^^Above: Rosamund Pike (pictured here as a deliciously twisted Elspeth Catton in Saltburn) as our very own deliciously twisted Zora Selling.^^

Can YOU protect yourself from a Paranormal Threat?

Ten Things You Can Do to Ward Them Off!

5 May.

Sometimes I hate my feelings.

I do hate my feelings. Not for Wilkes, necessarily, because ever since that night in Bath, I wanted to yank him into an alley or a quiet room or behind a door and kiss him right on the mouth. I hated how I felt when I saw him with Marjorie Selling. Of course she was a pretty girl, anyone could see it. That and she was polite. Demure. Sensible. And intelligent without being arrogant. Naomi had pointed out they seemed to like each other, but not necessarily as anything more than friends. Possibly because her envy of Marjorie was much deeper-rooted and far more complicated.

"At least I am not simply a prospect for marriage," Naomi said at breakfast that morning, after my comment about the scene at the gala. "Unlike Miss Marjorie."

I said nothing. For her sake, I hoped my sister would find happiness with someone and not become a spinster because she pines after someone she cannot hope to ever have.

"Do you believe we may break them?" she asked then, nodding at the Selling book on the dining table between us. "The Sellings?"

"They are about as well-positioned as any noble family," I said with a shrug. "Which means I highly doubt it."

"Langdon could," Naomi said.

"I believe it," I said, although I wished it wasn't true. If he entered the Selling fold, we would never get him out again.

Naomi sat forward, but only to pick up the book. She began to leaf through it carefully, which told me she was thinking of something to say.

"I think we need to see the blood-binding for ourselves."

I looked up from spreading marmalade on my toast. "What?"

"You heard me, Wells. We need to see Solomon Selling in action...blood-binding his daughter."

"I hope this isn't because you want to see her suffer," I said. I, unlike Naomi, had seen a trace of fear and guardedness in Marjorie's placid gaze. And those wounds on her hand had been done with such purpose I knew she'd been telling the truth.

"No," Naomi said quickly, although she didn't sound truthful about it. "I just want to see behind that benevolent front the Selling family puts up."

"There's no way to know when the next one is," I pointed out. "We can't just wait around and hope to catch it."

"We could ask Langdon," Naomi insisted. "After all, he is the closest to Marjorie now."

"Naomi, it's a private family affair. I'm sure if it got out, the Selling name would be ruined."

"Since when have you been concerned with family name?" she snapped at me, her temper suddenly flaring. "Considering you seem to be content with what other people think of us."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"I know you like being dangerous and some kind of dark knight, Wells. But I don't think we need to be that way all the time. I think sometimes we can come into the light."

"And I think you may be letting your jealousy get the better of you," I fired back. "You can stew over all the things Marjorie Selling has that you do not. But if you think for one moment that this is something that can be weaponised, you're mistaken."

With that I shoved my chair back and stood. I didn't look back as I left the table, snatching my coat from the newel post in the hall on the way to the door. Then I jerked it open and stormed out. At that moment I didn't care what Naomi thought.

—

I wasn't sure how I ended up outside the front gates of the Institute, but I was there anyway, just as the first bell was ringing. I watched the students swarming around the entrance like so many ants, bottlenecking at the seam of the gates. None of them seemed to take any notice of me, their voices mingling as they talked amongst themselves.

That was when I saw Cornelius Selling, dressed in a ridiculous faux-military tunic in the school's distinct black and gold, a rapier strapped to his hip and a clanking rucksack undoubtedly full of hunting gear slung over one shoulder. He was slinking towards the gates sullenly, both his eyes bruised and his nose noticeably crooked. I watched him single out Wilkes, who stood with the two boys who'd harassed Naomi at the fête, and make a beeline towards him.

Before I could stop myself, I was across the street and shoving through the uniformed students, hot on Cornelius's heels. He wasn't hard to spot — that arrogant saunter could be picked out from yards away.

"Not so fast, you," I said, seizing the back of his tunic and yanking him up short.

He spun around, his mouth curling into a snarl. "Get your hands off me, you poof."

"You take another step towards him, Selling, and we'll see who's the poof," I hissed. "And you want to insult me, you're going to have to try much harder than that."

"Am I?" He leaned in. "Pervert? Queer?"

"Do you know what I find offensive?" I seized his tunic in both fists and dragged him in close. "Your face. At least someone had the sense to improve it."

"It was that Wilkes," he sneered. "Seems he's gone soft on you, Hudson. You don't reckon he's like you, do you?"

I thought back to the hotel in Bath. He'd said as much, but I would never mention it to anyone else until he was ready for them to know. Besides, rumours could always be proved false.

