Copyright

First published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

Visit us on the web at www.harpercollins.co.uk

Derek Landy blogs under duress at www.dereklandy.blogspot.com

Text copyright © Derek Landy 2015

Cover photography © Larry Rostant 2015

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Derek Landy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008140816

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780008140878

Version: 2015-12-23

Laura J –

I introduced you to scary movies, the books of Stephen King, and the myriad delights of horror.

You introduced me to StarKid.

I have still not forgiven you.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Read on for a Sneak Preview of Desolation

Also by Derek Landy

About the Publisher

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE AMBER LAMONT’S parents tried to kill her, she was sitting between them in the principal’s office, her hands in her lap, stifling all the things she wanted to say.

“We don’t stand for troublemakers in this school,” said Mrs Cobb. She was a fleshy woman in her fifties who wore a necklace so tight that when her neck quivered and her face went red, Amber expected her head to just pop off, maybe bounce on the floor and go rolling underneath her massively imposing desk. That would have been nice.

“There is a reason we have been placed in the top three educational facilities in the great state of Florida,” Cobb continued, “and do you know what that is? It’s because we run a tight ship.”

She paused for effect, as if what she’d said needed to be absorbed rather than merely tolerated.

Cobb inclined her head slightly to one side. “Mr and Mrs Lamont, I don’t know you very well. In previous years, there has been no reason to summon you here. In previous years, Amber’s behaviour has been perfectly adequate. But your daughter has been sent to my office three times in the past month for altercations with other students. Three times. That is, I’m sure you’ll agree, beyond the pale. Speaking plainly, as I feel I must, her behaviour this semester has worsened to such a degree that I am, regrettably, forced to wonder if there might have been some drastic change in her home circumstances.”

Amber’s mother nodded sympathetically. “How terrible for you.”

Her parents were, as expected, completely calm in the face of overwhelming stupidity. That specific type of calm – detached, patient but at-times-veering-into-condescension – was pretty much their default setting. Amber was used to it. Cobb was not.

Betty Lamont sat in her chair with perfect posture and perfect hair, dressed smartly yet demurely. Bill Lamont sat with his legs crossed, hands resting on the understated buckle of his Italian belt, his fingers intertwined and his shoes gleaming. Both of them good-looking people, tall, healthy and trim. Amber had more in common with Mrs Cobb than she did with her own parents – Cobb could, in fact, have been Amber in forty years’ time, if she never found the discipline to go on that diet she’d been promising herself. The only thing she seemed to have inherited from her folks’ combined gene pool was her brown hair. Sometimes Amber let herself wonder where it all went wrong with her – but she didn’t ponder that mystery for very long. Such pondering led to the cold and darker places of her mind.

“It gets worse,” Cobb said. “The parents of the other girl in this … fracas, we’ll call it, have intimated that they will report the incident to the local newspaper if we do not take appropriate measures. I, for one, refuse to see this school’s good name dragged through the mud because of the actions of one troublesome student.” At that, Cobb glared at Amber, just to make sure everyone present knew to whom she was referring.

“Can I say something?” Amber asked.

“No, you may not.”

“Saffron’s the one who started it. She picks on anyone who isn’t as pretty and perfect as her and her friends.”

“Be quiet,” Cobb said sharply.

“I’m just saying, if you want to blame someone, then blame—”

“You may not speak!”

Amber answered her glare with one of her own. “Then why am I here?”

“You are here to sit and be quiet and let me talk to your parents.”

“But I could let you talk to my parents from somewhere else,” Amber said.

Cobb’s face flushed and her neck quivered. Amber waited for the pop.

“Young lady, you will be quiet when I tell you to be quiet. You will respect my authority and do as you are told. Do you understand?”

“So I’m not allowed to speak up for—”

“Do you understand?”

Her mother patted Amber’s leg. “Come on now, sweetie, let the nice old woman speak.”

Cobb’s eyes widened. “Well, I think I have identified the source of the problem. If this is how Amber has been raised, I am not surprised that she has no respect for authority.”

“Naturally,” Bill said, as composed as ever. “What’s so great about authority, anyway? It takes itself far too seriously, if you want my opinion. You have a little problem that you blow all out of proportion, drag Betty and myself across town for a meeting we’re obviously supposed to dread, and here you sit at your ridiculously large desk like a mini-despot, assuming you wield some sinister power over us. Betty, are you feeling intimidated yet?”

“Not yet,” Betty said kindly, “but I’m sure it will kick in soon.”

Amber did her best not to squirm in her seat. She’d seen this enough times to know what was coming next, and it always made her uncomfortable. Her parents had only so much tolerance for people they viewed as irritations, and the level of punishment they doled out depended entirely on how they were feeling on any particular occasion. The only thing Amber didn’t know was how far they intended to take it today.

Cobb’s unremarkable eyes narrowed. “Obviously, the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. I can see where your daughter gets her attitude.”

Mrs Cobb was now little more than a lame wildebeest, the kind Amber had seen on nature documentaries. Her parents were the lions, moving through the long grass, closing in on both sides. Cobb didn’t know she was the wildebeest, of course. She didn’t know she was lame, either. She thought she was the lion, the one with the power. She had no idea what was coming.

“You’ve just said, essentially, the same thing twice,” Bill pointed out to her. “Added to this, you seem to talk entirely in clichés. And we’ve been entrusting you to educate our daughter? We may have to reconsider.”

“Let me assure you, Mr Lamont,” Mrs Cobb said, sitting straighter and smoothing down her blouse, “you will not have to worry about that any longer.”

“Oh, excellent,” Betty said happily. “So you’ll be leaving the school, then?”

“No, Mrs Lamont, it is your daughter who will be leaving.”

Betty laughed politely. “Oh no, I don’t think so. Bill?”

Bill took out his phone – what he half-jokingly referred to as the most powerful phone in Florida – and dialled a number.

“We do not allow cellphones in the Principal’s Office,” Cobb said.

Bill ignored her. “Grant,” he said, smiling when the call was picked up. “Sorry to be calling in the middle of the day. No, no, nothing like that. Not yet, anyway. No, I’d like you to do me a favour, if you would. The principal of Amber’s school, you know her? That’s the one. I’d like her fired, please.”

Faint fingers of a headache began to tap on the inside of Amber’s skull. So this was how far they were willing to take things today. All the way to the end.

“Thank you,” said Bill. “Say hi to Kirsty for me.”

Bill hung up, and looked at Cobb. “You should be receiving a call any moment now.”

Cobb sighed. “This isn’t amusing, Mr Lamont.”

“Don’t worry, it’s about to get decidedly funnier.”

“I have made my decision. There is no arguing—”

Bill held up a finger for quiet.

Cobb was obedient for all of four seconds before speaking again. “If you’re not going to talk rationally about this, then I have nothing more to say to you. It is unfortunate we could not work out our—”

“Please,” said Betty. “Give it a moment.”

Cobb shook her head, and then her phone rang. She actually jumped.

“I’d answer it,” Betty advised her gently. “It’s for you.”

Cobb hesitated. The phone rang twice more before she picked it up. “Hello? Yes, yes, sir, I’m just … what? But you can’t do that.” She turned her face away. She was pale now, and her voice was hushed. “Please. You can’t do that. I didn’t—”

Amber heard the dial tone from where she was sitting. Cobb sat frozen. Then her shoulders began to jerk, and Amber realised she was crying.

Amber felt queasy. “Bill,” she said, “maybe we don’t really have to get her fired, do we?”

Bill ignored her and stood up. “Right then,” he said. “Amber, we’ll let you get back to class. You’re working at the diner later, aren’t you? Try not to eat anything – we’re having duck tonight.”

Her folks headed for the door, and Amber looked back at Cobb, who stood up quickly.

“Please,” Cobb said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re obviously very important people and … and Amber is obviously a very special girl.”

“Very special,” said Bill, one foot already out of the office.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognise that,” Cobb said, hurrying out from behind her desk. “Special students deserve special treatment. Latitude. They deserve latitude and … and understanding. Leeway.”

“Leeway, latitude and understanding,” Betty said, nodding. “They’ve always been our touchstones for a happy life.”

“Please,” Cobb said. “Don’t have me fired.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Betty. “It’s really up to Amber. Amber, do you think Mrs Cobb should keep her job?”

There was some part of Amber, some sly and distant part, that wanted to say no, that wanted to punish her principal for her shrillness, her pettiness – but this was a part that wasn’t thinking of Cobb as a person. No matter how much Amber may have disliked the woman, she was not prepared to ruin her life just to teach her a lesson.

“Uh yeah, she can keep it,” Amber said.

“Thank you,” Cobb said, her whole body sagging. “Thank you.”

“Wait a second,” Bill said, stepping back into the office. “Mrs Cobb, you accused us of being bad parents. If you want your job back, you’re going to have to do more than just apologise.”

“Oh yes,” Betty said, clapping her hands in delight. “You should beg for it.”

Amber stared at her parents in shocked disbelief, and Cobb frowned.

“I’m sorry?”

Betty’s smile vanished. “Beg, I said.”

Amber had been wrong. She thought she had known the full extent of her parents’ punishments, but this was a level beyond. This was vindictive, like they were running out of patience on some scale no one else could see. This was something entirely new.

Cobb shot a quick glance at Amber, then looked back at Bill and Betty. “Uh … please,” she said quietly. “Please can I keep my job? I … I beg of you.”

Bill shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” He swept his arm towards the door. “Shall we?”

They left the office, left Mrs Cobb standing there with tears running down her face, and walked the length of the corridor without speaking. Right before her parents turned right, for the parking lot, and Amber turned left, for the classrooms, Bill looked at her.

“This girl you had the ‘fracas’ with,” he said, “Saffron, right? Wasn’t she a friend of yours?”

“When we were kids,” said Amber, her voice soft.

He nodded, considered it, then walked away.

Her mother patted Amber’s shoulder and looked sympathetic. “Children can be so cruel,” she said, and followed her husband.

THE HEADACHE THAT HAD been building since lunch finally struck by the end of school, driving thin needles of pain deep into Amber’s temples. She popped a couple of Tylenol and, by the time her shift at the diner was half over, the pain had faded to a dull throb somewhere at the back of her skull.

“My folks are getting weirder,” she said.

Sally looked up from the magazine she was reading. “Sorry?”

“My folks,” Amber repeated as she wiped the table. She did her best to sound casual. “They’re getting weirder.”

“Is that possible?”

“I didn’t think so. But do you know what they did today? They were called into my school and they made my principal cry. She literally shed tears. She was begging and everything. They … they traumatised her. It was so messed up.”

Sally shifted position, leaned back on the countertop in her red and yellow Firebird Diner T-shirt, and looked thoughtful. “That,” she said eventually, “is awesome. I would have loved my folks to have made my principal cry when I was a teenager. When my two start high school, I want to make their principal cry. I hated mine. I hated all my teachers. They always said I’d never amount to anything. But look at me now, eh? Thirty-three years old, no qualifications, and a waitress in a crappy diner with a neon Elvis on the wall.”

Amber gave her the thumbs up. “Living the dream, Sally.”

“Damn right,” Sally said. “And hey, at least your parents are taking an interest for once, right? Isn’t that something?”

“I … I guess.”

“Listen to me. Just stick it out for another few years and then you can go off to college somewhere and build a life for yourself.”

Amber nodded. New York, she figured, or Boston. Somewhere cooler than Florida, where the air alone wouldn’t make her sweat.

“My point is,” Sally continued, “wherever and whenever you decide to start your own family, you can do it right.” She gave a little grin. “Okay?”

Amber could never resist one of Sally’s grins. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

“Attagirl.”

Customers came in, and Sally put a spring in her step as she walked to greet them. “Hi there!” she said brightly. “Welcome to the Firebird! Can I show you to your booth?”

Amber watched her, marvelling at how natural her sudden cheerfulness seemed. A smile from Sally could turn a bad mood on its head – it was a phenomenon that Amber had witnessed on multiple occasions, and it rarely failed. The customers smiled back and they exchanged a few words and Sally led them to a booth by the window. Even though the Firebird was the third most successful fifties-themed diner franchise in the state – and Amber had no idea where that statistic had sprouted from – Wednesday afternoons were always slow. On slow days, it was policy to sit as many patrons by the window as possible in order to entice people in. Hungry people liked eating with other hungry people, it seemed. Amber had never been able to understand that. For as long as she could remember, she had always hated people watching her eat. She didn’t even like eating meals with her parents.

Although, if she was to be honest with herself – and if she couldn’t be honest with herself, then who could she be honest with? – their inherent weirdness might have had something to do with that.

Her parents were odd. Amber had known that for quite some time. Ever since she could remember, it was like they shared a private joke that she’d never been let in on. She loved them, of course she did, but she’d always felt like an appendage. She didn’t complete the family because the family didn’t need her to be complete. Bill and Betty Lamont were so perfect for each other that there were no gaps left for Amber to fill.

Two guys walked into the diner, both in their late teens. Joking and chatting, they stood at the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign and only looked at Amber when she smiled and said “Hi!” in her perkiest voice. “Welcome to the Firebird. Can I show you to your booth?”

“Don’t see why not,” said the first guy.

She smiled again and turned on her heel, making sure to keep the smile in place. She wasn’t pretty like Sally, wasn’t tall like Sally, wasn’t captivating like Sally and certainly did not look as good in her yellow shorts as Sally did, but, even so, there were so many mirrors in the diner that to lose a smile at any point could mean a drastic loss in tips. She stood by the booth in the corner and her two customers slid in on opposite sides of the table.

“My name’s Amber,” she said, taking her notepad from her back pocket, “and I’ll be your waitress this evening.”

“Hi, Amber,” the first guy said. “My name’s Dan, this is Brandon, and we’ll be your customers.”

Amber gave a little laugh. “What can I get you?”

“We’re keeping it simple today. We’ll take your cheeseburger deals. The whole shebang.”

Amber marked the orders down. “Two cheeseburgers with the works, two fries. No problem at all. And to drink?”

“Coke,” said Dan.

“Coke it is.”

“Actually, no,” said Dan, “I’ll have a strawberry milkshake instead.”

“One strawberry milkshake, gotcha. And for you?”

Brandon didn’t look up from the menu. “Do you have 7-Up?”

“We have Sprite,” Amber said.

“That’s nice,” Brandon said, raising his eyes to her slowly, “but I didn’t ask if you had Sprite. I asked if you had 7-Up.”

Amber’s headache started to spike again, but she kept her smile and smothered her words. She needed this job. The Dark Places convention was in a few months and tickets were not cheap.

“I’m really sorry, we don’t have 7-Up,” she said brightly, like she’d just been told she’d won a bunny in a raffle. “Would you like Sprite instead?”

Brandon took off his glasses and cleaned them. “If I had wanted Sprite, I’d have asked for Sprite, now wouldn’t I?”

“Please excuse Brandon,” Dan said, grinning. “He’s in one of his moods. Brandon, out of all of the drinks that they have here, which one do you want?”

Brandon let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’ll have a milkshake.”

“Okay then,” Amber said, pencil at the ready. “What flavour?”

“Well, I don’t know. What flavour do you recommend?”

“I’ve always loved chocolate.”

“Then I’ll have vanilla,” Brandon said, and put his glasses back on.

Dan was trying not to laugh at the antics of his buddy. Amber stood there and smiled. “Sure thing,” she said. “Can I get you guys anything else?”

“If we think of anything,” said Dan, “we’ll be sure to ask.”

Amber smiled and left them, fighting a swirling tide of nausea. She got through the swinging doors to the kitchen and leaned against the wall for a moment, waiting for the feeling to subside. When she was sure that she wasn’t going to pass out or puke, she gave in the order and stood beside Sally, both of them making milkshakes.

“What are your guys like?” Amber asked, ignoring her surging headache.

“Two businessmen,” Sally said, “slumming it, flirting really badly with me and destined to end up with sauce splattered down their shirts. What about yours? The one in the glasses looks cute.”

“He’s a tool.”

“But not that cute,” Sally said quickly. “In fact, if you had let me finish before interrupting, you would have heard me say he looks cute, but, on closer inspection, he’s obviously a tool.”

Amber grinned. “You were going to say that?”

Sally nodded. “If you had just let me finish, instead of babbling on like you always do.”

“I am a babbler.”

“Yes, you are.”

Amber placed the milkshakes on a tray, took a deep breath, and went back out.

Brandon watched her walk over, and Amber tried for a smile. It wasn’t convincing, but it’d do. She didn’t care about the tip anymore – all she wanted was for these two guys to leave, to take their bad vibes with them, and allow her to wallow in whatever sickly unpleasantness had been threatening to engulf her all day.

“Now then—” she started, but the headache sent fresh needles of pain straight to the back of her eyes and she winced, and the tray overbalanced and the milkshakes slid sideways, toppling off the edge and smashing to the ground.

The sound of breaking glass swept the headache away, and as Amber’s vision cleared she could see that the milkshakes had gone everywhere. They’d drenched her sneakers and splattered the cuffs of Brandon’s jeans.

