Of Blood & Oil: Not the Same River, #3

By Inka York

A hunted portrait. A twisted duke. An embarrassing crush.

When a hunted portrait arrives at the priory for safekeeping, I make a disturbing discovery or two about my immortal neighbour. And an unwelcome one about myself.

As my resourceful family tries to figure out what's so special about the painting, a sinister duke makes a bold move in his bid to claim it. But the painting is not the only thing he's after.

Can we outwit the duke and bargain our way to victory? Or will we learn that we're not the only ones with betrayal in mind?

***

Of Blood and Oil is book 3 of Not the Same River, which follows Violet as she goes from gobby orphan to gobby warrior in this six-book series.

This book features a stray nephilim, judgemental goats, and a vampire who doesn't know where his trousers are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inklore Books
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915708069

Book preview

Prologue

Once I knew the sound of myself, I hushed it. For my safety. For the comfort of those committed to keeping me small. They didn’t want to hear my voice because it wasn’t like theirs; their voices made malice sound like music.

She’s mad, the woman whispered. She squawks with the birds.

The thing I remember most about being small is feeling small.

The fabric chair was coarse, scratching the back of my knees. I sat still, not knowing how high up I was, not knowing where the edges of the chair were. My fingers shuffled away from my legs, feeling for the edges. I was closer to one side than the other, so I wriggled to the middle.

All I could hear was the agitated breathing of the man whose soft, efficient hands bandaged my head.

We’d come here in a car. I recognised the sound, the movement, the stale plastic-petrol smell. But I’d never been to this place before, though I recognised some of the smells: the antiseptic, the ghost of stale breath. The man smelled of coffee and spiced apples, silent while the woman—sometimes called Karen, sometimes Mrs Wilmott—spoke.

She talks to an invisible… something. Holds its hand. Sister, she calls it. Doctor, she doesn’t have a sister.

Her hearing has improved? The man’s soothing voice matched the rhythmic movements of his hands through the air in front of me.

How should I know? I’m not a doctor.

But she sees a specialist, the doctor said. Her notes say she’s a patient of Doctor Rishi.

I… he hasn’t seen her for a while.

You haven’t been keeping up with her appointments?

She’s deaf.

And yet, she speaks. She says words she can’t possibly know. She must have some understanding of what sister means.

I don’t know where she gets these words from, but her outbursts are upsetting.

Outbursts?

She shouts at night. She doesn’t belong around other children. Her noises frighten them.

You mean she has nightmares?

I suppose so.

We all have nightmares. The doctor sighed. It doesn’t make us mad.

But she’s half… she’s got…

Ah… A dark silence rushed from the man, shrouding me. With a calm voice, he finally said, So, that’s what this is about. Tell me, Mrs Wilmott, do the others at the home share your views?

I’m not racist. I just know that blacks are more prone to… to…

Abuse? Neglect?

Mrs Wilmott didn’t answer.

You want her moved on? the doctor asked.

That’s the crux of it, yes. We can’t reach her.

I think that’s best, the doctor murmured.

I’m glad you agree, Doctor.

Be assured, Mrs Wilmott, that I absolutely do not agree with anything other than that this child will be better off under someone else’s care.

I read about it, Mrs Wilmott carried on, her voice strained. I didn’t just make it up. It was a study about weak-mindedness.

I haven’t heard a reputable doctor use that phrase in decades. I will recommend Violet be rehomed as soon as possible.

I turned towards the man’s voice, wishing I could know his face. Something hit the window on the other side of the room, and my head swivelled to follow the sound. The doctor made a tutting sound, and a whisper brushed across my face, like the doctor was waving his arms. I followed the movement of the air.

When the doctor spoke again, his voice was stern. Her notes say she is blind, that you brought her drawings in to be assessed by Doctor Phelps.

He said doctor like he meant charlatan.

Yes, said Mrs Wilmott.

Violet is not deaf, and perhaps not blind either.

"She is blind."

I leaned back when the air in front of my face puffed and heaved. My hand shot out, grabbing flesh and bone.

Mrs Wilmott shrieked, then snatched her wrist away. She’s not right.

It’s time Violet was properly assessed. I’d take her now if I could, he said, voice frayed and hard. In the meantime, you will refrain from using words like mad in front of her. If her hearing is improving, I would hate for such a miracle to be marred by your inappropriate language.

Mrs Wilmott was quiet.