"I do reckon he had the sense none of us did," I answered, shoving him away from me. "You're very punchable, if you haven't noticed."

"You—" His hand went to the hilt of his rapier.

"Yes, that'll solve everything, running me through with that," I said, raising my arms. "Go ahead. See how much good it'll do."

"Perhaps I ought to—"

"Selling!" boomed a voice from inside the gate. "Get inside, boy! Before you're late to class!"

He stopped in his tracks, lip twitching. Just past his shoulder I glimpsed Trenton Wilkes's bearded face, brow lowered.

"You heard the headmaster," I said, raising one eyebrow. "Don't want to be late, do you?"

"This is not over, Hudson," Cornelius snapped. Then he spun on his heel and marched through the gate, which clanged shut behind him.

"May I ask what you're doing here, Mr Hudson? Surely not to loiter about the entrance and antagonise my students?" Trenton Wilkes's eyes narrowed coldly at me.

"Of course not, sir," I said. "I simply was rescuing your son from another beating by Cornelius Selling. If I were you I would look at him as the root of the problem. Not me."

Then I turned on my heel and walked up to the top of the street without another word. As soon as I got there I realised Naomi was right: when it came to blood-binding, seeing was believing. We had to see Solomon Selling in action. Or else everything we did from this point would be guesswork.

—

6 May.

Naturally, Wilkes seemed reluctant to the idea when we proposed it to him the next time we met — this time in a busy street in Covent Garden, where he and his father haunted every week. Somehow he'd managed to temporarily lose his father in the tides of shoppers, which was a stroke of luck in my opinion.

"I don't know how much Marjorie would like having an audience," he said, fingering the brim of his hat. "She told me that in confidence."

"She told us too," Naomi pointed out.

"Right, well..." Wilkes glanced over both shoulders, probably wary of his father appearing at any moment. "I can write her. Explain it. If she agrees, I'll let you know straightaway."

When Naomi moved out of earshot to look at a vendor hawking colourful birds in various cages, I leaned in close. "Your face is bruised, Wilkes. That wouldn't have anything to do with Cornelius, would it?"

His expression turned sheepish. "He called you a...you know, the Q word, and...I snapped."

"I'm in no need of defending," I said. "I'm not a helpless maiden. I can take mud being slung at me. Besides, he's already said it to my face."

"Not if it means gaol," Wilkes hissed, alarmed.

"I know Cornelius on this subject better than you do, Wilkes. He is full of hot air and drivel, and it comes spilling out at every opportunity. And I know for a fact that he is afraid of me. So while I admire that you managed to stick one on him when he deserved it, you cannot let it happen again."

Wilkes just scowled.

"And if we are going to be sitting in on Marjorie's blood-binding, you can't afford another scuffle," I said. Never had I thought I would be the one to say that to someone. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," said Wilkes tightly. "But if he...if he decides to blackmail us?"

"I believe your intended is more than capable of stopping him," I said. "And for all anyone knows, we're tangled in some sort of love triangle."

"She does find you attractive," Wilkes admitted reluctantly. "That night at the gala, the way she was looking at you..."

"See?" I gave his arm a couple good claps as Naomi drifted back towards us. "You have nothing to worry about."

—

9 May.

It took three days, but on the afternoon of the third, a letter dropped through the slot in the front door, followed by the pinging of the doorbell. I spotted it on my way downstairs, after helping Naomi give our father a bath. The second I did, I scuttled to it, scooped it up, and sliced straight into it.

Dear Wells and Naomi, it read. The blood-binding is taking place tonight at the Bromley Hunters' Guild, at half-eight. Only Marjorie and I know you're coming. There's a back entrance if you go along Queen's Road. I'll excuse myself and wait there at eight-twenty, should you show. Please do make sure you aren't followed. I've just recently learned the practise is soon to be outlawed for its inhumane implications on humans as well as creatures. Sincerely, Langdon Wilkes.

"What's that, Wells?" Naomi's voice came from behind me.

I turned around and held out the note to her. "Have a look."

She took it and read it quickly. I saw her eyebrows go up in surprise. "That was fast."

"They must have found another creature to experiment on," I said, although the thought made me sick. The vampires knew it, and I was sure the other creatures did too.

Naomi shuddered. "Perish that thought."

I slipped my pocket watch from my waistcoat and popped it open. "We've got four hours. I suppose we ought to start getting ready now."