Dan howled with laughter, but Brandon glared at her, heat rising in his face.

“Oh my God,” Amber said. “I am so sorry. I am so incredibly sorry.”

“You …”

“I’ll get this cleaned up. I am so sorry.”

“You stupid fat pig.”

Amber froze.

“You clumsy, ugly little troll,” Brandon said. “You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t, I swear—”

“You dumped it over me on purpose.”

“It was an accident.”

Sally hurried over, mop already in hand. “It’s okay, no big deal, we’ll get this—”

Brandon jabbed a finger at Amber. “She did it on purpose.”

Sally laughed. “I’m sure it was just—”

“I want her fired.”

Sally stopped mopping, and her laugh turned to a bemused smile. “She’s not going to be fired for dropping a tray, all right? It happens all the time. How about this? Your meal is on the house.”

“Our meal is on the floor,” Brandon said. “Where’s the manager? I want to speak to the manager. I want this fat pig fired.”

Sally’s face turned to stone. “Get out,” she said. “Both of you. Out. You’re not welcome here.”

Dan held up his hands in mock-innocence. “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I was just sitting here. What did I do wrong?”

“You picked the wrong friend,” said Sally. “Go on. Out.”

Brandon kept his gaze fixed on Amber. His face had gone pale and rigid, like he was about to dive at her. Dan had to practically drag him to the door.

Sally stood there with her hands on her hips. “Wow,” she said when they had gone. “What a couple of tools. You okay, honey?”

“I’m fine.”

Sally patted her shoulder. “They’re morons. Don’t listen to a word they say.”

Sally helped Amber clean up the mess. The two businessmen sneaked glances whenever they could, and Amber couldn’t blame them. Even mopping the floor, Sally was pretty. She didn’t get red-faced with the exertion like Amber did, and her hair didn’t fall out of its ponytail, like Amber’s did. She even looked good in the Firebird T-shirt.

Amber tried her very best not to look at her own reflection in the mirrors, though. She was in a bad enough mood already.

The rest of her shift dragged by. When it ended, she pulled on a fresh T-shirt and shorts that weren’t yellow, said goodbye to the cook and to Sally, and stepped out on to the sidewalk. It was already getting dark, but the heat was waiting for her, and her forehead prickled with sweat as her lungs filled with warm air. She’d spent her whole life in Florida, been born and raised in Orlando, and she still reacted to the heat like a tourist. It was why, despite having a big, two-storey house to call home, her bedroom was on the first floor, where the air was fractionally cooler, especially on a day like today, when the clouds were gathering. Rain was on its way. Lightning, too, most likely.

Amber had a fifteen-minute walk home. Other kids would probably have been able to call Mom or Dad for a ride, but Bill and Betty had very firm ideas about what independence meant. Amber was used to it by now. If she was lucky, she’d get to the front door before she got drenched.

She crossed the street and slipped down the narrow lane that led to the dance studio she had hated as a child. Too uncoordinated, that was her problem. That and the fact that the dance teacher had hated her with startling venom. Amber was never going to be as pretty as the pretty girls or as graceful as the graceful girls, and she had come to terms with that, even as a kid. Her dance teacher, however, seemed to take issue with it.

Amber got to the badly painted sign of the ballerina and the curiously eighties hip-hop dancer, and Dan and Brandon turned the corner in front of her.

They were talking about something – Dan was chiding Brandon and Brandon was looking pissed off – but when they saw Amber they went quiet. Amber stood there, her legs stiff and suddenly uncooperative, and another headache started somewhere behind her eyes.

Brandon grinned. There was nothing friendly in it.

Amber forced her legs to work again, and she took the lane to her left. They walked after her. She quickened her pace through the growing gloom.

“Oink, oink, little piggy,” Brandon said from behind her.

Amber broke into a run.

They laughed, and gave chase.

She plunged out of the lane and cut across the road, slipping between the back of a laundromat and an attorney’s office. Immediately, Amber realised this was a mistake. She should have headed towards the pizzeria where there would have been people, and light, and noise. Instead, she was running across an empty lot and finding herself out of breath. A hand closed around her jacket and she cried out, twisted, got tangled in Dan’s legs, and they both went down.

She landed heavily, painfully, with Dan sprawling over her.

“Oww,” he laughed, rolling over. “Owww, that hurt.”

Amber got up and backed off, rubbing her hands where she had skinned them as she fell. The headache was a thunder cloud inside her skull. Goosebumps rippled. Her stomach churned.

Dan stood, panting, and Brandon jogged up to them, taking his time.

“This isn’t funny,” Amber said.

“It’s not meant to be,” said Brandon.

“Why’d you run?” Dan chuckled. “We wouldn’t have run if you hadn’t run. Why’d you run?”

“Let me go,” said Amber.

Dan swept his arm wide. “We’re not stopping you from going anywhere. Go right ahead.”

Amber hesitated, then stepped between them. They loomed over her on either side. She took another step, started walking away, but the moment her back was turned Dan was right behind her, on her heels.

She spun, her vision blurring for a moment. “Stop following me.”

“You can’t tell me where to go and where not to go,” Dan said, suddenly angry. “This is America. Land of the free. Don’t you know that?”

She could taste copper in the back of her mouth. “Leave me alone,” she said dully.

“We’re not doing anything!” Dan yelled, right in her face. She flinched away from him.

“Admit what you did, little piggy,” said Brandon, circling her. “Admit that you spilled that milkshake on me on purpose.”

“I swear, it was an accident.”

“If you admit that you did it on purpose,” said Dan, the reasonable one once again, “then we’ll go away.”

He was right in front of her as he spoke, but he sounded a hundred miles away. She had to end this now, at once, before the blackness at the edge of her vision overpowered her and she collapsed.

“Okay,” Amber said, “okay, I did it on purpose.”

They nodded, like they had known all along. But they didn’t leave.

“You made me look like a liar,” said Brandon.

Amber tried focusing on Dan. “You said you’d go away.”

“Jesus,” he said, making a face. “Don’t be so frikkin’ rude.”

“Okay,” she said, “I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry. It was stupid. I’m very sorry. Please let me go home.”

“For the last time,” said Dan, “we’re not stopping you. We’re not stopping you from doing anything. Why is that so hard for you to understand? Are you really that dumb? Are you really that stupid? Stop treating us like we’re the bad guys here, okay? You’re the one who threw that milkshake on my friend. You’re the one who got us kicked out. You’re the one who ran. You’re the one who made me fall over. My knee is bleeding, did you know that? But am I complaining about it? Am I making a fuss? No, I am not. But you? You won’t stop turning this whole thing into some big frikkin’ drama.”

“I don’t …”

“What? What was that?”

“I don’t feel well.”

Her knees started to buckle and she reached out to steady herself, grabbing the front of Dan’s shirt. He grimaced and pushed her hand away and she stumbled, and then Brandon was there, grabbing her, straightening her up—

—and then he hit her.

The pain was nothing compared to the violent storm in her head, but his fist rocked her, sharpened her, and she saw him look at his own knuckles, like he was surprised that he had done it, and then everything was moving very quickly and when she felt a hand on her face she bit down hard and heard a howl.

Her vision cleared. Brandon’s horrified face swam into view. She hit him back, as hard as she could, and his jaw came apart around her fist.

A moment stretched to eternity.

She watched her fist.

It was weird – in this gloom, her skin almost looked red.

A deeper red than the blood, though, the blood that exploded in glorious slow motion from the wreckage that had been Brandon’s face. Was she doing this? Was this happening? In that moment, that luxurious moment, Amber found the time to wonder if she was imagining this part. Surely this was some sort of bizarre hallucination, brought about by adrenaline and those increasingly painful headaches.

There was no headache now, though. There was no pain of any sort. Instead, she felt … wonderful. She felt free. She felt …

Powerful.

Time started to speed up again. Blood splattered her T-shirt and Brandon hit the ground and, now that she could perceive normal sound once more, Amber registered his gargled screaming. Both hands were at his face and he was crawling frantically away, leaving a trail of blood as he went. Dan backed off, staring at her, his face white and his eyes wide and utterly, utterly terrified.

She had done that. The blood and the screaming and the shattered bones. It had been no hallucination. She had done that.

She raised her blood-speckled hand. Normal skin again. That was good. Normal was good.

Something in her mouth. Something that tasted of copper. She spat. Brandon’s finger hit the ground.

Amber turned and ran.

THERE WAS BLOOD ON HER HANDS.

Not in a metaphorical, figurative sense, although of course there was that, too, but in an actual, physical sense, there was actual blood on her actual hands, and it was proving surprisingly difficult to wash off. Amber scrubbed furiously, looked at the result, and then scrubbed again. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that her hands were quite small. If the rest of her body could have been in proportion with her hands, then maybe she wouldn’t have been such a target. These were the thoughts that occurred to her as she was scrubbing the blood away.

“Amber?” came her mother’s voice from beyond the bathroom door.

Amber looked up at herself in the mirror above the sink – wild-eyed and panicked. “Yes?” she called, keeping her voice as steady as possible.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Amber said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Amber listened to her mother hesitate, then walk away down the hall.

She turned off the faucet and examined her hands. For one ridiculous moment, she thought they were still bloodstained, but then she closed her eyes and shook her head. The frantic scrubbing had turned them both red-raw, that’s all it was. No need for her imagination to be going into overdrive on this one. There was enough to freak out about as it was.

She put the toilet seat down and sat, taking deep breaths, and examined the facts. Yes, she had seriously injured that guy, but she had been acting in self-defence and she had been outnumbered. She really couldn’t see how the cops wouldn’t be on her side about this – if only she hadn’t injured him quite so dramatically.

Amber frowned. What was his name? The name of the guy whose face she’d destroyed?

Brandon, that was it. She was glad she remembered it. For some reason, it felt important that she remember his name after what she’d done to him.

She hadn’t meant to do it, and she hadn’t a clue how it had happened. She’d heard stories about adrenaline, about what it could do to the human body. Mothers lifting cars off toddlers and stuff. It was, she supposed, possible that adrenaline had granted her the sheer strength to shatter bones on contact, and anyway how much strength would it really take to bite through a finger?

The very thought made her want to throw up again.

She stood, and examined herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale and blotchy and her hair was a tangled, frizzy mess. Her eyes – hazel, with flecks of gold, and the only part of herself she didn’t hate – were red-rimmed from crying.

She went to her room, changed her blood-splattered T-shirt for a top that the lady in the store had said would flatter her figure. Amber wasn’t so sure she believed her, but it was a nice top, even if it didn’t look especially good on her. She realised her hands were trembling.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Of course they were trembling. She was in shock. She needed help. Advice. Comfort.

For the first time since she was a kid, she needed her parents.

“Ah hell,” she muttered. It was worth a try.

She heard them in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to dinner. Amber crossed the hall, walking with heavy, leaden feet. The house was filled with the aroma of duck, cooked to perfection, and usually this would have her belly rumbling. But the only thing her belly was doing now was housing a whole load of fluttering butterflies. She tried to remember the last time she’d talked to her parents about anything important. Or the last time she’d talked to them about anything.

She couldn’t.

Her mouth dry, she stepped into the kitchen. Bill was checking the duck in the oven. No sign of Betty. Amber could feel her courage begin to falter. She needed both of them in the room at the same time. She couldn’t do this with only one. Could she? Or was this a condition she was setting for herself purely to have an excuse to back out?

And, just like that, her courage deserted her.

Relief sapped the rigidity from her joints and she sagged, stepped backwards without Bill even realising she’d been standing there. She walked back to her room. Maybe she could bring it up over dinner, provided there was a lull in the conversation. The two-way conversation, of course, as Amber was only rarely asked to contribute an opinion. There probably wouldn’t be a lull, though, but even if there was this was hardly an appropriate topic. After dinner, then, or later tonight, or—

Amber stepped into her room but Betty was already in here, the blood-splattered T-shirt in her hands.

“Whose blood is this?” her mother asked.

Amber searched for an answer that wouldn’t come.

Betty dropped the T-shirt on the bed, crossed over to her, and took hold of Amber’s arms. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

Amber shook her head.

“What happened?” Betty asked. “Tell me, Amber.”

“I’m fine,” Amber managed to say.

Her mother looked deep into her eyes, like she’d find the truth locked away in there.

“It’s not my blood,” said Amber quietly.

“Whose is it?”

“At the Firebird. Some guys.”

Betty let go of her and stepped back. “How many?”

“Two. They followed me. They attacked me.”

Betty had a funny look on her face. “Amber, sweetheart, what did you do?”

“I did nothing,” Amber said, her words suddenly rushing out. “I defended myself. I did nothing wrong. They were abusive customers. We asked them to leave. I saw them when I was walking home and they chased me. They attacked me, Betty. Two against one.”

“You defended yourself? Are you okay?”

“I’m … I’m fine. Really.”

“And how are they?”

Now Amber squirmed. “Um, I don’t … I don’t know. One of them, I … I think I broke his jaw. And bit his finger off.”

“You bit his finger?”

“I bit his finger off.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Betty said, taking Amber into her arms. Amber stiffened. She didn’t know when her mother’s arms had last embraced her. “And you’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m sure. The adrenaline just … I’m fine.”

“Has this happened before? This surge of strength?”

“No,” Amber said, wondering how long she had to stay like this. “First time.”

“How are you apart from that? How are you feeling? Headaches? Nausea?”

“A … a little. How did you know?”

Betty broke off the hug, and looked at her daughter with actual tears in her eyes.

“Betty?” Amber said. “Mom? Are you feeling all right?”

Betty laughed, a nervous laugh that she cut off sharply. “I’m fine, Amber. I’m just … You’ve been through a traumatic experience and I’m … I’m relieved you’re okay.”

“Are you going to tell Bill?”

“Of course.” Betty smiled, then, the most beautiful smile Amber had ever seen her wear. “Don’t you worry. He’s going to want to hear about this. So are the rest of them.”

Amber frowned. “The others? Betty, no, please, I don’t want anyone to—”

“Nonsense,” said Betty, waving Amber’s objections away with one hand while the other took her phone from her pocket. Her slim fingers danced lightly over the keys and in mere moments a group text had been sent.

They sat on the bed while they waited for the others to arrive. Betty asked Amber about school, about her friends, about her job at the Firebird, and she listened as Amber spoke. It was a new sensation for Amber, talking about these things to her own mother. For the first time since Amber could recall, Betty seemed actually interested in her and the life she was leading. She nodded and smiled, probed deeper where needed, and, when they heard the first car pull into the driveway, Betty came forward and kissed the top of her head.

“You make me so proud,” she said softly.

Tears came to Amber’s eyes, unbidden, like a burglar breaking into her home, and proved just as shocking.

“You let the others in,” said Betty. “I’ll help Bill with dinner. Good thing we chose a big duck.”

Amber waited until Betty had left before rubbing her eyes. Her knuckles came away wet. There was a curious tightness in her chest that made her breathe funny. She stood up, took a moment to calm herself. She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected that this was what it meant to have a loving parent. It was proving to be an unsettling experience.

The doorbell rang and she answered it. Two of her parents’ closest friends, Grant and Kirsty Van der Valk, lived only five minutes away, so she wasn’t surprised to see them arrive first. What did surprise her was the smile that Grant wore, which was as broad as his chest.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, giving Amber a hug. He’d never called her kiddo before. Never hugged her before, either. He smelled of expensive aftershave, applied with restraint.

He stepped back, still smiling. He had hair that had always reminded Amber of Elvis Presley’s in his later years – though the sideburns were not quite as ridiculous. “How’d it go with that principal of yours today? Your dad told me you spared her job. You’re a better person than me, you know that?”

“That was never in any doubt,” said Kirsty, taking her turn for a hug. If Grant was Elvis, then Kirsty was Pricilla – beautiful, red-headed and so wonderfully vivacious. Today that vivaciousness was directed solely at Amber. “How are you?” Kirsty asked softly, like this was a conversation just between them. “Are you feeling okay? How long have you been having the headaches?”

“Not too long,” Amber mumbled, starting to get a little freaked out by all this. Did she have a brain tumour that everyone knew about but her?

Then Kirsty’s eyes widened. “Good God, that smells amazing. Did you help them cook?”

Amber tried a smile. “They don’t let me near the oven,” she said, and led them into the living room, where they were soon joined by Bill. As they chatted, he stood by Amber’s side with his arm round her shoulder like the proud parents she’d seen on TV.

Then the doorbell rang again, and Amber excused herself. Neither of her parents had any family, so this tight group of friends had long since become a substitute. She supposed, in a way, they were her aunts and uncles, though they treated her with the same cool detachment she’d grown used to.

She opened the door and was immediately swept off her feet.

“Hello, beautiful!” growled Alastair.

Amber didn’t know how to react to this. Her feet dangled.

Alastair laughed and set her back on the ground. Like her parents and the Van der Valks, Alastair Modine was older than he looked. He had an easy, smiling face behind all those bristles, and was more casual than the others, preferring jeans to suits and rolled-up shirtsleeves to a collar and tie.

