Butterfly Catchers

It spiralled up and up, light as air, clear and perfect, rising through the slanting shafts of sunlight as if it had been made to do nothing else, created for just this time and place, and for him to discover it here. He wanted to reach out and touch it, to impossibly grasp the air and trap it between his fingers.

Then the man sitting near the pulpit coughed and the moment was gone, the music just music.

The coughing idiot turned to the two lace-mittened ladies, who were the only other people attending evensong, and began delivering an apologetic pantomime of chest banging, as if that somehow covered the situation. Angelus growled low in his chest. But the mood was broken – the choirboy had finished his solo and the cathedral filled with the complex blending of the whole choir, not the lone spiral of the soloist.

Angelus glared about him and considered how pleasurable it would be to snatch from the wall one of the ragged flags crumbling above the memorials of the county regiment, leap across the gaping expanse of the nave, and thrust the staff clean through the man’s eye-socket. To leave it quivering in the solid oak of the pew-back behind, and then gently lap the blood as it trickled down one rigid, white cheek.

There was a time when he would have done just that.

Angelus scowled. He couldn’t leave for at least another hour, the shafts of evening sunlight streaming across the cathedral close would see to that, but the intrusion had taken away all his pleasure in the music.

After a moment he pushed off the pillar he had been leaning against, and made himself head up the nave again, rapping his knuckles against the flag staff as he passed in a little tattoo that did nothing at all to relieve his feelings.

But even as he moved he could feel his footsteps start to slow, the fire of his annoyance slipping away, and, like a gnat’s whine in his head, as he approached the gaping expanse of the crossing he could feel the fury building against him, the pressure of dismissal, of disgust. And once again he spun round and turned back into the dark cavern of the aisle.

The aisle felt safe. A stack of unused hymn-books and service sheets in cardboard boxes lolled against one wall, while in the corner the stepladders and paint-pots of some artisan lay piled, inadequately hidden under a sheet. And, littering the walls and floor, the dull effusions of memorial plaques proclaimed that in this cathedral were interred the remains of the great, the good and the grossly moneyed. The mundanity of humanity ruled here, not the other thing. The gnat’s whine was muffled. Barely noticeable.

He made to kick out at the hymn-books and then something inside warned him not to disturb the service and that made him crosser still. He paced away and told himself that if he left well alone the boy might sing again. It was worth being patient for that.

Behind him the choir had finished, replaced by the drone of the priest. Angelus paused beside the small table bearing pamphlets detailing the architectural delights of the cathedral. He’d got an hour to kill, but neither the dignified presence of the Norman font, nor the soaring grace of the full flowering of English Perpendicular in the clerestory were going to keep him entertained. He lounged back against the table and folded his arms, challenging the world to amuse him before he amused himself.

After a while the priest intoned his blessing and the mittened ladies rose, smiling, clutching their prayer books to their chests as if afraid their bosoms would burst with joy. The idiot threaded his way towards the south door, still coughing. From the stalls came the orderly clatter of the choir preparing to leave. Angelus slunk back into the shadows.

The choristers came first, hurrying with the businesslike air of the young professionals they were, and only the occasional exchange of cheeky glances to show their natural animal spirits. The lay clerks followed, displaying considerably less unthinking grace and dignity as they chattered. Finally, the priest, hurrying off in the opposite direction with the air of a man with a dinner appointment.

Angelus waited.

The great cathedral church was left to him and to the rippling notes of a Handel concerto as the organist tripped his way through it, seemingly for his own delight. And to one other. Angelus stiffened as a small figure slipped out of the chancel to stand beside the little door that led up to the organ loft, peeping up the staircase within. From some window, shafts of rose, peacock and emerald tinted light fell across his white surplice to form a delicate flickering pattern. He looked fragile, almost ethereal. Hair as pale as dawn light and a narrow little face of such beauty as is supposed to belong only to the angels. The choirboy.

‘Mr Camberwell?’ The organist had finished and now the boy called softly up the stairs to the organ loft. ‘May I come up, Mr Camberwell?’

Angelus could hear no reply, and the boy stepped back a pace, rocking on his toes slightly, making his blood-red cassock sway. All his movements were light and neat, his attitude patient where most children would have looked bored or petulant.

Angelus let a sigh of breath whistle from his lungs, and moved closer.

Then a noise intruded from the choir-stalls, and a man emerged from the chancel, carrying a small bundle of sheet music. He smelt oddly similar to the boy, but there the resemblance ended, his hair was dark, his skin sallow, and there was no delicacy in the hard, pinched face. He dropped a proprietorial hand onto the boy’s shoulder. ‘You should have left to change with the others, we will be late home.’

‘I’m sorry, papa. I only wanted to hear Mr Camberwell play.’

‘You should be at home, practicing. Hurry along now.’

‘Yes papa.’

From his lurking place, Angelus made a fractional move forward, into better view, and stared, the stare that could send shivers down a man’s spine when he still had no idea who was watching him. But the boy was already turning away, trotting to where his fellows had vanished, leaving only the man – whose eye travelled away from Angelus with the disinterest of someone who had seen too many tourists lingering late in the cathedral to have any care for one more.

‘The boy is yours?’

The man hesitated, peering at Angelus.

‘And was that him, singing the solo?’ Angelus tried to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘The boy is… remarkable.’

‘Oh indeed, he is. Indeed. We are very fortunate.’

‘A voice such as that – perhaps one in a hundred years.’

The man inclined his head, as one accepting a personal compliment.

Angelus took another pace closer. ‘What would be his name, now?’

‘Oh, he… Ashworth.’ The man gave a sort of half bow. ‘My name is Ashworth. I am the organist and choir master.’

‘I did not ask your name.’

‘No, but… Did you perhaps come in particular to hear the boy?’ Something anxious hovered in his tone. Something eager.

Angelus raised one eyebrow and let the man do the rest.

‘You are a friend of…’ Ashworth’s voice dropped to a soft, slithering tone, ‘Mr Harmonia?’

Angelus smiled.

Just then there was a clatter on the stairs down from the organ and a young man with tufts of bright red hair and holes in the sleeves of his jacket appeared.

Ashworth instantly straightened up. ‘Ah, you will have to forgive me, sir, but you must understand that the boys are not permitted to accept outside engagements. I am sure you will understand.’ He shifted anxiously on his feet, turning slightly as if to block Angelus from the young organist’s view.

The organist smiled cheerfully at Angelus and looked at Ashworth expectantly. Ashworth instantly dropped the music he was holding into the organist’s hands. ‘Put that away, Camberwell.’

‘Yes sir. So… what did you think Mr Ashworth? Not bad, I thought, and young Grayling was superb.’

‘Yes, yes. You may go now.’ Ashworth smiled apologetically at Angelus and waved a hand at Camberwell, both explanatory and dismissive. ‘My assistant: Camberwell. You may go, Camberwell.’

Camberwell still lingered, beaming. ‘Your stepson has a great gift, sir. I was wondering if he could come and play with me again. We both really enjoyed the last time, and he—’

‘He needs to practice tonight.’

‘Yes of course, but—’

‘He does not have the time, Camberwell. I was just explaining to this gentleman that the boy’s voice must not risk strain and thus there can be no extra calls of any kind. The cathedral must insist on it, you understand. It is quite, quite impossible.’

‘But how can playing the organ with me possibly affect his voice! And it is all part of his musical education. His voice will break some day soon and then—’

‘It is impossible.’

Camberwell stared at him in bafflement for a moment and then turned away, his face pink, walking away from them with clipped, furious steps.

Ashworth looked after him. ‘The cathedral insists…’ he said.

‘Oh, I grasp your meaning,’ Angelus said softly.

Ashworth turned back to him, smiling with relief. ‘It would not do for them to be straining their voices at private concerts.’

‘Indeed.’

‘However… considerable… the fee.’

Angelus nodded, and slipped a card from his waistcoat pocket. ‘After all, a voice like that could earn, what – five guineas a night? Six? It would not be at all appropriate.’

‘Oh, not at all.’ Ashworth pocketed Angelus’s card.

Angelus nodded. ‘A thing of great beauty. And so fragile. So brief.’ Angelus raised his hand and snapped the fingers together, as a man might crush a butterfly. ‘So very, very brief.’

‘Yes.’ The man laughed nervously. ‘Well sir, good evening to you. Thank you for… attending evensong. The cathedral closes at six.’

Ashworth ducked his head and scurried away, fingering as he went the pocket where he had concealed Angelus’s card.

Angelus stuck his hands in his own pockets and lounged against a pillar, whistling the last few bars of the Handel, and waited for the night.

Angelus let the front-door slam behind him and tossed his overcoat in the general direction of the coat hooks, bellowing ‘William’ up the stairs as the coat slid in a dark heap to the stone flags. He ducked his head under the lintel of the parlour door, the notes of the Handel still soaring in his head.

‘So you’re back.’

‘Ah, you’ve been missing me, darling. I’m touched.’

She was standing in the bay window, apparently staring out into the black void of the garden, the lights of the candles she had lit reflected in the numerous little panes like a small constellation. She had a shawl clutched about her shoulders as if she was cold, but she stood very upright.

‘You said you would be home by midnight.’

With raised eyebrow he threw a lazy glance at the clock in the corner, which stood at nine thirty.

‘Midnight yesterday,’ she said.

‘So, did you have a pleasant day, then?’

He wandered over to the fireplace and watched her out of the corner of his eye while he cut his cigar, saw her toss her head back, her jaw set, eyes narrowed. On either side the sweep of dark velvet curtains, drawn back, framed her like the curtains of a stage. And he waited for her to start properly.

‘So, how old is he now?’

He propped one shoulder against the cracked wooden panelling of the chimney-breast and took a long pull on his cigar, the smoke biting rich and tangily satisfying at the back of his throat, like a snarl. ‘And who would this “he” be, now, darling?’

‘He is nearly four, Angelus.’

He starred at her impassively as he blew the smoke out in a steady stream.

‘I trust you have not forgotten what we agreed upon? You said you would see him properly prepared and presented to the Master as soon as he was four.’

No, she’d said that. And she’d said some time after Will’s fourth birthday, not the day he was four.

‘Angelus! Stop puffing that foul smoke at me and answer the question.’

He removed his cigar very slowly and examined its glowing tip. ‘What question?’

She didn’t quite stamp her foot but a ripple quivered through her skirts. ‘Is William ready to be accepted into the order, or not?’

‘Ah, that question.’

She narrowed her eyes at him.

The cigar tip was a tiny glowing coal, simmering with red menace as it retreated. If he pressed it to her arm he could make a mirror image in her flesh, red and weeping.

‘Well now, I spend several hours every night training him…’

‘No, you spend several hours with him – that is not the same thing. And that is when you bother to come home at all. How do you think he spent his time last night?’

‘Well, I told him to polish my boots.’

‘I am not talking about the menial tasks he has to waste his time on because you expect to be waited on hand and foot.’

Angelus sighed melodramatically. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Done? He has done nothing. That is my point. If you aren’t standing over him every second he is quite content to idle the entire night away with Drusilla. As you would know if you paid the slightest attention. What has he learnt in the last month? What have you actually taught him?’

He drifted towards the little square piano, plinking a couple of notes from the yellow keys. ‘Well, I’ve taught him how to kill a Trecorde demon.’

‘Angelus! This is not a joke. If the Master finds him unfit he will not even be entered into the order, never mind being accepted for training. And I do not intend to suffer the humiliation of having another fledgling from my family rejected.’

He repeated the notes. ‘Ah, of course, darling.’ How did one play a chord? ‘You’d never want one of us kicked out of the Master’s lair for failing to be sufficiently obsequious.’ He caught her hand before it could connect with his cheek, twisting it down in a wrench that would normally make her smirk and suggest he hurt her some more. Pressing her back against the piano until the old wood creaked threateningly.

‘So you are willing to have your precious boy rejected, are you, Angelus?’

He released her with a snarl. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’ She twirled on her heels, her skirts flaring and dancing in the candlelight. ‘Then that is settled. You will write to the minions tonight – I doubt this God-forsaken backwater has an evening postal service but they should still get the letter by tomorrow afternoon. I have located a house in Marylebone that may suit. Then you can—’

‘Oh so that’s what this is about – you want to go back to London. Missing your dressmaker are you?’

