Waking up on an operating table was not a pleasant experience. Sam came around with the metallic tang of his own blood in his nose. A tube had been crammed down the back of his throat and he began to choke. Somebody was doing something to his neck, and the thought of sharp teeth descending on him made him panic. He sat up.

The nurse regulating his breathing screamed. The doctor attempting to sew up the gash in his throat jumped and thrust the needle deep into Sam’s collarbone. The sudden pain galvanised Sam, and he lashed out in fury. The flesh of his arm ripped as the tube that attached him to a life-saving drip tore out. His wild swing caught the anaesthetist – who had run in to help restrain him – and sent him tumbling head over heels into a far wall.

Another nurse ran up with a hypodermic needle and thrust it into Sam’s leg. The last thing he saw before his vision wavered and dropped away was the plunger being depressed. As he passed out, he could hear somebody shouting.

When he next woke up, he was lying in a hospital bed. Enough light filtered in through the thin blinds for Sam to make out that he was in a ward with three more beds. The other beds were occupied, and he could hear various machines clicking, whirring, and beeping over the occasional snore or groan. He became aware of a tube in his throat again and he pulled it out, gagging as he did. There were tubes in his arms. He left them where they were. Struggling, he sat up and felt at his throat. It was bound up in thick bandages. They felt constricting, and the flesh beneath them itched furiously. He felt weak and thirsty.

Somebody had left a small metal box with buttons on it next to his hand. One of them had a small picture of a bell on it, and he pressed it a couple of times. While he waited, he rubbed at the bandages in an attempt to scratch his neck. It didn’t work. He shifted around a bit as he tried to make himself comfortable in the crisp sheets and the sterile-smelling pillows.

Just as he was getting the pillows right, a nurse walked into the room. She came over to him with a tired smile on her face. ‘Well, if it isn’t our John Doe, back from the dead.’ Sam tried to speak but found that his throat wasn’t working. The nurse looked at him sympathetically. Then she held out a notepad and a pencil. ‘Your throat was badly damaged. I’ll let the doctor speak with you about that. For now, why don’t you write down your name.’

Sam wrote – where’s my wallet.

‘You didn’t have one on you when you came in. That’s why we don’t know who you are. The police took your fingerprints, but you’ve obviously been a good boy because they didn’t get a result.’ Sam vaguely remembered Dead Eyes going through his pockets. What a bastard, he thought to himself. Sam wrote his name and date of birth on the pad, and the nurse read it.

‘Sam. I’ve always thought that was a lovely name. My granddad was a Sam,’ she said fondly.

Sam gestured for the pad and when he got it back, he wrote – does my wife know I’m here?

‘We didn’t know who to contact, honey,’ said the nurse gently. ‘Put down her details, and we’ll get in touch with her straight away.’ Sam complied, writing down Tabby’s name and both the home number and her mobile. At the end, he scrawled – what happened to me?

‘From what I can gather, the police think you were attacked. You poor thing. Would you like a drink? We’ll have to put the tube back in if you do – I don’t think you’ll be able to swallow.’

Yes.

The nurse went and got a drink of water in a plastic beaker. She reached for the tube, but Sam waved her away. She handed him the beaker with the expression of a schoolteacher who was about to let a pupil make a mistake, confident that this was the best way for them to learn. When Sam swallowed the water without help, she arched an eyebrow questioningly.

‘Well, that’s good Sam. That’s very good. The doctor didn’t think you’d be swallowing on your own for a week at least. I’ll go and phone your wife.’ Sam watched her go, clutching the pad and pencil as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat in a violent sea.

Birdsong woke Mark. Opening his eyes, he stared blankly at the ceiling above his bed. As usual, he gained consciousness immediately. There was no half-awake, half-asleep bleariness, nor did he feel any need to roll over and doze for a few extra minutes. There was no confusion from the last dream of the night because he didn’t dream. Mark knew exactly where he was and who he was.

Sitting up, he rubbed some grit from the corner of his eye. His room was dark and gloomy, and smelled of stale breath and night sweat. ‘Windows,’ he said out loud. His voice was clear and strong against the twittering and chattering of the birds outside.