We dispersed again. I tried to keep my thoughts occupied with other things as I plucked out a clean shirt, collar, cuffs, and waistcoat from my wardrobe. Then I stripped off my damp things, a worn waistcoat that was faded and frayed, and a similarly shabby-looking shirt, one that had lost its collar long ago. As I went to shut my wardrobe door I caught my reflection in the mirror on the back. No one except Naomi had seen all the ink that covered my skin, swirling lines that flowed up my right arm, over my shoulder blade and pectoral muscle, down over my sternum and ending on the left side of my rib cage. The scars that they covered had come from a hunt gone horribly wrong, when I'd touched a possessed amulet and the spirit inside of it had nearly flayed me alive. I scowled at my bare chest and shut the door firmly.

Naomi took a little longer, and once I'd been fully dressed and ready for nearly twenty minutes, she came downstairs still fixing a pin in her hair. She wore a dark blue day dress I'd never seen before, and once she noticed me looking at it, she raised an eyebrow at me.

"I had this on order while you were away in Bath, if you must know," she said. "The small nest egg from Lord Grafton was more than enough to pay for it."

"I'm not worried about the money, Naomi," I said with a shrug. "You deserve nice things."

"So do you, dear brother." She kissed my jaw. "But you don't take them."

I didn't answer, only rolled my eyes.

We'd managed to kill an hour just by getting ready, and killed the others with a pint from the pub down the street. I could sense Naomi's agitation without her even having to say anything — just by the way she gnawed constantly on one of her thumbnails was enough of a tell.

"You all right?" I asked her.

"I keep thinking about the blood-bind," she said, through a sigh. "Apparently it's extremely painful for the caster. But that's only if they use their own blood."

"So you believe Solomon's motivation to use his daughter is rooted in selfishness? He doesn't want to put himself through that torture?"

"Yes, I think so," she said, with a small sip off her half-finished pint. "It's also easier to control the creature if it's not the caster's own blood. Maintaining the spell is nearly impossible if you're in excruciating pain."

I nodded. Now it made sense. Perhaps Trenton Wilkes's desire for his son to marry into the Selling family had something to do with Solomon's logic. They could both use Marjorie's blood for their twisted ends.

"I can't help but think this will look more like a ritual sacrifice," Naomi said after a while. "One life to serve a greater purpose."

Once again, I said nothing. I was aware of sacrifices as a religious ritual, especially to a higher power one couldn't see but believed in regardless. And this, even though no one was being killed tonight, held practically the same weight.

Finally, at eight, we left the pub and caught a hackney to the Bromley Hunters' Guild. We arrived at exactly eight-twenty, and sure enough, Wilkes was poking his head out the back entrance when we puffed up to it three minutes late.

"There you are," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind."

"As morbid as it sounds," Naomi replied, "it was too intriguing to pass up."

Wilkes nodded us inside and motioned us up a flight of narrow stairs. Those took us to a wood-panelled hallway carpeted in red, the pile so high it muffled our footsteps. We immediately turned into another passageway, this one made of stone. The ground sloped down gently until it curved around into a high-ceilinged octagonal room, completely empty of furniture except for a white stone slab in the very middle.

"Good God," Naomi breathed, and I felt her catch my arm.

"This looks practically medieval," I said, my voice echoing in the cavernous room. "This is how an institution that claims it's so progressive does things behind the scenes?"

"I wish it wasn't true either." Wilkes shuddered.

"So what do we do until they get here?" Naomi asked, glancing nervously around us.

"We'll have to stay in the shadows here," Wilkes said. "They won't see you. They'll be too busy performing their ritual."

"I'd rather you didn't put it like that, Wilkes," I said.

We didn't have much time to talk after that. A noise from the passageway opposite us made Wilkes wave us further back into the darkness, where we could watch and still not be seen.

Both Selling brothers appeared first, dressed normally in morning-suits. Augustus carried a thick leather-bound book, and Solomon a curved knife in a leather sheath and a rosary like Trotter's. Behind them followed a woman in a fashionable black-and-white striped walking dress with puffed sleeves, carrying a lantern. The two men went to the stone slab while the woman began to light the sconces around the room with a long match. Solomon unsheathed the knife and began to hone it on a whetstone.

After them came two sandy-haired boys, carrying a stretcher with a white cloth draped over its occupant. They set it down next to the slab closest to us, then retreated again.

Then Naomi's hand tightened on my arm as she pointed across the way. I followed her finger and my stomach twisted. Marjorie was emerging, but she didn't look at all like I'd been expecting: she wore a shapeless white dress — with a noticeable absence of a corset — that left her arms and neck bare, her hair fell loose over her shoulders and down her back, and as she moved into the light I saw the pale translucence of her skin. Actually, she was so pale she seemed to be fading into the dimness around her.

"That poor girl," Naomi said under her breath, her fingers digging into my arm.

"Are you ready, my dear?" Solomon Selling asked, the first to speak.

"Yes, Father," Marjorie said, her voice flat and hollow.

