The Many-Angled World

Book III of III

Book One: The Stranded

Book Two: The Land of Always Summer

Book Three: The Many-Angled World

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net

http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/

http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

https://mewe.com/page/5cd32005dc9f631c9973f058

Cover by Brad Fraunfelter

www.BFillustration.com

All Comments and Reviews Welcome!

Contents

Cover Blurb

Prologue I: England, 1536

Prologue II: York, England, Now

Chapter One: London, England, Now.

Chapter Two: Gatehouse, York, Now

Chapter Three: Gatehouse, York, Now

Chapter Four: Gatehouse, York, Now

Chapter Five: London, Now

Chapter Six: Gatehouse, York, Now

Chapter Seven: York, Now

Chapter Eight: Gatehouse, York, Now

Chapter Nine: Gatehouse, York, Now

Chapter Ten: London, Now

Chapter Eleven: London, Now

Chapter Twelve: London, Now

Chapter Thirteen: York, Now

Chapter Fourteen: Glasgow, Now

Chapter Fifteen: Lake District, Now

Chapter Sixteen: Gatehouse, York, Now

Chapter Seventeen: Cromwell High School, York, Now

Chapter Eighteen: Glasgow, Now

Chapter Nineteen: York, England, Now

Chapter Twenty: York, Now

Chapter Twenty-One: Gatehouse, York, Now.

Chapter Twenty-Two: South Queensferry, Now

Chapter Twenty-Three: London, Now

Chapter Twenty-Four: Stafford High School, York, Now

Chapter Twenty-Five: Stafford High School, York, Now

Chapter Twenty-Six: York, England, Now

Chapter Twenty-Seven: York, England, Now

Chapter Twenty-Eight: York, England, Now

Chapter Twenty-Nine: York, England, Now

Chapter Thirty: Lake District, Now

Chapter Thirty-One: Lake District, Now

Chapter Thirty-Two: York, England, Now

Chapter Thirty-Three: Lake District, Now

Chapter Thirty-Four: York, England, Now

Chapter Thirty-Five: York, England, Now

Chapter Thirty-Six: York, England, Now

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Gatehouse/St. Champions, York, Now

Chapter Thirty-Eight: St. Champions, Interdimensional Void

Chapter Thirty-Nine: St. Champions, Interdimensional Void

Chapter Forty: Ten Downing Street, London/Gatehouse, York

Afterword

How To Follow

Cover Blurb

The magic has returned …

In a night of terror, the barriers between the magical and mundane worlds were torn down – and the two merged into one, unleashing wonders and terrors beyond human imagination. Jet fighters fly past dragons and kids on broomsticks, creatures of magic and myth returns to their old haunts and start wrecking havoc, and the outcast and dispossessed suddenly discover they have power beyond their wildest dreams.

As the country reels under the sudden shift in reality, and the government, police and military has to accept the world will never be the same again, shadowy factions move to take advantage of the chaos …

And, hidden in the darkness, a very old threat is about to come into the light.

Prologue I: England, 1536

Anne Boleyn knelt on the cushion, hands bound behind her back, and waited.

There was nothing else to do. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her fate was sealed. She had made a bargain with an entity and the price, she had been told, was that she would not live to see the promised land. She had thought she would die, perhaps in childbirth, and barely live long enough to see the newborn before she passed on to the great unknown. It seemed a sick joke, as she waited for her execution, to die in such a manner, to be accused of unnatural crimes and be sentenced to death by the king she had once loved, but …

She felt calm, abnormally so, as she waited. She had kept her side of the bargain. She had drawn the king’s eyes, then played her role to perfection. She would not be a mistress, like her own sister, but a wife and a queen. Her child would be legitimate, the result of a tryst between a married man and woman; her child would be in line to inherit the throne. It had been difficult to play the game, to make it clear that the king’s desire would only be sated if he married her; she had teased and flirted, without ever quite crossing the line until the die had been firmly cast. She felt no guilt, for all the former queen’s partisans – and the king’s other daughter – considered her little more than a whore. And yet …

Anne closed her eyes, thinking of her child. Their child. Elizabeth would be Queen – Anne knew it, with a certainty that could not be denied – and yet, she would have a long and difficult life, even after she sat on her father’s throne. Anne knew, all too well, that the king had wanted a boy, that he had broken with his first wife and parted from Rome out of a desperate need for a male heir, but she took comfort from the prophecy. Her daughter would be queen, her reign would be blessed, and the Folk – the few remaining magicians – would have their gates to the other world. They would live forever in a land of magic, parted from the Burners; they would live their lives as they should be lived, rather than hiding in the shadows as the hunters closed in, searching for the last traces of magic. Anne felt cold – the last of her magic was long gone – and yet, she knew her name would be remembered for thousands of years to come. She would go down in history as the mother of salvation, as the witch who had sacrificed her life for her people. She would be known long after the king’s memory passed into dust.

Her lips twitched bitterly. She had been charged with adultery and incest and witchcraft, the latter charge the only one that had ever held any truth. She doubted there was a single man or woman in London who believed the charges, even in an age where the last traces of magic were still visible if one cared to look. The idea that a decent god-fearing woman would commit adultery was bad enough, but incest? It was outrageous, born of ignorance and malice and a king’s desperate need to pretend he wasn’t to blame for his lack of a male heir. No queen was ever alone, not even in her most private moments. Anne could have proved her innocence, if her husband had been interested in listening. But he’d steeled himself to the task of ridding himself of her, and her family, and that meant …

The clock ticked, once. Anne tensed. Time was running out. She would be taken to the block and beheaded … she wanted to think escape was possible, but she knew better. There was no one in London who would put his life at risk for her, even the learned men and religious thinkers she’d patronised when she had thought that reformation would save the Folk from extinction. The king was the only one who could spare her, and she knew better than to think that he would. She had to die, to secure her legacy and her daughter’s future … she wished, not for the first time, that she could take the child in her arms one final time, yet even that had been denied her. She would have cried, if she hadn’t known her daughter would survive. Her legacy would live on …

The clock ticked, again.

Anne tensed, feeling something behind her. Her skin prickled, her blood turning to ice. She hadn’t seen anything supernatural since the night she’d made the bargain, not a single dancing fairy or even a ghost. She had wondered if she’d lost her sight, although she was painfully aware that the magic was leaching away and the creatures that depended on it were going away too. And yet …

She took a breath as the presence grew stronger. Time itself seemed to slow, the interval between clock ticks growing longer and longer. Her heart raced as she forced herself to keep her eyes closed, even though she wanted to turn and look at the entity. She knew better – to lay eyes on such a creature was to court death – and yet, she felt the urge to let everything go. She didn’t have to let herself be marched to the block, to rest her head on the wood and wait for the executioner to end her life. She didn’t have to… but she did. The farce had to be played out, right to the very end. Her blood would stain the soil, her life sealing the bargain she’d made so long ago. Perhaps that was why the entity was here, after so long. It had come to claim her personally.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Why?”

There was no answer. She hadn’t expected one. She had been taught, time and time again, of the danger of bargaining with supernatural creatures. Some were unpredictable, some were inhuman, some were outrightly malicious. They would keep their bargains, she had been assured, and they wouldn’t break their word, but they were very good at keeping the letter of the agreement while overlooking or ignoring the spirit. Be careful what you wish for, she had been told years ago, for fear you might get it. She wondered, suddenly, if their desperation to save what remained of their people had blinded them to the risks. If they had made a mistake …

A cold breath brushed against the back of her neck. Anne shivered, helplessly.

“Why?”

She barely had a second to realise the entity had spoken before her mind was assaulted, an endless stream of images bombarding her thoughts. She was trained in mental defence – the small subtle charms to twist a person’s mind were about the only form of magic that still worked reliably, and if she had lacked those defences she would have been hopelessly vulnerable to the hidden witches at Court – and yet, there was nothing she could do to keep the barrage from flooding her mind. The images were strange, some so incomprehensible it hurt to even look at them; she saw a red-haired woman sitting on the throne, she saw the gates opening, she saw her people striding into a brave new world …

Tears prickled in her eyes. She would die, but her people would live. It would be worth her sacrifice.

The stream of images kept coming, the world shifting in ways she could barely understand. A dying queen. A young fool of a king. A commoner who would reign like a monarch … an endless series of images that twisted in front of her mind, something that bothered her at a very primal level. Anne knew she was far from stupid, but she was also all too aware of her own ignorance. Far too much magical knowledge – dangerous, hard-won knowledge – had been lost over the centuries, or hidden away for fear of the Burners. She didn’t understand what she was seeing and yet, the world was folding …

… twisting into something new. Something apocalyptic.

“No!”

The images stopped, abruptly. Anne opened her eyes and threw caution to the winds, looking behind her. The chamber was empty. The entity was gone … her blood ran cold as she realised what it had been trying to tell her, in the last few moments before she was marched to the block. She had been given what she wanted, and yet the price was far more than her life. She saw it all now, far too clearly. The Folk would survive, but so would their enemies …

Keys rattled in the lock. It was time.

Anne closed her eyes, as the door opened to reveal the guards, and wept for the end of the world.

Prologue II: York, England, Now

Polly stared at the laptop, trying to understand what was happening – and what, if anything, had gone wrong.

Lord Burghley had told her and the rest of the staff to remain behind, in the manor, and wait to hear from the invasion force. Polly had been glad to do as she was told, all too aware that she was a novice in magic and because of that fact, there was no point in her going to St. Champions and putting her life at risk. The gates would be opened one final time, she’d been told, and the Brotherhood would take possession of a whole new world. Polly couldn’t wait. She’d felt enough magic, since she had been recruited, to want more. The promise of power – real power – drew her, like a moth to the flame.

But something had gone wrong.

The reports were confused, chaotic. Large swathes of the internet appeared to have dropped out completely, servers and relay stations vanishing without a trace. The country’s hardened electronic infrastructure wasn’t in any better state. She had high-level access to everything from government communications nodes to CCTV cameras, yet even they appeared to be worse than useless. What remained was contradictory, babbling reports that made no sense at all. She knew the plan, knew the gates should have opened by now … it couldn’t be a coincidence, she thought, that the crash of the internet had happened just after zero hour. The odds against that were staggering …

The ground shook, sharply.

Polly tensed. An earthquake? They were rare, almost unknown, in Britain. Polly had heard they were more common than most thought, but she’d never felt one. She checked the live feed from the manor’s security cameras, out of habit, and saw nothing … nothing, apart from a handful of security guards checking the perimeter. It hadn’t been that long since the flash mob had appeared out of nowhere, pressing against the walls and shouting and screaming about nothing in particular … she wondered, suddenly, if the manor was about to be attacked again. It wasn’t impossible. Her boss had been looking for the refugees from the other world for the last few months, and it was quite possible they were looking for him too. And they’d sent Norris – both Norris and his subsidiary, evil personality Norris2 – into the other world from the manor.

And that makes us a target, she thought. If the other worlders are fighting back, we might be targeted first.

Another message popped up in front of her, someone babbling nonsense about dragons, of all things, and ranting about Game of Thrones coming to life. Polly tried not to snort in disgust as the idiot went on and on about fire-breathing dragons burning the Houses of Parliament to the ground, never mind that his location was in York and there was no way in hell he could see what – if anything – was happening in London. She checked, just to be sure, and noted that the Houses of Parliament were still intact. She tried not to feel disappointed. She’d seen too much, in her career, to have any faith in politicians, but Westminster was still the Mother of Parliaments.  And yet … she knew her boss, and his peers, were the true rulers of the land. Perhaps it would be better if they came out of the shadows …

Light flared, a wave of magic that pressed against her senses in a manner that was almost painful. Polly was halfway across the room and hiding behind a wooden cabinet before her mind quite caught up with what was happening, her training taking control before she could freeze … the light burned through the cabinet, as if it was more real than anything else. It felt as if she were under the sun, the sunlight burning her skin, her muscles, her bones … she felt, just for a second, as if the entire world had been burned away, leaving only the soul behind …

And then the light just ... went away.

Polly shook. She would have collapsed if she hadn’t already been on the floor. The world was dark, so dark she was afraid she’d been struck blind before her eyes started to grow accustomed to the gloom. She stumbled to her feet, the world spinning around her like a dreamscape … she pinched herself, hard, and winced. It was no dream. She forced herself to walk to the desk and look down at the laptop. It was dead, the keyboard smoking slightly … she cursed under her breath as she looked up, realising that half the lights were dead too. Someone shouted outside … a guard, she guessed. The entire manor had been hit by … by whatever the light had been, and that meant … she reached for her smartphone and discovered it no longer worked. Her mind raced. An EMP? No, she’d seen – felt – the magic. Her skin was still prickling. She had the weirdest sense she was standing in the open, the sun concealed behind a cloud and yet feeling its presence. The feeling was coming from her master’s office. It felt … wrong.

She hesitated, then forced herself to go to the door. She’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to enter the inner office unless she was invited, yet … she swallowed hard as she rested her hand against the wood, checking for fire and wards, telling herself that it was vitally important she knew what was happening inside. The wards – the little charms that made it hard for anyone to even see the door, unless their attention was drawn to it by someone who already knew it was there – were gone. She pushed the door open and peered inside, feeling an alien warmth brushing against her bare skin. The office was dark and yet she could see something – someone – standing by the desk, the form alight and yet wrapped in darkness and shadow. Polly’s eyes hurt as she tried to make out the shape, a sudden stab of pain forcing her to close her eyes …

When she opened them after what seemed like forever, Cecil Burghley stood in front of her.

Polly sucked in her breath. Her master had always been striking, in a way that could not be described as handsome and yet drew the eye in a manner that could not be denied, but now … he looked strange, almost alien. His face had always been sharp, as if his jaw and cheekbones had been cut from rock, yet now he had a strange glamour that caught her attention and held it firmly. His eyes were dark, pools of darkness staring at her … she had the strangest sense, just for a second, that there was something hidden behind him, around him, a faint shimmer of something moving … she blinked and it was gone. Her master seemed almost human again.

But he was human. Wasn’t he?

“Polly,” Cecil Burghley said. His voice dripped honey and battery acid. He sounded as if he were learning to talk again. “Why …?”

Polly found her voice. “What happened …?”

She wanted to ask so much more, to demand to know what had happened to the invasion force or the other world, or … but she couldn’t think of the words. Her legs felt wobbly, as if she were caught in a nightmare … she told herself, for the second time, that she wasn’t dreaming. And yet, everything had an air of unreality about it that made it hard – almost impossible – to think clearly. Her eyes met his and … she stumbled, suddenly convinced the man in front of her wasn’t her master, but something else wearing his face. She blinked …

And the thought was gone.

“We have much work to do,” Cecil Burghley said. He sounded more human now, more his normal self. Polly blinked, again. “Contact the Prime Minister. I must speak with him immediately.”

Polly nodded, even though she knew it would be difficult – if not impossible – to arrange an immediate meeting. She had been an administrative assistant – a secretary, by any other name – at the very highest levels long enough to know the Prime Minister would have been whisked into a government bunker by now, hiding away due to fear of nuclear attack. His staff would know even less about what had happened than she did, but there were contingency plans for EMP strikes and those plans would be put into action … good thinking on their part, she was sure. Whatever had happened, it had enough in common with an EMP for the plans to be workable.

“Yes, My Lord,” she said, finally. She forced herself to ask a single question. “What happened to the invasion?”

Cecil Burghley seemed oddly nonplussed, as if he didn’t quite know what she was talking about. That was bizarre. He had been the one who had recruited Norris and sent him into the other world, priming him to open the gates to allow the invasion to begin. Polly had no idea what had happened afterwards, but it was clear something had gone dreadfully wrong. The world felt as if it had been tipped on its axis, perhaps taken apart and put back together again in a manner that wasn’t quite right. Her head hurt, the more she tried to think about it. The world no longer made sense.

“We have a new priority now,” he said, finally. He smiled, revealing too many teeth. Polly blinked, again. She’d been seeing things. Hadn’t she? “Destiny awaits.”

Chapter One: London, England, Now.

“Where are you, you little monster?”

Alec kept his head low as he fled into the garden, all too aware his stepmother was right behind him. The woman had never liked her stepson, to the point she’d openly suggested that Alec’s father should send him to boarding school or even give him up for adoption. Alec didn’t pretend to understand why his father didn’t send the woman away instead, but he knew there was no point in arguing. The woman had been drinking and grim experience had taught him that it was better to be well out of her way when she opened his father’s drinks cabinet and started pouring wine down her throat. She was unpleasant at the best of times, but when she’d been drinking she was unbearable.

“Come here, now!”

He ignored the woman’s demands as he ran into the darkness. The garden seemed larger than ever before, giving him plenty of room to hide. His father would be back soon, he told himself, and … even his stepmother wouldn’t dare touch him in front of his father’s very eyes. He wondered, not for the first time, if the woman had cast a spell on his father, something to make him fall in love with her. Alec had read enough stories about evil stepmothers – and stepfathers – to convince him that all stepparents were unpleasant, nothing more than hermit crabs crawling into the space left by an absent parent and turning what had once been a pleasant home into a nightmare. He wished, desperately, that his mother hadn’t died, that his parents had stayed together … he shuddered, helplessly, as he heard heavy footsteps coming after him. He’d hoped the darkness would protect him, but … for a moment, the garden seemed both immense and very small. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. His stepmother was coming closer and …

“Why so afraid, child?”

Alec stopped, dead. There was a … a something sitting on a leaf, clearly visible even in the darkness. His eyes hurt to look at it, a stabbing pain that felt as if invisible hands were twisting his eyeballs, forcing them to roll in directions he knew to be impossible. He blinked, the pain vanishing in an instant, and opened his eyes again. A little man was sitting on the leaf, no larger than his hand and yet perfect in every detail. He stared, feeling a touch of awe that washed away his fear. He’d been told there were fairies at the bottom of the garden, years ago, but he’d never actually seen one. And yet, he’d believed …

The fairy was tiny, clearly visible and yet the details were hard to pin down. Alec found it hard to see anything, save for the shimmer behind the tiny entity’s back. Wings, Alec supposed, beating so rapidly they could barely be seen. The face was ageless, young and old; the eyes were dark, more like a bird’s than a man’s. His imagination filled in the details, suggesting clothes and a stance that was both friendly and wary. It was impossible to believe the fairy posed any threat and yet, he couldn’t force himself to look away. The fairy gazed back at him, calm and composed. Alec wished, just for a second, he could sprout wings and fly away, to Neverland or Fairyland or somewhere – anywhere – else, as long as his stepmother wasn’t allowed to follow. He’d thought about running away before, when the old woman had shouted and screamed at him, but now … he could do it.

“I hate her,” he said, feeling all the buried anger bubbling to the surface. It wasn’t fair! Why had his mother died? Why had his father married again, to a monster in human form? Why, why, why …? “She hates me.”

“You’re safe now,” the fairy said. The words appeared in his head, without passing through Alec’s ears. Alec couldn’t even see the entity’s mouth move, as it spoke. It seemed perfectly normal for such a tiny creature. “You can stay with me.”

Alec didn’t hesitate. He trusted the entity … it crossed his mind, a moment too late, that perhaps he shouldn’t, that perhaps talking to a fairy was no better than taking candy from a stranger, but the fairy couldn’t be worse than his stepmother. It just couldn’t. Alec was seven years old and he couldn’t stand the thought of spending another eleven years with his stepmother, not when there was another possibility. The woman hated him. She didn’t even try to hide it.

“I will,” he said. He had no idea what would happen next – if he’d grow wings, if he’d be shrunk until he was as small as the fairy – but he didn’t care. “I …”

Something crashed through the garden, behind him. Alec froze. His stepmother burst into the tiny clearing, a giant smashing through the bushes and trees as if they were made of paper and cardboard. She was a towering woman, large enough to scare him; her eyes, harsh and cold, fixed on him. He cowered back, trying not to inhale, as the stench of her breath washed over him. She stank of alcohol and cigarettes, of adult things he knew better than to try until he was a great deal older. She reached for him and her stumbled back, trying to escape as the real world crashed with the fantasy. The fairy …

The fairy was hovering between them.

His stepmother stopped, dead. She had yelled at him, time and time again, for making things up; she had never listened, when he’d told her about his day at school or the stories he’d told with his stuffed toys or building blocks. She wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her about the fairy … no, she was staring at the tiny creature, her eyes going wide with horror and astonishment. Alec felt a surge of pure glee as she started to step backwards, fear clearly visible on her face. He’d never seen anything actually scare her before. And now …

The fairy spoke a single word. “Mine.”

It changed, so rapidly it made Alec’s eyes hurt. It grew larger, teeth and claws shimmering around its growing form, lunging forward. Alec’s stepmother had no time to run before it was on her, her body seeming to explode into a fountain of blood and gore. Alec saw her eyes explode, followed rapidly by the rest of her head; he fell backwards, his head pounding as pieces of flesh and bone fell everywhere. He hit the ground hard enough to hurt badly, smacking his head against a stone. The fairy seemed to flicker, the tiny form he’d seen earlier somehow transposed with something far darker, and nastier. It was …

Alec opened his mouth to scream, but it was far too late.

***

Sergeant Kenneth Oswald cursed under his breath as he drove through the estate.

The call had been a prank, probably. A dangerous animal, loose on the streets … he had no idea why the dispatcher had ordered him to investigate, not when all hell was breaking loose elsewhere. The police radio net had partly crashed, messages from the nearest station contrasting oddly with bursts of talking and laughter that sounded distinctly inhuman. Kenneth suspected someone had hacked the net, probably intending to distract the police while they did something … or perhaps it was just another prank. The days in which prank callers, kids wasting police time, actually faced any sort of consequences for their crimes were long gone. A few years in jail, or even a month or two picking up litter, would teach them a lesson, but it was politically impossible to do anything of the sort. Kenneth cursed the uniformed politicians in police uniforms under his breath as he parked the car, reminding himself he only had a few years to go until retirement. He’d leave the force, move to a small town miles from anywhere, and forget the nightmare enveloping the cities. It wouldn’t be his problem any longer.

He clambered out of the car, gripping his flashlight in one hand as he looked up and down the street. It was surprisingly dark, the only source of light the stars overhead. The streetlights had been vandalised long ago and were never replaced, leaving the estate trapped in shadows. Kenneth winced as he locked the door and started to walk, pacing himself as he made his way down the street. The hopelessness was almost a physical force, a grim reminder that anyone born on the estate would be lucky if they made it out. There were too many pitfalls for young men and women – drugs, prostitution, radical politics – and too few chances to leave the estate behind. It was almost a black hole, sucking its inhabitants into the gravity well and keeping them trapped. The wind shifted, blowing a hint of burning embers towards him. Kenneth tensed, eyes flickering further down the street. There was nothing there …

And yet, his instincts were sounding the alarm.