‘If I wish to go back to town, Angelus, we will do so. What this is about is ensuring that you buckle down with the boy so that the Master doesn’t stake him on sight.’

‘Which was precisely why we came here – so I could have some peace and quiet with him.’

There was a small thump in the hall.

‘We came here because you were bored with London. And since we have been here, you have claimed that you need to spend all your time hunting and Will needs to spend every spare minute doing all the tasks that we should have the minions for. So what we need, my boy – do not interrupt! – is to be back in London where you do not have those excuses. The house in Marylebone is a good size. Properly fitted out.’ She cast a withering look around the low-ceilinged, dark panelled room. ‘The family will be leaving for Switzerland shortly, they are advertising for someone to take the house in their absence. We should be in London by Tuesday. That gives us time to collect the minions from Bayswater and be in Marylebone for dawn. Five family members, plus a governess and four servants – enough food for a fortnight. Then you can buckle down with him and get him properly prepared in time to leave for the Continent in April. Do you anticipate any difficulties?’

He raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, teaching Will anything in Latin is very slow, you know. He tends not to attend.’

‘Then if necessary you will find him a tutor. That also will not be a problem back in civilisation. Or you can turn one – somebody who is capable of teaching him if you cannot or will not.’

He turned to her with a frowning face, puffing his cigar as if deep in thought. ‘Four servants, you say?’

‘I said four. And I don’t want him just good enough to scrape by, Angelus. He needs taking in hand. Since you refuse to do so, the Master is—’

‘Four?’

‘Four! Angelus, are you listening to me? I want him good enough that the Master will want—’

‘Four’s not many for a house in Marylebone. Not like you to want to stay somewhere second rate, darling.’ From the corner of his eye he could see her lips, tight as a sealed envelope. ‘Of course a London tutor will be very expensive, so with only four…’

‘Angelus?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Do you anticipate any actual difficulties?’

The fire crackled cheerfully in the grate, casting warm flickering shadows on the faded oak of the panelling. And he let the thin brass hand of the lantern clock, which was almost as old as she was, tick away a full minute of seconds in which he refused to bow to her demand. Then he turned and bellowed ‘William! Stop eavesdropping and get in here, now!’

She snapped her mouth shut and he smirked at her whilst the door opened slowly.

Angelus threw his cigar into the fire and moved out into the centre of the room to meet him. ‘Where the devil have you been, boy? I called for you a quarter of an hour ago.’

‘Been…’ Will checked from him to Darla and back, his tongue darting across his lips as if tasting the atmosphere of the room. ‘Been with Dru.’

And from the defiant tilt of his head and the nervous shifting of his feet that statement was an outright lie. That or being with Dru had involved something he knew perfectly well Angelus wouldn’t approve of. Angelus just looked at him until with extreme reluctance Will added a ‘Sir’.

‘When I come home, boy, I expect you to be here, in attendance on me, immediately, not playing with your sister.’

‘Wasn’t playing. Sir.’

‘My best coat is being ruined while you lounge around at your leisure.’

Will scowled. ‘Wasn’t playing – I was helping her. And I hung it up.’

‘Did you brush it?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘You are to brush it. And my hat. I suppose there is no hope you did any work last night?’

Will’s scowl deepened. ‘Didn’t know you wanted me to do anything – what with you being out all night.’

‘And this afternoon?’

Will flicked his gaze at Darla again. ‘I was busy helping Dru.’

‘So you say’ He clouted Will, a sharp cuff to the back of the head, the soft hair ruffling under his palm. Will winced and rubbed at it furiously, ducking back as if expecting another one. Angelus put his hands behind his back and caught Darla’s eye. He put on his most pompous tone. ‘William, you know perfectly well that you are not free to do as you please all night.’ Darla’s face was impossible to read. ‘You are nearly four now.’ Darla nodded imperceptibly. ‘You should not need me standing over you with the strap all the time to make you work.’

‘I—’

‘Fetch me a drink,’ Angelus said, and he strode over and turned his back to the fire, feet straddling the hearth rug, hands under his coat tails, blocking the heat from everyone else in the room.

Will looked between him and Darla again. Darla was holding herself a little less rigidly, but she was drumming the fingers of one hand against her arm as she watched.

‘Darla is concerned you haven’t been paying attention to your lessons. Have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you are, you see, darling – nothing to worry about. Where’s that drink, Will?’

‘And then you may fetch a Bradshaw, boy,’ Darla said pleasantly. ‘Angelus needs to look up the London trains.’

‘No I don’t.’

Darla’s back went stiff with an almost audible snap. Even Will hesitated, one hand on the decanter, the other holding the glass ludicrously in mid air.

‘And why not, Angelus?’ Darla said.

‘You’re forgetting, darling, I have a very good memory. I’ve no need for a Bradshaw.’

And Will made a small choking sound, quickly poured the brandy and held it out to Angelus.

A low, humming growl came from Darla, lasting while Angelus took a deep swig of his drink and swirled it around his throat. Then she rapped out ‘Come here, boy’ her eyes still fixed on Angelus.

Will hesitated, flicking an uncertain glance at Angelus, then looked at her. Angelus sipped his brandy again, saying nothing, and Will took two steps towards her.

‘I said, come here!’

Will took another two steps and Darla snapped her fingers, pointing for him to stand right in front of her. It was the exact gesture Angelus liked to use himself. Will jerked as if he’d been yanked forward on a string, and even lowered his head and put his hands behind his back when he was in front of her.

Angelus realised he was frowning and stopped himself.

‘He looks like something the cat dragged in, Angelus.’

‘We don’t have a cat,’ Will muttered. ‘You won’t let Dru have one.’

Angelus let his lip quirk.

Darla suddenly snatched Will’s chin between her little fingers and jerked his head up, turning it from side to side. Being so much smaller than him, it looked as if she was examining his throat. ‘Hmm.’ Darla released him. ‘He’s pretty enough, Angelus, but he’s too scrawny. If you’re going to half-starve the fledges you need to make them bigger to begin with.’

Angelus leaned one elbow on the mantelpiece in a bored fashion.

Darla was glaring at Will. ‘Last night you were sent to deliver a letter.’

‘Yes madam.’

‘You were told to run.’

‘Y-yes madam.’

‘Did you?’

Will paused. ‘Yes madam.’

‘If that is the truth then he is still as slow as a new-risen whelp.’

Will was staring straight ahead. Angelus considered the assorted contents of the mantelshelf. The cane wasn’t there, which meant Will must have hidden it again. He could see Will watching him out of the corner of his eye.

‘Can you kill off the vein, boy?’ Darla snapped.

‘What? I didn’t kill anyone last night—’

‘Can you or can’t you?’

‘He can,’ Angelus said.

‘Then why doesn’t he say so? I expect a polite answer to a simple question, boy.’

‘Er…’ Will was scanning Angelus’s expression.

Angelus raised an eyebrow. ‘He can kill off the vein, but not, apparently, recall the term itself.’

‘Yes I can!’ They both looked at him. ‘I know what it means. It means… means to kill somebody… only… off the vein. So not on their veins, just off them.’

Darla looked at Angelus with withering contempt. ‘And do you intend to beat him now?’ Darla asked. ‘Are you going to interpret this stupidity as impertinence that can be adequately dealt with by a few taps of that silly cane?’

‘If I decide to beat him, he will find the cane anything but silly.’

‘Something like that cannot possibly be appropriate for a vampire.’

Will looked surprised but in total agreement.

Angelus examined the play of light on the cut crystal of his brandy glass. ‘To kill off the vein, Will, means to kill a human quickly and cleanly by feeding directly from the vein. To be in such control of the situation that you can locate the killing spot and bite before they realise what is happening. To make the bite deep and clean enough that you do not spray blood all over yourself, your kill, or the surroundings. And to kill so fast that your prey has no time to struggle or call out before dying.’ He took a sip. ‘In short, to kill off the vein. When did you last kill off the vein, William?’

‘Oh. I killed that tinker, sir.’

‘He killed a tinker.’ Angelus picked a small book off the mantelpiece, wondering what it was doing there. ‘Not three days ago, Darla. He is perfectly capable of killing off the vein.’ The book was one of his own, a volume of Italian demonology, hardly the sort of thing Darla normally read for pleasure.

‘At nearly four – that is hardly much of a boast.’

‘The fact remains, he can do it. Stop fidgeting, William.’

‘What’s going on? Why is she…?’

‘How far can you leap?’ Darla snapped.

‘I dunno. I can get to the top of the cathedral wall. Is that what you want to know?’

Angelus made a mental note to find out exactly when he had had occasion to get over the cathedral wall.

‘Could you jump from this house to across the street?’

‘I…’ Will looked at him and Angelus nodded. ‘Yes madam.’

‘You seem very positive.’

‘I could. Er, I would be allowed a run up, right?’

Angelus quickly turned away to hide his smile.

‘Do you know the Twelve Aurelian Incantations?’

‘I know… some of them, madam.’

‘Seven,’ Angelus intoned, at the exact same moment as Will said ‘Four.’

‘I see. And what happened to the other three that Angelus seems too think he’s taught you?’

‘Well I know bits of three more. And maybe some of the others as well.’

‘“Bits” is not good enough, William.’

‘Yeh, I know that. But—’

‘Say the fourth.’

Will gave Angelus a helpless look.

Angelus glared at him. ‘Go on.’

‘The fourth. Right, that’s…, right. Nihil—’

‘Stop at once. Angelus, he doesn’t have his fingers crossed,’ Darla snapped. ‘Boy, do you not know what will happen if you say one of the Twelve without first…’

Will brought his fingers out from behind his back and held them up in what he clearly found a most satisfying gesture. His fingers were indeed crossed. Darla glared.

‘Happy, darling?’ Angelus asked. ‘Not scared he’s going to turn us all into geraniums? Carry on, Will.’

Will smirked and started again. ‘Nihil obstat quominus imprimatur… What?’

‘That, boy, is the third,’ Angelus said and he banged his hand on the mantelshelf. ‘Concentrate.’

Will swallowed and ducked his head. ‘Didn’t she say the third?’ He flicked a quick glance at Angelus, apparently not even slightly optimistic that the lie had been accepted.

Darla gave a little tiger-growl of annoyance.

Will slipped a pace backward.

‘Well I hope you are proud of this performance, Angelus.’ She turned away and seated herself in her favourite armchair, her back rigidly upright. ‘He does not know the most elementary things. He can barely run or leap better than a yearling. He clearly doesn’t know any of the Twelve. I know for a fact how abysmal his hunting is. He is not even approaching ready.’

‘There’s still plenty of time.’

‘I will not be made a fool of!’ The crack of her voice pinged on the air as if an overstretched wire had snapped.

‘Er, what’s going on?’ Will said.

‘Have you not even told him?’

‘Darla! Will is mine.’ He was aware that more of a growl had slipped into his voice than he had intended. ‘I will train him—’

‘Do not make that noise at me!’ She stabbed at Angelus with a poniard of a finger. ‘Nine months ago you assured me that you were preparing him properly.’

‘William, go and wait in my study.’

‘William, stay exactly where you are. Six weeks ago, Angelus, you said that you still needed a little more time. Well you have had that time and he is no more likely to be accepted now than he was on the day he rose. Boy, what exactly has Angelus taught you in the last six weeks?’

‘But of course you never interfere in how I train my fledges.’

‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’

That was going too far and Angelus reached out and grabbed his arm, then cuffed him, three times in rapid succession until Will hung limp and shaking in his grip, head down, fists clenched. ‘Behave,’ Angelus said with quiet venom.

Will looked up at him, miserable, confused and furious.

‘Well, boy?’ Darla demanded.

Angelus waited, curious as to just how Will would answer. After a bit Will reached up and rubbed slowly at his ear where Angelus had clouted him, remaining stubbornly silent.

‘And I think that says all there is to say,’ Darla said.

‘No!’

They both looked in surprise at Will.

‘He has taught me things. He…’ Will straightened up and set his jaw. ‘He taught me the third incantation.’

Angelus bit hard on the inside of his mouth to stop himself laughing.

