GRISLY REMAINS FOUND AT HOUSE OF PSYCHIC, went the headline. Sam read the story in the paper with morbid fascination as he ate some toast and waited for Tabby to get ready. His stomach felt better this morning, but his breakfast tasted strangely flat, like ashes.

Early this morning, a body was found in a house in the Bowdon area of Manchester. Danielle Stone, a well-known clairvoyant and psychic, was discovered by clients who were due to attend a midnight séance. As yet, the police have made no statement except to confirm that the body of Ms. Stone was discovered in the early hours, and that they are treating the death as suspicious.

‘Sam, are you ready?’

Sam looked up from a graphic description of how Ms. Stone’s body had been found with her throat torn out, drained of blood, and partially eaten. No wonder the police were treating it as ‘suspicious’. The press were already toying with the word ‘vampire’. ‘Yes,’ he said and revelled in his ability to say it.

Tabby came into the kitchen, her hair freshly dried. ‘Let’s go then – I’m sure Dr. Jackman is very busy.’

‘He’s a doctor. He’s supposed to be busy.’ Together they walked out the front door and over to the car. Sam stared at it. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he hissed, anger threatening to overwhelm him. The passenger side of the car had been keyed. The words ‘fucking cunt’ were scraped into the paintwork in foot-high letters. ‘Son of a fucking bitch!’ Sam shouted.

‘Sam,’ Tabby chastised. ‘Stop swearing, and for God’s sake keep your voice down.’ Sam bit back an angry reply, fighting the unreasoning hatred that was welling up in him like a dark fog.

‘It was that kid; I know it was.’

‘Probably,’ Tabby said in a business-like tone that made Sam want to yell at her. ‘There’s nothing to do about it now.’

‘I could rip his spotty little head off and ram the car down his fucking throat,’ Sam said with feeling.

‘Sam, what’s the matter with you? Kids act up. It’s not pleasant, and we’ll report it to the police, but there’s no need to get so angry. It’s not like you.’

She was right. It wasn’t like him. He took a few calming breaths, and the rage retreated into his gut. It was still there though, roiling around like a sack full of angry venomous snakes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve not been feeling myself recently.’

Tabby smiled at him, and it was like the sun coming out after a storm. The anger faded away.

‘I know, Love,’ she said. ‘You’ve been through a lot; you’re bound to act a bit differently for a while. Now, we can’t drive it like that, so go and get some parcel tape and cover it up.’

Dutifully, Sam went back into the house and got a roll of tape. Between them, they covered the foul words. Then they drove to the hospital.

Sam brooded about the damage done to his car while Tabby chatted about how surprised Dr. Jackman was going to be when Sam spoke to him. Sam just grunted occasionally in agreement.

They waited fifteen minutes for Dr. Jackman whose clinic was, apparently, already running late. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Autumn,’ he greeted them when they were finally sat in his office, his perpetually tired smile not reflected in his eyes. ‘How are you both this morning?’

‘We’re fine,’ Sam replied grumpily. ‘Now tell me what’s going on.’

Dr. Jackman stared at him with a blank expression. Then, slowly, the light dawned behind his eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said with genuine surprise. ‘You spoke.’

‘Yes, it was quite a shock to us as well, Doctor,’ Tabby said.

‘Right, well, I suppose it would have been. A pleasant one though.’ Dr. Jackman quickly unravelled Sam’s bandages. He seemed taken aback, and even Tabby blanched slightly at what was underneath.

‘What?’ Sam demanded worriedly.

‘There’s nothing,’ Dr. Jackman said weakly.

‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked with a hard edge to his words.

‘There’s nothing. There’s no wound, no scar … nothing.’ He picked some thread out of the bandages. He held them up, so Sam could see them. ‘The stitches. They’ve come out by themselves. You’re completely healed. It’s impossible.’

‘It’s a miracle,’ Tabby said.

‘No … there must be a rational explanation. Your husband must have some freakish regenerative ability. Maybe a hugely increased metabolism or something …’

‘Freakish?’ Sam asked dangerously. He had stomached enough of this man who one minute insisted he would not speak for the rest of his life, and now, shown to be incompetent, was trying to blame his failure on him. ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Doctor.’ He twisted the last word sarcastically.

‘Sam …’ Tabby began.

