The End of the Line

By Gray Williams

A crew of thieves race through Siberia to defeat a murderous demon in this gritty fast-paced horror thriller debut.

Con-artist Amanda Coleman lives in a London rife with undercover magic. Abras, as they are known, can harness these illegal powers, but for Coleman—whose father was a powerful and abusive practitioner—magic is anathema.

When her criminal crew hire an Abra to help with their heists, they accidentally raise a dangerously violent demon. Now they must race across darkest Siberia to a remote stone circle to kill the creature, in this engrossingly tense and gripping adventure.

But as the demon’s power grows during their grisly chase, Coleman must fight to survive, facing demons both in chains and within herself.

This unique high-octane horror thriller is perfect for fans of Lauren Beukes and James Oswald.

Praise for The End of the Line 

“Williams creates an original world of wonder and menace that leaves the reader guessing.” —Linwood Barclay, TheSunday Times–bestselling author  

“The End of the Line is driven by non-stop action, strange magic, and gritty noir banter—fun, in other words. Gray Williams has created a matinee double-feature of mixed genre mayhem that aims to please.” —Andrew Pyper, author of The Homecoming and The Demonologist

“Absolutely brutal, doesn’t look away, and doesn’t pull a single punch . . . Reeves is an absolutely stand-out character.” —S. J. Morden,Philip K. Dick Award–winning author

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781788634557

Gray Williams

Gray Williams is the author of supernatural thriller The End of the Line. Born in Glasgow and raised in Southampton, he studied Creative Writing at Bath Spa University and has had short stories published in Abyss and Apex, Electric Spec and the Something Wicked 2013 anthology. He devours both crime thrillers and fantasy, so naturally wanted to combine the two in his writing. He now lives in East London with his wife (who fell in love with him after reading an early draft of one of his short stories), where he writes, works (very different) and always gets his haircut three weeks later than he should.

Book preview

To Lisa – for everything

Part One

Chapter 1

Amanda

The present

Everything had been going to plan until Bridget leapt in front of the lorry.

Amanda tried to recall what the woman had been talking about before she’d swerved their van off the road. If she’d shown any sign that her brain was being hijacked, Amanda had missed it.

Once the van had crashed, nose crumpled, in a roadside ditch, the occupants piecing themselves back together, it took Amanda a long moment to realise their driver was missing. The door was hanging open and through it she spotted Bridget at the roadside, waiting.

They’d overtaken the lorry a few minutes before.

Ears ringing, body hurting, Amanda did little more than blink when Bridget threw herself forward, adding herself to a list of the dead longer than Amanda’s arm. Reeves, the demonic prisoner they were taking halfway round the world to kill, had claimed another victim.

In that moment, as Bridget sailed through the air, blood arcing black against the grey sky, Amanda knew three things.

One – she’d said something like this would happen.

Two – the protective wards on the demon’s steel coffin weren’t as impenetrable as Bridget had promised.

And three – the job was utterly fucked if they didn’t get moving again. Fast.

They were the only interesting feature for miles, a look in any direction yielding the same flat view of frozen Russian scrub, grey trees and greyer skies. The road was the only hint of civilisation, straight as a compass needle, east to west, from who knows to who cares. At some point, another driver would see them, pull over and complicate things.

And who wouldn’t stop? There was the Russian’s blood-stained lorry blocking the road in both directions. There was Bridget on the side, clothes torn and wounds steaming in the cold. There was their van, back tyres in the air. And two minutes later there were the people arguing; one aggrieved lorry driver and three of Britain’s most desperate criminals.

On top of that there was Reeves. If the wards were faulty, it was only a matter of time before he tried to get someone else to top themselves. And Amanda was determined that nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to stop her from getting back on the road and putting this thing in the dirt where it belonged.

Of everyone involved, the lorry driver had the least right to be upset. He wasn’t letting that stop him, gesticulating and barking in angry, vodka-fuelled Russian, his red nose bare inches from the skinny black woman’s face. His grimy finger was getting dangerously close to poking Amanda in the chest.

