,’ she said, not taking her eyes from the pages.

  ‘Morning.’ He tentatively swung his legs off the couch, sitting up, assessing the level of hurt. Surprisingly little. His hands ached, his knuckles still throbbed, but the majority of his pain had eased. The cuts and bruises that weren’t covered by dressings looked several days healed. ‘How long have I been out?’

  Silhouette flipped a page. ‘All night. ’Bout six or seven hours.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She looked up at him. ‘That drink I gave you speeds healing. Feeling better?’

  ‘Immeasurably.’

  ‘Good.’ She turned back to the book.

  Alex watched the ’sign swirl around the pages, snaking lazily across the patterned rug. He let his eyes move from the book to the girl, looking over her colours. She was physically gorgeous, more so than anyone he could remember, but she had an inner beauty too. A power and grace that stupefied him. He was desperate to look beneath her almost flawless facade and see what kind of person she was. What kind of power she had.

  ‘Careful there, big fella. You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.’

  With a gasp Alex sat back, pulling his vision with him. ‘I’m sorry. I was just …’

  ‘I know. It’s cool.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Silhouette swept up into a sitting position, cross-legged on the rug, the grimoire forgotten beside her. She moved with a dancer’s grace, though Alex could see the fighter beneath. He found that unbelievably sexy. ‘You’re very new to all this, aren’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘All this?’ He knew what she meant, but was unsure how much to discuss.

  She smiled. Gods, he liked it when she smiled. ‘You’re very wary, and that’s good. But you can trust me,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. You can’t trust
many people these days, but I promise I don’t mean you harm.’

  ‘You’ve been watching me.’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. You intrigued me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, firstly because you were with Welby. We always keep a casual eye on him.’

  ‘We?’

  Silhouette pursed her lips. That was even better than her smile. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said eventually.

  Alex flexed his shoulders, stretched. His back popped softly. ‘So why are you interested in Welby?’

  ‘He’s an interesting guy. Well, he was.’

  ‘That fucker Peacock,’ Alex said with a wince. ‘I should go and settle that score.’

  Silhouette smiled again. ‘Nice. Yeah, maybe you should. Exercise out the kinks from last night. No one would miss that desperate wannabe. Anyway, Patrick Welby is an old magus, by human standards. He’s been around a while, largely self-contained, furthering his studies, developing his skills. Nothing out of the ordinary. There are hundreds like him.’

  Alex laughed, shook his head. When Silhouette raised an eyebrow he said, ‘Nothing. Just trying to get my head around … well, everything.’

  ‘The reason we watched Welby was because he suddenly seemed to increase his power a couple of years ago. We were wary, but he still seemed interested in his own thing, so we let him be. Just watched. He spent the last year or more travelling all over the place, clearly looking for something.’

  ‘I think that might have been me.’

  ‘But when he found you, all kinds of shit hit the fan. What happened?’

  Alex decided to tell her everything. If she could help him get home, that would be great. If she could help him get rid of this book, even better. ‘I can see things,’ he said. ‘I can see magesign very clearly, apparently, and I read people. I see the shades around them.’

  Silhouette paid close attention. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, according to Welby, my vision is far greater than most, even his.’