“Heard you got in trouble at school,” he said, whispering it as though it was a secret. “I knew you were a troublemaker from the first moment I saw you. You were only a few hours old, but I knew. I knew.” He took a moment to look at her. “You look more and more like your mom every day.”

Amber smiled politely, even though she knew this was an outright lie. Betty was beautiful. Amber was plain. Betty was statuesque. Amber was not. These things she knew.

A third and final car pulled up in the driveway. “The others are in the living room,” she said.

Alastair glanced back at the car, then gave Amber another smile and went to join his friends.

Amber stood in the doorway, watching Imelda walk up as the rain started to fall. Her blonde hair was styled and immaculate. Her clothes were perfectly coordinated. Her make-up was flawless. This was all to be expected. Imelda Montgomery was a living, breathing example of a woman who had every box ticked. All except for the smile. Imelda had a pretty face that begged to smile – and yet Amber had never seen her genuinely happy. Not even when she’d been married to Alastair.

“Amber,” Imelda said as she stepped inside.

“Hi,” Amber said, and that was the extent of their conversation. It was all Amber expected. Imelda made even her parents look affectionate.

They moved into the dining room, and Amber ate dinner with her parents and their friends. They drank wine and she drank Coke. The last time she’d eaten with them had been three months earlier, on her sixteenth birthday. Until tonight, she’d never seen them in such a good mood. Well, apart from Imelda who, in fact, had looked even grumpier than usual. But that was Imelda. She was a special case.

Amber hadn’t invited any of her friends to her birthday. Her true friends, her real friends, were all online anyway, on fansite messageboards and forums. She didn’t need to meet any of them in the flesh. Online, she could pretend to be popular and funny and interesting, and she didn’t have to worry about disappointing anyone when her smile didn’t light up the room. Online, nobody cared about the wattage.

She endured questions about the possibility of boyfriends and the casual drudgery of school and she was just beginning to enjoy herself when she remembered the taste of that boy’s blood in her mouth. Her appetite vanished abruptly, and she pushed the food around on her plate while the others talked on. Despite what Betty had said earlier, they didn’t discuss the burst of violence that had darkened Amber’s day. She was grateful for this.

“You look tired,” Betty said, leaning across to her.

Amber nodded. “I think I’m going to have an early night, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” said Bill. “Leave your plate – we’ll clean up. You get to bed – you’ve had a big day.”

“The biggest,” said Grant.

The others nodded and smiled their understanding – only Imelda appeared annoyed. More than annoyed, actually. Practically agitated.

Amber was too tired to care about that now. She stood, noticing for the first time that no one else had even touched their dinner, and smiled and said, “Goodnight.”

She got a hearty chorus in response, and she went to her room, closing the door behind her.

Rain pelted the window like machine-gun bullets. Outside it was hot and wet, but here it was air-conditioned cool, just the way she liked it. She wanted to go straight to bed, even though it was just after ten, but she also needed to talk about what had happened to her today. She logged on to the In The Dark Places messageboard.

The Dark Princess said …

Hello? Anyone on?

Mad Hatter99 said …

Princess! Where u BEEN, girl?

*snuggles up closer for a hug*

The Dark Princess said …

Been busy with school n stuff. Having a REALLY strange day.

You seen BAC recently?

Mad Hatter99 said …

Me too! U missed the convo yesterday. What u think of Tuesday’s ep?

She was on earlier. Had some role-play stuff going on. Y?

The Dark Princess said …

Just need to talk to her. Nvr mind. Too sleepy to wait up. Nite nite x

Mad Hatter99 said …

Nooooooo! Don’t leave me!

Amber logged out of the messageboard and lay back on her bed. Taking off her clothes was far too much effort. Brushing her teeth seemed a ridiculous waste of energy. She could barely keep her eyes open. She heard her parents and the others talking, but couldn’t make out the words. There was laughter. Excitement.

Her phone rang, buzzing against her hip. With numb fingers, she pulled it from her pocket and held it to her ear.

“It’s me,” said Sally. “Just got a call from Frank. Two cops came into the Firebird ten minutes ago asking about you.”

Faint alarm bells rang in Amber’s head. “What’d they want?” she asked groggily.

“You,” said Sally. “They said you attacked those guys from earlier. Did you? They said one of them’s in the hospital.”

Groaning, Amber sat up. “Did Frank tell them my name?”

“Of course he did, Amber. They’re cops. What happened?”

The doorbell rang. Amber hung up, slipped her phone into her pocket while she stood. The room spun for a moment. When she was sure she wasn’t going to fall over, she walked with Frankenstein feet to the window.

There was a patrol car in the driveway.

THE CHATTER IN THE house died away, replaced by a new, unfamiliar voice. A man’s voice. Official-sounding. Amber wished she wasn’t so tired. If she could only get her brain in gear, she’d be able to explain herself. She was sure she’d be able to make the cops understand. She took a few deep breaths to clear her head, and walked unsteadily to her door. She opened it. If they wanted her to emerge with her hands up, they were going to be disappointed. She was far too tired to lift her arms.

From the sounds of things, the others had stayed in the dining room, and Bill and Betty had taken the cops into the living room to talk. Amber stayed close to the wall as she moved, in case she needed the support. She got to the family photo in the hallway – the only framed photograph of the three of them – and stopped. From here, she could look across the corridor, through the open door.

Two officers of the law stood there in full uniform, talking to her parents. The cops were saying something, but Amber couldn’t focus enough to make out the words. She didn’t know why she felt so tired. They all stood in the centre of the room, watching each other. Amber shuffled her shoulder along the wall, then stopped again, concentrated on what the cop was saying.

“…just need to speak to her, that’s all.”

“Amber’s not feeling well at the moment,” Bill said. “Maybe if you come back tomorrow she’ll be strong enough.”

“Mr Lamont,” the cop said, “I understand what you’re doing. Please don’t think I don’t. Your daughter may be in trouble and you want to protect her. I get that. I do. But you’re doing her no favours if you don’t let us speak to her.”

Despite her drowsiness, Amber felt her insides go cold.

“My husband isn’t lying,” Betty said, sounding upset. “If you’d just call Chief Gilmore, I know he’ll vouch for us and for Amber. Whatever you think happened I just know didn’t happen.”

“We’re not calling the Police Chief, we’re not even calling this in, until we’ve had a chance to speak with Amber,” the cop said. “We have two young men who swear that she assaulted them.”

“One sixteen-year-old girl assaulted two men?” Bill said. “And you’re taking them seriously? You’re actually wasting your time with this nonsense?”

“We’ll get this whole thing cleared up if you’ll just let us speak to her.”

Bill put his hands on his hips and shook his head despairingly. Betty looked at him.

“You are such a perfectionist,” she said. The upset she’d briefly displayed had disappeared.

“I just like it when things are neat,” said Bill. “This … would not be neat.”

“I’m sorry, what wouldn’t be neat?” one of the cops asked.

But Bill and Betty ignored him.

“This is a special day,” Betty said. “A wonderful day. For sixteen years, we have waited for this day. What’s happening now is a minor inconvenience. That’s all it is.”

“Mrs Lamont,” one of the cops began, but Bill talked over him.

“It’s already in the system,” he said to his wife. “Already logged.”

“No, it isn’t,” Betty answered. “That one said they haven’t even called it in yet. Gilmore will make it go away. He’s done it before, and for the money we’re paying him he’ll certainly do it again. You might have to drive their car into the marshes later on tonight, just to confuse their colleagues, but why not?”

The officers glanced at each other.

Bill looked at his wife and smiled. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really want to do this?”

“Yes,” said Betty. “I really do.” She took a coat from the back of the couch and put it on, pulling the sleeve down past her wrist and wrapping it around her hand.

“Uh, excuse me?” said the cop.

“So which one do you want?” asked Bill.

Betty nodded to the cop closest to her. “That one.”

“Fair enough,” Bill said, shrugging. “I’ll kill the ugly one.”

“Hey,” said the big cop, but his next words were muffled by Bill’s hand covering his face.

Only it wasn’t Bill’s hand. It was red, and tipped with black talons. Bill’s face was red, too, but different, altered, and he was bigger, taller, suddenly towering over the cop, a red-skinned monster with black horns curling from his forehead, like a ram’s horns.

The demon that had taken Bill’s place slammed the cop’s head against the wall. The head crumpled like an empty soda can.

The cop’s partner jumped back in shock, scrabbled at his holster for his gun, then remembered Betty and turned just as she changed. One moment Betty. The next a monster. Tall. Red. Horned. Her fist went right through his chest, popping out the other side in a spray of blood. The cop gurgled something that Amber couldn’t make out. Betty opened her hand, letting go of the sleeve, and withdrew her arm from both her coat and the cop’s torso.

Amber ducked back as the dead cop collapsed.

“Well,” she heard Bill say, “that’s done it.”

Betty laughed. It was her laugh, all right, but it was coming from the mouth of a demon.

The door between the living room and the dining room opened, and Amber inched forward again to watch Grant lead the others in. They stared in shock at the carnage.

Kirsty covered her mouth with her hand.

Bill turned to them. “We can explain.”

Kirsty rushed forward. “That’s my coat! What the hell, Betty?”

Amber’s knees went weak.

“Can we talk about your coat later?” said Grant. “Right now can we talk about the two dead cops on the carpet?”

“I’ll call Gilmore,” said Bill. “We’ll get it all smoothed over. This is not a big deal.”

“They’re cops!”

Bill-the-demon waved a hand. “We got a bit carried away. We shouldn’t have done it. Happy? It’s low key for Betty and me for the rest of the night, we promise. We kill Amber, and that’s it. No more killing for the week.”

Amber’s stomach lurched and suddenly she was cold, colder than she’d ever been.

“I really am sorry about your coat,” Betty said to Kirsty. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Kirsty shook her head. “It was limited edition. You can’t get them anymore.”

Amber slid sideways, forgetting how to walk, forgetting how to breathe. Her feet were heavy, made of stone, dragging themselves across the floor towards her bedroom while the rest of her body did its best to stay upright. She fell through her doorway, down to her knees, turned and reached out, numb fingers tipping the door closed. Her mouth was dry and her tongue was thick. Something was happening in her belly and she fell forward on to her hands and knees, throwing up on the rug she’d had for years. She didn’t make a sound, though. She heaved and retched, but didn’t make a sound.

Her parents were monsters. They had grown horns. They’d killed cops. Her parents – and their friends – were going to kill her.

Betty had drugged her. That’s what she’d done. A sedative or something, served up in the food. No, the Coke. Amber looked at the mess on her rug and wondered how much of the drug was congealing down there.

She reached out, hand closing round the bedpost, using it to pull herself up, steady herself, stop herself from toppling sideways. She had to get out. She had to run. She started for the window and the room tilted crazily and she was stumbling towards it. She threw herself to one side before she smashed through the glass, instead banging her elbow against the wall. It hurt, but it didn’t bring her parents running. She was so thirsty. There was a bottle of water on her nightstand, but it was all the way across the room.

Dumb, numb fingers fumbled at the window. Stupid, dumb thumb jammed against the latch. Dull teeth bit down, drawing blood from her lip. The pain was sharp, sharpened her for a moment, and her thick, stupid, unresponsive fingers did what they were supposed to do. The latch squeaked, moved, and she braced her forearm against the sash of the window and pressed in and up, using her whole body to slide the window open. Then her legs gave out and she fell, cracked her head against the sill on the way down.

Amber lay with her eyes closed, blood pounding in her ears like drumbeats, like footsteps, like knuckles on a door.

“Amber?”

Eyes opened.

“Amber?” Betty said from the hall. “Are you okay?”

No answer would mean the door opening, Betty looking in.

An answer, then. An answer.

“Yeah,” came the word, awkwardly, from Amber’s mouth. More followed. “Tired. Sleeping.” Each one clumsy on her tongue.

The door. The handle. The handle turning, the door opening. Bill’s voice from somewhere else. “Where do we keep the stain remover?”

The door, closing, and then Betty’s footsteps, walking away.

Amber turned on to her side, then got on her hands and knees. Stayed there, breathing, gathering her strength. Without raising her head, she reached for the sill. Grabbed it. Hauled herself up until she got an arm out. Grabbed the sill on the other side. Pulled herself up off her knees, got her head out of the window, into the heat and the air and the rain.

Amber fell to the grass, her legs banging off the window frame. They’d find her like this. She hadn’t escaped. She couldn’t rest, not like this. She had to get away. Had to keep moving.

Amber was crawling now, along the wet grass, through the dappled shadows of the trees. She had to get away. She had to crawl faster. Had to get to the road. Get to the road, get into a car, drive away. Escape.

The ground beneath her changed, got harder. Not grass. Not anymore. Darker. Harder. Smoother. The road.

Approaching footsteps, hurrying through the rain. They’d found her. They’d found her already. Her arms were weak, no strength left. Her body lay down. Her mind … her mind … where was her mind?

Shoes. High-heeled shoes on a wet road, right in front of her. A voice. A woman’s voice. She knew that woman’s voice.

“Hello, Amber,” said Imelda.

AMBER AWOKE IN A room that was not her own. Clean lines and no clutter. Heavy curtains kept the dark from escaping into the morning light. Moving slowly, she pulled the covers off and stood. She was in her underwear. Her clothes were neatly folded on the dresser. Clean and dry. She crept to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out over Lake Eola. She frowned. An apartment in the city overlooking Lake Eola. She didn’t know where the hell she was.

But she was alive. That was something, at least.

Amber grabbed her clothes, put them on. Her phone was gone. She started to reach for the glass of water by her bed, but stopped, remembering the Coke. There was a bathroom, clean and polished, looking like it had never been used, and she drank from the faucet and wiped her mouth. Then she went to the door, put her ear against it, heard nothing.

She opened it, hesitated, and stepped out.

The apartment was vast, impressive, and utterly devoid of personality. It looked like the penthouse suite of a hotel. Everything was clean and in place. Every colour matched, every curve and line complemented the curves and lines around it. It had all been designed to cohere, to fit, to belong. There was a designer kitchen to her left, all gleaming metal with a huge breakfast island, and a balcony to her right, a view of the city beyond, all glass and palm trees, and ahead of her was the way out.

She was halfway to the door when she noticed Imelda standing in the living room, her back to her. She was on the phone, listening while someone spoke.

Amber reached the apartment door, opened it silently, and stepped out into the corridor. White walls. She moved up to the corner, and peered round.

At the end of the corridor was the elevator, the door to the stairwell, and a window. Standing at that window, looking out over the skyline, was a tall man in blue jeans, black T-shirt and battered cowboy boots. On the side table behind him there was a mirror, a bowl of potpourri and a shotgun.

Amber stared at the shotgun.

She pressed herself back against the wall and closed her eyes. She was breathing too loud. She was breathing too loud and he’d hear her, she knew he would. She peeked out again. He was still looking out of the window. The shotgun was still there.

She had no choice. She couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t stay where she was. She had to do something. She had to move forward.

Fighting the urge to break into a sprint, Amber took small, slow steps. She got to the side table without making a sound, then picked up the shotgun. It clinked slightly on the table and the man turned from the window. He was good-looking, somewhere in his mid-forties. His black hair had hints of grey. His narrow eyes were calm.

“You should put that down before it goes off,” he said.

“Get out of my way. Get out of my way or I’ll … I’ll shoot you.”

“Your hands are trembling,” he said. “Give it to me.” He reached his left hand forward slowly and Amber took a single step back and then there was somehow a pistol in his other hand, and he was aiming it right at her head. “Now you’re really scared,” he said. “Now you want to run screaming. That’s perfectly understandable. But I’m not going to move. You’re not getting past me.”

“Please,” she said, the shotgun shaking badly in her grip now. “They’re trying to kill me.”

“Then why aren’t you dead?” he asked. “Put the shotgun back on the table and go back inside the apartment.”

Tears ran down her face. “Please don’t make me.”

“Put down the shotgun.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I’m not the one who’s going to explain it to you. Either shoot me or put down the shotgun.”

Amber shook her head, but found herself putting the weapon on the side table, anyway. The man slid his pistol into a holster on his belt before picking up the shotgun.

“Probably wasn’t even loaded,” she said quietly.

“No, it was,” the man responded. “You would have cut me in two if you’d pulled that trigger. Go back inside, Amber. Talk to Imelda.”

She didn’t have much of a choice. Amber walked back the way she’d come, hesitated at the apartment door, and then walked in.

Imelda saw her, held up a finger for Amber to wait.

“We’re keeping tabs on all of her friends, aren’t we?” she said into the phone pressed to her ear. “Exactly. I wouldn’t worry about this, Kirsty. We’ll find her. It’s only a matter of time. Okay, I’ve got to go. I want to check out the principal of her school.” She listened. “Because after that wonderful display yesterday, she knows for certain that the principal isn’t in league with us. Yes, I am clever. I’ll call you if I hear anything. Bye now.”

Imelda hung up. “Want some breakfast?” she asked, walking to the kitchen. She poured orange juice into a tall glass and placed it beside an assortment of croissants and pastries. Then she looked back at Amber and waited.