‘No,’ Sam interrupted. ‘He told me I wasn’t going to speak again. Do you know how terrifying that was for somebody who’s trained as a solicitor, who wants to be barrister? To be told that I wouldn’t be able to support my family or do my job? He was wrong. And now he’s calling me a fucking freak?’

A snarl rumbled somewhere deep in Sam’s throat. ‘Now wait a minute,’ Dr. Jackman said. ‘Your wounds have been well documented. I consulted with a number of colleagues. There was no way you should have been able to speak ever again. Even if I made a mistake about that, there was no mistake about the damage to the tissue of your throat. It was practically torn out. Your body has healed an injury that should have required months – possibly years – of rest and treatment, in one day. If we’re being frank, it should have killed you. The medical applications of your … ability … could be vast.’

‘So, what are you saying then? That I’m some sort of mutant? An oddity? Some bizarre monster to be poked and prodded and tested?’ The rage was back, swelling in him, ugly and out of control.

‘No, not at all. This is amazing, Mr. Autumn. Your healing rate is amazing. You are amazing.’

‘Listen to the doctor, Sam, this is good news. He’s only trying to help.’

‘Of course he is,’ Sam sneered. ‘That’s all you ever talk about. Dr. Jackman this, Dr. Jackman that.’ As he said it, Sam realised that it was true. Ever since yesterday, all Tabby had talked about was Dr. Jackman. His opinion, his diagnosis, how clever he was. Anger spilled into his tone. ‘You fucking slag, why don’t you just fuck him here and be done with it? Then they can take me away and strap me down in some lab, and you and Doctor-shithead-Jackman can live happily ever after.’

‘Sam,’ Tabby said, her voice quiet, full of hurt, pathetic.

It was too late. All the vitriol and anger that had been building in Sam since he had been bitten finally exploded. ‘And then you can go and suck off the little prick that fucked up my car, since you don’t think it’s anything to get upset about. Fuck you, Tabby. Fuck you all.’ He turned and stormed out of the room.

Part of him was incredulous about what he was doing. The things he had just said to the woman he loved were unforgivable. Sam couldn’t understand what possessed him. There was something in him, something that wanted to cause pain, to say the worst things it could, to sow destruction and chaos. He stalked through the hospital. His face was a mask of such sheer aggression that people pushed themselves up against the walls to let him pass. Sam barely noticed.

Reaching the entrance, he stepped out into the bright morning air. In the winter chill, beneath the weak sunlight, he turned his face up to the heavens. He felt more alive than he ever had. The dark thing delighted in the words he had said, the truths he had spoken. Why had he never seen it before? Tabby was always flirting with people, telling him to grow up while she whored herself all over the place. He couldn’t think of any specific examples, but that wasn’t the point.

Hot rage coalesced into something cold and bitter, and a vast calm settled over him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned. Tabby stood there, her eyes wide and full of tears. Her face was crumpled in hurt and heartache. Sam despised her then.

‘Sam, what’s going on? I know you’re upset, but that was an awful thing to say. I love you, Sam. Just come home and we’ll sort everything out.’

For a moment, Sam’s world seemed to balance on a knife-edge. Then slowly, ponderously, inevitably, it tipped towards the darkness. ‘Fuck off, Tabby. I never want to see your fat, ugly face ever again.’ He turned and began to walk away. He heard her begin to cry but ignored it. He felt an enormous sense of liberation and he smiled.

She chased him and grabbed his shoulder again. Sam turned and slammed his clenched fist into her face, driving her to the ground. She stared up at him, her crying stopped, as she clutched a split lip.

Their eyes met, and Sam felt panic and hurt and loss fighting to be heard, but they were small voices, overwhelmed by the greater call: the vicious exhilaration of violence. He spat at her contemptuously, then turned and walked away. This time she did not chase him.

For once, sleep brought Mark dreams. He woke amidst bunched-up sheets and sweat-drenched pillows, and there were tears on his face. He sat at the edge of the bed and scrubbed them away angrily. Then he held his head in his hands. The phone rang again – the noise had woken him – and he ignored it. Eventually it stopped.

‘Time,’ he said with a cracked voice.

‘The time is ten-thirty-two and forty-seven seconds in the am,’ a pleasant female voice intoned. Mark lay back on the bed. He had overslept. He tried to remember what the dreams had been about, and they came tumbling back.