Twenty minutes, she thought, her sense of urgency fraying her nerves. Twenty minutes and they’d be back on their way, a burning van and another two bodies in their wake.

If she could just get her hands to stop shaking.

‘Axle’s fucked,’ came a voice behind her, preluded by the heavy, steady crunch of cold gravel under sturdy boots.

Now the Russian faltered in his tirade. He even backed up a step.

The sight of Caleb did that to most people. The man was built like an ex-Soviet missile train. With the greatcoat and beady eyes glaring out at them from under his fur-lined deerstalker, he looked like a Red Army general. The cold had turned his nose crimson. His breathing was like a mix between a pissed off Alsatian and Darth Vader; audible even from three metres away, a memento of a hard fight, a lost lover and a fractured trachea.

Seemingly unaware of the effect he was having on Amanda’s adversary, Caleb observed the steam coming off Bridget’s burst body in the near distance. ‘Looks like her soul leaving her body, don’t it?’

The Russian looked to Amanda like he was expecting a translation.

‘We didn’t need her,’ Amanda replied, ‘you’ll see.’

‘But we can’t—’

‘We’ll figure it out. OK?’ She fixed the big man with a look.

He shrugged. ‘So, what now?’

Amanda looked the Russian in his bloodshot eyes.

Survival instincts finally kicking in, the driver took another step back.

Caleb moved fast, grabbing him by the elbow. Gasping, the lorry driver fired off more Russian as Amanda went through his pockets producing a wallet and phone.

The ID was in Cyrillic, no help there. The money went in Amanda’s pocket.

Caleb grunted. ‘Ain’t he going to need that?’

She ignored him.

The phone’s screen was cracked but she pressed the button anyway.

The image waiting for her struck like a hammer, set her mind buzzing.

The driver’s face grinned up at her, crouched amongst his three kids; two girls, one boy – a day out.

‘You alright?’ asked Caleb.

She’d had a picture just like it, her, Simon and the kids, pride of place on the mantelpiece. It was probably still there, cordoned off in sigil-warded police tape. It was like she’d swallowed a hot coal. Like she had just lost them to that thing in the box all over again.

‘Amanda?’

‘Yeah,’ she managed, the word rough in her throat. ‘Yeah,’ it came out clearer the second time, the coldness creeping back in.

She threw the phone back, the Russian catching it against his chest. Hope kindled in the man’s eyes. ‘I go?’

The shakes had gone from Amanda’s hands. A hard, cold bolt of grief worked better than a shot of adrenalin.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘you can go.’

The Russian’s relief had no time to take root, Caleb’s arm snaking around his throat.

The large man frowned over the driver’s head. ‘One body ain’t enough already?’

‘We haven’t got time to argue. Do it.’

‘Could just bribe him.’

‘And what if he tells the police anyway? You want us to bribe them too? See what happens when we get arrested?’

‘Just saying—’

‘Come on. Clock’s ticking.’

The pair glared at one another, a silent battle of wills as the Russian struggled between them.

‘We’re doing this for her,’ said Amanda.

Caleb signalled his surrender with a pinch of his lips.

Bending backwards, he lifted the man off his feet, scowling as he increased the pressure.

Eyes bulging, red face growing redder, the man scrabbled at Caleb’s arm, nails digging ineffectually at the thick cloth of his coat sleeve.

‘We need to tell AK what happened,’ said Amanda. ‘You got the phone?’

‘Gave it to Bridget,’ Caleb grunted.

Thin tendrils of steam continued to stream from the woman’s body, pulled this way and that by the cold wind.

‘Shit.’ Riding the emotionless wave she was on, Amanda headed off, head full of nothing but what she was going to say to AK – the man who had dropped her in the middle of this shit storm. She thought the words loud, trying to drown out the grief that clawed at her insides.

Just a few more days.