He kept moving, keeping one hand on his truncheon. The proposals to arm every policeman in London had gone nowhere, and perhaps that was for the best, but his instincts were screaming at him to turn and run. He hadn’t felt so nervous since the first day he’d stepped onto the streets as a uniformed officer, empowered to enforce the law and charged to protect the population, even from themselves. It wasn’t easy to be the iron fist in the velvet glove, to be calm and reasonable and yet firm; he knew, deep inside, that it was just a matter of time before he made a career-ending mistake. There were too many provocations, too many radicals intent on embarrassing the police or … he shook his head as he reached the end of the street. It was quiet. Too quiet.

His lips twitched at the thought, although it wasn’t funny. London never slept. The ordinary law-abiding folks might be indoors, the doors and windows firmly bolted, but the streets were never empty. Here, so far from Westminster, the darkness belonged to the druggies or the radicals. His eyes lingered on a boarded-up home, soon to become a drug den if it wasn’t already. The walls were covered with obscene graffiti, making it hard – impossible – for whoever owned it to sell or rent, at least to anyone remotely desirable. And that meant …

Something shifted, a gust of warm air brushing against him. He looked up and down the street, his head spinning – suddenly – as he realised something was there. It was hard, almost impossible, to force himself to see it. A giant hulking shadow, with immense wings and huge red eyes, perched in the middle of the road … his brain stopped, just for a second, as he felt his legs buckle. The creature – the dragon – was simply impossible. It was … a wash of panic ran through him. There might be something in the air, something hallucinogenic … it wasn’t impossible. He’d seen fellow officers get poisoned, when they raided drug lairs, and it was quite possible he’d breathed in something dangerous. His hand dropped to his radio, his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to think what to say. The dispatcher wouldn’t believe him … he found the emergency beacon, concealed in his belt, and pushed it. Every policeman in the area would be on the way within moments, converging on his position. An officer in trouble took priority over nearly everything else.

The dragon moved, rising on its hind legs until it towered over him. Kenneth found himself stepping backwards, unable to take his eyes off the beast. It was impossible – it had to be impossible – and yet, he found himself believing what he saw. The dragon was real in a way he found impossible to deny, a presence that was simply too big … he saw it open its mouth, revealing too many teeth, and stumbled backwards again as it breathed fire, illuminating the entire street. A wave of heat brushed against him, an instant before the dragon took flight. Kenneth found himself on his knees as he saw it vanish into the sky, tears prickling in his eyes …

It was impossible. He had to be seeing things. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

***

Syeda Ali rubbed her eyes as the plane turned again, cursing under her breath. It should have been a simple flight from Glasgow to London, an hour in the air followed by five hours in the airport before they boarded the flight to Bangladesh. Her aunt had been proud of the bargain she’d secured, booking a very late flight from Glasgow and then a very early one from London. She hadn’t known that their landing would be delayed for hours … Syeda hid her amusement with an effort, even though there was nothing amusing about it. They were already dangerously late for the second flight, if it hadn’t been cancelled. She had no idea what was going on below, but what should have been an hour’s flight had somehow morphed into four hours over London.

She told herself to be glad of the delay, even though she knew it wouldn’t last forever. Her aunt had been tight-lipped about quite why they were going to Bangladesh, suggesting – to a young girl of marriageable age – that she intended to introduce Syeda to a young man and ensure they married before she returned to Britain. Syeda had seen it happen before, time and time again. A youngster would be taken abroad and told they had to marry someone they didn’t know, for the good of the family, and if they said no … Syeda shuddered inwardly, trying to brace herself for the tidal wave of emotional blackmail she knew was in her future. If she said no … she didn’t want to think about what would happen. She would be lucky if she wasn’t disowned.

Tears prickled in the corner of her eye. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to get a job and marry someone she chose, but one was impossible and the other … she knew girls who had been forced to leave their jobs, after they married someone who was unable to cope with a wife who earned more than they did, or only held their jobs with their husband’s permission. She had dreamed of rising high, of reaching the top of her profession, but it would be impossible if she married the wrong person. She would be reduced, very quickly, to a wife and mother and little else … she shuddered, trying not to think about how her in-laws would treat her. Her mother had treated her sister-in-law like a servant, and now …

She swallowed, inwardly, as the sun rose. The plane was descending, finally. They’d land and see if they could get another flight, and then … she wanted to run, to leave, but it would mean cutting ties with her entire family. She would never see her parents or siblings again. She wasn’t even sure where she’d go. There was little hope of escape.

Something moved in the brightening sky. Syeda leaned forward, wondering if it was another plane. The pilot hadn’t been very informative, but he had told his passengers that they weren’t the only aircraft that had been delayed. Perhaps … she frowned, realising the moving object – objects – were getting closer. Too close … they were coming right at the aircraft. She felt too tired to be afraid, even though she was starting to wonder if they were missiles. Perhaps there had been a terrorist attack, perhaps …

And then the objects came into view.

Syeda stared in disbelief. Three youngsters, no older than herself, were flying on broomsticks … it was impossible. She was seeing things. A ripple of shock ran through the aircraft as the passengers stared, some standing upright to peer out the windows as the flying people came closer. Syeda swallowed, hard. Two young woman and a young man, wearing robes … their faces were alight with sheer delight, in their own freedom, their hair blowing in the wind as they closed with the aircraft. She felt an odd little lump in her throat as she saw their joyful faces. They were free, able to go wherever they liked, while she …

“It has to be a stunt,” an older man said. There was no conviction in his voice. He was trying to convince himself he wasn’t seeing what he saw. “A publicity stunt.”

The flying teenagers flew next to the plane for a long moment – a girl looked at the aircraft, her eyes meeting Syeda’s for a long moment – and then they were gone, vanishing so fast they were gone before she knew what was happening. Her cheeks felt damp … it took her a moment to realise she was crying, sobbing silently as the real world reasserted itself. She was crying for her own freedom, the freedom she’d lost well before she’d known what freedom was. The girl had grown up with a power and freedom Syeda had never known existed … she knew it to be true, even though she couldn’t have put the feeling into words. She wasn’t the only one, she realised numbly, as the plane flew lower, the airport slowly coming into view. They’d seen a glimpse of a better world, a land of freedom and wonder, a land denied to them … she swallowed hard, forcing herself to sit down again. The older man was still babbling, insisting they hadn’t seen anything, but he was a fool. He couldn’t even convince himself. And …

Syeda knew, deep inside, that it had been real …

… And the world had changed overnight.

Chapter Two: Gatehouse, York, Now

Helen could have kissed Richard.

They weren’t friends, not in any real sense, but they’d been forced to work together before Richard and Brains had returned to Mystic Albion with Janet while Helen had stayed behind to hunt down the rogue magicians. She could recall a time when she’d resented his closeness to Brains, a time when she’d had no qualms about turning him into an animal – or an object – whenever he’d gotten on her nerves, and yet … that all seemed so foolish, in this brave new world. She wondered, suddenly, if Richard felt the same way. There were some things, she’d been told, that bound people together forever, and being trapped on another world was very definitely one of them.

She took a long breath as her eyes surveyed the remnants of the damaged chamber. The air felt funny, almost wrong. The magic of Mystic Albion felt … different, as if she was in a third world rather than her homeworld or the magicless OldeWorld. She reached for her power and felt it crackling around her, a relief after being almost powerless only a few hours ago, but it still felt different. She forced herself to take another breath, centring herself. She didn’t have time to rest, not now. Steve was right beside her and …

“Janet!”

Steve darted forward, running to embrace his sister. Helen blinked in surprise. Janet looked different, so different she almost wondered if Steve had mistaken someone else for her, and yet … she hadn’t changed physically, not really, but she carried herself with confidence now. Helen had thought Janet was weak, back when they’d been stranded on OldeWorld, yet now … Helen looked away, allowing Steve and Janet to hug in peace. Richard met her eyes, just for a second, and nodded coolly. Helen nodded back.

The Merlin cleared his throat. “My office,” he said. “All of you.”

Helen nodded, feeling a flicker of the old envy as Richard took Brains’s arm and steered him out the door. Brains looked as if he was in his own world, his lips moving silently as he contemplated magical concepts so far beyond her they wouldn’t serve any practical use for months or years to come. She felt the school vibrate beneath her feet and shuddered, inwardly, as they made their way up the staff staircases, into an office she’d been told she would never visit unless she wound up in very real trouble. The door closed behind them with an audible thud.

She sucked in her breath as she saw the windows. They normally showed the endless forest surrounding Gatehouse, the domain of creatures so inhuman it was difficult to lay eyes on them, but now they showed a city that was disturbingly grey – and familiar. York had been a drab nightmare, when she’d found herself and her friends in OldeWorld, and her opinion hadn’t changed over the last few months. It was hard to believe that a society so rich, in so many ways, could have so much poverty, both material and spiritual. And yet … she shuddered, helplessly. She’d complained about her lot, growing up in Mystic Albion with a family that both loved her and expected her to serve their interests first and foremost, but she’d been far luckier than Janet and Steve. And even they were lucky, compared to the poorest on OldeWorld. Those poor souls’ lives weren’t worth living.

Richard stepped up beside her. “The two worlds have really merged.”

Helen bit down – hard – on the urge to demand to know if he hadn’t believed it, when Brains had told him what had happened. She supposed it made a certain kind of sense. Everyone had thought, only a year ago, that there would be no further contact between OldeWorld and Mystic Albion, that the magical and technological worlds would never meet again. Now … she knew better. They all did. But none had expected the two worlds would merge into one. No wonder the magic felt strange. The rules had changed. Again.

“Is it everywhere,” Richard asked, “or just Gatehouse?”

“If my calculations are correct, everywhere,” Brains said. He sounded shaken. It was so unlike him that Helen felt a flicker of alarm. Brains rarely seemed to care about anything, in her experience, something she’d found maddening a year ago. They’d been betrothed back then, and … he’d felt nothing. “The entire world has changed.”

Steve joined them, his face grim. “Where are the lights?”

Helen gave him an odd look. “What do you mean?”

“There should be streetlights,” Steve pointed out. The first glimmers of dawn were starting to appear in the distance. “Where are they?”

“Our arrival last time did damage the school,” Richard said. “If our entire world has arrived …”

Helen didn’t want to think about it. York had a strange, almost hazy air, as if the city was wrapped in an ethereal mist. She wanted to believe Brains was wrong, that the two worlds hadn’t merged, but … she shook her head as a sudden tiredness fell over her. Brains was right, and that meant … she shuddered, inwardly, as the Merlin summoned tea and biscuits, then motioned for everyone to sit at the table. Helen felt too tired to be either pleased or fearful. Once, she would have given her back teeth for a seat at the table, for recognition as a person of consequence. Now, all she wanted was sleep. Her lips quirked, wryly. Did she even have a bed in Gatehouse? Had her room been preserved or had it been cleared and cleaned, then given to another student? She didn’t know.

There’ll be a bed here somewhere, she told herself, as she sipped her tea. Gatehouse was used to students appearing randomly. It wouldn’t turn anyone away, if they wanted to learn and were willing to work. All I have to do is ask for one.

The Merlin cleared his throat. Helen forced herself to look at him. He was the most respected sorcerer in the world, the sole male in high office … Helen knew, without having to ask, that he had both the power and intelligence to make use of his post. And yet, he seemed tired and worn, ground down by the sheer scale of the disaster that had enveloped the entire world. It was hard to imagine what might be happening elsewhere, in Londinium or her family estate but … Helen wished, suddenly, that Brains had found something – anything – else to research as his senior year project. She would never have met Steve, or done something important with her life, but she would never have known what she’d missed. She could have come to terms with Brains. He wasn’t stupid, far from it. It wouldn’t be the first marriage that existed in name only.

“I will have to contact the Princesses shortly,” the Merlin said. His voice was calm and composed, betraying none of his inner turmoil. “Before then, I need to know what happened – and why.”

He looked at Brains, who was scribbling on a piece of endless notepaper. “Hiram?”

Brains didn’t look up. “We believed Mystic Albion was an alternate dimension, separate from OldeWorld,” he said. “We were wrong. Mystic Albion is actually a folded aspect of OldeWorld, a piece of dimensionally transcendent engineering on a colossal and unimaginable scale. Our world was literally bigger on the inside” – his eyes narrowed for a moment – “and the fact we couldn’t see the folds explains, I think, why teleportation and transportation spells were so dangerously unreliable at times. They were affected by twists in the fabric of time and space, like folded paper …”

He took a sheet of paper and folded it up, then rested the folded piece on top of another sheet. “This is our world,” he said, pointing to the first piece. “The unfolded piece is OldeWorld. Now” – he unfolded the first piece and rested it on top of the second – “the two worlds are merged.”

Richard leaned forward. “Can they see us?”

“Yes.” There was no doubt in Brains's voice. “More than just see us. They can get to us.”

Janet made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Helen felt a stab of sympathy. Janet had helped them, when they’d first met, in exchange for a promise they’d take her with them when they returned home. Richard had kept that promise – from the way they behaved toward each other, it was clear they’d grown very close indeed – but now there was a very real risk she’d be sent home. Helen could understand Janet’s feelings, no matter how much she would have preferred to deny it. She would have to go home too. She wondered, numbly, if her mother would let her leave again.

And she wouldn’t approve of Steve, either, she thought. She hadn’t admitted, even to herself, that she was starting to like him. What’ll she make of him?

Brains was still talking. “Everything that was bound up in folded space will have been dumped into OldeWorld. Magical creatures, magical entities … the old places of power will be coming to life, the old agreements taking force again. It will change everything.”

Helen felt cold. She had been raised in a world where the most powerful humans were still no match for supernatural entities. Her family was known for arrogance and yet even they trod carefully in high-magic areas, honouring the old ways to keep misfortune from following their every move. Janet and Steve had been raised in a world where magic was nothing more than a myth, save for the handful of magicians who had maintained some of their power after the gates had closed. They didn’t know the dangers; they didn’t know how easy it was to give offense to creatures that could destroy – or worse – a human on a whim. And if they said the wrong thing …

She swallowed, hard. It was going to be a nightmare.

The Merlin tapped the table, impatiently, as Brains descended into magical terms only a handful of sorcerers could hope to follow. Helen didn’t blame the Merlin. Dimensional engineering – making a building larger on the inside – was a very rare discipline, one so difficult to master that there were very few sorcerers who could. It was hard to turn a small house into a giant mansion and the cost would be prohibitive … the idea of doing it to an entire world just incomprehensible. She had no idea which entity had answered Anne Boleyn’s call, when the last of the magic was flowing out of the mundane world, but its power was clearly unimaginable.

Her blood ran cold. It felt, just for a moment, as if someone had walked over her grave.

“Helen,” the Merlin said. He spoke politely, but it was a very powerful politeness. “What happened since the gate was briefly reopened, then closed again?”

Helen took a moment to compose herself. “Steve and I” – she nodded to Janet’s brother, who smiled back – “went looking for the rogue magicians. We discovered, eventually, that they’d worked out a way to use human sacrifices to reopen the gate themselves, then invade our world. Their magic” – she hesitated, wishing she had Brains’s insight into the tiny spells her relatives had developed since the two worlds diverged – “was different from ours, but very effective. We …”

She hesitated, unsure what to say. They’d found other potential magicians … they’d taken them back to York and left them in the vehicle, hours ago. Guilt washed through her. The boys and girls they’d recruited were innocents, children playing with magics that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands. Helen knew she hadn’t even begun to teach them the basics, let alone how to keep themselves safe when they started experimenting with more complex and dangerous spells. Magic was practically a living thing, responsive more to unspoken desires than stated intentions. It was very easy to hurt yourself – or worse – by casting a spell without proper precautions.

Her blood ran cold. OldeWorld’s magic was designed to make best use of what little raw power was available to local spellcasters. It was hard, almost impossible, to believe so deeply in magic that spellcasting became possible, and it was never easy. That had changed now, she suspected. The local magicians suddenly had more power than they knew how to handle and that meant … she cursed under her breath. There would be a disaster. There might already have been a disaster.

There has, she thought, numbly. We’re here.

She forced herself to continue. “We moved to stop them,” she said. “We were unable to keep them from reopening the gate, which gave me access to my magic. I thought I could best my opponent. Instead …”

Her memories were jumbled. It was hard to sort out what had happened. It was ... she closed her eyes for a long moment, promising herself she’d use memory spells later to track down the fragments and put them in their proper order. Perhaps if she slept, allowed her brain to rest … she yawned, then blushed helplessly. It was rude, to say the least, to yawn at the table. Her mother would not be amused. Oddly, Helen found it hard to care.

“The next thing I remember clearly is being in their old bedroom,” Helen said, nodding to Richard. The last time she’d been in that room, they’d fallen into OldeWorld. It was funny how glad she’d been to see it again, even though it was clear proof something had gone horribly wrong. “And the magic feels … different.”

“The magic field in the dimensional fold will have flowed out into OldeWorld,” Brains said. “I suspect the field will balance itself out, eventually.”

Helen shivered. “They were using human sacrifice to open the gates,” she said. “What’ll happen if they try that again?”

The Merlin looked grim. There was power in human sacrifice, so much power that few Sinisters – dark sorcerers – would take the risk of sacrificing a single life. The power surge might well obliterate the sorcerer who’d cast the spell, then break whatever containment wards and channelling runes he’d devised and devastate the entire area. No one in their right mind would try it … but on OldeWorld, with magic levels so low it was hard to cast even a simple spell, human sacrifice was relatively safe. Had been safe. Now …

“We’ll have to warn them,” the Merlin said. “And quickly.”

Helen nodded. It was just a matter of time until her relatives tried to sacrifice more lives … and if they didn’t realise the danger, they were likely to destroy themselves and much of the surrounding countryside. She pressed her fingertips against her forehead, uneasily aware it wouldn’t be long before they tried. She knew her family too well to think her relatives would hesitate. They had a long history of experimenting with risky magics …

… And her relatives on the other side of the gate didn’t even begin to understand the dangers.

Not on the other side, she reminded herself, sharply. The two worlds are one now.

She yawned, again. “I don’t have much else to contribute, now,” she said. She’d have to sit down and write a full account of everything that had happened, since she’d chosen to stay behind, but that could wait a day or two. “Is my bedroom still mine or …?”

The Merlin nodded, shortly. “It hasn’t changed,” he said. If he was irked at her rudeness, he didn’t show it. He’d always had a reputation for being a practical man. “Classes will be cancelled, tomorrow. I suggest you eat in your chambers and report back to me, when you wake.”

Helen nodded. “You’ll find something for Steve?”

“Of course,” the Merlin said.

Janet leaned forward. “What’ll happen to Norris?”

Norris? Helen didn’t recall a Norris. Who’s he?

“That rather depends on what he has to tell us, when he wakes,” the Merlin said. “We’ll see.”

He looked at Richard. “The room next to yours is empty. Steve can have it, at least for the night. Again, have your breakfast in your chambers and report back to me afterwards. I don’t know what we’ll be telling the rest of the students, after …”

Helen wondered, wryly, what they’d told the students the first time. Gatehouse had always encouraged its student body to experiment – quite a few magical discoveries had been made by students who hadn’t finished their education – but there were limits. She doubted the students had been encouraged to duplicate Brains’s experiment, let alone risk reopening the gates to OldeWorld. Not that it mattered now, she thought. The two worlds were one … she hoped, prayed, that the next meeting would be peaceful, even though she feared otherwise. The two societies were just too different. It had been hard enough for her to cope, when they’d been forced to attend St. Champions …

The thought worried her. “If Gatehouse and St. Champions are in the same place,” she said slowly, “what happened to St. Champions?”

“Unknown,” Brains said. “The math suggests they’ll co-exist ...”

The Merlin looked pale. “And Londinium? Both cities?”

“Unknown,” Brains repeated. “We’ll have to find out. And quickly.”

“Yes,” the Merlin agreed. “We will.”

He cleared his throat. “Go to bed,” he added. “I’ll see you all tomorrow … later today.”

Helen nodded and stood, feeling tired and grimy. The scale of the disaster was beyond imagination. She didn’t even want to think about how everything had changed, at least not until she had a good night’s sleep, a bath, and breakfast. It might be early in the morning, but it felt very late.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Steve. “And …”

She swallowed, hard. There was so much she wanted to say. But she didn’t have time.

“Get some sleep,” Steve advised. “I’ll see you shortly.”

Chapter Three: Gatehouse, York, Now

Janet couldn’t sleep.

Her life felt like a joke, her world a game played by a mad god. She had grown up on Earth – OldeWorld – knowing she would never climb out of poverty, never leave the estate … the chance to jump to a whole other world had been irresistible. She would have done anything, from selling her body to selling her soul, to go to a magic school and learn magic … and she had. She had learnt some spells, discovered she had a promising future after all, and … she’d even made the decision, when her relationship with Richard had started to bloom …

And now, the two worlds had merged into one.

She climbed to the top of the school, to the observation chamber she’d been shown the very first day she’d stepped into Gatehouse, and stared out over the land before her. The endless forest – too bright to be quite real – was gone, replaced by a very familiar city. Janet had never seen York from the air – she had never left the city until after she’d met Richard and his friends – but she had no trouble picking out the landmarks, from the cathedral to the railway museum on the far side of the train station. The streets were surprisingly empty – it was still early morning – yet she knew it was just a matter of time before the world realised what had happened. Perhaps they’d refuse to believe the evidence of their own eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Her heart sank. She regretted leaving her mother – she wondered, suddenly, just what Steve had told their mother about her disappearance – and yet, she knew she would have made the same choice even if her friends had demanded a far higher price. The chance to study magic, to make something of herself, was simply too great to pass up, and yet … she had no idea what would happen now. It seemed like a sick joke. The entire world would be studying magic … her thoughts ran in circles, wondering if she’d be forced to return to St. Champions or worse. The school had been a nightmare, little more than a glorified day care, and yet … she had seen enough of the system to understand its fundamental illogic. The people who caused trouble were feted and rewarded, bribed to keep them from upsetting the system any further, while those who tried to be good students were punished simply for existing. It just wasn’t fair. She had no doubt she’d be ordered to return to the old school …

… If it still existed.

She peered down, trying to pick out the streets she’d known – and loathed – from the moment she realised her life had been ruined before she’d even been born. It was hard to work out which streets were which, but … her eyes narrowed as she spotted the barricades, drawn up around the estate. It looked as if the entire area had been sealed off by the police. The ruined tennis court was clearly visible … her head spun as the pieces fell into place, letting her put names to the remaining streets. Gatehouse really was on top of St. Champions. Janet hoped the school had been destroyed, the pieces blasted into another dimension. There shouldn’t have been anyone there so late at night, certainly not anyone innocent, and she hated the place too much to think it could be saved. The teachers had been useless and the students … she told herself, sharply, that things were going to be different. She was magic now. A young man who touched her without permission would be spending the rest of his life as a frog.

Her heart twisted, painfully, as she picked out her former home. It was as dark and silent as the rest of the estate. There was no sign of her mother, no sign of anyone she’d known … it was jarring to stare at the tiny apartment, as if she’d been reading Harry Potter and turned the page to discover the Starship Enterprise. It felt as if two worlds had collided … they had, in a sense. Her mood darkened as she stared at her fingers, feeling the magic sparking through them. She had come to love Gatehouse, over the last few months. The teachers knew what they were doing, the intelligent students were encouraged to follow their interests, there were decent career paths for all … and bullies and gropers, the puerile assholes who ruined education for everyone, simply didn’t exist.  Gatehouse wasn’t perfect, but it was so far ahead of St. Champions that there was no comparison. But would it be ruined by contact with OldeWorld?