Groaning, he got up and walked into the en-suite bathroom. The shower was hot and relaxing. Mark tried to forget the night’s memories, but they would not go away. Eventually he was forced to face his past.

Nearly two thousand years ago, he was called Marcus; an ignorant boy who had learned that the world held more secrets and mysteries than he could ever possibly comprehend. Even now, millennia later, he still did not understand everything that happened in that circle of standing stones, the day before he was due to marry Annaea. He sighed. He had wandered the world for an age, seeing unbelievable sights and accruing vast knowledge, possibly even wisdom, yet this torment persisted.

He remembered his words even now, and his crass and haughty arrogance still caused him shame.

I know enough. I know that Rome is the centre of the world, and eventually all people will bow to its greatness. Rome will last forever, and I am Roman. He had said them with such conviction. The words haunted him now.

The curse brought on him had caused him nothing but misery. He had challenged the girl, demanding she prove who she was, and the proof she showed him was complete.

Mark was immortal, unkillable. It was the secret dream of his entire species – to live forever and see the mysteries of time unravelled. It should have been a blessing, but the girl had told him there would be a price, and the price was so high it had leeched all the joy from him.

One thing he realised was that even though his body had lived for a vast amount of time, his heart and soul had died four months after the events in the stone circle. Mark felt dead: a zombie. He only had one purpose, and yet for all his resources, he was unable to fulfil it, no matter how many times he tried.

Mark spent a couple of months trying to kill himself back around the fall of the Roman Empire, when he realised it had all been for nothing – until then, he had clung to the insane belief that the price was worth paying if his civilisation survived. When the Germanic mercenary, Odoacer, captured Ravenna in 476 and deposed Romulus Augustus, Mark came to the conclusion that his life was futile. Out of time, out of hope, in a world he did not recognise, he degenerated into madness.

In the months after the Empire collapsed, he truly began to understand the meaning of immortality. It was helplessness, and loneliness, and a resistance to fire and water, blades and clubs, cold and poison; no matter what he tried, he would not die. He went through agonies and by the end, he realised that he had no choice but to play the fairy woman’s sick game.

Over the centuries he did play, and each time he lost. Every time he lost, a bit more of his humanity seeped away until gradually he became as he was now – emotionless and tired of everything.

Boredom was the greatest hell imaginable, and Mark had been bored for fifteen hundred years. Food no longer tasted of anything, pleasures of the flesh were just so much sweaty inconvenience, and nobody could hold a decent conversation with him because he knew so much more than anybody else. He was aloof and distant, part of the world and yet dislocated from it in a way he could never adequately describe.

His hatred for the fairy folk was the only passion he had left; for what they had done to him, he tracked them, and he killed them indiscriminately. No matter how many he wiped away, though, he would never be able to right the wrongs against him. He thought of Annaea, and tears threatened to overcome him again. That wound was still raw, and he knew that it would never heal.

Pushing it away and sealing it down deep in his gut, Mark dried himself and made his way to the gym.

Car theft was easy when you were an Elf.

Cam spun a net of illusion around himself and wandered up to the house. He rang the doorbell and waited. After a minute, an unshaven man in a dressing gown opened the door with a petulant expression on his face. From the bags under his bloodshot eyes, and his dried, chapped lips, the man had a worse hangover than Cam.

The householder looked around his front garden, his eyes glazing, as they passed over Cam who waited patiently in front of him. The man looked around again, his frown deepening.

‘Damn kids,’ he muttered under his breath as he turned and walked back into the house. Cam followed on his heels and sidestepped neatly into the narrow hallway as the man slammed the front door behind him. The man walked on towards the back of the house, oblivious to Cam who was looking around expectantly. He saw what he needed on a sideboard next to the stairs.

Grabbing the keys, he let himself out and walked over to a black Honda Civic that was parked on the road in front of the address. He pushed the remote button on the key and grinned as the car beeped happily, its indicators winking at Cam in welcome. Cam slid into the driver’s seat and drove off. He let the Glamour fall away, and it was like a web of light dissipating from his mind, to spill out onto the bleak winter streets beyond the windscreen.

First, he went to a hardware store and picked up something for Grímnir, and then he made his way back to the flat. He drove recklessly, weaving in and out of traffic at high speed, confident of his own reflexes. He didn’t worry about the police at all.