Darla’s eyes were tinged with yellow. ‘How dare you.’ Will shuffled his feet, presumably assuming the words had been addressed to him. ‘How dare you presume to play me for a fool. Do you think I don’t know what is going on?’ The quivering of her dress as she stalked forwards was sending the candle flames shimmering and dancing on the window-panes behind her. ‘Well, Angelus?’

Very well. He dropped his hold on Will. ‘You are quite right, of course, darling. He really should know better. William, your grandsire has decided you’ve been grossly impertinent and lazy at your lessons. Fetch the switch from wherever you’ve hidden it and go to my study.’

‘What! You—’

‘My study, William.’

Will actually growled, then shouldered past him, not saying a word, and hurled the door open.

‘In this family, boy, children show respect to their elders.’ Angelus called after him. ‘And don’t you dare bang that door.’ He let his eyes drift up to meet Darla’s stone-cold stare. ‘Happy, darling? Did you get what you wanted out of this conversation, now?’ With relish, he tossed back the last of his drink. ‘Good evening, Darla.’

She refused to answer him.

The cane whipped down and Will screamed – a hollow, miserable sound, filled with despair. It was actually quite impressive.

‘How many was that?’

‘Nine, sir.’

‘Four more, then, I think. Might as well give you the full vampire dozen since we’ve got this far.

Will shrugged, and Angelus brought the bamboo cane down across the chair seat again, Will obligingly yelling from where he was lounging against the bookshelves, several feet away. He ended in a long, lingering groan on the final stroke and then they both stood for a while, listening. At last the front-door banged in a pointed manner. Darla had left.

‘And let that be a lesson to you,’ Angelus said, shoving the cane back beside the yellowing plant in its pot on the windowsill. ‘Now get the fire lit, it’s freezing in here.’

Will grinned and headed for the fireplace. ‘I never thought she’d fall for it,’ he crowed. ‘Did you see her face when I started the third incantation! I thought she was going to explode. Oh and sorry about the fire. She said I shouldn’t do one for you tonight.’

Typical of her. Never one to let the petty details slip.

‘She said I should go help Dru instead.’ Will started to make his normal phenomenal amount of noise with the coal-scuttle. ‘Also said I mustn’t clean the lamps, so don’t shout at me for that either.’

Angelus, long accustomed to disregarding Will’s babble, started to search through the drawers of his desk. ‘Where’s my sketch-book? Someone’s been moving things around.’

‘Not me. And when you said you didn’t need a Bradshaw! You really said that! God, I wish Dru’d been downstairs to hear that, she’d have loved that. She’s going to be green when I tell her. She wanted to come down but I knew she wouldn’t be able to keep the joke, you know what she’s like, so I told her to wait upstairs till later. I’d better not leave her too long or she’ll start playing with her dollies. But what was she talking about? I mean Darla, not Dru. What’s all this rubbish about entering me? Enter me for what? I’m not a prize pug. Is this something she wants to do when we get back to London, mate?’

Will sat back on his heels, the box of matches in one hand, the poker in the other, and looked at Angelus expectantly.

‘What did you just say?’

‘I…’ Will’s face fell. ‘Sir. I meant “sir”.’

‘London. What did you say about London?’ He hardened his tone. ‘I thought I’d cured you of eavesdropping.’

Will actually gave him a sarcastic look. ‘She told me to help Dru pack: it doesn’t take much thought to work out that means going back home, does it. Besides, she’s been…’ He trailed off, watching Angelus suspiciously.

Angelus could only stare at him, feeling the fury boil up in his breast, feeling the cold tug of hatred for her swirl and pull at his heart. ‘Your home is wherever I am, boy, not London just because we happen to live there occasionally.’

Will still stared at him. Waiting.

‘Hurry up with that fire and then bring me the switch.’

Will struggled with his expression for a second, then spun back to the fire, jamming the poker in fiercely.

Angelus made a show of opening his post. There were several from Harold, in the head minion’s painstaking copybook hand. Master, I beg to inform you… Master, There are several matters that require your urgent… Master, Please… The light in the room was dim, flickering as the oil-lamp guttered inside its chipped shade, sending shadows wavering across the walls and bookcases, turning the writing into a weak brown scrawl. He crumpled each letter in turn and dropped them to the floor.

‘Stop procrastinating, Will.’

Will stood up, snatched the length of rattan from the whip rack over the mantle and kicked out at a letter, scowling. ‘I suppose you want me to pick this lot up after you too, sir.’

‘I want you to behave.’ He held out his hand and Will slammed the handle into it then folded his arms, still glowering defiantly.

‘Darla told me to pack. Not my fault if you two can’t agree when it’s time to move.’

‘Hand out.’

Will swallowed, a momentary reflex, and then managed to produce his couldn’t-give-a-damn sneer. He stuck his hand out.

‘If you leave it like that, I shall cane it like that, and then you will have broken bones and I shan’t let you hunt for a month.’

Will deepened his sneer, but turned his hand palm upwards, slightly cupped, so the flesh formed soft cushions, his thumb tucked neatly out of harm’s way to the side. They had been here many times before.

Angelus rested the cane on Will’s palm, measuring his distance. ‘Look at me.’

Will looked. Jaw set, eyes hard.

‘Every conversation we have at the moment ends this way, Will.’

‘W-well that’s nice for you, then. Seeing how much you love thrashing me.’

‘You don’t need to prove how brave you are to me, lad. I know your capabilities far better than you do.’

Will swallowed again but he kept up his defiant stare. Angelus applied the slightest pressure to the cane, so it pressed into Will’s palm, a hard cream band against the flesh.

‘I don’t—’

‘Be quiet. Stop showing off for five minutes and listen to me. She told you we were leaving?’

‘Yeh.’

‘And that you should tell Dru we were going “home”.’

‘Yes.’

‘She wants you both thinking you want to be back in London. When did she start?’

‘She only told me to pack today.’

‘Maybe. But she started days ago, didn’t she – egging you on, getting you and Dru on her side. Talking about shopping and street urchins to Dru, pubs and theatres to you. What else did she promise you?’

‘Nothing, sir!’

‘Threats then.’

‘No.’ There was a note of contempt in Will’s voice and Angelus thought rapidly.

‘So she’s been dropping hints – saying that it was important we go back. Did she say the hunting was starting to dry up here?’

Will nodded.

Angelus lent forward, looking at Will intently. ‘You are being used, Will. She is using you to get her own way and she doesn’t give a damn if you suffer for it. Look at me. I will not have you used, Will. You are mine, not hers. Mine.’ He paused. ‘And I expected better of you.’

Will’s pointed little face was uncertain now, tinged with misery. He dropped his eyes again, staring at the cane.

‘Did you not even realise what she was doing?’

Will slowly shook his head.

‘What else?’

‘She… she said the minions couldn’t be trusted, sir.’

‘Ah.’

‘She said Harold might make a bid to take the territory for himself.’

‘And do you think he might?’

‘I…’ Will looked at the cane again as Angelus tapped it idly against his palm ‘…don’t know, sir.’

‘No, you don’t. So let me make it simple for you. Do you think I am incapable of judging how long it is safe to leave London for?’

‘No sir.’

‘Good boy. And?’

‘She said… she said you were ignoring me again. She said if I didn’t do something to attract your attention you’d probably forget I even existed. She said you always do that, cos you’ve got the attention span of a… of a… She said I should stop whining about it and do something. Ask you questions. Ask you to train me harder. Ask you to talk about the future and what your plans are for me and… what’s going on.’ It wasn’t quite a question, but Will wouldn’t meet his eye, staring down at the cane as if hypnotised by it.

‘William, who do you trust to make the appropriate decisions for this family?’

‘You, sir.’

‘Whose property are you?’

‘Yours, sir.’ And that was said smartly and with confidence, with the ease of long practice.

‘Mine.’ Angelus could feel the word warm and round on his lips. ‘Hand up higher.’

Will grimaced but did as he was told, still looking at nothing but the cane.

‘You will not let Darla make use of you.’

‘No sir.’ There was the slightest quiver in Will’s hand. Fear? Or simply the tension in his muscles, locked in place.

‘You will not involve yourself in petty schemes to manipulate me.’

‘No sir.’

The cane was pressing a red ridge across Will’s palm, held stiff and firm by the tension between them

‘You will not question my judgement.’

‘No sir.’

Angelus reached in and cupped the back of his neck, drawing him up against his chest, dropping the unused cane to fall on the desk behind them. Against his cheek, Angelus could feel fine hair brushing, lithe young muscles pressed against him, shaking with tension, fear, hurt, passion. He pressed a soft kiss to Will’s temple. ‘Do we understand one another, Will?’

Against his shoulder, Will nodded desperately, and made a small sound that approximated to ‘Yes sir’.

Angelus felt himself shiver.

‘Why?’ Will whispered.

‘Hush, little one.’

‘But what was she talking about?’

Angelus closed his eyes. ‘I do not wish to discuss it.’

Crushed to his shoulder, Will heaved a single, shuddering gasp.

Angelus stilled himself. Stopped his breathing. Letting his fury with Darla leak from him. If she wanted to play games then they would play games. And for that he wanted to be cool. As cold and icily calculating as the bitch herself. And then they would see just who the head of the family was.

The cathedral close was silent, still with the crystallised calm of a night gripped by frost. The limes that lined the paths held their rigid twigs stiffly, fringed with rime, no wind to make them stir. Each blade of grass beneath was a silent dagger, pointing to a black sky filled with un-twinkling stars. Much earlier there had been one or two figures hurrying about their business, well wrapped up, now the only signs of life were the cracks of light leaking from between the tightly closed shutters of the deanery.

And above this silence there spun music. Even out here, kept from the house by bolts, bars and shutters, and the mystical safeguard of the threshold that was stronger than them all, the small perfect tone carried to him, golden-light on the cold, black air.

The song ended and there came a ripple of polite but appreciative applause. Angelus decided to stretch his legs – experience had taught him that the dean’s wife liked to hold the concert up with tedious introductions for each song – and he tensed and leapt up to the parapet fronting the deanery, strolling along it and looking down at the next house along.

The little house was tiny, crammed into a corner of the close between the Queen Anne stateliness of the deanery and the medieval alms-houses where twelve aged but respectable paupers of the city were lodged. Its own age was indefinable, plain red brick without variation or adornment, but the walls were bowed with age – this had been the house for the organist of the cathedral since before the deanery was a brash new addition to the close. A little curl of smoke drifted up from its chimney and vanished into the moonlight.

Angelus could see down into the back garden of the organist’s house now. Two strips of grass, crisp with frost, stiff bushes of lavender bordering a path, a washing line, blackcurrant bushes against the far wall. Angelus gently dropped onto the roof of an outbuilding to give himself a clear view into the window of the first floor room. It was a bedroom with a narrow brass bed just wide enough for two and beside it an old fashioned wooden cot, pink, floral-pattern china on the washstand, a razor strop and a straw summer hat hanging behind the door.

From the deanery, another song started up.

Angelus jumped down and prowled around the edge of the outbuilding towards the one light showing from the ground floor of the organist’s house. Angelus leant, silent, into the shadow of the outbuilding’s wall. Through the curtains he could see a woman – the organist’s wife. The boy’s mother. She was thin, her hands red against the whiteness of the sheet she was endlessly hemming. She had the fairness of the boy, his narrow, pointed face, but in her, the lines were pinched, with white streaked into her golden hair, and when she stooped over the baby waving its limbs in the basket beside her she looked tired. She scooped the baby up and pressed it to her breast, swaying a little from side to side although it was making no sound. Indeed Angelus had scarcely ever heard it cry – as if the only noise permitted in that house was the endless shades of music.

The woman carried the baby towards him and, cradling it gently, she reached and opened the little window, pushing the casement wide. Then she lifted the baby up, the woolly shawl wrapped close about its form, and she smiled. ‘Do you hear that, baba?’ she whispered. ‘Listen – that is your big brother. He is singing tonight for the Dean and all the great ladies and gentlemen of the city. Can you hear?’ She craned forward a little more, the smile on her face lighting up her thin, tired features. So still was the night that he could feel her breath stirring the air just a few feet from him, and if he concentrated very closely he imagined he could almost feel the tiny spectral gasps of the baby itself.