Janet shuddered. She didn’t want to think about it. But it was possible. Too possible.

She clenched her fists. The estate could have been cleaned up overnight, if the government had been prepared to admit what had gone wrong and spent time and effort fixing the problem. St. Champions could have been turned around, if the useless teachers had been purged, the bullies expelled and the gropers castrated. Her skin crawled, remembering little touches that had been far from innocent; she knew, as much as she hated to admit it, that she’d been one of the lucky ones. She hadn’t been that attractive, not compared to … she felt sick, unwilling to think about it. The pretty girls had had to seek out male protectors or pay the price of being alone. It was funny, she reflected bitterly, for all the blather about feminism and girl power that feminists did nothing to improve the lot of lower-class girls. But then, it was harder to fight someone capable of fighting back.

“It will change,” she promised herself. “It will!”

She heard the door open and looked back, smiling tiredly as Richard stepped into the chamber. He looked as tired and restless as she felt … she scowled inwardly, remembering how they’d been interrupted before they could consummate their relationship. She wasn’t sure if she should be mad at Brains for barging in or relieved. It had been her decision and yet … she couldn’t have taken it back, if they’d gone all the way. She’d heard the horror stories back home, from girls who had lost their virginities to the wrong man. It could end very badly …

Richard isn’t like that, she told herself. He isn’t!

His voice was soft, affectionate. “Can’t sleep?”

“No,” Janet confessed. She found herself chewing a strand of her hair and turned away, trying to hide her nerves. “I just feel …”

She waved a hand at the city below. York couldn’t have been shut down completely. It just couldn’t. The sun was rising now … people would be leaving their homes and heading to work, or the shops, or school, and they’d see the towering building looming over the city. Janet had no idea if Gatehouse was bigger than the tallest building on Earth – she had no idea which building was actually the tallest – but the school was bigger than St. Champions, bigger than the druggie-infested apartment blocks that dominated countless lower-class estates. There was no way the people below could miss it. The castle was just too large.

“What’ll happen,” she asked, “when they realise what’s happened?”

Richard stepped up and stood next to her, companionably close without being too close. Janet felt a rush of affection and reached out to take his arm, drawing him closer. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her lightly, tight enough to let her feel his heartbeat but loose enough so she’d not feel constrained. She learned against him, unable to put her feelings into words. Richard was comfortable and secure in himself. He felt no need – she knew – to boost himself by putting someone else down. He made her feel comfortable too …

“I don’t know,” Richard said, quietly. “How many new magicians are going come into their powers in the next few days?”

Janet shivered. She had wanted magic powers, but she hadn’t known she had magic – or at least that she could use magic – until she’d met Richard and started studying under him. There was too little background magic in OldeWorld for spells to be cast easily, even the simplest of cantrips. Helen had been rendered practically powerless when she’d fallen into OldeWorld and even Richard and Brains had had trouble casting spells. It had taken Brains days of research to figure out ways to reduce the amount of magic needed to cast a spell, and the rogue magicians were way ahead of them. She felt a hot flash of bitter envy and resentment. If they’d recruited her, she would have done anything they wanted in exchange for power.

And that might be how they got their hooks into Norris, she thought. It was difficult to wrap her head around what he’d done, how he’d somehow managed to get into Gatehouse and spy on the school for his shadowy masters. Norris had been an intelligent young man, yet … also a bitter nerd, an incel, a dog kicked so often that he could no longer tell the difference between a helping hand and another blow. Did they offer him power in exchange for his service?

She shuddered. She knew girls who had given themselves to boys who would protect them from other boys. It was a terrible way to live – she also knew young mothers who had been abandoned by their boyfriends, after they’d become pregnant – but it was better than the alternative. Janet liked to think she wouldn’t have submitted to a thug in exchange for protection, yet … she shook her head. Norris hadn’t even had that. It wouldn’t take much to win his loyalty. A simple offer of protection, or even friendship, would have been enough.

You could have reached out to him, she told herself, but you thought he was creepy.

It isn’t your job to reach out to someone else, no matter how much they need it, her thoughts answered. You just need to refrain from making it worse.

Richard cleared his throat. “I think we’ll be doing outreach,” he said. “Will you help us?”

Janet hesitated, torn. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say no. She wanted to reach out and help all the girls like her – and the boys like Norris – and change the world for the better. She wanted to stay in Gatehouse and study magic, leaving the world to someone – anyone – else. She wanted to go with Richard, to do whatever he did, and also to put herself first … she sighed, inwardly. In truth, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. She had been taught to share …

… But she’d also been taught that sharing was a mug’s game.

Not here, she told herself. The rules are different here.

“If I can,” she said, finally.

“You can,” Richard said. “If you hadn’t helped us, we would never have made it home.”

Janet felt a lump in her throat. If she hadn’t sneaked into St. Champions – if she hadn’t listened to a poisonous friend – she would never have met Richard, Brains and Helen. If she hadn’t … she recalled how ignorant they’d been of the modern world and shuddered. They might not have survived the first day, let alone found their footing before the rogue magicians caught them … she didn’t want to think about what would have happened, if she’d never met them. Her life, at best, would remain bland and boring. At worst …

She supposed that was the answer. She wasn’t the only young girl who had been living a life of quiet desperation. Even the more popular girls at St. Champions were trapped, unable to escape … she owed it to herself to offer them a chance at a better life, even if they refused to take it. And boys like Norris … she knew how quick Steve had been to learn magic and Norris, she supposed, had been very much the same. If they set out to take revenge on their tormentors … she didn’t feel any sympathy for bullying bastards, but it would be very unpleasant for anyone caught in the crossfire. Norris had already killed one of his tormentors … she wondered, suddenly, if he’d killed anyone else.

“I’ll do my best to help,” she promised. It wasn’t going to be easy. “You know …”

She changed the subject, hastily. “Did you see the way Steve was looking at Helen?”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Did he tell you they’re together?”

“I don’t think they are, not yet,” Janet said. She didn’t think Steve had had a girlfriend before. He’d been too determined to turn his online business into a way of getting out of the estate – for good – to have a girlfriend. And yet, Janet had to admit Helen was smart as well as beautiful. Just looking at her made Janet feel dowdy. “But I think he likes her.”

“Charming,” Richard said. “I hope he doesn’t get his heart broken.”

Janet met his eyes. Steve hadn’t always gotten along with her – like most brothers and sisters, they’d had their ups and downs – but they loved each other. Janet had seen enough really screwed up families, on the estate, to know she was lucky to have a brother who treated her as a person in her own right. She would tease him about Helen, just as he would tease her about Richard, yet she didn’t want him hurt. But there was something about Helen she didn’t like.

“Is that likely to happen?”

“It’s hard to say,” Richard admitted. “Helen grew up a lot, before she chose to stay, but … she’s still a Burghley, with all the obligations to her family …”

He shook his head, his voice trailing off. “You know she was betrothed to Brains?”

Janet felt sick. The idea of having her marriage arranged for her was horrific, all the more so if the arrangements had been made when she was a child. She knew girls who had been through arranged marriages and none had been really happy, yet there had been no way to escape without losing their entire families once and for all. The families might not force the two to wed – perish the thought – but they’d bring enormous pressure on the couple to marry and disown anyone who refused. And the thought of it happening here …

“What’ll happen if she says no?”

“I don’t know,” Richard said. His face darkened. “Her family will not be pleased. She might be blamed even if it is Brains who says no …”

He shook his head. “Most such matches involve mature couples, who find ways to come to terms with each other,” he added. “But Helen and Brains are too young for it.”

Janet winced. Steve deserved better. “Is there anything we can do about it?”

“I doubt it,” Richard said. “They’re old enough to refuse to honour the betrothal … the smart thing, I suspect, would be Brains putting an end to it. No one will risk disowning him. But who knows?”

“He’s your friend,” Janet said, quietly.

“He is,” Richard agreed. “But he’s also old enough to make his own decisions.”

Janet understood, better than she cared to admit. She had been free – on paper – back home, but she had never been allowed to make any real decisions. It had been partly because of her youth, yet also … because of when and where she’d been born and raised. There would have been consequences for stepping too far out of line, consequences that wouldn’t have been her fault and yet would have been blamed on her anyway. There was always someone willing to tut and say he got what he deserved for showing off, or she could expect no better when she wore revealing clothes … here, at least, she had a freedom she loved and yet wasn’t quite sure how to handle. And Brains …

Richard squeezed her shoulder. “Your brother is a mature young man,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

His lips twitched. “And you can teach him magic.”

Janet doubted Steve would need anything she could teach him. He had always been smarter than her, and far more technically inclined. “He already knows a great deal of magic.”

“Not like you,” Richard said. There was something in the way he said it that made her believe him, even though it was hard. “You have a very real talent for magic.”

Janet felt herself flush. She had never been good at anything, before she’d found herself in another world. It had been hard to study at St. Champions – the classes were too disruptive for her to learn anything – and pointless, besides. For all the chatter about students going to university, Janet didn’t know anyone who had. It was costly and anyone who did would have had to go into debt, a debt that might never be repaid. Even Steve …

She shook her head. “Will you …?”

It was hard to say the next words. “Will you come to bed with me? I mean” – she flushed, helplessly; she hadn’t meant it to sound like that – “not do anything, just sleep together?”

Richard nodded in understanding. “Yeah,” he said. “Mornings always come too soon.”

Janet looked at the windows. The sky was brightening steadily … it was morning. And yet she felt tired, her world having turned upside down again and again. She wondered if they shouldn’t bother with sleep, then reminded herself she needed it. They’d be going outside soon and who knew what would happen then?

“Let’s go,” she said. The idea of sharing a bed with someone, even Richard, was both attractive and terrifying. She told herself she needed to get used to it. “We’ll be woken far too soon.”

Chapter Four: Gatehouse, York, Now

Norris was dreaming.

He knew himself to be dreaming, even though there was a reality about the nightmare that was impossible to deny. He had gone to a school where his intelligence and genuine talent had finally won the respect and admiration of his peers, the respect and admiration he would have killed to get once – just once. There had been a girl who’d been interested in him as a person, not mocking him with her body or picking on him because he was harmless in a way the real monsters were not. He had had a bright future ahead of him, one he could shape as he pleased …

… And then he’d thrown it all away.

The howling void in the heart of his mind was tinged with hurt and regret. He moaned as a flash of pain shot through him, a dagger driven deep into the core of his very being. He’d fucked it up, like he always did; he’d trusted the wrong person, again, even though he had known it was dangerous to trust. He’d had his trust abused before, time and time again; why had he thought, despite all the evidence, that this time would be different? He shifted uncomfortably, the ghost of Norris2 screaming as he tried – again and again – to banish his other self from his thoughts. He’d played with fire and gotten burnt and the simple fact he had known he was playing with fire should have warned him, but he hadn’t listened to himself until it had been too late. Far too late. The shadow at the back of his mind grew teeth and claws, digging into his very core. He had fucked up and now … he was fucked. And not in a good way.

He retched, reality itself seeming to spin around him. He was drifting in a formless void, trapped in his own mind alone with his thoughts. He was lying on a bed … he groaned, again, as the terrible nameless feeling of wishing that something had really – really – never happened washed over him. Everything else in his life could be blamed on someone else, and rightly too, but not this. He had screwed himself, so thoroughly there was no going back. He had messed up his own life, thrown away the greatest opportunity he’d ever been offered … his life was over and it would never end. He knew he didn’t have the nerve to kill himself. He had thought about it before, time and time again, and yet he hadn’t been able to take that final step.

It wasn’t because he was brave enough to live. It was because he was too frightened to die.

Shame boiled through him, shame and resentment and self-hatred – driven by his own cowardice – that he knew he’d never leave behind. He’d been a fool to think he could be anything other than a tool, something to be used and then discarded when he’d outlived his usefulness. His existence was worthless. It was just a matter of time before he died, as unnoticed as he lived. Perhaps he should have been content to remain unnoticed … but then, he had never been unnoticed. He’d just been noticed as someone who could be picked on with impunity.

Don’t try to blame this on anyone else, his thoughts pointed out. They sounded like the one good teacher he’d known, the one who’d had to take early retirement after some parent had bitched and moaned about the man’s attempt to impose actual discipline on her sweet little angel. Never mind the angel had been a devil in disguise … it hadn’t even been a very good disguise. You did this to yourself.

“Wake up.”

Reality skewed to the right, then to the left, then finally snapped into place. Norris felt as if he had fallen from a great height, back into his body … a body that ached painfully as he opened his eyes. He wanted to believe – really he did – that it had just been a dream, or a nightmare, but the chamber looked too mystical to be a local hospital. Perhaps someone had slipped him a mickey … no, that wasn’t likely. There were no shortage of teenage druggies at St. Champions – who boasted of connections they probably didn’t have – but none would waste a street drug on him. It wasn’t as if he were a beautiful girl, who could be drugged and then fucked and then left unsure what had really happened …

He retched, again. It was disgusting.

“I need to ask you some questions,” a calm voice said. It spoke with authority, the absolute conviction the speaker could issue orders and expect them to be obeyed. Norris hadn’t heard anyone speak like that until he’d met Cecil Burghley and then … “I would prefer not to force you to talk, but I will if there is no other choice.”

Norris forced himself to look up. The light was too bright, and it sent more daggers of pain stabbing into his mind, but he could still see the Merlin standing beside his bed. The air was heavy, like an approaching thunderstorm … magic. It was real. It had all been real. He’d had the chance to make something of himself and he’d thrown it away … tears prickled in his eyes, the urge to cry almost overpowering. He was going to be kicked out … it struck him, suddenly, that being kicked out might be the best possible outcome. He’d seen magic … he might face a fate worse than death. Or …

The Merlin leaned over him. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Norris said. The gaping hole at the heart of his mind was howling. “I …”

He swallowed, hard, as a memory surfaced. “It wasn’t Marian’s fault,” he said. “Please. Don’t blame her for anything …”

Norris was surprised at himself. It was hard to fall on his own sword – he was too much of a coward to sacrifice himself for someone else, normally – and yet, he was appalled at himself. At Norris2. The other personality might have grown into a separate entity, but he had still grown out of Norris himself. Norris didn’t want to think about what Norris2 had done, or concede he might do the same if he were unfettered by cowardice and any sense of human decency, yet … he had to admit he might have crossed the line. If he could … his throat was suddenly very dry. Norris2 had been him, shorn of everything that had held him back. How far would he go, if he thought he could get away with it.

Most men would commit rape, if they thought they could escape punishment, his thoughts pointed out. You are no better.

He gritted his teeth. He liked to think he had a sense of morality, but in truth his morality was more flexible than he cared to admit, even to himself. He called himself a pacifist … yet he was weak, unable to defend himself. He was harmless … he looked away, unable to even look at the older man for a second longer. It was the final bitter joke, in the nightmare his life had become … that he’d made it. He’d always assumed the bullies would eventually piss off someone with actual power, someone who would finally hold them to account for their shit, yet instead it had been him who was facing accountability …

And you deserve it, his thoughts pointed out. Don’t you.

“You cast enslavement spells on Marian,” the Merlin said. “We would not hold her accountable for her actions, while under the spell.”

His voice hardened. “But what are we to do with you?”

Norris had no answer. He knew what he deserved.

“You were sent into our school to spy on us,” the Merlin continued. “You signed up, like any other student, and joined classes … and did very well. You had very real promise; you could have gone far, if you had been one of us. And then you betrayed us. Why?”

Be honest, Norris’s thoughts said. You won’t get a second chance.

Norris took a long breath, and started to talk. He wasn’t sure if he was under a spell to make him talkative, or if he was hoping that telling the truth would get him off the hook, or if he just wanted to unburden himself before facing his end with dignity. Or as much dignity as he could muster. He went through everything, from his first magical lessons to the trap he’d set for Colin, and how he’d edited his own mind to overcome the fear that had kept him from striking down the wretched bully. The Merlin showed no visible reaction as Norris told him how he’d fled St. Champions – it seemed a lifetime ago, back when the world had made sense – and how he’d been caught by Cecil Burghley, who had offered him a job. And …

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said. “It … it was the chance of a lifetime.”

“A fairly common delusion,” the Merlin said.

Norris flushed as he went through the rest of the story. His meeting with Marian – and their growing friendship. His first lessons. His discovery that he was actually good at it. His refusal to help Cecil Burghley any further … and his horror at discovering, too late, that Norris2 was a real person in his own right, ready and able to take over Norris’s mind and turn him into a puppet. And how he’d enchanted Marian and carried out the ritual in Gatehouse, opening the portal for invasion … his memories were fragmented at that point, images of reality – and unreality – so badly jumbled he couldn’t have sworn what had actually happened, or in what order. Richard had been there, Richard and Janet and Brains and a blonde girl … he thought. He wasn’t sure of anything now …

… And the next thing he recalled was being trapped in his own mind.

“I see,” the Merlin said, when he’d finished. “And why did you follow Lord Burghley so willingly?”

Norris felt a hot flash of anger. The Merlin didn’t understand. How could he? The Merlin was a man of great power; Norris was a youth of no power. The Merlin enjoyed the respect and admiration of his entire society; Norris was everyone’s punching bag. He would have done anything for protection, even signed up with the Death Eaters … or the Nazis. If they’d offered him safety, in exchange for committing himself to the shitty cause …

“It was the only chance I had,” he mumbled, finally. Cecil Burghley hadn’t just impressed him. He’d had the sort of power and authority Norris wanted for himself. “Where else could I go?”

“You could have stayed with us,” the Merlin pointed out.

His words made Norris’s heart clench. “I was a spy,” he said. “Would you have been forgiving, if I had come to you? Would you have …?”

He swallowed, hard. “I thought I could hide within your society, but he had other ideas …”

His heart sank. The deception would have been discovered, eventually. There would have been questions, questions he couldn’t answer … he didn’t even know enough to tell convincing lies. He allowed himself to entertain the fantasy, just for a moment, of marrying Marian and joining her family, but surely her parents would have asked a few questions about his family before agreeing to the match. The locals put more importance on family than the folks back home, parents actually interested in supporting their children and their children looking after them when they grew old and frail. He wondered, numbly, how he would have solved that problem, then shook his head in dismay. It was never going to happen. Marian would never want to see him again. And who could blame her?

Norris2 didn’t do everything, his thoughts mocked. You can’t blame it all on him.

“So it would seem,” the Merlin said. “Do you know what happened?”

Norris shook his head. “They were planning to invade. If you are here … I take it that didn’t happen?”

“No,” the Merlin said. “The two worlds merged.”

“What?” Norris thought, for a second, that he’d misheard. “They merged?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but … close enough,” the Merlin said. “I would have preferred to leave you sleeping a bit longer, to be honest, so you’d have more time to recover, yet … we needed to know what you knew. Right now, both worlds are waking up to discover they’re not alone. It won’t be long before the chaos starts.”

Norris swallowed. “Was it my fault?”

“You certainly played a role in making it happen,” the Merlin said, coolly.

Norris shivered, feeling as if someone had walked over his grave. The world had changed … he had wanted to make a name for himself, he reflected sourly, but not like this. If he …

He swallowed, hard. “What now? What’s going to happen to me?”

The Merlin met his eyes, evenly. “What do you think should happen to you?”

Norris looked away. The bitterness of old insisted that nothing should happen to him. He hadn’t been responsible for anything. But the new awareness pointed out, again and again, that he’d let himself be used, that he really had played a role in the whole disaster. He didn’t want to say it, yet … he knew he should be in jail. Or worse.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally. “It’s a mess.”

“Yes, it is.”

Norris flushed. His voice rose. “What do you expect me to say? I fucked up. I ruined my life – again – and I ruined everyone else’s life and …”

It was hard not to scream in frustration. It had been easier back home. He might have been everyone’s favourite whipping boy, but at least he’d known it wasn’t his fault. Here … it had been his fault. And the fact he’d been too cowardly to admit what he’d been doing …

“I have an offer for you,” the Merlin said. “You can help us to understand the magic developments in OldeWorld. I assume you were taught the basics?”

“Yes,” Norris said.

“You can help us do that, and assist us in making peaceful contact with OldeWorld,” the Merlin said. “In exchange, we will allow you to remain here as one of our citizens, on a more honest basis.”

Norris blinked. “You would do that for me?”

“You’re not the first person to mess up their life to the point they think they can’t go on,” the Merlin told him. “And if you work hard, you won’t be the first to repair the damage and build a new life for yourself.”

He met Norris’s eyes, again. “Understand, it won’t be easy. Our society is based on trust and you, through your actions, have damaged the trust that holds us together. We extended that trust to you, as we did to all new students, and you abused it. You will have to work long and hard to earn our trust, and some will never trust you again.”

Norris nodded. “Like Marian.”

“Quite,” the Merlin agreed. “And when she wakes, you need to talk to her.”

“I can’t,” Norris said. The thought was terrifying. She would hate him. How could she not? “What can I tell her?”

“The truth?” The Merlin leaned forward. “You owe her an explanation, and more.”

He sighed. “You will also attend therapy sessions, where you will talk to our mind-healers and hopefully come to terms with your issues. You were manipulated so easily, at least in part, because you didn’t know yourself as well as you should. This appears to be a common problem in OldeWorld, as Janet appears to have the same issue. You will attempt to deal with it.”

“I can’t,” Norris said. He’d made the mistake of being too open to a school counsellor once. Never again. The asshole hadn’t kept the Hippocratic Oath. There was no point in opening up to someone if his words would simply wind up being used against him. “It would be …”

“You have to come to terms with yourself, before you can improve,” the Merlin said. There was no give in his tone, no hint there was any way to avoid the session. “The mind-healers are sworn to secrecy, and they will not share anything you tell them, but they will force you to talk through your issues and overcome them.”

Norris groaned. The idea of opening himself to someone else was just … terrifying. But he wasn’t being given a choice. He knew he was lucky he wasn’t being kicked out on his ass, or turned into a frog and dumped in the nearest pond, or simply being put in front of a wall and shot. Spies could be legally shot, if he recalled correctly, and it was unlikely anyone back home would show mercy to a spy. Here … he wasn’t sure if he was being given a chance because they needed to know what he knew, or compassion, but it didn’t matter. There wouldn’t be a third chance.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“Good.” The Merlin stepped back. “The healers will tend to you, then you’ll be escorted to Richard and Brains. I suggest you take full advantage of this opportunity. If you do anything to suggest we were unwise to give you a chance to redeem yourself, you will be released into your own world. Or what’s left of it.”

Norris winced. It didn’t sound like a terrible threat. But it was.

“I understand,” he said. It was hard not to bow and scrape. The Merlin was … Norris hated himself for his envy, for the urge to do everything the man of authority wanted. “I won’t let you down.”

“See that you don’t,” the Merlin said. “Our pity and compassion has its limits.”