Crip. Crip, crip. My voice wasn’t like other voices; it was high and sharp. Mrs Wilmott wasn’t wrong when she said I squawked.

You see? she said.

Can you hear me, Violet? the doctor asked.

Man. Man. Bird. Man. Perf. Perf-you.

Perfume? said the doctor.

Perfume, I repeated.

It wasn’t really that I couldn’t see the man, it was just that he was far away, and upside-down, and flat. Sometimes the ground beneath my feet inched upwards, and sometimes it fell away. My sense of perception was unreliable, and it hurt to focus so hard for such small reward. It was easier then to shut it down, to let the dark-light in, to let it consume my head.

But later, it was how I got into art that challenged perception. When I first knew faces, they were Picasso faces: flat and unreal, squashed with elongated features and hard edges. It took me a while to learn facial expressions, and even then I wondered how much use they were when they didn’t match people’s feelings. It’s how I got good at knowing when people were hiding things.

You’re not deaf, are you? the doctor muttered to himself.

Pass the butter, pass the butter, pass the butter.

Violet?

Violet, I repeated.

Then I let the dark-light consume me. Because being able to see and hear wasn’t the relief you’d expect. It came with stormy, electric headaches and crippling vertigo. It came with nausea and pressure in my ears, like a thousand waves waiting to crash through my skull. It came with days spent crying myself to exhaustion in my lonely bed because I didn’t understand what was happening.

When I learned to switch off the toxic swirls and obnoxious shrieks, the bliss of it was staggering, like a hot shower after a rainstorm. But the peace didn’t last.

I was small, easily overcome by the force behind my new punishment, delivered with relentless swoops and spikes. I sat in silent resignation then, learning to take hit after hit, not knowing the pressure would settle, that it would level out. And there was something powerful in it because I felt like I’d built a dam outside of myself, like I’d moved the pressure, relocating it to somewhere it couldn’t hurt me.

That was the first time I made magic.

A day later, the birds lured me outside. I ran to the sound of each one, the shadow girl’s hand in mine, but the birds were all wrong.

Then I heard the right bird, like a whisper in a crowd. I looked up into the tree’s branches, and there it was—the curve of its beak like a crescent moon, its dark belly flecked with stars. My eyes and brain weren’t friends yet, so the bird was both round and flat, like a drawing of a ball. The starling sang to me, and I wanted to burst, to fly apart like stars.

Then a crashing wave hit my ears, and it was gone. Everything was gone except the ground beneath me, moulding itself to my cheek and my chest and my knees. I lay there, still and silent, letting the muted sounds build up around me again.

If it hadn’t been for the woman next door insisting she drive me to the doctor’s, Mrs Wilmott would’ve left me dazed in the grass.

Was nobody watching her? The neighbour buckled me carefully into her car. She’s already got a bandage on her head, for goodness’ sake.

She hit it yesterday, Mrs Wilmott said.

And still nobody was watching her?

She doesn’t usually go far. She’s blind.

Bloody clueless, the neighbour muttered, running a gentle thumb down my face and patting my cheek.

The silent drive smelled of sugar and spices.

When we were shown into the doctor’s room, the smells were different. I still smelt apples, but something faint and flowery lingered, growing stronger when the door opened.

Arif, I… oh, sorry, Doctor. I didn’t realise you had an extra patient this morning.

That’s quite alright, Doctor Harding. A last-minute addition. This is the young lady I was telling you about.

Of course, said the flower-scented doctor. She held my hand, rubbing softly across my knuckles with her thumb. What’s your name, sweetheart?

Mrs Wilmott gasped beside me when I said, My name is Violet.

A day later, surrounded by my flock of paper starlings, I switched off the sound and made myself unreachable. The world was too much, and I wasn’t even sure I belonged in it. I felt the shadow girl with me when I welcomed the dark-light—the girl who asked me to call her sister.

I heard nothing when the air shifted. But I felt broken breaths behind soft leather, as the scent of bitter oranges swirled around me. Then came the scents of lavender, mints, and old ink. The sharp stink of bird cages, and the flutter of heavy wings.

The day after that, Mrs Wilmott was left behind. I didn’t belong there, and I was easily moved because I weighed nothing. I cried because I thought the birds wouldn’t follow. I only saw them again when I banished the dark-light.

When I switched everything on for good.

When I made myself reachable.

1

Axes & Hackers

FIFTEEN MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE AT THE PRIORY…

Daniel’s three-word proclamation ruins my breakfast. Amethyst is gone.