If she leaned forward just a little more she would break the threshold and he could snatch them both in an instant. Rip the baby’s throat out in front of her eyes. Leave her bruised and bloody body, red in the frost for the morning sun to find.

And over the rooftops twirled and sparkled the sweetness of the boy’s singing.

‘Yes,’ his mother said, ‘that is James.’ She shivered and stood back and pulled the casement shut, settling the baby back in its warm nest of woollens. Smiling and murmuring to it as she turned to put a little more coal on the fire.

James. His name was James. Angelus felt as if the name had sent a bolt of electricity into his chest.

The song ended, giving rise to an eruption of applause with more feeling behind it than the earlier ones. There was a sense of finality and Angelus quickly bounded back up onto the roof, working his way over to the alms-houses from where he could lean out over the close.

Sure enough, a few minutes later two figures appeared at the kitchen door of the deanery, and hurried the short way down the path, James reaching up on tiptoe to lift the bolt of the gate and hold it for Ashworth. As he closed the gate again he lingered for a second, looking back, and Angelus longed to know what he was thinking.

‘Hurry up now, James. It is late,’ Ashworth called back. ‘You should be in bed.’

‘Yes papa.’ James came quickly.

Angelus craned far out, the stone finial of the gable cold and hard under his hand, the cross at its tip buzzing beside his cheek as he strained forwards almost to the point of falling, and then James was inside. Angelus sighed and settled back on the roof, hunkered down on his heels. He had not been able to discover any position from which he could see into the tiny window up in the eaves, so he must be content with his own imagination. A small room, he had decided, little more than space for the narrow bed. There would be no toys, no story-books, nothing to indicate a child lived there except the pair of small shoes tucked neatly side by side under the bed, and hanging on the back of the door a satchel filled with sheet music.

The flickering light of a candle appeared and Angelus edged forward, drawn to the thought of a small form kneeling to say prayers, then jumping into the bed. The light went out and still he waited. Beyond those walls a small body was relaxing sweetly into sleep after a long hard day. The cold of the night sank into his own ancient frame, blood deep, bone deep. Tonight he felt very old.

He thought about music – the steady progression of notes to an inevitable conclusion. And with a soft plump he dropped to the ground, smiling. With great care he picked three daffodils from the dean’s garden and laid them on the worn stone step of the organist’s house, then retreated, leaving a trail of footprints in the frost on the path.

Angelus strode briskly back across the close and plunged into the narrow warren of streets that led to the river. The city was silent, the air brittle with cold. The houses leaning out over the street were dark, shutters closed, the respectable citizens thriftily asleep rather than waste money on candles. Angelus’s footsteps on the cobbles were the only sound.

Once he paused, then took an unnecessary right turn, and another, cut down an alley and stood gazing back up the street he had just walked along. Nothing moved. Finally a hunting cat slipped along the gutter, turned to stare at him with wide scared eyes, and vanished over a wall. Angelus waited a little longer before telling himself he was being a fool and carrying on.

Back on the main street, one or two people were still about, most of whom tipped their hats civilly, and by the bridge a stream of yellow warmth spilled out from a pub, together with the roll of nasally sentimental singing to a refrain banged out on an out-of-tune piano.

‘Why be so hard upon the boy? He is our only son.
You know the work he has to do is always gladly done.

‘Oh give the boy a chance,
Give the boy a chance.
I know it will be better far to give the boy a chance.’

Angelus grimaced and took the steps down to the river. Here the cold was dank, oozing out of the stones of the buildings. The water sloshed and heaved, curdled with brown scummy ice. A continuous mechanical clank and rattle came from the sluice gates of the mill.

Angelus hissed, the sound carrying on the frozen air, and after a second there was a short cough, something that might have been the bark of a hunting dog fox, but wasn’t, and Will slithered out from the shadow of the bridge.

‘Well?’

‘Christ, but it’s bloody freezing tonight.’

Angelus gave him a sarcastic look to inform him he was aware of the fact. ‘What do you have?’

‘Chilblains, mostly.’ Will made a pantomime of clapping his arms about himself, dancing on the spot. ‘Couldn’t we have arranged to meet somewhere with a fire?’

Angelus peered past him, preparing to get very angry indeed if there was no sign of a human under the bridge.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Will said, still hopping from leg to leg, but grinning, ‘She’s a good one. Should be fun to play with for a bit.’

He led the way back into the dark, and there indeed was a woman, sprawled out in the mud, legs splayed, rucked skirts drabbling in the filth, the stench rising off her like the warm fug off a pigsty. She lifted a mop of saffron coloured hair and blinked slowly at Angelus. ‘Gi’ I a drink, deary?’ She sounded more hopeful than enticing.

‘Angelus, meet Polly Prim, local lady of the night,’ Will said with a flourish.

‘A tart?’

‘Yeh.’ Will stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, looking pleased with himself. ‘Found her in the King’s Head and told her I’d take her home for dinner. None of the local lads seemed to mind. So, will she do?’ Nothing in his demeanour hinted that he had the faintest notion of Polly being unacceptable.

Angelus frowned and shook his head.

‘What!’ Will’s outraged yell was far too loud and Angelus reached out at once to cuff him for it. Will dodged back a step. ‘You bastard. You right bastard. All bloody night I’ve been freezing my balls off waiting for you and now we’re not even taking her! Why not, for Christ’s sake?’ He grabbed for Polly, thrusting her out at Angelus. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

Polly leered up at them and belched.

Angelus gave Will a look and turned on his heel, striding back towards the steps. Under his feet, the ice in each pockmarked pool of the muddy path splintered with gunshot cracks.

‘Answer me!’ Will yelled.

He ought to just leave, display to Will that his word was to be accepted without question. Maybe hammer the lesson in when they got back home. He stopped on the first step up to the road, gazing up at the stars.

‘Angelus, tell me… please… sir. We’re always taking tarts, why not her?’ She hung limp from his hand like a bedraggled rag doll.

‘Because she’ll be missed.’

‘Her? She’s nobody, for Christ’s sake.’

Angelus gave Will his blackest look. ‘She is not “nobody”, you stupid boy. She is someone who half the men and a fair few of the women are all too aware of, and she would be missed. This isn’t London. And if you swear at me again, boy, shout, or so much as hint that you think it doesn’t matter about attracting attention, I will drag you into that pub, turn you over my knee and spank you till you sob. Then we’ll see how much attention you like.’

Will glared at him, jaw set, and actually hauled Polly up a little more, strengthening his grip. ‘Always has to be your way, doesn’t it. I get thumped for leaving a spot of blood on the pavement, but you’ve killed right out in the open and not cared – I’ve seen you do it.’

‘Yes, I have, once in a long while, when I judge it is appropriate to do so. Which means doing it for something good, something worthwhile – something to remember on the five hundred nights in between when we have to be cautious. Not a raddled, provincial dolly-mop.’

Will’s hold on the girl’s arm seemed a little less secure. ‘Oh.’ She giggled drunkenly, rolling her head against his lapel, leaving a smear of drool.

‘For God’s sake, Will, how many times do I have to explain these things to you?’

‘You never explained it like that before.’

He had explained. Surely he had? ‘Yes I did, only you weren’t paying attention as usual.’

Will shoved the girl off angrily, a sneer of disgust on his face. She bounced against the pier of the bridge, clutching at the slime-coated stones, head lolling, a draggled yellow lock swaying in front of bleary eyes as she giggled.

‘So what do I do now?’ Will asked helplessly.

Angelus sighed. It was growing late, but the family needed to eat. It took long hours, luck and skill to scour somewhere so respectable, but food could be found – an out of place farmhand trying his luck far from home, a flighty maid who everyone would think had run off with her fancy, a tramp sleeping under a hedge. The people nobody would miss. He looked at Will’s face, staring up at him miserably but with absolute confidence that somehow he would make everything right.

‘Oh bring her along,’ he said wearily. ‘We’ll dump her in the mill pond in a couple of days and they’ll think she fell in when she was drunk.’

Will hooted and grabbed for the girl. ‘Come on, deary.’ With a shake of his head he changed to demon face, still grinning impishly. The girl’s eyes widened in horror, shocked sober for the fraction of a second it took Will to plunge his fangs into her throat. Angelus watched impassively as Will drank, deep swift pulls of her heart blood, enough to slide her into unconsciousness within seconds. He was getting good at that – could pacify a kill within half a minute now and very seldom had to be thrashed for getting blood on his collar. Will pulled out, smirking, and smacked his lips.

‘I suppose you’re drunk now.’

‘Better than paying for it.’ Will swiped his mouth clean. ‘See, I knew you could make an exception – we’re vampires, mate. More than that, you’re Angelus. The vampire. We can do anything we want!’

Angelus looked at him tiredly. Was I ever that young? he wondered. And abruptly he covered the ground between them, yanked Will forward and kissed him, lapping the rich smears of blood from between needle-sharp teeth, feeling the soft lips velvet against his own. There was a gentle plump as Will dropped the girl in the mud. At last Angelus pulled back and considered him carefully.

‘Did you actually polish your boots at all today?’ he demanded.

‘Give the boy a chance,
Give the boy a chance.
I know it will be better far to give the boy a chance.’

He couldn’t get the line of the chin quite right. It kept coming out too hard, not the soft, baby curves of youth but, perhaps, how the boy would look in five year’s time, a young man grown – except of course, that would not happen.

Angelus tore the spoiled sheet off and began afresh. He tried to concentrate on how James would look walking beside him in the night. Soft fair hair almost silver in the moonlight, little round toed shoes tapping lightly beside his as he skipped from one moonbeam to another. If you froze blood could you make it crystalline, coated in sugar, something a child might accept to suck?

A clucking sound of disapproval came from where Darla sat on the far side of the parlour, which he ignored. They had already had the only conversation of the evening he intended to have with her – a narrow-eyed glare from her, a cheerful ‘Still here, darling? I thought you were going back to London,’ from him.

He tilted his sketch-book to catch the light better and swore as yet again the chin began to go wrong. He set his pencil down, looking inward, conjuring up the vision of James to fix it more firmly in his mind. Young, soft, perfect, a little angel. He wondered how the boy might react the first time he showed him his demon face. You could never tell with children. Sometimes there was confusion, often terror, once or twice awe. But if he was really lucky there would be curiosity, and the revelation of an innocence so pure it could not begin to conceive of the demon.

There was a stir of skirts swaying, a crunch of paper, and he snapped his head up with a snarl. ‘Darla!’

‘I’m not a mummy,’ Dru said very sadly. From across the room, Darla was giving him a withering look for his mistake. Dru stooped and scooped up one of the discarded drawings from the drift scattered at his feet, tilting her head as she studied it. Then she pressed it to her breast, rocking. ‘He misses his real daddy sometimes,’ she said.

Of course, Ashworth was only James’s stepfather. ‘What was his real father like, precious?’

She looked at him, a little surprised. ‘He was a priest. You pretended to be a priest once, but you aren’t a real father.’

A priest. Angelus felt himself begin to grin. It made enormously satisfying sense – the children of the choir school would be recruited from the sons of clergymen and those who worked for the cathedral. And then, when Mr Grayling had died, his widow had married the cathedral organist to provide security and a father for her boy. It would never have been a love match.

‘His father was a priest, and you weren’t a priest, and his father was a priest, and her father came as a priest, and she was born in a church, creeping out of her little nest of silk and rough, rough wool. So scratchy it was on her delicate new skins. But oh her wings!’ Dru turned on him a face of pure joy. ‘Black and blood red. Admirable, my mummy used to call them. Admirable Lord Nelson. Brown ones and blue ones and the ones like spotted snow. But you want the yellow ones, don’t you, Angelus.’

‘How did the priest die, Dru?’

She let the paper slip from her hands, so that it drifted to the ground in weary zig-zags and then settled. ‘An iron band at his throat.’ She touched her neck with both hands. ‘And at his heart.’ The hands dipped to press against her chest. ‘So tight that they couldn’t hear the screams.’