Chapter Five: London, Now

Polly tried to relax as the private jet landed at RAF Northholt.

It wasn’t easy. It was early morning and her smartphone was already pinging constantly as she – and her subordinates – tried to keep up with the rapidly-changing situation. They’d been lucky that something had clearly been happening, after the gate had reopened for the first time in centuries, and they’d deployed more monitors to keep an eye on the supernatural websites – as well as the places of ancient power, which still showed flickers of wild magic from time to time – but the system was collapsing under the sheer weight of reports from right across the country. They’d been lucky, she supposed, that the event had happened at night, and that the government had put post-COVID EMP protocols into place, yet … she shook her head. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t long before it dawned on the world that it was more than just an EMP.

The aircraft landed neatly, the pilot steering his craft towards the hangar gates. A black car was already waiting, positioned neatly by the hangar itself. Northholt handed dozens of VIPs, from government ministers flying in and out of London to wealthy and powerful individuals who didn’t want to pass through Heathrow or Gatwick, and the security precautions that made commercial flying such a nightmare were nowhere in evidence. Polly wasn’t sure if she should be relieved about the lack of security officers pawing through her case or deeply worried, all too aware that the lack of precautions would be disastrous if a single terrorist slipped through the net. She knew everyone who used the airfield was vetted – at least in theory – but she’d worked for Lord Burghley long enough to know no vetting system was perfect. The stewardess nodded politely to them as the aircraft came to a halt, her eyes flickering oddly over Lord Burghley. She didn’t know what was wrong with him – he seemed perfectly normal, to the naked eye – but her instincts were telling her something wasn’t quite right. Polly stood, collected her case, and followed her boss down the steps to the car. The driver hopped out, opened the door, then closed it after they took their seats. A handful of police outriders fell in around them as they drive out of the gate and onto the motorway, heading into London. Polly felt oddly self-conscious. A police escort was rarely good news.

She leaned back in her chair as her smartphone pinged again, another report popping into her inbox. A sighting of something in the waters of Loch Ness … the Brotherhood had always known there was something in the loch, the remnants of creatures generally considered to be extinct, but most reports were little better than misidentifications, if not outright lies. Now … she swallowed hard, noting that an entire hotel of tourists had seen the beast. There was no point in trying to cover it up … she shook her head. The reports of supernatural encounters were coming in from everywhere, from strange lights to buildings that really shouldn’t have been there. The cover up was dead before it had even gotten off the ground.

The streets were weirdly quiet, as they drove towards Ten Downing Street. London rarely slept, but now there were only a handful of civilians on the streets … the majority, thankfully, following government advice to remain indoors, leaving the streets clear for emergency personnel, at least for the moment. That would change, Polly was sure, once the first shock was over, but … she swallowed, hard, as she saw the London skyline come into view. There were buildings there that hadn’t been, only a few short hours ago. It was one thing to see a dragon or a woman flying on a broomstick, and assume that one had simply drunk too much, but quite another to see a building that had come out of nowhere. The sense of unreality grew stronger as they neared the centre of the city, spotting a handful of alleyways that appeared to go in directions her mind couldn’t follow and buildings that looked ethereal, almost ghostly. Something moved overhead … she looked up, hoping it was a bird or a plane … whatever it was, it was gone before she could get a clear look at it. And yet …

There were more guards – armed policemen and soldiers – surrounding Downing Street. It felt wrong to see them on the streets of Britain, even as the gates opened to allow the car to drive onto the street and park in front of the Prime Minister’s residence. Polly had spent most of her working life in the company of the great and the good, including some people who were so rich and powerful they were never featured on the lists of the insanely wealthy, but she still felt uneasy on Downing Street. Perhaps it was the magic in the air, rooted in the country’s ancient past; wards cast, she’d been told, to protect the Mother of Parliaments from Nazi occultists. Or perhaps it was the simple awareness that the world had changed overnight. She couldn’t help thinking the soldiers looked jumpy, their weapons swinging from side to side as they watched for trouble. It felt as if they were going to be attacked at any moment.

A young man in a suit met them at the door and escorted them down a corridor and up a flight of stairs. Polly had known Ten Downing Street was an office – and that all the buildings on the street had been merged together long ago – but it was still weirdly disconcerting to see it in person. Lord Burghley had once commented that the British State was an iceberg – ninety percent of government was always below the surface, pretending it didn’t exist – and Polly was starting to see what he meant. It was more than just the secret history, truths that had been erased from public awareness long ago. It was a government that tried to pretend it was still a civilian enterprise, even though the civilians had been replaced by the elite long ago.

If the civilians had ever been there in the first place, she thought. Very few of Britain’s leaders had ever been truly civilian, truly common, and they’d lost the habit of thinking of themselves as anything other than elite shortly after being elected into power. The government is more beholden to special interests than it is to its own people.

She kept her face carefully blank as they were shown into the Prime Minister’s office. It was simple and elegant, the only real decoration being a large portrait of the king. The Prime Minister himself looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink. Polly knew enough about emergency procedures to guess he’d been yanked out of bed and whisked to a government bunker, the moment all hell had broken loose, then forced to confront the horrific prospect of the country being under nuclear attack. She knew it wasn’t that bad, but …

“Lord Burghley,” the Prime Minister said, tiredly. “Thank you for coming.”

Cecil Burghley bowed politely, as if he’d been summoned rather than asking for the meeting himself. Polly knew it hadn’t just been her who had been putting pressure on the PM to accede to the meeting. The Brotherhood – and the rest of the government elite – had been putting the pressure on too, calling on protocols that  hadn’t been used since the Falklands War and yet remained on the books. She wondered, numbly, just how harried the PM had to be feeling, after so many people had called him. And what they might have told him …

Churchill was the last PM to be aware of magic, and only because the Nazis were experimenting with magic themselves, she reminded herself. After that, the knowledge was kept from the elected politicians. They couldn’t be trusted with it.

“Prime Minister,” Lord Burghley said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

He sat, in a comfortable chair. Polly stood behind him – she knew her place – and studied the PM thoughtfully. He really did look tired, a middle-aged man who was clearly going prematurely grey. His eyes barely lingered on her, dismissing her as nothing more than a secretary … he didn’t even look at how her outfit had been carefully tailored to show off her curves without revealing any bare skin below the collar. Polly wasn’t too put out. She had worked with enough powerful men to know too many of them thought every young woman should be honoured, when they made sexual advances. Lord Burghley hadn’t made any attempt to get her into bed – it was one of the reasons she respected him – and the PM seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Or perhaps he simply didn’t have time. She had no idea how John Major had managed to have an affair while in office. There was simply too much to do.

“I do not have time to beat around the bush,” the PM said, bluntly. “Why did you request this meeting?”

Lord Burghley spoke with calm authority. “To summarise a long story, Prime Minister, I represent a government department that studies supernatural phenomena. It has been …”

The PM cut him off. He was too tired to be polite. “A Ministry of Magic? Why are you wasting my time?”

Polly winced at his tone, although she didn’t really blame him. Magic was – had been – astonishingly rare, and rarer still because few had both the gift and the inclination to spend years studying and practicing, shaping their minds to use what little magic remained in the mundane world. The Brotherhood had it easier, she supposed, because they’d seen proof magic existed – rather than fairy tales and movies with unconvincing special effects – but even they had problems recruiting newcomers. The PM knew nothing about it. Why would he believe them without proof?

“I understand your scepticism,” Lord Burghley said. He held out a hand, palm upright. A spark of magic flared into life, a flame blossoming on his bare skin. “As you can see, magic is very real.”

The PM stared at him for a long moment. He’d heard the reports – as many as Polly, if not more – and he clearly knew something was happening, but what? The magic could have been a trick, the flame a product of advanced technology rather than magic, yet there was something about it that felt real in a manner that could not be denied. Polly recalled the first time she’d seen magic, years ago …

“Explain,” the PM ordered, finally.

“Centuries ago, the magic started to leach out of this world,” Lord Burghley said. “Some magicians went with it, into a whole new world of magic. Others stayed behind, including my ancestors. They adapted to the new state of magic, refining their techniques as the power faded away. It was thought that the magic would eventually vanish completely. Instead, the power level remained low … but stable.”

He paused. “We did what we could to keep occult knowledge out of the mainstream. Unfortunately, we were unsuccessful. Many parties sought ways to boost what little magic they had remaining, throwing human decency aside in their quest for power. The Nazis, for example, performed a series of mass human sacrifices, brute-forcing their way to immense magical power. We were unable to perform such sacrifices ourselves, so we developed techniques that were more subtle, able to deflect their raw power and eventually redirect it onto their heads instead. That was the last time anyone engaged in open magical war.”

The PM said nothing for a long moment. “And all of this was covered up?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Lord Burghley said. “It helped that very few believed it.”

“I see.” The PM steepled his fingers. “And what does that have to do with what is happening now?”

Lord Burghley leaned forward. “A comedy of errors, Prime Minister. We believed the gates between our world and the magical haven were closed, and would remain so permanently. We kept an eye on their locations, from a safe distance, but as the years turned into decades and the decades turned into centuries we grew complacent. There was no reason to think there would be any further contact, until there was. A trio of magicians from the other world appeared in our world, in York, and vanished before we could mobilise and catch them. It rapidly became clear that they were teaching magic to locals, without any sense of responsibility. They were putting loaded guns in the hands of children.

“We tried to stop them. We were unsuccessful, but we were able to find a way to send an agent back into their world. Their culture has developed in ways that are inherently threatening to ours – they have certainly proven they are willing to meddle – and there was a clash that resulted in the two worlds merging back together. The reports of supernatural creatures, Prime Minister, is just the tip of the iceberg. Their entire world has been merged with ours.”

Polly kept her face blank as the PM glanced at her. Lord Burghley’s story was mostly true – she had to admire how he’d woven a handful of careful lies into the tale – and neatly covered up the details he didn’t want to share, including the uncomfortable fact that it was the Brotherhood that had been planning to invade Mystic Albion. She had no idea what orders her boss had been issuing, while she’d been arranging the meeting, but she was fairly certain he’d been covering up the truth and burying the evidence so deeply it would never be found.

“It is vitally important we take stern measures to stem the flow of magic before it is too late,” Lord Burghley said. The insistence in his voice was almost hypnotic. “This is a very real threat to the entire country.”

The PM looked back at him. “In what way?”

Lord Burghley twitched. “First, magic is not a tool. In many ways, giving a child a loaded gun would be safer. Magic responds to the caster’s innermost thoughts and feelings, making things happen … seemingly at random, but in reality in response to their emotions. How many people wish things they would never really want to happen, yet … magic can make them happen before they realise they don’t want it to happen at all. How many people out there” – he waved a hand at the wall – “think the country would be better off if all the politicians died horribly? It could happen, if enough people wish it.

“Second, the influx of magical creatures means an influx of entities that don’t follow human laws and can and will trap, or kill, humans if they get too close. Don’t think about Disney’s Tinkerbell, but … fairies that can kidnap or transform or kill humans, entities that have more in common with Maleficent – the cartoon Maleficent – than the sweet and harmless Tinkerbell.”

He paused. “And third, there will be an influx of magical humans, people from a very different society to ours. Some will regard them as angels, others as devils; they’ll regard us, I am sure, in the same way. We didn’t have a proper chance to interrogate the newcomers, but it is clear they had no regard for our society and no hesitation in trying to change it to suit themselves. It is just a matter of time until they start doing it on a larger scale, with the enthusiastic compliance of many of our own people, who think magic is the answer to all their problems and don’t realise – until it is far too late – that it will only make their problems worse. This is like” – he made a show of looking for an analogy – “the French Government leaving France for Britain, then trying to rule in Britain. We cannot tolerate an alternate government on our soil, Prime Minister, and that is exactly what we will be facing.”

“So you say,” the PM said. He stared at his hands, clearly looking for the light at the end of the tunnel and praying it wasn’t an oncoming train. “You don’t know it’ll go that way.”

“Remember all those school shootings in America?” Lord Burghley leaned forward, his voice grim. “Someone gets bullied, so they get a gun and come to the school and open fire … it’s going to be like that, again and again, as magical knowledge spreads. We have to get ahead of it now, Prime Minister, or all hell will break lose. We have to act fast.”

The Prime Minister said nothing for a long moment. Polly eyed him, wondering what he was thinking. Anyone with a background in politics would know to be wary of someone pushing them into taking immediate action – it was rarely a good sign – but the crisis wasn’t something that could be left to fester. The country was no longer in bed, unaware of the disaster unfolding around them. They might not know what was going on – not everywhere in the mundane world coincided with somewhere in the magical world – but they knew something was wrong. Lord Burghley was right. They had to get ahead of it now, before it was too late.

“It’s magic,” the PM said. He sounded like a man who wanted to deny everything he’d heard, including the evidence of his own eyes. Polly understood, better than she cared to admit. It hadn’t been easy to admit magic existed, back when the world had made sense. And she didn’t have to worry about governing a whole country. “What can we do about it?”

“We have magic too, Prime Minister,” Lord Burghley said. “We beat the Nazis. We can beat our long-lost cousins too.”

“We’ll try a diplomatic solution first,” the PM said. “These people are not Nazis.”

“No,” Lord Burghley agreed. “With their knowledge of magic, including techniques lost for centuries, and their willingness to meddle, they could easily be worse.”

Chapter Six: Gatehouse, York, Now

“I hope you had a good nap,” Steve said, as Helen joined him in the entrance hall. “Are you ready?”

Helen nodded, curtly. She had slept, using a spell to cram ten hours of sleep into a single hour, and then eaten a good breakfast before making her way down to the hall. It wasn’t quite following the Merlin’s orders, but she – they – had something they needed to attend to before it was too late. She felt guilty about not remembering earlier, even though she had been rather occupied. It was the sort of oversight she’d hated in her mother, back when the world had made sense. The thought of making the same mistake herself was embarrassing.

The entrance hall was empty, the doors sealed against intruders who had no link to the school’s protective charms. Helen pushed the smaller door opened and stopped in shock, staring at the drab grey mundane estate … she had known it was there, from the moment she had stood in the Merlin’s office, but seeing it here brought her face to face with a reality she could no longer deny. It had been bad enough to be stranded in the mundane world, but …

She took a step forward, feeling as if she were teetering on the brink of madness. Gatehouse towered over York, a building so immense the heights were lost within the clouds, juxtaposed oddly with what remained of St. Champions. The mundane school was effectively gone, along with the ruined sports field and outer buildings that did not, as far as she’d been able to tell, serve any useful purpose. A strange flicker of discontentment ran through her as she raised her eyes and peered into the mundane world, seeing homes and shops that had been evacuated by the rogue magicians after Richard and Brains had escaped OldeWorld, taking Janet with them. It struck her, suddenly, that all the evidence of the rogue magician’s plans had been destroyed, crushed to a pulp under the sheer weight of Gatehouse. She hoped that wouldn’t come back to bite them, sooner or later.

Steve swayed on his feet, as if he were on the verge of falling over. Helen understood, better than she cared to admit. It had been hard to wrap her head around the cold reality of OldeWorld and she, at least, had had the advantage of not seeing aspects of her world mingled with the other. Steve had seen magic – of course – but he hadn’t seen the reality of Mystic Albion until now, let alone seen the two worlds blended together. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. The touch seemed to calm him. Her mother would have been irked at the display of affection, but she found it hard to care.

“This way,” Steve said. His voice was rough, unsteady. “Perhaps if we walk far enough …”

His voice trailed off as they started to walk. Helen gritted her teeth, her magic twisting around her. The mundane world felt like a nightmare, the shadows growing and lengthening and things flickering at the corner of her eyes, things that refused to come into the light when she looked at them. The air felt cold and hard, yet tainted with magic and a sensation that something was biding its time, waiting to happen. It felt more like a walk through a high-magic zone, than the magicless OldeWorld. She tested a simple spell carefully, just to make sure she still had her power. She wouldn’t be defenceless this time.

“We can track down your mother,” she said, softly. The bloodlink should have worked even without access to her full power, and with it tracking her down would be a doddle. “If she’s fine …”

And alive, her thoughts added. Steve and Janet’s mother had given birth to two magicians. Helen wasn’t sure the rogue magicians would have left her alone, after it became clear that Janet had gone into Mystic Albion and Steve had joined Helen on the run. If they left her in peace, it might be because they intended to use her as bait.

She put the thought aside as they walked through the deserted estate and neared the barricades they’d slipped through, only a few short hours ago. There was no sign of the policeman she’d seen before, or any night watchmen; the doors were hanging open, allowing her to pass through without impediment. She felt her eyes narrow as she cast a simple concealment spell, making it hard – almost impossible – for anyone to see her with their naked eyes. She wasn’t sure what would happen if someone watched them through a CCTV camera. The spell might conceal them … she shook her head. The sooner they found out, the better.

“They must have fled,” Steve said. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “If they looked up and saw Gatehouse …”

Helen looked back. Gatehouse was still looming over the city, dwarfing the drab grey buildings of OldeWorld. The locals would have to be blind to miss it. Perhaps the rogues had all fled, or perhaps they’d been killed in the crossfire as the two worlds merged into one. She tried not to think about what might have happened, if they’d continued their human sacrifice as the magic spread from one world into the other. The only proof they hadn’t, she supposed, was that everyone was still alive. A lone human sacrifice would release a vast amount of energy and the rogues had been sacrificing dozens, perhaps hundreds, of innocent victims. If they tried that again, not realising the danger … they might accidentally crack the planet in half.

Perhaps they’re all dead, she thought, with a flicker of vindictiveness. Her relative – her very distant relative – had vanished … she wanted to believe he was dead, although her instincts insisted he was very much alive. Her family had a reputation for being stubborn, and for being willing to do whatever it took to accomplish their aims, and she had to admit Cecil Burghley was just as much as Burghley as herself. Or her mother. They’re still out there, somewhere.

The sense of unreality grew stronger as they passed through the barricade and walked down the road to where they’d parked the handful of camper vans. The streets were deserted, the only signs of life – human life – a handful of eyes peeking from behind curtains. There were no visible threats, as far as she could tell, but she was sure – at a very primal level – that she was being watched, by creatures that were very far from human. There were things in Mystic Albion, supernatural creatures that were deeply enmeshed in magic, that had never been properly catalogued. Others were known all too well, and avoided where possible. If they were free now, it was only a matter of time until they started to hunt.

And no one in OldeWorld knows how to protect themselves, she thought, numbly. They’ll be easy prey.

Steve tapped on the nearest camper van. There was a long chilling pause, just long enough for Helen to wonder if something had gone horrifically wrong, then the curtain was drawn back to reveal Leesa’s nervous face. Helen felt another pang of guilt, kicking herself for leaving the new – and unpractised – magicians in horrific danger, even though she hadn’t known just how dangerous it was going to be. She’d expected to stop a ritual or die trying, not watch helplessly as two worlds became one. Leesa and the rest might have become the first victims, as the supernatural spread into the mundane world. She hoped to hell they hadn’t tried any magic. They’d trained for casting spells in a low-magic environment, not a high-magic zone.

“Helen,” Leesa said. “What happened?”

“The radio is spouting nonsense,” Rudolf added. He looked relieved to see her, if not Steve. “They’re saying the world is being invaded by dragons?”

“And ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night,” Steve said, grimly. “The two worlds have merged into one.”

Leesa looked uneasy. “What does that mean?”

“It means that everyone will be using magic,” Rudolf predicted. “Right?”

“Perhaps,” Helen said. “They certainly should be able to use magic.”

She frowned, wondering if that was actually true. She hadn’t known anyone who had no ability to use magic, but the entire population of Mystic Albion was descended from magic users. There were some kinds of magic you couldn’t use unless you had a talent for it, and others that were open to anyone who was willing to pay the price. Or was that actually true? Perhaps you needed a certain level of magic to make even those kind of magics work … she didn’t know. She had been cautioned, more than once, that experimenting with such magics rarely led to a long life.

“And what,” Leesa said, “is that?”

She pointed her finger at a cluster of overflowing bins, resting by the kerbside. Helen’s lips wrinkled in disgust. The garbagemen hadn’t come calling for weeks, perhaps months, and the debris was piled high, the stench drifting through the air to strike her notices. Something was shifting, something moving through the pile of rubbish and days-old food, something her eyes refused to see properly. She had flashes – inhuman eyes, inhuman teeth – that refused to coalesce into something she could comprehend. She had no idea what it was, but her instincts were telling her to run.

“Get the engine started,” she ordered, curtly. If there was one good thing about the abandoned barricade, it was that she could drive the convoy up to Gatehouse and no one would be able to bar their way. She wasn’t sure if the Merlin would be pleased to see the new students or not, but they needed to be given proper instruction as quickly as possible, before they tried to cast a spell. “And hurry!”

Leesa hurried to obey, climbing into the front seat while Helen and Steve scrambled into the back of the camper van. Rudolf, Leesa, and three of their friends had been crammed together  - Helen winced inwardly, all too aware they had to have been too close for comfort. She’d never liked sharing a dorm, or even a bedroom, as a younger girl and those rooms had been far larger than the camper van. She kept a wary eye on the rubbish bins as Leesa started the engine, while Steve booted up his laptop and Rudolf closed the door behind them. The … thing … whatever it was, was getting closer. She hoped it would respect the closed door. Most supernatural entities couldn’t enter a confined space unless they were invited – and leaving a door open constituted an invite – but there were exceptions. She wished Richard was with them, or Brains. They could set up wards to keep supernatural vermin at a safe distance. Her magic didn’t lend itself to such charms.

You really should have studied harder, her thoughts pointed out. The tone was very much like her mother’s. If you hadn’t relied so much on your inherent power, you wouldn’t have been rendered powerless when you fell through the gate.

She winced, inwardly, as the van started to move. It was never easy to come to terms with your own failings, all the more so when they wouldn’t have been failings if something completely unexpected hadn’t happened. There had been no way to render her powerless in Mystic Albion, certainly not completely powerless … she cursed herself under her breath, all too aware of how badly she’d treated Richard. She’d been luckier than she deserved, when they’d fallen through the gate. Richard’s magic had been far inferior to hers in Mystic Albion, but in OldeWorld he could have laid her out with a single punch. Or worse. If he hadn’t been such a decent person …

You owe him an apology, her thoughts reminded her. And you need to tell your mother to mind her own business.

Rudolf caught her arm. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Helen said. The rubbish bins were shifting now, as if the entity was using them for cover. She had the uneasy impression of a hermit crab moving into an abandoned shell and wondered, suddenly, how many other supernatural creatures were going to find niches in the mundane world. Too many, she thought. “It could be anything.”

The van kept moving, turning the corner and leaving the unknown entity behind. Helen hoped – prayed – it would be content with rubbish, rather than praying on unsuspecting humans. She doubted it … the sense of being watched was only growing stronger, even as they passed through the barricade and drove towards Gatehouse. Her head hurt as she looked at the towering school, her perspective shifting painfully. Gatehouse was both expansive and yet confined to a relatively small patch of land. It didn’t quite make sense.