A speed camera flashed as he sped past it at fifty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. He ignored it. Usually he didn’t bother with cars – his own little world was conveniently sized and contained everything he needed within a short walk of his front door. Today, however, he needed a vehicle. The meeting with his father was arranged at a spot too far out to walk.

Engine shrieking, he skidded into his own street and tore towards his home. He slammed the brakes on, causing the back tyres to fishtail. The car shuddered to a halt and then stalled. Cam pulled the key out of the ignition and stepped onto the pavement.

The exhilaration of the fast drive seemed to have banished his hangover. He picked up the items he had stolen and then let himself in. He whistled a little tune to himself as he closed the front door behind him.

Grímnir sat on the sofa in front of the television. Cam wondered why he bothered – the big man couldn’t understand a word that was being said on the screen. Cam ambled over and peered over the top of Grímnir’s shaggy head. He was watching a children’s show. Demented puppets were running around, screaming at each other; Grímnir seemed enthralled. Cam shook his head and tossed the bag down onto the sofa next to his house guest.

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘A present.’

‘What are these crazed creatures?’ Grímnir asked. pointing at the television. ‘I have never seen their like.’

‘They’re puppets, you daft twat,’ Cam said conversationally in English.

‘Speak the True Tongue,’ Grímnir snapped.

‘They’re toys.’

‘Ah, that makes sense. I thought they were blind, the way their eyes protruded so blankly.’

‘Blind? Yeah, that was the obvious explanation for a furry, bright purple midget with a Mohawk. Nice one. Open the bag.’

‘What is it?’

‘Open it and find out,’ Cam said with exasperation. Grímnir had discovered the mechanics of zips when he had first put his jeans on. His thick fingers barely fumbled at all as he opened the bag.

Inside there was something large and lethal looking. Grímnir pulled it out with a rapturous expression on his face. He hefted it in one hand and then swung it around a couple of times experimentally. He looked at Cam with a serious expression on his face. ‘Thank you, my friend, it is a wondrous gift.’

Cam actually felt himself blushing. Nobody had ever thanked him for anything before, and nobody had ever called him ‘friend’. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ll probably need it.’

‘Yes. How does it work?’

‘I have no idea. Let’s look at the instructions.’

The instruction manual stated that the item was a Ryobi PCN-4450 Chain Saw, with a twenty-inch blade and a 40cc two-stroke engine with zip start. ‘Whatever the hell that means,’ Cam said. ‘It’s got a fast-acting inertia chain break, an ignition module, primer bulb and choke, a silencer – which will come in handy – and a three-point anti-vibration handle.’ Cam threw the manual to one side. ‘I think you pull that thing there and it starts.’

Grímnir pulled it but nothing happened. ‘Why does it not work?’

‘I think you’ve got to put some petrol in it.’

‘What is petrol?’

‘Fire juice, my man. We’ll get some on the way to meet my dad.’

‘Where do we get it from?’

‘Don’t worry – stealing petrol’s easy when you’re an Elf.’ Cam grinned at Grímnir; a wide mischievous smile comprised of perfect white teeth.

Sam felt relaxed as he waited in the coffee shop. She wouldn’t be long: he could feel it. He had sent her a text message shortly after his liberating exchange with Tabby, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. Ridiculous concepts of honour and faith had chained him to one woman … he shook his head in disbelief as he sipped his coffee.

Why had he never seen it before – the sly glances, the innuendo, the teasing? It had been a flirtation, a seduction, and he had been too soft to recognise it. Well, he thought to himself with rising anticipation, the rules that had bound him had faded away, and the now incomprehensible veil of love had been lifted. Now he was going to have some fun.

The jangling of the bell above the door made him look up. Annalise walked in, looking as sumptuous as ever. Sam’s heartbeat began to thunder with barely contained anticipation. Her golden hair shimmered in the weak sunlight that slid through the blinds. She wore a pair of tight jeans and a thick winter coat, open at the front to reveal a deep cleavage. Wide green eyes dominated a face whose perfection was etched from high cheekbones, a tapered chin, and rich, heart-shaped lips. Sam’s mouth went dry even as his teeth clenched hungrily.