She lifted her collar against the cold. She thought she’d known winter in London but there was nothing like this Russian one. This was cold with its fly unzipped and a look in its eye. She rubbed at her gloveless hands, the skin taut and sore to the touch. She deserved this pain, she reminded herself. Her family were dead because of her.

But she wasn’t the only one to blame.

The lorry’s engine was still running, the air around it throbbing. She gave it a wide berth, circling round to Bridget’s body.

It looked worse up close.

Bridget’s right shin bone jutted from the calf. Her left leg twisted in at least two directions it shouldn’t. One arm was trapped beneath her, arching her body up uncomfortably, belly toward the sky. Every inch of exposed skin was a patchwork of bruises, scrapes, grazes and gravel, obscuring the myriad mystical tattoos that covered her body. The ink was an Abra’s trademark, no magic user could go without them and expect to perform complex spells without some sort of blowback. Pity for her that there wasn’t a sigil to ward off a moving rig.

There was pathetically little blood on the asphalt, which, to Amanda, summed Bridget up.

But she wasn’t dead.

Every breath was a thin, jagged little thing. The puffs of steam seeping out from between her lips were pink. Her skull was dented, her half-closed eyes a solid red, her mouth a pouch of broken teeth leaking bubble-flecked crimson.

Bridget shuddered at Amanda’s approach. She tried to move, her free arm rising a bare inch, imploring.

Bringing her boot down, Amanda pinned the Abra’s hand into the dirt.

Breath exploded in Bridget’s mouth, the woman trying to speak while Amanda went through her pockets.

There was the satellite phone. Amanda shook it, nothing rattled. Finally something was going right. She pushed it into her coat pocket.

‘Might be stating the obvious but the wards on that box of yours didn’t work as long as you thought they would.’

Bridget only stared, trying to comprehend through the fog of pain.

‘I was thinking I’d kill you once this was over,’ Amanda continued, pulling out her wallet. ‘But if the past few months have taught me anything it’s that no one gives a fuck what I want.’ She teased out the photo, the one they’d hired a professional to take; Amanda, Simon and the three kids. She held it up for Bridget to see.

Bridget coughed as she tried to speak. Whether it was an apology or some weak defence for what she’d done it didn’t matter, she managed nothing but a click at the back of her throat.

‘I should be at home with them. Right now. My youngest should be sitting exams. My husband had an exhibition. Instead…’ The words closed up on her. Or maybe there were simply too many to say beyond a howl. In its place, she managed to squeeze out: ‘I hope this fucking hurts.’

Bridget’s eyes rolled around the sky, looking for an escape. Amanda moved the photograph, keeping it in her line of sight until the broken woman’s eyes fixed on it again.

‘T– Take…’ Bridget forced the word out, slow and thick. ‘Take care of…’

Amanda took some satisfaction at the panic that flared in the woman’s eyes as she stood. She cleared her throat, managed to line some cold steel in her voice again.

‘You know, I don’t know what must hurt more. This,’ Amanda gestured up and down the woman’s ruptured body, ‘or realising that everyone was right about you. We’re going to finish this and when it’s over I’m going to tell every Abra I can find that Bridget Fergusson died not having made a lick of difference to the outcome. If you’re lucky they’ll forget you but let’s face it after everything that’s happened already, we know they won’t. You’re about to become another sad little historical footnote of one of magic’s biggest fuck ups.’

Bridget’s moan of pain was barely a whistle in her throat.

‘I’d let go if I were you,’ said Amanda, standing. ‘It’s not going to get any better.’

The wind pulled at her as she walked away.

Caleb was scowling at the corpse at his feet. Big man wasn’t even out of breath.

‘He goes in the van,’ said Amanda. ‘We’re burning it. See if there’s spare fuel in the lorry.’

‘Bridget?’

‘Her too.’

Caleb frowned at that. ‘She got family?’

‘Do you care?’

‘Might want the body.’