"We are nearly prepared," said Augustus Selling. "It will just be another moment."

All Marjorie did was nod. At that the woman in the striped dress joined her, laying a hand on her shoulder and speaking low into her ear. I saw Marjorie swallow hard and nod again.

The younger boys came back, each with two wooden bowls just like Trotter's. They scuttled about, setting them down at four corners of the room, then just as quickly disappeared again. Augustus Selling was paging slowly through the thick book, running his finger down its contents occasionally.

"Now we can proceed," said Solomon, holding up the knife to the flickering light. Then he patted the stone slab. "Up you get, my dear."

Marjorie's brow furrowed, and I saw her eyes dart to the tunnel we hid in. That was the second she hesitated, and her father's patience began to crack just a hair.

"You've made it this far, Marjorie," he said. "You know how this is supposed to go."

"I know, Father." She swallowed hard again, then stepped up close to the white stone. Then, after another hesitation, she slid onto it and laid down. It took me a second to process what I was seeing. This scene was entirely incongruous with what I knew about the Guild — this was like something out of an ancient text. Not to mention Marjorie looked so vulnerable, dressed in white and barefoot — pure, innocent, and sacrificial. Expendable.

The woman in the striped dress came next, standing over her with a dark glass bottle and a silver spoon. She tipped the bottle and dribbled some yellowish liquid into the spoon, then handed the bottle to Augustus as she bent down to prop up Marjorie's head gently. I felt Naomi's fingers, which had just begun to relax, tighten again. We'd done that so often for our father it seemed cruel that this gesture was being used for this purpose.

Wilkes turned partially in the archway and mouthed Sedative at us. Given what Naomi told me about the pain that the caster endured, it lined up with everything else — although it didn't make it any less cruel.

It was when Augustus leaned down to uncover the body on the stretcher that I felt my blood turn to ice. Their subject tonight was Gifford, just beginning to make the transition from human to vampire. His skin was as white as the cloth that covered him, and the hollows of his eyes were a dark bruised red. I saw Wilkes's knees threaten to give out, and I had to extricate myself from Naomi to support him and lean him up against the wall.

The rest of it played out like some terrible pantomime, because no one spoke. The sedative had already done its work on Marjorie, who was limp and catatonic on the slab. Solomon rounded the slab to take her hand, switching places with his brother, still holding the book, and handed off the rosary while he was at it. He took out the knife again, watching it gleam in the firelight for a couple seconds, then lowered it to cut deep into Marjorie's palm. I saw her blood well from it, darkly red and shining like rubies. He put out his other hand and the woman gave him an empty bowl, which he used to catch the blood.

After that Augustus began to read, first in a slow soft monotone. I didn't recognise the language, but it certainly wasn't the same ritual Trotter had performed. As he continued Solomon slid over to stand over Gifford's body, prying open his mouth to drip the blood in off the edge of the knife blade.

Then, midway through, as Augustus's voice swelled in volume and in pitch, Gifford's body jerked. Solomon gave his brother an encouraging nod, then kept on with the blood. I couldn't see the woman in the striped dress anywhere, and it occurred to me that she may have been Marjorie's mother. That thought made a red mist rise in front of my eyes. No mother would do this to her own child. Not any good mother, anyway.

Gifford's body jerked again, and he suddenly sat up. His eyes were open, huge and black and vacant. Augustus kept reading, and he got to his feet in jerky movements. He walked towards Augustus, then around the slab to Solomon, who leaned in close to prod his cheek.

"Do you know what this means, Gus?" he said then, and I heard the barely contained excitement in his voice.

Augustus broke off his reading long enough to answer. "I do hope that question's rhetorical, Sol."

"The bond is strong," said Solomon. "Don't you see? We have this one at our mercy. He will do anything we want him to."

"Mind you, it is what Trenton asked for," said Augustus.

I heard Wilkes suck in an audible breath. The Selling brothers did too, and both of them turned towards our tunnel.

"Did you hear that?" Solomon said.

"Trick of your ears, Sol. You were always hyper-sensitive."

"No, I'm sure I didn't imagine it this time."

Naomi caught both our sleeves, making us turn to look at her in surprise.

We have to go, she was mouthing at us, panic in her eyes. Right now.

I saw Wilkes's conflict. He was looking at the room, right at Gifford, and then back at us.

Naomi made the decision for us. She caught our hands and pulled us back down the passageway, and she didn't stop until we were entirely lost inside the Guild, in a vaulted corridor with gold gilding on the walls and a black-and-white tiled floor. Then she let go of us and whirled on her heel, distress written all over her face.

"They knew something was wrong," she said. "They saw Marjorie look at us."

"I don't think they saw us," I said.

