Uncle Bryce was in a foul mood, and it was showing—his subordinates were darting around like their boots were on fire. I didn't escape the fallout either. He gave me a proper telling-off for that phone call. He couldn't ignore the potential threat, so he sent two of his men—who had other jobs to do—to check on Feron's girlfriend. They wasted their time, found nothing, and I got the blame.

Once he'd unloaded all his pent-up irritation on me, Uncle told me to grab the guests, some fishing rods, and head out to Thunderloch. He didn't want to see me at home till nightfall—no one had time to babysit me. The entire family was involved in the big clan drill. Even the ungifted.

Sally had dropped her kid off at nursery just for it—under the care of Ellie, Uncle Gordon's middle daughter, because the eldest was also participating as a nurse, training in first aid. The neighbourhood had turned into a military camp. Vehicles zipped back and forth. Men and women marched with weapons and bags full of potions. Senior instructors shouted orders at the younger lot. And I, for once, had no assigned role.

Simon Kettle was watching the bustle from my porch, leaning against a wooden post and sipping his morning tea.

"Why aren't we taking part?" he asked.

"Because you don't need to. Everyone in the clan has a role, a squad, a commander, and a designated responsibility in case of emergencies. The system runs like clockwork. You'd just be extra gears."

"Like you? Or is this because of us?"

"More the first one," I admitted. "I'll be spending the next few years in Farnell. The clan can't count on me for this kind of work."

Simon nodded, taking that in. Then took a sip and added, "Still, you're doing other jobs for the clan. Smelly ones, for a start. Or did you rub that rot all over yourself just for fun?"

I sniffed. My sense of smell wasn't fully back yet, and clearly I'd been careless with the anti-odour potion.

"There are many ways to be useful," I said neutrally and stepped back into the house—before the baronet could start asking other questions. I nearly tripped over two backpacks packed for a trip. A set of fishing rods leaned nearby. With my nose still dulled, I hadn't picked up the scent, but the sound of a sizzling pan from the kitchen got my attention.

Simon could've warned me we had guests.

"Morning," I said to the girls.

Ellie, apron over her outdoor clothes, was flipping pancakes. Finella sat at the table, bored, spinning a plate of the finished ones in circles.

"I don't want to go fishing!" Spark announced. "Another half-day rattling around the backwoods for no real reason."

"You don't want to go," Ellie replied, "because it's a water place of power—and water's no real use to you."

"I've got nothing against places of power! But fishing? Seriously? Who actually enjoys catching gross, slimy, smelly creatures? Although, you might," she jabbed at me. "You already reek of carrion."

"So will you!" I shot back.

"Sorry! Just… we've been wandering forests for days, and there's a whole city right next to us that we still haven't seen! I get that training is great and all, but I get plenty of that back home. Today, I want to go to Avoc!"

Simon finished his tea and joined the conversation. I was hoping he liked fishing and would back me up, so I pressed Spark a bit.

"Forests and training, you say? Already forgotten about yesterday's dancing?"

"Nope," she said flatly. "But I remember your ex. Curvy little bitch."

Simon raised an eyebrow—either objecting or agreeing, it was hard to tell.

"Lovely lady," he said, polite as ever.

"We all know your taste's questionable," Finella sniffed, alluding to the types of girls he usually went for.

"You're my type too," the baronet said calmly.

"I'll second that," I added. "Very questionable taste."

I had to duck a pancake—lucky she didn't throw a fireball.

"Proper ladies don't throw food," I muttered.

"Right," said Spark. "And proper ladies don't tramp through forests. They stroll through parks, go shopping, have lunch in cafés. Honestly, don't you lot have theatres? Cinemas?"

"How about gentlemen's clubs?" Simon chimed in unexpectedly. "Football, cricket, tennis…"

"Girls aren't allowed in your clubs!" Ellie objected at once.

"That's a misconception," Simon said smoothly. "There are always plenty of girls in gentlemen's clubs."

Finella lit a fireball in her hand.

"I mean," he corrected quickly, "not much there for real ladies. I just meant Duncan and I could wait at one of those places while you do your shopping."

"So, you're against fishing too?" I asked him.

"Last time I hooked myself in the ear."

"Sober?"

"Are there sober fishermen?"

"Believe it or not—yes."

"Next time, maybe. I'd join the drills if I could. Otherwise, I'm for Avoc—but not for shopping. How about the races?"

"The Avoc racecourse is only a racecourse in name."

"But they still take bets?"

"I'm against the races," Finella cut in instantly.

"This is getting us nowhere," said Ellie, switching off the hob and placing a second plate of pancakes on the table. "I don't mind fishing, and I don't mind the cinema. Can we do both?"

"Absolutely!" I perked up. "We leave in half an hour, back by seven—plenty of time for the eight o'clock showing."

"Traitor!" groaned Finella, dropping her head onto the table. "Absolute traitor!"

We didn't leave in half an hour.