“Park outside,” Helen directed. “We’ll go in through the side door.”

Leesa stared at her. “What is this place?”

Steve laughed. “Hogwarts.”

“It’s a school for magicians,” Helen said, giving Steve a sharp look. She’d read the Harry Potter books and noted everything the writer had gotten wrong, from the grossly incapable headmaster to the willingness to tolerate bullying – a form of dark magic in its own right – and a magic system that bore little resemblance to reality. “Don’t let yourself believe everything you read. Gatehouse has nothing in common with Hogwarts.”

“Apart from being a school for magicians, and kids flying broomsticks, and a few hundred other things,” Steve teased. “Right?”

Helen flushed. “It isn’t Hogwarts.”

Leesa looked back. “Will they treat us as muggleborns?”

“It isn’t Hogwarts,” Helen repeated. The question bothered her. She had no idea how Janet had been treated, although she’d had Richard and Brains to look after her. Janet would have been ignorant of life in Mystic Albion, lacking the knowledge every normal student took for granted; worse, she would have been misled by Harry Potter and The Worst Witch and Schooled in Magic and every other magic school book she’d read. “And they’ll give you a fair chance to prove yourself.”

She paused. “But you will have a great deal to unlearn.”

The air felt odd as they stepped out of the van, the two realities brushing together in a manner that disconcerted her. There was no sign of the endless forest that should have surrounded Gatehouse … she wondered, numbly, what had happened to it. The high-magic zone should have been unfolded onto OldeWorld too, right? Had it unfolded somewhere else or … or what? She didn’t know. It occurred to her, too late, to wonder if Gatehouse was the only patch of land that had been unfolded onto OldeWorld. But then, there was at least one supernatural creature loose on Earth.

She led the way through the side door and stopped, dead. The Merlin was standing there, looking thoroughly displeased. She heard Leesa gasp behind her and scowled inwardly, wishing she’d thought to tell the older man where she was going. To her, he wasn’t that threatening; to them, he was a potential threat, all the more so because they had no way to know just how dangerous he could be. For all they knew, naughty students were transformed into toads and dissected in biology class.

Which they’re not, Helen thought, tiredly. The Merlin had more power than any OldeWorld headmaster – he didn’t have to answer to a horde of educational bureaucrats who had never taught a class, nor had any real understanding of the difficulties faced by modern educators – but there were limits. The worst he can do is expel me.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the Merlin said, “but didn’t I say something about reporting to me when you woke?”

“Yes, sir,” Helen said. “However, I needed to collect my friends and allies before something happened.”

The Merlin eyed her for a long moment, then let his gaze drift over the newcomers. He wasn’t an unreasonable man, and he knew the dangers of letting inexperienced students practice magic without proper supervision, but she didn’t blame him for being annoyed. She had forgotten to mention Leesa and the rest of the gang earlier … she supposed she had a reasonable excuse, now that the two worlds had merged into one, yet – for him – it was just another complication. She wasn’t even sure if he was in touch with the princesses. Helen certainly hadn’t received any messages from her mother, demanding her immediate return …

“I see,” the Merlin said, finally. “Show them to the dorms … Dorm Nine, I think. We’ll arrange basic education shortly, once we work out how to make contact with the other government. And the rest of our world.”

Helen nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. She’d have to run through a basic safety outline, and caution them not to use magic outside a properly warded chamber. It would be all too easy for them to seriously hurt themselves, or someone else. “There’s another issue …”

The Merlin met her eyes. “And that is?”

“We should try to look for Janet and Steve’s mother,” Helen said. “If she’s in enemy hands …”

“We’ll see,” the Merlin said, vaguely. Helen suspected that meant he’d arrange for someone else to handle the matter, although she was probably the best qualified. “For the moment, you need to tend to your friends.”

Helen nodded, although she knew she hadn’t heard the end of it. She had disobeyed instructions, even though she had had good cause. She’d probably wind up being scolded or … she hoped, deep inside, that her mother never heard what she’d done. Showing loyalty to one’s clients was highly commendable, but putting one’s own position at risk was not. It could end very badly, if her mother decided she’d done the wrong thing.

“I will,” she promised. She owed Leesa and the others that much and more. “And afterwards …”

“Stay here,” the Merlin said, firmly. “We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Seven: York, Now

Janet felt … uneasy … as she stepped out of Gatehouse.

It was hard, almost impossible, to put her feelings into words. She had known she was doomed to a life on the estate, unless one of Steve’s money-making schemes actually made a great deal of money, and she had retreated into fantasy at least partly because the real world was unbearable. Coming face to face with a genuine fantasy world, and an opportunity to study magic for herself, had been a dream come true. She would have been quite happy – almost completely happy – to vanish into Mystic Albion and never think about the mundane world again. She would miss her mother and brother, she knew, but the opportunity was too great to forego. If she’d said no, would she ever get a second chance?

The estate felt … wrong, on so many levels. She’d had a handful of nightmares, during the first month in Mystic Albion, where she’d found herself back home and now … she was back home. But it felt … weird. The streets were deserted, the homes and shops evacuated and boarded up … it felt as if she were standing on a movie set, surrounded by cardboard buildings that looked real until she tried to open the doors or take an apple from the boxes outside the shop. She held up a hand, testing her magic gingerly, and breathed a sigh of relief as the spell took shape and form. She had magic. She could handle anything.

Richard shot her a glance. “Are you alright?”

“It just feels strange,” Janet confessed. She wanted to turn and run into the school, to pretend the two worlds hadn’t merged. She wanted to curse the rogue magicians for trying to invade Mystic Albion and somehow – accidentally – bringing the two worlds together. She felt like a man who had two separate lives – two families, each unaware of the other’s existence – who had suddenly found himself faced with the truth coming out, and the two families colliding. “I think …”

She sucked in her breath. There had been men on the estate who’d had two wives, or a wife and a mistress, and it had never been pleasant when the truth had finally come out. It was funny how something could seem so reasonable and harmless in darkness and yet so incredibly stupid in broad daylight. She wondered, numbly, what her mother would say, when she realised that Janet had left her without a backward glance … not, she supposed, that there had been time to do more than write a letter, a letter she wasn’t even sure her mother had received. Steve had posted it, he’d assured her, but the estate had been evacuated so quickly that there was no way to know if it had reached its intended recipient.

“Let’s get on with it,” she said. “Shall we?”

She held up her hand, then cast the spell she’d been taught. A pair of flickering lines appeared in front of her, visible only to her eyes, one pointing directly to Steve and the other heading into the distance. Proof, if she needed it, that she had no other close blood relations. Her father was dead and her mother … she breathed a sigh of relief as she mounted the broomstick, torn between a childish belief it would actually work and a grim sense she was making a fool of herself. She’d seen people playing Quidditch in real life, but without actual broomsticks and magic it was little more than make-believe. Now …

Steve looked uneasy. “Are you sure you know how to fly that thing?”

“You can fly with me, if you like,” Richard said. He swung his leg over his broomstick and grinned. “Take your pick.”

Steve hesitated visibility, then clambered onto the broomstick behind Janet. She smiled, then launched herself into the air. Steve yelped and wrapped his arms tightly around her as she levelled out, Richard flying right beside her. Janet laughed, despite herself. She had never liked the idea of roller coasters, and she knew she wouldn’t have had the nerve to ride on one even if she’d had the chance, but flying a broomstick … the mere sense of flying gave her a freedom she hadn’t experienced in her entire life, until now. She flew higher, feeling the wind flowing through her hair. She was free …

She looked down. York was spread out beneath her, a handful of people clearly visible on the streets … the better streets. It was hard not to feel a twinge of envy, something she didn’t care to look at too closely, when her eyes lingered on the better schools, homes, public services and everything else, less than a mile from a poverty-stricken estate. She shook her head and told herself not to worry, as the line led her to the far side of York. She had magic now, and a freedom the rich girls below would never know. She was sure the people below were staring at them. They might not believe the evidence of their own eyes, not at first, but … they would come to believe. And who knew what would happen then?

The line led them to a small house, on the outskirts of the city. Janet frowned inwardly as she steered the broomstick down, coming into land just outside the garden. Her mother made – on paper – a reasonable salary, but the demands of raising two children and paying interests on her debts meant she had almost no savings worthy of the name. There was no way in hell she could have rented the house – it was finer than anything back on the escape – and the idea of her putting down a deposit and taking out a loan so she could buy it was just insane. Janet cast a handful of spells as Steve stumbled off the broomstick, looking green, but sensed nothing dangerous. And yet, her mother being here was bizarre.

Richard landed neatly beside her. “Shall we go inside?”

Janet hesitated, then nodded. There was no way she could turn and leave, even though she had no idea what was going on. The spell was clear. Her mother was somewhere inside the house … it bothered her, at a very primal level. She tested her protection spells, then kept a hand on the broomstick as she opened the gate and walked up the garden path. If it was a trap, they could fly out of the garden and find help …

She rang the doorbell, then took a step back as she heard footsteps approaching the door. A dark shadow moved on the far side, then the door opened to reveal her mother … Janet let go of the broom and darted forward, without thinking, wrapping her arms around her mother and holding her tightly. She had her flaws, everyone did, but compared to some mothers on the estate she was an angel. Tears pricked in her eyes as her mother hugged her back, then drew Steve into the embrace. Guilt and shame threatened to overcome her, a grim reminder that she had abandoned her mother without a backwards glance … she was lucky, very lucky, she had found her again. And yet, she didn’t quite understand what her mother was doing here.

“You’d better come in,” her mother said, curtly. Her eyes lingered on Richard … Janet winced, inwardly. They had been groping their way towards a relationship and … her mother would be less than human if she hadn’t wondered if Janet had run away with Richard, which in a sense she had. “I … what happened to you?”

Janet felt her heart skip a beat. “You didn’t get my letter?”

“No,” her mother said. “What happened?”

Steve cleared his throat. “And what are you doing here?”

“We were told to leave the estate,” her mother said, shortly. “This place was arranged by the evacuation agency. I get to stay here, as long as I take good care of the house and garden. It’s been …”

She shook her head. “What happened to you?”

Janet forced herself to organise her thought as their mother led them into a sitting room. It wasn’t as chintzy as she’d expected, from the outside of the house, but it was still head and shoulders above their old house. Whoever owned the house had had a real eye for detail, carefully arranging furniture to complement the room’s appearance and making it appear comfortable rather than shabby. Steve sat at the table and unfolded his laptop, asking their mother for the Wi-Fi password as she boiled water for tea. Janet felt a lump in her throat as she sat down. It was possible – just possible – to pretend that nothing had changed …

But I don’t want to pretend nothing changed, she thought, bitterly. The world has turned upside down.

“Magic,” she said, as her mother carried the mugs of tea into the room and placed them on the table. “I saw magic.”

She cast a lightspell, summoning a globe of light to hover above her fingertips. Her mother stayed, swaying on her feet … Janet feared, too late, that she might faint. She steadied herself with an effort, then sat down and listened carefully as Janet ran through the whole story, wincing inwardly as she confessed to being in the school at midnight … that detail, at least, she’d tried to keep from her mother, back when the world had made sense. She should never have listened to Annabelle, her bitch of a false friend, but if she hadn’t she might never have met Richard and the others. Her mother looked thoroughly displeased, yet said nothing as Janet finished the story. It was hard to tell what she was thinking.

“And you decided to leave,” she said, finally. “You didn’t even …”

“There wasn’t time,” Richard said, quickly. “It was stay or go.”

Janet’s mother, as far as Janet knew, didn’t have any magic. But the look she gave Richard silenced him as effectively as a silencing spell.

“You chose to leave,” her mother said. She sounded angry, but it was an anger born of worry for her daughter. Janet had heard it before, when her mother had cautioned her of the dangers of growing up on the estate. The risk of trusting the wrong person and winding up a single mother in her own right, or worse, was too great. “Why …?”

“I’m sorry,” Janet said. A hundred arguments ran through her head, none offering the promise of making her mother feel any better. How could she? She would have missed Janet if she’d gone to a normal boarding school – or Hogwarts, the treacherous part of her mind whispered – but at least she would have known what had happened to her. Girls had gone missing on the estate before, their bodies never found; the police, damn them, had never given much of a damn. “I just …”

Her mother shook her head, slowly. “I wish … if you’d told me …”

“She did try,” Steve said. “I posted the letter. It just didn’t reach you in time.”

He paused. “You know how much crap there is on the internet right now?”

“And in other news, water is wet,” their mother snapped. “Why didn’t you …?”

She looked from Janet to Steve and back again. “What were you thinking?”

“That I would never have such an opportunity again,” Janet said. “I couldn’t let it go.”

“That if we didn’t go on the run, we might vanish into a secret prison,” Steve said. “And Helen needed help.”

Janet swallowed, hard, and reminded herself she had a place to stay. “Mum, I … I understand that you’re angry, and … I do understand. And I’m sorry … and … “

Her voice became a wail. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I was terrified when you didn’t come home,” her mother said, sharply. “I thought … I thought something had happened to you. I called the police and asked them to look for you and they promised they would, but … then we were evacuated and your name appeared nowhere on the lists of evacuated people and … I was scared I’d lost you both and …”

Janet felt as if she was the worst person on the planet, shame and guilt threatening to tear her apart. She had no idea how to fix the problem, or even if she could. Her mother wasn’t abusive, or a druggie, or even an uncaring stepmother who had been forced by law and custom to raise an unwanted niece. She was a loving mother who had done the best she could, raising two children … and she’d lost them both, without even having the comfort of knowing what had happened to them. Janet knew her mother would have been horrified if her kids had been raped and murdered, their bodies left in the gutter, but at least she would have had closure. Instead …

“Come with me,” she said, softly. “You could see the new world …”

“It’s here,” Steve said, looking up. “There are supernatural sightings everywhere. Lots of crap too … I really should try to get the old gang organised, explain what’s really going on.”

Janet’s mother ignored him. “Do you really expect me to drop everything and jump into Never-Never Land?”

“It is a real place,” Janet said, quietly. “If I could show you …”

She sighed, inwardly. She wasn’t sure she could invite her mother, although – from what Richard said – Helen had already brought a gaggle of new magicians into Gatehouse. It wasn’t as if anyone would object – she hoped – to her at least showing her mother around the school. Richard and her could arrange the visit, perhaps with help from Helen … she wondered, suddenly, if Norris had left anyone behind. She didn’t know anything about his family, even though he’d been a classmate for the last ten years or so. For all she knew, he was an orphan or a foster child or …

Steve looked up, again. “Mum, what are you doing here?”

“I have a leave of absence,” their mother said. “I have no idea when I am expected back at work …”

“So come with us now,” Janet said. “It’ll let you see the other world and …”

There was a sharp knock at the door. Richard tensed, one hand snapping into a casting pose. Janet swore under her breath, as Steve folded his laptop and their mother headed for the door. There could be anyone out there, anyone at all … she wished she’d thought to bring the brooms into the sitting room, so they could fly out the window, but she’d left them in the hall. The door opened before she could say no and … she heard a voice, a man trying a little too hard to be charming.

“I need to talk to the magicians,” he said. “Please.”

Janet and Richard exchanged glances as the man was shown into the sitting room. She’d expected a suited aristocrat, one of Helen’s relatives, but the man was nothing of the sort. He was … there was something oddly familiar about his appearance, although she had never seen him before. He looked unhealthy, his hair thinning and his face pallid … somehow giving the impression of being overweight even though he wasn’t visibly fat. His body was wrapped in a long brown trenchcoat, belted at the waist.

“I saw you land,” he said. His voice was charming, but there was a pleading undertone that undermined the effect. “I … can I get an interview?”

Steve made a choking sound. “You’re a reporter?”

“For the Yorkshire Digest,” the man said. “Andrew Darlington, reporter and blogger-at-large.”

He spoke as if Janet should know his name, but she didn’t. She didn’t recall reading the Yorkshire Digest either. She’d never been that interested in newspapers, even when her teachers had assigned her projects on modern living. The internet had swept most of the old newspapers away, replacing the major publications with social media and the tabloids with porn and crazy stories. It was hard to imagine the newspapers having any real relevance any longer …

“Sure,” Steve said. Janet shot him a sharp look. Her brother pretended not to notice. “Can you meet us at Gatehouse? We can hold an interview outside the school.”

Darlington eyed him thoughtfully. “What is actually going on?”

Steve grinned. “Imagine we all work up to discover Harry Potter’s Wizarding World was actually real, except it is just a country on the far side of the looking glass … but now that country has merged with ours, to the point we know magic exists and they know technology exists and everyone is going utterly crazy, because no one is even remotely prepared for such things.”

“I …” Darlington stared. “Is that actually true?”

“No.” Richard said. He looked as if he was trying to think of a proper explanation, a way to explain the unexplainable to a professional sceptic. “You know Sleeping Beauty?”

Darlington looked as if he wasn’t sure if he was being messed with or not. “The cartoon?”

“The cartoon was based on a very old story,” Richard said. The original version actually predated the sundering between the magical and mundane worlds. “Point is, the cartoon version is heavily sanitized. Even the Brothers Grimm version is more … tolerable than the original. The magical world you imagine is far kinder than the reality, if you don’t know the rules. Janet” – he visibly started to say something, then changed his mind and rephrased it – “ran into trouble because she didn’t know the rules.”

“I see,” Darlington said.

“And now that world is merged with yours,” Steve said. Janet was surprised he’d accepted it so easily. The scale of the disaster was beyond her. “Everything has changed. Everything.”

He stood. “Meet us at Gatehouse. St. Champions. And you will see.”

Chapter Eight: Gatehouse, York, Now

Helen had never been quite sure what to make of the mundane world’s reporters.

There was no such profession in Mystic Albion. The population was not large enough to support anything bigger than a handful of broadsheet writers, collecting the news and distributing it to the world, and the few who made a career out of it were savvy enough to realise that harassing people, and openly lying about them, was a good way to get into serious trouble. Helen didn’t know for sure her mother had quietly disposed of one particularly unpleasant society reporter, but she’d heard the rumours and in truth she believed them. A person who violated the privacy of a great family, with both magic and political connections, deserved everything he got.

She crossed her arms under her breasts and watched the chaos. The grubby concrete yard outside Gatehouse – all that remained of St. Champions – was starting to look like a fairground, with magical students mingling with mundane reporters, curious onlookers and passersby. The estate was still walled off, but the gates had been torn open and the local police were nowhere in evidence … Helen had no idea if they were keeping their distance, or if they were dealing with a crisis somewhere else, or if they were working up the nerve to go in and challenge the magical students. Or … she shook her head and forced herself to keep an eye on the younger students, who were demonstrating magic spells for the crowd, and a couple of older ones who were trying to outline basic rules for dealing with magical creatures that Helen had been taught as soon as she’d started to walk. It wasn’t an easy task. The students were trying to explain cooking to people who had not only never cooked in their lives, but also didn’t know how to light a stove, choose the right tools and pick the correct ingredients. It didn’t help, she noted, that half the audience seemed to think vampires were sparkly and romantic and the other half seemed to believe they were vulnerable to sunlight … which was, she supposed, partly true.

But it isn’t quite that simple, she thought, grimly. You need to do more than just toss the vampire into the bright daylight.

She scowled at a pair of young men who were pointing smartphones at her. The other students hadn’t noticed, but then smartphones were unknown in their world. She grimaced in disgust. The pictures would be halfway around the world in a matter of seconds, if they weren’t already on their way, and there would be no way to take them back. She told herself that Steve, Leesa and the others would have to give lessons on the dangers of OldeWorld too, all the little things that could easily get an ignorant student killed. She’d nearly been knocked down by a car – there was no such thing as cars in Mystic Albion – and there were plenty of other dangers, from the simple to the unimaginable.

Janet stepped up beside her, her face pale. Helen felt a pang of … something … she didn’t care to look at too closely. Janet’s mother might not have been pleased, to know her daughter had stepped into a magical world without a backwards glance, but at least she’d been told her daughter had had only a few seconds to make up her mind. It had been an opportunity that everyone had thought would never come again, and Helen couldn’t blame Janet for seizing it with both hands. And yet, it was a grim reminder she had made the same decision and her mother would not be pleased. Hadn’t been pleased. Helen suspected it was just a matter of time before she received the summons back to the estate, to explain herself …

“The Merlin said they’ve been able to get in touch with the rest of the settlements,” Janet said, tiredly. Helen wondered, sourly, why she had been chosen to deliver the message. “They haven’t been able to set up the teleport gates yet.”

“Everything’s changed,” Helen said. Brains had gone on about it in considerable detail, something about the local texture of the background magic, but she hadn’t been paying close attention. She kicked herself, mentally, for assuming the issue was only important to experienced magical engineers. Her family had always been able to hire experienced magicians, when it didn’t have someone with the right skills in the family, but she’d been cut off from their resources the moment she fell into OldeWorld. “I imagine it will be some time before they can make the crystals sing in harmony again.”

She couldn’t bring herself to feel upset. It had been easy to work out where Gatehouse had been, relative to St. Champions, but she had no idea where her family estate had appeared, if indeed it had appeared at all. Londinium corresponded to London … she supposed … yet where was the family estate? The longer it took to get everyone back in touch, the longer it would be before she received the family summons … and before she had to explain herself to her mother. She glanced at Steve, who was discussing the principles of magic with a reporter who looked as if he didn’t believe a word of it, and reminded herself to compose a good argument for the match. Her mother would approve, if the match seemed good for the family …

“It feels weird,” Janet mused, looking back at Gatehouse. “The world feels … broken.”

Helen couldn’t disagree. The two realities had merged together and the repercussions would last for a very long time, perhaps forever. She looked up as a shadow flew overhead and sucked in her breath as she saw a trio of broomstick riders, followed by a small buzzing thing … it took her a second to realise it was a drone. She’d heard of drones, but she’d never actually seen one in person. Steve had told her they were effectively portable cameras, beaming video images across the world … there was nothing like them, either, in Mystic Albion. She wondered, suddenly, if they’d pose a danger to broomstick riders. If someone accidentally crashed into a flying drone …

“It’ll sort itself out,” she said, although she wasn’t sure that was true. The two worlds were just too different. The mundane would be scared of the magical and vice versa. And the rogue magicians were still out there somewhere. Whatever they were doing, she doubted it would be pleasant. “How long did it take you to get used to Gatehouse?”

Janet looked down. “If the two worlds are merged … will I have to go back St. Champions?”

Helen blinked in surprise, more at herself than at Janet. A few months ago, she would have sarcastically pointed out that St. Champions no longer existed or reminded the other girl that she could be expelled from Gatehouse if she proved herself unworthy of the school. Now … she felt a sudden burst of affection, mingled with guilt and shame. She hadn’t been very kind to Richard, had she? And …

Janet grew up in a whole other world, she reminded herself. The rules are so different she finds it hard to comprehend that everything has changed.