‘Just get it done.’ She looked around, a premonition hitting her like an icy shower. ‘Where’s Skeebs?’

‘Van.’

‘And Bridget’s bag?’

Caleb didn’t need to reply. By the time he caught the phone, Amanda was already running, aches and pains flaring up and down her body.

Dazed from the crash, too much to think about, they’d missed the last thing that could fuck this up – leaving Skeebs alone with Reeves.

The van shifted and rocked, someone moving inside.

‘Skeebs!’

‘I got this, Danny. This is for them. Danny, I have got this.’ Even outside, she could hear the boy muttering, a low, constant, litany.

The back doors gave a startled squeak as Amanda flung them open, letting them bounce on their hinges.

The interior was gloomy, the front window, seen over the front seats, a relief of ditch soil and crushed scrub.

The back was filled with their belongings, rucksacks, boxes of supplies and foreign shopping bags. With the van tilted, it had all piled up against the back of the driver’s seat.

Among them, in the centre like a chrome middle finger, was their reason for being here, enclosed in a seven-by-two foot steel box held closed by four thick padlocks. Three of which were now hanging open in their brackets.

Bridget had warded the locks, magical runes scratched into the plating in an attempt to prevent the thing’s influence from leaking out and causing people to, say, kill themselves. But there were few protective sigils in the world that could beat a skilled lock-pick.

Skeebs’ hands were shaking as he worked the final lock, a hairpin of Bridget’s twisting between his fingers. It had just jerked open as Amanda threw open the doors.

The boy’s gabbling snapped off as he blinked against the cold light.

‘Skeebs,’ she kept her voice low, ‘if you even think of opening—’

Frantic, the hair pin dropped from between Skeebs’ fingers as he went for Bridget’s work bag – a large leather affair, leaning drunkenly against his hip. ‘Don’t try to stop me.’ The boy fumbled for the zip, his words tripping over one another. ‘This has to happen. We don’t have a choice, man, I’m telling you. We’re not going to make it all the way there. We have to take our chances and try to kill it now. She was wrong about the box, she could be wrong about the stones—’

Amanda lurched, pulling herself inside, the van’s suspension groaning beneath her.

‘No!’ Forgetting the bag, Skeebs scrabbled at the lid of the package, got his nails under it.

The box opened, the narrowest, darkest crack. Amanda felt like the air was being sucked from her chest, her heart pulled up through her throat. She staggered, had to balance herself against the wall.

The van’s chassis reverberated by her ear, a solid bang as though someone had punched the vehicle from without. A split-second later, another followed, this time on the opposite side, making Skeebs flinch.

Eyes crawling the interior, the boy sank back into the bags. ‘Caleb?’

In an instant, the whole van was rocking, a multitude of unseen fists pounding at the walls, fingernails scraping and squeaking, something trying to get in.

They were in the middle of nowhere and suddenly it sounded as though they were caught in a stampede. Cold light streamed in from behind Amanda, unhindered, the stony plains empty.

The boy was shaking, twitching at each impact.

The box shifted this way and that, emanating a cold, sucking silence. All at once, it was the centre of everything, the eye of the storm. It demanded attention, ached to be opened, its whispers heard. The thing within had already killed so many. Released, it would kill many more, its emancipator spared.

Skeebs reached for the lid again.

Ears ringing, feeling like she was being battered herself, Amanda’s fist crashed down on the frosted metal, slamming the lid closed on Skeebs’ fingers. Yelling in pain, the boy clutched his hand to his chest.

Fumbling at the nearest padlock, Amanda snapped it closed.

Skeebs hissed through clenched teeth, watching as Amanda frantically groped for the next. The boy grabbed for Bridget’s bag again, working at the zip.

The second lock closing with a click, the urges seeping from the thing in the box began to abate.

But the fists hadn’t stopped.

Bag open, Skeebs reached for the knife inside, the handle almost leaping into his hand.

