An olive-skinned man in a gaudy shirt flashes a grin and greets Pride warmly from behind the bar. “Back so soon?”

“I heard Tabby was back,” Pride says.

“Down the corridor, last door on the left.” The man whistles sharply, and a dark-skinned man standing at the entrance to the corridor looks over, nodding when the barman points to you and Pride. “Yemi’ll let you through.”

“Thanks, Harvey,” Pride says.

The huge bouncer lowers his head when Pride approaches, and you remind yourself once again that Pride is a literal god. A flash of red hair in the middle of the dancefloor has you glancing over at Uriel, who is dancing with his shirt off, garnering the kind of attention that would make most people blush. You smile to yourself and follow Pride to the end of the corridor, where he knocks on the last door on the left.

“Come in,” a woman calls.

She’s sitting at a dressing table, trying on a long silvery wig, all bouncy waves and shine. She glances at us in the mirror, then spins on her stool to face Pride, “What do you think?”

“If not for the silver, you would look exactly as you did the first time I met you,” he says.

She looks familiar, and it’s not until she stands and pulls off the wig, revealing a blonde bob underneath that you realise why. “Isabelle?”

She blinks at you, her eyes widening until she gasps, “Why, if it isn’t Edward Sheeran. Wait…” She slaps a hand over her mouth, then whispers, “But how did you do it?”

Pride assesses you shrewdly. “Tabby hasn’t gone by Isabelle for a long time. Just what did Uriel and Bel get you into when I left you in Victorian London?”

You laugh because it feels so long ago, yet it wasn’t, but it was.

“They played Uriel’s heartbroken yet murderous cousin to perfection,” says Tabby, eyeing you fondly. “They helped put away a murderer.” She clicks her fingers. “Oh, what was the bastard’s name?”

“Faultless Molvander,” you remind her.

“What a legacy to bear with a name like that,” she says. “But you still haven’t explained how you ended up there.”

“Let’s just say we had a run-in with a faulty portal,” Pride says.

“Is it working now?” she asks. “Because I have a meeting with Kane, and I don’t want to pull Yemi off the door if I can help it. It’s inexplicably busy out there this evening.”

“It’s working perfectly well, and yes, you can have a ride back to Kane’s,” says Pride. “But I came here for a reason.”

“You want the Shadow Codex back?” Tabby guesses. “Funnily enough, that’s why I need to see Kane. Raguel is pushing for Cascade protection on the club, and if he gets his mitts on my wards…”

“He can sweep in whenever he feels like it and confiscate whatever he wants?” says Pride.

“Precisely. I have a hard enough time keeping the pricks from the Home Office out, and as far as I know, Rosemont doesn’t know half of what I have stashed here.”

“Does Raguel?” you ask. “Because Uriel said he’d do anything to get his hands on Pride’s artefacts.”

“Did he, now?” says Pride, sharing matching arched eyebrows with Tabby. “Looks like I came to collect in the nick of time, then.”

“Give me a few minutes,” Tabby says, then disappears through the door.

When she’s gone, you ask, “What’s the Shadow Codex?”

“A book,” he says. “It contains every variation of spell capable of conjuring anything from the Tarragoth Axis.”

“Where the ash army came from?”

He nods. “I move it around often because, though it’s protected with a number of enchantments, it has a strong signature that will eventually leak into its environment.”

“Do you have a new place to move it to?”

“I have the perfect place in mind,” he says. “Somewhere nobody would ever think to look.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t ask.

Tabby rushes through the door, closing it quickly behind her. “He’s here,” she says, shoving a tiny ring box into Pride’s waiting hand. “Raguel.”

“Shit,” he mutters, opening the box to prod at the contents.

“That’s a book?” you ask.

“I told you there were enchantments. Come on, get the portal out and make it snappy.”

You open the bum-bag and pull out the portal, which expands in your hand the second it’s clear of its constraints.

“Kane and Fable,” says Pride, throwing it to the floor. “You first, Ed.”

***

You land in the back room of Kane’s shop, where Soup lets out a disgruntled yowl before bouncing onto the highest perch in the room.

“You’re back!” Simeon exclaims happily, as if you’re long-lost friends. “Is Pride…”

Pride lands right behind you, then Tabby.

Simeon claps his hands. “A full house. What fun!”

“Hey, you’re wearing a suit,” you say.

“I was considering going to a funeral,” he says.

“Oh, somebody died?” It seems a silly thing to have said now that it’s out.

“I expect so,” he says. “There’s always someone dying, isn’t there?”

“Wait, you’re going to… gatecrash a random funeral?”

“I am considering gatecrashing a random funeral,” he corrects. “If I can find one.”

“Is that a hobby of yours?”

“Who are they talking to?” Tabby whispers.

“I wouldn’t call it a hobby,” Simeon says. “More a way to pass the time when one is bored. But we have visitors now, so…”

“I should probably take that now,” Pride says, reaching for the bum-bag.

You reluctantly hand it over, far too reluctantly considering how ugly it is. “I think I’m going to miss this thing.”

Pride smiles as he straps it to his own waist, where it disappears, leaving the gross belt buckle behind. Then, he heads for an old walnut sideboard, pulling out a felt-lined drawer. Inside, sits a new bum-bag, just as ugly as Pride’s. He hands it to you. “A gift. To remember me by.”

You wrap it around your waist, smiling down at the vibrant orange colour, and swallowing a surge of disappointment when your fingers trace the top zip, meeting only nylon where you’ve grown accustomed to the hard enamel of Pride’s bag. “Thank you. Wait! The feather.”

Pride rummages in his bag, pulling out the white feather Violet gave you, and you lay it gently in the bum-bag, which seems to be filled with things that weren’t there a minute ago.

“Replicas,” Pride says.

“Are we all done?” Simeon asks, smiling broadly.

“Tabby’s here to see Kane,” you tell him.

He heads for the door. “This way, then.”

“Is someone going to tell me who they’re talking to?” Tabby asks again.

Pride opens the door when Simeon drifts through it. “That’s Simeon,” Pride explains. “He’s no longer with us.”

“I’m right here,” Simeon argues.

“Oh, I remember Simeon,” Tabby says. “I didn’t realise he was still here.”

You’re right behind Simeon. “Don’t forget to—”

It’s too late. Simeon drifts through the velvet curtain into Kane’s shop.

“Simeon!” Kane barks.

“Sorry,” he says. “Pride distracted me with his manliness.”

Kane groans, then he catches sight of what you’re wearing, which you only now remember belongs to Uriel. “You found a way to subvert it, then?”

“That shirt was hideous, by the way,” you tell him.

Kane chuckles. “The leggings were Simeon’s.”

Simeon gasps. “You gave them my Jurassic leggings? How dare you?”

“They’re back in your wardrobe now,” says Kane.

“I don’t trust you,” Simeon grumbles, drifting back through the curtain.

“For gods’ sake, Simeon!”

Simeon doesn’t respond.

“I understand you need your wards replacing,” Kane says, glancing up at Tabby, as he winds up a clock that proceeds to go backwards at twice the speed of normal time.

“More like upgrading,” says Tabby.

“Watchlist magic?” Kane asks.

Tabby grimaces. “I’m afraid so.”

“You’re aware I’m unlicensed?”

“I’m aware you’re the best,” she says.

“It will cost you.”

“I should hope so,” she says. “I wouldn’t be here if I wanted a cheap fix.”

The velvet curtain flips aside to reveal Simeon, still wearing his shirt and suit jacket, which is now paired with dinosaur leggings and fluffy slippers, this time shaped like monster feet. “So, you weren’t lying,” he announces to the room, running a hand down his scaly thigh. “And our new friend didn’t make them baggy in the knees, so I’m calling it a win.”

When the shop door opens, setting off a tinkling bell, Tabby’s mouth twists in a sour fashion. “Rosemont.”

You turn to find the Duke of Rosemont closing the door behind Azrael.

“This is quite the gathering,” Rosemont says. “Did my invitation get lost in the post?”

“Does anyone ever invite you anywhere, Rosemont?” Tabby enquires.

Rosemont ignores the slight, directing his piercing blue eyes in your direction. “I’ll be taking the frisbee, since a certain person cannot keep themselves out of trouble with it.”

“But how will I get home?” you ask.

“I’ll take you myself.”

“You?” asks Tabby.

A strange look passes between them, then Rosemont nods at Azrael, who is still waiting by the door, looking bored out of his skull. “We.”

You glance up at Pride, who gives a discreet nod towards the bum-bag you’re wearing. You know very well the frisbee is not in there because it’s in Pride’s bum-bag. Still, you open the top zip, trying not to show surprise when you find the small frisbee pouch sitting on top, just as it does in Pride’s bag. You hand the fake to Rosemont with what you hope looks like a reluctant pout.

Rosemont tucks it inside his jacket pocket. “Say your goodbyes,” he says, before joining Azrael by the door.

You’re mortified by the hot tears brewing in your eyes, but you manage quiet goodbyes. Tabby graces your cheeks with air kisses, Simeon gives you a hug you can’t feel, and Kane tells you to stay indoors during the next full moon. Pigeon the talking raven squawks at you to eat your greens, and Mush allows you to scratch behind his ears, which makes him more cross-eyed than usual. Soup peers down at you from the top shelf of a bookcase.

Pride reaches for your hand, and you let him take it, but you can’t bring yourself to look at his face. You don’t know if he’ll see you or Aguillard, and you’re not sure which is the better option.

“I won’t forget you, adventure buddy,” he says, pulling you into a hug and whispering in your ear. “Remember me, okay?”

You nod against his chest. “I’ll remember,” you promise. “Goodbye, Pride.”

“Farewell,” he says.

You head to the door, where Rosemont awaits, his elbow held out for you to take. You tuck your arm in his, and then you do look at Pride. He winks at you, his smile soft, his eyes bright.

Then he’s gone.

And so are you.

Someone barges through the double doors before you can reach them, tugging the collar of his jacket up. He stops dead when he sees you. Then he smiles.

“Pride!” You rush forward to hug the man, who you’ve sort of missed, let’s be honest.

“I hope you haven’t been getting into trouble without me,” he says, his chin resting against your hair.

You pull away to say, “Would I?”

He laughs, and you reach up to pull one of your hairs out of his beard.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Uriel squeezes your arm. “Thanks for all your help.”

You and Pride watch him push through the double doors ahead, a stilted silence crashing over you both.

Finally, you say, “Cascade didn’t arrest you, after all?”

He grins. “No. I pulled my trump card.”

You smile softly. “I saw.”

“I guess you know what I am now,” he says, looking peculiarly vulnerable for a god.

“Sure, I do.” You link your arm through his and make your way to the doors Pride just came through. “You’re my adventure buddy.”

He laughs, but once again, you don’t make it to the doors before someone comes through.

They come to a halt, wide eyed, the faint waft of bubblegum and leather coming off them. “Nobody’s supposed to see me yet,” they say. “I’m not here yet.”

You frown. “But—”

“No.” They slash their hand through the air. “No buts.”

“But we can see you,” you tell them. “You’re right there. One hundred percent visible.”

“But the timeline…” they whine.

“Nice tattoos,” you say, to get them off the topic of the timeline.

“No, no. Don’t look at the tattoos. They’re spoilers.” They pull on a scaly green coat. “I’m leaving before I ruin everything.”

“Wow! Love the coat.” It matches their snakeskin boots.

“Don’t look at the coat!” They run their hands through their platinum hair, which flops to the side to reveal a severe undercut. “No looking at the coat.”

You jolt in alarm, shuffling back a few steps, and dragging Pride with you. “Er… I think there’s a snake trying to escape from the sleeve.”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t look at the snake?” you predict as they charm the snake back into their sleeve. You cover your eyes. “There. You and your tattoos, and your coat, and your snake are invisible.”

Pride leans sideways to mutter, “Snakes, plural.”

“No. No more talking,” says the snake charmer.

“Charming,” Pride grumbles.

“What are you doing here anyway? And why have you brought a civilian?”

“Not a civilian,” Pride says. “This is my adventure buddy. Is Tabby back yet?”

“She’s upstairs in the bar. Just… don’t touch anything, alright, adventurer?”

You nod vigorously, your eyes still covered. When they’re gone, you ask, “Who the hell was that?”

Pride looks down at you with a sigh. “I’d better not say.”

“So, what is this place?” you ask as you finally reach the door.

He holds the door open for you. “It’s a blood club.”

You’ve never slept so long in your life. Yesterday, you wouldn’t have believed there was a bed more comfortable than Pride’s. Today, you feel like you slept on a cloud of feathers. You drift down to breakfast the second you catch a whiff of the sweet pastries.

Milo is piling a plate with croissants and Chelsea buns when you enter the kitchen, and Uriel is sitting at the breakfast bar, already stuffing one into his mouth and staring in horror at what looks like a wedding invitation.

Finally, he glances up at you, one fine eyebrow arched even as he chokes down what’s left of the bun. “That is quite the look.”

You don’t even want to look down at what Kane has done to your outfit, especially after you insulted his taste in clothes yesterday, but you can’t help yourself. Every inch of the shirt you’re wearing is covered in faces—well, one face over and over. Thatcher Kane’s face. The shirt’s only redeeming quality is that it’s long enough to cover your backside and thighs, which is a good thing because you’re wearing dinosaur leggings. And we’re not talking leggings with dinosaurs on, no. We’re talking leggings that look like distressed dinosaur hide.

Thatcher Kane hates you.

“Never get dressed in the dark,” Milo adds, though he’s in no position to talk. He’s wearing a kaftan with a grandad cardigan over the top, and a pair of furry boots.

“Ophelia called,” Uriel says, finishing off a second bun. “She’s almost done. Apparently, when you’re dealing with a lord, the resources you normally have to fight for are laid out like a banquet.”

“But it’s—”

“Almost three in the afternoon,” Uriel says, biting into a third pastry.

When he doesn’t elaborate, you ask, “Did she tell you what she found?”

“She’ll tell us when we get there.”

You sit at the breakfast bar, dropping a croissant onto the small plate Milo pushes towards you. “The Burrowes estate?”

Uriel eyes a Chelsea bun as if he’s trying to decide if four pastries are too many in one sitting, then drags his hungry gaze away. “I said we’d pick her up at her lab.”

“Does she know I’ll be there?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any news on Pride? He’s not been detained, has he?”

“No. Rosemont argued on his behalf.”

“Why is he wanted by Cascade?” you ask.

Uriel frowns. “He isn’t. Not in any official capacity.”

“Do you enjoy being cryptic?”

Milo snorts until it turns into laughter. “Oh, they’ve got the measure of you, Uri.”

Uriel ignores him. “Raguel doesn’t like not knowing where powerful objects are. He thinks all artefacts containing magic of one kind or another ought to be housed at Cascade’s headquarters. Pride disagrees. He thinks no repository should contain that much power. If Cascade should fall into the wrong hands, or if our forces decide one day to overturn our mission… Well, I’m sure you can imagine why he doesn’t want so much power to reside in the hands of the few.”

“You agree with him?”

“Actually, yes. Raguel takes a more paternalistic view, much like the museums do.”

“Lucifer had a lot to say about that,” you tell him.

“Lucifer and Pride have been friends for centuries,” says Uriel. “Raguel thinks Lucifer is helping Pride shield the hidden objects because he can’t find them, and because Lucifer’s signature is practically non-existent.” Uriel laughs. “That’s his entire reasoning. He can’t find them, therefore, Lucifer must be helping them stay hidden. Until yesterday, I think my brother hadn’t considered the reality of what Pride is. He should be suitably humbled for a decade or two, but knowing Raguel, he’ll find some other way to find Pride’s treasures.” He points at the sticky bun. “You should eat that before I do. Adventure calories don't count.”