That might mean several things – perhaps an apoplexy, or heart failure. No point asking Dru when it had happened, she never had any concept of time. She was looking at him with a sparkle in her eyes now. ‘But I can hear him scream!’ She stretched her arms out, the dark drapery of her dress expanding like wings. ‘We all scream for you, don’t we, Angelus. We die silently, but in our hearts we scream.’

‘Oh you scream, my precious. And what of him? Can you see what will happen to him?’

She nodded solemnly. ‘Always. Can I help, Daddy?’

‘Yes, yes of course, precious. You’re always Daddy’s helpful little girl. Can you tell me how long he has, before… before his change?’ He hoped she would understand what he meant, but he didn’t actually want to say ‘until his voice breaks’ whilst Darla was in the room.

‘Someone wants to take him, make him stronger, make him… White wings on a throne of jet, seeking for him with eyes as red as… red. I can’t see… It’s dark where he is… He… he should emerge, break out of his cocoon, but he won’t. Something won’t let him. He…’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Should be spinning up, together in the sunbeams. Moths don’t do that – they flutter and beat at the window and ask to be let in, but if you lift the shade they only burn themselves in the flame.’

‘And what is his name? This boy Angelus has wasted half the night sketching,’ Darla said dryly from across the room. She was craning forward towards the nearest fallen papers and Angelus abruptly wished he had chosen to draw anywhere else except the parlour.

Dru tilted her head again. ‘He’s called “Will”, grandmother. I thought you knew that by now.’

And Angelus silently blessed the tangled skeins of Dru’s mind as Darla sat back with pursed lips.

‘Yes, well perhaps instead of drawing him all night you would consider spending an hour with the original training him. Where is he? Do you even know?’

‘He’s in his room,’ Angelus said, quickly leaning forward to grab the drawings before Darla took it into her head to examine one more closely. He briefly wondered where Will actually was. It hardly mattered. ‘He’s learning the fourth incantation, if he knows what’s good for him.’

Darla flicked a suspicious glance at him, but said nothing.

‘I’m going out.’

‘Where?’ Darla demanded.

‘Hunting.’ He tucked the sketches into his portfolio and snapped the little lock shut. ‘We vampires sometimes do.’

‘Drusilla, darling, come and give me your opinion on these hats,’ Darla trilled at once, holding open the pages of the ladies’ paper she had ostensibly been flicking through all night. He eyed her suspiciously as Dru tripped over and their heads bent together, but he couldn’t think of any real reason to interfere.

‘Don’t stay up too late, Drusilla,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re to be in bed by four.’

‘Yes Daddy.’

‘And make sure Will is as well.’

‘Yes Daddy. May I tuck him in and read him a bedtime story?’

‘Of course,’ Darla said, flipping over a page and pointing something out to Dru, ‘we wouldn’t want William staying up too late studying – very bad for his health.’

Angelus shut the door on them. It was cold in the hall, away from the island of warmth around the fire, and a keen little draft tugged at his ankles as he walked down the passage.

In the kitchen, Will was lounging in one of the spoke-backed wooden chairs, feet propped up on the table, a book resting on his lap. He tilted his head back and acknowledged Angelus without actually getting up. Angelus eyed him coldly in the hope it would elicit a response, and when it didn’t he tapped Will’s boots sharply until he took them down.

‘Fetch my outdoor things.’

‘What, the coat and hat you walked right past to get here?’ Will skipped out of range of Angelus’s cuff, took a route on the far side of the table and vanished through the door. Angelus examined his nails moodily. The room wasn’t as pleasant as the parlour but it was warm, and Will had set a tea-kettle on the little range. A plate covered in crumbs lay forgotten on the rag-hearthrug, next to the dark stain left from when they had moved in.

Will clattered back in, loaded with overcoat, hat, gloves and scarf. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No.’ He shrugged his overcoat on, then picked up Will’s book and read the title – The Antiquities, Mythology and Entomology of Western England by the Rev. V. S. Cockaigne. ‘Is this really the most useful way you can find to pass your time?’

‘It was in the parlour. All my books are back ho— in town.’

‘Well then you can…’ Angelus ran his eye over the kitchen, seeking inspiration.

‘Can what? I’ve cleaned the whole house. There’s enough coal in to last a month. I’ve polished all your footwear, and that includes your carpet-slippers. If your clothes are brushed any more they’ll go into holes. You don’t want me doing anything for Darla. If I spend the night with Dru you accuse me of playing. And you won’t let me go out with you.’

Angelus shook his head in irritation, tugging on his gloves. ‘Well find something more useful to do. You have got to learn how to fill your nights – we live for eternity, William, we have to fill it with purpose.’ It sounded pompous, as so much of what he said to Will seemed to do, and Will was staring at him blankly, perhaps with a little sneer. He wasn’t even four years old – he did not understand. Or worse, he thought that he did. But Angelus could not think of how to explain. ‘Well what do you normally do?’

‘Whatever you tell me to, sir. And when you can’t think of anything you ask Harold, or Lucius, or Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all – only none of them are here, are they. Can I take Dru out? Not that there’s anywhere to go in this dump but we could at least go for a walk.’

‘No.’ The last thing he wanted was Will and Dru turning up in the cathedral close. Will sighed but nodded, and he would obey – he’d had the consequences of going out without permission too firmly flogged into him for Angelus to have any fears on that score.

‘So do something useful, yes,’ Angelus said again.

Will just stared at him.

‘Can you play the piano?’

‘What? No.’

‘Yes you can, I’ve heard you playing for Dru.’

‘Wasn’t me.’

‘Who was it then? Dru’s dollies?’

‘I can’t play the piano.’

Angelus turned his back on him and left.

The panes in the window were old, the glass sagged and smeared with time, so his view was obscured, as if he were watching through a mist and from much further off, but he could see enough.

Books of music on the shelves, manuscript paper on the battered fly-leaf table, and against the longest wall there was just space for the upright piano. It was black, heavily carved, with a candle in only one of the pair of brackets, just enough to throw a golden glow on the earnest young face and set a shimmer of life in his curls as he bent over the keyboard.

Scales. Steadily advancing and retreating as they had been for the last half hour, and still the boy showed no sign of tiredness or boredom. It was as if with each reiteration he found something new to perfect in the notes. Not hammered, not drummed out, but rippling from his fingers as living and thrilling as a heartbeat. Angelus ran his tongue slowly over dry lips, smoothed down the stiff cloth of his coat.

In the small room at the back the boy’s mother would still be sewing, as she was every night. Across the table from her, Ashworth himself would be sitting, bent over papers that he studied every evening, scanning them as if they contained some great secret, every now and then his hand raising the pencil to scratch a furious mark, often as not only to cross it out, frowning, a few moments later. Some day soon Angelus must get hold of those papers to find out what they were.

The great cathedral clock started to chime the quarter. Every night at exactly this time, as the clock tolled the last note of the quarter hour, James would stop playing. Sometimes he would go through to the little parlour and kiss his mother, bid a solemn ‘Good night’ to his stepfather and obediently head straight up the stairs to bed. And sometimes – sure enough, Ashworth’s face appeared at the parlour door. But tonight the boy did not stop immediately. His face frowning still with concentration he played on steadily. Note after perfect rippling note.

‘It is time, James.’

‘Yes papa.’ The boy withdrew his hands, staring at the keyboard afterwards as if his fingerprints could still be seen there, little ovals on each ivory key. Then he pushed himself up and turned to his stepfather so Angelus could no longer see his expression.

Ashworth was fussing, wrapping a blue scarf about the boy’s throat, enquiring if he needed a cool drink. ‘The cold air is good for you, it builds your lungs, but you must keep your throat warm. Not too warm or it will relax.’

‘Yes papa.’

‘Have you got your gloves, my darling?’ his mother asked.

‘Never mind those, they don’t matter. Hurry now, James.’ Ashworth steered him to the door.

His mother clasped her arms around her waist, as if holding herself close. ‘Good luck, my darling.’

James flashed her a smile of pure sweetness, the smile that Angelus had drawn and redrawn. Ashworth pushed him through the door, tearing him from his mother as she settled his cap on his head. Angelus slipped back, deeper into the shadows.

‘Don’t wait up.’

‘No.’ His mother kissed James and again whispered, ‘Good luck,’ then withdrew into the house.

Ashworth rested his hand on James’s shoulder. ‘You must do your best. Your very best.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Yes papa, I meant, yes papa.’

Ashworth looked at James for a moment, as if about to say something more, and James looked back at him politely, waiting, but Ashworth only nodded and started to hurry down the path, past the little hedge of lavender bushes and onto the gravel walk that crossed the close.

On the first occasion they had gone to the party at the deanery, where James had sung to a circle of simpering females and bored looking men. On the second it had been the back room of the Three Feathers inn and an audience of gentlemen farmer’s and their not-quite-lady wives. The third time they had walked all the way across town to the tin hut where the Methodists sat on hard wooden chairs in an atmosphere steaming with the tea urn and unwashed farm hands, who gawped whilst James transported their minds to a world far beyond their own pettiness.

Now, as Ashworth once again steered James along the frozen streets, Angelus followed with a black heart. That a creature as delicate and rare as James should be displayed before these oafs and provincial clodpolls was unbearable. When Ashworth’s death came, it would be slow, and as he screamed he would be taught just what he was paying for.

Angelus matched his speed to theirs, pacing behind them beat for beat. They moved up hill, to where the largest houses were. Stone built, with fiercely polished brass-work on the doors and lights blazing from every window. Ashworth hesitated, checked a piece of paper in his pocket and then squared his shoulders.

‘Here we are.’

‘Yes papa.’ James’s voice was low, his eyes downcast, and his little hands, twisted in front of him, looked cold and white.

‘Do do your best, James. This is so very important. If Mr Harmonia likes you then it could lead to great things – very great things. Maybe even London.’

‘Yes papa.’

Angelus carried on slowly past them, his steps echoing hollowly on the cobbles so that Ashworth turned and watched him uneasily for a second, before turning back to the door. Angelus slipped into the shadow of a small, bow-walled church, its black flint walls a dark vacuum in the white Georgian stonework of the street.

Harmonia. He had heard the name before but couldn’t recall where.

Ashworth knocked.

The door opened and a tall and impeccably dressed manservant sneered down his nose at what he saw. ‘Yes?’

‘How do you do?’ Ashworth said in a rush. ‘My name is Ashworth, organist of the Cathedral. I am here to see Mr Harmonia.’ The last part sounded more like a question than a statement and the servant’s sneer deepened.

‘Mr Harmonia is not at home.’

‘But it has all been arranged! I wrote to him when I heard he was here!’ Ashworth flapped one hand, miming writing, as if this was somehow helpful, the other gripped James’s shoulder.

‘I have not been made aware of any arrangements.’

‘No, but… can’t you please ask him. The boy has been prepared very carefully.’

The servant’s gaze travelled to James and back. ‘How regrettable that there has been a misunderstanding,’ the servant said calmly. ‘Mr Harmonia is not at home.’

‘Wait!’ Ashworth actually put out a hand to prevent the door closing. ‘He sent a man – to evensong, to listen to my boy. He can tell Mr Harmonia about James. He gave me his card.’

The servant paused, one eyebrow raised, whilst Ashworth frantically searched his pockets.

‘Here!’ He held a card up triumphantly. ‘Give that to Mr Harmonia. He came and listened, and said that Mr Harmonia would be interested in a private performance. Tell Mr Harmonia that this is James Grayling. The boy Mr Aurelius wanted him to hear.’ Ashworth beamed, the servant took the card with a puzzled frown, and Angelus dropped his head back against the knobbly flints of the little church and tried not to laugh out loud.

‘I see. I will make enquiries.’ The servant held the door open the barest crack and Ashworth, his face white, edged inside. James followed him trustingly.

‘Wait here,’ the servant commanded, and then the door closed. Angelus listened to the servant’s footsteps retreating over a hard surface, and then James’s voice, sounding very small, muffled by the door. ‘Doesn’t he want to hear me sing, papa?’

‘Yes of course he does. It is just a silly misunderstanding with the servant.’ Ashworth cleared his throat. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘Yes papa.’

Angelus considered for a moment, turning over the possibilities, then he looked up, judged the height of the dark flint walls of the church, and made a clean leap twenty foot up to the roof. He worked his way back along it, looking down on Harmonia’s house beside him.