Amanda pounced at him, letting the van’s tilt and gravity do the work.

There were voices in the cacophony now, screams and frantic shouts. Amanda couldn’t tell if they were fighting to reach them inside or fighting to flee the grasp of something out in the open.

She crashed into Skeebs just in time, the knife was only half out of the bag. Her shoulder catching him in the teeth, striking the air out of him, she managed to pin the boy’s forearm under her knee. With a wrench, he pulled his limb out from under her, her knee banging painfully on the floor.

He brought the blade up, not to stab but to keep it from her reach.

Amanda’s arms were caught between their bodies, the slope keeping them pressed together. Grimacing with the effort, she wormed her left across his shoulder up to the crook of the boy’s elbow, pushing it into the soft back of the driver’s seat, keeping the knife where it was.

The screams surrounding them were at the height of terror. ‘He’s coming! Run! Amanda! Please!’ People she knew, victims like Bridget, so many of her friends, her family.

The blade flashed a Morse code in the daylight as they struggled. The arcane symbols scratched into its metal sent strange reflections dancing around the van’s walls.

‘Let me do this!’ Skeebs shouted over the screams. ‘We got to try!’

A growl escaped Amanda’s throat. The boy was pushing her in the chest and winning, her forearm coming away from the crook of his elbow. A few moments more and the boy would be able to slip his arm out from under her. It’d be enough to turn the tables, push her aside, stab the demon, fail the job, doom them all.

She looked him in the eye, tried to stare him down, make him see reason.

An icy glare stared back, underlined by the boy’s short, determined snorts of effort. Little shit was thinking about bringing the knife up into her side, she could see it in his eyes.

She redoubled her efforts, but she didn’t have the weight, her arm numbing from the elevation.

She couldn’t die here. Not like this.

Light stabbed into Amanda’s eyes as the driver door groaned open.

Caleb squeezed his way inside. If he could hear the screams and thundering walls, he gave no sign. Assessing the situation in an instant, he reached down over the seat and closed Skeebs’ hand in his own massive fist and twisted.

The knife clattered to the floor. Skeebs went after it, moving mere inches before Caleb’s hands found the boy’s jacket.

The big man heaved. Amanda shut her eyes as the boy was pulled out from under her, coat, belt and jeans scraping across her face as Skeebs was lifted up and over the driver’s seat.

The boy’s boots crashed against the ceiling, his body twisting as Caleb pulled him into the daylight.

And just like that, Amanda was alone. With the voices and the box.

‘Amanda! Please! Just do what he says!’

The walls were a constant roar, bending under the weight of desperate fists. The voices were cracking with the effort, their cries tearing throats and cutting Amanda deep.

She had to get it shut. The wards had already proved themselves flawed – but weak wards were better than none.

Heart in her mouth, Amanda fell at the remaining two padlocks, snapped the first closed.

One was missing. It must have fallen in the struggle.

She clawed into the heap of bags, blankets and rubbish, throwing it all behind her.

‘Amanda, you fuck, let him out!’

There! She felt hard metal beneath a shopping bag, whipped the plastic aside. Her hands shook as she turned the lock around in her hands.

‘Amanda!’

It rattled in its bracket. Clicked.

The shouts cut off. The fists stilled, the silence ringing in Amanda’s ears.

Breathless and trembling, she leaned back into Caleb’s duffel bag, let out a shuddering sigh of relief. She tried not to think about those cries for help – she’d heard her husband and children among them.

Skeebs was struggling against Caleb outside. She could hear the scuffling of icy soil. ‘You’ve got to let me back in there!’

There’d been that glint in his eye. Amanda knew the look of someone thinking of killing her when she saw it. Fuck, but she thought they had put the whole thing about his brother behind them. If this didn’t warrant a temporary truce then what did?

Bridget’s bag nudged at her elbow. She pulled it onto her lap, the soft, smooth leather sliding easily.