“What’s happening?” Amber said.

“It really is a long story,” Imelda said.

“There’s a man outside with a gun.”

“That’s a friend of mine, Milo Sebastian. You don’t have to worry about him. You have to worry about your parents.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

Imelda managed a smile. “You think they’re behaving oddly? That’s just because you don’t know them very well.”

“They’re demons. Monsters.”

“Oh, Amber … We’re all monsters. Metaphorically, I mean. The whole human race. We hate, we kill, we do terrible things to each other and to the planet. But we are also, in our case, actual monsters. With horns.”

“I really don’t understand any of this,” said Amber. “Please just tell me what’s happening.”

“I’m going to explain everything. But to start with I’ll have to show you. I’m going to change now, all right? I’m going to turn into … well, into a monster, just like your parents. And I want you to remain calm. Can you do that?”

Amber swallowed, and nodded.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to show you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Once again, I want you to remain calm. You’re perfectly safe.”

Imelda’s skin turned red and her teeth grew sharp and she had black horns and it all took less than a heartbeat.

Amber screamed, picked up a potted plant and threw it, but it fell short and smashed to the floor.

“You killed Henry,” Imelda said, dismayed.

“Help me!” Amber screamed.

“You’re panicking,” said Imelda.

“You’re a monster!” Amber screeched.

“This is not news to me.”

Amber sprinted for the door.

“You tried that, remember?”

A wave of pain swept through Amber, making her stagger but not fall. She pushed herself away from the door and ran for the window.

“What, you’re going to jump?” Imelda asked. “Really? We’re on the thirty-fifth floor.”

Amber grabbed a cushion off the couch and held it out with both hands.

“I’m not entirely sure what you mean to do with that,” Imelda admitted.

“You’re a monster,” Amber said, her voice cracking.

“Yes,” said Imelda. “And I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but so are you.”

Amber looked at her hands. Looked at how red they were. Looked at the black nails that had pierced the cushion she held.

“Oh my God,” she said, feeling how her tongue brushed against teeth that were somehow longer than they had been a moment earlier. Her head swam. She raised her hands, felt horns. “Oh God. Help me. Please …”

Imelda the Monster walked forward slowly. “Amber, I need you to calm down …”

Amber backed away unsteadily, leaving a trail of floating feathers in her wake. She began to cry.

“Stay away from me.”

“You asked me to help you. I’m helping you.”

“Stay back,” said Amber, voice breaking.

“Okay.”

“Help me.”

“Make up your mind,” said Imelda with a faint smile.

“Please, just … why do I have horns?”

“Because you’re like me,” said Imelda. “You’re like your parents, and Grant and Kirsty and Alastair. You’re a demon, sweetie.”

The word stuck in Amber’s mind like a bone in her throat, so that she barely registered Imelda darting towards her until it was too late to do anything about it.

“Sorry about this,” Imelda said, and punched her into unconsciousness.

AMBER STIRRED FROM HER dreamless sleep, waking without opening her eyes. She snuggled down deeper into the pillow, slowly drifting off again, and then she remembered where she was and what had happened and she sat up so fast she almost fell out of bed.

Back in the bedroom in Imelda’s apartment. The curtains were open now. The day was bright and warm. She examined her reflection in the mirror on the wall. She looked normal. Her hair was a mess, but that was the full extent of the damage.

It had been real. She knew it had been real. She’d had horns. She’d grown them as her skin had turned red and her nails had turned black – just like she had before she’d pulverised Brandon’s jaw with a single punch. She’d grown them just like Imelda had grown them. Just like her parents had grown them.

But no. No, that couldn’t be right. There had to be an explanation. A reasonable, logical, real-world explanation.

She stood. She was fully dressed, in T-shirt and shorts and sneakers. That was good. She left the bedroom. The man with the guns sat on the couch, his long legs crossed, reading a tattered paperback. Milo Sebastian, she remembered. He looked up at her, then went back to reading.

“Where’s Imelda?” Amber asked.

“Out,” he said.

She waited for him to furnish her with more information, but apparently he wasn’t much of a talker.

“Out where?” she pressed.

“Out with the others.”

A wave of alarm rushed through Amber’s veins. “My parents? What’s she doing with them?”

“Pretending to look for you.” Keeping a finger on the page he’d been reading, he folded the book closed and raised his eyes. “You can wait for her here. She shouldn’t be too much longer.”

Amber hesitated, then took a few steps further into the room. “Don’t suppose you’d let me go, would you?”

“You’ve got nowhere to go to,” Milo replied. “The cops can’t help you. Chief Gilmore can only afford his luxury condo with the money they pay him. Your parents, and their friends, are very powerful people. You must know this.”

Amber didn’t reply. She didn’t mention the ease with which they’d had her principal fired.

She went to the couch across from where Milo was sitting, and sat on the edge, knees together and hands in her lap. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I’m not the one to talk to about this.”

“So you do know. You know they’re monsters, right? You know Imelda is a monster? And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Does it bother you that you’re just like her?”

Amber shook her head. “I’m not. I’m … I don’t know what happened or what drug she gave me, but I’m not like her. I’m not like them. They’re monsters. I’m normal. I mean, I think I’d know if I were a monster, right?”

He looked at her, didn’t say anything.

“Why do you have all those guns?” she asked.

“Your parents might start suspecting that Imelda isn’t being honest with them. She asked me to make sure no harm comes to you.”

“You’re here to protect me?” Amber stood up suddenly. “So I could walk out of here and you couldn’t stop me?”

Milo opened the paperback again, without fuss, and resumed reading. “Try it and see.”

Whatever rebellious fire had flared inside her sputtered and died at his tone, and Amber sat back down. “Do you know where my phone is?”

“Destroyed.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry?”

He kept reading. “It’s the easiest way to track you.”

“But that was my phone.”

“Best not to make calls. Or send emails. Those are the kind of things that would lead your parents straight to you.”

“And how do you expect me to … to … to do anything? I need my phone, for God’s sake. I need …” She faltered. She needed her phone to go online, to talk to her friends. She needed that now more than ever.

Milo didn’t seem to care. He had gone back to reading his book. A western, judging by the cover. Amber had never read a western. She couldn’t imagine they were any good. There were surely only so many stories you could tell about cowboys and shooting and horses before it all got boring, even for those who liked such things. How many times could you describe a saddle, or a saloon, or a desert plain?

Still, it was something. He liked books and she liked books. There was common ground there.

“Ever read In The Dark Places?” she asked.

Milo didn’t look up. “No.”

“It’s a really good series. It’s been adapted into a TV show. They’re on Season Three right now. You should read them. They’re all about these star-crossed lovers, Balthazar and Tempest. She’s a Dark Faerie and he’s an Eternal. That’s, uh, that’s what they’re called. He’s got an evil brother and her parents are nuts and she’s just been possessed by the ghost of her ex-boyfriend. It’s set in Montana. They sometimes have horses on the show.”

“Horses are nice,” Milo said, in a voice that indicated he wasn’t paying her the slightest bit of attention.

Amber glowered and stopped trying to make conversation.

They sat in silence for another ten minutes, and then Milo’s phone buzzed. He checked it, and stood.

“She’s back,” he said, tucking the western into his back pocket and picking up the shotgun. He left the apartment, and Amber immediately leaped up, scanning her surroundings for an escape route.

After a few moments, she sat back down.

She heard the faint ping of the elevator arriving, and then low voices as Imelda and Milo exchanged whatever they had that passed for pleasantries. Thirty seconds later, Imelda came in.

Amber sat back into the couch, her arms folded.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing Imelda said.

“You hit me.”

“You were screaming.”

“Not when you hit me.”

“If it makes a difference, I’m pretty sure you were going to faint, anyway.”

“So why didn’t you let me faint?”

Imelda hesitated. “I should have let you faint. I’m sorry.” Her apology apparently over with, Imelda walked into the kitchen. “Have you had anything to eat?”

Amber didn’t answer. She was starving, and thirsty, but to respond was to forgive, and she wasn’t prepared to do that yet.

Imelda made herself a cappuccino without trying to engage her again in chit-chat. When she was done, she came over, sat where Milo had been sitting. She took a sip, placed the delicate cup on the delicate saucer on the delicate coffee table, and sat back. “You need to eat something,” she said. “I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”

“That’s not hunger. That’s anger.”

“Your belly rumbles when you’re angry? I didn’t know that about you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Well,” said Imelda, “that’s not strictly true.”

“You’ve barely ever spoken to me.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know you. Your parents kept us all very well informed – and they know you a lot better than you think.”

Amber looked at her in silence for a moment. “What did you do to me earlier? My skin and … What was that?”

“You know what that was.”

Amber shook her head. “No. I’m not like you. I’m not a monster like you. What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t do anything. You were born that way.”

“I wasn’t born with red skin, Imelda. I wasn’t born with frikkin’ horns.”

“No, but it was inside you.”

Amber glared. “Show me, then. Go on. Change. Transform. Go demony. I want to see it again.”

“Amber, I don’t think—”

“Go on,” said Amber. “I wasn’t really expecting it the first time. Now I’m ready. Let’s see you in all your glory.”

Imelda sighed. “Fine,” she said, and stood, and her skin reddened and her features sharpened and her horns grew, and Amber shrank back instinctively.

There was something about the very shape of Imelda now, the way the horns curved, the way her face – once a pretty face, now a beautiful face – caught the sunlight, there was something about all of it that sent a shiver down Amber’s back. This was the shape that nightmares took, deep in the darkest parts of her subconscious.

“You can do this, too,” Imelda said. Her teeth were pointed. She was taller. Her shoulders were broader. Her clothes were tighter. Her top had come untucked. “You just decide you want to shift, and you shift.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Shift, change, transform. You can come up with your own name for it, if you want.”

“I don’t want. I don’t want to shift. I don’t want to be a monster.” Amber realised she was shaking.

“It’s really not that bad,” said Imelda. “You get powerful. You get stronger and faster and you feel something inside you just … alter. It’s like you’re becoming the person you were always meant to be.”

“Not person. Monster.”

The smile on Imelda’s face faded. “Monster,” she said. “Yes.” She reverted to her normal state, and tucked in her top. She looked almost embarrassed as she sat back down. “Well, there you go, anyway. That’s how it’s done. If you’re ready to listen, I’ll tell you how it started.”

“You’re not going to let me leave, are you? So go ahead.”

Imelda took another sip from her cup. “I’ve known your parents since I was your age.”

“I know,” said Amber.

“No, you don’t. I met your parents when I was sixteen years old. They were already courting.”

“Courting?”

“That’s the old word for dating. Which is probably an old word for whatever it is you call it now. We met Grant a year later. Bill befriended Alastair at Harvard, and Kirsty was added to the group after Bill and Betty got married.”

“Bill didn’t go to Harvard.”

“I think it’s safe to say that you don’t really know your parents, Amber. Is it safe to say that?”

A strange feeling overtook Amber, a feeling of being adrift, cut off from everything she had thought she knew. “Yes,” she admitted softly.

“I’m telling you this so that you’ll know that we were all friends by the time the world welcomed in the New Year … of eighteen hundred and ninety.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m one hundred forty-six years old, Amber, and your parents are three years older than me.”

Amber didn’t have anything to say to that.

“Bill and Alastair met some interesting people at Harvard,” Imelda continued. “There were all kinds of clubs and societies back then: curious people looking to expand their horizons. They started out by merely dabbling in the occult, Bill and Alastair. And they drew the rest of us in.”

“What do you mean by occult?” Amber asked. “You mean like black magic?”

“I mean all magic. Or as much magic as we could do, anyway. There were limits to the levels to which we could rise. I … I have no excuses for the things I’ve done. I let myself be swept along, but Bill and Betty … This was all they thought about. Early on, Bill came to us with a story he’d heard, of a deal with a being called the Shining Demon. In exchange for a tribute, this Demon would grant power, strength, magic and, if you obeyed the rules, eternal life.”

“By turning you into demons yourselves?”

“You’re skipping ahead,” said Imelda, “but yes.”

“Why would you want to be turned into demons?”

“Did you not hear what I said? About the power and the strength and the eternal life?”

“But you’d be monsters.”

Imelda gave her a soft smile. “Look at me. Do I look like a monster? We can hide. We’re very good at it. But you interrupted me. Bill came to us with this story he’d heard. We got interested. We wanted to know if it was true, and if so how we could get a deal like that for ourselves. It took us years, piecing together the different clues, following every lead …”

“And then you met the Shining Demon.”

“We were told about a book. The Blood-dimmed King, it was called. We tracked it down to this magician in Boston, and we stole it. The Blood-dimmed King is a devil, or the Devil, or the King of Demons or … something. He goes by many names, and he has these Demons who interact with people here on Earth – Demons with a capital D. The Shining Demon is one of them. The book detailed how we could make contact.”

“How did you?”

“It was a ritual. It took months to prepare. So many requirements to meet, things to arrange. We couldn’t eat for four days beforehand. Couldn’t drink for two. It was hard, arranging everything. Almost impossible. But we did it. We managed it. And we made contact.”

“Did it look like you?” Amber asked. “You know, monster–you?”

Imelda shook her head. “He was … he was something else. But the book said that one of the most important rules was not to look at him. You avert your eyes. I only caught glimpses. The first thing I noticed was the smell. We were in a basement. Dark. Cold. And then there was this smell of sulphur. It got stronger and stronger until … One moment we were down there, just the six of us, the next this light started to burn, right in front of us, and he kind of grew out of that light. We all looked away immediately.”

“And you didn’t sneak a peek?”

“All I can tell you was that he glowed. He shone.” There was a strange look in Imelda’s eye. Almost wistful.

“And he offered you a deal,” Amber said, a little louder than necessary.

Imelda snapped out of it. “Yes. He offered us power. Power enough for seven people.”

“But there were only six of you.”

Imelda went quiet for a moment. “That’s right. He told us what we’d have to do. The terms and conditions were … unexpected. Half of us – Kirsty and Grant and myself – wanted to walk out right there and then. But in doing so we’d break the circle and … well. He would tear us apart. So we stayed. And we listened. And, in the end, we agreed.”

“To what?”

She cleared her throat. “The Shining Demon would give us power enough for seven people. So two of us would have to have a child. That child would grow up, and their power would manifest at some stage in their sixteenth year. They’d become as strong as we were. Just like you.”

“Okay,” said Amber. “And then there’d be seven of you. What was wrong with that?”

“It was what was expected in return, Amber. Some Demons want souls. The more they have, the stronger they get. The stronger they get, the stronger the Blood-dimmed King becomes. But the Shining Demon didn’t want souls from us. He wanted a jar of blood from each of us. Our blood, which had magic in it already, spiced with … more magic.”

“And how did you spice your blood?”

Imelda’s eyes locked on Amber’s.

Seconds passed.

“You’re looking at me like you’re expecting me to figure something out,” Amber said, “but I have no idea what it is you’re hoping for.”

Imelda held her gaze. “Your parents had a son.”

Amber’s eyebrows rose. “I have a brother?” She’d dreamed of having a brother or a sister, someone to talk to, to share with, to alleviate that awful feeling of loneliness that would creep up on her whenever the house got too quiet.

“Your parents had a son,” Imelda repeated. With emphasis on the had. “He reached his sixteenth birthday. A few months later, he started having headaches, started feeling sick, and then his power manifested.”

“Yes? And?”

“And we killed him.”

Amber paled. “What?”

“The Shining Demon explained it all to us, down in that cellar. He told us how we’d have to absorb the seventh’s power, how that would make our blood more potent, how that would be a suitable tribute.”

“You killed my brother?”

“We killed him,” Imelda said. “And then we ate him.”

THE WORLD DULLED.

“No,” said Amber in a soft, soft voice.

“Our demon forms made it easy. Made it far too easy.”

Amber shook her head. “You can’t have done that. Please, Imelda, tell me you didn’t do that.”

“We could never let the children reach the stage where they’d realise what they were. It was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. We got stronger with each child we consumed, but each one was born with a strength to rival our own. You’re the only one I’ve seen actually get a chance to shift.”

“Was … was I going to be eaten, too?” Amber was suddenly standing. “They were going to eat me? They were going to kill me and eat me? My own frikkin’ parents?”

“Please sit down.”

“I don’t think so!”

“Fine,” Imelda said, sounding tired.

“So go on! Tell me what you did to my brother.”

“We killed him and we ate him, and he made us stronger,” Imelda said. “We each gave a pint of our blood, which was practically sizzling with power by that stage, and by then Kirsty and Grant were expecting.”

“No,” Amber said. “No, you can’t. None of that happened. That’s sick.”

Imelda didn’t meet her eyes. “Once their son reached his sixteenth year, once we’d eaten him, it was my turn, with Alastair, and we ate my child when she turned sixteen, and then it was back to Bill and Betty.”

“You took turns? What was it this time? Another brother? Maybe a sister?”

“It was a girl.”

Tears rolled down Amber’s cheeks. “I had a sister. I had a sister and you killed her.”