Many tall windows overlooked a rigidly formal garden, stiff in its winter tidiness. From the first floor, light spilled out, and with it came the sound of singing. Strange singing. Not quite a soprano, not quite a countertenor, a high but full, rounded tone the like of which Angelus had never heard in England before.

‘Va tacito e nascosto, quand’ avido è di preda, l ‘astuto cacciatore.’

It was a sound that stirred in him memories of sultry Italian nights and the fierce pointless feuding of the claques. Of a time when he had seen a long-stalked prey stabbed by a rival Tenor just before opening night. And again something nagged at the back of his mind about the name Harmonia.

Other lights flickered through the cracks in the shutters below stairs, but the ground floor was dark and presumably deserted apart from Ashworth and James. He jumped down into the garden, gravel crunching under his feet, the chill sweep of box trees stiff with frost brushing at his legs. There was a pair of glass doors in front of him, giving onto the garden from what looked like a small breakfast room. On a whim he stretched his hand out, palm flat, feeling for the resistance, the push of rejection that barred him from any home.

Well, wasn’t that interesting.

He smiled to himself and smashed his hand down on the door handle. The flimsy metal gave instantly and he swung the door open and strode inside.

He quickly removed gloves, hat and coat, hanging them over a convenient chair, and straightened the rest of his dress. Then he walked calmly out into the house.

There was a hallway of plaster painted to look like marble and gold leaf, sparsely furnished but lit by a full chandelier of candles, and sitting against one wall on uncomfortable looking chairs were James and Ashworth. Angelus paused and Ashworth shot to his feet.

‘Mr Aurelius!’ He seemed incapable of anything more, standing wringing his hands, but Angelus couldn’t care less because James had lifted his head and was looking straight at him from under long lashes. That perfect little face, a soft blush from the cold night air just creeping across his cheek, the fine hair seeming to glow in the light of the chandelier. He looked at Angelus for one long, wonderful second, and then he dropped his gaze.

Angelus cleared his throat and strode straight across to the staircase.

‘Mr Aurelius!’ he heard Ashworth call as he climbed. ‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding. If you could just speak to Mr Harmonia for us. Please, sir!’

Angelus turned the corner of the landing and closed his eyes for a second, clenching and unclenching his fists.

When he opened them a servant was coming towards him, bearing a tray of drinks and a puzzled frown. ‘Who are—?’

‘Ah, at last, a man could die of thirst.’ Angelus snatched a champagne flute and emptied it. ‘Well show me through, man. I don’t want to wait out here all night.’

‘Er, no, of course not, sir, I do beg your pardon.’ And the servant held the door beside him open, not demurring when Angelus took another glass in passing.

‘E chi è a mal far disposto, non brama che si veda l’inganno del suo cor.’

The strange voice twisted through the air, seeming to writhe on the hot, foetid atmosphere of the room. Everything was slickly white and gold, the walls and ceiling festooned with fat plaster cherubs dangling bunches of grapes, their undersides streaked with lines of soot from the guttering candles. And it was crowded with men, rank sweat prickling at the stiff collars of their evening suits. They stirred and shifted continuously as they stood, fidgeting with their champagne glasses, with collar and cuffs, as if not one of them were entirely comfortable, but nor could any of them take their eyes off the youth in the centre of the room.

He stood in the swell of the grand piano, tall, barrel-chested, ludicrously dressed in a skimpy tunic and gilded laurel wreath, one hand resting lightly on the ebony wood, the other raised as if to declaim as he sang. But his heavy, kohl smeared eyes kept returning to the man seated before him, each time with a downward tilt that parodied coyness, his red-smeared cheeks resembling a blush. And the man in the chair shifted, spreading his legs a little wider, his eyes feasting on what was before him.

Higher and higher the notes soared, higher than nature should ever permit.

‘Va tacito e nascosto, quand’ avido è di preda, l ‘astuto cacciatore.’

The youth threw his head back as he concluded and the audience broke into instant applause. Apparently oblivious, the youth pouted and flounced over to the chair, making the filmy material of his tunic bounce.

‘Ah, my Pedrolino,’ the man in the chair reached up and patted his cheek. ‘Bravo, bravissimo.’

The youth’s pout deepened and he stuck one leg forward, as if striking a pose. ‘I need a proper orchestra. That fool plays like cobbling shoes.’ His voice was simpering, high as a girl’s, and rose almost to a shriek at the end. ‘And they fidget. How can I create art when they fidget!’

The man only smiled indulgently and patted his cheek again. ‘You shall sing again in a little while and they shall be still as stones.’ He turned and glared about him. ‘Won’t they?’ And as he said it his eyes flashed red.

The others froze under his glare, and then there was a chorus of assent, of wonder at the perfection of the performance, of assurances that Mr Harmonia provided the very best of entertainments and they would not so much as breathe through the rest of the concert if they might only be permitted to remain to marvel. Harmonia smiled. Pedrolino only pouted deeper. ‘I need a horn.’

‘Of course you do.’

The butler appeared and threaded his way through the crowd. Angelus stretched his ears, slipping a little closer through the jostling ranks of men, always keeping his eyes unfocused, his face blank, so that none should feel the force of his gaze. Nobody so much as glanced in his direction.

‘The cathedral organist is here, sir,’ the butler said softly. ‘With James Grayling.’

Harmonia inclined his ear, and as the butler spoke a flickering, fat tongue slid out from between Harmonia’s teeth and darted back in.

‘Who is this Grayling?’ Pedrolino sneered, his lower lip stuck out in what he possibly considered a pretty pout. ‘What do you want with him?’

‘Now, now, you must not be jealous, Pedrolino. Come, sit on Papà’s knee.’

The youth scowled for a second, then plumped himself down, picking moodily at the hem of his tunic.

‘We’ll make them wait a little longer, I think,’ Harmonia said. He set one finger on Pedrolino’s thigh and traced a little circle. ‘Make them wait.’ Another little circle. ‘Then tell them to go away.’ Pedrolino smiled. And as Harmonia’s hand drifted higher, under the flimsy material of the tunic, Angelus could see that there was nothing there. Pedrolino was as smooth and featureless as a young child, only the shiny scar tissue showing what had been done to him.

‘And you, my Pedrolino, must sip some water and get ready for your next aria. Very little sips.’ Harmonia patted Pedrolino’s thigh and Pedrolino rose with a self-satisfied smirk and flounced off. Harmonia leant towards the butler. ‘Tell them to come back tomorrow night.’

‘Very good, sir. But Ashworth gave me this.’ And Angelus saw his own card again, this time presented on a silver salver. ‘Ashworth claimed that this gentleman attended evensong on your behalf.’

Harmonia raised his eyebrows and turned slightly. ‘Cotesia, did you give Ashworth your card? You were not told to do so.’

‘No, Mr Harmonia.’ One of the men worked his way through the crowd – tall, thin, and with eyes that glowed red and yet still looked cold and black. ‘I listened to the boy and then came away. I did—’ He cleared his throat and Angelus fought down the growl in his chest – it was the coughing idiot from evensong. ‘I did not speak to anyone.’

Harmonia waved at him dismissively and picked up the card. ‘Well, well – Angelus of Aurelius.’ There was instant silence. Harmonia turned the card over, examining it closely. ‘So, he is in the city and he wishes me to know it. Cotesia, do we know of this Angelus?’ He mispronounced it, as if the Scourge of Europe were to be confused with a devotion of the church.

Cotesia cleared his throat again. ‘Angelus of Aurelius, Mr Harmonia.’ The idiot mirrored Harmonia’s pronunciation. ‘He is the Master’s grandchilde and considered highly favoured by him. He became notorious for displays of violence and adopted the name of the Scourge of Europe, but he hasn’t done anything worthy of note for years.’ He sneered. ‘The last I heard of him was in sixty-seven when he killed a few nuns.’

‘Ah these vampires, always flamboyant. ’ Harmonia tossed the card back onto the salver. ‘Well we will not worry unduly about one vampire. Even one of the Master’s most favoured.’

There was a burst of sycophantic laughter, and Harmonia dismissed the butler with a wave. But whilst the others sniggered about how one became a most favoured amongst the Aurelians, Harmonia crooked a finger and Cotesia bent down to him. ‘Find him. Find out what the Master wants,’ Harmonia hissed, and the man nodded and slipped away.

Harmonia sprawled back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips, his pink eyes flipping lazily around the room. Released from the immediate need to be sycophantic the others had settled into a babble of conversation. Glasses chinked, the champagne was refilled, and the heat and noise in the room began to make Angelus consider leaving. He circulated slowly, eavesdropping on as many conversations as possible, always keeping a distance from Harmonia. Then on the far side of the room he found himself face to face with Pedrolino, who glared at him, took a deep swig of champagne, and demanded ‘Who are you?’

‘Oh, just a friend of Harmonia’s’

‘I have never seen you before.’

‘No, well I’m not a very good friend. So, tell me, how long have you sung for him?’

‘Do you not know who I am?’ It was said loud enough that a couple of others turned in their direction. One of them was Cotesia.

‘An interesting question,’ Cotesia said, and he deftly removed Pedrolino’s glass while he eyed Angelus.

‘Ehilà, non fate così!’

‘Oh, I didn’t take it, Master Pedrolino, indeed no,’ Cotesia said smoothly. ‘Because you aren’t allowed champagne, so you can’t have had it for me to take.’ He ignored Pedrolino’s glare and tilted his head as he examined Angelus. ‘So, Mr…? I issue all of Mr Harmonia’s invitations, how unforgivable that I can’t recall your name.’ He coughed.

‘Smith,’ Angelus said. ‘James Smith. Is that the time? Well, it’s been most—’ A heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder and he risked a glance. A fat thug, about the size of a prize-fighter, looked back at him impassively with crimson glowing eyes above long tusks. Angelus sighed and punched him.

The demon grunted.

Someone seized Angelus’s arm, twisting it down before he could get in a second blow. Someone else took the other one. The demon in front of Angelus drew his fist back and pounded it into Angelus’s stomach, an explosion of pain driving up into him. Another came from behind. Then another from the front.

Angelus was vaguely aware of squeals as people retreated, of shouts, of Pedrolino shrieking with outrage.

Every punch felt like the hit of a flail. As they came down again and again it was like being in a threshing machine. His belly was a furnace of agony, his hearing fading, his sight turning black with the pain.

As a blow crashed against his back he stumbled forward, tipping the demons holding him off balance. Angelus exploded upwards with a roar, changing into his true face, somersaulting over the demon behind him, seeing red eyes and long tusks flash below.

He landed to find himself staring at a gape mouthed Pedrolino.

‘Stake him,’ a voice said loudly but calmly.

Pedrolino screamed and smashed his champagne glass against Angelus’s temple.

Angelus grabbed Pedrolino’s wrist and twisted, the jagged stump of the glass dropping neatly into his own hand even as he twisted Pedrolino round and clamped him to his chest. He thrust the broken glass at Pedrolino’s throat.

The room froze into silence.

‘Stand back, all of you,’ Angelus shouted.

He had only to flick the glass slightly and it would slice Pedrolino’s gullet.

Angelus was facing a rank of demons, heads lowered, long tusks flaring up at him from snarling mouths, red eyes darting from side to side as they searched for an opening.

Pedrolino squirmed, gasping like a landed fish.

‘Stand back!’

The demons exchanged uncertain glances, then Cotesia barked ‘Do as he says’ and they shuffled back a few inches.

‘Harmonia?’ Angelus called.

‘Oh I am here, vampire. And I have a message for your Master.’

‘I’m nobody’s minion! And if you want your Pedrolino’s throat intact, you’ll—’ He just caught the flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and jerked sideways, the crossbow bolt thudding into the wall behind him.

‘Don’t you people understand what a hostage is!’ He bowled Pedrolino at the crowd and leapt for the window. Then the familiar sensation of rushing wind and splintering glass surrounded him, slashing his skin even as he fell, and finally the cobblestones jarring through every bone. He coughed blood and staggered to his feet.

‘And I want my bloody hat and coat back, you bastards,’ he yelled up at the house. Nobody bothered to reply.