The darkness faded like miraculous dawn as the current died in the electrochromic glass of the huge windows that covered one entire wall of the bedroom. The glass went from solid black to clear crystal in a few short seconds, and bright sunlight flooded the room. Mark did not blink nor shield his eyes. He felt his pupils constrict. He stared out at the skeletal winter treetops beyond the window.

Stretching, he looked around, his gaze checking the room out of habit. Everything was in place. The huge king-sized bed he was resting on dominated the centre of the room, its headboard pushed up against the middle of one long wall. Its white duvet and sheets were unruffled, except for where he had pushed the cover back to sit up. The pillows were in place, and only the one on which he had laid his head was indented. He did not move around when he slept.

The dark wooden floors were clear and shone with polish. The room was painted a pristine white and it was massive, though the furniture was minimal. It gave the place an impersonal, almost forlorn feel. Opposite the bed, a vast plasma screen television hung on the wall. Beneath it, a stainless-steel stand held various electronic items – the latest multimedia station, a stereo, and all the other modern essentials. Mark used the television for the news. The rest of the gadgets he rarely touched.

Another white wall stretched out opposite the windows. An antique wooden wardrobe and a chest of drawers, both the same shade as the wood floor, were backed up against it. To their right, a big double door, which also matched the floor, was closed. Beside the bed there was a small table with a lamp on it. On the other side of the bed another smaller door was also closed.

There were no pictures, neither personal nor professional, nor were there any ornaments nor other personal effects.

‘Television,’ Mark said. The big plasma screen shimmered to life. The BBC News channel was on. The story was about the Middle East, and Mark stopped listening. Instead, he read the ticker tape of headlines at the bottom of the screen. There was nothing about his work last night. The body of the woman had consumed itself, and the evidence of his evening’s hunting had vanished in a matter of minutes. He knew the creature would not be missed. Not by anything human, anyway.

‘Off,’ he barked. The television went dead. ‘Phone: Sergei,’ he said. Hidden speakers clicked on and he heard a dial tone flicker to life. There was a discordant series of beeps as a number was dialled and then a ringing noise.

‘Mr. Jones,’ a sharp, European voice answered from the speakers. ‘How can I help you this morning, Sir?’

‘How is she?’ Mark demanded without preamble.

‘She is fine, Sir. She got home and went to bed. We kept surveillance on her. She is perfectly safe.’

‘Twenty-four seven,’ Mark said. ‘I want her protected twenty-four seven.’

‘Yes Sir, there is a team with her constantly.’

‘And they remain hidden.’

‘She is blissfully unaware of our presence or your interest, Sir.’

‘Good. You remember the date?’

‘Yes Sir. Next Monday.’

‘I will speak with you tomorrow morning. If anything changes in the meantime, you are to contact me immediately.’

‘Yes Sir.’

‘Goodbye, Sergei.’ Hearing the coded phrase, the computer system that ran his home waited for a second in case there was any reply and then hung up. Mark walked naked to the door beside his bed and moved through into an immaculate en-suite bathroom, where he went through his morning ablutions. When he was finished, he took a thick white robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door and shrugged it on. Then he went back through his bedroom and out onto a wide landing.

Walking purposefully, he made his way past several rooms along the mezzanine level until he reached another set of double doors. Opening them, he stepped into another large space. This room had not been painted nor papered, and the original brickwork was exposed. Another series of huge windows dominated one wall, flooding the room with bright light. There was nothing of the previous night’s storms in the clear blue winter sky, which spread azure and perfect towards a distant horizon.

‘Windows,’ Mark said. Two of the huge windows swung open automatically, and a gust of cold air washed into the room. Mark hung his robe on a hook near the door and enjoyed the goose bumps that rose across his chest, shoulders, and arms. One side of the room contained a spartan gymnasium – a running machine, some free weights, and a punchbag that hung from a thick beam in the ceiling. The rest of the room was empty, with the same hardwood flooring as the bedroom.

The only other objects in the room were two swords, both resting on granite plinths in opposite corners of the room. The weapons were in their sheaths. They were each four feet long: three in the blade and one in the hilt. Though hidden by their sheaths, it was clear the blades were slightly curved.

The sword closest to the window had a deep red sheath and a white ivory handle. The other sword, which had been placed as far from the window as possible, was jet black. Its hilt was wrapped in black cloth to provide a firm grip.