She scowled, inwardly. Janet was old enough, by the standards of Mystic Albion, to choose her own path. If she could get a place at Gatehouse, or an apprenticeship with a powerful sorcerer, her parents couldn’t forbid her from going. Nor could the government override her parents, if she’d been too young to make the choice for herself. Parents were trusted to use their best judgement, and the few that proved they couldn’t be relied upon to do so were treated individually, but that wasn’t true in OldeWorld. She shuddered, unsure why the local population bent the knee to gross incompetents. How could a person who had never met the child, let alone all the country’s children, be trusted to determine what was in their interests? It was insane. Madness! Why did they even put up with it?

It’s an assembly line form of education, she thought, numbly. And it treats children as products rather than people …

“No,” she said, flatly. She had no idea how the diplomats would sort things out, when the two governments finally made contact and started talking, but she knew Mystic Albion would never accept the governmental oversight that so blighted OldeWorld. Janet would have the chance to make her own way in the world, not return to a school that had been so bad for her and her peers. “You’ll be allowed to stay.”

Janet looked as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to put it into words. Helen waited patiently, her gaze running over the edge of the barricade. The evacuated people were returning to some of the homes, now they knew there was no real danger, to recover their possessions and perhaps move back in. A handful of entrepreneurs had arrived and started selling food and drink … Helen winced inwardly as she saw a student she vaguely recognised trying to purchase a hot dog with a gold coin, rather than a credit card. Mystic Albion had stuck with the old monetary system, and she had no idea what the exchange rate was … the gold coin might be worth hundreds of pounds or it might be worth nothing. If there was one thing she’d learnt, in her first week on OldeWorld, it was that the society was thoroughly screwed up.

But there are rather a lot of them, she thought. Mystic Albion’s population was barely five million, if the estimates were accurate. OldeWorld had around sixty million people, perhaps more. They can’t afford to give everyone the individual attention they need.

She looked up, sharply, as a man crashed into view, followed by two men carrying a large camera and a woman carrying a clipboard. He looked as if he were a jumped-up commoner, wearing the clothes of his betters without even trying to ape their manners … Helen winced, inwardly, as she realised her mother might think the same of Steve. The camera crew pointed their camera at Janet and her, without even bothering to ask permission first.

“And we are here now with a girl from the supposed magical realm,” the man said, shoving a microphone at Janet. “And a groupie from our world.”

Helen blinked in honest surprise. She had been born and bred in Mystic Albion … and yet they thought Janet was a magician. Her mind caught up with her a second later. She hadn’t changed out of her local clothes, while Janet was still wearing robes that looked faintly silly, at least to mundane eyes.

“The people believe this is utter madness, a lie told by a stage school,” the man continued. “What do you say to that?”

Janet shrank back. Helen moved to stand between them, trying to wrap her head around the man’s words. She couldn’t really blame Janet and Steve for doubting the existence of magic,  back when they’d first met, but the man could see Gatehouse with his naked eyes … and the broomstick riders, and the spells Steve was demonstrating …

The man shoved the microphone at her, poking her just above her breasts. Helen tensed, her magic boiling within her. No one touched her without permission, no one. She’d nearly killed a young man at St. Champions who had tried to rape her … she felt a surge of pure disgust, a wave of naked anger that threatened to overwhelm her. Rape was almost unknown in Mystic Albion. Even the girls who never went to school knew how to protect themselves, and make sure anyone who tried would never hurt anyone else ever again.

“The groupie has no answer,” the man proclaimed, as if he had won a great victory. Helen knew aristocratic young men who were more humble … and had a great deal more to be humble about. “She knows it is a fake …”

“Look up,” Helen said, tersely. The man was either a moron or in denial. She could understand the latter, she supposed, but there were limits. If she’d allowed herself to believe OldeWorld was just a nightmare, rather than reality, she would have been killed – or worse – before she realised it was no dream. “The magic is real.”

“Tricks,” the man said. “Holographic illusions, stage magic … this is just a promotion, isn’t it? The castle is a cardboard mock-up, to promote Harry Potter and the Something of Something … isn’t it?”

Helen felt her patience snap. She could understand someone being reluctant to believe what had happened, and she didn’t really want to believe it herself, but the evidence was undeniable. The world had changed and … the man jabbed the microphone at her again, poking her in the chest. Her anger threatened to boil over. No one – no one – touched her like that, ever. She shouldn’t have let him get away with it the first time.

“I’ll prove it to you,” she said. Her power boiled around her, the spell taking shape and form. The man paled and stepped back … too late. “Deny this!”

She cast the spell. The man’s form wavered, then melted into a pig. The lead cameraman collapsed, dropping the oversized camera on the ground; the other cameraman took one look at the pig, then at Helen, and then turned and ran. The other woman looked as if she wanted to run or faint too. Helen felt a flash of grim pleasure, feeling her power billowing around her once again. She had missed it.

Janet giggled. “Now do you believe?”

The woman swallowed, hard, and reached out to touch the pig. The beast – it had disconcertingly human eyes – shuffled backwards, making noises that suggested it was trying to talk. Helen was torn between amusement and guilt. The idiot hadn’t believed in magic and the prospect of being transfigured would never have occurred to him … he certainly didn’t have any experience in having his body forcibly transformed, or in coping with the sensation and finding ways to counter or undo the spell. There were several ways for a transfigured human to turn himself back, tricks taught to every child in Mystic Albion, but the idiot didn’t know any of them. How could he? Magic hadn’t been part of his world, until now.

The pig shuddered, then made a pleading sound. Helen scowled. It wasn’t that hard to cope if you were transformed into an animal … it was object transformation that was the real killer, even if the spell wasn’t designed to be permanent. And he wanted her to turn him back …?

The woman cleared her throat, her voice terrified. Helen felt a flicker of disgust. The lowest maid on the estate, the young woman who cleaned the scullery, would not cringe or cower before her, or even her mother. Richard had never been a match for her, when it came to raw power, but he’d never been so openly terrified of her … Richard, she supposed, had known about magic. It wasn’t strange or alien to him …

“I …” The woman stopped and started again. “Will … will it wear off?”

“Eventually,” Helen said. She wondered just how much of the transformation had been beamed out, before the cameramen dropped the camera. “I suggest you take him out of here –and don’t leave him alone.”

The woman grabbed the pig by the ear and practically dragged him away, snapping at the cameraman to get up and come with her. Helen shook her head, wondering if she’d accidentally condemned the man to death. Anyone back home would know to check the eyes, before they slaughtered the pig, but here …? She sighed. The spell wouldn’t last very long, just long enough to teach the man a painful and unpleasant lesson. She hoped it wouldn’t be lost on the rest of the world.

“We’d better go back inside,” Janet said. Eyes were following them, not in a good way. “I …”

Helen nodded, and turned to walk back to the school. “Why didn’t he believe?”

Janet shrugged. “Who knows?”

The Merlin met them in the entrance hall, looking grim. Helen tried not to wince too openly. The law was on her side and yet … she wasn’t sure how the chips would fall, if the Merlin tried to discipline her. It would be an interesting legal case … on one hand, the reporter had touched her without permission and she had every right to push back, but on the other he hadn’t known about magic and it would be easy to argue that she’d overreacted. The Merlin might have expanded the wards, to keep track of which spells were being cast outside the school, but those wards wouldn’t note the context …

“Helen,” the Merlin said. “Did you have to do that?”

Helen braced herself for a fight. “He touched me, without my permission,” she said, flatly. The law was on her side. “It was important to show him that it would not go unpunished.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes,” Helen said, flatly. “OldeWorld is not very kind to women. Far too many men think they can get away with touching – or worse – without permission. If we let them think they can do it to us, they will.”

The Merlin cocked an eyebrow. “I see,” he said. There was a long cold pause. “And you are prepared to take the consequences?”

“Yes, sir,” Helen said. The magical consequences would only materialise if she cast the spell in deliberate error. The mundane consequences … well, the law really would be on her side. “And I am sure the world will agree with me.”

“We’ll see,” the Merlin said. He made a visible attempt to change the subject. “Meet me in the coachhouse in two hours. We’re going to Londinium.”

He paused. “No,” he added. “London.”

Chapter Nine: Gatehouse, York, Now

“This is a very neat solution to the low-magic environment,” Brains said, studying the diagram Norris had drawn out for him. “Given time, we would have duplicated these spells ourselves.”

Norris gritted his teeth, feeling a surge of anger that – he was willing to admit, at least to himself – had more to do with envy than dislike or hatred. Brains was a nerdy nerd, a young man with an intellectual bent – a genius, in many ways – who was socially awkward, perhaps even autistic, and spent most of his life in his own little world … and was rewarded for it, feted for it, while Norris was beaten up so often he hated himself as much as he hated his tormentors. If he’d been raised in Mystic Albion, would he have had as satisfactory a life as Brains? Would he have been rewarded for his intelligence, given opportunities that would lead to a good life … he knew, deep inside, that the answer was yes. The chance he’d been given, as a newcomer, was so much better than anything he’d been offered back home that there was simply no contest. It was hard not to scream in frustration and bitterness. Brains was what he might have been, if he’d been treated properly instead of being used as everyone’s punching bag.

We didn’t hate Wesley Crusher because he was a poorly conceived, poorly written and poorly acted character, he thought, morbidly. We hated him because he was a lie, a nerd rewarded for being a nerd rather than being punished just for existing.

He forced himself to look around the chamber, even though it made him feel no better. It was his room, five desks and tables piled high with parchments and books that looked to have been tossed around randomly, but had actually been carefully positioned in a manner that made sense to Brains. Norris had done the same, when he’d been at home, before his mother had insisted on sweeping everything away, forcing him to clean his room even though it was perfectly neat and tidy, at least by his standards. Brains had everything he needed, from access to libraries and research papers to good friends who respected his quirks and gave him both companionship and space. Norris tried to tell himself it wasn’t Brains’s fault, but … he scowled, helplessly. It wasn’t the fault of the rich kids that they were rich, yet it was easy to fall into the trap of envying them anyway.

Brains didn’t even notice. Of course not. He was lost in his own world, his pencil running down a long sheet of parchment as he charted out spellware and spellwork that was light-years ahead of anything Norris had ever seen. Norris knew he wasn’t an idiot, and he’d studied magic obsessively from the moment he’d seen it for the first time, but Brains made him feel slow and stupid. It made him wonder, despite everything, if that was how the bullying bastards had felt, when they’d seen him answer math questions that had been so simple to him, and yet so hard for them. The thought made him grind his teeth in bitter fury. The idea of having anything in common with them was …

His head ached. The dull pain had never quite gone away, not since he’d opened his eyes after everything changed. Norris2 was gone, leaving a hole in his soul … he wondered, numbly, if he’d damaged his own mind when he tore the other personality apart, committing murder for the second time. The first … he groaned in pain, wondering if he should feel guilt, or if he should tell himself it hadn’t really been his fault, or if he should just reassure himself that his victims had deserved it. Perhaps they had. Perhaps … but Norris2 had been part of him.

“It shouldn’t be that hard to unravel the rest of it,” Brains said. “The real question is just how they’ll react, in a high-magic environment.”

Norris nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I didn’t have any trouble using them,” he said. “They slipped into the local spells effortlessly.”

Brains nodded, showing no hint of irritation as he studied his handiwork. He was probably the only person who wouldn’t, who didn’t care that Norris had entered Mystic Albion as a spy rather than a new student. Norris knew he should be grateful – it was unlikely anyone else would trust him again, and he could hardly blame them – and yet, it rankled that it came from Brains. Richard was a decent young man and Helen, from what little he’d seen of her, had been an aristocratic bitch with an entitlement complex to match, but Brains was too much like him for Norris not to feel resentment. If only he’d had a fraction of the opportunities offered to Brains, his life would have been so much better …

“Interesting,” Brains said. “Your spells worked rather like a computer virus … they slipped into the network and hollowed it out from the inside, creating room for the infection to spread.”

Norris nodded, stiffly. “I believe they used computers to help chart out the spells,” he said. “A number were too small for humans to cast alone.”

“An interesting development,” Brains agreed. “There will be a great deal of progress, once we work out how to combine the two ourselves …”

There was a sharp knock on the door. Norris looked up, wincing inwardly as the door opened to reveal Lucy. The young girl – she wasn’t even a teenager – was far more powerful than him, powerful and dangerous … another lucky youngster who had been given opportunities rather than being slapped down every time she tried to make something of herself. He tried not to cringe at the look she gave him, hard enough to make him feel like a worm beneath her feet. She could turn him into a worm, if she wished … he shuddered. How many school bullies, back home, now had magic as well as their fists?

“Marian is awake,” Lucy said, coldly. “You’re to go to her.”

Norris almost wished she had changed him into a worm. Or a toad. Or something – anything – else, preferably something that couldn’t think or feel. Marian was the last person he wanted to see, out of guilt rather than envy or fear. He had no doubt she hated him now, with reason. He had abused her … and the fact the worst had been committed by Norris2, rather than Norris himself, was no excuse. Even if he chose to believe they were two separate people, the fact remained he had shaped Norris2. And Lord Burghley had made it worse.

“Go,” Lucy said.

“I’ll see you later,” Norris said to Brains. “Have fun.”

Brains didn’t answer. He was back in his own word, studying magic. Norris could feel Lucy’s eyes boring into his back as he turned and walked out the door, trying to move fast without actually hurrying. If looks could kill, which was quite possible, her gaze might atomise him … he tried not to think, deep inside, that being vaporised would be something of a relief. He wanted to pretend otherwise, but in truth he had only himself to blame for the mess his life had become …

The corridors were surprisingly quiet, as he made his way to the infirmary. He’d heard that a number of students had crossed into OldeWorld – Earth – and others were hiding in their dorms, hoping the world would start making sense again before they had to leave and come to terms with the sudden change in reality itself. He told himself to be grateful. He wasn’t sure how many people knew what he’d done, but … he shook his head. It was just a matter of time before the entire world knew, before they demanded his head – or worse. And then his life would not be worth living.

You were a fool, he told himself. If you’d gone to the Merlin, the moment you realised you were on the wrong side …

He shook his head, again. There was no point in dwelling on what might have been. All he could do was pick up the pieces as best as he could, and hope he could resume his life and … no. It wasn’t going to happen. The best he could do was to survive.

The infirmary had always struck him as odd, compared to the nurse’s office – dirty, and underequipped – at school or the GP surgery he’d had to visit years ago. There was an air of calm detachment around it, the furniture comfortable rather than mindlessly practical; the healers, he’d leant, genuinely cared for their patients and did what they could for them, rather than ticking off boxes and passing the buck as much as possible. There were private rooms for injured students, surrounded by protective wards … the healer sitting at the desk took one look at him, then pointed at an open door. Norris hesitated, cursing himself for a coward, then stepped into the room. The door closed behind him.

Marian was sitting up in bed, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders and spilling over her arms. Norris felt his heart skip a beat. There was no makeup on her face, nothing to enhance her natural beauty, and yet she was beautiful, glowing with a life so many girls back home lacked, no matter how much money they wasted on cosmetics. There had been an innocence about her that had been … he staggered, under the weight of a blow far more mental than physical. Marian had been an innocent and he’d hurt her and … he’d shattered her innocence. She had liked him. Liked him. And he’d betrayed her.

God help us, he recalled someone saying, for we knew the worst too young.

He couldn’t remember who had said it, or where he’d heard it, but he supposed it was the difference between children born on Earth and their peers from Mystic Albion. He’d grown up in a world where there were dangers everywhere, from abusive parents to rapists and paedophiles to terrorists and climate change, while she’d grown up in a world where such dangers simply didn’t exist. Norris hadn’t been allowed to be innocent – he hadn’t been allowed to grow up in ignorance of the dangers – while Marian had enjoyed a certain safety Norris’s life had lacked. And that safety had blinded her to the threat he represented …

“Norris,” Marian said. “What happened?”

Norris hesitated. How much did she remember? How much had she been told? How much did she know … he wanted to pretend that everything was normal, that everything was fantastic, but it would be a lie. And a stupid lie. And … he wondered if she was going to blast him with magic, the moment he told her the truth, or simply snap his neck. She’d grown up on a farm. She was stronger than any of the girls he’d known on Earth, and most of the boys, and she could hurt him if she wished …

“I fucked up,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to talk, but the whole story spilled out anyway. His life on Earth, his semi-accidental murder, his recruitment by Lord Burghley, his career as a spy … and how he hadn’t realised, until it was too late, that the split-personality he’d created had become a personality in its own right. “I … I’m sorry.”

The words were so inadequate. He had lied to her, he had frozen her … did she even realise, he wondered numbly, just how vulnerable she’d been? He could have peered down her shirt or raised her dress or … the temptation had been there, powered by the certain knowledge that pretty girls loved taunting him with their bodies while denying him any chance to touch their bare flesh and satisfy himself. He knew it was wrong to think in such a way and yet … the bitterness was so intense it was hard, so hard, to think otherwise. He wasn’t a great person for not taking advantage of her, and yet it felt that way …

He gritted his teeth. If she wanted to hurt him, even kill him, she had every right. And he deserved it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again. There was no point in grovelling for her forgiveness, and yet he wanted to beg and plead … it wasn’t fair. He knew boys who had done far worse and they’d gotten away with it … but just because they’d gotten away with it didn’t mean that he should. “If you never want to see me again …”

“I liked you,” Marian said, echoing his earlier thoughts. “And you …”

Norris felt his heart clench in pain. He’d never quite believed Marian could actually like him. It was a joke … he’d known she wasn’t a bitch who would toy with his heart and yet … guilt and self-reproach blazed through his mind, a grim reminder he’d brought it all on himself. And yet … if he’d been raised here, would he have had a better life? Would he have been a better person?

“I liked you,” Marian repeated. Her voice shook. “And what did you do to me?”

Norris had no answer. It was rape, rape in every real sense of the word … the fact he had never touched her physically, let alone stolen her maidenhead in the process of divesting himself of his unwanted virginity, was no excuse. He had taken advantage of her innocence, he had abused her, he had … in the end, he thought numbly, he was no better than Colin. Colin, who had pulled down his trousers and exposed his penis to the world; Colin, who had never failed to miss a chance to put him down; Colin, who had lifted a girl’s skirt and exposed her underwear and somehow gotten away with it; Colin, who had died in screaming agony, after Norris had created a split personality ready and able to use magic to kill. He deserved no better. He wanted to die …

… And yet, he didn’t dare.

“Get out,” Marian said. She sounded as if she were going to cry. Norris couldn’t bear to hear her. “If I want to see you again, I’ll let you know.”

Norris flinched. He’d seen countless movies where the woman took the man back after he apologised for being an asshole … movies, he reflected ruefully, where the man had the scriptwriter on his side. God knew, he’d wondered why Rebecca had stayed with Colin after he’d shown her ass to the world … he shook his head, turning away in dismay and guilt. He deserved worse than a simple dismissal. Rebecca had put up with Colin because she’d had no choice – he could do far worse, if she didn’t treat it as a joke rather than sexual assault – and Marian was sending him away because she did have a choice. And …

“I’m sorry,” he said, as he opened the door. There was nothing else he could say. “Goodbye.”

He crumpled, the moment he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. His head was hurting, the sense she was treating him unfairly warring with the awareness she had every right – and that she was in the right – tell him to go. It was hard to have any illusions about himself, any sense he might still be in the right … he wondered, not for the first time, how Colin had been able to live with himself. If Norris had done half the things Colin had done, the guilt would have overwhelmed him.

“You’ll report back here tomorrow,” the healer said. “Your first session with the mind-healer has been booked.”

Norris made a face. “There’s no point in talking about it,” he said. The less said about the guidance counsellor at St. Champions, the better. The man had been worse than useless, a blabbermouth as well as a fool. Telling him the truth had been a mistake, one he’d learnt the hard way. “It can’t be changed.”

“Talking about your feelings and motivations can’t change the world,” the healer agreed, mildly. “However, talking can help you to come to terms with yourself and face the world as a better person.”

“It’s not possible,” Norris said. He thought he understood now. Colin hadn’t had any sense of basic decency, let alone a concept of right and wrong more complex than anything he wanted being right and anything he didn’t want being wrong. The idea there might be something wrong with using his brute strength to get what he wanted was alien to him. Norris almost envied him. Colin had been a barbarian, free of the guilt a civilised man would feel. Who would have thought that being a mindless brute would be so liberating? “There’s no point.”

The healer’s voice hardened. “Regardless, you will report back here after lunch tomorrow,” he said. “If we have to fetch you, it will not be pleasant.”

Norris winced. People were pushing him around, again. The fact he deserved it – this time – only made it worse. He wished, again, that he’d been born and raised in this world. It would have been far better for him and everyone else, even Colin. His lack of smarts wouldn’t have condemned him to a life of thuggish criminality. He could have worked on a farm instead, and perhaps been quite happy there. Instead, he’d been a thug until he’d been killed … murdered. No, it hadn’t been murder. It had been self-defence.

“I understand,” he said. He swallowed, hard. “Is there any magic that can change the past?”

“No,” the healer said. “But there is always hope you can learn from the past and walk into a brighter future.”

“Yeah,” Norris said.

But in truth, he wasn’t convinced he had a future.

Chapter Ten: London, Now

Richard felt cold as the flying carriage started to descend over London.

It wasn’t the first time he’d visited London – he’d travelled to the capital with Janet, before they’d figured out how to reopen the gate and return to Mystic Albion – but he hadn’t grasped the sheer size of the city. London was so much larger than Londinium, there was simply no contest, the mystic city more like a large town compared to the immensity of OldeWorld London. The buildings were spread out for miles, the handful of familiar landmarks – some with shadows in the magical world, others recorded in history books written before the sundering – buried within a sea of other buildings, some as fancy as the older landmarks and others as drab and grey as the wretched estate Janet and Steve had grown up in. It was sheer luck, he supposed, that Londinium was centred on Windsor, rather than the more modern London. It might make it easier for the two worlds to realise they needed to get along.

Janet clutched his arm as the carriage dropped down, landing neatly outside Buckingham Palace. A second carriage was already there, its occupants patiently awaiting them. The gates were sealed and heavily guarded, a large crowd – hundreds, perhaps thousands of people - outside watching the newcomers with eager eyes … Richard gritted his teeth, then pasted a calm expression on his face. He’d seen brief television programs, through Steve’s laptop, and it was clear the news was already spreading right across the world. It was funny, he noted ruefully, that Helen turning a reporter into a pig had spread faster and further than change on a national, indeed a global, scale. But perhaps it did have the advantage of being easier to grasp.

The air felt odd, as he clambered out of the carriage. Buckingham Palace hadn’t been built when Anne Boleyn had given her life to open the gates, but the site had been developed for years and he could feel flickers of wild magic in the air. A ghost flickered in front of him, coming and going so quickly he couldn’t make out any features, let alone figure out who the entity might have been before they died. Ghosts were sometimes talkative, but very few realised they were dead … and the ones that knew they were dead were often dangerous when the living asked the wrong questions. He shivered, inwardly, as Janet followed him out into the air, Helen and the Merlin bringing up the rear.

“Lord Merlin,” a calm voice said. “It’s good to see you again.”