You reach for the bun and take a bite. “But why does he want them so badly? If they’re safe now, why risk it?”

“Who know how my brother’s mind works. I gave up on trying to answer questions like that years ago. Not just Raguel either. They all work in mysterious ways. Anyway, you need to see this,” he says, turning his laptop around, so you can read the article on the screen. “There have been some other developments, but I’ll fill you in when we pick up Ophelia.”

You finish your bun, licking your sticky lips, and washing it down with cherry-flavoured tea. “When do we need to pick her up?”

He glances at his wrist, where there is no watch. Still, he says, “Little over half an hour, so read this, then go and get showered. I’ll find you something decent to wear.”

The article is about Azalea Burrowes, containing an interview where she opens up about her childhood, and though it details a lot of the trauma that led to her downward spiral into drug abuse and alcoholism, two details stick in your mind. First, is a mention of the role that propelled Azalea into the limelight—Sally McQueen, the youngest detective in the Met. And second, when Azalea Burrowes was thirteen, she broke her left arm playing a game of dare, and while in recovery, she taught herself to write with her right hand. Azalea Burrowes is ambidextrous.

***

It’s with a great deal of relief that you arrive at Ophelia’s lab wearing something both comfortable and not embarrassing. You look plain next to Uriel, especially after you refused the first two riotously coloured outfits he showed you, but plain is better than anything Kane’s evil mind has conjured for you so far.

Ophelia’s wearing a dark green dress with boots and a tweed jacket, her hair twisted prettily on top of her head. Eddie is seemingly mesmerised by her neck, and you wonder if he’s a vampire.

A tall woman wearing combats and a vest charges into the lab, looking like she took a wrong turn. Nobody reacts to this tattooed, shaven-headed woman with anything other than a smile.

She stops short when she spots Uriel. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet your favourite grandfather, Amb—”

She’s fast as a whip, her thumb and forefinger pinching his lips together. “Don’t! Do not!”

“M’uh,” he says through squashed lips.

She lets go. “What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Is that any way to greet your favourite grandfather, Bod?”

She grins, kissing the cheek Uriel offers. “Who says you’re my favourite?”

“Hush,” he says. “I’m everyone’s favourite.”

Bod glances at Ophelia, but addresses Eddie. “Why is my sister dressed like she’s going to an insurance seminar?”

“You’ve worn nothing but combats for ten years,” Ophelia snaps. “I’m supposed to accept commentary from you about my clothing choices? Not in this lifetime.”

“Where you going, then?” asks Bod.

“We’re going up to Daisy’s,” Ophelia says. “This business with her grandad.”

Bod nods, but doesn’t say anything about it. “I need to ask Baz something about his cat,” she says, strutting off in the direction of the garage.

Ophelia addresses her grandfather. “How are we doing this, then?”

“I have a car waiting a few minutes’ drive from the Burrowes estate.”

Ophelia tucks two folders and a USB drive into her enormous bag. “I think that’s everything.” She glances up at Uriel, a teasing smirk twisting her lips. “Bel said you’ve been sleuthing again.”

“Just as well too, since you’ve condemned a man with a solid alibi,” Uriel reminds her.

“He did it, I’m telling you,” says Ophelia.

“He didn’t,” you say.

Ophelia’s sharp blue eyes turn on you. “Sir Reginald was killed by what amounted to a lethal injection. Uriel even said the Diazepam came directly from his son’s inventory. Sometimes, the most obvious answer is the correct one.”

“And sometimes, you’re wrong and you need to admit it,” says Uriel. “It’s unlikely he’d be so obvious. By all accounts, Sir Douglas is not a fool.” He gets this faraway look in his eyes. “What I can’t figure out is the motive.”

Ophelia shoves her hands on her hips. “He literally inherited everything.”

“No, he didn’t. Sir Douglas is prohibited from selling the ancestral estate because half of it now belongs to the twins.”

“Azalea’s in his will?”

“Apparently, Daisy talked him into it. He also left them a house on the Amalfi coast, a townhouse in Amsterdam, and a flat in London, which alone is currently worth around four million pounds. Sir Douglas got half the house, a couple of properties here and there, and the title. Sir Reginald only left his surviving daughter an apartment in New York, but even that’s worth a fortune.”

“That sounds like a lot of motive to me,” you say.

Uriel nods. “For most, it would be, but everyone in the family has highly successful careers, and in Daisy’s case, Sir Reginald was already paying all her bills.”

“How on earth do you know that?” Ophelia asks.

“As your great-uncle told you, I’ve been sleuthing,” Uriel says, winking at you. “With a little help from my favourite cousin.”

Ophelia gives him a confused look.

“Did you know that the coroner thinks highly of you?” you ask Ophelia.

She scoffs. “He most assuredly does not. He would’ve completely overlooked me if Daisy hadn’t been pecking at him since the date came through.”

“He chose you because you are clever and thorough,” Uriel says. “It had nothing whatsoever to do with Daisy Burrowes.”

“But—”

“We heard him on the phone last night,” you tell her. “If he was working for Sir Douglas, he wouldn’t have refused to give him your phone number when he asked for it.”

“It would’ve been unethical,” Ophelia argues.

“Not as unethical as covering up a murder,” says Uriel. “Sir Douglas acquired your number through shadier means.”

“Well, he didn’t call.”

“He did,” you say. “That wrong number you got last night.”

“How do you know?” Ophelia holds up her hand to stop Uriel's response. “Never mind. Don't want to know. But why didn’t he say anything?”

“We’re about to find out,” Uriel says. “Ready?”

***

A minute later, you’re seated beside Uriel in the back of a limousine with blacked out windows.

“So, you think Azalea did it?” Ophelia asks. “When she found out she’d been written back into the will?”

“No,” Uriel says. “Though I don’t believe she is innocent in this matter.”

“She hired someone, then?”

“Yes. But not to murder her grandfather.”

Ophelia growls in frustration. “Why are you dragging this out? Just tell me.”

“I need you to go in there and present the information as you found it,” Uriel says. “I need to observe these people while you’re telling them how Sir Reginald died. Confirmation of my suspicions will come with their behaviour, I’m certain.”

“But you think you know?” Ophelia asks. “Like, you’re almost a hundred percent sure?”

Uriel glances at you, and you nod.

The iron gates of Daverall Manor swing open, and the limo drives through. A vast parkland sweeps away from the drive on both sides, thick trees marking its borders, with smaller clusters here and there. When the car rolls to a stop on the driveway, you glance out at the enormous house.

Before Uriel can brief you further, his phone rings. Glancing down at it, he says, “I need to take this. I’ll be two minutes.”

“Who is it?” you ask, assuming it must be something to do with the case before realising it might be personal. “Sorry.”

Uriel opens the car door, and before stepping out, he says, “It’s Rupert Jarvis. Daisy and Azalea’s father. I’ll be two minutes.”

Ophelia unbuckles her seatbelt and turns in her seat. “Do you know what that’s about?”

You shrug. “He didn’t tell me he was contacting him, so no. No clue.”

You’re not sure she believes you, but she doesn’t comment further. Uriel is considerably longer than two minutes.

When you’re finally ushered into the vast hall of the ancestral home of the Burrowes family, Sir Douglas welcomes you, wearing a thick Aran jumper and gaudy tartan slippers. You’d expected a butler.

“My apologies,” he says, closing the door behind you. “But we’ll have to do this in my study. The heating is playing up, and all the chimneys are blocked but mine, so it’s the only room in which we can light a fire.”

“How unfortunate,” Uriel says, and you wonder if he had something to do with the malfunctioning radiators. “Still, I’m sure we’ll be comfortable.”

Sir Douglas shakes his hand, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“They’re from my office,” Ophelia says, holding her hand out to Sir Douglas. “This is my cousin, Uriel, and his partner in crime, Ed.”

You’re thrown for a moment by Ophelia’s introduction of Uriel, but of course she can’t introduce him as her grandfather when he looks barely a day over thirty.

Sir Douglas shakes Ophelia’s hand and then yours. “May I take your coats?” After a minute or so of shuffling clothing, Sir Douglas hangs your coats on a stand behind the door. “This way, then.”

You follow Sir Douglas deep into the house to the familiar room at the back, where you’d been just last night, heart thumping as he almost discovered you behind the curtains.

Daisy and Azalea are already waiting, rising from two chairs that hadn’t been there the night before.

“Ophelia!” Daisy cries, rushing forward to fling her arms around her friend. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Ophelia hugs her back stiffly.

Though her eyes are a little red, as if she’s been crying, Daisy looks agitated… excited. Azalea is white as a ghost, her teeth embedded in her bottom lip.

As Daisy pulls away from Ophelia, Sir Douglas says, “I’m sorry. We weren’t expecting so many of you.”

Ophelia takes the seat opposite Sir Douglas.

“That’s fine,” Uriel says, gesturing the sisters back into their seats by the window. “We’ll stand.”

You lean against the filing cabinet Uriel rifled through last night, and he stands beside you, looking cool and sharp-eyed.

Sir Douglas looks nervous, perhaps even more so than Azalea. Daisy still has that feverish look about her, like something exciting is about to happen.

And it is.

Ophelia clears her throat. “Well, first off, it seems Daisy’s suspicions were correct. Sir Reginald was murdered.”

“I knew it,” Daisy cries.

Azalea glares at her sister.

“I see,” says Sir Douglas.

Ophelia holds her hand up for quiet when Daisy begins to rise from her chair again. “He was loaded with Diazepam… via injection. There were two injection sites, though…” Ophelia’s silence drags as her brain catches up with her words, and though you can only see her profile, you’re certain, she’s figured out that Sir Douglas couldn’t have killed his father. “Four needles were used, taking slightly different routes. The first two, I suspect, were too narrow since the Diazepam had been dissolved in oil.”

There’s no way a doctor would make such a mistake. You turn quickly away from the twins when Azalea catches you watching them.

“At some point prior to his death, he was bound to a chair with rope,” Ophelia goes on.

Azalea looks like she’s going to be sick.

Sir Douglas is ashen. “What?”

“The photographic evidence had been tampered with, but my team was able to recover the originals… those detailing all of Sir Reginald’s abrasions.”

Nobody asks how such a thing is possible. Because they all know.

“It seems somebody paid off the first examiner appointed by the coroner,” Ophelia goes on.

Daisy looks directly at her uncle as she says, “I wonder who would do such a thing.”

Sir Douglas licks his lips. “Has the man been questioned?”

Before Ophelia can speak, Uriel says, “Yes, he has.”

This is news to you, but you don’t say anything.

“What did he say?” Daisy asks, clearing her throat when her voice comes out croaky.

“So far, he’s admitting nothing,” Uriel says. “But it won’t be long before we trace the money back to its source. I wonder, actually, if you wouldn’t mind telling us about the drugs that went missing from your clinic, Sir Douglas.”

He sighs, deflated. “It was Diazepam. I was informed of it the night—”

“Not the Diazepam,” Uriel says. “The Prozac.”

Daisy goes very still.

Sir Douglas slides his fingers across the pen in front of him, rolling it gently back and forth. “I don’t recall.”

“It’s funny actually because the prescription was for Sally McQueen,” Uriel says, turning to face the twins. “Which is the same name as one of your characters.”

Azalea frowns, glancing between her sister and her uncle. Either she’s confused by this latest development, or she’s a better actor than you’ve so far given her credit for.

“Why don’t you get to the point, Mr Hazard,” Sir Douglas says. “This circus has gone on long enough. You’ll know soon enough, if you don’t already, that I paid off the medical examiner. Though had I realised he’d be so clumsy about it, I wouldn’t have bothered. If you’re here to arrest me, be done with it. I killed my father. There! It’s done.”

Azalea sucks in a breath, like this was the last thing she expected, but Daisy looks downright incensed.

“You’ll be charged in due course,” Uriel says. “But not for the murder of your father.”

“You have evidence of bribery and my confession,” Sir Douglas says. “What more do you want?”

“The truth would be nice, but since you don’t have it all, I shall oblige,” Uriel says. He turns to you. “Tell me, where was Sir Douglas at the time his father was murdered?”

“He was in this room,” you say, “on a video call, during which he received a call from Doctor Burnley and their receptionist, Samantha.”

Uriel smiles. “And where was Daisy Burrowes at the time of her grandfather’s death?”

“I was in a bookshop in London,” Daisy claims. “Until well after midnight.”

“Ed?” Uriel prompts.

“Daisy was in the house with her grandfather,” you say.

“I was in London,” Daisy insists.

Uriel hushes her by raising his hand, addressing you again. “And where was Azalea Burrowes?”

You've got this all figured out, haven't you, Ed? “She was in a bookshop in London, pretending to be her sister. Smudging all the Is on Daisy’s signature because she writes with her right hand like she’s using her left. And putting on the best performance of Daisy’s characters that her readers have ever seen.”

“I haven’t set foot in London since I got written out of Eastenders,” Azalea says. “And that was four years ago.”

“And yet you met up with your father in Haringey ten months ago,” Uriel says.

This is the first time Sir Douglas has shown any measure of surprise. “You spoke to your father? Both of you?”

Azalea shakes her head. “Just me. But that’s the only other time I’ve been in London, I swear. I was on set the night my grandfather died.”

“Your body double was on set that night. You were not expected on set until the next day. Your scenes were, in fact, delayed because you had a migraine. Except…” Uriel paused to lift his finger dramatically. “You were not in your trailer with a migraine. You were still on your way back from Edinburgh Airport.”

“What we can’t figure out,” you say, “is why you hired your body double to take the train from Edinburgh the day before the funeral, and why you traded places with her in the shopping mall bathroom.”

Daisy had been quiet the whole time, but she finally finds her voice. “This is absurd.”

“I agree,” says Sir Douglas. “My nieces were nowhere near here when their grandfather was killed.”

“I spoke to your alibi just now, Sir Douglas,” Uriel says.

Your eyes bug out as you turn quickly to Uriel. The twins’ father is Sir Douglas’ alibi? That means…

Sir Douglas’ face flares pink, but he doesn’t speak.

Uriel turns to Daisy. “Your uncle’s alibi is solid.”

“So is mine,” Daisy snaps. “There are dozens of people who will confirm my whereabouts. What has he got? Some tawdry tart willing to lie to protect him?”

“I spoke to your father, Daisy,” Uriel says.

Daisy folds her arms. “I wouldn’t trust a bloody word he says.”

“How long have you known the real reason your father left?” Uriel asks.

Daisy glares at her uncle, hatred in her eyes. “He’s the reason our mother is dead.” For a moment, you think she’s talking about her father. Until she says, “He paid our dad to leave because he was jealous, because he didn’t want to watch Dad be in love with our mum.”

“That’s not what happened, Daisy,” Sir Douglas says. “You know it isn’t.”

“She wouldn’t believe me either,” Azalea says. “Not at first.”

“Shut up, Azalea!”

“You know what, Daiz? I’m sick of you telling me what to do… how to behave. You’re ten minutes older than me. You’re not better than me. You’re not smarter. And Prozac is still a fucking drug.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Daisy turns pleading eyes on Ophelia. “You know me, Ophelia.”

“I’m beginning to think not,” Ophelia says.