After a series of warm-up exercises and stretches, Mark went over to the sword with the red sheath and drew it. He examined the blade, which was plain, unsharpened steel, for any flaws. Satisfied, he went through a series of complicated practice moves.

For an hour, the blade flickered and spun in Mark’s expert hands. To an untrained eye, it might have looked like a dance, so swift and perfect were the kata. Sweat soon glistened on his naked body.

Re-sheathing the sword, Mark walked back across the floor and put it back on its plinth. Then he worked the bag for twenty minutes before jogging ten kilometres on the running machine. He warmed down with some free weights.

Mark put his robe back on and walked to the kitchen, a sparkling affair in black granite and stainless steel. He ate mechanically. Like sleep, Mark didn’t really need to eat, but it could cause discomfort if he didn’t for any length of time. He ate a bowl of cereal and then went back upstairs for a second shower.

As he towelled himself off in the bedroom, Mark said, ‘Phone: Jason.’

‘Mr. Jones?’

‘Jason.’

‘I assume last night’s … endeavour … was a success.’

‘Yes.’

‘The cyanide worked?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s good to know. I’ll make a note …’ Jason’s voice trailed off, and Mark thought he could hear the vague scratching of a pen.

‘What about the other target?’ Mark asked impatiently.

‘The portfolio is almost complete. The pattern didn’t change yesterday. I’ll pick up surveillance this morning. From what I’ve seen, the extermination will not be a problem.’

‘One more day. If nothing changes, I’ll begin preparations tomorrow.’

‘No problem. I still can’t believe you injected yourself with that stuff. Even you can’t predict how your system will react to something like that. It was dangerous.’

‘There was no danger. Goodbye, Jason.’ The phone went dead. ‘Phone: office,’ Mark said. He pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms as the phone rang. When it was answered, he began the business of the day.

Friday mornings were not the traditional time for hangovers. Cam, on the other hand, was much the worse for wear most mornings. It was a funny thing, but despite his inhuman resistance to poisons, Cam always suffered from alcoholic excess.

When he was in a philosophical mood, he pondered over whether it was psychosomatic – that he believed he deserved to suffer so much, his body just said to hell with it and started driving metaphorical nails through his temples. Since he had finished off the best part of a bottle of tequila before retiring last night, Cam’s hangover was pretty bad. He groaned and wrenched a gummy eye open. Grímnir was standing over him. He had a hand on Cam’s shoulder and Cam realised that he was shaking him.

‘Get away from me,’ he croaked in the True Tongue. ‘I told you I’m not into that shit.’

‘It is light outside. You promised me you would be up at first light to help me find the Maiden of Earth and Water.’

‘I promised you that? When?’

‘About an hour ago, when you finished that bottle of sour mead.’

‘Sour mead? You mean tequila?’ Cam realised what Grímnir had just said. ‘An hour ago? Sweet Jesus, you bearded loon. I’m dying here!’ he spat in English.

‘Speak in the True Tongue,’ Grímnir demanded.

‘Blow me,’ Cam replied. Then he turned and buried his face in an evil-smelling pillow. Strong hands closed around his torso, and he was wrenched physically from his bed. Grímnir held him under the armpits and began to shake him like a rag doll.

‘Oh fuck,’ Cam gasped queasily.

‘Speak in the True Tongue!’ Grímnir shouted. His bellow rang around Cam’s skull, threatening to split it open. Cam brought both hands around in desperation and slapped them around Grímnir’s ears. The big man grunted and then grinned. ‘Yes, little one, that was a bit more like how one from the Courts should behave – strongly! I almost felt the blow.’

‘Put me down,’ Cam gasped.

‘I will not, until you agree to fulfil your end of the bargain and take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water.’

‘Okay, okay … just put me down.’

Grímnir dropped him and Cam ran for the bathroom. He made it just in time. Dropping to his knees, he threw up violently into the toilet bowl.

Grímnir followed him in. ‘Why are you ill? Alcohol does not affect any Elf I ever met.’

‘Well no wonder the fairy folk are all so fucking cheerful then,’ Cam said bitterly. ‘I don’t know why it gets me like this, it just does. You were lucky I didn’t throw up in your beard, you cock-rocket. I’m going to take a …’ he looked for the word in the True Tongue and couldn’t find it. Cam shrugged. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said in English.