Richard looked up, then hastily bowed. He had never been formally introduced to the Princess of Londinium until after their return from OldeWorld, when no one had known if they were going to be feted as heroes or punished for being dangerously reckless and carrying out an experiment that could easily have gotten out of control. The fact no one had known the underlying truth of Mystic Albion, or grasped the danger of tuning a gate in the castle, wouldn’t have been taken into account, if the damage had been far more extensive. Richard suspected they were lucky, to have been allowed to remain in the school. It could have been a great deal worse.

“And you,” the Merlin said, as Janet dropped a rough curtsey. “Sir Andrew?”

The man standing next to the princess nodded, curtly. Richard had never seen him before, but he wore the simple dark outfit of a mediator … the closest thing they had, he supposed, to a proper diplomat. There weren’t many contacts between Mystic Albion and other enclaves of humanity within the magical world … in hindsight, he suspected he knew why. The agreements between humanity and the Fae tended to themselves …

“Welcome to Buckingham Palace,” another voice said. Richard looked up and saw a middle-aged man wearing a fancy uniform that should have been laughable, but somehow the man made it work. His eyes lingered on Helen for a long moment, the only sign of emotion he showed. “If you will come with me, I’ll escort you to the Prime Minister.”

Janet coughed. “We’re not meeting the King?”

“His Majesty is currently not in residence,” the equerry said. “He has, however, agreed to allow the palace to serve as neutral ground, given that he is the monarch of both worlds.”

Richard said nothing, but he was sure the Princess of Londinium twitched. The princesses claimed their right to rule from the people, even if they took their title in honour of Elizabeth I. It would be an interesting legal issue, he supposed, if the King of Britain insisted he was the heir to the ancient obligations the Folk had to their Monarch … technically, he wasn’t that close a relative, or a descendant, but there was a case to be made he was their rightful heir. It probably wouldn’t matter. The princesses were elected, rather than inheriting their positions.

He looked around with interest as they walked through a side door and along a long corridor. The palace was the most elegant building he’d seen in OldeWorld, with a sense of dignity and grandeur most modern buildings lacked. It was impressive, and yet it made him angry. It wouldn’t have been hard, he was sure, to make certain that every building looked so elegant … it would have been better, so much better, for Steve and Janet if they’d been raised in such surroundings. But there was no point in worrying about it now.

The meeting room was just as elegant as the rest of the palace. The Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary and a man who was introduced by name – and name alone – sat on the far side of a heavy wooden table, so ancient it was practically glowing with history. Richard opened his mind, just a little, and sensed the presence of ghosts growing stronger, as well as hints of controlled magic. The rogue magicians had protected the palace … he wondered, sourly, why he was surprised. The Folk had always been divided between aristocrats and commoners and the aristocrats had enjoyed a protection their commoner brethren lacked … the latter had been ruthlessly slaughtered by the Burners, while the former had simply slipped into the warp and weft of high-class society and hidden themselves away.

“It is rare for senior leaders to conduct such talks personally,” the Prime Minister said. Richard remembered his name, but little else. It hadn’t seemed important when they’d had hopes of returning home, leaving OldeWorld behind forever. “Given the need for haste, we felt it was necessary for us to talk directly.”

“We agree,” the Princess said. She spoke calmly, but in a manner that suggested she was choosing her words carefully. “Our society has been badly disrupted by the sudden … merge.”

“As has ours,” the Prime Minister agreed. He nodded to the third man, who unfurled a map of the British Isles. Someone had drawn notes on it with a pencil, marking locations where the two worlds had melded together. Richard sucked in his breath. The marks were nothing more than … marks, but they represented confusion – and destruction – on an unthinkable scale. “The world has turned upside down.”

The Foreign Secretary leaned forward. “There are reports of dragons, and werewolves, and other supernatural creatures,” he said. He sounded tired, as if the sheer scale of the disaster had worn him down. “Places that were open are now sealed, places that were sealed are now open … all the old sites appear to have come to life, strange things sighted near them …”

“It would be wise to leave them alone,” the Merlin said, quietly. “High-magic locations are dangerous, even for us.”

“So we gather,” the Prime Minister said. “How do we even begin to fix this problem?”

“I do not believe there is any way to turn back the clock,” the Merlin said. “The two worlds are merged now. Magic, and everything that dwells within magic, has been unleashed on your world. We have to figure out a way to cope.”

The PM looked from face to face. “What happened?”

“We’re still unsure ourselves,” the Princess said. Richard tried to keep his face impassive. They had been cautioned to say as little as possible about the rogue magicians, at least until they could figure out how to track them down. “As near as we can tell, something went badly wrong and the two worlds merged together into one.”

“Something went wrong,” the PM repeated. Richard had the oddest sense he knew more than he was saying. “You had some of your people loose in our world, did you not?”

Richard tensed. It was hard, almost impossible, to keep his face blank.

“There was an incident, several months ago, when some of our people fell into your world … briefly, very briefly,” the Princess said. “They were successful in figuring out a way to return, well before the merge. It is possible this triggered off a series of events that accidentally collapsed the barriers between the two worlds …”

Richard felt his heart sink. The PM knew too much. And that meant …

“I see,” the PM said, finally. “There is no way to undo the merge, is there?”

“There is much we don’t understand about how it happened,” the Merlin said, “We believe that no, it cannot be undone. The sheer power required is so far ahead of us …”

He shook his head. “It can’t be done.”

“I see,” the PM repeated. “What now?”

“A good question,” the Princess said. “I am empowered to negotiate on behalf of my government. Are you?”

“Yes.” The Prime Minister studied her for a long moment. “It is the official position of His Majesty’s Government that it is the sole government, the sole ruling power, within these islands. The government may tolerate a certain degree of independence or autonomy in places, provided they do not cross the line into criminal behaviour, but the final say always rests with the government itself. The idea of allowing a whole second government in the country is, pardon the expression, illegal as well as unthinkable. We cannot tolerate zones where our law does not run.”

He leaned forward, his eyes resting on Helen. “For example, you turned a reporter into a pig,” he added, in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe his own words. “To us, that is a peculiar form of assault, and quite unjustified.”

Helen kept her voice so calm Richard knew she was angry. “He touched me, twice,” she said, stiffly. “You may be willing to tolerate such abuse in your society, and to leave helpless women at the mercy of indecent men, but we are not. A few hours of being a pig will have taught him a lesson he will not soon forget.”

Sir Andrew shifted, slightly. “Lady Helen of Burghley is correct, Prime Minister,” he said, in a calm and reasonable tone. “Our society is quite tolerant of women who act in direct self-defence.”

“But therein lies the problem,” the Prime Minister said. “Our society does not tolerate vigilante action. We are governed by the rule of law, which stipulates that the criminal must be proven guilty, then sentenced by a jury of his peers, not by someone who took the law into her own hands. How do we tell the difference between a man transfigured with due cause, as either society would define it, and a man transfigured by a witch who lies about due cause, or massively overreacts …?”

“There are ways to tell,” Helen said. “I …”

The Princess held up a hand. Helen fell quiet.

“We have barely had any time to come to grips with what has happened, let alone study your laws and see how they interact with ours,” the Princess said. “We imagine there are acts that are perfectly legal in our world and illegal in yours, and vice versa. It will take months, if not years, for our legal teams to carry out a comparison, let alone put forward proposals to merge the two. There has already been a near-fatal collision between a helicopter and a broomstick and I image there will be many more, over the next few days.”

“Which is a point I intended to raise,” the PM said. “You can’t fly freely. Not here.”

Richard felt his heart sink. There was no way in hell that would go down well. Nearly everyone had a broomstick and being told they couldn’t fly where they liked would provoke a revolt. Or worse … he didn’t think the princesses could pass a law banning free flight, and even if they did it would be widely ignored. The mundane government was mind-bogglingly complex, intruding into every last aspect of its population’s lives … the princesses, by contrast, had very little authority indeed.

“We can and we will warn everyone of the dangers of flying free,” the Princess said. “But there is no way we can prevent them from doing so.”

The Foreign Secretary made a face. “Or turning our people into frogs?”

“If one of our people turns a man into a frog without good reason, we will throw the book at him,” the Merlin said, simply. “However, we will not remove the ability to do so from someone who has not proven they cannot be trusted with it, and in many ways we simply cannot. Our society is based on consent, not force, and trying to throw our weight around, against the will of the majority, will result in disaster.”

“And letting people act as they see fit, in every case, is a recipe for disaster here,” the PM said. “The people involved cannot be trusted to think impartially.”

“I would take that more seriously,” Helen snarled, “if your society was actually effective at getting rid of rapists!”

The PM studied her for a long moment, then looked at the Princess. “We have an impasse.”

“I understand your problem,” the Princess said. “I hope you also understand mine.”

She leaned back in her chair. “First, let me propose a compromise. Our districts, now present on your world, will continue to operate under our laws, at least until we can finish comparing notes on legal systems. If one of our people, outside our districts, commits something you consider a crime, we will help you to investigate, determine if the person is actually at fault, and if they are we will ensure they are punished. We will attempt to educate our people on the dangers of your world, such as the risk of accidentally flying into an aircraft, and if someone puts themselves at risk by ignoring the warnings, we will deal with them.”

The PM said nothing for a long moment. “And if they put someone else at risk?”

“We’ll deal with them,” the Princess said. “It will be a great deal easier to convince our people that we’re doing the right thing if we punish a specific wrongdoer, rather than everyone.”

Richard agreed. It was one thing to ban someone who had proven they couldn’t be trusted, quite another to ban everyone. It wouldn’t work. Worse, trying would fatally undermine the Princess’s authority.

She paused, then kept speaking. “The secondary problem is the flood of magic and magical creatures that have swept into your world. There will be magicians – unknown magicians – coming into their power, and entities that will be difficult, if not impossible, to counter without the right knowledge. Many are intelligent, in a way that your people will not expect, and others are very powerful and dangerous even without human intelligence. We are prepared, as a gesture of goodwill, to assist you with both problems. If nothing else, it will prevent later disaster.”

The Prime Minister’s eyes narrowed. “You intend to teach magic?”

“There’s no choice,” the Merlin said. “It is clear that your society has a considerable number of magicians, none of whom could use their powers in the absence of background magic, all of whom will now have access to power they cannot keep themselves from using or avoid the pitfalls that have slain magicians with more training than themselves. They will not only not know what they are doing, they won’t even know they can until it is too late. I would be surprised if there haven’t already been incidents of magic sparking and surging, responsive to emotions and feelings – the feelings no one wants to admit they have – rather than cold direction. Our magicians are taught control from a very early age, but yours don’t know they have magic. It would be like lighting a match in a gas-filled room.”

“I see,” the Prime Minister said. “I must consult with my advisors. We have taken the liberty of preparing chambers for you here, if you wish to spend the night, or you may return to your own world. I trust that will be acceptable?”

“Of course,” the Princess said. “But time is of the essence.”

“We would also like to discuss matters with Miss Mayweather,” the unnamed man said, looking at Janet. “As an immigrant to your world, she can tell us a great deal about you.”

Richard blinked. How had they known …?

“If that is fine with her,” the Merlin said. “If not, I fear we shall have to decline.”

“It’s fine with me,” Janet said. She didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “When?”

“Tomorrow, I think,” the Prime Minister said. “It’s very late now.”

Richard nodded, trying to hide his yawn. It had been a day – less than a day – since all hell had broken loose. No wonder the PM looked shell-shocked. His counterparts had known something of OldeWorld, but he … Richard cursed under his breath. The PM knew more than he was letting on, he was sure, and that meant …

… What?

“The equerry will escort you to your bedrooms,” the Prime Minister said. “His Majesty wants you to enjoy the hospitality of Buck House.”

“Thank you,” the Merlin said. “I am sure we shall.”

Chapter Eleven: London, Now

Janet had dreamed, when she was a little girl, of marrying a prince and living in a palace.

The fantasy had faded as she’d grown older and realised it was never going to happen. She was a working-class girl, from a working-class family, and such girls did not become princesses. They didn’t even become the king’s mistress. The idea that she might visit Buckingham Palace was about as likely as getting a letter from Hogwarts, a fantasy so absurd that she couldn’t allow herself even the slightest shred of hope it might happen. And yet …

She was, perversely, disappointed by the guest room. It was larger than anything she’d enjoyed as a child or a teenager, with a bed large enough for four, a bathroom with a bath deep enough to pass for a small swimming pool, and a large television mounted on the wall, but it didn’t strike her as particularly regal. It was more like a fancy hotel, although she had to admit the chances of her entering such a hotel – at least as anything more than cleaning staff – were pretty low. The only hint the room was in a palace was the coat of arms on the wall and even that was meaningless to her. She was tempted to go explore and yet, she also was afraid to leave her room. The palace was more than just a house on a grand scale.

Janet sat on her bed and reached for the remote. It took her a moment to work out how to turn the television on – the remote was incredibly complex, as if it was designed to launch the space shuttle rather than simply change the channel – but the screen came to life at once, with none of the delay she’d come to expect from the fifth-hand television she’d had back home. The news was an incoherent mess, with reports of supernatural encounters from all over the country … and indeed the world. Janet felt a pang of guilt as she changed the channel, wondering just how much of the chaos was her fault. If she hadn’t helped the trio when they’d arrived …

You would never have had your chance to study magic, her thoughts pointed out, coldly. And you would never have visited Buckingham Palace.

She leaned back and watched a blonde anchor she vaguely recognised trying to conduct an interview with a hysterical mother and a father who was waving a butcher’s knife around as if he intended to kill someone. It was hard to follow the story – the hysterics meant the news came in dribs and drabs – but it sounded as if the parents had watched their child be lured away by a fairy, then discovered – too late – that the fairy had no intention of letting their child return home. Janet shivered, helplessly. She had nearly been trapped by the Fae herself and if Richard hadn’t come to her rescue, she would never have seen Gatehouse – or Earth – again. The poor child might be lost forever.

Her finger pressed down, flicking the channel again and again. Dragons flying over Westminster. Strange ships off the coast of Cornwall. Giant buildings in places no building had ever been, others merged so closely with their supernatural counterpart that their interiors now resembled the TARDIS, without the Doctor. An emergency broadcast ordering the evacuation of Edinburgh Castle and the surrounding regions; another ordering all military, police, and emergency service personnel to report in at once, without delay. Janet shook her head slowly, a sudden tiredness threatening to overcome her. The world had changed overnight. It would be days – weeks, maybe even months – before anyone had a clear picture of what had happened in a single, disastrous moment.

The channel changed. The PM was speaking, addressing the nation in a flat tone that wasn’t remotely reassuring. “Stay away from unpopulated areas. Keep your doors and windows closed. Refrain from speaking to supernatural entities. Do not practice magic. All schools are closed until further notice. Parliament has been suspended until further notice …”

Janet shook her head. It was going to get worse before it got better.

There was a tap at the door. She stood, checked to see if her dressing gown was properly tied, and hurried over to open it. She’d hoped it would be Richard – they’d been given separate rooms, which both pleased and worried her – but instead it was a middle-aged man wearing a fancy uniform. Janet tensed up, despite herself, as he looked her up and down. There was something dispassionate in his gaze, as if he saw her as … as nothing. It bothered her on a very primal level.

“If you will come with me,” he said, in a tone that suggested the idea that she wouldn’t had never crossed his mind, “the Prime Minister is waiting.”

Janet nodded, making sure to tighten her belt before leaving the room. There was no lock, no keycard … she told herself, dryly, that the palace was safe and besides, she didn’t have anything worth stealing. She’d grown out of the habit of carrying a mobile phone everywhere and there was nothing else in her bag but a change of underwear and some sanitary products. In hindsight … she shook her head inwardly, then closed the door and followed the equerry down the corridor. She’d seen photographs, but she’d never realised just how immense the palace truly was, or how empty. There were no servants or tourists to be seen. It didn’t seem fair. She knew families of seven or eight who were crammed into flats smaller than her family’s tiny house, yet the king and his family had enough space for an entire army? It really didn’t seem fair. Why did her family – and her class – have so little while the upper class had so much?

She controlled her bitterness with an effort as the equerry showed her into a smaller chamber. It was surprisingly comfortable and homely, the kind of place the lady of the house would take tea with her guests while her servants attended to her every need. It reminded her of a drama she’d seen set in the Regency period, where men had donned silly wigs and women had worn absurd dresses, dresses that were only practical if the wearer had someone to help them get in and out of the outfit. Her lips twisted at the thought. Modern boys had enough problems undoing a woman’s bra …

“Janet,” the PM said. He stood and nodded, politely. “Can I call you Janet?”

Janet shrugged. She’d never imagined meeting the PM either. Politics had never interested her, not least because whoever was in power couldn’t – or wouldn’t – make things better for the working class. Tory or Labour, MPs collected fat salaries and perks and forgot about the poor bastards who elected them, at least until the time came to seek re-election. Janet didn’t hold with the extremists who flourished on the estate, from the far-right wankers to the religious nuts, but she understood them better than she cared to admit. If someone felt ignored and powerless, radical politics offered a way out …

She forced herself to study the PM. He looked … weaselly, in a manner that made her want to roll her eyes. Perhaps it was her tiredness, and his, but she found it hard to believe he had a spine. He reminded her of the last three headmasters of St. Champions, men who had come and gone without making the wretched school any better … men who had no hesitation in pushing the weak and helpless around, but cowered if they faced even the slightest pushback from bullies and their enabling parents. She felt a surge of contempt that surprised her in its intensity. The PM had an entire army, literally. He didn’t have to cower before bullies …

“This is a very fraught situation,” the PM said. “The crisis caught us completely by surprise, as you can imagine, and we know very little about magical society … and even less about their environment. The people may be friendly, but their ecosystem may have other ideas.”

He paused. “Why did you go with them?”

Janet shrugged, chewing on a strand of hair. She had always found it hard to explain herself to people she knew didn’t care about her. The PM was just like York’s MPs. There was no point in telling them anything. They never listened. They were just good at pretending they cared.

“The estate I grew up on was not a very nice place,” she said after a long pause. “There was no hope, not for me and not for anyone else. The chance to go somewhere else, to do something else … I couldn’t let it go.”

The PM said nothing for a long moment. “How did you meet them?”

Janet hesitated, then ran through the whole story. She kept it vague over precisely why she’d been at St. Champion’s at midnight – she didn’t want to be arrested for trespassing, even if the school was now as flat as a pancake – but outlined the rest of the tale, from the moment she’d taken the magic students home to when they’d invited her to come home with them. The PM listened carefully, asking a handful of questions. Janet did her best to answer. The Merlin had told her to be honest, to avoid lying even if there were things she would sooner not discuss.

“You should have told us,” the PM said.

Janet giggled, helplessly. “Would you have believed me?”

She shook her head. If someone had come to her, before the merge, and told her they’d met students from a whole other world, she’d have thought they were playing a practical joke. God knew anything could be faked these days. Special effects were so advanced, movie producers had a nasty habit of forgetting the need to write a decent plot. She would have been lucky if the police only laughed at her, instead of arresting her for wasting their time. And if they had believed her, it would’ve almost been worse. Richard, Brains, and Helen would have wound up being dissected, or handed over to the rogue magicians.

Her eyes narrowed. Did the PM know about the rogues? She didn’t know.

“Perhaps not,” the PM conceded. “What is their society like?”

Janet found herself smiling. “It’s wonderful, sir,” she said. “It’s wonderful.”

The PM narrowed his eyes. “Because it has magic?”

“No.” Janet felt the old anger bubbling up inside her, the old helplessness and rage at her life being thoroughly fucked before she took her first breath. “It’s …”

She found herself struggling to speak calmly. “St. Champions was a hellhole. It was … smart kids were forced to work with dumb kids, bullies were allowed to get away with it … do you know how many times I had my bra snapped, or my skirt lifted, because some asshole thought it was funny? Nerds and geeks got beaten up all the time, and … the food was ghastly, the teachers didn’t give a shit, and the creepy caretaker kept staring at us with hungry eyes. I don’t think there was a single girl who hadn’t been groped, at least once, or …”

It was hard to keep going. “The estate was even worse. The police didn’t give a damn about druggies, or gang warfare, or religious nuts … they did nothing, nothing at all to protect us. There was no way out for most of us … there were girls on the estate who were single mothers at sixteen, or grandmothers at thirty … rape, robbery, murder … it all happened there and no one cared. There was no point in studying, no point in trying to go to university … no hope. I knew I was doomed, well before I left school …”

The PM leaned forward. “You could have moved to London …”

Janet laughed, harshly. “With what money?”

She had done the maths, years ago. Their mother was the sole breadwinner and she had debts to pay. What little her mother had left needed to go towards the rent, feeding her children, and … there’d been some attempts to set up mutual aid societies, to share resources, but they’d run aground due to local shitheads and governmental pressure. It was funny, she’d reflected bitterly, that the government would ignore outright criminality, but react harshly to anyone trying to do the job the bloody government should have done …

The anger drove her on. “Gatehouse was different. The teachers had authority to crack down hard on bullies. The students were tested properly, and assigned to classes that challenged them. There were … I had the resources I needed to make something of myself, the keys to a better life, while here … here, I had nothing. Their society actually cares!”

“We care,” the PM said.

Janet looked him in the eye. “Then why don’t you show it?

“You have an army! You could send in the troops, round up all the criminals, and get rid of them! Everyone on the estate would be on your side, if you actually made sure those monsters would never have the chance to return to seek revenge! Why don’t you kick out the bullies, or the flashers, or …”

She shook her head, wiping away the tears. “You don’t care.”

“It’s not that simple,” the PM told her. “There are legal issues …”

“You don’t give a damn about legality either,” Janet said. She had heard it before, when the girls had tried to demand the school expel a particularly unpleasant boy. Sure, he needed an education, but did it have to come at the expense of everyone else? No! “It’s just an excuse for doing nothing.”

There was a long pause. The PM stood, walked over to a side trolley and poured two cups of tea. Janet almost giggled, between harsh breaths that threatened to turn into sobs, as she saw the afternoon tea arrangement. The tea cake stand was something right out of a period drama … she wondered, suddenly, if the tiny sandwiches were cucumber or salmon or something so fancy she’d never heard of it, let alone tasted it. The PM pushed the trolley towards her and handed her one of the cups of tea. The cup felt tiny in her hand, almost fragile. She had a feeling it was worth more than everything she owned put together.

“I wish it were as simple as you suggest,” the PM said. He sipped his own tea. Janet had no idea if he was trying to calm her, or if he was quietly buying himself time to think. “I went into office convinced I could do good, and then …”

“You did nothing,” Janet said, quietly.

The PM studied his teacup for a long moment. “How easy is it to learn magic?”

Janet hesitated, considering her answer. “Not that easy,” she said, finally. “It took me several weeks to learn how to channel magic, then I started practicing spells …”

She paused, unsure how to continue. “Magic … some things are very easy, but don’t last very long at all, while more permanent things take years to study and master. That’s how it was explained to me, at least.”

The PM nodded, not seeming to care about her vague answer. “And would you stop practicing magic?”

“If someone ordered me to stop?” Janet felt a hot flash of anger. “No. No way.”

“I see,” the PM said. “Why not?”