“You should search in here,” Daisy says, eyes darting frantically around the room. “I would never kill my grandfather. I loved him. I loved him so much. You know I did, Ophelia. You know I did.”

“Until you found out he was the one who paid your father off,” says Uriel. “After all, he couldn’t have his only son pining after his sister’s husband, could he? Not when there was the estate, the title… the family name to uphold. It was a scandal waiting to happen.”

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t a passing fancy,” Sir Douglas admits. “I love him. I’ve always loved him.”

“Finally, you admit it out loud,” Daisy spits. “It’s your fault he left. Your fault Mum is dead.” She turns to Uriel. “You should search in here. I knew Ophelia would find the real cause. I knew it.”

“You used me,” Ophelia says, bruised eyes turned to her friend. “You used me.”

“No, I—”

“You likely would have got away with it if you hadn’t insisted your grandfather be re-examined,” Uriel tells her.

“You suspected your niece the whole time,” you say, your eyes on Sir Douglas. “That’s why you paid off the first examiner. It’s why you resisted the exhumation order.”

“Daisy’s right,” Sir Douglas says, his body deflating as if the secrets inside him were taking up physical space. “It is my fault that her father left, that her mother killed herself. Rupert took the money, of course, he did. But he left because I gave him up. I owe the girls everything for destroying their family.”

“So, why the body double on the train, Azalea?” you ask.

She looks relieved to have their lies uncovered. “Daisy had an interview that she was in no fit state to give. I was already in London, and since everyone believed I’d stayed away from home all these years, I had Eliza pretend to be me. It’s what I do when Daisy needs me.”

“Shut up, Azalea,” Daisy says, but it’s almost a whisper now, as tears stream down her face. “I adored him my whole life, and he wasn’t even sorry.”

“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” Azalea says. “We could’ve worked through it.”

“Shut up, Azalea!”

Ophelia turns her nose up in disgust. “Is that what I sound like when I tell Eddie to shut up?”

“Yes,” you say. “But it’s different because you obviously fancy him.”

Ophelia's cheeks pinken. “Shut up, I do not.”

Daisy stands abruptly. “Uncle Douglas did it, and I can prove it.”

You drag your eyes away from Ophelia’s furious features, and ask Daisy, “How?”

Her gaze flickers towards the bookshelf where you found the tub of what did indeed turn out to be Diazepam.

“I’m not stupid enough to leave evidence lying around,” Sir Douglas says, giving Daisy a pointed look.

But Daisy is in a state of frenzy, pulling out random books in an attempt to make her behaviour less suspicious. “It’ll be here somewhere.”

“Daisy, stop!” Azalea pleads, reaching for her sister’s arm to drag her away.

Daisy pulls away, climbing onto the stool, to tug at more books. As she pulls away that third book from the right, she says, “Found it, I…” Her arm disappears into the gap. “It’s… it’s not here.”

Uriel rattles the little plastic tub. “This what you’re looking for?”

“Oh, Daisy,” Azalea whispers.

“You didn’t know,” you say, eyes on Azalea. “You didn’t know why she needed you at the bookshop that night. You’re used to just dropping everything for her, aren’t you?”

Azalea doesn’t answer. She just pulls her sister down from the stool and wraps her arms around her. “I’m sorry, Daiz. I should’ve been here. I didn’t know it was so hard for you without me. When you told Grandfather to cut me off, I thought you didn’t care.”

“I just wanted you to stop,” Daisy cries. “Because I needed you.”

This is the saddest reveal you’ve ever seen. Catching Faultless Molvander was almost fun—terrifying, obviously, but also thrilling. This is just miserable.

When the police come to arrest the entire family, the three of you pile back into the limousine.

“I know what will cheer you up,” Uriel says, holding out his elbows for you and Ophelia.

Ophelia shakes her head. “I need to get back to work.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he says.

A blink of time later, you’re back in the lab, where you say goodbye to Ophelia and her undertaker friends. “How are you going to cheer me up, then?” you ask, when Uriel holds out his elbow.

“You’ll see.”

You tuck your hand under his arm, and hope this next stop will be better than the last. In fact, you hope this is your last stop. It’s been a wild ride, but you’re tired.

You’re suddenly in a hallway with blown up black and white portraits of classic movie stars displayed on both sides of the room. Dance music is thumping from behind the double doors in front of you, the bass rumbling through the floor.

“You brought me to a nightclub?” you ask. “Wait, is this Bel’s club?”

“No,” is all he says.

Five hours later, you and Uriel are equipped with strap-on headlamps and leather gloves that fit like a second skin. Oh, and you’re ransacking Sir Douglas’ study in his ancestral home near Reading.

“My vibrant halo notwithstanding, I am not as proficient at creating my own light as my brothers are,” Uriel whispers as he directs you to a bookcase stuffed with leatherbound books. “Check inside and behind all those.”

You cross the rug and carefully lift a small stepladder into place. “What am I looking for?”

“Drugs and needles.”

“Why would they still be here?”

Uriel waves a palm over the locked top drawer of the desk and pulls it open. “If Sir Douglas killed his father, then they won’t be.”

“But if someone set him up…”

“Precisely.” Uriel mutters to himself as he reads through the Post-it notes left on the desk. “Interview for new gardener. Pay Cat. Ooh, look at this. The housekeeper says all the chimneys are blocked except the one in here. Birds’ nests, she says.”

“Put the stickies down and get looking,” you remind him.

You remove the books one at a time, silently thanking whoever cleans this place that there’s no dust to disturb. You work methodically from top to bottom before moving onto the next bookcase, checking behind each book and examining them for signs of cut out pages.

There’s nothing to report until you get to the top shelf of the third bookcase. Every book’s spine is neatly lined up at the front, but after you push the first book back in, its spine is set a couple of inches back from the rest. You push the rest of the books back to match the first, encountering resistance behind the third book from the far end.

“Bingo!” you whisper.

With a suddenly shaky hand, you reach into the gap, fingers finding plastic. You pull out the little tub and peer into the gap behind it. No needles. You give the tub a shake, and the contents rattle—definitely some kind of medication—but there’s also something muffling the sound, as if a wad of paper is wedged into one side.

You turn to find Uriel spinning by the door, a panicked expression overtaking his face as he silently slides the filing cabinet drawer shut. He points to the thick curtains covering the windows. “Hide! Someone’s coming.”

Then he disappears.

Panic rises from your stomach and lodges itself in your throat. Where the hell did he go?

“I’m still here,” he whispers. “Just bloody hide! And turn that light out!”

You quickly stuff the plastic tub in your pocket and flip the switch on your headlamp, plunging the room into darkness. Leaving the stepladder behind, you duck behind the curtain, which settles stiffly around you as the door opens.

You take in a final breath, holding it until you realise whoever just came in could be here for some time. You let it out slowly, keeping your breaths quiet and shallow.

What if they see you? What if your feet are sticking out beneath the bottom of the curtain? Why did you let Uriel talk you into this?

The click of the light switch is followed by a slash of bright light through the gap in the curtains. A man hums as he moves closer.

Your heart is in your throat, pulsing like you swallowed something living—something that’s struggling to get back out.

The footsteps stop abruptly, and you listen intently for further movement, but all you hear is a desk drawer sliding open and the heavy exhale of a man collapsing into a groaning chair. For long seconds, a pen scratches away at paper, then a dial tone shrills into the air, followed by a quick succession of beeps. The phone rings three times at the other end before it picks up.

“Doug?” a sleepy voice says at the other end of the line. “When I asked you to call me back, I didn’t mean at one a.m.”

Sir Douglas’ voice sounds close. Too close. “Sorry, Shep. Couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re worried about tomorrow? I thought—”

“Of course, I’m worried.” A pause. “Who did you say was doing it again?”

“Doctor Ophelia Hazard. You have nothing to worry about, Doug. She’s very thorough and sharp as a tack. She won’t miss a thing.”

Ophelia would be surprised to learn the coroner holds her in such high esteem.

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Sir Douglas lets out a long sigh before dragging in a sharp breath. “Wait… Hazard? If it’s the same girl I’m thinking of, she went to school with Daisy. I need her number, Shep.”

Shepherd laughed through the speaker, but there wasn’t much mirth in it. “I can’t give you her number, Doug. And I promise you that whatever you have to say to her won’t make the slightest bit of difference. She’s monumentally stubborn and will only double down at the slightest interference.”

You can’t help but smile. Shepherd is certainly not as unreasonable as Ophelia painted him, and he seems to understand her perfectly well.

“Just… please.”

“No, I’m sorry. I really can’t.”

“I understand.” A few seconds later, Sir Douglas makes another call. “Howard? I need you to get a phone number for me.”

“Whose?” is the gruff response.

“Doctor Ophelia Hazard. She’s a forensic pathologist working in the southeast.”

“Gotcha.”

You’re not sure how you got comfortable enough hiding behind the curtain to scratch your nose, but you regret it the second the curtain twitches in front of you. You hold your breath. Maybe Sir Douglas is too distracted to notice. Maybe he’ll think it’s just a draught. Maybe…

The curtain sweeps aside, and Sir Douglas stares at you, his wide blue eyes showing… no surprise whatsoever. It would be more accurate to say he’s staring through you.

You suck your belly in and hold your breath, waiting for the man to say something, to demand to know what you’re doing here.

He doesn’t say a word. When the phone rings on his desk, he glances over his shoulder, pulling the curtain across your face.

You let out a breath, but your heart thumps wildly, sending blood stampeding through your ears.

“What do you have for me?” Sir Douglas says when the ringing cuts off.

Howard’s voice rumbles through the speaker as he rattles off Ophelia’s phone number.

“You’re under my shield,” Uriel whispers from right beside you, even though you can’t see him there.

You gasp in surprise.

“He can’t see or hear you, but you’re still solid matter, so try not to move again.”

“Can we go now?” you whisper.

“As soon as we hear what he has to say to Ophelia,” Uriel says. “If he thinks he can threaten her, he’s in for a rude awakening.”

You’re both quiet when the dial tone starts again. The ringing lasts forever, and just when you think it will go to voicemail, Ophelia answers. “Doctor Hazard.”

Sir Douglas doesn’t say anything.

“Hello?” Ophelia says.

Sir Douglas clears his throat and says, “Sorry. Wrong number.”

Uriel grabs your elbow, and a moment later, you’re in a glass house by the sea.

“Where—”

“My house,” he says. “We could both do with some sleep.”

“Why didn’t he say anything?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

You pull the medicine tub out of your pocket and twist the lid open. There are half a dozen round blue tablets sitting in the bottom, and a scrunched packet of aluminium foil wedged into the side of the tub. You poke your finger in and dig it out, handing it to Uriel. He unfolds it, finding a burnt, sticky substance on the inside.

“It’s oily,” Uriel says.

“Did they melt the tablets to inject them?” you ask. “What am I looking at?”

“I think your assessment is accurate,” he says, gesturing to a huge, comfy looking sofa. Then he bellows, “Milo!”

A moustached man in pyjamas appears in the doorway a few seconds later, a decorative, tasselled shawl around his shoulders. “You rang, m’lud.”

Uriel frowns. “Why are you wearing pyjamas?”

“Because it’s half one in the morning.” Milo’s eyes stray sideways to take you in, and he offers a smile. “Who’s this, then?”

“Call me Ed. Everyone else does. Sorry to disturb your sleep.”

“Milo wasn’t sleeping,” Uriel says. “He was fretting.”

Milo rolls his eyes. “I assume from all the shrieking that you want something? Has anyone ever told you you sound like an agitated peacock?”

“Only you. And to answer your first question… coffee,” Uriel says. “I require coffee. And perhaps cake. Do we have cake?”

Milo ambles across the room to the open plan kitchen area, a slight limp making his left leg drag. “We always have cake.”

You smile at Uriel. “You love your desserts, don’t you?”

“What’s not to love?”

Milo takes your order like he’s a butler. Is that what he is?

“Is he your butler?” you whisper.

Uriel grimaces. “We don’t talk about it.”

Well, that was cryptic.

When the refreshments arrive, you tuck in, hungry after a day of sleuthing.

“Time for bed,” Uriel says, clapping his hands together. “Ophelia told Daisy she’d meet her at the house to discuss her findings in person. I’m hoping she’ll agree to some company.”

“Sir Douglas was home alone just as he said,” Uriel tells you, offering you a chair that looks like a mouth.

It’s so uncomfortable, you spend a full fifteen seconds shifting your butt around like a fussy dog. “How is that an alibi?”

“Let’s just say he and his lover were enjoying a video call and leave it at that, shall we?” Uriel holds up a jug. “Juice?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He pours juice into two glasses, handing one to you before sitting down on a green chair that looks like a cartoonish mitochondrion. “You don’t need to see the recording.”

You grimace. “There was a recording?”

“Which you don’t need to see,” Uriel emphasises again, offering you a sandwich.

“Right. And…” You take the sandwich, fidgeting again because your spine feels like it’s collapsing. “Do you have something against comfortable furniture?”

He laughs. “You think this is my place?”

“It’s not?”

“Good god, no. It’s Bel’s shrine to his club. This is the eighties room.” He glances around. “Ghastly, isn’t it?”

Pop art pops from the walls, looking down on bubblegum sofas, rugs covered in vibrant squiggles, and glass-topped, plasticky geometric tables in a variety of gaudy shades. Yes, the eighties had very much exploded in this room.

“It really is,” you agree, through a mouthful of sandwich. You’re not even sure what’s in it, but it’s delicious. “So, who are the other suspects?”

“That’s just it,” Uriel says, shifting about in the mitochondrion. “There was nobody else in the house. The granddaughter, Daisy, was at a book signing, which went on until quite late since it was an after-hours event. Her sister has been estranged from the family for so long, she didn’t even bother coming home until the day before the funeral.”

You swallow, washing the sandwich down with your juice. “From where? Where does she live?”

“Edinburgh.”

“And that’s it? That’s the whole family?”

“Sir Douglas has a younger sister, but she lives in America with her family. She came back alone for the funeral. There’s no love lost in the family. Though, by all accounts, Daisy had adored her grandfather.”

“Yeah, Ophelia said. So, who are her parents if not Sir Douglas or the sister in America?”

“Her dad left when she and her sister were eight.”

“They’re twins?”

“Yes. And their mother was the middle child. She killed herself when her husband left.”

“Wow! Do you know why Daisy’s sister is estranged?”

“She fell in with the wrong crowd… got mixed up in drugs and robberies. Sir Reginald tried to help at first, but Daisy was sick of how her sister’s behaviour affected her own opportunities. She persuaded her grandfather to send Azalea to last-chance rehab, and later to cut her off if she wouldn’t help herself. So that’s what he did.”

“I guess the sisters don’t get on at all, then?” you say, popping the last of the sandwich into your mouth.

 “You guess correct, though Azalea is back in the house at the moment. She’s clean now… has been for a few years. She’s an actor.”

“Why is she back at the house?”

“No idea. There’s also a live-in housekeeper, but she was visiting her sister for a couple of days in Blackpool. They were singing Don’t Go Breaking My Heart at a karaoke at the time of Sir Reginald’s murder. And trust me when I say, you don’t need to see the recording of that either.”

You laugh.

“The rest of the staff don’t live there and don’t have keys,” Uriel goes on.

“How long will Ophelia be with her tests and whatnot?”

“They’ve moved the exhumation forward to this afternoon. Ophelia reckons she can be done in a day and a half, assuming she doesn’t manage to piss off the environmental health officer at the grave site. She’s spectacularly good at pissing off the people she relies upon to get her job done swiftly.”