Grímnir looked at him dangerously. ‘You said you would take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water.’

‘I will,’ he said, switching back to the True Tongue. ‘But first I have to bathe, and we’ve got to go and get you some clothes from somewhere.’ In English, he added, ‘And then I’m going to get a drink.’

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Tabby said as soon as she walked in the room. Sam felt a smile spread across his face when he saw his wife. She came straight over to his bed, leant down, and kissed him gently on the lips. Then she took a step backwards and surveyed him with concern.

Sam wrote on his notepad – Hi, Tabby.

‘Oh, Sam … your poor neck.’ She reached out a tentative hand and brushed the bandages.

Sam wrote – It’s okay. It looks a lot worse than it is. Have you spoken with a doctor?

Tabby read the note. ‘No, I came straight here. When they called me …’ she choked up for a second. ‘You had me so worried.’

Sam looked at his wife and felt a swell of affection deep in his chest. She was a petite woman, only pushing five-feet-four in heels, which she rarely wore. Though short, she had a perfect figure, and long black hair that fell to the small of her back. Tabby spent hours caring for her hair, and it was so glossy and sleek, it almost glowed in the morning sun that shone through the open curtains. Her eyes were a deep blue that dazzled from the pale white skin of her face. She had a wide mouth, with full lips that were wont to spread up into an infectious grin. She was not smiling now, though – her forehead was furrowed in a concerned frown, and her lips were pursed and tight.

‘What did this to you?’ Tabby asked as she sat down on the edge of his bed.

Sam wrote – I don’t know, I was drunk.

‘You idiot,’ Tabby said without heat. She reached out and stroked his cheek. Sam felt a tingle where she touched him, and he reached up with his own hand to grip her fingers tenderly. Sam remembered the strange naked man perfectly and was slightly ashamed about keeping it from Tabby; he just couldn’t think of a way to explain it to her without sounding crazy. The last thing he wanted was to be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Movement at the door made Sam look up. A tall, harassed-looking man in his late thirties strode in. He attempted a smile at Sam and Tabby, but the effort seemed a bit flat. Sam could see the tiredness in his eyes. ‘Hi, I’m Doctor Jackman,’ he said. With more vague smiles in their direction, Jackman walked over to Sam’s chart and flicked through it. His eyebrows arched in surprise, and he looked at Sam. ‘You’re swallowing? Already? There must be some mistake …’

Sam wrote – No mistake. His pen strokes were clumsy because Jackman’s fingers were probing at his throat.

‘What’s wrong with him swallowing?’ Tabby asked worriedly.

Jackman looked at her with a slightly confused expression on his face. ‘Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, it’s very, very good news.’ He turned and addressed Sam. ‘I’ve reviewed your notes. When you were brought in last night, Mr. Autumn, they honestly didn’t think you were going to survive.’ Jackman ignored Tabby’s gasp of shock, and for a moment Sam felt like throttling the man for scaring her. ‘The damage was extensive and severe to the arteries and veins, and to the larynx. The carotid artery had been nicked, and the jugular vein was severed. You lost so much blood … well frankly, it was a miracle you lived to get to the ICU. You should have bled out on the street in moments.’

Sam wrote – I put pressure on the wound.

‘Quite,’ Jackman said doubtfully. ‘It’s all by-the-by anyway. You lived. If you don’t believe in God, then now’s a good time to start, because there is no medical explanation for why you’re with us today.’

‘Well he is, so what’s wrong with that?’ Tabby asked defensively. Sam squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Jackman looked at the two of them, his tired eyes perplexed. Then he seemed to understand. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Autumn, you have to forgive me. I’ve been working for almost fourteen hours … I don’t mean to frighten you. This really is genuinely good news. If I am a little blunt, then I apologise.’ He turned to Sam. ‘I don’t mean to scare you or your wife, but your survival really is a one in a million shot.

‘The surgeon assured me that your operation went very well indeed, despite the slight hiccup with the anaesthetic.’ He looked at Tabby. ‘He woke up on the operating table, I’m afraid. Even so, the tissue damage to the muscles of your throat meant that we anticipated swallowing would be a problem for a while. That you are already swallowing on your own is yet another cause for celebration.’