“Yes, we did,” Imelda said, pulling at a tiny loose thread on her sleeve. “Every sixteen years, the seventh’s power was recycled through us, making us stronger, and then the surplus was available again for the next child.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing?” Amber asked. “For, what, the last hundred years?”

“We make it a point not to grow too attached to our children. It’s the only way to stay sane.”

Amber laughed. “Sane? You think this is sane? This is the most insane thing I have ever heard! This is nuts! It’s sick and it’s wrong! It’s evil! You’re saying my parents are—”

“Psychopaths,” said Imelda, looking up at her. “Yes. Pure psychopaths. The others, they became psychopaths. They let the power corrupt them, eat away at their consciences. But Bill and Betty, they were born that way. They just hid it until they didn’t need to any longer.”

“So everyone’s a psycho except you,” said Amber. Her fingernails – still ordinary fingernails, thank God – were digging into her palms. “That’s what you want me to believe now?”

“If I’m a psychopath,” said Imelda. “why haven’t I killed you? The others aren’t around. If I killed you now … ate you … I’d absorb all of your power. I wouldn’t have to share it with anyone. So, if you really do think I’m the same as your parents, why are you still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Amber said. “Maybe you’re trying to talk me to death. Or maybe, because the Shining Demon demands a jar of blood from each of you, having me all to yourself would break the terms of your deal.”

Imelda smiled. “I’m breaking the terms already by keeping you alive. But I admire your logic. You’re always thinking, aren’t you? That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Amber.”

“You’ve never loved anything about me,” Amber said. “Before this, you barely spoke to me.”

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” said Imelda. “I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not like the others.”

“So how come you’re different?”

Imelda hesitated. “The last time I had a child, something went wrong. I’d tried to remain detached from her, but I couldn’t. The moment I held my newborn baby in my arms I knew … I knew I wasn’t supposed to feel this way.”

“You loved her.”

“Yes.”

“But you still killed her.”

“Alastair killed her. I tried to run. I tried to take my daughter and escape, but Alastair knew what I was planning. He promised me that if I returned he wouldn’t tell the others. I was scared. Confused. Weak.”

“So you brought your daughter back to be killed.”

“Yes.”

“And let me guess – you felt bad about it.”

Imelda looked up. “This stops here. With you. I’ve spent the last ten years building up my courage. I’m sorry I was never kind to you, but it was too risky. I was afraid the others would see what I was planning. Alastair, especially. He knows me the best. But now I’m going to break the cycle. You’re going to leave with Milo. Tonight. I’ll be joining you as soon as I can, but you have one chance to get out of this alive, and Milo knows where to start.”

“You’re sending me away? But you can’t. This is my home.”

“Is it? What exactly do you have here, Amber? Friends? Really? Are you going to stay because of school? Because of your job at the diner? These things are enough to make you stay?”

Amber swallowed. “Then where am I going?”

“Milo knows. I don’t.”

“Why wouldn’t you know where I’m going?”

“Because if your parents figure out that I’m helping you,” said Imelda, “they will torture me until I tell them everything. If I don’t know where you are, I can’t betray you.”

Amber stared. “But … but then what’ll happen to you?”

Imelda hesitated. “Your parents are very ruthless people, sweetie, and they’re not going to pass up the opportunity to absorb more power.”

“They’d eat you?”

“And if I’m very, very lucky? They’d kill me first.”

MILO CAME IN AND Imelda talked to him at the far side of the apartment in a low voice Amber couldn’t make out. He nodded occasionally and replied, and barely even glanced Amber’s way.

She busied herself with looking through the bag Imelda had given her. A few items of clothing and underwear, everything in her size. She dug a little deeper, found a bag of toiletries. Dug deeper. Found a bag of money.

Tens, twenties and fifties in tightly packed rolls. Her eyes widened. There must have been thousands in there. Tens of thousands. A hundred thousand?

All the essentials that anyone would need to go on the run.

Milo and Imelda came over, and Amber stood to face them.

“It’s time to go,” Imelda said.

“I don’t want to,” Amber announced.

“I understand that,” said Imelda, “but it really is for the best. Milo will keep you as safe as he can and keep you out of sight as much as possible. We’re paying him for this – ten thousand a week. Take it from the money I gave you.”

“You’re not listening to me. I don’t want to go.”

“I am listening to you, but you’ve got to listen to me, too. I know what your parents are capable of.”

“You can hide me here.”

“They’ll check here,” Imelda said. “Alastair is already looking at me strangely. He’s got his suspicions. It’s only a matter of time before he stops by for an unannounced visit.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt me, either. Have you thought of that? Maybe he’s like you. Maybe he’s sick of it.”

Imelda shook her head. “I wish that were true.”

“Ask him!” Amber said. “Talk to him! Talk to my parents! Maybe they’d change their minds if you talk to them!”

“Sweetie, no …”

“Have you tried?”

“I haven’t,” Imelda admitted.

“Then you don’t know, do you? You want to send me away when I might not even have to go. I know my parents, too, all right? I know what they’re like. Talk to them. They’re weird, but they’re practical. All you need to do is reason with them.”

“Amber, Bill and Betty aren’t going to change their minds,” said Imelda. “They’re furious. They’re desperate. They haven’t slept. They haven’t stopped searching.”

“They’re worried about me.”

“They’re worried you’ve escaped. Sweetie, you saw them. You heard what they said. If they find you, they will kill you. You have to trust me on this.”

“So that’s it? You think you can hand me a bag of clothes and a bag of money and send me off somewhere? I don’t even know where you’re sending me. I’m not going, you understand? I am not going and you can’t make me!”

Imelda glanced at Milo. “She’s not usually like this.”

“And who the hell is he?” Amber almost shouted. “You’re sending me off with a strange man I don’t even know? How is that a good idea?”

“I trust him.”

“He was going to shoot me earlier! And you want me to get in a car with this guy? For how long? How long will all this take?”

Imelda hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe … two weeks?”

“Two weeks?”

“Or three.”

“What?”

“It’s the only safe way. You’ll have to get yourself some more clothes and things, but that bag will do for now.”

“We really need to get going,” said Milo. “I want to be on the road before dark.”

Amber held up her hands. “Okay, okay, listen to me. Just listen, all right? That’s your idea. That’s the plan you came up with. So now I have a plan. Milo here goes home. He goes home and he plays with his guns and he’s happy. And, while he’s being happy, you and me get in a car and we drive somewhere nice and we never look back.”

Imelda shook her head. “I told you, I can’t go with you.”

“Why? Why can’t you come with me? Jesus Christ, you’re the only person I know who isn’t trying to kill me.”

“It’s better for you if I stay, honey. I can keep an eye on what they’re doing. If they’re close to finding you, I can steer them away.”

“You just don’t want to be around me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. The only reason you’re helping me is because you feel guilty. You don’t give a crap about me – if you did, you wouldn’t be handing me over to him.”

Imelda shook her head. “That’s not true.”

“Well, there we have it – we have two plans. Your stupid plan where I go with some lunatic called Milo, and my good plan, where you and me go somewhere far away, with mountains and trees and maybe a log cabin. We’ll go to Montana. It’s cool in Montana. We won’t have to live in this constant heat.”

“Let’s have a vote,” said Milo. “I vote for the stupid plan and so does Imelda.”

Amber glared at him, then redirected the glare at Imelda. “Why him? Who is he? What does he have to do with all this?”

“I have my own history with Demons,” Milo said. “I’m as qualified for this job as anyone possibly could be.”

“So you’ve made a deal, just like my parents did? Bad people make deals with Demons – bad people who like to eat their children. Have you ever murdered anyone, Milo?”

“Amber, that’s enough,” said Imelda.

“You want me to get in a car with this guy—”

“Yes,” Imelda snapped. “I do. Because I can’t be there and he’s the only one I know who’ll be able to protect you. He’s also the only one I know who’d be willing to protect you. Amber, this is messed up. Don’t you think I know that? And don’t you think this is breaking my heart, sending you away? I’ve finally been able to tell you the truth, after years of being too afraid, and instead of showing you all of the love I have for you, love that I’ve had for you since the day you were born, I have to send you away and pretend to be just like the others. I have to pretend to care nothing for you, Amber. I have to pretend to see you as nothing more than our next power boost. This is breaking me, sweetheart. This is ripping me up inside and I don’t know how the hell I’m not falling to the floor in tears, but I’m not. Because I have to be strong. For you. And you have to be strong for me. Because you’re the only person in this world that I love, and if anything happens to you I’ll … I’ll …”

“I’m sorry,” Amber said quietly.

“Oh, honey,” Imelda said, pulling her into an embrace. Amber didn’t know what to do for a moment. This wasn’t the quick hug of Grant or Kirsty, or the picked-up-off-the-ground hug of Alastair. This was something else. This was genuine, and Amber found herself lost as to how to respond.

But she gradually wrapped her arms round Imelda and hugged her back, and she didn’t even notice the tears that were spilling off her cheeks and soaking through Imelda’s blouse. She felt Imelda cry, and realised she was crying herself. This one hug was the warmest, most sincere physical contact she had ever experienced, and she didn’t want it to ever end.

RAIN MINGLED WITH THE tears on her face as Amber got into the SUV.

Milo had parked it round the back of Imelda’s apartment building. They didn’t want Amber in plain view. They didn’t want her walking across the sidewalk for a few seconds because that was a risk they couldn’t afford to take. Their paranoia was affecting Amber. She waited until Milo had the back door open, and then she ran through the heat and the rain, practically dived in. Milo threw a blanket over her and closed the door.

He got in the front, started the engine, and as the SUV was pulling out on to the street Amber realised she hadn’t said goodbye to Imelda, and a sliver of anguish pierced her heart.

She made sure she wasn’t about to cry, and then pulled the blanket back.

The SUV’s exterior may have needed a wash, but the interior was clean and smelled of polish. Milo struck her as the type to maintain his vehicle in perfect running order, and she realised that she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the dirt and the dust on the outside were nothing more than camouflage.

They drove without speaking for five minutes. Amber resisted the urge to speak. She wanted Milo to get uncomfortable in the silence. When the clock on the dash showed 8pm, she sat up, but kept the blanket wrapped round her head like a shawl. To her irritation, he looked perfectly comfortable.

“So where are we going?”

Milo moved into another lane. “We’re going to see a friend of mine. He might be able to help.”

“Help how?”

“We’re hoping he’ll have some ideas on how to evade your parents.”

“You’re hoping? Imelda said there was a plan. Hoping for ideas does not sound like a plan. Who is he, this friend of yours?”

“His name’s Edgar Spurrier,” Milo said as they slowed at the lights. “He used to be a journalist. His investigations took him deeper and darker than any respectable news agency was willing to delve, so now he’s a freelance … something.”

“So he’s unemployed, basically.”

They started driving again. “He prefers the term ‘freelance something’.”

She frowned. “Was that a joke?”

Milo shrugged.

“Where does he live?”

“Miami.”

“That’s, like, three or four hours away. Why aren’t you more organised? Why isn’t he here? Or why can’t you call him? I’d loan you my phone only, oh yeah, you destroyed it.”

“No phone calls, if we can help it,” said Milo, totally missing Amber’s subtle jibe.

“I have a new plan,” she said, sitting forward. “Turn around. Take me to Montana. That’s where they film In The Dark Places, so I’d be able to just hang out, watch them film, and I have plenty of money now so I could afford to rent a cabin there until all this dies down.”

Milo glanced at her in the rear-view. “This isn’t going to die down.”

“No, I know that, I just—”

“I don’t think you do,” said Milo. “This isn’t a problem that’s going to go away, Amber. Your parents aren’t going to change their minds. Your life, as you knew it, is over. You have to leave behind your friends and family. There’s no going back.”

“I know that,” she insisted, though even she was aware how unconvincing she sounded.

An accident on the turnpike delayed them, forced them into a slow-moving convoy that crawled through Miami’s sprawl of Art-Deco architecture. The rain was heavier here. Neon lights bounced off the wet blackness of the asphalt. It would have been beautiful if Amber hadn’t shrunk away from every car that passed them, just waiting to see her parents’ faces staring out at her.

By the time they pulled up outside Edgar Spurrier’s crappy condo, it was past twelve and fully dark. The humidity closed in on Amber the moment she left the confines of the SUV. The rain eased off slightly, but the clouds were still heavy. Lightning flickered like a badly placed bulb and in the distance she heard thunder.

Edgar’s condo was not air-conditioned. A large fan hung from the ceiling and threatened to move the warm air around, but couldn’t work up the energy to do so with any degree of conviction.

Edgar himself was a tubby guy with blond hair that hung limply to his shoulders. He had an easy smile and nice twinkling eyes, and beneath his shorts his legs were surprisingly hairless. He handed Amber and Milo a glass of iced tea and took one for himself, then they all sat in his mess of a living room. Books and papers competed for space with notepads bursting with scribbles. No pizza boxes or empty beer bottles, though. Edgar may have been disorganised, but he was no slob.

“Milo has already briefed me on your situation,” Edgar said, settling back into his chair. “You’ve got yourself into what we in the trade call a pickle, Amber. Milo could have taken you to a dozen so-called occult experts around the country and they would have sent you away with useless advice and a headful of mumbo jumbo. Instead, he brought you to me, where deals with the Devil are something of a specialty. The Shining Demon is one of my particular areas of interest.”

He paused, and Amber felt the overwhelming need to fill the silence.

“Okay,” she said.

That seemed to satisfy him. “Now then,” Edgar continued, “your particular quandary is that running isn’t going to work.”

A bead of perspiration trickled down Amber’s spine. “It isn’t?”

“It isn’t,” said Edgar. “Your parents will eventually find you. It’s inevitable. I’m sure Milo will explain this to you later. They will find you and they will kill you. So you need to be proactive, am I right? You need to take the fight to your parents.”

Amber hesitated. “Uh yeah, except, I mean, I don’t want to actually fight them.”

“No, no,” said Edgar, “you don’t want to physically take them on, not at all. I’m not suggesting that for a minute. But you want to take the figurative fight to them, agreed?”

“I guess.”

“You can’t spend the rest of your life running. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding. Because, if you do, the rest of your life will be very short indeed. So you need an alternative. If I were in your position, what would I do? I’ve given this a lot of thought since Milo approached me. A lot of thought. But only this morning did the obvious course of action occur to me.” He sat forward. “Amber, what you’re going to need to do is talk to the Shining Demon yourself.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Not going to happen,” said Milo.

Edgar held up a hand. “Hear me out.”

“Not going to happen, Edgar.”

“Just hear me out, buddy, okay? Keep an open mind about this. There’s nothing we can do to stop her folks from wanting to eat her. There just isn’t. Consuming her flesh is the only way they can grow stronger, and the only way they can pay the tribute they owe. Because, don’t forget, they do owe that tribute.”

“We haven’t forgotten,” said Milo.

“So there’s nothing we can do there,” Edgar said, leaning back in his chair. “If you don’t want to talk to the Shining Demon, what does that leave us with? You could go after them. Take them out. Kill them before they kill you.”

“I don’t want to kill my parents,” Amber said, aghast.

“They want to kill you,” said Edgar. “You’re going to have to reconcile yourself with the facts here, Amber. This is life or death we’re talking about. It’s kill or be killed.”

“She doesn’t want to kill her parents,” Milo said. “So we’re not killing her parents.”

“I figured as much,” said Edgar. “I’m a pretty smart guy, remember? You may have thought I was sitting here looking pretty, but what I was actually doing was going through all the options and throwing out those that were a no-go. I threw out everything except the one I started with – Amber here summoning the Shining Demon, sitting him down and having a chat.”

Amber glanced at Milo. He wasn’t saying anything, but he didn’t look happy.

“So that’s my idea,” said Edgar, talking straight to Amber now. “You explain how unfair all of this is. You didn’t ask for it, after all. You are an innocent party, caught up in your parents’ diabolical machinations.”

“Why would he care?” she asked.

Edgar chuckled. “Good question. And of course you’re right. The Shining Demon isn’t going to give one whit about any of that. He’s a capital D Demon, after all. He likes it when innocent people suffer. That’s kind of his thing.” Edgar sat forward. “But you, my dear girl, hold a special appeal. The Shining Demon is notoriously picky about who he appears to. He’ll only do a deal with someone if they pique his curiosity. But here’s the thing. You, Amber, are enough to pique anyone’s curiosity.”

She suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Why?”

“You’re the demon offspring of demon parents,” Edgar said. “But whereas your folks are demons by circumstance, you are demon by birth. That makes you, technically, a purer form of monster – if you’ll forgive the description. You have also, by virtue of being alive right now, potentially compromised their original deal, which will certainly have got his attention.”

“So summon the Shining Demon and say what?” Amber asked. “‘Hey there, please could you change the terms of my parents’ deal?’”

Edgar shook his head. “The terms are unbreakable, there’s no getting around that. But he could make it so that your parents and their friends never find you. He could make it impossible for them to hurt you. He could do a hundred things that would ruin your parents’ plans and make eating you redundant.”

“What would I have to do in return?”