This doesn’t surprise you. “So, what am I going to do for the next two days if Ophelia won’t have her results until then?”

“There is some CCTV footage that’s safe to watch. And then I thought we’d… snoop.”

“I think I know where Ophelia gets it from.”

Uriel huffs. “How dare you?”

You smile, but it slowly falls away. “Where’s Pride? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Pride can take care of himself.” Uriel stares you down somewhat solemnly, then rubs his hands together. “Shall we watch this footage, then?”

“Fine,” you say, “but can we sit somewhere more comfortable? This chair is a crime.”

He laughs, but it falters as he fails to get out of the mitochondrion on his first attempt. He lifts his legs up to swing his way out of the chair, and when he’s finally standing, he hauls you to your feet. “I recall that the seventies room is more comfortable… if a bit dull.” He bends over to retrieve a briefcase that you hadn’t even noticed, and leads the way into the next room. “This will do.”

At one end of the room, a tangle of silver ducting hose hangs limply from the ceiling amid a dusty collection of disco balls and lights. The furniture in here looks much more comfortable, dressed in shades of brown, gold, and coral, which continues in the silky lampshades set on every coffee table.

You glance at Uriel, whose mouth is turned down in a grimace. “Are you disappointed there’s no orange in here?”

“Can you even call it a seventies colour scheme if there’s no orange?” he says, dropping the briefcase onto the closest table and his backside onto the sofa behind it. He wriggles a bit, then pats the seat beside him. “Come on, this is much more comfy.”

You sit beside him. “What’s in the briefcase?”

“Laptop.” He pulls out the computer and sets it on the table. “The footage is on here, but…”

The picture on the screen looks sharp but small until the laptop screen grows before your very eyes. You look down at the keyboard, where each of the keys is now massive.

“I just thought it would be easier,” Uriel says, when he catches you looking. “You won’t have to hunch over and squint.”

You lean back on the sofa. “Start it off then.”

There begins the most boring twenty minutes of your life. First you watch the twin sister, Azalea, buying her ticket and getting on the train at Edinburgh. She wears sunglasses the whole time, which is a little suspicious since the day is overcast, but maybe she’s one of those people who get headaches from bright outdoor light.

Your only other observation is that she’s left-handed, which you figure out from the way she stirred her coffee and ate the potted meal while she waited on the platform. The next thing you see is her getting off the train at King’s Cross, then heading to the Underground where she takes the circle line to Paddington. She does nothing extraordinary.

“This is boring,” you tell Uriel.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m grateful my brother cut it, so we only have to watch the highlights.”

You make a grumble-huff sound. “These are the highlights?”

Uriel groans. “This woman is too boring to be a murderer.”

Azalea does nothing more but get on a train from Paddington to Reading, where she’s captured on CCTV several times in a shopping centre.

“Looks like she’s avoiding going home,” Uriel says.

Finally, after browsing her way around several shops and visiting the bathroom, she gets in a taxi. Thankfully, that’s the last you see of her.

“The driver said he took her straight to the Burrowes estate… right up to the front door,” Uriel tells you, leaning forward to load up a different video, his fingers faltering on the huge keys. “We didn’t get much of interest from the bookshop’s CCTV. It was mostly Daisy sitting behind a table signing books and being photographed with her readers. There are a few fan videos of the performance though.”

“What performance?”

“There was a live reading at midnight. The videos were all over Twitter. Apparently, Daisy has upped her game since her last reading.”

Most of the videos are only a few minutes long, and after Uriel makes you watch a reading from a year ago, you concede that her technique is much improved in the recent videos. Unlike her sister, whose dark brown hair is cropped short, Daisy’s hair is long and dyed blonde. At least, you assume it’s dyed given the darkness of her eyebrows. It’s hard to tell if they’re identical though since Azalea never took off her sunglasses.

“She’s good at doing all the voices and everything,” you say. “But this is also boring. Do we really suspect these people if they have alibis?”

Uriel sighs. “I’m just trying to be thorough. Their uncle also has an alibi, so there must be a weakness somewhere.”

You join him in a hefty sigh. “Alright, what else is there?”

“Just some photos on social media,” he says.

You scan through dozens of photos, not just of Daisy, but of the dedications she’d written to fans inside their books. “All the dots are smudged… on the Is.”

“They are,” Uriel agrees, scrolling back up. “What does that mean?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, but it’s weird that it’s on every single one. Did she sign them herself or use a stamp?”

Uriel keeps going through the photos until he finds one where Daisy is in the middle of signing the book. “Looks like she’s just a bit cack-handed when she writes. My son is the same… Ophelia’s father. Writes like he’s left-handed and eats the same way. There’s nothing here.”

“Then there must be someone else. Someone we’re missing,” you say. “Or the uncle’s alibi is not as tight as you think. Can’t he have made a recording and just made it look like it was live?”

Uriel shakes his head. “Technically, it’s possible, but in this case, he also received a call, which his lover tried to convince him to ignore, and that call was logged on both ends.”

“Who was it?”

“A colleague.”

“Didn’t Sir Reginald die after eleven pm? Why would a colleague be calling that late?”

“Shall we find out?” Uriel bounces to his feet. “We have plenty of time to kill, and Sir Douglas has the day off from his clinic today.”

Sir Douglas’ practice on Harley Street looks just as sterile as you imagined it would, the only concessions to softness being a couple of large rubber trees that you’re certain are fake, and a collage hanging behind the reception desk that is desaturated to the point of being almost colourless—a study in greige.

The receptionist smiles brightly, displaying a mouthful of perfect teeth surrounded by coral lipstick. “Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment?”

“Alas, no,” Uriel says. “We were hoping to speak to Doctor Burnley.” He flashes his ID, which has the woman’s smile morphing into a pout. “We’re here in an official capacity.”

She nods, picking up the receiver of an old-fashioned telephone. “I’ll just see if he’s free.” A moment later, she says, “Doctor Burnley, there are some people here to see you… in an official capacity.” She says the last part in a whisper even though there’s nobody else here.

The doctor’s crisp voice comes through the ear-piece. “Send them in, Samantha.”

Samantha smiles again as she lays the receiver gently in its cradle. “Just along the corridor there. Last door on the left.”

You follow Uriel along the narrow hallway, where he knocks politely on the doctor’s door.

“Come in,” the man calls, looking up as Uriel opens the door, ushering you forward.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Burnley.” Uriel closes the door. “Thank you for agreeing to see us without notice.”

The doctor gestures to the two chairs opposite his desk. He looks to be in his fifties, his thin face clean shaven, his suit jacket impeccably tailored. “Make yourselves comfortable. And please, it’s no problem. It’s my catching up on paperwork afternoon, so you’ve likely saved me from a headache. How can I help?”

You take the seat beside Uriel, who shoves a notebook and pen in your direction. Does he want you to take notes? You can only assume so, but the second you open the notebook, you have to angle it away from the doctor because not only is it full of doodles, but words keep forming and reforming on the page.

His forehead is sweaty. He’s distracted by something on the left-hand side of the desk.

Your eyes dart to the left.

No, his left.

There’s a photo there, angled slightly, but still impossible to see from where you’re sitting.

I don’t think he’s wearing any trousers.

You try not to snort at Uriel's latest observation.

For goodness’ sake, at least pretend you’re making notes.

You shoot Uriel a sideways glare. How are you supposed to make notes when nobody has said anything yet?

“We’re here to ask about a phone call you made to Sir Douglas Burrowes on the night of his father’s death.”

Doctor Burnley frowns. “I already spoke to the police about this.”

“The murder remains unsol—”

The man visibly pales. “He was murdered?”

“Yes.” Uriel gives him a sympathetic look. “You were unaware?”

“The police said it was routine… because nobody was around when Sir Reginald fell.”

“The coroner requested Sir Reginald’s body be re-examined. Didn’t Sir Douglas tell you?”

He shakes his head, a sad little frown overcoming his features. “You’re with the coroner’s office?”

“We’re here on behalf of the examining pathologist,” Uriel hedges.

“And… the coroner requested this?” the doctor asks, as though he finds this scenario unlikely.

“Yes. Emlyn Shepherd,” Uriel says. “You know him?”

Doctor Burnley tips his head to the side, shrugging one shoulder. “Tangentially… through my partner.” His cheeks grow rosy before he adds, “Business partner.”

“Right. Well, yes. The coroner requested it at the police’s strong suggestion,” Uriel says.

Understanding lightens the man’s expression. “Ah, that makes much better sense.”

“How so?” asks Uriel.

The man freezes. “Uh… I just mean it’s unlikely he’d want to drag it all up again. Douglas was very fond of his father, and Emlyn is his friend. He—”

“It’s alright,” Uriel says. “We know they were at university together.”

The doctor nods, letting out a relieved sigh. “Precisely. Precisely.”

“So, the phone call,” Uriel reminds him. “Can you tell us what that was about?”

“Oh, it was a stock issue. Samantha and I stayed late to run a stock check after our late day.”

“Late day?” you ask.

The doctor turns to you for the first time, seeming almost surprised to find you sitting there. “Once a month, we run an evening clinic for those who require discretion… celebrities and the like. It’s not something we advertise. More a word of mouth thing.”

“And you found discrepancies in your stock after the clinic?” you ask.

“Yes.” He nods, the look on his face going from grim to alarmed. “Not that I’m suggesting one of our clients made away with our stash of Diazepam, just that we happened to make note of it that night.”

“Do you usually do stock checks after your late day?” asks Uriel.

“No, but Samantha suggested it because she was working a short week that week and knew she wouldn’t have time to do it. I had nothing to go home for that night and a full schedule the following week. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Is that all that was missing? The Diazepam?”

“There were a couple of needles missing, but that happens often because Douglas administers his own injections at home.” He slaps his hand over his mouth. “Oh god. You’ll have to ask him about that.”

“We know he’s diabetic,” Uriel reassures him. “He mentioned it during his interview. And you usually conduct the stock checks yourself?”

“Yes,” he says. “Always with another member of staff. I’m something of a control freak, and frankly, we’ve had some issues in the past when we’ve allowed staff to do the checks by themselves.”

“And do you usually keep drugs here?”

“Well, yes and no,” he says. “We have a licence to dispense, but only use it to provide the discretion we’re known for. It was somebody’s prescription, which they didn’t pick up.”

“So, it was only by chance that it was still here?” you ask.

“Indeed.”

“And would you ordinarily disturb Sir Douglas at home so late for such an issue?” asks Uriel.

“No, but Samantha suggested I do so. I gather she got an earful last time she neglected to report such an incident immediately. For her peace of mind, I agreed.”

“She seems very competent,” Uriel observes. “And friendly.”

“Yes, our clients love her. She strikes just the right balance of friendly and discreet, and she is highly dedicated to her work.”

“So rare these days,” Uriel says. “Do you recall how long the call lasted?”

“Just a few minutes, I should think. I handed the phone to Samantha once I’d informed him of the situation.”

Uriel’s forehead collapses into a frown. “She wanted to talk to him too?”

“It was about the needles,” the doctor says. “She asked him if she should increase the order, and I’m afraid I tuned out after that.”

“Did he seem annoyed to be disturbed at home so late?” you ask.

“Not at all,” says Doctor Burnley. “He kept Samantha on the phone for a few minutes, now I think of it.”

“Thank you for your candour, Doctor. Do you think we might have a word with Samantha?”

“Of course,” he says, standing behind his desk. Thankfully, he is wearing trousers after all. “I’ll just fetch her.”

The second he leaves the room, his footsteps disappearing down the hallway, Uriel lurches forward to pick up the photograph. He arches an eyebrow and shows it to you.

“Who is it?” you whisper.

The photo shows a happy couple, holding cocktail glasses up to the camera and smiling wildly. One of the men is Doctor Burnley, though he’s almost unrecognisable with mussed hair and a Hawaiian shirt.

“That’s Sir Douglas.” Uriel positions the photo back on the desk, tweaking it by a couple of degrees before sitting back in his chair.

You keep your eyes on the notebook in your lap when the doctor comes back in.

“She wasn’t at her desk,” the doctor says. “So, I left her a note. I’m sure she won’t be long.”

Uriel smiles blandly, but mere seconds later, Samantha appears in the open doorway.

She waves the slip of paper in her hand, so you can all read it: Come to my office right away. “You wanted to see me?”

“Mr…?” the doctor enquires.

“Hazard,” Uriel says.

“Mr Hazard would like a word about the phone call we made to Doctor Burrowes the night his father died.”

“Oh,” she says, acting as if this were the last thing she expected. “It was such a long time ago, I’m not sure I recall.”

You’re not convinced by the innocent act, and neither is Uriel. “Try to think back,” he says. “You were here with Doctor Burnley, stocktaking on your late day, when you ran across a discrepancy.”

“Right,” she says, leaning against a filing cabinet. “I asked Doctor Burnley to call him because the last time something similar happened, we had Prozac go missing, and he…” She glances at the doctor. “Um…”

He nods. “You may speak freely, Samantha.”

“Okay, well, he hit the roof because I didn’t tell him immediately. I mean, I put it in the stock report, which was on his desk half an hour after I finished stocktaking. I didn’t realise he wouldn’t read it right away.”

“I see,” Uriel says. “So, you called him to make sure he knew as soon as you discovered the drugs missing.”

“Yes, and I asked Doctor Burnley to make the call on his phone because I didn’t want to get into trouble for disturbing him.”

“Are these the only two times drugs and needles have gone missing?”

“Drugs, yes. Needles, no. But there’s an explanation for that, though I’m not sure if I should…”

“We know about the needles,” Uriel says.

“Oh, there was one other time when Diazepam went missing. It was maybe a month or so before, though I was still shadowing my predecessor then, so I wasn’t doing the stock checks myself. I only noticed it because I had to go back over the dates to check my numbers… make sure it wasn’t an old mistake carrying over.”

“You stayed on the phone after Doctor Burnley informed Sir Douglas of the situation. What did you talk to him about?”

“I asked if he wanted me to order more needles as a matter of course, and we discussed what sizes we should get.”

“Different size needles were missing?” Uriel asks.

“Yes, but I only know them by their numbers, and I don’t remember which ones were missing. Different lengths, different gauges. It will be in the report book, if you want to see it.” She glances at the doctor. “If that’s alright, of course.”

Doctor Burnley nods. “Whatever you need.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Uriel says. “Thank you both for your time.”

Samantha’s responses ring no further alarm bells, but you’re still not convinced she’s as innocent as she seems.

Uriel agrees. The second you leave the clinic, he says, “She was very thorough in her obfuscation, wasn’t she?” He drags you into an alleyway between two tall brick buildings, demanding you hand over the notebook. He tears a blank sheet from it and shoves the book back into your hands. “Wait here.”

He disappears. For a full minute, you wait.

Finally, he reappears, flapping the empty page he’d torn from the notebook. Only it’s not empty.

“What’s that?” you ask.

“A copy of the page in that report book.”

I thought you didn’t need to see it.”

“I don’t,” he says, offering you his elbow. “I haven’t the foggiest what any of it means, but Ophelia will understand what these needle sizes mean. Questions?”

“Lots,” you say. “Like, why did he get up to speak to Samantha instead of using the intercom? And why did she make such a big deal of showing us the note?”

“I can only assume he went himself, so he could warn her… perhaps even coach her on what to say, and left a note to make it look like he hadn’t spoken to her.”