By the time we'd finished breakfast, I'd showered in a fresh dose of scent-neutralising potion, and we'd loaded everything into the Cooper, nearly an hour had passed. Then came twenty minutes of furious debate over seating arrangements. We finally set off, bumped along a forest road for half an hour—and broke down.

If Knuckles had been with us, he'd have taken the car apart with his fingers, reassembled it and driven on like nothing happened. But Simon and I just opened the bonnet, stared at the engine, tugged at some hoses, and then tried cranking the nearly new heap to life with the hand starter.

We took turns for ten minutes. Nothing. Ended up pushing. That worked. The bloody thing started—but by then, fishing was off. We turned around, went home, changed, and called a cab to the edge of the clan quarter—neither of us had the will to push the Cooper again.

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And that, bizarrely enough, is how Finella got her wish.

We stopped by a decent little restaurant I used to visit with Grandpa. Their signature dish was a beef and ox kidney pudding in pastry, served with vegetables and gravy. Just before serving, they'd pour hot meat broth into the hole on top. Then I remembered the redbuds in the park—and we spent over an hour admiring the trees in bloom.

Redbuds had this quirk of flowering early, and their blossoms could grow right from the trunk. After the park came the shops. Simon and I had no chance of escape, but we tried for revenge—by dragging the girls into weapon shops.

If they'd been normal girls, that might've worked.

As it was, we barely managed to tear them away from the cold steel. Ellie fell in love with a cavalry sabre—we only just talked her out of buying it. Finella did buy a stiletto, complete with silver engraving.

We worked up a proper appetite traipsing through the shops, then stopped at a patisserie for tea and rhubarb treacle pie. The day was actually starting to grow on me—especially when the girls suggested a carriage tour of the city.

The cabbie turned out to be surprisingly knowledgeable, reminding me of places I'd completely forgotten about. Not the monuments—that was just a list of clan members carved in stone—but things like the puppet theatre, the philharmonic hall, and Rose Valley, where people flew kites and you could ride in a hot air balloon.

The balloon idea delighted the girls, but the sky turned grey, and dusk began to fall early. After some thought—and a few words with our well-informed cabman—we decided to pass the time in a confectionery near the theatre, then head to the evening showing of The Millionairess.

The girls had heard of the production and agreed without hesitation.

The city theatre was closer to the centre, and we were still on the southern edge, near the valley. We didn't bother changing cabs—horse-drawn though it was, the carriage was comfortable. I noticed a heat-gathering seal etched into the ceiling, and the seats were warm too. The driver earned every penny of his fare—and the generous tip.

We passed through two dozen districts, watching the architecture shift from modern to more classical, when two covered lorries shot past us—canvas flapping over the backs. The rear flaps were tied up high, and I got a clear look at the people inside, weapons in hand. One of the faces—I knew in an instant.

Of course I'd recognise Logan.

Simon spotted it too.

"Drills in the city now?" he asked.

No, damn it. They didn't run drills in the city.

"Driver," I called, leaning forward. "Follow those lorries!"

"I'm afraid, young sir, the horses won't keep up."

"Stop!" I barked, spotting an autocab pulling around the corner.

I didn't wait—I leapt into the road and spread my arms to block the car. The cab screeched to a halt, the cabbie screeched even louder. I had to jump aside—the braking distance left a full metre beyond where I'd been standing.

The door flew open and a red-faced man shouted, "You suicidal idiot!" His fists clenched, but I darted past, yanked open the opposite door, and dived inside.

"A fiver if you catch those lorries."

"A bloody fiver?! You nearly—"

"A tenner!"

"Done," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. Before the driver could even shift into gear, Simon vaulted the bonnet, slid across it on his backside, and dropped into the front seat like he owned it. Finella ripped my door open and shoved herself in, pressing against me without the slightest apology.

"What about paying!?" shouted our original cabbie.

Ellie handed him something—then launched herself off the driver's footboard and soared over the cab in a spectacular leap, landing neatly on the opposite side and slipping into the seat beside me just as the car screeched into motion, swerving across the opposite lane and accelerating far too fast for city streets.

"Anyone see which way the lorries turned?" the cabbie barked. "And by the way, I'm getting that tenner even if we lose 'em. Otherwise, I'm braking right here."

"That way," said Simon. "Left."

We made it just in time to catch sight of the second lorry's rear end. The driver got his bearings quickly and almost caught up—just in time to see the two trucks split: one going straight, the other turning right.

"Which one?"

I mentally replayed what I'd seen—Logan was in the one that turned.

"Follow the right one."

The cabman pushed the car hard and caught up with the lorry. He got a good look at the armed men and raised an obvious question.

"Who are these people? Hold on—I know that lad. He's clan."

"So am I!" I snapped, leaning over the seat and slipping a tenner into his breast pocket.

"Mate, I don't want any trouble," he said warily.

"Just take us to wherever they stop."

They pulled up in the north-west part of the Old City. A hundred years ago, it had been slums—nothing of cultural value—now it was all rented housing for working folk.

Clan fighters spilled from the lorry and scattered down the street like marbles on a table. All of them were young—I didn't see anyone with serious authority or power, apart from Logan and Lesley Bailey. The two of them barked orders, pointing out positions and directing the lads where to go.