Edgar shrugged. “Seeing as how your parents and their friends were going to eat you and then give him their supercharged blood, it stands to reason that he’d want to get that same energy some other way. Sending you out to harvest souls is a very common method of payment.”

“I’m not killing anyone. I’m not doing that.”

“Very well. If those are the terms of the deal he offers, you just say no. No harm, no foul. But he might not want you to kill. There might be something else.”

Amber raised her eyebrows. “Could I offer him my demon side? Is that possible?”

“Even if it were, I doubt that would entice him.”

“I’m not going to give him my soul,” she said, a little sharply. “It’s mine and he’s not getting it.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Edgar. “Not to worry, however – I do have a suggestion of my own. You’re unique enough to summon him and, if you offer him something equally as unique, you might just find yourself with a deal.”

“What do you have in mind?” Milo asked.

“The one that got away,” Edgar said. “It’s a story I was told by a very dangerous man, name of Dacre Shanks. You heard of him?”

Milo shook his head. Amber didn’t bother.

“Dacre Shanks was a particularly nasty serial killer back in the late sixties, early seventies. This small-town Sheriff’s Department eventually tracked him down, in 1974 I think, and went in all guns blazing. Shanks fell in a hail of bullets. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Anyway, I met him a few years ago, and he told—”

“Wait,” said Amber. “You just said he died in 1974.”

“He did,” Edgar said, nodding. “But before the cops closed in on him, he’d already made his deal with the Shining Demon.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Technically? No. But he’s still around. Last I heard he was in his hometown of Springton, Wisconsin, happily killing a bunch of teenagers, but that was fifteen or so years ago. If you can find him, he might be able to help you.”

“You want us to ask a serial killer for help?”

Edgar shrugged. “It’s a scary world – you got to be prepared to meet scary people. Dacre Shanks qualifies as a scary person. He’s up there with Elias Mauk and Leighton Utt … maybe even the Narrow Man. Outwardly, charming as all heck, but … well. Serial killer, you know? I met him through a mutual acquaintance and arranged an interview of sorts. The man just wanted someone to talk to, and he talked a lot. I got some very graphic descriptions of what he’d done to his victims, some very disturbing insights into his mind … We talked about death, about how it felt when those bullets riddled his body, about what happened after. Milo knows what I’m talking about, right?”

Milo said nothing, and Amber frowned.

“And we talked about the deal he’d made with the Shining Demon,” Edgar continued. “How he summoned him, what the terms were, how he found out about him in the first place. And he told me a story I’d never heard before, and I thought I’d heard all the stories about our shining friend. He told me about a man who’d made a deal – I don’t know the circumstances surrounding it, but it was a deal like any other – and then welched on it. The Shining Demon granted him whatever he wanted, but, instead of paying him back in the agreed-upon fashion, this guy skips town, and the Shining Demon loses him. And the Shining Demon never loses a mark.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Amber asked.

Edgar smiled. “If you can find this guy, you can offer his location to the Shining Demon in exchange for getting your parents off your back.”

“You know where he is?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Edgar said, almost happily. “Shanks wanted to talk, sure, but he was pretty cagey with the things he had to say. You’d have to ask him yourself. You might like him. He’s got some pretty funny stories. They’ll give you nightmares, but they’re still pretty funny.”

“Uh,” said Amber, “I don’t really want to talk to a serial killer.”

Edgar chuckled. “You’ll be perfectly safe. Milo here will look after you.”

Amber glanced at Milo. Just how dangerous was this guy?

“Why don’t you come with us?” Milo asked. “You know him, he knows you, you can make the introductions.”

“I’d love to,” said Edgar, “but he said he’d kill me if he ever saw me again.”

“Why?”

Edgar shrugged. “The conversation turned sour – what can I say? Serial killer, you know?”

EDGAR WENT TO FETCH the paraphernalia Amber would need to summon the Shining Demon, and the moment he was out of the room Amber looked over at Milo.

“I’m doing it now?”

Milo shrugged.

“Imelda said it took days of fasting and loads of preparation.”

“There’s more than one way to summon the Shining Demon,” said Milo. “Sometimes you don’t even have to summon him – he’ll appear right when you’re at your most vulnerable.”

“Milo, I don’t know …”

“If you don’t want to do this, say so. We’ll find some other way.”

“Is there another way?”

Milo didn’t answer.

Amber slowly clasped her face in her hands and dragged her fingers down her cheeks.

Then she sat forward. “So what do I say? How do I greet the Shining Demon? Do I call him sir, or lord, or master?”

“He’s not your lord and not your master, so you don’t have to call him anything. Relax, okay? You don’t have to be so nervous. Talk to him like you’d talk to me, but don’t agree to anything other than the terms you want. Ignore everything he says that isn’t on topic. He’ll try to trick you. Listen to every word he uses, because he uses them for a reason.”

“You’re not making me any less nervous.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you think this is a good idea?”

“It’s the best one we have.”

“That’s not saying a lot, though, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

Amber sat back. Her insides were in knots. “What do you think Imelda will do when she finds out I actually met the Shining Demon?”

“That all depends on whether this plan works.”

“How do you know her, anyway?” she asked.

“How does anyone know anyone?”

“I don’t know. They meet?”

“There you go,” said Milo. “We met.”

Edgar came back in. Amber didn’t know quite what she had been expecting – maybe a robe, or a ceremonial dagger, or a box full of candles with pentagrams moulded on to their sides. She wasn’t expecting a large leather pouch, shaped like a deflated balloon.

“It’s a gunpowder flask,” Edgar said proudly, handing it over with something approaching reverence. It was heavy, filled to its leather stopper with what felt like sand. “Persian, nineteenth century, made from a camel crotch.”

“Ew.”

Edgar chuckled. “Don’t worry, the camel’s long dead.”

“Still ew.”

“See those engravings on the hide? Those intricate little engravings? I don’t know what they are. Pretty, though, aren’t they?”

“There’s gunpowder in here?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Something far more powerful. Far more valuable, too. The only reason I’m letting you use it is because I couldn’t get it to work myself.”

Milo frowned. “You tried summoning the Shining Demon?”

“Everyone wants something,” Edgar said, a little sadly, “but I just wasn’t interesting enough for him to bother with. Story of my life, huh? But, if this will work for anyone, it’ll work for Amber, and then I can finally find out if it was worth the money I paid for it, or if I was scammed. Y’know, again.”

“How do I use it?” she asked, handing the flask back.

Edgar cleared a space on the coffee table and laid it down, then sat. “You pour the powder in a circle around you, making sure there are no gaps. You put a match to it. It catches fire. That’s it.”

“It’s that easy? And then the Shining Demon will appear?”

Edgar hesitated.

“What?” Milo asked, suspicion in his voice.

“The Shining Demon doesn’t do that anymore,” Edgar said. “Appearing, I mean. You can’t make him come to you. Instead, you go to him.”

Amber went cold. “I what?”

Milo frowned. “She what?”

“I couldn’t get it to work, so I just have to go by what the guy who sold it to me said, all right? You put a match to the circle, and when it’s lit you … arrive.”

“Where?” said Milo.

“Wherever the Shining Demon is,” said Edgar.

“Hell?” Amber asked, her voice small.

“Maybe. But don’t look so scared. It’s absolutely fine. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“It doesn’t sound perfectly safe,” Milo said.

“It is, though. She’ll be in no danger whatsoever. As long as she doesn’t step outside the circle.”

“I don’t like this,” Amber murmured. “Will you both be with me, at least?”

Edgar made a face. “We’ll have to stay here, I’m afraid. Them’s the rules. But you don’t have to worry about a thing. You’ll meet the Shining Demon. You’ll explain your situation. You’ll offer him the guy who welched on the deal in exchange for a way to protect you from your parents and their friends.”

“And only that,” said Milo. “Do not deviate from the script.”

“That’s a good point,” said Edgar. “The Shining Demon likes to talk, by all accounts, and he might try to get you to agree to something you really shouldn’t be agreeing to. Keep it simple. If he likes the terms, he’ll accept them. If he doesn’t, douse the flames and you’ll come straight back. Do not step out of the circle. I cannot stress that enough.”

“What if he pulls me out?”

“He won’t be able to touch you so long as you stay where you are. Also, for your own wellbeing, it’s probably advisable not to look directly at him.” Edgar got to his feet. “There. I think that’s everything.”

Amber looked up at him. “I still have, like, a billion questions.”

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” said Edgar. “You’ll be fine. Come on, you can do it in the backyard.”

He took the powder flask and walked out to the kitchen. Milo got up, helped Amber stand. Her legs felt weak.

“Am I actually going to do this?” she asked.

“You can change your mind at any time.”

She expelled a long breath. “I can’t believe I’m going to actually do this …”

They went out back. The dark yard was modest, with a small pool that needed a serious skimming. Whether the sweat on Amber’s face was from the humidity or the trepidation, she couldn’t be sure. The rain had stopped, which allowed the cicadas to start singing again. Edgar led Amber to a patch of crabgrass and handed her the powder flask and a battered matchbook with a picture of a staircase on the front.

“All set,” he said.

She looked to Milo for instruction, but he just stood there, cool in the heat. Expecting either of them to correct her at any moment, she undid the stopper on the flask, crouched down, and began to pour.

The opening was small, and the fine black powder came out in a thin, steady stream. The warm breeze made the grasses ripple, but the powder flowed straight down like it was a perfectly still night. Amber turned 360 degrees, making sure not to leave any gaps, and when she finished she stood in the small circle and plugged the flask with the stopper. She held it out to Edgar, but he waved it away.

“Hang on to it until you’re done,” he said, and she hung the strap over her shoulder so that it dropped diagonally across her chest.

She took a match from the matchbook and crouched again. Her mouth was dry. Her hands were shaking. She needed to pee. She looked up at Milo.

“See you when you get back,” he said.

Amber ran the head of the match across the sandpaper strip. The match flared, and with shaking hands she put the flame to the powder. It lit instantly, expelling a stench so violent it made her head turn. The fire spread from the point of contact in both directions, and she stood and watched it surround her. When the flames met and the circle was complete, the flames turned blue and she was indoors now, in a castle, its vast walls constructed of hewn stone, its ceiling too high to see, its thick wooden rafters swallowed by shadows.

In front of her were five arched doorways with corridors like the fingers of a splayed hand. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting various acts of depravity, their shock value immediately shamed by the even more gruesome images captured in the stained glass of the long windows that sliced through the wall above.

It was cold here. The sweat that had layered her body in the Miami heat was now making her shiver. Her breath crystallised in small clouds. She thought she was alone until she heard the giggle.

Someone was standing in the dark area between the doorways. Lurking.

“Hello?” she called. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It sounded like the voice of a scared child. “I … I see you. I can see you. Hello?”

The shape didn’t move.

From somewhere, from elsewhere, came the sound of screaming, a chorus of pain carried to her on the wind. It was gone almost before it had registered.

“Hello,” said the shape.

It came forward, into the light. Tall and thin, a genderless thing, wearing a patchwork robe that may have been a gown. Heavy make-up, black and badly applied, rimmed its eyes, while its thin mouth was smeared with red lipstick. The foundation it used covered the entirety of its bald head in a thick grey-white that may have been ash.

“Are you the Shining Demon?” asked Amber.

The curious thing gave a high-pitched titter, covering its mouth with long-fingered hands.

“No, no, no,” it said in its curious voice. “No, no. But he knows you’re here.”

“Where am I?”

Another titter. “In his castle.”

“Is this hell?”

“To some. What’s your name?”

“Amber.”

“Hi, Amber. I’m Fool.”

“Hi, Fool.”

“Do you want to play with me?” Fool asked. “I know lots of games. Do you want to play Who Can Scream the Loudest? I’m very good at that. Or maybe Who Can Bleed the Most? I bet you’d win. I’ll give you a head start, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Step out of the circle, Amber.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” said Fool, moving closer. “Step out of the circle.”

Fool smiled. Its teeth were small shards of coloured glass sticking out from bloody gums.

It turned its head suddenly, its eyes narrowing. From one of the corridors came a glow.

“He’s here,” Fool whispered, and without giving Amber another glance it sprinted from the room.

Amber fought the urge to run, even though every instinct in her body was screaming at her. She watched as the glow got brighter, then turned, lowering her head while her hands shielded her eyes. The room was suddenly lit up. From behind her, the light tread of bare feet.

“You seek an audience with me,” came a voice. Male. Hushed.

“Yes,” she croaked out, closing her eyes. “I’m … I …”

“I know who you are, child. I know why you’re here. You seek protection from those who would harm you.”

She nodded. Her mouth was so, so dry. “My parents. And their friends.”

“I know them, too,” the Shining Demon said. “So eager. So ruthless.” His brightness soaked through her eyelids. It hurt. “You are the first to have escaped their platter. The first to find your way to me.”

“I need your help.”

“But of course,” said the Shining Demon, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I am the only one who could possibly help you. I am your only hope, am I not? Come, Amber, let me show you my castle.”

“I … I was told to stay in the circle.”

“Mmmm. Yes. Wise, I suppose.”

“Where are we?” she asked. “Is this hell?”

“Questions, questions,” said the Shining Demon. “Such an inquisitive species, the living. The dead have no need for questions. The dead are quite content in their gentle ignorance.” He was walking now, circling the circle in which she stood. Amber didn’t speak. She had the feeling he wasn’t finished.

“This is his kingdom,” the Shining Demon continued. “The one known by many names. My dark and terrible master.”

“The Blood-dimmed King,” Amber said.

“One of his names, yes,” said the Shining Demon. “This is his kingdom, but we are in my castle. You are my guest, Amber. I assure you, no harm will befall you if you take one simple step …”

She turned away from the sound of his voice. “I’m … I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m just here to make a deal.”

Silence. And then, “Pity.”

She licked the dryness from her lips. “Can you help me? Can you take back the power you gave them?”

The Shining Demon came to a stop somewhere to her left. “Your parents, their friends, they have ideas above their station. Ambitions. Some might say blasphemies. But a deal is a deal – I cannot break my part any more than they can break theirs. I cannot take back their power, or alter the terms of the bargain I made with them. But there may still be a way for me to help you. What are you willing to give in return?”

She swallowed. “There’s someone you made a deal with, years ago. He cheated you.”

“Nobody cheats me, child.”

“This one did. You gave him what he wanted and then he ran. He never held up his end of the bargain. Do you remember him?”

The Shining Demon paused for a moment. “I know the one you speak of.”

“I can find him. I can find him for you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but I can find out. I think I can find out.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“Do we have a deal?”

“If you do find him, Amber, then we will talk of deals.” Bare feet on stone. He was walking away.

“No,” she said.

A sound, like the sharp intake of breath, whistled through the room.

“No?” he echoed.

She had the feeling she had just committed a serious breach of demonic etiquette, but carried on regardless. “I want your word that we’ll have a deal if I bring him to you.”

“Is that what you want? Truly?”

“Yes,” she said, with what she hoped was steely resolve.

He moved closer. “A time limit, then,” he said. “How long will you need?”

“Uh … six weeks?” she said, doubling what Imelda had suggested.

“You have three,” said the Shining Demon, and Amber did her best not to grimace. “Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours.”

“And … and then you’ll protect me from my parents?”

He was standing right in front of her now. “I cannot alter the terms of the deal I struck with them, but, if you bring me this man in the time allotted, I will alter you, Amber. Your blood will be poison. To consume you would mean death.”

“But I’ll be all right, yes?”

That smile, appearing again in his voice. “Your blood will be poison to everyone but you. You have my word. Do I have yours?”

“I … I guess. What’s his name? The man who cheated you?”

“I can give you no more help. I am extending my hand to you – shake it, and we will have a deal.”

“I … I can’t reach out of the circle,” Amber said.

“Come now,” the Shining Demon responded. “Tradition must be upheld or the bargain is not binding.”

“I was told not to leave the circle.”

“You are still standing in it, are you not?”

Amber bit her lip, then slowly reached her hand out.

The Shining Demon grabbed her hand and twisted, and Amber cried out and screwed her eyes shut tighter as he pressed a fingertip into her wrist. It burned.

“Five hundred and four hours,” said the Shining Demon as he moved his finger. “If you fail to bring this man to me in the allotted time, your soul is forfeit.”

“No!” Amber cried, trying to pull away. “I didn’t agree to that!”

“Those are the terms,” the Shining Demon said, and released her so suddenly that she nearly stumbled out of the circle.

She turned away from him, clutching her right hand as she cracked her eyes open. The number 504 was burned into the inside of her wrist, a mark, a brand that was already hardening into a scar. The pain faded quickly. “I didn’t agree to this,” she said. “I didn’t—”

A wind rushed in from all five corridors, a dank wind that brought with it hints of rot and sickly perfume and overripe fruit and human waste, and the wind extinguished the circle of fire and Amber was outside again, in Miami, and Milo was rushing forward to catch her as she fell.

MILO WOKE AMBER BEFORE five, stirring her from a fitful sleep. She had dreamed of demons and horns and the castles of hell, and she had dreamed of her parents chasing her. She had dreamed of herself as a monster, drenched in blood.