“Right, but why?” You hook your arm through Uriel’s. “It’s suspicious behaviour for someone who doesn’t actually appear to be hiding anything. Unless you think…”

“No, I’m inclined to believe the man is innocent of everything except protecting the man he loves,” Uriel says, just as the world around you blinks away to be replaced by the earthy tones of Bel’s seventies room. “I assume you saw more than just two friends in that photograph?”

“They’re not lovers though, are they?” You sit on the same sofa you vacated earlier. “He was with his lover when Doctor Burnley called. Unless he…”

“No. I gather it’s unrequited.” Instead of sitting, Uriel paces, munching on a peach he conjured from thin air. “Bel is tracking down Sir Douglas’ lover as we speak.”

“So, Doctor Burnley is protecting Sir Douglas because he knows he’s guilty, or because he thinks he might be?”

“That is the question,” Uriel murmurs. “Peach?”

There’s a string bag of ripe peaches on the table that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You shake your head, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Who do you think the Prozac was for?”

“The prescription was made out to Sally McQueen.”

“Is that someone famous?” you ask. “And do you think Samantha mentioned it deliberately or by accident? I didn’t buy her innocent act.”

“Me neither. I think she wants us to focus on the different needle sizes to make up for her slip-up about the Prozac. A classic case of misdirection. If she hadn’t cleaned up her act, my bet would be on Azalea Burrowes, but as far as we can tell, she hasn’t set foot in England for years.”

Your gaze drifts back and forth with Uriel’s pacing, which is driving you bonkers. You focus on the sheet of paper Uriel tore from your notebook. “How did you make this copy? And so quickly?”

“I’m an angel, darling,” he says. “I have my ways.”

You’ve seen much more impressive and magical things since you began this adventure than a photocopied sheet of paper. You’ve teleported. You’ve heard the voice of an angel inside your own head. You’ve been to Victorian London and served on a pirate ship, for crying out loud. The page is nothing, and yet it seems so much more magical for being so mundane in nature.

“Why would there be different sized needles missing?” I ask. “Do you think…?”

“Do I think what?”

You look up at Uriel, who has stopped pacing. “Do you think whoever took them didn’t know what size needles they would need? Because if that’s the case—”

“Then Sir Douglas can’t be our murderer.”

You sigh as you flop backwards on the sofa. You’re no closer now than you were when Uriel brought you here.

You need more clues.“I think it’s time to examine the scene of the crime,” Uriel says.

Another day, another arrest.

You’ve been sitting in this uncomfortable, grey room for an hour, the white light overhead pecking away at your head and causing your vision to blur at the edges. You fold your arms on the table in front of you and lean forward to rest your head. Just as you get comfortable, your stomach rumbles, its hollowness suddenly impossible to ignore. You grumble to yourself, glancing up at the huge mirror, wondering who’s watching you from the other side.

Finally, Raguel walks in, a thick folder in his hand. He lays it on the table and sits opposite you, rigid like he’s got a broom up his backside. He taps the folder repeatedly until you look at it.

One word is written on the front of the folder: Aguillard.

“The King’s Needle,” Raguel says, enunciating every word as if it should mean something to you.

It doesn’t.

Of course, it doesn’t.

Why would it?

“It has been a long time,” he says.

“What has?”

Despite your obvious confusion, Raguel seems to think you know more than you do. He taps the folder once more, his nail making an indent in the thin card. “You recognise this?”

“No.”

“It’s been a while since you were here.”

You glance around the unfamiliar room. “I’ve never been here before.”

He leans back in his chair with a laugh, but there’s no mirth in it. “Not this room, no.”

His eyes are so dark, you can’t even tell if he has pupils. They could be pinpricks or saucers for all you can see.

“Well, this is all I’ve seen since I got here, so I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re at Cascade… obviously.”

“What is Cascade?” you ask. “Nobody will tell me.”

“You don’t know what Cascade is?” He folds his arms over his chest. “Or Aguillard?”

“No.” You huff out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know what either of those things are.”

“How did you come to be aiding Miss Hazard in her body-snatching escapades today?”

“Do you mean Doctor Hazard?”

He clears his throat. “I do.”

“I only met her today.”

“You expect me to believe that when you’ve been less than forthcoming so far?”

You shrug. It’s not like you can explain any of this, is it?

“How do you know Doctor Hazard?” he asks.

“I don’t,” you tell him. “Like I already told you, I met her this morning. I was just… tagging along with Pride.”

He nods slowly. “Ah, right. Mr Pride. And how do you know him?”

Your knee starts bouncing under the table, because this line of questioning really isn’t any better than the last. “We met a few days ago…” You decide against mentioning Kane’s shop in case anyone gets in trouble. “At a bun-throw.”

This man has the most sceptical eyebrows in the universe. “A bun-throw?”

“Yes. In Abingdon. I was with him when he was called to the British Museum last night. You know there was an ash army in there tearing up the place?”

“So, I heard. Who’s body was in the grave?”

“What grave?”

Panic rises in your stomach. Does he want to know if Pride was really the king allegedly buried at the Sutton Hoo site? Is he supposed to know?

Raguel lets out a frustrated grunt. “The grave beside which you were arrested little more than an hour ago.”

“Oh, that,” you say, trying not to sound too relieved. “Sir Reginald somebody. But Doctor Hazard definitely had no plans to dig him up.”

“Just wanders around with body-bags in her pocket, does she?”

“You know her better than I do. She’s your niece, isn’t she?”

“An unfortunate connection.”

You’re absolutely certain Ophelia feels the same way, but you don’t say anything. He dislikes you enough already.

But you are curious about something. “What is Aguillard? Why are you asking me about it?”

Raguel snorts derisively. “Not a what, a who.”

“Who is Aguillard, then? And why would I know them?”

He frowns, standing abruptly, so the chair screeches across the floor. With his palms on the table, he leans over you menacingly. “It is only a matter of time before you break, and I will sweep the rotten pieces of you back under the rock from which you came.”

Since you haven’t been restrained in any way, you stand too. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care, though I can only assume Armando Rose knows you very well. I don’t know who Aguillard is, or what Cascade is, and I barely know your niece. I don’t know why I’m here, or why you’re being so rude to me, and I want to go home. So, what exactly are you arresting me for?”

His nostrils flare. “If you won’t answer to me…” He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, leaving you standing alone and none the wiser. From beyond the closing door, you hear, “They’re all yours.”

You sit back down, anxiety biting away at your insides. What if Raguel has sent in someone even worse? You still don’t know what Cascade is, so how would you even know if they routinely torture people? And if you’re being arrested, shouldn’t you get a phone call? Isn’t that how it works? You bite your lip, unsure how anything works here. A place where all the rules are different.

You stare at the door for long seconds before the handle turns, and you’re certain that whoever comes in next will be able to hear your heart beating in your throat. That they’ll be able to smell your fear. You hold your breath, letting it out in a rush when you see who’s there. “Uriel!”

“Sorry about him,” he says, nodding towards the door. “He thinks you’re Aguillard.”

“Oh!”

“To be fair, you do look remarkably alike.”

“Who are they?”

“Aguillard was the king’s concubine and partner in… not quite crime, I suppose. After all, many things have been crimes that should never have been declared so.”

“I… um, which king?”

His smile is soft. “You know which king. The one whose purse you carry about your waist.”

“I think… I think it might be time to go home.”

He nods. “Do you have time for one more little mystery?”

“Depends what it is.”

“Sir Reginald’s son has an alibi for the night his father died.”

“Does Ophelia know?”

“Not yet. She was sent for… by Emlyn Shepherd.”

“The coroner?” Did he choose Ophelia to examine Sir Reginald after all? “Well, that’s a surprise.”

“Isn’t it just?” Uriel perches on the edge of the table. “So, will you help?”

“How can I help? I don’t know anything or anyone.”

“I seem to recall you were pretty good at extracting confessions.”

You smile. “That was a fluke.”

“Perhaps. But the old man deserves justice if he was murdered.”

You don’t say anything about Ophelia’s findings because you don’t want to get her in trouble. Well… any more trouble. “You said the son has an alibi?”

Uriel grins. “So, you’re interested, then?”

You let out a long sigh.

“They’re undertakers,” Pride tells you as the three men follow you into the lab.

They wear navy aprons over their clothes, and when you all come to a stop, nobody speaks. The first of the men is a big ginger bear, the second, a young man with a pretty face and pink hair, and the third is staring at you in a creepy fashion, grey eyes intense as he pulls a tape measure from his pocket.

The big guy laughs, but the one with the pink hair elbows the creepy one. “Behave yourself, Sharpy. They’re not here to be measured up.”

“Don’t mind him,” says a tiny, freckled woman, casting a stone-cold glare in Sharpy’s direction. “He left his manners in the mine.”

Sharpy sniggers out a laugh, but doesn’t speak.

The lab is as clinical as you expected, but it smells like someone dropped a bucket of bleach in a butcher's shop. The big guy offers you a mask, and you reach for it with thanks and a grateful smile, immediately hooking the elastic loops around your ears. There are mountains of papers and coloured files piled high on the filing cabinets along the right-hand wall. There’s also a wall of morgue drawers behind the desk, and you don’t know how anyone can work under such conditions.

“You’ve all got work to get on with,” the woman says, tapping her foot impatiently. “What are you standing around here for?”

The big guy folds his arms over his chest, his brown eyes twinkling. “Just wanted to see who you roped into your scheme after we all said no.”

The woman, who looks too much like her grandfather to not be Ophelia Hazard, points at an open doorway to your right, flicking her flaming red braid over her shoulder. “The hearse needs cleaning.”

Sharpy makes a clicking sound, then signs something to Ophelia. Baz washed the hearse yesterday.

“I know he did,” she replies. “I’m talking about the junk on the inside. The footwell shouldn’t be covered in a layer of radioactive cheese dust.”

The pink-haired one rubs Sharpy’s back. “Wotsits are his favourite.”

Sharpy has frozen, his eyes wide.

“And yet he clearly grinds most of the packet into the floor,” Ophelia says.

Sharpy throws his arms up in surrender and lurches off towards the open door, the pink-haired guy, Baz, in pursuit.

The big guy remains behind for a few seconds longer, his eyes darting from Pride to you. “Don’t let her talk you into anything that might get you arrested.”

Ophelia huffs. “I haven’t been arrested in ages, Eddie.”

“Nineteen days is not ages in anyone’s book but yours, Phee.”

Ophelia’s face flushes pink. “Go and clean the hearse.” They stare at each other until the air dries out. Awkward! Then she calls at his retreating back, “And don’t forget to dispose of the condoms.”

She may look like her grandfather, but you can’t imagine Uriel ever being this tyrannical. You also can’t imagine him wearing a combo as ugly as royal blue scrubs and green Crocs. You don’t want to think about why there are condoms on the floor of a hearse.

“So, what are we getting roped into?” Pride asks as soon as the vacuum cleaner groans to life beyond the open doorway. “Because I have no intention of digging up dead bodies with you. Been there, done that. Still have the arrest record to prove it.”

Ophelia laughs loudly. “Of course not. Even I learnt my lesson eventually.”

The vacuum cleaner has stopped. “That is a lie,” a voice calls from the other room.

Ophelia’s nostrils flare. “Shut up, Eddie!”

“So, what are we doing if we’re not grave-robbing?” asks Pride.

You grimace, and Ophelia catches it, even from behind your mask.

“Are you not going to introduce me to your friend, Pride?” she asks.

“Ed,” you say, leaning forward to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hmm, soft hands,” she says.

“You’re stalling,” says Pride. “Which means it must be stupid or dangerous.”

“Or both,” Eddie yells from the garage.

“Shut up, Eddie!”

“And if they’re refusing to go with you…” Pride hitches a thumb over his shoulder, but leaves his question dangling in the air once again.

Ophelia flicks her head towards a curtain behind her. “Need to get him back…” The rest of her sentence is mumbled incoherently under her breath.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” says Pride.

“I need to put Sir Reginald Burrowes back in the ground,” she says begrudgingly, as if neither of you deserve an explanation of her wholly outlandish expectations. “He’s being officially exhumed tomorrow.”

“Officially exhumed?” you ask, copying Ophelia’s bunny ears as you say it.

“For what purpose?” asks Pride.

“An autopsy,” she says.

You glance again at the curtain shielding Sir Reginald’s body. “So… how is he already here?”

“I just needed some answers,” she says. “Unofficially.”

“Oh, so you already dug him up?” says Pride, amusement in his voice.

“And did you get your answers?” you ask.

“Yes.” She leans forward. “And what’s more is this: I think the coroner will choose another incompetent to examine what’s left of Sir Reginald.”

You glance nervously at the curtain. “Exactly how much is left of him?”

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s fine.”

“He’s a corpse,” you remind her.

“Yes, but he’s all bagged up and ready to go. You won’t have to see anything… gruesome.”

You try to smile with your eyes, because you know there's a grimace under your mask. “Excellent.”

This is not excellent. What are you talking about?

“They’re going in at six in the morning to ensure privacy,” Ophelia says. “Though who they’re expecting to show up at a family cemetery, I don’t know.”

“But it’s broad daylight,” you say. “Shouldn’t we wait until it’s dark?”

“I’ll take care of that,” says a new voice from behind you.

Pride grins. “Cecilia!”

Cecilia stalks into the lab, dressed like she was the last time you saw her—as a cat burglar. “I believe this is yours,” she says, dangling a pocket watch from a chain. “Uncle Uriel had some choice words for me when he realised I’d stolen it from you.”

You frown. “But I haven’t seen you since—”

“Best pickpocket in all of London Town at only seven years old," she says, breathing on her knuckles and polishing them on her shirt.

“That was you?” You can see it now, the ghost of the little girl you crashed into on the street corner, residing in Cecilia’s disarming smile, and you can’t help but return it. “Did you ever run into the jaws of that lion?”

Cecilia winks as she says, “Only once.” Then she looks up at Ophelia. “Kane’s on his way, but you’ll still need an earth render.”

“We’ll pick her up on the way,” Ophelia says.

“Why will the coroner choose an incompetent examiner?” you ask Ophelia, remembering her quest for answers.

“Because he went to Cambridge with Sir Reginald’s heir, whom certain family members believe had a hand in his death,” Ophelia says. “And because he assigned an incompetent one to perform the post mortem. I procured a copy of his toxicology report, in which nothing of note was found. And despite the alleged cause of death, there is no evidence that a histological examination ever took place.” For the benefit of all the blank faces, she adds, “No tissue samples were tested for signs of disease or injury.”

“What was the alleged cause of death, then?” you ask.

“According to the report by Doctor Summers, who is suddenly no longer in debt with the bookies and has a shiny new Audi, it was multiple aneurysms, likely caused by a head injury brought about by a fall down the stairs. He was found at the bottom of the main staircase.”

“And according to you?”

“There are two puncture wounds at the base of the skull, and swelling suggesting something was injected into his brain. And there are signs of diazepam abuse that would render a man legless, despite his doctor never having prescribed it. Sir Reginald was, in fact, on medication that could be fatal if combined with a benzodiazepine—a fact his son, also a doctor, would have known. Frankly, Sir Reginald would not have been capable of walking himself to his bedroom door, let alone along a forty-foot hallway and down the first flight of stairs.

“Sharpy had already noted some inconsistencies in the EXIF data on the photo sets taken at the scene and on the table, which prompted an examination of the original photos. There were clear abrasions on his chest and arms, and his wrists and ankles, suggesting he was tied up, most likely to a chair. None of this was noted during the post mortem, and some of the photos were altered to remove the marks. Others were missing entirely. It was Sharpy’s findings that made this worth further investigation.”