"It's my fault," Wilkes said. "I gasped and I shouldn't have. They heard me."

"At least we know where the vampire babes are being taken," I said, trying to at least find some usefulness in what we'd just witnessed. "And what's happening to them."

"They're doing this for my father," Wilkes said, and his voice sounded like Marjorie's: flat and hollow. "All of this for him."

"Langdon—"

"I cannot court her," he said suddenly. "I cannot let Father use her more than her family already has."

"Wilkes, it'll take a while to sink in, but—"

"No." He whirled from the window he'd been staring out of. His face looked wretched, and one of his hands was fisted in his hair. "This cannot go any further until we stop Father. I cannot spend any more time around the Sellings knowing what I know now."

"It's too late for that," said a soft female voice from nearby. The woman in the striped dress was stepping away from a window, partially concealed by a drape, further down the hallway. I could see her resemblance to Marjorie now that the light was better: the same pale blue eyes, the same cupid's-bow lips, the same sandy hair tending towards bronze. "You three have already seen everything, haven't you? You know what goes on."

"We won't say anything, I swear—" Wilkes started, only to be interrupted by Mrs Selling.

"I think we ought to hear you say that to my husband and brother-in-law, don't you agree? Staring into the face of a blood-bound vampire?"

"Mrs Selling," Naomi pleaded. "Please, don't—"

"Come," she said, sweeping past us with a rustle of her skirts. "Or must I drag you there by your ears?"

—

She took us a different way to the underground room, so that we entered from the opposite side. Then, from the tunnel, she pushed us into the light one at a time, in full view of Augustus, Solomon, and the blood-bound Gifford.

"I found these three trying to make their escape," she said from behind, her voice harsh and sharp. "They were there the whole time."

"Langdon...?" Augustus seemed confused and a bit hurt, although I didn't see what right he had to be. "And Wells, of all people...?"

"Hello, Mr Selling," I said.

"You saw everything?" Solomon's eyes glinted maniacally. "And what did you think?"

"Inappropriate circumstances, Sol," snapped Mrs Selling. "They ought to be punished."

"Now Zora, that's a bit unreasonable—" Augustus chided.

"Acolytes!" Solomon crowed, motioning to us. "They could do it themselves now!"

"Be quiet, Sol," Mrs Selling barked. To Augustus, she said, "Do it. Set the vampire on them."

"It was your idea to use Marjorie's blood," he said with a shrug. "Your daughter hasn't an ounce of bellicosity in her. Therefore I cannot make him anything more than what she is."

"Do it," Mrs Selling demanded. "Now. Or I'll do it myself."

Just like Marjorie, I saw Augustus hesitate. With a howl of frustration Mrs Selling swept across the room and snatched the book from his hands. She began reading in a loud, hurried voice, while Augustus tried to get it back. But she must have known exactly what she was looking for, because Gifford suddenly straightened, stiff as a board, and came straight for us.

"Don't just stand there!" I shouted at Wilkes and Naomi, rooted to their spots. "Run!"

This time it was me who seized their hands and pulled them into motion, running headlong back the way we'd come. But Gifford, with his vampire reflexes, was there in front of us in a flash. Both his hands came out, one to whack me in the throat and the other to throw an uppercut into Naomi's chin. That knocked us both backward, and I felt our handholds twist apart. Then a third thud, followed by Wilkes's oomph as he collapsed on his knees next to us. Mrs Selling's voice rose to a shriek, making Gifford's frenzy intensify. He hauled me upright, only to hit me in the face so hard I saw stars. I heard Naomi cry out as his fist came for her again, and Wilkes shouting as Gifford clouted him on the back of the head and laid him flat on the ground.

I rolled to my stomach, coughing, and began to crawl on my elbows towards my sister. She was breathing shallowly, not moving except for her hand, which trembled and groped at the ground.

"Naomi," I rasped, catching her hand. "Are you—"

Her head turned, eyes widening instantly. "Wells!"

Before I could react, a hand seized me by the scruff of my neck and tossed me bodily away from her. I went crashing into Wilkes, who'd just begun to rise. Naomi screamed again as Gifford descended on her.

"Ow, bloody hell," groaned Wilkes.

"Naomi!" I roared, as Gifford slung her around and away from him. I clambered off Wilkes and made to scramble after her, stopped by Wilkes's hand around my wrist.

"You get Marjorie," he said. "I'll take Giff."

"Wilkes..." He was already battered from his spat with Cornelius. He couldn't take another beating. "I'm not going to—"

He let go, only to push me towards the slab where Marjorie lay, still limp. "Get her, Wells! I can handle this!"