Killing him wasn’t an option. Not yet anyway. With Bridget gone she needed every pair of hands available. No point in confronting him either, he’d only deny it. Skeebs had seen an opportunity and gone for it. He wouldn’t get a second.

She picked up the knife and held it up, checking the symbols etched into the blade for damage. A nick in the wrong place, a rune changed, and they’d be fucked for the banishment ritual.

Satisfied, she deposited it into the bag, zipped it closed and pushed it away. Then, when that didn’t feel like enough, she pulled Skeebs’ blanket over to cover it.

The scars up her arms were throbbing again. They always did when there was powerful hoodoo in the air. She hated magic, all it ever brought her was misery.

The shakes had come back. Months of work and they’d almost lost everything to faulty wards and a panicky kid.

She stared hard at the box, eyes roaming across the frosted metal, imagining the thing inside. It didn’t do for her to be alone with it any more than Skeebs. It twisted her up inside. Being near it was hard enough. They’d taken it a thousand miles so far, London to Russia, and they still had twice as far remaining.

At least the wards seemed to be working again – some result of the vagaries of magic that Amanda refused to understand. Maybe Reeves was just tired out. But who knew when he would try again and whose life it would cost? They had to get moving.

Hell of a final job.

Skeebs was still protesting. Caleb stood between the boy and the van, watching him pace like a caged animal.

‘Put us all in danger,’ Caleb was croaking. ‘Can’t do this if we’re dead. Got one shot. Got to do it right. In the right place. You got to be patient.’

‘While we get picked off one by one? Bridget’s dead, man. Her theory’s bullshit. We got to take our chances and try to kill it now.’

Amanda remembered when the kid had been unflappable like his brother, always dressed to perfection, possessed of that easy arrogance that came with youth. Now a haunted look had bedded in those shadow-ringed eyes. His nails were bitten to the quick. His once-immaculate haircut had grown out, unwashed and uncared for. Before, Amanda had never seen the boy wear the same thing twice, now his expensive on-brand hoodie and jeans were dirty and stained.

They should have left him in London but the man paying for this job, AK, had insisted. Skeebs was the only one to have faced the demon and survived, boss thought there was something to that. She doubted it. Skeebs, like the rest of them, had been sent out because they were all that was left and AK didn’t care if they died.

‘Amanda!’ Skeebs bellowed. Caleb sidestepped, blocking the boy from reaching her. ‘You promised me! You said no more deaths.’

The boy’s eyes were full of bruised innocence, like he hadn’t been trying to stab her two minutes ago. ‘It’s under control,’ she replied.

‘You call this under control? What fucking planet are you on?’

Caleb planted a hand on Skeebs’ chest before the boy could get past him. ‘Easy.’

Skeebs snorted in derision, stepping back to look up into Caleb’s face. ‘You going to protect her? What we going to do? Walk the rest of the way? Man, are you even fucking listening?’ This to Amanda again.

Amanda breathed out, watching a bird pinwheel across the sky. ‘Go and search the lorry. We need fuel.’

‘What?’

‘We’ll take the lorry, put the box in the back.’

Skeebs’ eyes darted from Caleb to Amanda. He ran his hands up across his head, exasperated. ‘Fucking bullshit!’ He began to stomp away in the direction of the lorry, kicking at stones, trailing a string of protests behind him.

‘You should tell him,’ said Caleb, once the boy was out of earshot, ‘what happens if we try it too early.’

‘No. No telling how he’ll take it.’

‘But—’

‘I don’t want him knowing.’

Caleb sighed. Nodded. ‘Risky. Might try something again.’

‘Not if we keep an eye on him. Little shit tried to stab me in there.’

‘Think AK put him up to it?’

‘Even AK’s not that stupid. Danny on the other hand…’ she shook her head.

‘What you want to do?’

‘What can we do? And if AK’s right and there’s even a chance he knows something useful… I’m making a phone call. He does anything stupid, stop him.’

A bitter wind numbed her earlobes as she went back to the van.