“Why did you wait until now to examine him if the exhumation is tomorrow?” Pride asks.

“I wasn’t going to go to all this trouble if the application was denied,” Ophelia says. “If you think I actually enjoy getting arrested, you’re very much mistaken.”

Eddie’s boisterous laughter bursts out of the garage.

“Shut up, Eddie!”

“Who requested the exhumation?” asks Pride.

“His granddaughter. She pointed out to the police that a certain forensic pathologist received a shiny new gift, and—”

“How would she know the pathologist bought a new car?” asks Pride.

“Because Sir Reginald’s granddaughter went to Oxford,” Ophelia says. “With me.”

“It really is all about who you know,” you mutter. “So, she asked you to intervene like this?”

“Not exactly,” Ophelia says. “She thinks she can just request that I perform the examination, but if Shepherd wanted me to do it, I would’ve been informed by now. She thinks she has it all in hand, but… she doesn’t. It took four months for the application to be approved, and sometimes it’s months before a date is decided—usually because there are a number of variables—but this came through quickly. Doing it this way is… insurance.”

Eddie comes back into the lab, rubbing his hands on his apron. “And if Shepherd declares the same results as last time? What are you gonna do then? You can’t say, Well, actually, my results say different.”

Ophelia’s hands fly to her hips. “Was that supposed to be me? I don’t sound like that.”

“Oh, you do,” Eddie insists. “So, what are you gonna do, Phee? How is it insurance if you can’t use it?”

Ophelia’s glares might be stone-cold when she directs them elsewhere, but when directed at Eddie, they’re flaming hot. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. Ophelia glares harder.

“Phee,” he sighs, his voice softening. “All you’ll be able to prove is that your methods of fact finding are as shady as Shepherd’s. If you play your hand, he’ll play his, and you can bet your pretty white arse it will be dirty.”

Ophelia’s cheeks flame a brilliant red, and she freezes in place like she’s been petrified.

“I think you broke her by mentioning her pretty arse,” says Cecilia, dimples flashing as she grins at a silenced Ophelia.

Finally, Ophelia lets out a long breath. “I can’t let Daisy’s uncle get away with murdering her grandfather. She adored that man, and she came home to find him dead. And anyway, I’m willing to bet I have friends in higher places than Shepherd does. Much higher places.”

“Need I remind you that Uriel said you’re on your own next time you get yourself in trouble,” says Eddie.

Ophelia flaps her hand dismissively. “Oh, he doesn’t mean it. Dad will have a word with him, and Grandad will do anything to keep the peace. You know what he’s like.”

“She’s got a point,” says Cecilia. “Resolving conflict is what Uriel does.”

“If you say so,” says Eddie. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I just don’t want to see you walking headfirst into trouble again.”

“I can handle myself.”

Eddie trudges back to the garage, shaking his head.

By the time Kane arrives—teleporting directly on the arm of the dark-haired man you remember as Mando, and whom you’re told is Cecilia’s father, Armando—Ophelia has changed into a jumpsuit much like yours, though it’s in a vibrant—or perhaps violent—shade of purple that clashes with her hair.

When Kane asks you how you’ve enjoyed your adventure so far, you tell him his clothing spell sucks. He finds this hysterical. He laughs until Simeon’s ghost shows up, loudly proclaiming how pleased he is that the whole gang is back together again.

Once everyone is gathered, you wonder why you and Pride are even needed at all, since there’s more than enough muscle for two corpses or more without you.

***

“Why exactly are we here?” Eddie asks.

“Why exactly are you here?” Ophelia counters. “You said you weren’t coming.”

“Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment,” he replies.

“Where exactly is here?” you ask.

“Beyond that wall is the Cascade’s Academy,” says Pride. “Which means Doctor Hazard here is corrupting a youth.”

Ophelia huffs. “Corrupting a… pfft!”

“Such an eloquent argument, Phee.”

“Shut up, Eddie!”

A rumbling sound reaches you from behind a high brick wall at the edge of a wooded area, and a girl with long, white-blonde hair slowly rises above it until she’s level with the spiked railings on top. She pulls herself over the railings, and this time when the ground rumbles, you see a staircase made of dirt rise to meet her.

“Show off!” Ophelia calls, but her big grin shows she’s pleased to see the girl.

The girl laughs and bounces down the staircase, which falls away behind her, leaving a mess of the grass verge. “This better be worth missing lessons for.”

“What are they teaching you in there, anyway?” Ophelia asks. “Because you certainly haven’t improved when it comes to cleaning up after yourself.”

“Oh, the irony,” says Eddie.

For once, Ophelia doesn’t tell him to shut up. “Everyone, this is Runa.”

Runa cringes at the state of the grass behind her, making a few complicated moves with her hands until the dirt lies flat. The grass still looks patchy until Kane takes pity on her, crouching with his palm to the ground. He replicates the grass before your eyes until the brown dirt patch is green.

“Thanks, Mr Kane,” Runa says, blinking up at him with big blue-grey eyes.

Simeon cackles at Kane’s attempts to ignore it, and that’s when you realise something.

“Not everyone can see him, can they?” you ask Pride.

Pride presses his lips together into a grim line. “No, they can’t. There’s no real rhyme or reason to it, though there are theories that those of us who’ve travelled interdimensionally are more likely to see ghosts.”

“That study was dismissed as absolute bollocks,” says Kane. “Almost twenty years ago.”

Pride shoots a withering look in Kane’s direction. “Which is why I said it was a theory and not a fact.”

“Cecilia was the first to see him,” Kane tells you. “I couldn’t see him for two years after he died.”

You glance between Kane and Simeon, who has a sappy look on his face as he admires his ex-husband. “That must’ve been horrible.”

“Quietest two years of my life,” says Kane.

Simeon’s laughter is so loud it makes you jump.

You’re not really sure what Simeon sees in Kane. Not until a strange mix of emotions crosses Kane’s features—love, regret, sorrow, pain, wistfulness—and suddenly you wonder if Kane’s dismissive treatment of Simeon is just a coping mechanism. Your heart gives a little twinge for both of them.

“Come on.” Ophelia motions them all back towards Armando. “We haven’t got all day.”

***

The Burrowes family cemetery sits on a hill overlooking a lake, every gravestone ostentatious and old-fashioned. Within seconds, an intense fog shrouds the area around the small patch of cemetery—a fog emanating from Cecilia’s fingertips—and every sound beyond is cut off, even the wind silenced. Armando drifts in and out of the fog, presumably keeping watch.

Runa draws soil from the ground, piling it high beside the gravestone.

You’re not sure what you’re here for.

It takes Runa almost five minutes to clear the grave and reveal the dark wood of the coffin. For the first time, you glance at the bag holding Sir Reginald’s remains. It looks like a giant gro-bag—the kind gardeners plant tomatoes in. Kane lowers a network of ropes into the ground, where they slither beneath the coffin and out the other side.

“Can’t you just hover it out?” you ask.

“I could,” he says. “But this way just seemed easier.”

“He’s being sarcastic,” says Simeon, even though you caught that yourself. “He does that to deflect from the fact that he can’t actually float a coffin out of a grave.”

The netting reminds you of the ratlines on Captain Quinn’s ship.

“Nice and slow,” says Pride, handing you a section of rope as everyone takes their place on either side of the grave. “One rung at a time then… and go. And go.”

You all pull on Pride’s instruction until the coffin clears the ground, then shuffle sideways, dropping it on the grass at the foot of the grave. You don’t watch Ophelia and Eddie unzip the bag and transfer Sir Reginald’s body back into its coffin, though you’re certain the air temperature has dropped by several degrees.

“Can you check outside again, Dad,” Cecilia says. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

Armando disappears into the fog.

“Let’s get him back in there,” Ophelia says once Eddie has secured the lid of the coffin. “Pride, if you want to count us in again.”

Pride’s count seems a little rushed, and a shiver runs up your spine. Armando had said repeatedly that there was nobody around, but everyone is anxious, casting nervous glances over their shoulders, looking up abruptly, or gasping at the quietest of sounds. It puts you on edge.

Once the coffin is settled back in the grave, Kane pulls his ropes free, and they vanish into thin air. The dirt goes back in the grave much faster than it came out, and once again, Kane tidies up behind Runa, freshening the grass.

Ophelia zips and rolls up the body bag. “You can take the shield down if everyone’s ready, C.”

Cecilia’s fog drops, revealing her father, and several other people, including the Duke of Rosemont, who arches an eyebrow when he spots you.

But he's not the one who speaks.

A tall, thin man with pockmarked brown skin drawls, “Well, well, well! Who have you brought on your grave-robbing adventures today, Doctor Hazard?”

“Now, he remembers my title,” Ophelia mumbles under her breath, raising her voice to tell the man, “No grave-robbing here, Uncle. We’re just… babysitting the grave until the official exhumation tomorrow.”

“She must think he’s an idiot,” Pride whispers. “That’s Raguel Templar. Chief Justice of Cascade.”

“What is Cas—”

“Sshh!” Pride hisses.

“You must think me an idiot, Doctor Hazard.” Raguel glances around at all their faces. His eyes narrow on Pride. “How fortuitous that I should find you here, Mr Pride, after our—”

Pride is glowing, threads of golden light weaving subtly around his body.

Raguel bows his head reluctantly, still silenced by whatever Pride is doing. Rosemont is bowing at Pride too.

“But how is this… how is this possible?” Raguel asks.

Rosemont huffs, glaring sideways at Raguel. “You know very well who he is, Raguel.” He lowers his voice to say, “Now, stand down before you make a fool of yourself.”

You’re well aware that Pride has lived for centuries, and that he was a king at least once, but you’re certain Raguel is another of Uriel’s archangel brothers—Ophelia called him Uncle, after all. Who is important enough for an archangel to bow their heads?

Raphael’s words come back to you: Only gods can create true, unbreakable tethers.

Is that what Pride is? A god?

“Mr Ambrose, what are you doing so far from the morgue during work hours?”

Eddie glances at Ophelia for help, but Ophelia is already talking. “He’s with me. Obviously. We were discussing plans for tomorrow’s exhumation… should the coroner appoint me.”

“And you needed Doctor Rose-Abaddon and her fog for what exactly?” Raguel asks.

“To prevent nosey people from wandering in,” Cecilia says pointedly.

Raguel nods at Runa. “And the earth render?”

Runa freezes in the process of trying to hide behind Pride. “I’m on work experience,” she blurts.

“Grave robbery is not a career we encourage at the Cascade Academy, Miss Fenlock.”

“I’m going to be a forensic pathologist one day, Chief Justice Templar. An excellent one like Doctor Hazard.”

Raguel lets out a derisive snort, then glares at Armando. “Mr Rose. Please escort Miss Fenlock back to the academy, through the front doors, and sign her in at reception. I will be along to give my report to the chancellor this afternoon.”

Armando smiles, but it’s not a pleasant smile. “I don’t work for you, Templar.”

“Which is the only reason I cannot arrest you for anything other than trespass, and I’m not inclined to make unnecessary paperwork for myself.” This seems to amuse everyone, but you can’t crack even a glimmer of a smile. Raguel’s hostile glare gives you the creeps. “Not for you.”

Armando is unfazed. “I’ll consider myself lucky you’re in a benevolent mood.”

Simeon chooses that moment to burst into raucous laughter.

Raguel either can’t hear it, or chooses to ignore it. “Mr Rose…”

“What the Chief Justice is trying to say, Armando, is that everyone else here is ten seconds away from arrest, and that you and Miss Fenlock are free to go,” says Rosemont. “I’d consider it a personal favour if you would escort her back to school.”

Armando sighs, then communicates silently with Cecilia for a few moments through a series of twitchy facial gestures. “Fine. I’ll take her back.”

“Through the front door,” Raguel reminds him.

The last thing you hear before Armando and Runa disappear, is Armando calling Raguel a high-handed ball-bag, and Runa giggling.

“I don’t work for Cascade either,” you say.

When Raguel turns his dark eyes upon you, you wish you hadn’t spoken. “Don’t you?”

You frown, glancing up at Pride, who’s looking away. “No. I don’t.”

Why would he think you work for Cascade?

Raguel makes no further comment on the matter. Instead, he says, “You showed up here with a body bag, Doctor Hazard. By Cascade’s order, you and your friends here are under arrest.”

***

The bonus for this chapter is about the infamous resurrection men, Burke and Hare. Fair warning, it's a little bit gruesome.

Password: BODYSNATCHER

Pride lives in a poky one-bedroom flat in Poplar. It’s not exactly fit for a king, but it would be rude to say so.

“Do you want a hot drink before bed?”

Ordinarily, you’d say yes. “I’m not sure I’ll still be awake by the time it’s cool enough to drink, so… just water for me.”

Pride crosses the open-plan living area to the small kitchen at the end of the room, and you stare out the window at the lights of East London’s tower blocks. You hear the hissing tap and Pride’s footsteps as he approaches.

You thank him when he hands over the glass, guzzling half the water in one go. When you put the glass down on a side table, the window flickers in your peripheral vision, parts of it glowing green and gold.

“It’s the wards,” Pride says, without you even having to ask. “Kane set them up. Nothing can get in here, so you’re perfectly safe, I promise.”

A knot of tension you weren’t even aware of loosens in your shoulders. You sway on your feet.

“Bedtime for you,” he says. “You can take my room. It’s just through there, and the door next to it is the bathroom.”

You glance at the bedroom door, then back at Pride. “Where will you sleep?”

“Sofa,” he says, nodding at the dark brown sofa taking up most of the living area.

Though it looks comfy, you’re sure it’s not big enough to accommodate Pride. He’s a broad man, and easily six-foot-three… maybe taller.

“It’s not big enough,” you say. “I don’t mind sleeping out here.”

He shakes his head. “You slept on a tiny settee last night. Go on. I’ve slept in far worse places than this.”

You hesitate. “If you’re sure?”

“I am,” he says. “Thank you for keeping my bag safe.”

You swallow hard. “Thank you for keeping me safe.”

He nods, and you turn towards the bathroom, though something pulls you back. “Why did you trust me with your bag? If it's so important that demons are willing to cross into other dimensions to get their claws into it, why trust me? You don't know me.”

“Don't I?” At your frown, Pride goes on. “Look, I don't know. I just knew that I could trust you... that you don't make promises lightly. I wasn't wrong, was I?”

You shake your head. “No. No, you weren't wrong.”

“Get some sleep.”

You slip into the bathroom, availing yourself of a spare toothbrush, and quickly getting yourself ready for bed. Kane’s magic has rustled up some new pyjamas for you, all silky and purple and actually nice. Pride doesn’t move from his position on the sofa when you leave the bathroom. He just sits there staring into his glass. You can smell the brandy from across the room.

“Night,” you say.

“Goodnight.”

You figure he’s sad about seeing his mother full of scrappy holes, dragged from another plane of existence to offer her dire warning. Until tonight, Pride had seemed young and full of enthusiasm. Now you can see his age seeping through, along with all the experience he’s trying to drown out with brandy. You don’t know what to say, so you leave him there, silent and brooding.