I throw my spoon into my cereal bowl, push myself off the chair, and stomp off without a word to find my sister.

She’s not here, Vi. My dad follows me into the hallway. I searched all over already. Ben saw her heading over to Albert’s early this morning.

My steps falter. Albert and Boxer moved back into the old Morrigan house a few months ago, almost a year after they helped us see off Mara’s army. We call it Albert’s house now. Just Albert’s. Nobody wants to acknowledge that Boxer—the vaewolf who ate our goats the year I moved into the priory—is living a few fields away, on the outskirts of a pretty Oxfordshire village. With his axe.

When she’s not at college, Amethyst is at Albert’s. She still has nightmares and finds her old family comforting. I still have nightmares too, born of the blood on my hands and the horrors beneath my skin that only come out at night.

Amethyst and OB gang up on me all the time now, needling me to go over to Albert’s with them, but no. There’s at least one axe and far too many teeth in that house. He might’ve defected from the coven, but Boxer still scares the shit out of me.

Still, I say, We’ll go to Albert’s and get her, then.

I pull on my boots, hopping towards Daniel while I try not to fall over.

Can’t. Daniel rubs a hand over his face with a sigh. She’s not there either. Boxer said she and Albert left early.

What? Where did they go?

The last time Amethyst left without a word, she took her cloak and returned to Mara’s coven. But Mara is dead, her coven disbanded, her army dispatched, dispersed, or in Michael’s custody. So, what the hell is Amethyst up to now?

Amethyst is more unsettled by Mara’s death than by Sean’s. For months afterwards, she insisted Mara wasn’t dead at all. According to Magnus, Amethyst’s denial is her brain’s way of coping with her guilt. According to Amethyst, that’s a load of shite.

When I didn’t trust her enough to know she returned to the coven to protect us, to sow the seeds of Mara’s confusion about our powers, Amethyst’s abandonment hurt. This time, it doesn’t hurt because I know she’ll be back. I know she won’t leave me.

Boxer says he doesn’t know, but… Daniel paces back and forth in the kitchen, then rubs the back of his neck. There’s something you need to see.

I follow him to Amethyst’s room on the second floor. The priory has almost no ninety-degree angles, and in some parts even the floors aren’t on straight. The only part of the house that wouldn’t offend a set square is Daniel’s flat, which is boringly straight in all ways. Like its tenant.

Aside from the ever-growing, teetering stack of books by her bed, Amethyst’s room is painfully neat. It’s spotless, plain, and relentlessly yellow. She refuses to decorate it. Decorating means a commitment to staying, and staying means her father and sister are really gone. It’s not like she has any intention of going anywhere else—she’s sickeningly in love with Eden and Magnus’ little triplets—so where the hell is she?

Daniel kneels by Amethyst’s bed and reaches underneath it, dragging out a scuffed metal box with an old iron padlock on it—the same box Archer pulled from beneath the floorboards in Sean Morrigan’s bedroom.

She keeps the key around her neck, I say.

The padlock falls open beneath Daniel’s fingers. New trick. Works on locks, chains, ropes, ticket barriers, car ignitions.

I ignore his new trick. You went through her stuff? She’s gonna kill you.

He frowns when he lifts the lid of the box. I know.

I scowl. You better not go through my stuff.

If you start behaving the way your sister has lately, then disappear without a word, believe me, I’ll be all over your stuff, he says. I don’t plan on losing either of you again.

I scowl some more but fail to produce any verbal dissent. The truth is, I like his protectiveness. But I’m still going to find better hiding places for my shit.

Daniel sits beside me, tapping patterns on the black book on his lap. I found her writing in it the other night. She was so absorbed, but when she saw me, she snapped it shut and hid it under the duvet. She tried to be casual about it, said it was her diary.

Am’s diary is… Curse my mouth.

Green, he finishes for me. I know. I bought it, remember?

Daniel bought us both one. Green to match Amethyst’s eyes. Purple to match mine. It’s a whole thing he does.

I feel guilty and ungrateful that I haven’t used mine yet. I’ll write in it tonight. Dear Diary, my reckless sister has gone missing again. Should I resurrect my nail guns and bolt her to a tree? Please advise.

We heard some things about Amethyst, Daniel says cautiously.

Who’s we?

Michael told us, he says. He received intelligence that various cameras on the Underground had been hacked.

Intelligence?

The surveillance branch of Cascade.