The little window was dark. He had known it would be dark and yet still he felt a pang of disappointment – anger that James had not chanced to waken and look out to see the gibbous moon hanging fat and low in the sky. Though of course he had not, such a well-behaved little boy would never think of doing something so naughty. He would have gone straight to bed on returning home, to lie quietly in his little cot all night, dreaming the sweetly innocent dreams of childhood.

Angelus snarled. He wanted to rip all the flowers from the silly prim little gardens, scatter the gravel across the lawns, snatch the jackdaws from their nests on the cathedral’s pinnacles and smear their blood and feathers across the clergymen’s doors. He should never have returned yet again to the close. Yet here he was, drifting about like a lovesick swain whilst the frost bit into the smarting cuts the glass had left on his cheeks, even as they healed over.

He turned abruptly away, striding out, seeking some reason for being abroad so late. The pubs were all closed now, the citizens soundly asleep, even the owl that had been calling mournfully from across the water meadows was gone. He needed a kill. The bloodier the better, something slow and vicious so he could lie fat in his bed and forget.

He was dragged from his thoughts by a dark figure appearing at the far side of the close, ducking out from one of the small houses where the minor canons lived and pulling on his gloves as he went. A young man, from his stride, though hunched against the cold, dressed in something close to clerical black and yet he wasn’t quite a clergyman. He seemed vaguely familiar. There was nothing guilty in his appearance, nothing remarkable in his behaviour except that he should be abroad so late. But it was unusual, and Angelus told himself that the unusual provided the cracks through which he could insinuate himself, that must be why his senses were tugging at him to investigate.

He strolled over and began to follow, ten paces behind.

The man was instantly aware of him – no fool this one – he never looked back but his stride lengthened, releasing his hands from his pockets to swing readily at his side, standing up taller. Not a local man then – it never occurred to the yokels that there might be anything dangerous in the night. A small place this, a comfortable place, where folk checked for friends, not hastened from the unknown, but not this one.

Angelus still followed, ten paces behind for every turn, every time the young man crossed the street, pausing when he paused, moving on when he did. Footfalls exactly timed to drop half a heartbeat later than the man’s own, and when the man cleared his throat, so did Angelus.

At last the young man stopped, clenched his fists, moved forwards a pace and stopped again, spinning round.

‘Can I help you?’ His voice was low, pitched with due consideration for the peace of the neighbours, but also fierce with unaccustomed fear.

Angelus stopped and considered the face under the low-pulled hat. ‘Mr Camberwell.’ The assistant organist.

Angelus moved slowly forward. Camberwell was healthy, his stance vigorous. Lean, the scant muscles of one who spent his days with notes and keyboard, but not incapable for all that. The dress was the product of a very small salary, and the missing button on his coat, the small stain on one sleeve, showed he lodged with a landlady, with never a wife or mother to care for him. But his gaze was steady, his eye bright, no hint of drink or tobacco on his breath, his scent sweet and clean, with just that little spice of nervousness to make things interesting.

‘Do you remember me, Mr Camberwell?’

Camberwell frowned, peering at Angelus, and then in an instant his anxiety and puzzlement changed to cold contempt. ‘What do you want, sir?’

Angelus held up a hand placatingly. ‘We met last week, after evensong.’

‘I recollect it, sir. You were talking to Mr Ashworth.’ Camberwell’s gentle green eyes flashed dangerously and for a moment Angelus wondered if he were going to sprout horns and a tail and prove that half the city was in fact populated with demons. Demons and angels.

‘Quite right, Mr Camberwell. My name is Aurelius.’ He held his hand out.

‘Indeed. You will excuse me, Mr Aurelius, it is very late and very cold.’ And pointedly ignoring the hand, Camberwell turned to go.

‘Please, Mr Camberwell, I do not know what I can possibly have done to perturb you, but it is vital we speak.’

Camberwell spun round again, his voice raised well above a polite level. ‘You have not perturbed me, but I will thank you to leave me alone, sir. You may tell Mr Harmonia that I have no interest in speaking to him, nor any of his… his people. I am not interested!’

Ah, so Harmonia’s pigs had been snouting in more than one trough, had they? This was becoming more and more engrossing.

‘Mr Camberwell, I do assure you that I have nothing at all to do with the man Harmonia. Quite the opposite, which is why I really must talk to you.’

And that got Camberwell’s attention. He goggled at Angelus for a little, then slowly rubbed a hand across his eyes. As if wishing to ensure his sight was clear. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You did indeed see me talking to Mr Ashworth in the cathedral, but I am not connected to Mr Harmonia. In fact it is precisely because there is a danger of Ashworth speaking to Harmonia that I have become involved.’

Camberwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘You represent a rival?’

‘No, Mr Camberwell. The Dean is concerned—’

‘The Dean!’

‘Indeed, the Dean has asked that I make particular enquiries as to what is going on in this city. Discreetly, of course, but I will uncover everything.’

‘Oh good heavens!’ The young face in front of him collapsed in relief. ‘Oh the Dean knows. Oh that is wonderful. Oh Mr Aurelius!’ Camberwell seized his hand and pumped it vigorously, his lean, muscular musician’s fingers wrapping around Angelus’s. ‘Oh I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that. I have been so concerned.’

Angelus smiled. ‘And I assure you I am here for no other reason than to help.’ He clapped Camberwell on the shoulder. ‘Now, let us get off the street. Are your lodgings close? Perhaps you would be kind enough to invite me in.’

‘Of course! Of course!’ Camberwell was beaming as he produced a set of keys and led the way up a little side street, then, peering at the lock in the moonlight, opened the door. ‘Please do come in, Mr Aurelius.’

The door gave straight onto a tiny stone-floored parlour, almost filled with a small upright piano. There was a rag rug before the empty hearth, a square clock ticking loudly over the mantle. Camberwell lit a stub of candle left on the battered gate-leg table and politely gestured for Angelus to take the only chair, settling himself on the piano stool, seeming to turn with regret away from the keyboard itself.

Angelus ignored the chair, standing over Camberwell, toying with the small things in his trouser pocket. ‘Tell me about James Grayling.’

Camberwell rubbed his hands together. ‘So the Dean is having enquiries made! This is splendid news. I have been so very worried for poor James – and the other boys, too, naturally, but James especially. He has such talent, such promise as a musician. And that… that man has no proper care for him, no concern beyond his own selfish ambition.’ He slapped his knee furiously. ‘Do you know why he wants this? Let me tell you Mr Aurelius, it is no concern to see James do well. Oh never that – his jealousy wouldn’t permit him to concede his stepson is a musician of far, far greater worth than he will ever be. No, he hopes that James will be his way in, so that his own unspeakably dreary compositions have a chance of being performed. His famous concerto.’ Camberwell sneered. ‘He as good as confessed as much to me, before he realised I would have no part of his disgusting schemes. Let me tell you, Mr Aurelius, that I have applied for the post in Lincoln. I want no more of this place. I shall be rid of it. But what will happen to the boys once I am gone? I fear for them. Oh if only poor Mr Grayling were alive, how it would break his heart to know what use is being made of his son – what beastliness, what… exploitation! They are monsters, all of them.’ And again he crashed one fist emphatically down. ‘She should never have married him,’ he muttered, looking away.

So that was the way of it. Young Camberwell was carrying a torch for Mrs Ashworth. How very promising.

‘Mr Camberwell, you must understand that I can make no promises. However, if it were to be proved that the organist of the cathedral was misusing his influence over the boys, was encouraging private performances not sanctioned by the cathedral, or worse, well…’ He quirked a knowing smile. ‘You perhaps should not be over hasty to leave for Lincoln.’

Camberwell said nothing, frowning as he digested this information.

Angelus changed his tone to dismissive practicality. ‘Of course it is possible that Mr Ashworth himself is an innocent dupe in all this – the man Harmonia is notorious. The Dean needs evidence and without it we can proceed no further.’

Camberwell cleared his throat. ‘Exactly what sort of proof would you need, Mr Aurelius?’

‘What can you tell me?’

‘Harmonia approached me two weeks ago, through one of his creatures. A letter inviting me to perform for him. I was naturally keen to accept. I had never heard of Harmonia but you must understand that I am not a wealthy man, and it is quite understood I may take on private engagements if I can obtain them.’

Angelus nodded. ‘Have no fear, Mr Camberwell, you yourself are not under the slightest suspicion.’

Camberwell nodded, as one fortified by a clean conscience but nevertheless reassured that others too believed in him. ‘However, later a second note arrived, this one very different in tone. This time it was suggested I should bring the best of the boys with me – one of the most skilled choristers. Nothing was said plainly but it was clear that they meant James, and that my own chances of a fee would depend on my bringing him. And the suggestion of secrecy, I found intolerable. Naturally I refused.’

‘Did you tell anyone of your concerns?’

‘I told Ashworth.’

‘Ah!’ Angelus leaned back against the little mantle-piece, feeling it dig pleasurably into his shoulder.

‘I showed him both letters – he asked to keep them; I have them no longer, I’m afraid. He said he wished to consider the matter for a day or so – he said he was worried that the boys might have been approached directly, that there might be more to it than met the eye. He said he must be sure of all the facts before he told the Dean. He bound me to silence.’

‘I need hardly tell you, that he never has spoken to the Dean.’

‘The brute!’

‘Calm yourself, Mr Camberwell. James has other friends than just you.’

Camberwell nodded apologetically, turning a little towards his keyboard, as if longing to seek reassurance in it. He brushed a hand lightly over the ivory.

‘And James himself?’ Angelus asked.

‘James? He knows nothing, I am sure. He is an innocent in all this if there ever was one. He loves to sing but that is all. Surely, sir, you would never hold that against the boy?’

Angelus smiled.

‘James wants to be an organist, a composer – and who can doubt that he should? He has great talent, yet Ashworth will promise nothing, will arrange nothing, will not let him spend time on learning even the rudiments of composition. Do you know he is only allowed to practice the piano for half an hour a day? And Ashworth will scarcely let him near the cathedral organ at all. It is scandalous. There are scholarships, teachers who would gladly take him, I myself could…’ Camberwell dropped his gaze. ‘But nothing is done – everything must concentrate on his singing.’

‘Surely though, his singing—’

‘Is remarkable, oh do not mistake me, Mr Aurelius, I know he has a wonderful voice. But more than that, James is a musician in a way that many of the boys are not. He does not just perform music, he understands it. He feels it. He wishes to create it. That is his true talent, the thing God gave him to last when his treble is silent and forgotten.’

Angelus felt his hand closing around the knife in his pocket. ‘It seems to me, Camberwell, that if Ashworth undervalues his musicianship then you undervalue his voice. That voice is a thing of wonder, of beauty beyond value—’

‘And one day it will break.’

I could gut you, Angelus thought. I could tease the bowels from your body an inch at a time and force you to strum tunes upon them as you died.

‘Oh why can no-one see this?’ Camberwell cried. ‘All they hear is his voice, all they think about is his voice. Why can’t they understand that it is James who matters, not the sound he makes?’

Your blood dripping slowly across the ivory keys of your piano, your fingers flayed to the bone.

‘His voice cannot be preserved, his growing up cannot be prevented.’

You cannot hear music if you have no ears.

He stood and considered Will. ‘Come at me. Give me your best shot.’

Will’s eyes narrowed. ‘And then what? You slam me into the wall snarling “Don’t think you can ever get the better of me, boy”?’

‘No.’ Well, yes, probably – he’d have to control himself – but did the brat have to be so suspicious? It was normally a matter of preventing Will from charging at everything and anyone with fists flying.

‘Pretend I’m a Trecorde demon and I’ve just insulted Dru’s honour. What would you do?’

Will glared at him. ‘Come and fetch you, sir, because a three year old fledgling shouldn’t delude himself he can take on a Trecorde,’ he chanted.

Oh, right. Yes, well at least he had learnt that lesson. ‘Will you damn well just show me your best attack.’

Will raised his fists carefully and threw a punch, which Angelus allowed to connect, then Will gave a textbook two-three follow up and stood back. ‘How was that?’

‘Try again.’