The screams still skittered against her conscience.

She took her time in dialling. What time was it there? She circled around to the driver’s side, leaned against the cold chassis.

‘Amanda?’ Not even a whole ring. It was Jamison, the voice of her old mentor a welcome respite.

‘Have you done it?’ she asked. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Reeves got to Bridget. She drove the van into a ditch then jumped herself in front of a lorry.’

Silence, or rather the sound of the old man’s well-oiled gears turning. Then: ‘And Reeves?’

‘Hard to say. Quiet right now.’ Amanda stared down at her feet, toeing at the soil. The reality of what had happened was beginning to hit. That familiar wave of fear and hate gripped her belly. ‘Looks like Bridget’s plan isn’t going to work. The runes aren’t holding and we still have another two thousand odd miles to the circle.’ She sighed. ‘And she was the only one knew the ritual.’

‘And nobody opened the box? Not even to—’

‘You think I’d want it fucking open?’ She regretted snapping the moment she had. Jamison’s pause was full of reproach, letting her stew a moment.

‘I’m not in the habit of creating solutions in the dark, Amanda. I’m just trying to—’ Jamison’s voice was snatched away. Amanda winced as the receiver scratched and blew in her ear.

‘Coleman.’ The boss’ voice was enough to put Amanda’s teeth on edge. ‘You’d better be phoning with good news.’

‘Your plan didn’t work. Your pet Abra’s dead.’

‘Un-fucking-acceptable!’ Amanda had to hold the phone from her ear to avoid being deafened. ‘If she’s dead that’s your fault for moving too fucking slow.’

‘We’ve been pissing in bottles and driving in shifts. It wasn’t enough. The van’s fucked. We need something else.’

The speaker had been blowing angry snorts by the time she got to ‘pissing’. When AK spoke again it was low and clenched. ‘You better not be planning something, Coleman. I swear to fucking god, I even think you’re coming after me—’

‘I’m not coming after you. I said the van was a bad idea, you didn’t listen. I said summoning this thing in the first place was a bad idea, you didn’t listen. Every time you don’t listen to me things get worse. I’m the one caught it, I’m the one got it this far, two things meant to be fucking impossible by the way, so maybe if you listened to me…’ She paused at the noises on the other end of the line, shuffles and grunts of frantic activity. ‘Hello?’

‘Mum?’

How much fear and hope can be packed into a single word then forged into a nail and shot through her heart? Amanda gasped, clutched at the phone with both hands, pressing it so hard to her ear it hurt. She moved around the van so the others wouldn’t see.

‘Michaela? Michaela, I’m here. It’s Mum. Just stay calm OK? I’m coming quickly as I can. You do whatever Jamison says. Whatever he tells you. Michaela?’

But her daughter was gone again.

The handset boiled with quiet static. Amanda tried not to sink to the floor, tears pressing to be let out. She’d heard a tell-tale squeak of wood on concrete, pictured her darling girl, her one remaining daughter, tied to a chair, cord biting into her wrists.

‘That clear to you?’ AK again. ‘You listening now?’

‘If you’ve hurt her—’

‘There ain’t no ‘if’. What I do or don’t depends on you. Fuck this up and you better hope that thing in the box gets to her before I finish because I’ve got nothing but time to come up with all sorts of ideas right now. And don’t be relying on your old friend here. I was knocking over old gents like him before I was shaving.’

Amanda ground her teeth, glaring out across the flat landscape. A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘We’re going to need help.’

‘What did I just say? It’s always something with you. If you can’t—’

‘It’s your life on the line every bit as much as mine if this doesn’t work. So if you want to hear some good news in a few days you need to listen.’

AK didn’t reply. She could picture the vein popping down his forehead. She spoke fast.

‘The van’s axle’s busted. The lorry’s still here. We’ll load into that, but that’ll only be good for a half day. Sooner or later the owners will figure something’s up. We can’t keep doing this by road.’