I know better than to ask. Michael says he’ll tell me about Cascade when I’m older. Older means when I’m thirty-five. I think it’s some kind of angel parliament, and I can’t think of anything more dull.

Right, I say. So, what does this have to do with Amethyst?

She was the recipient of the files gained by the breach.

Amethyst is not a hacker. If she didn’t need a laptop for college, Amethyst wouldn’t have bothered with a computer at all. She’s so old-fashioned, it’s embarrassing.

Yeah, well, we think she might’ve had help there.

This time I keep my mouth shut.

Daniel sighs like he heard me anyway. The twins aren’t talking.

That’ll be a first. I reach for the black book, opening it to the first page. So, this is what? A photo of Mara and Amethyst that can’t have been taken more than a few years ago smiles back at me like it’s normal. A shrine?

I turn page after page of photos, each one captioned in Amethyst’s small, loopy handwriting.

Daniel nods. Keep going.

A few pages later, there’s a photo of Mara on her own. The caption beneath it shows Mara’s birthdate, but in the field labelled date of death, there is only a question mark.

2

Shields & Squatters

W hat does this even mean? I ask. Amethyst knows when she died.

Daniel turns the page. Keep reading.

The photos are different now, grainy like CCTV footage, some blurrier than others. What am I seeing? A tumble of captions trip over each other for my attention.

December 5th, Liverpool Street, London. December 11th, Covent Garden, London. December 13th, Baker Street, London. December 22nd, Sloane Square, London.

There are more grainy photos on the next few pages, dates bleeding into January scratched beneath them, each one featuring a buzz-cut Mara lookalike and a scruffy, emaciated sidekick in a hoodie.

What is all this?

The fruits of her illegal labour, Daniel says.

She’s obsessed. I flick back and forth between the pages, squinting at the blurry photos. No wonder Daniel’s so worried. Why is she collecting lookalikes?

I don’t think they’re lookalikes, Violet. Daniel’s expression is grim. I think she finally gave up trying to convince us she didn’t kill Mara and set about proving herself right.

A brutal clamminess sinks into my stomach like wet clay. I was there when Amethyst’s knife plunged into Mara’s heart. I watched her body disappear like vampires’ bodies do. Amethyst told me that Mara faked her own death before, but this happened right in front of me. How could it be a trick? And how could Amethyst keep this from me, this impossible book hiding in the darkness beneath her bed? Because you didn’t believe her.

Guilt gnaws at my stomach. You really think this is her?

Daniel skips forward a page and points to the other person in the photos. Look closely.

I examine the sidekick’s features. Large eyes, small nose, light blonde hair, young. He looks familiar, but…

Here, use this. Daniel drops a magnifying glass onto my lap. Look at his neck.

He’s got a circular tattoo. No, a spiral.

Piper?

Daniel nods. That’s what it looks like.

Oh my God, she’s really alive.

And her creepy hypnotist sidekick is with her. I wouldn’t have thought she’d give him the time of day after he legged it before the battle even began. I bet Archer would pay good money to get his hands on the little shit after what he did to Leia.

And it looks like Amethyst has found her, Daniel says.

That’s where she’s gone? To London, to hunt her bitch sister?

It’s just like her to wander off to prove a point, but I hate that I ignored her when she tried to tell me what was wrong. Actually, it was worse than that. I pitied and dismissed her.

Albert’s with her, Daniel says. He’ll keep her safe.

What if he’s working for Mara again?

He’s not.

How do you know? He could be delivering Amethyst to her right now.

Calm down, Violet.

Don’t tell me to calm down. He betrayed Mara at the battle. What if he sees this as a debt? You said he’d do anything to repay a debt.

You’re being melodramatic.

My nostrils flare wildly as I pace the room. What? I throw my hands up. What’s so funny?

You look like a bull getting ready to charge.

You should be crapping your pants, then. Not laughing at me.

I’m not laughing at you. He pulls me into a hug and kisses my forehead. She’s like a daughter to him, which you’d know if you ever went over there.

I huff. How many fathers does one girl need?

Uncle then. Besides, if anything happened to her on Albert’s watch, Boxer would tear him apart. He pulls away to give me the dad stare. So would I.

And me.

"Right, so he’ll be taking good care of her. He betrayed Mara for Amethyst. For Sean. He picked his side. He’s not gonna change his mind now."

I think back to the night of the battle, when Albert said he was loyal to Sean, the man who saved him. Just like I did when I made Archer rescue him from the watermill.

At least she didn’t run off by herself, I say. We need Archer.