I took off across the room. I stopped to help Naomi to her feet, just as Solomon Selling came at us with his knife. I pushed Naomi behind me and let him come, seizing his wrist as it came down and twisting it to the side with a jerk. He yelped, and his fingers snapped open. Naomi was there in a flash, catching it before it could hit the ground. Solomon tried to get a hit at my face, but I saw it just in time, ducking and using his momentum to get him in a headlock. That was seconds before Mrs Selling came at me, throwing the thick book straight at my head.

"No, you bloody don't," Naomi hissed viciously, and then she was there between us, knocking the book off-course while brandishing the knife at her.

Solomon was still trying to grab at my legs, while I squeezed my arm tighter around his neck and looked around for Augustus, who seemed to have disappeared once Gifford's attack had started. I felt Solomon slipping out of my hold, and in a genuine moment of desperation I rammed my knee hard into his stomach. He dropped like a stone, crumpling to his knees. I gave his temple a good knock with my elbow when he tried to get up, and he collapsed.

As for Naomi, she was still facing off with Mrs Selling, neither of them moving. She was blocking the way to Marjorie, who was still as death. Her skin had even taken on a grey-blue tinge I didn't like.

"Move," Naomi said, voice dangerous. "Before I force you to."

"You're just a child," spat Mrs Selling. "You know nothing."

"I know a shade more than you," hissed Naomi. She caught my eye and jerked her chin at the stone slab. All of Mrs Selling's attention was diverted now, and she couldn't fight both of us at once.

I slunk around to her blind spot, while Naomi slowly drew her away from the slab. Once I was close enough, I slid my hands under Marjorie's shoulders, followed by my arms, so I could hook my elbows up against her underarms. Then with a heave, I hauled her off the slab. She was all dead weight, nearly taking me down to the floor with her as she fell. I let her down gently and rearranged my arms, so one supported her shoulders and the other her knees. Then I stood again, feeling my joints pop.

I'd gotten her nearly to the back stairs when Wilkes and Naomi rejoined me. The both of them were bloodied and bruised, their clothes torn and hair wild. Wilkes appeared to have had a hank of hair torn out by the roots, because his head was bleeding from the scalp. Naomi looked no better, blood streaking down one side of her face and her neck.

"We've got to get her away from here," she said, flicking her eyes at the unmoving girl in my arms. "Before they discover us again."

"For once, I agree with you," I said, making her roll her eyes.

—

As we got closer to home, her condition got worse, not better. For one thing, the sedative was starting to wear off. For another, she began to tremble uncontrollably, so bad it took all three of us to carry her from the hackney up to our front door. Once we were inside, I pushed her into Wilkes's and Naomi's arms.

"Take her to the kitchen," I said. "I'll try to find something to help her."

Then I dashed upstairs. I had a remedy for almost any creature attack, even something to lessen the pain of fae-metal or a banshee scream. But not this. Blood-binding was something no hunter had ever seen before.

I plucked out the coagulant powder for the bleeding, and distilled feverfew for the alarming heat I'd felt radiating from her skin. I snatched up bandages too, but I knew it wouldn't be enough.

When I returned, Marjorie was even worse. Her skin, shining with sweat, was paper-white and waxy. Her entire body trembled, and her head tossed fitfully back and forth like someone caught in the grip of a fever. When I got closer I saw her eyes rolling wildly underneath her eyelids, and a steady string of saliva dribbled from a corner of her mouth.

It took us over an hour to figure out what was wrong, and in the interim I could hardly look at her there, writhing on the table, her hair and her dress soaked with sweat. Naomi, frantically searching everything we'd found on the subject, finally cracked it.

"She's still blood-bound," she said, once she'd motioned me out into the sitting room. "The longer it lasts, the more agitated the bound human gets. And since she's fully conscious, the pain she must be feeling is unthinkable. We have to break the bond."

"But how?" I ran one hand over my hair, then glanced back over my shoulder. I couldn't see Marjorie from here, but I could see Wilkes, bending over her. His shoulders were drawn tight with tension. "I thought only the caster could do that."

"Yes, normally he could, if you hadn't knocked him out and he wasn't in a subterranean torture chamber in Bromley," Naomi said, a hard edge entering her voice. "But since that is the case, we'll have to attempt the other way, the one Trotter details in his book."

"Will it work?" I asked, and we both winced as Marjorie let out a high keening wail of pain.

"We have to try." Naomi's brow furrowed. "It's dangerous, though. Could be fatal too, if we're not careful."

"She can't die, Naomi." As much as I resented Cornelius and felt a deep-seated anger at his parents for causing it, we couldn't let this happen to Marjorie. She was an innocent victim, a pawn in someone else's evil game. "We can't let her die."

Naomi's brow lowered. "You're right, we can't. One moment. Let me write down what we need."