She spotted him, and her lips tightened as if she were angry. Sam’s smile grew wider at the look – he knew it was an act. Annalise walked over and sat down opposite him. Slipping a large shoulder bag from her arm, she put it on the table between them like a barrier. ‘What do you want, Sam?’

‘Why so hostile?’ he asked.

‘Your text said you needed to see me as a matter of urgency. I was in the middle of something.’

‘What were you in the middle of? Afternoon tea? You don’t strike me as the type.’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘You’re still upset because I wouldn’t go home with you on Thursday, aren’t you?’ He reached over her bag and patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to give you a second chance.’

Outrage and disbelief warred across her face. ‘Go home with me? Don’t flatter yourself. I offered to share a taxi because we were going in generally the same direction and you were drunk. It wasn’t an offer of anything else.’

‘Fine,’ Sam said airily. ‘I apologise. Obviously, I misread the situation.’ His sly smile made it clear that he didn’t think anything of the sort.

‘Look, what do you want?’ Annalise said impatiently.

‘Why are you so eager to get out of here, Annalise? What have you got to go home to?’

‘Something much better than you.’

‘Then why did you come?’

‘Because I always thought you were a sweet man – harmless – and I heard about you getting attacked. I thought maybe you needed a shoulder to cry on.’

Sam laughed with genuine humour, the sound cutting through the low buzz of conversation at the other tables. ‘Harmless? Maybe I was, maybe I was … but not anymore. What have you got to go home to, Annalise?’

‘What’s wrong with you, Sam? You’re … different.’

‘I’ve seen the light. Life’s too short, and you’re too beautiful. I had to see you, had to talk to you … it was inevitable.’ He smiled at her again and saw her eyes narrow slightly, as if she were working something out. ‘You know how the company works, Annalise. You know how much Mr. Milton respects me. I am the star that I think you know you should hitch your wagon to. I’ve seen how you look at me.’ He shrugged and sipped at his coffee again.

‘This is outrageous,’ she stormed, brushing her hair back angrily as she pushed her face aggressively towards him. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting …’

‘Of course you do,’ Sam said blandly.

‘… but I’m not that kind of woman …’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘… and I’m certainly not the kind of woman who would ever think about hitching any part of my wagon to you!’ she spat.

‘You tried Milton, didn’t you? But he’s old and married and not interested. I bet he told you that you reminded him of his daughter. Or was it his granddaughter?’ Sam leant forwards until his face was only inches from hers. ‘I, on the other hand, am young and virile and very interested,’ he whispered.

Annalise jerked her head backwards, the corners of her mouth turning down in disgust. ‘You’re delusional.’

Sam leant back with one arm draped over the back of the chair next to him. He beamed at her. ‘Come off it, Annalise. You’re only angry because I’ve taken the power away from you. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty to play with soon enough.’

‘Fuck you, Sam,’ she said as she stood to leave.

‘That’s the general idea.’

She picked up her bag.

‘If you go,’ he said quietly, ‘that is the end of it.’

She paused.

‘Tell me, Annalise, and tell me honestly; what have you got to go home to? A cat? Some goldfish? A novel? You can go back to your lonely apartment, or you can come with me and I can make your dreams come true.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I had my throat torn out. That sort of a thing changes a man.’ It was true. Sam had never felt so alive. His veins hummed with energy, his senses were alive to the smells of coffee and perspiration in the small shop. He could hear everything, feel the air on his skin, and he could taste the heat coming off the woman in front of him. She was attracted to power, and she could sense it in him.

‘I want you, Annalise. I don’t want your love or your respect, I just want you. To taste you, to lie with you, to fuck you. Is that so bad? And in return, I can give you everything you ever wanted.’

‘Where?’

‘How about the Hilton? Our first liaison should be done in style, don’t you think?’

She stared at him for a moment with frank appraisal. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But if you’re bullshitting me – if you’re just high or something – I’ll rip your balls off.’

‘Your hands aren’t big enough, sweetheart,’ Sam said with a wink.

Parking the stolen car some interminable distance behind them, Cam and Grímnir had walked through damp forest, across a muddy deer enclosure, and then out onto a small but steep hill with a clearing at the top. Grímnir carried his bag with the chainsaw in it.

Too much light and vegetation always made Cam feel uncomfortable. He didn’t know why – the Great Outdoors was his heritage, after all.

Maybe that had something to do with it, he thought glu