He’s working. He holds his hand up when I take a breath to speak. And no, we can’t crash the restaurant and ask him to project his visions. Not least because I promised I’d help Magnus when the mattress arrives. The mattress is King Kong size, for the new bed Magnus built for Archer who won’t stop growing. His shift finishes at half three. We’ll go then.

The afternoon trickles by, the low winter sun painting streaks of ticking time on my carpet through the gap in the curtains.

You’re not ready, Daniel says from the open doorway of my room.

I glance at the clock on my bedside table like I haven’t been glaring at it for hours. It’s not even quarter to yet.

It’ll take at least half an hour at this time of day, he says. The schools are chucking out.

I fail to hide my disappointment. We’re not teleporting?

No, and the bike’s buggered. Roads are too icy for that anyway.

Why aren’t we teleporting if we can’t take the bike?

It’s making me lazy. He stands in front of my mirror and turns sideways. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I walked anywhere.

You go to the gym.

I think I’m getting a beer gut. He puffs out his belly, grabbing a handful of what he apparently thinks is fat.

You have less belly than I do. Silence. You’re supposed to contradict me.

My dad is hopeless with women. My mum was his last girlfriend, and she died over eighteen years ago. Women flirt with him wherever we go, but he’s painfully oblivious.

When I met him, he looked much younger in his jeans and leather biker jacket. Now, he’s all about beards and tweed jackets and professor glasses, because apparently that’s how dads are supposed to look.

"How are we getting there, then?" I ask, when it becomes apparent he’s not going to comment on my lack of beer belly.

Eden said I could borrow her car.

How is a car any better for exercise? You’re not Fred Flintstone.

We’ll park in town and walk to the riverside. Hurry up.

I stare out the car window at the frosty jade landscape and white-whipped blue sky. Twiggy box hedges curve alongside the road like a never-ending shoe brush. I should’ve brought my sketchbook. We’ll probably end up sitting in a car park for ages with nothing to do but listen to Daniel’s horrible nineties music.

Oxford stands resolutely yellow against the icy sky, where snow-tipped turret roofs rise like pointy pinecones. Skid marks and tyre tracks sketch spindly winter trees into the light dusting of snow on the side roads, frosted bikes now clinging to the railings.

It’s freezing out, and my coat is hours away from revolt. The elbows are worn through almost completely, and the stitches on the shoulder are coming loose for the fifth time. Everyone has offered to buy me a new one, but I can’t let it go. At the same time, elbow patches are a hard no, and there’s no way I can mend the holes without making it even tighter on the arms. I’m clinging to a rag for reasons unknown even to myself. I wish we’d stayed in the car.

I wave at Archer when he comes out of the restaurant’s staff door. He smiles when he sees me and pulls out his earbuds.

Archer lasted as long at college as he did at school, giving it up after a few months of cream puffs and pizzas. He’d learned so much at the restaurant that college felt like going backwards, and feeling like a giant freak didn’t help him integrate either. Seth has stopped growing now, but Archer is still going. He’s almost as tall as Magnus.

He pulls his beanie on. What are you doing here?

Archer shaved off his patchy, frazzled hair after Lilith set fire to it, then he used his new job at the restaurant as an excuse to stay bald for hygiene reasons. He’s finally growing it back, but he keeps it under his beanie, even when he’s at home. He’s not fast enough to hide it today though, and there’s no sign of the patchiness he was worried about. No curls yet either.

Amethyst is missing, I tell him. We need you to find her.

We think she’s gone to London with Albert, Daniel says. If you can’t find her, find him.

And here I was thinking you were just here ‘cause you love me. Archer clutches his heart in mock offence. Come on, then.

I pull my near-dead coat around me, bury my chin in my scarf, and trudge through the snow after Archer.

The grey of impending dusk is already pecking holes in the luminous white sky, the last traces of blue gone. Chunks of slushy ice float in the sludgy, bilious river, where a violent magenta riverboat bobs gently in the current, a pale amber glow in its windows.

Archer stops walking, focusing on the water tumbling by.

After a couple of minutes of silence, I say, Let us see.

"There’s nothing to see. He shakes his head. They’re not there. They’re not anywhere."

They must be somewhere, I say. Let me see.

They’re not there, Vi.

Did you try Albert? Daniel asks.

Yeah, nothing.

We walk back to the car, Archer frowning in disappointment, Daniel drowning in worry. With Amethyst missing and Mara back from the dead, it’s time for a family meeting in the library.