"Write down...? Naomi—" I was cut off by another wail, this one more distressed.

"Do you want to help her or not?" snapped my sister, without looking up.

I heard Wilkes in the next room, his voice raspy and tight with panic, speaking in a steady, unintelligible stream. The table juddered over the floor as Marjorie's convulsions got worse, accompanied by the dull thudding of her body against the wood.

"Here. We need these," Naomi said, straightening and handing me a scrap of paper. "They're herbs, Wells. Don't give me that look."

"I wasn't giving you any look," I protested.

"There's an apothecary in Rosslyn Road," she said. "I've written down substitutes for each one in case they're out."

Marjorie cried out, sounding more human now, and I heard her speak the first words since the binding.

Free me, she pleaded. Please free me.

"Go, Wells!" Naomi's voice rose above Marjorie's, begging to be set free. "Now!"

Without another word I hurried past her, snatching my coat from its hook on the way out, and out the door.

—

As it turned out, not only did the apothecary have everything, but the shop's assistant, a young man who was very attractive — although I did my best not to notice — offered to return with me to help. I accepted it without question. The more hands, the better.

We arrived back home to Wilkes, pacing in the front hallway, his injuries patched up. Occasional cries came from the kitchen, and each time I saw Wilkes wince.

"Yer said 'twas a blood-bind, guv'?" said the young man, who'd introduced himself as Ritchie, as he glanced over at me.

"Yes," I answered. "A strong one, too."

"Lemme see th' poor sod," he said, and he winced as Marjorie cried out again. "Never said 'twere a lady."

"Come on." I motioned him towards the kitchen. As I did I caught Wilkes's eye and gave him a nod. He blinked back at me in a way that said Why?

Naomi stood the moment we entered, relief crossing her face. "You got everything, I see? And then some?"

"Ritchie, this is my sister Naomi," I said. "Naomi, this is Ritchie. The apothecary's assistant."

"Charmed, Ritchie," said Naomi, giving him a brief handshake. "Unfortunate we have to meet this way."

"Agreed, miss."

We turned our attention to Marjorie. Her hands gripped the edges of the table, the bleeding one leaving dark streaks across the wood. I tried not to notice the way her white dress was plastered to her skin, revealing contours of her body I would rather have not thought about.

"Mind 'f I take a look at 'er, guv'?" Ritchie asked timidly.

"Be our guest," I said.

Ritchie flitted to the table and began to inspect Marjorie, while I turned away to face Naomi.

"Wells, you don't need to look so embarrassed. It isn't as if the girl's stripped naked." My sister's brow furrowed.

"She practically is," I said, looking away. I knew nothing about women's bodies, especially when they were unclothed.

"You are such a boy." She rolled her eyes. "Langdon didn't act this way."

"Well, I'm not him, am I?" I snapped.

"No need for that," she said sharply. "But I see you've got the herbs. Let me have them."

I handed the paper bag to her, and she plucked it away. She bustled to the opposite wall and busied herself, while I tried to look anywhere but at the table.

"Wells," Naomi called a moment later. "Fetch Trotter's book, won't you? It's got the severing spells in it."

I scuttled over to it, where she'd left it on her chair. "Where are they? The spells?"

"Last chapter. The section called 'In Case of Emergency.'"

I flipped to it, and found the heading three pages in. Briefly I had to admire Trotter for thinking of everything.

In many cases, the caster of a blood-bind spell can break it himself, he'd written. But sometimes it happens that the bond does not break. When this is the situation, outside forces must intervene. And because the blood-bind is rooted in the ancient Greek principle of the four bodily humours, these must be accounted for when breaking the bond. Any combination of the herbs listed, steeped in boiling water for several minutes, will do.

I ran my finger down the list. We had the yarrow for the blood, fenugreek for the phlegm, centaury for the yellow bile, and rosemary for the black. They had to be made into a tea and swallowed, while we performed a kind of exorcism, reciting an eviction spell from four different holy texts: one each from the Bhuddist Paritta, the Christian Bible, the Islamic Quran, and the Jewish Psalm 91.

Each one has been believed to cast out demons, Trotter wrote. Because the blood-bind is a possession of a sort, these four spells, read in the order detailed here, have the power to shake each of the four humours free of the bond. But proceed with caution — one mistake could prove fatal for the blood-bound human.

"It's ready," Naomi said, holding up the brew in the pitcher she'd mixed it in. "Do you want to bring Langdon in here, Wells? We'll need at least two to hold her down."

I nodded, then backed out of the kitchen to poke my head into the hallway. Wilkes sat on the bottom step, face buried in his arms.

"Wilkes?"

He sat up, and his head turned. "Is it time?"

I nodded. "We'll need your help."