You let yourself into the bedroom, switching on the bedside lamp so you can find your way beneath the ridiculous number of covers Pride has on his bed. You snuggle under, inhaling Pride’s scent, which is both comforting and soporific. You snigger into the pillow when you remember him telling you he always smells damn sexy, then roll onto your side to switch off the light. For a moment, in the dim glow of the lamp, you spot a drawing—a portrait of a person who looks sort of… maybe a lot like you—but your finger’s already on the switch, your mind shutting down for the night as the haze of sleep takes you.

When you wake in the morning, refreshed from the best sleep you’ve had in a long time, the portrait is gone. Maybe you imagined it. Pride is whistling in the kitchen. You grin as you stretch beneath the covers, the scent of a cooked breakfast reaching you through the closed door. If you weren’t so hungry, there’s no way you would get up right now. The bed is the comfiest you’ve ever slept in.

Pride smiles at your outfit when you emerge from the bedroom. “Just in time for breakfast,” he says, gesturing to the small round table by the window.

You’re back in the jumpsuit, and you don’t even mind. It works equally well for getting dirty and being thrown out of a plane, and, frankly, with Pride beside you, anything could happen. “What’s on the agenda today?”

His smile is overly bright. “Got a call from a friend of mine. They’re in need of… muscle.”

You glance down at your arms. Nothing to be ashamed of, for sure, but you’re not quite on Pride’s level. “Where is this friend?”

“She works at Cascade,” he says, avoiding the actual where of the question.

“I thought you were running from Cascade.”

“Well, not exactly,” he begins. “Most of them are fine… the celestial council, I mean. It’s Raguel who likes to kick up a stink about everything, and since he’s the boss…” He leaves the thought hanging to say, “You’re about to meet your favourite cousin’s granddaughter, actually.”

You laugh around the fork of beans you’re shovelling into your mouth. Once you’ve swallowed, you ask, “Uriel has a granddaughter?”

“Several,” he says. “He is even more blessed in the grandson department.”

“It’s weird. So, is he married, then?”

“Not that I'm aware of.” He arches an eyebrow and eyes you over his coffee. “Done with all the questions?”

“Yes. If you answer the one about where we’re going… geographically.”

“Bermondsey,” he says. “South of the river. It’s the only way for outsiders to get in.”

“So, what does she do, then?” you ask once you’re both ready to go. “This granddaughter of Uriel’s?”

“She’s a forensic pathologist,” Pride says, waving the portal frisbee at you. “She must need help with a body.”

You’re already jumping before you realise what he means. “A dead bo—”

Apologies for skipping last Sunday's episode. It's been a rough few weeks since my mum got back to the UK.

To make up for it, you'll get not only this extra long episode, but a bonus chapter too.

***

Pride’s mother is dead—buried in an ancient cemetery—and she’s not a ghost, so what the hell is she? And also, “Why would she be looking for you at the British Museum?”

“Because that’s where all my grave goods are,” he says distractedly.

You have no idea what he means. “Wait, isn’t the museum on the other side of London?”

He holds up the frisbee portal. “Did you forget about this already?”

“Are you sure it still works properly?” you ask. “I don’t want to be stuck in the middle ages or something.”

“I located that particular problem. The portal was registering too many coordinates, adding a time dimension. It’s fixed, I promise.”

Cars whizz by on either side of the broad strip of pavement housing the rotunda.

“Okay, but we can’t use it here,” you tell him. “Too much traffic.”

“Best get back in there, then.” Pride nods towards the rotunda, and you follow him back inside. There’s nobody around, so he tosses it on the floor. “After you.”

You take a breath and jump in, the portal’s grip squeezing you momentarily before spitting you out at the other end. It only takes a second to get your bearings. The museum is right behind you, its classical facade lit up with a golden glow, which is reflected in the rain-soaked pavement.

The second Pride arrives, he runs for the museum steps, and you trail after him.

Two men wait for you between the giant columns, and you’re disappointed they’re not dressed in Ghostbusters jumpsuits. But they do have a uniform, a very boring combats and hoodie uniform with a company logo on it: Starbrooke Paranormal Investigations. You’re certain Kane mentioned them when you first met, when he was debating possible reasons for your presence in his shop.

“Who’s this?” one of them asks, his accent soft and southern. He’s slim, with blonde curly hair and round glasses. “I thought Cecilia was your partner.”

“You can call me Ed,” you say. “I’m just helping out.”

The man nods and holds out his hand. “I'm Oz. This is Gwyn.”

Gwyn is a stocky guy with an auburn beard, and brown hair poking out of his company branded beanie, and he smiles like he’s been looking forward to meeting you all day. You shake hands with both men, then they lead you into the museum, taking a set of stairs to the left before you even get into the main foyer. Marble statues loom over you as you jog along behind Oz and Gwyn, who take the broad stairs two at a time.

“How did you know who the ghost was?” you ask.

“She became fixated on a belt buckle, which I obviously recognised since Pride’s been wearing it ever since I’ve known him.”

You’re half tempted to ask how long that is, but the look on Pride’s face stops you. So far, mawkish venture into a Victorian graveyard aside, he's been a perky adventure buddy. Now he looks pained, like someone pierced his heart with an icy needle and dragged it through his chest on a burning thread.

“They have a replica here.” Pride sounds disturbingly flat. “What did she say?”

“It took us a while to pick up her voice,” says Gwyn, his accent Welsh.

“I asked her why she was interested in the buckle, and she said it belonged to her son,” Oz goes on. “The museum called us in when one of the security guards heard a disturbance in Room 41. It’s not the first time we’ve been called out here.”

“Last time, the figures in the pediment over the main entrance were moving,” says Gwyn. “It was way beyond our capabilities.”

“What else did she say?” asks Pride.

“It’s difficult to say,” says Oz. “Some of it sounds English, but…”

“Old English,” Pride says.

“That would explain it.” Oz leads you through a cafe and into an exhibition room filled with treasures from medieval Europe. “We called Lucifer in to translate, but he had to leave.”

Who casually name-drops Lucifer?

“She’s… frustrated,” says Gwyn. “The damage is minimal… limited to the occasional artefact dropping to the bottom of the case and the lights dimming.”

Just as he says that, the lights in the room ahead flicker.

“She’s always been dramatic,” Pride mutters before striding ahead into Room 41 and announcing, “I’m here.”

The first thing you notice is that Pride’s mother looks nothing like Simeon’s ghost. She’s all dark and bitten, like a smoky, moth-eaten shawl. She also looks nothing like Pride.

Beneath her sooty layer, she’s fair-haired, with plaits twisting around her delicate little head. Her face is pale and pinched, glowing above a dark cape. Unlike, Simeon, her feet aren’t close enough to the floor to make a sound, and she drifts. Drifts and swoops. She doesn’t seem to hear Pride at first, her wails echoing around the ceiling. She stops swooping to float beneath a skylight, suddenly silent.

Pride speaks again. “You wished to see me, Modor.”

Her body, such as it is, flips over, and her dark eyes home in on Pride. “That you, boy?”

That this tiny, pale woman dares to call the behemoth beside you boy strikes you as funnier than it should, and you bite your lip, so you don’t laugh. This is not the time for laughter.

Pride lifts his arms to the side a little, presenting himself for her inspection. “It’s me. What are you doing here? Every time you cross over, you look more and more like a colander.”

She frowns at him.

He sighs. “You probably have no idea what that is.” He starts talking in a language you don’t understand, his voice taking on a melodic sort of lilt, with more tongue-tripping and bluntness than you’ve ever heard from him.

Since you can’t understand the conversation anyway, you glance around the exhibit. In the middle of the room, encased in glass, is an eerie, ancient bronze helmet, and beside it, is a replica, showcasing how it would’ve looked in its prime. A winged dragon makes up the nose piece and eyebrows, which are lined with glittering jewels.

You read the information beside it, detailing the burial of a ship, which has long since disintegrated in the acidic soil of its final resting place, leaving only a ghostly imprint behind. There was a burial chamber inside, and all the artefacts surrounding you right now were buried with a man of great importance—a man whose body was never found—suspected to have been eaten away by the soil just like the ship had been.

Except, you’re beginning to suspect that the man of great importance is right beside you, soothing an old ghost nobody should be able to see.

The heading above the information reads: An Anglo-Saxon royal grave?

And you wonder.

“She just asked him if he ate the whole horse,” a voice says from beside you.

You jump in alarm, spinning around to find… nobody there. You glance at Oz and Gwyn, who don’t appear to have heard the voice.

“What?” you whisper.

The man laughs. “Since he’s so big, she asked if he ate the whole horse.”

He sounds vaguely familiar, but you’re not sure why.

“Don’t tell them I’m back,” the voice says. “They’re very demanding.”

“Do you know what the ghost wants?”

“She’s not a ghost,” he says. “There’s a wraith snapping at her heels, so she’s probably projected here from another plane.”

“That’s what all the smoke is?”

“Not smoke… a wraith.”

“You’re Lucifer?”

“Yes.”

“So, what does the projection want?”

What is a ghost if not a projection?

“She told him to stop pecking at her grave… to leave her be. She knocked that lid down over there.”

“Over where?” you ask, since you can’t see the man, who is presumably pointing at the lid.

“Behind the Welsh one.”

You catch sight of a kidney-shaped bejewelled something lying on the information display inside the glass case, and something about it draws you closer. “What is it?”

The writing is covered up, so you still can’t tell what the artefact is. Lucifer said it was a lid, but a lid for what? There are three hinges along the back and a clasp at the front. Your fingers run over the bum-bag at your waist, and you glance at the object again.

“She thinks his moping keeps drawing her back here, and she thinks someone is after his… bag. And his buckle.”

You jolt when you stroke the top of the bum-bag again, your fingers encountering something hard, like horn or bone, rather than the nylon fabric it’s made of.

“You look like you’ve made a discovery,” Lucifer whispers, and you wonder if you should trust him with this.

Probably not.

“What was the lid for?” you ask instead.

“Probably a pouch worn about the waist… leather, most likely. But… uh oh.”

“Uh oh, what?”

“She just told him they’ve found him again,” says Lucifer.

“Who found him again?”

“If I’m right, it’s nobody you’ve ever heard of. She says he needs to leave London as soon as possible.”

It’s too late.

Dark ash spills through the glass of the skylights above you like a volcanic cloud, smothering the lights.

Arms tighten around you. “It’s just me,” Lucifer whispers. “You’re under my shield, so they can’t see you now.”

You look at the shifting cloud again, the lights inside the glass cases the only ones still functioning well enough to illuminate it. The cloud looks like nothing more than an it. “They?”

The exhibit lights barely cut through the gloom now, and Pride is backing away from the cloud, arms outstretched to protect the ghost hunters from the stalking shadow.

“The Ash Army of Tarragoth,” Lucifer says, as purple lightning flashes from deep within the cloud.

“Where’s that?”

“It’s a demon realm. This lot have been trying to find a permanent entry point to the surface for centuries. So far, this is the only form they can manifest up here.”

The cloud rumbles, a shaky ancient voice hissing from its depths.

“And it’s not scary enough already?” you ask.

“Their looks are certainly no improvement either way, but they can only manifest in a human size here.”

“As opposed to?”

“Fifteen… twenty feet. Maybe taller. It’s been a while since I had cause to visit Tarragoth.”

“What do they want with Pride?”

“When he was king… er…”

“It’s alright,” you say. “I know about that.”

“Right. Well, when he was king, he hid every object they could possibly use to create a permanent portal. He buried his bunch of replicas with his alleged body. The real body he left behind was of his friend who died in a recent battle. The funny thing is, the burial mound wasn’t raided for centuries… not until the 1500s, but they didn’t go deep enough, so they didn’t find what was left behind. They took a small stash of decoy loot.”

You haven’t taken your eyes off the shifting cloud. “What are they doing?” You nod at the ceiling where the ash is slowly drifting lower to cloak the exhibits.

Pride glances around frantically.

“He’s looking for you,” Lucifer says. “We need to leave.”

“What? We can’t just leave him here.”

“They’re not after him.”

“But you said—”

“They’re after what’s around your waist.”

You grasp the bum-bag in your palm, once again getting the strange feeling you’re touching bone rather than nylon. “They want the bum-bag?”

“And its contents.”

The ash cloud separates, as if it’s trying to sculpt itself into several human shapes. Apparently, Pride’s mother doesn’t like this. She wails her displeasure from the ceiling, where you can no longer see her. The ash fractures, unable to reform.

“She’s buying you time,” Lucifer says. “Come on.”

You reluctantly leave with Lucifer.

“Hold on to my arm,” he says once you’re back on the brown staircase.

“You’re not going to teleport me away, are you? Because I don’t want to leave him here.”

“He’s lived thousands of years without your protection, largely thanks to what you have in your possession.”

“How do I know you’re not after it for your own nefarious reasons?”

“Do you know who I am?” He sounds amused and flirtatious, and you wish you could see his face. “I don’t need a bag of tricks, honey. Not for anything. I am exceptionally skilled in… well, everything.”

“Everything except the display of modesty.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve been humbled once or twice.”

You’re not sure you believe him. “Where shall we hide?”

“You’re not prepared to leave the building?”

“What if he can’t find me,” you say. “He won’t want to leave the ghost hunters unprotected.”

“That much is true, but he will be able to find you.”

You shake your head. “I’m not leaving.”

“Fine, but if you won’t let me protect you by leaving, I’ll bring more people here.”

“Who?”

“My brothers.” For a few seconds, in the place Lucifer’s voice is coming from, a golden light pulses several times. “Pride could use their help.”

“That’s how you call your brothers? With flashing lights?”

“You saw that?”

“Was I not meant to?”

Lucifer hums thoughtfully. “It means my shield is slipping. Not ideal right now, since you’ll be the first thing visible should it drop significantly.”

“Why would your shield slip?”

“This museum has treasures from all over the world, many of them stolen… kept from their beginnings… their people. And still, we cling to them in a show of paternalistic posturing and pouting. Religious artefacts, in particular, have a terrible effect on me, and there are enough of them in this building alone to start a dozen wars. In fact, Pride himself… Never mind.”

“How is it possible that he’s lived so long?”

“You’d need to ask him that.”

“So, he’s not an archangel?” you ask.

“Er, no.”

“Or a demon?”

“Definitely not.”

It’s only now you realise this staircase was much shorter on the way up. “There’s something wrong with the staircase,” you say.

Lucifer’s footsteps halt beside you. “Helix obscura,” he mutters. “Bollocks! Alright, listen. I need to translocate us out of here, or we’ll be on this ride forever. Whatever this is, it doesn’t know you’re here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact that it’s not trying to fool you,” he says. “I didn’t even notice the repeating staircase. Take my arm.”

Still you hesitate. That is, until a plume of black ash erupts from the statue standing in an alcove at the top of the first flight of stairs.

You move closer to Lucifer, even though you still can’t see him. “What the hell?”

“Grab my arm!”

“I can’t see your arm,” you complain, as the ash cloud spins into human form.

“Oh, for—” Lucifer grabs your arm, and the next second, you’re in the men’s bathroom.

“This is becoming a habit,” you mutter to Lucifer, who is little more than a vague shadow to you, and is already peering out of the door to see if the coast is clear. “Pride will be wondering—”

“Stop worrying about Pride,” Lucifer says, though his mouth only moves when it’s in your peripheral vision. “He has a tether on his purse.”

“A tether?”

“Yes, it’s how he found you on your bun-throwing adventure.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Glenda told me.”

You blush a little, wondering what words the bold Yorkshire woman used about you. “So, a tether is what exactly?”

“If someone were to steal it, they would walk themselves in a big circle, straight back to Pride.”