She turned over in her cot and cried silently.

When she had showered and dressed, she joined Milo in the kitchen. He’d made himself a coffee, and poured a juice for her. They drank in silence, listening to the soft sounds of snoring that drifted from Edgar’s bedroom. He had gone to sleep like an excited schoolboy after quizzing Amber about everything she had seen and heard. Her entire experience was now on paper, told through the crazy scribbles and hieroglyphics that was Edgar’s handwriting.

Everything except the time limit, the number that was now burned into her wrist. She wasn’t going to embark on this journey with Milo already viewing her as a screw-up. If she could come away with only one thing from all this craziness, it was going to be the respect of the people around her.

Her wrist ached slightly, and she glanced at it. The numbers now read 500.

Four hours gone already.

Amber pulled her sleeve down quickly to cover it, as Milo laid the map he was perusing on the countertop. “Wisconsin,” he said, tapping the old, creased paper. “And right here is Springton, Dacre Shanks’s old hunting ground. It’s about fifteen hundred miles from here. We’ll be taking I-75 for some of it, but we’re going to be doing our best to stay away from traffic. Your folks will be pulling out all the stops by now, and we don’t want to be spotted by any of their people.”

“How long will it take?”

“Twenty hours of driving, maybe twenty-two, if we were taking the quickest route. But because we’re not … I don’t know. Add another six hours on at the least. Twenty-eight hours on the road, driving eight hours a day, is a little over three days.”

“We can drive more than eight hours a day,” said Amber. “I’ve got my learner’s permit: we can alternate.”

“We won’t be alternating.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the driver,” said Milo, in a tone that suggested finality, “and we’re taking my car, and, while I’ll be able to travel longer at the start, it’s going to quickly average out at eight hours a day of driving time. You don’t have to know why. You just have to know that those are the rules.”

“Whatever,” she muttered. Three days to get there, maybe a day to find Shanks and talk to him, which would leave her with seventeen days to find the man they was looking for and deliver him to the Shining Demon. Plenty of time.

“We’ll need to change vehicles before we leave Miami, though,” Milo said.

Amber frowned. “You think my parents know what we’re driving already?”

“It’s not that,” Milo said, shaking his head. “For a trip like this, we need a special kind of car.” He took her empty glass, and washed it and his mug in the sink. “I’m also going to need an advance on the money, by the way.”

“How much?”

“Five grand ought to do it.”

“Right …”

He looked back at her. “You think I’m going to abscond with it?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, not at all, it’s just—”

“You don’t know me,” said Milo, putting the mug and glass down to drain. “Imelda does, but you don’t. You don’t know if I’m trustworthy.”

“She trusts you.”

“But you don’t. And why would you? I’ve done nothing to earn your trust. Handing over five grand to a guy you’ve just met and whom you don’t yet trust would seem to be a stupid thing to do.”

“So I shouldn’t give you the money?”

“No, you should,” he said. “I’m just pointing out the corner you’ve been backed into. Trust me or not trust me, you’re going to give me the money because you don’t have a choice.”

“I’m confused,” said Amber. “Is this a life lesson I should be making a note of?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that lesson is, are you?”

“You’ll never learn it if I just tell you,” Milo said. “Ready to go?”

“Uh yeah, OK,” she said. “Should we say goodbye to Edgar?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because that’s what people do. They say hello, how are you, goodbye, and they say thanks for your help.”

“Edgar doesn’t need any of that.” Milo folded the map, and Amber watched how it shrank into a neat little packet. She’d never have been able to do that so cleanly.

It had stopped raining. They got into the SUV, and she passed him a money roll. He flicked through it, counting the five thousand, and nodded. She lay across the back seat, the blanket over her once again. Milo turned on the headlights and they got back on the turnpike. The roads were still quiet.

It was warm under the blanket. Amber yawned, closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to sleep. Sleep meant bad dreams. Sleep meant monsters. But when she opened her eyes and sat up they were pulling up outside a dark house somewhere in outer suburbia, the sky only just beginning to lighten, birdsong threading the pale air.

“Grab your stuff,” Milo said.

They got out and took their bags from the back. Amber stood holding hers while she watched Milo go round to the passenger side. He opened up the glove compartment, took out a gun, and clipped the holster on to his belt. Then he closed the door, pressed the fob, and the SUV beeped and locked.

“Are you a cop, or something?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

He walked into the darkness between two houses. He didn’t tell her to follow him or to stay, so she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and she followed. They came to the side door of a garage. Milo took out his wallet, searched inside it for a moment, and came out with a key. He opened the door and went inside. Amber waited a few seconds, then followed.

He shut the door after her, and locked it. Amber stood in complete darkness. The window had been boarded up. Milo moved around her.

“Is there a light in here?” she asked.

“No,” he answered.

She dug into her shorts, came out with the matchbook that Edgar had given her. She struck one and light flared.

A long table against one wall contained all manner of tools and engine parts. She could suddenly smell oil, like the curiously sweet aroma had been holding itself back until she could see what she was smelling. A car covered by a tarp took up most of the space in the garage.

“You took his matches, huh?” Milo said, putting his bag on the table.

“Oh. Uh yeah. I forgot to give them back. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Milo said. “I took the powder flask.”

Her eyes widened. “He paid a lot of money for that. Isn’t he going to be mad when he finds out?”

“Don’t see why he would be,” said Milo, moving to the tarp. “It works for you and you’re going to need it again, with any luck. Why would he be mad about that?”

“Because it’s not mine.”

“Edgar doesn’t care about things like ownership. He doesn’t even own the condo he’s living in.”

“He’s renting it?”

“He’s stolen it.”

Amber frowned. “How can you steal a condo?”

“By pretending to be the son of the elderly owner so that you can ship her off to a home for the infirm.”

She gaped. “That’s horrible!”

“Not really,” said Milo. “The owner used to be a nurse who mistreated her patients. Edgar made sure everyone in the home knew about it, too.”

“Oh,” said Amber. “Well, I guess that’s okay, then.”

Milo pulled back the tarp, revealing a black car, an old one, the kind Amber had seen in movies, with a long hood and a sloping back.

“Nice,” she said.

He looked at her sharply. “Nice?”

She hesitated. “It’s pretty. What is it?”

“It’s a 1970 Dodge Charger, and it is a she.”

“Right,” said Amber. “She’s very nice, then.”

Milo walked round the car, looking at it lovingly.

“The reason we can only travel eight hours a day,” said Amber, “is it because your car will fall apart if we go longer?”

“You see any rust?” Milo asked, not rising to the bait. “Storing an old car in this humidity is not generally a good idea, not for any length of time, let alone twelve years. But she’s different. She is pristine. Under the hood there she’s got the 440 Six Pack, three two-barrel carburettors and 390 horses. She’s a beast.”

“Yeah. Words. Cool.”

His hand hovered over the roof, like he was unsure as to whether or not he should actually touch it. Then he did, and his eyes closed and Amber wondered if she should leave him to it.

“You, uh, really love this car, huh?”

“She was my life,” he said softly.

“Yeah. This is getting weird.”

He opened the door, paused, and slid in. Sitting behind the wheel, his face in shadow, he looked for a moment like just another part of the car. She heard the keys jangle and she backed away from the hood. If the car really hadn’t been started in twelve years, she doubted anything was going to happen, but she didn’t want to be standing there if it suddenly blew up.

And yet, when Milo turned the key in the ignition, the garage reverberated with a deep and throaty growl that rose through the soles of Amber’s feet and quickened her pulse. It was impressive, she had to admit that.

Milo flicked the headlights on and they shone blood-red for a moment, before fading to a strong yellow.

“Cool,” she whispered, and this time she meant it.

THEY STUCK TO RESIDENTIAL roads as much as they could on their way out of Florida, staying off the expressway and I-95. Like she’d done in the SUV, Amber had to lie on the back seat, covered. She closed her eyes, but didn’t sleep – not at first. Instead, she listened to the Charger. It creaked when it turned. It seemed heavy. There was no confusing it with its modern counterparts, cars that acted as cocoons against the world around them. To ride in a modern car was to ride in a deprivation tank – to ride in the Charger was to ride in a streamlined behemoth of black metal. A beast, as Milo called it.

Amber examined her hand, tried to remember what her claws had looked like. She was a beast, too, of course. A monster. Not a monster like her parents, though. They were predators – heartless and lethal. No, Amber was the prey, all innocence and vulnerability – except when she had her claws out.

The way she had punched that boy – Brandon, his name was Brandon – hadn’t been weak. She probably would have killed him if she’d hit him any harder. She wondered if she could have hit him harder. She wondered how strong she was. She wondered what she looked like. Imelda was more beautiful as a demon than as a person. Her parents, too, had been taller and stronger and more beautiful. Amber wondered if the transformation would have the same effect on her, and found herself wondering what she’d look like taller, and slimmer, and prettier. She hoped her eyes didn’t change, though. She liked her eyes.

She woke when they reached Homerville, across the state line in Georgia. Milo gave her a baseball cap and told her she could sit up front if she pulled the cap low over her brow. The further they got from Miami, he said, the safer she’d be. It was midday now. They passed through Pearson, and then Hazlehurst, and then Soperton – all brown grass and tall trees and identical houses with mailboxes by the road – and not one word was spoken the whole time.

“Thanks for doing this,” Amber said to fill the silence.

Milo nodded, didn’t say anything.

“I know I’m paying you, and this is just a job, but I didn’t thank you earlier. I should have.”

He didn’t say anything to that, either.

A few minutes passed before she said, “Is this what it’s going to be like the whole way?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What is this like?”

“You know,” said Amber, “the silence. The awkward, heavy, awkward silence.”

“You used awkward twice.”

“It’s very awkward.”

“I like to drive in silence. It lets you think.”

“What do you do when you’re done thinking? Or if you’ve got nothing to think about? Does the radio work? Maybe we could put on some music.”

“But then we wouldn’t be in silence.”

She sighed. “You’re really not listening to me.”

“I like to drive in silence,” said Milo again. “You’re paying me, but this is my car and, since I like to drive in silence, we drive in silence. That’s just the way it is.”

“Even though it makes me uncomfortable?”

He shrugged. “If you can’t stand to be alone with your thoughts, maybe there’s something wrong with your thoughts.”

“Of course there’s something wrong with my thoughts. I’m going through a very tough time.”

“We all go through tough times.”

“My parents are trying to kill me.”

“We all have issues.”

“Maybe I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress. Did you think of that? Did Imelda? No. She just offloaded me on to you and now here we are. I probably need major psychiatric attention and you won’t even let me listen to calm, soothing music. I could have a breakdown at any moment.”

“You seem fine to me,” said Milo, not taking his eyes off the road. The endless, straight, monotonous grey road.

“I’m a demon,” she said.

“Like I said, we all have issues.”

Amber glared. “Talking to you is like talking to a … a … Whatever.”

She folded her arms and directed her glare out of the window. She didn’t intend to go to sleep.

She woke to farmland and trees, a full bladder and a rumbling stomach. “Where are we?”

“Outside Atlanta,” said Milo. “You can go back to sleep if you like.”

She sat up straighter, pulled her cap off. “No. If I sleep any more, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” The thought struck her. “Where are we sleeping tonight?”

“We’ll find a motel.”

“It better be a nice one. I’ve seen motels on TV and they look horrible.” They approached a gas station. “Can we stop here? I’m starving. And thirsty.”

“There’s a bottle of water in the glove box,” said Milo, and didn’t slow down.

She gaped as they drove by. “Seriously? Why didn’t you stop? I need food!”

“We’re going to be stopping in an hour or so to fill the tank – you can eat then. It’s going to be the first full tank she’s had in twelve years.”

“Is that so? Well, isn’t that lovely? I am really, really happy for your car, Milo, but what about me?”

“Your parents and their friends, with all their vast resources, are searching for you. I’m not going to stop this car unless I absolutely have to. Now drink your water.”

She punched the release for the glove box. It popped open and a bottle of water rolled off the stack of maps into her hand. She looked at the gun in its holster, sitting quietly in the light cast by the small bulb, and closed it up.

“I also have to pee,” she said, twisting the cap off.

“Hold it in.”

Right before she took a swig of water, she scowled. “I’m not sure I like you.”

Milo shrugged. That annoyed her even more.

The water soothed her parched throat, but she didn’t drink much of it – her bladder was full enough as it was. “We must have driven more than eight hours by now, right?” she asked. “We’ve been on the road since before seven. It’s almost five now. That’s, like … ten hours.”

“It took you a disturbingly long while to add that up.”

“Whatever. So why can you only drive for eight hours?”

“On average.”

Amber sighed. “Why can you only drive for eight hours on average?”

“Because that’s my rule.”

She looked at him. “You’re not a sharer, are you? Okay, fine, let’s keep this professional. Let’s keep this employer and employee. Let’s talk about, like, the mission. What do you know about this Dacre Shanks guy?”

“Just what Edgar told us.”

“What do you think he’ll be like? Do you think he’ll be nice?”

“There are no nice serial killers.”

“Well, I know that,” said Amber, “but he’s not going to kill us on sight or anything, is he?”

“Don’t know.” Milo took a small iPad from his jacket. “Look him up.”

She grabbed it off him. “You’re allowed to have internet access, but I’m not? How is that fair?”

“Because your parents have no idea who I am, whereas they’ve undoubtedly got their eyes on your email account.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh yeah.”

She tapped on the screen for the search engine and put in Shanks’s name.

“Dacre Shanks,” she read, “the serial killer known as the Family Man. Oh God, do you know what he did? He kidnapped people that looked alike to make up a perfect family. Then he killed them all and started again. Says here he killed over three dozen people before he was shot to death, most of them in and around Springton, Wisconsin. We’re actually going to try to talk to this guy?”

“All we need him to do is give us the name of the man who cheated the Shining Demon.”

“And why should he give it to us when he didn’t give it to Edgar?”

“Because Edgar posed no threat,” Milo said. “Whereas we do.”

“Do we? He’s a serial killer who, like, came back from the grave. I know you’ve got your guns and you’re really good at being horrible to people, but do you seriously think you can threaten him?”

Milo frowned. “I’m not horrible to people.”

“Really? You really don’t think you’re horrible to people?”

“No,” he said, a little defensively. “I’m nice. Everyone says it.”

“Oh man,” said Amber. “People have lied to you. Like, a lot. But even if we could threaten him – is that a good idea, to threaten a serial killer who’s come back from the dead?”

“I’ve threatened worse.”

“Worse how?”

“Just worse.”

She sighed. “Fine. Don’t elaborate. How are we supposed to find him, anyway? What if he isn’t in Springton anymore?”

“We’ll find him,” said Milo. “We’re on the blackroads now.”

“The what?”

“Guy I knew once called them the blackroads – roads connecting points of darkness, criss-crossing America. Stay on the blackroads and you’ll eventually meet every unholy horror the country has to offer. It’s a network. Some people call it the Dark Highway, or the Demon Road. It’s never the same route twice and there are no maps to guide the way.”

“Then how do you know we’re on it?”

“I’ve travelled it before. So has this car. You get the feeling for it.”

Amber looked at him for a quiet moment. “Sometimes I think you just make stuff up.”

MILO PULLED THE CHARGER up to a pump at a truck stop and Amber was allowed out. She stepped on to the forecourt and stretched, arching her spine and feeling it crack. The afternoon wasn’t much cooler than the afternoons she’d endured in Orlando. It was hot and the sun was bright and the air was laden with moisture. A truck roared by on the road, rustling the trees on the far side and kicking up mini-tornadoes of dust that danced around Amber’s bare calves.

The place was pretty run-down. Desperate blades of grass surged from cracks in the ground like drowning men in a sea of concrete. A long building with a sagging roof and dirty windows identified itself as a Family Restaurant. The letter E was missing from the sign outside, turning EAT HERE into EAT HER. Amber turned her back on it.

Beyond the fence there was corn, miles of it, and a clump of sorry-looking forest behind the truck stop itself. An old Coca-Cola billboard was rusting and peeling on a metal strut.

“Hey,” said Milo, and she turned and he tossed her the baseball cap over the roof of the car. “Head down at all times. Just because you can’t see a CCTV camera doesn’t mean it can’t see you.”

She pulled the cap low. “You really think my parents would be able to find me here? In Florida, okay, they probably have cops and officials doing whatever they want, but we’re not in Florida anymore.”

“Your folks have been around for over a hundred years,” Milo said, sliding the nozzle in. “Let’s not underestimate how far their reach spreads.”

The gas started pumping and Amber headed round the side of the station, following the sign for the restroom. The clerk, a bored-looking guy in his fifties, didn’t even glance up as she passed his window.

The restroom was empty and relatively clean. The early evening sun came in through the three windows up near the ceiling. Amber chose the only cubicle with a toilet seat, and when she was done she washed her hands in the sink. The mirror was dirty but intact, and she took off her cap and looked at her reflection. Butterflies fluttered deep in her belly.