For a second, he hesitated. Then he pushed himself to his feet and trudged over, like a man sent to the gallows.

"She'll be all right, Wilkes," I said, grasping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "We won't let her die."

He flinched. "Please don't say it that way, Wells. Please."

I just squeezed his shoulder one more time, then let go as we reentered the kitchen. Ritchie was gently mopping Marjorie's face with a damp rag, and Naomi was stirring the brew incessantly with a long metal spoon.

"We have to do it now," she said. "While she's quiet."

"But how...?" Wilkes started, then faltered as Marjorie tensed and threw off Ritchie's hands.

"All you two have to do is prevent her from hurting herself," Naomi said, the calmest of all of us. "Doesn't matter how. Just do it. Wells, you'll read the spells, since you've got better enunciation than me. I'll give her this brew here. They've got to be administered in tandem or else it won't work."

We began, setting all our nerves on edge as we did. Naomi spooned the brew into Marjorie's mouth, while I read through the spells — mercifully translated into English. I couldn't look at her there on the table, body bucking and writhing like a wild animal caught in a snare.

Nothing seemed to change until we were nearly finished. At the end of the Islamic sura, a bloodcurdling shriek, enough to rival any banshee's, exploded out of her. And midway through Psalm 91, Wilkes and Ritchie had to roll her on her side as a torrent of vomit spewed from her, bowing her nearly in half. The rest went on without incident, except for the fact that Marjorie was still again, and deathly pale.

"Did it work?" Wilkes asked, when the last of the brew was gone and the spells ran into a blank page in the book.

I inched closer. Marjorie was silent and unmoving, skin still pale and shining with sweat. She could have been asleep, except for the fact that none of us could tell if she was breathing. It was Ritchie who took her hand and pressed three fingers along her wrist. Then up to her elbow, where he felt around some more. After a minute or two he stopped, pressing steadily.

"'Ere. She's got a pulse, guv'."

The tension in my chest loosened, and Naomi and Wilkes let out a collective sigh of relief. The worst, hopefully, was now over.

—

10 May.

We watched over her that night in shifts. Naomi offered up her bedroom, and we switched off every two hours. I paid Ritchie extra for his services before he left, just a little after midnight, and for the rest of the time it was up to Naomi, Wilkes, and me.

I was next to her when she finally awoke, around six that morning. Only seconds passed between my noticing her eyes were open and watching me and when she sat bolt upright to throw her arms around me. She didn't say a word, only broke down into gasping, terrified sobs. I held her close and said nothing. Frankly, there was nothing.

A soft knock made us pull apart. Wilkes was there, carrying a breakfast tray and looking like he'd passed a sleepless night. Someone, probably Naomi, had bandaged up his head wound, and combined with the bruises looked worse for wear. We probably all were — no one had been able to relax after that.

"Are you all right?" he asked, seeming to address the both of us.

I nodded, and I felt Marjorie begin to tremble under my hand. Not like last night, when it was beyond her control. This was a tremble of fear, one that came in waves. When I looked over at her, she was staring back at us with widened eyes, tears running in a constant stream down her cheeks.

"Marjorie..." I said, but that was as far as I got. She lurched back into my arms, burying her face in my shoulder. I held her tightly, reminded of the nights when my sister would wake from nightmares, curling into me and sometimes falling asleep against my chest.

"I'll just leave you to it, then," Wilkes said, setting the tray on the bed and backing out.

"Can I see your hand?" I asked gently, once she'd stilled again. Naomi had made a poultice for it and then wrapped it up tightly in gauze, but that had in no way guaranteed the bleeding would stop.

Shakily she offered it to me, still curled into my side. I took it in one hand and carefully unwound the bandage with the other. Underneath everything the cut had turned into a nasty wound, clotted with reddish-black blood. But at least there was nothing fresh.

"Could you have some tea, maybe?" I nodded to the tray next to me. "Get something down you?"

This time she nodded, and I picked up the steaming teacup. Gingerly she took it and sipped it just barely.

"Do you remember anything about last night?" I asked her when she'd finished half of it. "Anything at all?"

"Pain..." she whispered, swallowing hard. "So much...pain..."

"How do you feel now?" I rubbed her arm, her skin soft and clammy.

"Weak..." she breathed, and I felt her lean harder against me. "Numb..."

"You should rest," I said. "Build your strength back up."

"Don't..." Her hand grasped my arm when I tried to stand. "Don't...go..."

"Marjorie..."

"Please..." Her plea was soft, just like last night. "Don't...leave me..."

I sank back down and she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, hiding her face. I slid one of my own around her waist and pulled her close. And right at that moment, the events of last night seemed like nothing more than a bad dream.