From the back of the lorry came mobile barriers—planks, detour signs. One of the lads, on Lesley's signal, started walking straight toward our cab.

"Hope you really are clan," muttered the cabbie.

"It's all fine," I said. "Girls, let me out."

Three doors opened at once. The guests exited first. Only then did I step out.

"Duncan?" Vernon Boily blinked at me. "What squad are you with?"

The cabbie didn't wait to hear the answer—he reversed, turned around, and was gone.

"Afraid I'm not with any squad," I said, then raised my voice. "Logan."

My brother muttered a curse under his breath and walked over, nodding Vernon toward a position along the wall.

"How do you do this?" Logan asked.

"I'd tell you if I knew what this was."

"What if I ordered you to go home?"

I crossed my arms and tilted my head, unimpressed.

"The guests can't be put at risk. You get that," Logan added.

I glanced down the street—and only with enhanced vision did I spot a couple older clan men, standing further off. No weapons visible, but they weren't among the strongest gifted either. Which meant there was another circle, a second ring. This was a full-scale operation, put together in what—half a day?

My gut told me this was about whatever that captured werewolf had spilled.

"Any of the elders out there?" I asked, nodding toward the street.

Logan responded with a nod of his own.

"Silver rounds?"

Another nod.

"Bloody hell, brother. A warning would've been nice."

"Uncle was worried you'd charge straight into the thick of it."

Simon gave an obnoxious snicker and delivered one of his signature idiotic lines:

"No, sir—Duncan doesn't charge into hell. Hell comes politely to him."

"Comedian," I growled. "We're leaving. Nothing here for us."

"You're serious?" Finella blinked.

"I could call James," I said. "Have him pick you up. You don't like the forest anyway."

"I was just asking," she replied, unexpectedly docile, even raising her hands like paws in surrender. "We could've stood to the side, just watched…"

"We're going to the theatre!" I snapped.

And that was that.

Truth be told, I wanted to stay. Not on the front line—but second row, maybe. The front was no place for me right now, but if Bryce had decided I was to keep out of it, I'd obey. Throwing a tantrum would only hurt his reputation. What kind of Clan Head couldn't even control his own nephew?

I got it. I did. But damn—it still stung.

I turned on my heel and marched away from the barricade. Must've gone a whole block before Simon suddenly grabbed the collar of my coat, yanking me to a halt right next to a cab parked up on the pavement. The driver was nowhere in sight.

"I don't know where the theatre is in this city," Simon said, "but I doubt it's close."

He opened the back door and gestured for me to get in—no smirk, no smart remark. Since Kettle was showing some sense for once, I figured I should too.

"Let's at least wait for the driver." I glanced around—and then my eyes caught a young man inside a red phone booth across the street. He was wearing only a light jacket. No one walked around dressed like that in this kind of weather.

"There he is, maybe," I said.

The young man was speaking urgently into the phone, eyes flicking repeatedly toward the Bremor blockade. Something about him put me on edge. My mind flashed back to that morning—the cab in the rear-view spell—and a chill ran up my spine.

"Ellie—what's he saying?"

Ellie blinked in surprise, but covered one ear with her hand and shifted it into a semi-bestial form—shifter hearing, activated.

"John, I'm not blind… I'm telling you, I see them! They're here for us!"

I dropped low behind the cab, pulled out my spellbook, and cast a pair—Precision and Acceleration. I had each spell written in duplicate: one set I'd given to Simon, and the girls had been supplied with equivalent potions. I handed Ellie one of the Bulldogs and drew my FN from the holster.

When I stood up again, the young man had finished his call and was walking back toward the car—but four pairs of tense, focused eyes from beside the cab brought him to a halt in the middle of the street. He froze.

An Austin roared past, horn blaring in outrage at the man's stupidity, swerving sharply to avoid him. A Cooper followed close behind, already adjusting its course with quick instincts—but it wasn't enough.

The man suddenly twisted around and broke into a sprint.

I fired—missed.

Simon's lightning bolt shot wide, and Finella's firebeam scorched the air beside him. Ellie didn't fire at all.

The man's body hunched. Arms stretched forward, joints snapping unnaturally—but none of that stopped him from gaining serious speed on all fours.

I managed two more shots before it became too dangerous—he was heading straight for the Cooper. Three metres away, the shifter launched himself. Clawed hands tore through the roof metal, and his feet shattered the back window.

The driver panicked. The car swerved violently. Then, in the very next instant, the ownet was ejected—flung from the open door. The Cooper straightened, tyres screaming, engine howling.

"Keys are in!" Ellie shouted.

Simon and I collided shoulder-first, racing for the driver's side. I was more determined. He had to vault the bonnet again.

While I started the engine, the girls piled in. The cab's engine roared and we shot off, following the fresh trail.

Behind us, one of the Bremor lads clearly understood the situation—he fired a red signal flare into the sky. Three more followed in rapid succession. Our target was fleeing, but the net was already closing in on his friends.

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