More silence.

‘We need a train,’ Amanda continued. ‘Flat bed pallets, one cargo container at the end away from the engine. We’ll pile onto that so hopefully we’ll be far enough away from the drivers Reeves won’t be able to get to them. They can sleep in shifts, run night and day until we get as close to the circle as the track allows. Quad bikes will take us the rest. That way it doesn’t matter what happens to us inside, nothing will stop us getting to the circle.’

‘You think I’ve got that kind of money just—’

‘How much is your life worth to you?’ Amanda pressed. ‘If it kills us, you’re next and you can bet it has something special planned. Want me to send you a picture of Bridget? Imagine what it’s going to do to the man who had her summon it in the first place.’

‘What will you do? While you’re sitting on this train?’

‘Figure out some way to do the ritual. We’ve still got her notes. Or we figure a way to do without. We passed a train yard a half day back, you can have it waiting for us there. I’ll send you the location.’

The wind picked up again, a piercing cold that struck Amanda’s bones, prompting her to pull her coat tighter with her free hand.

‘I arrange this,’ said AK, ‘I need something in return.’

Amanda cursed, silently. Even saving this arsehole’s life came with a price tag.

‘I don’t want to ever see any of you again,’ the man went on. ‘You leave for good. EU, US I don’t give a fuck, but never fucking England.’

‘I can’t sell that. Skeebs will want to keep close to his brother—’

‘Find a way. Thought you were The Great Amanda Coleman. Pretend it’s one of your heists.’

Amanda wandered up the side of the van again, peering around the corner. Caleb was standing over the driver’s body. Skeebs was poking his head out of the lorry cab’s window, the pair of them having some shouted conversation.

‘Fine.’

‘Right. I want a full confession of how this whole thing is you, Barker and Skeebs’ fault by tomorrow. You record it over the phone with Jamison. I see any of your faces again it goes to the police. Got that?’

The sound of Michaela’s chair on the bare concrete scraped through Amanda’s mind. The thought of losing her was unbearable – the only other person to come close to understanding what she’d lost in Simon, Darren, Emily.

She barely even hesitated. ‘Done.’

AK snorted a laugh. ‘Who needs enemies, eh?’ She tried to ignore the guilt as it burrowed inside her. ‘Jamison will handle the details. Meantime, we’re sending you another Abra for the ritual.’

‘This is not the time to be bringing on new—’

‘Want the train or don’t you?’

Amanda clammed up.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get it done. And you best hope I don’t think you’re planning on crossing me. You think what I did to my enemies was bad? Imagine what I’m like when it’s fucking personal…’ The man let the words dangle in the silence a moment. And then: ‘You speak to her. We’re done here…’

AK’s voice drifted away as he handed the phone back to Jamison. Amanda strained to hear her daughter, a word from her. Anything.

‘Amanda?’

‘You just stood by and watched that?’

‘I’m doing what I can. You of all people know about the importance of picking where and when to fight. I’ll keep an eye on her, if she’s ever in real danger—’

‘Don’t you dare let him hurt her.’ Her voice was shaking.

‘I’ll do everything I can. She’s my goddaughter, of course I will. OK?’

‘…OK.’

‘In the meantime, I’ll arrange some recording equipment. I’ll call back with flight details on your new team member.’

‘Yeah,’ Amanda wiped away a tear, ‘you do that. I’ll try not to think on how you already seem to have someone lined up.’

‘You aren’t the only one who plans ahead. I’m sending someone with whom we have the utmost faith. And you should too. I understand that this is hard for you, your past being what it is.’

‘My past? Try my fucking present.’

‘I’m saying that if it means me getting to put you and Michaela on an airplane together then I’m all for it.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s only magic, Amanda,’ said Jamison, her old friend reading her thoughts. ‘It will get you your daughter back and save a lot more lives besides. Concentrate on that.’

‘What if I come back… not me?’

‘You’re not your father. That’s why we’re