Jackman sighed. ‘Unfortunately, it is not all good news. Your recovery is remarkable, but your larynx was irreparably damaged. I’m afraid that it is very unlikely that you will ever speak again.’

They sat in silence for a while, Jackman in obvious discomfort, Sam and Tabby in shock. Eventually Sam picked up the pad and pencil again.

Sam wrote – Unlikely?

Jackman sighed again. ‘More like impossible.’ He let that sink in. ‘I really am very sorry. If you have any questions, ask one of the nurses to page me and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I’ll check on you tomorrow, regardless – if your condition remains the same, then I’ll happily discharge you.’

Tabby was crying. Sam wrote – I want to go home now.

‘I really think that it would be best if you remained here overnight,’ Jackman said. ‘There may be complications we don’t know about yet.’

Sam wrote – I want to discharge myself.

Jackman shrugged, clearly not bothered enough to argue his case. ‘I’ll have a nurse bring you the necessary paperwork to sign. I have an outpatients’ clinic tomorrow and I think I can find you a morning appointment. You can go home on the condition that you make that appointment. Okay?’

Sam wrote – Yes.

Jackman walked to the door and then turned again. ‘I really am very sorry,’ he reiterated before turning and walking out without waiting for a reply.

Mark was in the garage when hidden speakers trilled to indicate that he had an incoming call. He let it ring a few times as he looked around at the vehicles. There was a stripped Harley Davidson lounging in one corner, its exposed chrome pipes gleaming in the bright spotlights.

A glistening blue Corvette ZR1 was parked next to it, and next to the Corvette was a silver Aston Martin DB7. On the other side of the garage squatted a monstrous Lamborghini Reventón, in black. Its angular lines and sleek bonnet promised 650 horsepower, which could get it up to 210 miles per hour; so fast, the makers of the car had thought it prudent to include a G-force metre on the instrument panel.

Incongruously, an old Ford Escort was parked next to the sports car. It looked tiny and out of place amongst the exalted company around it. It was an old model, and its dark blue paintwork was scratched, the bodywork dented in places. Mark reached out a hand and stroked its bonnet. For some reason, he felt more attached to this old piece of junk than any of the other cars. Despite its beat-up appearance, the car was scrupulously maintained. It had never let Mark down, and since he only used the car when he wanted to look inconspicuous, which was most of the time if he was honest, he had grown attached to it.

All his cars had custom satellite navigation systems, run-flat tyres, bullet-proof glass, automatic fire extinguishers, and explosion-resistant fuel tanks. Each of them also had a stainless-steel case containing some basic medical supplies, two Browning Hi-Power 9mm semi-automatic pistols and ammunition, an L85A2 assault rifle and ammunition, a change of clothing, grenades, flares, and night vision equipment. Mark liked to be prepared.

The telephone stopped ringing. Mark waited. A few seconds later it began again. ‘Phone,’ Mark said with a sigh.

‘Mr. Jones?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Jason.’

‘I know.’

‘Oh.’ There was a pause.

‘What is it, Jason?’

‘Oh, right, yes. The portfolio … it’s changed.’

Mark stayed silent for a moment as he absorbed the information. ‘How?’ he asked eventually.

‘Another target has been introduced.’

‘Describe it.’

‘A large male with a beard. Very powerfully built. He appears to be covered in tattoos.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘I don’t know – he was with Target One this morning, when observations were resumed through the hidden cameras in his flat.’

‘What do we know about it?’

‘Nothing yet. From what we have seen so far, the two of them don’t get along very well. Target One seems to be beholden to Target Two in some way, and Target Two seems contemptuous of Target One.’

‘That does not surprise me – from what I have gathered, Target One is a wretch.’

‘You shouldn’t underestimate them, Sir. We are used to hunting Ifrit: they remain relatively common. But the other three races have disappeared from our world. You said yourself that you haven’t seen anything like Target One for a while, and I think Target Two is different again. For two species we thought pretty much extinct to surface at the same time … and in each other’s company … well, I think it might pay to be prudent, is all.’

Mark did not answer straight away. When he eventually spoke, his voice was resolute. ‘Very well, we’ll put our plans back for a day. Watch them, see what they do. I want to know where they go and who they see. And I want to know about the people they meet as well.’

‘It’ll take a lot of resources – I’ll ha