“Tethers are rare,” says a new voice, deep and growly, just before a huge blonde man with a head like a suntanned boulder makes an appearance. “Only gods can create true, unbreakable tethers. I once knew a pirate who had a lute on a tether. Said it was a gift from the god of the sea himself.”

“This is my brother, Raphael,” Lucifer says. “Raph, this is…”

You shrug. “Everyone around here just calls me Ed.”

Raphael frowns. “Really? You look nothing like an Ed.”

Barely a second later, a man with a familiar face arrives, and you smile. Uriel Hazard hasn’t changed a bit since you left him this morning, though his shoes are far gaudier than anything you saw him wearing a hundred and however many years ago.

“Why am I here?” Uriel asks. “And why are we in a toilet?” He glances at you, doing a quick double-take before frowning in confusion. “You look… familiar. Have we met?”

You feel suddenly shy, but of course it’s not surprising that he doesn’t recognise you immediately. He’s likely met thousands of people since he last saw you. “I played your favourite cousin, Edward, once. To catch a killer.”

He purses his lips. “My favourite…”

“Faultless Molvander,” you remind him.

Then, Uriel is there, his eyes lighting up with his laughter. “Yes, my favourite cousin. So, this is your time?”

“Apparently so. Pride’s in trouble,” you tell him.

“The Ash Army of Tarragoth is currently trying to manifest in Room 41,” Lucifer explains.

“Why is your shield up?” asks Uriel, as though an army from the demon realm invading the British Museum is just an everyday occurrence. “And more importantly, why is it trying to slide right off your body?”

“You know I can’t stand to be around all this holy stuff.”

Uriel glances at you and whispers, “It’s because he doesn’t have a halo.”

“They know I don’t have a bloody halo,” Lucifer grumbles. “Everyone knows that, thanks to Azrael.”

You don’t ask since he seems so bitter about it.

“Did somebody call my name?” This is Azrael, and the low rumble of his voice makes you jump. “Why are we in a toilet?” He glances down at you with eyes almost as dark as his skin, then says to Lucifer, “Who’s this?”

Uriel wraps his arm around your shoulder. “This is my dear cousin, Edward.”

Azrael gives an impatient flare of his nostrils. “You don’t have a cousin called Edward, Uri. You don’t have cousins, full stop.”

“You can call me Ed,” you say.

Azrael leans forward to shake your hand, then shoves his own back in his pocket. “Nice to meet you. But I have questions. You do know there’s a Cascade meeting in half an hour?”

A shiver runs from your head down to your toes. Isn’t Cascade the organisation that Pride was running from the day you met him? And you had your suspicions before, but now they're confirmed. Lucifer, Raphael, Uriel, Azrael. These men are archangels.

“What do you care?” asks Uriel. “You only show up for the hymns, which… how did you convince yourself that aggressive hymn singing was the only way to start a meeting?”

Azrael pouts and shoots a pointed look in Raphael’s direction. “At least I show up.”

“I don’t have time for petty grievances,” Raphael says. “And your grievance is indeed petty.”

“Well, unlike you all, I didn’t want to be locked down here in this hellhole, thrown into battle every ten days for all eternity.”

“Not for all eternity,” Lucifer reminds him. “Just until you meet the protean.”

“I’ve met a dozen proteans,” Azrael grumbles. “And I’m not sure I believe in prophecy anymore.”

“Um… can we get going?” you say. “There’s an ash army out there.”

All four archangels turn to look at you, though you still can’t see Lucifer’s face. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and a quiver lets loose in your gut. Did you just order four archangels to stop bickering?

“You’re quite right,” Uriel says.

“How can the army be defeated?” you ask, as Lucifer finally opens the bathroom door and ushers everyone into the corridor beyond.

“Technically, they can’t,” Lucifer says. “They can only be banished.”

When you turn the corner, the corridor is filled with frantic whispers coming from people in all sorts of costumes from across the globe… across time.

“I thought the museum was closed,” you say, glancing at the people huddled along one wall, each one staring in the same direction. Up! “Is it some kind of cosplay thing?”

“It’s not cosplay, Edward,” Uriel says. “They’re ghosts... spirits. Think about it. They’re all leaders of some kind, and what self-respecting leader wouldn’t bear a grudge against the British Museum?”

“Fair,” you say. “But what are they all looking at?”

You tip your head back, eyes slowly rising to the ceiling, where dozens of ashy beings hover, eerily still and silent.

Uriel reaches for you, but his hand never makes contact because a shadowy cloud of ash drops from the ceiling like it’s made of bricks. Glowing purple blades appear in Uriel’s hands, and Lucifer pulls two dense black swords from his belt. You almost see him clearly for a moment before the cloud takes everything.

A figure appears in front of you, blackened as if it just crawled from a coalmine, its eyes glowing an acidic yellow. Small fissures crackle across its features, like it has lava in its veins, and a wizened black hand reaches for your waist, claws extended into three-inch, iron-like points.

You stagger backwards, belly jumping with fear, just as those claws swipe at the nylon bum-bag.

The creature lets out a frustrated howl when its claws pass through the fabric as if it’s not there.

You’re distracted momentarily by flashing lights breaking through the dense fog, one man-sized chunk at a time, as each demonic form breaks away from the ceiling and lands on the museum floor. And when the creature’s second attack comes, you almost feel it—a slight scrape of claws on the fabric of the bum-bag.

You swallow hard as it lurches closer, rifling through the bum-bag for something... anything. You can’t let this thing get you—you promised Pride you’d protect his bum-bag with your life, though it had seemed dramatic at the time—but you have no idea how to fight it once the creature becomes solid enough to launch a more efficient attack.

You inch backwards as the awful thing creeps after you, its pace slow and calculating. You’re shaking with adrenaline and fear, your belly bubbling as it attempts to ride an acidic wave. How are you going to beat this thing? You don’t know what any of the objects in the bum-bag do, and you really wish you’d asked Pride about them sooner. The only thing you can think of right now is the perfume, and you definitely don’t want to seduce it.

Something rubs gently at the back of your knees, and you glance behind you to find a rope barrier cordoning off a small area with a CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign. You quickly unhook the ropes, and lift the freed post until it rests on your shoulder like a baseball bat. Putting every ounce of strength you have into it, you swing the post at the creeping demon. The flat base of it flutters through the creature's belly, as if it's made of jelly beneath the thick black crust of its skin. With the next swing, you lose your grip on the post when it makes contact, and it clangs to the museum floor, where it rolls in an arc.

You back up into the slippery floor zone, but there's not much room behind you, and you've only managed to anger the demon, which is now snarling and growling as it closes in on you.

You swallow hard, your stomach spitting fire, and that's when you hear Pride yelling. “Duck!”

You duck, squatting on the ground as the creature looms closer, its mouth stretching into a leer of spiky iron teeth. “Pride?”

You can’t see him yet, not until his blade swipes through the creature’s torso, sending sparks and gobs of lava flying at the walls. You cover your head with your arms as the lava hisses into the walls like acid. This is definitely worse than the bun-throw.

“It’s safe,” Pride says after a minute or so.

You blink into the brighter than expected corridor. Most of the ghosts are gone, those that remain eyeing Pride speculatively. He looks just like a Saxon king, like something majestic from the time of Beowulf. And you can’t stop looking at him—your adventure buddy.

He sheathes his sword and pulls you to your feet, enveloping you in his arms. “Are you alright?”

You nod against his chest, the rough material of his sash sanding your cheek. “Just tired.” It’s not quite true. The slowly solidifying creature had been terrifying, and you’re certain your knees are still knocking together. “It didn’t get your bum-bag.”

“I know,” he says, releasing you until you’re at arm’s length, his large hands on your shoulders. He stares at you for a long time—long enough to get awkward—then turns away. “There’s a hell of a mess to clean upstairs.”

“We’ve got it,” Uriel says. “You two should go home and rest.”

You say goodbye to Uriel for the second time in one day, wondering why Bel didn’t arrive with him. You shake the other archangels’ hands, but Lucifer still doesn’t manifest.

“He just likes to be mysterious,” Pride whispers as he takes you into a quiet room—some kind of office—and drops the portal frisbee to the floor. “Ready?”

“Where are we going?”

“My place or yours?” he says, his cheeks glowing red. “To sleep. I didn’t mean—”

You laugh. “I know.” You’re tired, but you’re not ready for this to end just yet, so you say, “Let’s make it your place.”

***

This bonus page is about what's left of St Dunstan in the East church, where the remains of Pride's mother are buried.

And this one is about Room 41 of the British Museum and Pride's hideous belt buckle.

Password: SAXON

Episode 15: Wherein Kane Finally Nails it on the Wardrobe Front

You say nothing more, determined not to put your foot in your mouth.

Pride leads you past the docks and around the foot of Tower Hill, on which the Tower of London resides. A few side streets later, you reach a graveyard beside a large church.

“It was bombed during World War Two,” Pride says. “There’s no roof anymore… it all looks so strange.” Pride glances around as if superimposing the modern sight he’s used to on top of the intact building. His voice drifts away as he says, “It’s been so long.”

His stride doesn’t falter once, despite the fact that everything must look different now. He knows exactly where he’s going, and it unnerves you.

You soon find yourself beneath the shadows of the many trees springing from the soil here, the sun completely blocked from view. It makes you feel strange and far away, like home is the abstract place now, and this mossy underworld in a lost part of London has more substance than you do.

You know it survives because Pride said so.

But what if Pride’s temporary fix on the portal doesn’t work?

The big man guides you to a bench, where you sit and wait as he crosses to a tree close to the outer railings. He just stands there, his head lowered, and for a moment, you think he might be peeing up the tree. Then you see the gravestone at his feet. It’s old and squat, the writing almost worn away, the grey stone tinged green. The low rumble of Pride’s voice reaches you, but you can’t make out what he’s saying, and you’re not nosey or insensitive enough to eavesdrop.

Pride looks so melancholy when he drops onto the bench beside you. “My mother,” he says, saving you from asking.

Your breath catches. “We’re in a Victorian graveyard, Pride.”

He shakes his head. “This place is much older than that. Try the middle ages.”

“But if your mother has been here since…” You can’t quite get your head around it.

He smiles wryly. “I’m not as young as I look.”

“But how old—”

“Let’s get back to the twenty-first century, shall we?”

You nod, then follow Pride beneath the darkest tree.

A minute later, the air is staler still, a cold rubbery scent pervading your surroundings and invading your nostrils.

You blink into the harsh, yellow light as Pride lands beside you. “It’s a tunnel.”

You only breathe again when you see a yellow sign painted on the floor: NO CYCLING. You must be back in the twenty-first century, right? Right? But which way are you meant to go?

Pride frowns. “Bloody hell. It’s a good job it spat us out down here and not in the river itself.”

“Where is here?”

He examines the tiled walls, though what he expects to find, you don’t know. “Woolwich foot tunnel.” He sniffs the air, then glances over his shoulder. “Balls! Don’t look back. This way.” He grabs your arm, tugging you along. “Open the bum-bag. The back zip too… so I can see it.”

You unzip the ugly bag at your waist, but you can’t resist a peek over your shoulder. There’s a dog at the other end of the tunnel, idly sniffing at the seam between the tiled wall and the concrete floor, and it doesn’t seem to have spotted you yet, despite having three times as many eyes as a normal dog.

And three times as many heads.

“Don’t draw attention to yourself,” says Pride. “Just walk fast. And lemme just…” He tugs something from the bum-bag.

“Tell me it’s a flute that’ll put that beast to sleep,” you say, as he tucks the mystery object into his sleeve.

He’s wearing a leather jacket now. Where did that come from? Kane didn’t put a spell on his clothes, did he?

You glance down at your own, which… what is wrong with that man? You’ll be having words with Thatcher Kane when you get back to his shop.

You shuffle hastily along the tunnel towards the exit, which isn’t too far now. “Why am I dressed like a scarecrow?”

“You’ve got a bandage over your ear,” he says. “I think you’re supposed to be Vincent Van Gogh.”

“Doesn't explain the why.” You tug the bandage off, stuffing it into the bum-bag because you don’t want to add to the litter down here. “Why is Kane like this?”

“It’s a mystery,” he says, his speed-walking taking on an ostentatious swing of the hips.

You struggle to keep up with his giant legs, chancing a peek over your shoulder. The beast has spotted you, and it’s lumbering along the tunnel, eating up the ground. “We need to run.”

Pride looks back, swearing under his breath as he takes your hand. You both run, soon zig-zagging through the cycle barriers at the end of the tunnel and reaching the spiral staircase that leads above ground. Even if you did have time to wait around for a lift that might never come, the stairs seem a safer bet.

Pride pushes you in front of him. “Go on. I’ll hold them off if I have to.”

You don’t have time to stop and complain, though you want to. How are you supposed to outrun a massive three-headed dog?

Your legs are burning by the time you scent cold, fresh air, and you make it up the last three steps and into rainy twenty-first century London just as the gnashing of several jaws sounds from the bottom of the stairwell.

Pride is right behind you. “Don’t worry,” he says, slumping against the red brick wall of the rotunda housing the spiral staircase. “It won’t come up here in broad daylight.”

It’s dusk, the street lamps glowing against the bruised sky and reflected in the rainy pavement. “I hate to break it to you, Pride, but it’s not broad daylight.”

He shrugs. “Even so… only complete darkness would tempt such a creature to the surface in its given state.”

You rest beside him, catching your breath. “What exactly is its given state?”

“Hellhound shifter,” he says. “From Cerberus House.”

Hellhounds?

In London?

“But we’re back?” you ask. “In the right time?”

It’s disorientating coming from early morning to early evening in the blink of an eye, more so than the idea of travelling over a hundred years into the future. If indeed you have.

Pride nods at a nearby block of flats. “They only went up last year.”

The sound of laughter replaces snapping jaws on the staircase, and barely a minute later, three men emerge from the rotunda.

One of them approaches you—tall, dark, and dangerous. “You dropped this.”

You’re too busy trying to blend into the brick wall… too mesmerised by his black eyes to notice what’s in his hand. And you don’t want to look away in case he pounces, but curiosity gets the better of you.

It’s the feather Violet gave you. It must’ve dropped out while Pride was ferreting around in the bum-bag.

You take it with shaking fingers. “Thanks.”

The black-eyed man leans in and grins. “Don’t worry. We don’t bite.” He snaps his jaw. “Much.”

You stop breathing as the man’s face lingers right in front of you.

Finally, the three men stalk away, their barks of laughter cutting through the noise of traffic as they disappear from view.

“Wow, he has a lot of teeth,” you say, when you start breathing again.

Before you’ve moved more than ten paces from the rotunda, Pride’s phone rings. That has to be a good sign.

He pulls the phone from his pocket, staring at it like he’s never seen it before, and accepts the call. “Pride.”

You hear a man jabbering at the other end, his excitable babble evidently making no more sense to Pride than it does to you.

“Calm down, Oz. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

This time you do hear. Something about the British Museum and a malevolent ghost.

“What’s it got to do with me?” Pride asks, his face paling at whatever Oz is telling him. “Oh, bugger. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

When he ends the call, you say, “The adventure continues?”

Episode 14: The Ash Army of Tarragoth

He sighs. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go home at this point.”

“Sounds like there’s a ghost at the British Museum.”

“It’s not a ghost. It’s my mother. She’s looking for me.”

***

Another bonus page awaits, this one about the church where Pride's mother is buried. You can find it here.

Password: SAXON