You just decide you want to shift, and you shift, Imelda had said. Amber decided she wanted to shift, but her body ignored her. She tried again. She tried to remember how it had happened in Imelda’s apartment, how it had happened when she’d bitten that finger off, but she couldn’t even come close to replicating those feelings.

Did she even want to? What if she shifted and she couldn’t shift back? What if she became stuck as a demon, unable to revert? No matter how much she tried to cover up, someone was bound to see, and then word would reach her parents and they’d come after her, the predators after their prey.

Amber looked into her own eyes. She hated being the prey. She commanded her body to change and this time it obeyed.

The pain blossomed and she cried out, and even as she was doing so she was watching her reflection. Her skin darkened to a glorious red in the time it would have taken her to blush. Her bones creaked and throbbed and her body lengthened – her legs, her torso, her arms. Her feet jammed tight in her sneakers. She was suddenly tall, suddenly slim. Her face was longer, her jawline defined, her cheekbones raised and sharpened. It was still her face, but her features were altered. Her lips were plumper. Her brown hair was black now, and longer, the tangles straightened.

Dizziness, an astonishing wave of vertigo, nearly took her to the ground. She gripped the edge of the sink, kept herself standing, unable and unwilling to look away from the beautiful demon in the mirror.

And she was beautiful. Her skin, though red, was flawless. Her teeth – pointed now, and sharp like fangs – were white and straight. Her raised cheekbones changed everything. Only her eyes had stayed the same. She was glad about that.

And, of course, there were her horns. Black horns, like ribbed ebony, curling out from her forehead and sweeping back. Breathtaking to behold.

Although her shorts looked shorter on her longer legs, they were now baggier, and threatened to slip off her hips. She pulled the neckline of her T-shirt to either side, revealing hard black scales that travelled across her shoulders.

She looked at her hands. They were small no more. They were good hands, strong hands, not small and weak like they had always been. Her fingernails were black, but there was something else, an itch in her fingertips. She curled her right hand and her nails lengthened to claws so suddenly it actually frightened her. She gripped her right wrist with her other hand, not trusting this new and alien appendage not to suddenly attack her. She concentrated, and the claws retracted at her command.

“Awesome,” she whispered. This was how it was meant to feel, she was sure. Shifting was supposed to make her feel strong, and powerful, and confident. Not scared, not like she’d been in Imelda’s apartment. Not panicked, like she’d been when she’d smashed that boy’s jaw.

Brandon, she reminded herself. His name was Brandon.

Then the door opened, and a broad woman in a trucker’s cap barged in, making it halfway to the cubicles before she even noticed there was somebody else there.

Frozen, they looked at each other with wide eyes. Then the trucker spun on her heel. Spun to flee. Spun to call the cops. And with the cops would come her parents.

“No, wait!” Amber said, lunging after her. She caught the woman before she reached the door, pushed her a little harder than she’d intended. The trucker slammed into the wall.

“Sorry,” said Amber, “sorry, but—”

The trucker took something from her belt. A clasp knife. She flicked it open and Amber held up her hands.

“No, wait, I’m sorry, please—”

But the trucker was too scared, too adrenalised, to listen. She rushed forward and Amber backpedalled, losing track of the knife. Immediately, she felt her skin tighten. Her hip hit the sink and the trucker stabbed her right in the belly.

Amber gasped, more from shock than pain. She expected the pain to follow. The trucker stabbed again, and again.

Still nothing.

Amber got her hand up, dug her fingertips into the trucker’s face, and forced her back. Her other hand grabbed the woman’s knife hand, gripping the wrist, keeping the blade away from her. It suddenly became clear to Amber that all she had was strength. She had no idea what to do next.

The trucker was more streetwise. She slammed her free arm on to Amber’s elbow and punched her. It wasn’t a particularly strong punch – she was obviously right-handed and she’d been forced to punch with her left – but her fist still connected with Amber’s nose and tears still came to Amber’s eyes. Anger flared, and she pulled the trucker in and threw a punch of her own. Her fist, which had grown black scales across the knuckles, collided with the trucker’s jaw and sent her spinning into the far wall. The knife fell as the trucker hit the hand-dryer, its roar filling the room.

The trucker regained her balance, her eyes focusing once more. Amber stood across from her, only dimly aware that she was snarling. The woman broke for the door.

“I said don’t!” Amber shouted. The trucker got to the handle and was pulling the door open when Amber reached her. She got a hand to the woman’s head and bounced it off the door, slamming it closed. Amber pulled her back like the trucker weighed no more than a child, and threw her against the cubicle wall. It caved in under her weight and the woman crumpled to the floor. The hand-dryer deactivated.

Amber stood over the trucker to make sure she wasn’t getting up. After a moment, Amber frowned, and knelt by her. She felt for a pulse. Couldn’t find one. Alarmed, she rolled the woman on to her back, only then noticing the steady rise and fall of her chest. Amber checked the pulse again, searching for a few seconds until she found it.

She stood, and lifted her shirt as she turned to the mirror. Her belly was covered in those black scales, like armour. Even as she watched, though, they were retracting.

The trucker moaned.

Amber bolted into the sunlight. A car passed on the road and she dropped to her knees behind a pallet of chopped wood wrapped in plastic. When the car was gone, she was up, running bent over, making for the shelter of a parked truck, then the trees beyond.

She plunged into the shade and kept going, the trees quickly becoming a wood. Her horns bounced off a few low-lying branches and she ducked her head as she continued, following the sounds of water. She walked for a minute or two, and then light dazzled her eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought the Shining Demon had come for her, but it was only the sun glinting off the surface of a slow-moving river.

Amber looked back. Listened. No sounds of pursuit. No cries of alarm.

She lifted her T-shirt again. The black scales were gone. Her belly was flat, toned, and uninjured.

She pulled off her clothes, left them in a pile and examined herself. Her arms, though red, were devoid of any black scales. She could see her muscles now, rolling beneath her skin. She held her right arm up and curled it, popped her bicep, and laughed out loud. She was strong. She was seriously strong. She had a strength that belied even her new and impressive muscles.

When she’d punched the trucker, scales had grown up over her knuckles. That time, their growth had been natural, instinctive. This time, she closed her fist and concentrated. The skin around her knuckles tightened, and black scales pushed their way, painlessly, to the surface. She focused on her hand now, and felt the skin tighten and watched the scales spread.

She held both hands out. Black scales grew, covering her hands and forearms. She looked down at herself. Her feet were now encased in them. Then her legs. Her belly and her chest. Her neck. Amber took a breath and closed her eyes and felt her face tighten, and the scales grew to cover her head.

She opened her eyes. Her eyelids hadn’t grown scales, and neither, thankfully, had her nostrils or mouth – though when she tried opening her mouth wide she found she couldn’t. She tapped her fingers between her horns and along her scalp, feeling the scales that had flattened her hair.

She walked to the river and gazed at her own rippling image.

Clad in her armour, she smiled.

She turned her fingers into claws, taking a moment to appreciate just how big, and how monstrous, her normally small hands had become. Then she went to the nearest tree, hesitated, and drew her fingernails across the trunk, leaving four deep grooves in her wake.

She did it again, faster this time. Then again. And then she slashed at the tree, carving out narrow chunks. If she could do that to a tree, what could she do to a person?

The thought disturbed her, threatened to dim her smile. But she shook it off, stepped back and leaped, her hands digging into the tree, and she climbed like she was born to do it. The tree swayed outwards and she went with it, until she was hanging over the river. Practically upside down. Amber laughed, exhilarated. Even her feet seemed to be digging in. Then she made the mistake of glancing at them.

Her feet were misshapen things, her toes as long as her new fingers, and every one of them curled around the tree.

The shock, the panic, the idea that she had deformed herself beyond repair, shot through her and her feet returned to normal and so did her hands. She fell, crying out, twisting in mid-air and then landing in the water.

The scales retracted as soon as she was submerged. When she’d regained her wits, she powered to the surface, already calming. She trod water for a bit, waiting for her heart to stop hammering so hard, then lengthened out and swam for the far side, marvelling at how effortless it all was. A few strokes and she was there. She turned, swam underwater the whole way back. Her fingers brushed silt along the riverbed.

Amber spent another few minutes just swimming. Skinny-dipping. She laughed as she did the backstroke. She’d never been skinny-dipping in her life. She’d never thought she’d ever get the chance. She never thought she’d ever have the confidence. And now here she was, in all her red splendour, in a river somewhere in Georgia. Were they still in Georgia? She wasn’t even sure. That just made her laugh more.

The laugh died when she got the feeling that she was being watched.

She looked around. She could see no one in the woods on either side of the river, but the feeling didn’t go away. She swam back, hesitating before pulling herself out of the water, then moved up on to the grassy bank towards her clothes.

She was halfway up when she saw the face staring at her through the foliage.

AMBER DARTED BEHIND A tree, as much to hide her nakedness as her black horns. Behind cover, she cursed silently, and immediately started looking around for an escape route. There was no way she could get away without being seen. Her only hope was that the person, whoever it was, would be freaked out enough to run away, but not freaked out enough to report the sighting.

She saw the face again in her mind. Shaggy hair – light brown. A boy. No, a young man. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.

“Hello?”

Amber stiffened.

“Hello? Miss?”

She shut her eyes and didn’t reply. Silence, she decided, was her best option at this point.

“I know you’re there,” the boy said. He had an accent. English? Scottish? “I saw you run behind the tree. You know I saw you. I don’t get why you’re pretending you’re not there.”

No. Irish. That was it.

“This is getting a little bit silly,” he continued. “This is like when my little cousins play hide-and-seek and they close their eyes because they think that makes them invisible. You … You’re not closing your eyes, are you?”

Amber hesitated, then opened her eyes, and cursed silently again.

“I didn’t mean to peek,” he said. “My name’s Glen. Glen Morrison. I was just passing, and … Well, no, that’s not strictly true. Sorry, I don’t want to start off on a lie, you know? The truth is, I’ve been sleeping here for the past few nights. In these woods. I’m temporarily between abodes, and my financial situation is not what one might call robust. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, though. I’m not lazy. I didn’t come over to your country to scam the system or anything like that. I do have prospects. Well, I had prospects. It’s a very long story, and I wouldn’t want to trouble you with—”

“Glen,” Amber said.

There was a pause, and then, “You’re talking!”

“I am,” said Amber. “Glen, I’m naked.”

She could practically hear him nod. “I noticed. I mean, oh God, I mean I couldn’t help but notice that you were … that you had no … that you were, uh … oh man, what’s the word?”

“Naked,” Amber prompted.

“Yes, thank you. Naked. You are naked, yes.”

“And since I’m naked, Glen, I find having a conversation with a complete stranger a little weird. You know?”

“Oh, I do,” Glen said, with an assurance that made it sound like it was a situation he found himself in regularly.

“I’m not sure that you do, Glen.”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “But, if it makes you feel any better, you don’t have anything to feel embarrassed about.”

“You’re not helping, Glen.”

“Sorry. I like your horns, though. Is that rude? Can I say that?”

“Glen … would you please go away?”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh. But … Yeah. I mean … right. Sure. Of course. You’re naked. You want to be alone. I come along, you feel self-conscious. Obviously. That’s natural. That’s perfectly natural. I’m intruding upon your special me time.”

“And when you go away,” Amber said, “could you please not tell anyone about this? About me?”

“Sure,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Okay. Well, I suppose I’ll just … head off, then.”

“Thank you,” Amber called.

She waited to hear his retreating footsteps, then waited a bit longer.

“Glen,” she said, “are you still there?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Listen, I don’t want you to think any less of me, all right? But … but I may need to check your clothes and steal any money you might have.”

Amber’s eyes snapped wide. “What?”

“I just don’t want this to make things weird between us,” he said, and then came the sound of rustling fabric as her shorts were lifted off the ground.

“Do not rob me,” she called.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Do not frikkin’ rob me, you little creep!”

“I feel really bad about this.”

She pictured him rifling through her pockets, his grubby little hand closing around the roll of cash she’d put in there. She concentrated on growing those scales again, and felt her skin begin to tighten. Then she heard a sharp intake of breath. Glen had found the money.

The scales didn’t cover her entire body but they did enough to protect her modesty. Anger boiling, she lunged out from behind the tree, but her horns got tangled in the branches and her feet flew from under her, and she crashed heavily to the ground. She felt some of the scales retract. Glen stared down at her, open-mouthed.

“Wow,” he whispered.

She snarled, showing him her fangs, and his eyes went wide. He dropped the money and spun, but Amber was right behind him, faster than he could ever hope to be. She grabbed the collar of his jacket and he shrieked as he was launched backwards.

“Do you know what I’ve just done?” she growled as she stalked after him. “I’ve just broken some poor woman’s bones in the gas station. I threw her around like she was nothing and then I went for a goddamn swim. You think I’d hesitate for even one moment before I ripped your throat out for robbing me?”

Glen scrambled back on all fours. “Please, I didn’t mean anything!”

“You meant to steal from me.”

“I’m starving!”

She leaped, landing on top of him in a crouch, her right hand closing round his neck and pinning him to the ground. “Not my problem.”

He looked up at her, tears in his eyes, and those tears just made her angrier. She wanted nothing more than to grow talons, to feel them slice into the soft meat, to sink her teeth in, to feel that warm blood flow down her …

She blinked. Wait, what?

She loosened her grip. The impulse to tear his throat open was rapidly receding.

“Are you going to kill me?” he whispered.

“No,” she said dully, and stood. “No, I’m … I’m not going to kill you. I wanted to. I was going to. But …”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “Something’s going to kill me sooner or later. Most likely sooner, to be honest. If I had a choice, I’d prefer it to be you.”

Amber took a few steps back, then turned, walked to her clothes. She let her scales retract fully as she pulled them on, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of dry fabric on wet skin. Still frowning to herself, she sat on a log to wipe the soles of her feet before putting on her socks and sneakers.

“Your clothes don’t fit you, y’know,” Glen said.

He was tall and skinny, scruffy but not bad-looking. He bent to pick up her roll of money and she bared her teeth. He walked over slowly and held out his hand.

Amber finished tying her laces and stood, taking her money without a word and stuffing it back into her pocket.

“You should probably invest in a wallet,” he said.

“Shut up, Glen,” said Amber.

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

She turned away from him, hiked her shorts up to her waist, and started walking back towards the gas station.

He caught up to her. “Can I ask a question, though? What are you?”

“What do I look like?”

“Honestly? A demon.”

“Then there you have it.”

He nodded. “You’d think that’d shock me, right? Meeting a demon? A few weeks ago, it would have, but my life has taken a pretty weird turn lately, so I’ve adopted a policy of complete and utter credulity in all things. It saves everyone a lot of time. These days I don’t ask for proof or reasons or anything. I just accept. That doesn’t mean I’m not curious, of course. I’m very curious. I mean, look at you. A real live demon, just walking around. Do you live down here?”

“Down where?”

“Here. In the woods.”

She frowned. “Are you stupid? Why would I live in the woods?”

“Well, I just thought, y’know …”

“Stop following me.”

“Okay. Right. But can I ask another question? Why do you have money? How do you buy stuff?”

She stopped walking and turned to him. “How do you think I buy stuff? I walk into a store and say I want something and I pay for it.”

He frowned. “You walk into a shop like that?”

She remembered her appearance. “Oh,” she said. “No. This is new. I’m still getting used to it. I keep forgetting I have horns.”

“They are magnificent,” he breathed, staring at them.

“Eyes down here, Glen.”

“Yes, sorry.” He blushed. “You’re … Sorry. You’re just the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Like, prettier than most actresses and models, even.”

Amber grunted, and started walking again. “This isn’t the real me.”

“No, it is,” Glen said, matching her pace. “Like, you’re beautiful in a way that I’ve never seen before. Everything about you, your face, your horns, your amazing teeth, your skin that’s my favourite shade of red, your legs, your body, your—”

“You can stop anytime now.”

“I’m not scared,” he said. “You might think I’m scared of you because you’re a demon and most people would be scared of demons, and that’s why you put up this wall, to reject others before they reject you, but I’m really not scared. You’re not scary. You’re beautiful, not ugly. And I’ve seen some ugly things. I mean, I really have. Back in Ireland, I was attacked by this, by this creature, you know? It passed something on to me, the Deathmark. Wanna see it?”

“Not really.”

He held out his right hand, proudly showing her his palm. Just below the surface of his skin, a tendril of darkness circled like a fish in a bowl. “Isn’t it freaky? Ever since it happened, I’ve been meeting the oddest people. I met this guy in Dublin, this real weird guy, knows all about monsters and stuff. He said this thing will kill me in forty days if I don’t pass it on to its intended target. That was, like, thirty-two days ago.”

“You’re going to die in eight days?” said Amber, frowning.

He nodded, and seemed oddly unbothered about it. “Unless I pass this mark on to a woman called Abigail. Apparently, she’s a bad person. Like, really bad. Killed a lot of people, that kind of bad. I’ll be doing the world a favour by passing this on to her. That’s what I was told. She’s supposed to be in a bar here in America that I haven’t been able to find – The Dark Stair. You know it?”

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