After we show everyone Amethyst’s book, there’s a frantic exchange of dire looks and incomprehensible babble. For the hundredth time, I’m asked what I saw on the night of the battle.

I told you. I heard Amethyst’s fist hit Mara’s chest when the knife went in. Then Mara disappeared, and the knife dropped. Mara’s eyes went all wide, like she was surprised Amethyst had the nerve to do it.

What about ashes? Magnus asks. Teeth?

I shake my head. I don’t remember.

What about her clothes?

I don’t know. I mean, the sun was coming up by then, but we were in the trees, so it was still dark.

Well, who picked up Amethyst’s knife? Surely, they would’ve seen the clothes.

Her freaky shadows picked up the knife.

I don’t like the shadowy ribbons that fly away from Amethyst’s aura to pick up her knives of their own accord. She has no control over them, and they waft around her like hungry black lizard tongues.

Did anyone pick up her clothes? Magnus asks, eyebrows rising at our wave of shrugging shoulders.

Maybe Michael picked them up, I say. She was wearing the same as me. I don’t know how that works.

None of us were really with it that night. Any one of us could’ve picked up anything, Seth says. But if she’s really back…

Then somebody helped her get away, Eden says, kneading the frown lines on her forehead. She turns to Archer. "You said you can’t see Amethyst or Albert?"

No. It was just mist and white noise.

Is it possible Albert’s shielding them both from our attempts to find them, Magnus? she asks.

I think that’s exactly what he’s doing. Magnus rubs the back of the sleepy, burping bundle peering over his shoulder. Though it’s likelier Albert is shielding to protect Amethyst and himself from Piper given his similar powers.

Magnus is different since he got back from Hell. To him, everything we do looks like a car tumbling down a ravine. Whenever Amethyst and I go anywhere, Daniel asks if we need money, Eden asks if we need a lift, and Magnus reminds us to come home in one piece. He doesn’t even bother reaching for levity.

We spend fifteen minutes arguing about who should go after Amethyst. I’m not backing down, and neither is Daniel. Seth is completely unfussed, saying she’ll be back in her own sweet time. But the others want to come to London with us, even Eden, who has no discernible powers now that her pregnancy-induced dermal armour has worn off. She asked Lucifer to put the protection back, and he said he would do it the next time she got pregnant with the seventh son of a seventh son.

In the end, we just take Archer. We’ll need him if Albert’s protection slips, and he’ll make our passage through London quicker because people get out of your way when you’re built like an orc.

The sky is smudgy and dark when we land on the roof of Amethyst’s twin houses in Notting Hill.

She won’t come here, I say. It’s too obvious.

"I want to see if anyone has been here," Daniel says.

You said Mara didn’t know Sean bought the house.

He didn’t tell her himself, Daniel admits. But that doesn’t mean nobody else did. And Mara’s not stupid. She’ll have looked into his assets by now.

I rub my arms, wishing I’d borrowed a coat that’s not made of holes like Daniel told me to. Grasping cow.

I’m going inside. Wait here.

When Daniel disappears, Archer looks at my coat in disgust. I don’t know why you still wear that thing.

Memories… and reasons.

Memories like being hacked at with an axe? Or reasons like the ripped lining being handy for stashing dangerous mirrors? Every time I look at it, I remember the look on your face when that axe caught you.

I never considered that keeping it would upset anyone else. I don’t wear it that much.

You’ve been clinging to it all winter, he says. You need to bin it. Or burn it.

Is it upsetting anyone else?

Vi, it’s not about that. He reaches for my shoulders. I’m worried about why you’re keeping it. It can’t be healthy, holding onto something with so much darkness attached to it.

"It doesn’t feel dark."

And I also worry about you turning into a real-life icicle. He laughs, breaking the tension. I mean, look how thin it is.

He’s not wrong.

I’ll think about it.

Seconds later, Daniel’s back on the roof. Someone’s definitely been here. There’s cups in the sink, and whoever left them there is a big fan of cereal. There’s bowls, spoons, and soggy chunks everywhere.

Pretty sure Mara prefers human flesh to Sugar Puffs, I say.

Yeah, I don’t think it’s her. It’s way too messy down there.

Shh! I hear whistling. I dart to the edge of the roof terrace and peer down into the front garden. He’s got a key. And dark hair.

Definitely not Piper then, Archer says. Shame. I’d love to give him another punch in the face.

I pat his shoulder. Calm down, Rocky.