The same three-part combination, with a look of grim determination on Will’s face. When he was done again he settled back, the heels of his boots clumping against the kitchen flagstones. He smelt of brass polish from where he’d been rubbing desultorily at the fender when Angelus came in, and his breath carried the sweet stickiness of something human. Probably jam, it was almost impossible to stop Will eating jam. In the warm, homely glow of the kitchen-range he looked even younger than he usually did.

‘Try something else. See if you can surprise me.’

Will hesitated and this time began on the other foot, with the high cross-cut Angelus had struggled half the winter to perfect. It was not quite faultless but it was close, and Will’s face was screwed up with concentration to achieve it.

Angelus folded his arms. He had a very slight throb in his jaw where Will had hit him. I’ve got Will, he thought. No minions, no Darla, Dru’s as likely to invite everyone to a tea-party as fight, so I’ve just got Will.

‘That’s very good. Exactly how I’ve taught you.’ He thought about Will fighting the Trecorde, his face lit with glee, inaccurate punches raining down in a flurry of incompetent fury that had somehow stunned the Trecorde into retreat. ‘Was that how you fought the Trecorde?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Liar. Come here.’

Will came slowly, a little sideways, slinking like a spaniel that has been too often whipped. Angelus took him and turned him round, back to his chest, laying his hands over Will’s arms, the way he had always taught him how to move. He felt Will relax under him, agile young muscles solid through the thin cloth of his shirt. Angelus moved him just a little off his balance.

‘What did you think about when you fought the Trecorde?’

Will turned his head to look up at him miserably. ‘Give over, sir. You already thrashed me for that, and it was ages ago.’

‘This isn’t about punishment, Will. I want to know what you thought about when you fought.’

Will frowned. Under his hands Angelus could feel Will shifting, unthinkingly trying to get back into a proper fighting stance. ‘I’m not sure, sir. About Dru, I suppose. And… maybe a bit about how spare you’d go when you found out.’

Angelus smiled. It was the first time Will had admitted he’d given a second thought to Angelus’s warning to avoid the Trecorde.

‘Did you think about your stance? Your balance?’

‘Yes.’

Angelus sighed and released him. ‘Good boy.’

And then very uncertainly Will turned and looked at him. ‘I did try, sir. I really did. But there’s so much to remember. And…’ He hung his head. ‘You’re always yelling at me to concentrate, but I just don’t know how to.’

Angelus set his hands on Will’s shoulders. ‘So what did you think about as you fought, truthfully?’

‘Nothing, sir. I don’t think I could think about anything. I was just fighting.’

And he’d been tiring when Angelus had come up, muscles beginning to forget their lessons, but Dru had said Will had been gone for half an hour. For the first time it occurred to Angelus that for a three year old fledgling to stand up to a Trecorde for half an hour was no little thing, and he had a flickering pang of regret that he had not paused for just a second to observe how Will was doing it.

‘Show me. Forget about everything I’ve ever taught you and just fight me like you fought the Trecorde.’

Will took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded, and Angelus took a step back. Will’s eyes narrowed slightly and Angelus imagined he was pretending he, Angelus, was the Trecorde. And then Will shook his head and as his fangs descended he charged.

It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t model, but by God it was getting the job done. As Angelus dodged a fist with real intention behind it, he realised that whilst Will probably thought he was abandoning everything he had been taught his limbs were in fact perfectly following their lessons, only for once Will wasn’t concentrating on worrying about getting it right. Whatever he was thinking about was translating into whirling fists and feet so fast that…

A blow to his jaw like a carthorse kicking made Angelus stop analysing and start concentrating on fighting back. It was one thing to have a sense of pride in his boy’s achievements but he was damned if he would let him actually win.

Will was pushing him back, driving him into the corner between the dresser and the kitchen table, trying to hamper his movements.

Angelus swung low, sweeping out with his legs but Will jumped up, regaining his balance in a flash.

It gave Angelus time to roll sideways though and he came up and landed two blows on Will’s midriff before Will could counter them. Angelus followed it up with a punch intended for Will’s jaw but found it blocked and then another landed on his own side, catching one of the bruises Harmonia’s brutes had left. He gasped and Will dodged back, grinning from ear to ear.

‘What exactly is going on?’

They straightened up like guilty schoolboys, Angelus quickly tugging his waistcoat straight.

‘I should have thought that was obvious, Darla.’

‘You went out hunting, Angelus. Have you caught anything? Or did you spend all your time mooning around the cathedral and then come back to play with the boy?’

Angelus flailed between panic at her mention of the cathedral, the dire necessity of not making that apparent, and not giving in to retort to the obvious insult that he and Will were just playing.

‘I am testing the boy’s fighting skills – I would have thought even you would consider that important.’

‘It is his Latin and his hunting that needs attention. He is already well able to brawl as he shows with tedious frequency.’

‘Nothing wrong with my Latin,’ Will said.

Darla made an impatient gesture, as if flicking a fly away. ‘You evaded my question, boy, did you catch anything?’

‘When I need you to examine me on my hunting, Darla, I will ask you.’

Will was watching everything, wide eyed, and the little wretch was obviously scenting the air, his nostrils quivering as he picked up the waves of tension roiling between them.

‘So you did not.’

‘Hungry are you, darling? Not found anything yourself then?’

She smiled triumphantly. ‘That would be because this God-forsaken backwater is dry.’

‘Or because you lack the imagination to look outside the same tired tricks you’ve been using for twenty years.’ Any minute now she was going to hit him. ‘I have something in mind, it will take a couple more days but it is coming along nicely.’

‘Who?’ She snapped the word, head rearing back, frank disbelief in her face. She thought he was just stalling.

‘The assistant organist at the cathedral.’

As Angelus said it, Will gave a small gasp and Angelus wondered what that meant, but he couldn’t break his gaze from Darla, couldn’t let his concentration slip for a second.

‘The organist?’

‘The assistant organist. He is growing discontent with his position, in a day or so I shall organise an argument with his chief and the young man will be believed happy to leave for a better proposition elsewhere. Lincoln, as it happens.’ He smiled at her. ‘But then you clearly knew that, my dear, since you apparently know I’ve been hunting the cathedral.’ He waited, watching the play of carefully withheld emotion on her face, trusting that he was keeping his own hidden from her in return.

At last she sniffed, the sign that for now she was willing to concede a little ground – and that always meant she was planning something even deeper and more dangerous than ever.

‘I see, and why does testing the boy’s brawling come into this?’

‘Because there are Impresarios in the city.’

That shocked her, enough that she didn’t try to conceal it. Her eyes flew to Will and then back to him. ‘Oh Angelus, when did you find out?’

‘This evening.’

‘But we have no minions! No…’ Again she looked at Will.

‘What’s an Empress Ario?’

‘Quiet, Will.’ He took a step forward, looking down at her, setting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, darling, there are only a few, nothing I can’t handle.’

For a moment she let herself go, her eyes dipping closed, her frame quivering, and then her body snapped upright, her voice barking. ‘What, with that boy to help you? Don’t be a fool, Angelus. The two of you cannot take on a herd of Impresarios and there is an end to it. We will pack and leave tomorrow.’

‘And let the whole world know that Angelus of Aurelius can be driven off his chosen hunting ground by any stray demon that fancies to try? I think not, Darla.’

‘Yes, if needs must and you are foolish enough to have got us into this situation.’

‘You wouldn’t say that in London.’

‘And I hardly need remind you that we are not in London. Who cares if we concede this provincial dung-heap? If you fight them, you fight them alone, Angelus.’

‘He’s not alone, he’s got me!’ Will said.

‘Oh be quiet, boy. I warn you, Angelus, I will not risk my life for one of your posturings.’

He quirked a smile. ‘I never thought for one moment that you would, darling.’

‘So you think you can use that?’ She flicked her hand in Will’s direction.

‘Yes. Will and I will deal with them together, and you ladies need never set foot out of the house or look up from your embroidery frames.’

She glared at him for a moment, then turned her back, her heels making harsh little clipping steps on the kitchen flags as she headed for the door. ‘I shall send Dru out when it is all over,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘With a dustpan.’

‘Women,’ Angelus remarked.

As they approached the street, Angelus found himself reaching out, adjusting the set of Will’s collar, brushing aside a stray lock of his hair. ‘Try not to say anything except what I told you.’

‘Yes, Angelus, I know.’

‘And don’t go inside. Just deliver the message at the door, say your words and come away.’

‘Yeh. I know.’

‘Do you know your words?’

‘Yes!’

Angelus shot him a growl for being rude and forcibly prevented himself from asking Will to recite them again.

‘Very well, here we are. Straight down this street and it is the second door opposite, with the ornate lamp over the door.’

‘The blue door?’

‘Yes. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, sir. Just checking.’

‘Now pay attention. Your best mode of retreat is to walk calmly past the church. As soon as you hear them following you, jump up the far side, along that roof, down through the town…’ Will cocked his head, and Angelus realised with relief that he probably was concentrating for once, had managed to grasp some sense of the danger of the situation. ‘And if you’re ever unsure what to do just head east. Make them think the lair is somewhere in that direction. Clear?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I’ll be waiting for you in the Shambles. If I’m not there – which shouldn’t happen but if it does – hole up wherever you can and stay put until I find you.’

Will nodded. His jaw was rather set.

‘You’ll be fine. Impresarios are strong but they’re slow.’

Will nodded again and made to move.

‘Wait.’ Angelus reached out and patted his collar again. ‘You’ll be fine.’

Will rolled his eyes and darted off, jogging to the end of the street. He paused, looking both ways, then crossed at a steady pace, going straight up the four steps to the door. He seemed to have grown a little taller, his gait something that might have been called a swagger. The loud bang of the door-knocker thudded in the sharp air.

Angelus secreted himself in the shadow of a doorway. If anything happened he had perhaps fifty yards to cover. He tried not to think about what could happen in fifty yards. He checked the fighting-axe hidden inside his coat, settling it more loosely in its sheath.

The door opened.

‘I have a message from Angelus, master of the Aurelians in England.’ Will held out the envelope. Angelus couldn’t see whoever had answered the door, couldn’t see Will’s face, only the ramrod straightness of his back. And then Will stepped through the door.

For the next ten minutes Angelus paced. Twice he set off across the street only to turn back again at the last minute, swearing. If Will could play his part then he would be perfectly safe. Harmonia would never risk the insult of harming a senior minion of the Aurelians.

If the Impresarios touched a hair on his boy’s head he would wind their blazing entrails on a stick in front of their eyes whilst the blood dripped from their flayed bones. Will was his.

And he was going to thrash him till he howled when he got him home.

There was a crash loud enough to startle the entire sleeping town, and something fell from the window next to the newly boarded-over one, bouncing onto the cobbles with a thud.

It took Angelus perhaps a second to cover the distance and then he was helping Will to his feet amidst a cascade of glass and splintered wood.

‘He got the message,’ Will said, and then he choked up a gout of blood onto Angelus’s waistcoat.

‘Damn it, Will, what were you playing at?’

‘Needed them to believe me.’ Will coughed again, holding his side as if it hurt. ‘Needed them to…’

A shout came from the house door.

‘…follow me.’ Will took off at a run.

Angelus paused long enough to take in the size of the group of demons emerging from the house, then ignored every instinct he had and ran in the opposite direction to Will. From the pound of feet on the cobbles behind him at least some of them were following.

He sprinted down the street, trying to keep his pace smoothly flowing between fast and slow as he tried out his pursuers’ speed, making the changes gradual so they would never realise they were being tested. With disquiet he realised they were faster than he’d expected.

He was unconsciously heading towards the cathedral and he quickly broke right, moving away towards the poorer parts of town, where the streets were a narrow maze of ancient alleys and the houses leant on top of one another as if needing the support.

Three demons were behind him. Three, or possibly four, had followed Will. He didn’t think Harmonia was amongst them. Will was fast enough and Angelus had no doubt he would delight in leading them a merry dance, but his stamina was limited. However willing, Will was a fledgling and would tire quickly. Angelus didn’t have much time.

He used a drainpipe to swing up onto a rooftop and dodged behind the chimney-stack, hearing them check in the street below. A low, musical warbling rippled on the air – Impresario hunting calls, planning their next move. He heard one returning the way they had come, moving down a side-street. They were trying to flank him.

He worked his way back along the roof, just below the skyline of the ridge. The warbl