Daniel holds out his elbow and teleports us inside. We creep along the hallway to the lounge at the back of the house where a telly is blaring and flickering in the dark room. Sounds like a war film.

Who the feck are you?

The Irish voice comes from behind us, and we all spin to see a dark-haired guy standing outside the kitchen doorway in his boxers, t-shirt, and socks. He must’ve undressed literally the minute he got indoors.

He’s holding a box of Rice Krispies in one hand and an upturned beer bottle like it’s a knife in the other. His wide eyes land on me first, soft and familiar, and he lowers the beer bottle. Amy?

My stomach trips and spasms. Did he really know my mum?

Caleb? Daniel sputters, stepping in front of me and pushing his unnecessary glasses onto his forehead.

Danny? Caleb looks Daniel up and down and laughs. What in the name of Mary have you done to yourself?

3

Panic on the Underground

Daniel looks down at his tweed jacket and sighs. Caleb deposits his beer bottle and cereal on the radiator shelf and grabs Daniel’s hand, shaking it forever while they grin at each other. Then they hug and slap each other’s backs while Caleb mutters that he can’t believe it on repeat.

I clear my throat.

Sorry, Daniel says. Caleb, this is my daughter, Violet.

Amy’s daughter, Caleb says. It’s not a question, and his wistful tone makes the back of my eyes itch. I heard what happened. I was mightily sorry to hear it.

Daniel nods. And this is Archer. Her uncle.

I roll my eyes while Archer sniggers like he always does at the mention of being my uncle. I’ve told Daniel to stop saying it, but he doesn’t want to confuse people by calling him my brother when he isn’t Daniel’s son. I keep telling him to just introduce him by name, that it’s nobody else’s business how we’re related, but he keeps doing it anyway.

Caleb looks up at Archer, a confused frown on his face. And what are you supposed to be?

Angel, mate, Archer says.

Caleb nods, his mouth hanging open while he shakes Archer’s hand.

This is Caleb Morrigan, Daniel says, finishing the introductions.

So, this is Sean’s cousin, once, twice, many times removed. I thought he’d be old by now. Somehow, it never occurred to me he’d be a vampire, but he’s way too young not to be.

I suppose you know you’re trespassing? I say.

Daniel laughs. Violet!

Well, he is. This is Amethyst’s house now.

Amethyst being?

My twin sister. Sean brought her up, and he left the house to her when he— My gaze drifts sideways to Daniel because I don’t want to be the one to tell Caleb if he doesn’t already know about Sean.

Caleb swallows hard. He’s really dead?

Daniel grips his shoulder. I’m sorry.

There were rumours, he says absently, but you know how the grapevine is.

Mara killed him, I blurt. I was there.

He looks like he doesn’t believe me.

Until this morning, we thought Mara was dead as well, Daniel says. She brought a demon to the surface year before last. She wasn’t around long enough to do too much damage⁠—

Speak for yourself, Archer says.

He’s got a point. Lilith did set fire to Archer. And possess my best friend. And drag Magnus to Hell. And propel Seth through a window. That’s enough damage if you ask me.

Daniel looks at me proudly, his arm around my shoulder. Violet sent Lilith to Hell where she belongs.

"You did that?" Caleb asks.

I don’t like his sceptical tone. Yes. I did.

Well, I’ll be buggered. He turns back to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder. I have beer and snacks.

The kitchen’s a dump.

Bottle opener’s around here somewhere, he waffles on. Crisps in the press by the door, but if you’re wanting cereal, you’ll need to have it in a cup.

Or you could wash up, I say pointedly. Amethyst will be back soon, and I don’t think she’ll be impressed with your housekeeping skills. Or your trousers.

What trousers?

Exactly.

He smiles, and it’s like being in Archer’s full beam. Everyone knows I can’t stay annoyed with a smiler. Smiles make me putty.

I glare at him, so he doesn’t catch on to my weakness. He’s got a dusting of stubble, the sort of nose girls spend hours contouring to achieve, and two freckles on his right temple that I want to draw a smile beneath. And then there are the eyes—Sean’s soft blue eyes—which I’m never going to stop noticing, and which look weird with his black hair and never-leave-the-house-pasty skin.

Feisty one, isn’t she? Caleb says to Daniel. Please tell me Amethyst is the gentle one.

She’s scarier than I am, I say.

Daniel nods in agreement.

Caleb says, I’ll put some trousers on.

And tidy up. I nod at the mess. We’ll be back as soon as we’ve found her.

Concern buckles his forehead. She’s missing?

We think she’s gone looking for Mara, Daniel says.

Caleb glances at the ugly wallpaper. You know there was someone here the day I arrived.

Vampires?

Caleb shakes his head. Removal men.

What were they removing? Daniel asks.

Not sure. It was wrapped up. Looked like a painting or maybe a mirror. It was huge.

And that’s all they took? I ask.

Far as I could tell. Hey, that’s my beer.

Caleb snatches at Archer’s hand, but he lifts it out of reach, and Daniel pulls Caleb’s hand away with a shake of his head.

Archer tracks the condensation sliding down the bottle, squinting at the droplet when it lands in his palm. She’s on the tube.

What line? Daniel asks.

Huh? How should I know?

What colour is the line on the map?

What map?

Above the window, Daniel says impatiently.

It’s gone dark. Like the lights went out. Must be blocking me again.

Did you see the map?

Brown, Archer says. The line on the map was brown.

Bakerloo line, Daniel and I say together.

Caleb waves his finger back and forth between us. Cute.

I grab Daniel’s hand and tell Caleb, Do the washing up.

Archer hands Caleb his beer, reaches for Daniel’s shoulder, and a moment later, we’re on the roof of Baker Street station.

Ten minutes later, there’s still no sign of Amethyst or Albert. It’s possible Baker Street isn’t her destination, but none of the other stations listed in Amethyst’s shrine are on the Bakerloo line.

My phone rings in my pocket.

It’s Eden. Violet, where are you?

Baker Street station, why?

Have you seen Twitter?

What, ever?

Don’t go on the tube, she says.

But Am’s on the tube. What’s going on?

Is the army there?

The army? I squeak. No, not that I can see, but…

But what?

Nobody’s come out of the station since we got here. Eden, what’s going on?

According to Twitter the trains have stopped moving. The lights have gone out down there. Nothing on the news, of course. But videos are emerging.

What sort of videos?

We think there are vaewolves down there.

"What?"

The videos are being taken down as soon as they’re put up, but… put Daniel on.

I hold the phone out to Daniel.

What’s going on? he asks. Shit, really?… No. Look, Amethyst is down there. We’re going… She’ll only follow anyway. You know what she’s like. Daniel sighs. Yes, I’ll keep them both safe… Archer can handle himself… He knows exactly how to take down a vaewolf.

Archer will not be taking down any vaewolves, Eden screeches.

If there had been anyone around to hear her, they would’ve, but the roof is several storeys high, and the area is deserted. Only a few abandoned cars remain. The only sound is the crackling static of a radio.

I tug Daniel’s sleeve. Someone’s coming.

Now, the empty streets make sense. There’s panic on the underground.

Vicious.

Hairy.

Panic.

When the sound of radio static gets too close, Daniel grabs our shoulders and teleports.

I blink into the darkness, the scent of warm rust and summer dirt strong in my nostrils. Where are we?

My hands meet cold brick behind me. Something soft brushes past my ankle, and I pray it’s a cat.

Underground, Daniel mutters, like I haven’t figured out that much for myself.

No shit, Sherlock, Archer jokes, laughing because nobody else will.

A faint hum strikes up to our left, and from the right comes a clank-hiss, then the murmur of voices. The electrical whine of a tube train and two accompanying headlights flare in the darkness no more than twenty feet away.

We’re on the tracks? I blurt.

The train lumbers forward, and the last thing I see before we land safely on the platform is Daniel’s deer-in-headlights expression. The train wheezes by, the platform eerily empty. The lights above us flicker like a spark trying to catch, thrumming violently, louder and louder, almost becoming a growl.

Then I see her. Amethyst.

When the interior of the train lights up, her mouth drops open. She’s yelling and pointing at us, eyes panicked, open palm slapping the door.

I nudge Daniel. Get us on the train, then.

He shakes his head. Too dangerous. If I miss, we’ll get flattened.

Behind us the growling continues while the dim lights hum and flare.

On. Off.

On. Off.

Growling.

Daniel and Archer turn at the same time, fists pulled back. Daniel was right; Archer knows how to take out a vaewolf. They both aim for the nose. Two vaewolves hit the tiled floor with a smack, but more are coming, the flickering lights giving away their locations as they get closer and closer with every burst of light. From the wall, the tiled silhouette of Sherlock Holmes puffs nonchalantly on his pipe.

I punch at