Janet gritted her teeth. “I had nothing. I would have left school in a few short months, with no prospect of bettering myself and climbing out of the estate. The best I could have hoped for, back then, was a decent husband … and by decent, I mean one who wouldn’t have beaten me more than once or twice a week. Magic offered me a chance to actually make something of myself, and if you think I’m going to give it up …”

She forced herself to calm down. “I was powerless. Helpless. There was nothing protecting me. I got pushed around and groped and I was lucky I didn’t get raped. I know girls my age who did! And now I have the power to defend myself, and … you think I’d just give it up?”

Norris’s face flickered through her head. Norris was very far from stupid. He would probably have cracked the secret of low-power magic, even without the rogue magicians. She wondered, suddenly, how many geeks and nerds were just like him, capable of intensely focusing on something that might just pay off handsomely. And they were the ones who got picked on all the time … that was going to change.

“Magic is here, like it or not,” she said. She had no idea what the PM was thinking and she no longer cared. Steve had told her that whoever cracked the secret of magic would change the world, would be the next Bill Gates or Tony Stark. “Magicians aren’t going to stop playing with magic, no matter what you say. All you can do is adapt.”

The PM nodded, politely. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “But tell me … how much do you know about how their government actually works?”

Janet took a breath. “It’s a true democracy,” she said. “Or it was explained to me that way …”

“A great many ideas look good on paper,” the PM said. “But in practice, they rarely work as advertised.”

He stood. “Thank you for your time,” he repeated. “I dare say we’ll have more questions for you shortly.”

“I’ll be going home soon,” Janet said. “This place isn’t my home.”

“We’re sharing the same patch of land,” the PM pointed out, rather dryly. “We have to learn how to get along, or face the consequences of not getting along.”

Chapter Twelve: London, Now

“She has been brainwashed,” Lord Burghley said, after the PM returned to the emergency committee chamber and replayed the interview with Janet Mayweather. “Magic, by its very nature, is dangerously addictive.”

Polly kept her thoughts to herself, as she stood against the wall and watched the movers and shakers debate the best course of action. The PM might not have much of a spine – the large portraits of Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher seemed to be glowering down at their successor; Polly couldn’t imagine either being so indecisive when time was clearly ticking away – but she had to admit he’d acted fast, once the warning had been received. The state of emergency wouldn’t last forever, even with the backing of the Leader of the Opposition, yet it would last long enough for the government to come to grips with the situation. Or so she hoped.

“You don’t feel she has something of a point?” Lady Fowler, a middle-aged woman who happened to be a senior civil servant, spoke into the silence. “She grew up in an area we abandoned, to all intents and purposes, and it would not be fair to ask her to give up her magic …”

“Her position might be understandable,” Lord Burghley said, coldly. “A man who drank himself senseless every night to escape the mundane horror of his life would also be understandable. But that same man would not be forgiven if he got behind the wheel and rammed his car into an innocent child, or even if he was just caught driving while under the influence. Nor should he be. The excuse of being drunk only goes so far.”

He looked at the PM. “If anything, it is worse than I thought. We are dealing with a society of extremely powerful individualists, who have the power to act on their own and no qualms about doing so.”

“Against a man who was very rude,” another civil servant pointed out. A handful of nervous chuckles ran around the table. The committee had its own problems with irritating reporters, who could be neither ignored nor arrested, and very few had any issue with a reporter being turned into a pig. If they had their druthers, they might give the young witch a medal. “Let us not fall into the trap of assuming the victim cannot also be the victimiser.”

“Let us also not fall into the trap of assuming retaliation, massively over the top retaliation, can be justified by a victim complex,” a third man offered. “You might come home to discover your neighbour has scratched your car, but that doesn’t justify murdering him, raping his wife and selling his children into slavery.”

“There is a more serious problem,” Lord Burghley said. His tone didn’t change. “It is a fact of life that different cultures react differently. One culture has no qualms about women walking around practically naked, while another thinks they should be covered from head to toe; one culture thinks children should be beaten, if they misbehave, while others think that beating children is child abuse. Some cultures believe in arranged, or even forced, marriages; others think that marriage is a match between two people, and to hell with the parents if they disapprove. If you have spent any time in a multicultural environment, you know that to be true.”

Polly nodded, curtly. She knew that.

“You also know that interactions between two different cultures can end very badly, if they refuse to get along. One culture’s respect for free speech can and does clash with a culture that refuses to allow any criticism of their religion, and demands they respond with violence to the merest suggestion of such. Even something as simple as serving the wrong food, or arranging a meeting at the wrong time, can be disastrous, when good faith is lacking and goodwill non-existent. And once you make a mistake, it can be very hard to recover, not least because you honestly don’t believe you did make a mistake.”

Polly couldn’t disagree. She’d been taught how to lay tables for a formal banquet and she’d had problems, real problems, grasping why the proper order was so important. The scolding she’d been given by her supervisor had seemed a gross overreaction, not least because the mistake could be – and was – easily corrected. Other issues … she sighed, inwardly. She’d had a boss who’d told her off for wearing comfortable shoes, instead of high heels, and … it had been so pointless. It wasn’t as if she’d been in front of the customers …

The PM cleared his throat. “And your point is?”

“My point,” Lord Burghley said, “is that there will be clashes between our culture and theirs. And we have to be ready for them.”

He paused. “We discourage vigilante justice for a reason. These people encourage it.”

Polly kept her face under tight control. There was no way one could trust vigilantes to enforce the law. That led to lynching, unofficial gangs of zealots that thought they were the religious police, and a complete lack of confidence in whatever they had that passed for justice. A mob could not study the crime scene, collect evidence and determine, calmly and reasonably, what had actually happened, then determine if the evidence suggested the defendant was actually guilty. And yet, for the rule of law to work, the people had to have faith in it. And that faith had been fading for years. No one actually liked vigilantes, but if the only other option was letting the guilty party get away with it …

If the guilty party really is guilty, she thought, tiredly. If the mob is wrong, that would be pretty fucking unfortunate.

“These people are a challenge to the established society,” Lord Burghley said. “And their influence will spread far, and damage us, even if they do not intend to do any damage at all.”

There was a long pause. Polly suspected he was right. If she’d been offered the chance to learn magic, at school, would she have taken it? Hell, she had been offered the chance and she had taken it … although if she hadn’t been shown real magic, she might have doubted it actually existed. Now … she wondered, numbly, just how many youngsters would start experimenting, and just how many would succeed. There was no way to be sure.

“There is a further threat,” Lord Burghley continued. “The influx of supernatural entities is going to pose a major problem.”

“There have already been incidents,” Lady Fowler said. “There will be more.”

“A dragon chasing a jet fighter,” the Secretary of Defence said. “How did it even keep up?”

Lady Fowler essayed a dark smile. “Magic.”

The PM steepled his fingers. “They have offered to help us deal with the problem,” he said. “And we may have no choice.”

“We have had those poisonous offers before,” Lord Burghley said. “We have always regretted it.”

“This is different,” the PM said. “Or do you feel otherwise?”

“They were reluctant to discuss precisely how the first magicians returned to our world, or their further operations within our world, or just what happened to bring the two worlds together,” Lord Burghley said. “I don’t believe it bodes well for the future.”

And it raises a number of questions you can’t ask, Polly added, in the privacy of her own mind. Do they know the Brotherhood was planning to invade? Do they know about the magicians on this side of the gate? Or …

“These people have a superiority complex,” he added. “And they have magic.”

He paused, dramatically. “How long do you think it will be before they decide they have to take over? For our own good, of course.”

“You don’t know they’d do anything of the sort,” Lady Fowler said.

“They’re human,” Lord Burghley snapped. “There are men out there who believe that men being stronger and faster than women means that women should do as they say. There are women who think that being able to give birth means that men should do what they say. There are people who think that white skin is better than black, or black is better than white, or left-handed people are the spawn of the devil … humans have never needed much of an excuse to discriminate, or to come up with new and inventive ways to rationalise it. You go online and it won’t be hard to find a dozen think-pieces condemning toxic masculinity, or whiteness, or some other nonsense that buries bigotry under a should of make-believe rationality.”

He looked from face to face. “These people have magic. How long do you think it will be until they start thinking they’re superior?”

There was a long cold pause. “Going by human history, I’d say several microseconds. And that might be optimistic.”

Polly felt cold. She had grown up in the upper classes, and worked for people who were even higher-born than herself, and she had to admit he had a point. She’d met too many Ladies Who Lunch to have any illusions about their charity work being anything other than a cover for condescension and the urge to meddle, not least because their planning sessions never made room for anyone they were supposedly trying to help. It was funny, she reflected sourly, how someone who wanted to help – without actually thinking about what they were doing – could easily do worse than someone who was outrightly malicious. A person with enough money not to need to worry about a thing could do a great deal of damage, if they tried to help someone who didn’t …

She watched the mood around the table darken. It was one thing to deal with sovereign citizens, or people who thought they didn’t have to pay tax or follow the law, but most of those had little real power. The government could quietly ignore them, or jail them if ignoring them didn’t work … but this was different. The newcomers had real power. And that made them very dangerous.

“I take your point,” the PM said. “What do you suggest we do?”

“We play a waiting game,” Lord Burghley said. “We have some magicians already – no match for theirs, at the moment, but we will get better. We work to build up our forces, to enforce our laws on our territory while conceding nothing on theirs, until we are ready to dictate terms to them. They can integrate into our society, rather than reshaping it or remaining a separate entity. I think we can all agree we cannot tolerate another government on British soil.”

“If nothing else, we will learn more about their society as we go along,” Lady Fowler pointed out. “I suspect that young lady never saw the world outside Gatehouse.”

Polly nodded, inwardly. Janet Mayweather was clearly smart, and a good observer, but it was quite possible for someone to be given a tour of an aircraft carrier, and be shown nothing of consequence, and never realise it unless they happened to be a naval expert. Polly could cite a dozen examples of ambassadors who had never seen the host country, outside the embassy and the centre of government, and found themselves blindsided by something they never saw coming, because they didn’t have any real feel for the country at all. It was quite possible she’d seen a façade of a fantasy land, an illusion covering a far darker reality.

It would be great to go to Hogwarts as a magical student, even if one happened to be muggleborn, she thought, wryly. But if you happened to be a squib instead …

“It will be risky,” the PM said. “But what choice do we have?”

“We could take possession of their territories now,” the Secretary of Defence said. “But we couldn’t guarantee victory.”

Polly tried not to wince. The British Army was amongst the best in the world, but the squaddies weren’t armed and trained to deal with magic. They might as well have planned to deal with an alien invasion. Hell, an alien invasion would make a great deal more sense. If nothing else, it would be a good way to assess high-tech conflict without naming and shaming a supposedly friendly, and rather touchy, country. Magic … she had a sudden vision of troops being driven away, or turned into toads, or simply being unable to find the magical zones. Gatehouse, at least, was clearly visible. Others were hard to see with the naked eye, or so tightly intermingled with mundane zones that it would be hard to send in the military without killing countless innocent civilians.

“They’ll fight,” Lord Burghley predicted. “We must wait, and prepare, and act only when success is certain.”

There was a long pause. Polly tried to gauge the mood. The people gathered at the table were powerful, true, but their power was now under threat. They knew how they would act, if they were granted godlike power, and they feared how others would act. Magic didn’t so much alter the balance of power as it smashed the table beyond repair, changing everything so completely it was impossible to put the pieces back together. The gathered movers and shakers had barely had a day to come to terms with the fact their world had changed, and was going to change again …

An invading army would make more sense, Polly reflected. And they’d know how to handle it. This … is too much.

The PM silently canvassed the table, then nodded. “We will proceed with your plan,” he said, firmly. “The state of emergency will remain in effect, until we have a grip on the situation. If it fails …”

“It won’t,” Lord Burghley said.

The PM dismissed the meeting. Polly wondered, idly, if he would be staying the night in the palace himself, or if he’d be driven back to Downing Street. The diplomats would continue the talks, trying to come to some kind of temporary agreement … Polly sighed inwardly, all too aware that there was nothing so permanent as a temporary arrangement. It would be one hell of a madhouse for the next few weeks, if not months. The rules hadn’t changed so much as they’d been rewritten completely.

She stepped forward and walked with Lord Burghley as they made their way down to the cars. Her skin prickled oddly as they left the gilded sections of the palace behind, walking into a basement that could have been any basement. There were things in the distance … she blinked hard, trying to convince herself she was just tired. She’d taken a power nap earlier, while they’d been waiting for the magical diplomats to arrive, but it hadn’t been anything like enough. She had a feeling she’d miss the pre-wonder days soon enough.

If Lord Burghley was tired, he didn’t show it.

“Contact the hall,” he ordered, once they were in the car. His face seemed alight with a terrible energy, as if his skull was a mask that was threatening to slip. Polly blinked and the impression was gone. “I want everyone on the Omega contact list called, and ordered to present themselves tomorrow morning. No excuses.”

Polly frowned. It was already late at night, too late. The people on the list had, in theory, access to private jets or special trains, as well as cars, but she doubted they could all reach the hall in time for the meeting. She wasn’t even sure the private jets would be allowed to fly. The government had ordered all non-essential aircraft out of the sky and getting permission to ignore the edict would be tricky, particularly if there was no clear excuse.

“Sir,” she started. Her boss normally listened to reason. “They might not arrive in time …”

“There is no time to waste,” Lord Burghley said. There was an odd little pause, one that bothered her. She wasn’t sure why. “Inform them their presence is requested as soon as possible.”

Polly nodded and flipped open her laptop, sending the signal back to the hall. She wasn’t sure it was wise to continue to run operations out of the mansion – the other magicians did know it existed – but her boss was clearly not in the right frame of mind to debate the issue. The hall did have powerful protections, all the more powerful now they could combine their precise – very precise – spellcasting with high levels of raw magic. And besides, it was Lord Burghley’s family home. His place of power. There were few who could enter without his permission, and fewer still who’d be able to escape afterwards.

“We’ll start preparations as soon as possible,” Lord Burghley continued. He spoke with quiet confidence, as if he already had a workable plan. “Once the Omega list has been contacted, get in touch with the family staff and tell them they are authorised to continue their research as quickly as possible. I want a list of potential magicians by the end of the week.”

“Understood,” Polly said. She tried not to yawn. The night was wearing on her. And it wasn’t over yet. “I’ll see to it.”

Lord Burghley nodded, then sat back in his chair. Polly felt a stab of envy as the car drove through the London streets, deserted save for policeman and soldiers. Her boss could close his eyes and rest, while she had to work … she wondered, suddenly, if it would be dawn before she got any sleep herself. It was a short flight to York, followed by a drive to the hall and then … bed. She hoped.

She frowned, inwardly. Lord Burghley didn’t look as if he was resting, not in any sense of the word. He looked as if he were waiting, waiting for … for an instant, his face seemed too sharp and angular to be human. His eyes were bright in the semi-darkness, too bright …

Something flickered. The impression was gone.

Polly relaxed, slightly. It was just a trick of the light.

Wasn’t it?

Chapter Thirteen: York, Now

Norris felt … weirdly disconnected from the world.

It was an odd sensation. The concrete estate seemed strange now, as well as hostile. He couldn’t keep himself from glancing back, time and time again, to check that Gatehouse was still there, looming over York. It felt as if he had been on holiday, immersing himself in a very different culture, only to come back home and discover the old world no longer felt right. But then, it never had. The estate had been a prison, not a home. He told himself he should turn around, go straight back to Gatehouse, and take his punishment like a man. There was nothing to be gained from visiting his home one final time.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the stench of burning hydrocarbons, uncollected rubbish and the faint, but unmistakable, tang of magic. The last few days had been rough for everyone; the barricades had been removed, but many of the evacuated people had refused to return to the estate, even when they’d been told their government-provided housing would be shut down shortly. Norris didn’t blame them, not one little bit. The estate had been a nightmare, a prison for everyone save for the ones who really should be in jail, and there was no way in hell he’d go back to the estate if there was any other choice. And yet …

He wondered, numbly, why the mind-healer had insisted Norris at least try to speak to his mother. She had been indifferent to him at best, showing none of the protectiveness he’d seen other parents show their kids … Norris hadn’t wanted to talk about her, even to the healer, and he’d been surprised that so much had come pouring out of him, once he’d started to talk. Perhaps it had been magic, or perhaps it had been the simple fact he’d bottled it up for so long that he’d been unable to contain it any longer. He didn’t really want to think about it.

The air shifted again as he turned onto the street, the sense of disconnection growing stronger as he walked. Some homes looked surprisingly normal, with clear signs their occupants had returned; others looked deserted, doors locked and windows barred. A handful had clearly been looted, the windows smashed … he wondered, sourly, which of the estate’s bad boys was responsible for the deed. It would be easier to come up with a list of young men who wouldn’t do it, if only because the list would be a great deal shorter. The only reason there wasn’t more theft on the estate was because there was little worth stealing.

He stopped outside his house – his old house – and looked up at the blank door. The flimsy plywood offered no sense of safety, although – as far as he knew – the house had never actually been robbed. It was a bit of a surprise, he reflected tiredly. A thief might break and enter in hopes of finding something he could sell, but a bully would break into a house just to remind his target that there was no safety anywhere, not even in the supposed privacy of his own home. He gritted his teeth, then raised his hand to tap on the door. There was no answer.

Of course not, he thought. She’s not at home.

His key was long-gone, probably with Lord Burghley and his staff. Norris pressed his hand against the lock and muttered a brief spell, one that would be absolutely useless – worse than useless – against a magical lock, but effective against a lock designed by someone who didn’t know magic existed. The lock clicked, allowing him to open the door. The air inside was hot and dry, as if the radiators had been left on when the building had been evacuated … Norris’s eyes narrowed. His mother had been very sensitive about spending money, not without reason. She made so little that the slightest unexpected expenditure could send her spiralling into a debt trap, one she’d never escape. And yet …

He took a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the gloom, then inched inside. The tiny living room was a mess, the handful of pieces of cheap and crappy furniture smashed and broken. The school photograph he’d brought home ten years ago lay on the ground, ripped and torn. He picked it up, his eyes seeking faces he knew … it was hard, impossibly hard, to pick out Janet, or Colin. His own face had been defaced … he wondered, numbly, how the intruders had known it was him. He’d changed a lot, in ten years.

A nasty thought ran through his mind and he threw caution to the winds, running into the kitchen. It had been searched thoroughly, with no regard for putting everything back in place afterwards. The floor was littered with cheap and nasty food – cereal, instant noodles, spices that were supposed to add a little favour – and the fridge was open, the contents strewn over the floor. They’d been lucky, he noted, that there’d been no fresh produce, no eggs or meat or even milk. But then, they couldn’t afford it.

Norris hesitated, then ran up the creaky stairs, nearly tripping over carpet that had been old and frayed when he’d been a toddler. His room was a mess, books thrown everywhere and his computer smashed beyond repair; his heart skipped a beat as he stared at the mess, remembering how he’d put the computer together from discarded components, trying to force them to merge into a single machine. It had worked – poorly, he admitted, but it had worked.

He turned and walked to his mother’s room, after a brief internal struggle with himself. His mother’s room had been hers, and he’d never liked entering even when he’d been fairly sure she’d been alone. The men she’d brought back to the house … he felt his heart twist painfully, wondering if the taunt that he was a whore’s son had been truer than he wanted to admit. Colin had insisted he’d fucked Norris’s mother … the asshole had been lying. He had to have been.

The door opened. Norris gasped. His mother was lying on the bed, very clearly dead. Her wrists were cut, blood staining the carpet below his feet … he stepped forward, unwilling to touch her body. How long did it take, he asked himself, for blood from a dying or dead body to clot? He didn’t know. Days? Weeks? His mother could have been lying there dead from the moment he’d been recruited by Lord Burghley, or she could have been killed only a few short days ago. Norris took a breath and tasted death in the air, a stench that made him retch. He stumbled backwards, choking heavily. His mother …

His mother was dead.

Norris closed his eyes for a long moment, unwilling to look at the corpse for any longer than necessary. Her wrists were slit … suicide? Or had someone wanted to make it look like a suicide? Norris didn’t know … how could he? He was no detective … not, he suspected, that any detective would give much of a damn about his mother, certainly if there was no reason to suspect foul play. She had been on the bottom of society, barely keeping herself afloat … Norris hated to admit it, but he knew why she’d had so little time for him. She’d had very little time for herself. Guilt stabbed through his mind, driven by a sense of relief … and the awareness he damn well should feel guilty. His mother was dead.

“I’m sorry,” he said. There were spells that could summon someone from the land of the dead … or so he’d heard. The lone book he’d read on the topic had been surprisingly fanciful and carefully avoided discussing how the spells worked. He had no idea how to cast the spell, and the book had gone into the dangers in such detail that he’d been sure the writer had wanted to discourage anyone from following in his footsteps. “I’m truly sorry.”

He turned and walked away, unsure what to do. Call the police? They wouldn’t care. Call the hospital? Why bother? His mother was dead. He walked back into his own room and picked up a handful of books that had somehow, miraculously, not been ruined, stowing them in his bag, then checked the hidden compartment under his desk. Someone had found the hard drive he’d concealed there and smashed it beyond all hope of recovery. Norris hoped they hadn’t tried to crack his password and access the files first. The porn he’d collected was tame, compared to some of the filth he’d seen shared at school, but it would still be embarrassing if someone else saw it.

The fuse box felt warm to the touch, when he opened it and flipped off the switches. There was no point in drawing power from the network now, and he’d probably get the bill if someone noticed his mother was no longer in a position to pay it. He knew people who had had their power cut off and it wasn’t pleasant … he shook his head and stepped outside, taking a deep breath. The air still stank, but it was cleaner than the air inside. His mother couldn’t have been dead long, he thought, or her body would have started to decompose.

A voice cut into his musings. “All right, freak. You know the drill.”

Norris looked up and cringed. Gammon and Pike, James and Peter … friends of Colin, insofar as that monster in human form had had friends. They lived just down the road from him, and … it had only been a few months ago that they’d been charging him for the privilege of walking home without being beaten up, then often beating him up anyway. He was surprised they’d returned to the estate, then realised it probably wasn’t a surprise. They might have been welcomed, at first, but that wouldn’t last. The police had probably been ordered to send them home, the moment the barricade had been removed …

“You killed Colin,” Pike said. “You’re going to pay …”

Norris thought it was Pike, at least. The four youths might have been handsome, once upon a time, but they’d pierced their skin with metal and dyed their hair and tattooed themselves with swastikas they swore blind were ancient symbols … it said a lot about the world, Norris had often thought, that people who claimed to care about violence in video games overlooked genuine outright far-right bullshit, as long as the assholes were too tough to fight. Three of the four were practically interchangeable … the fourth, Peter, was a black kid. Norris had often wondered how he’d fallen in with the racist thugs, then decided it didn’t matter. If there was one universal rule, it was that only the weak were punished for their crimes.

Pike started forward. Norris gritted his teeth, fear and shame rushing through him … followed by a wave of raw magic. It didn’t need direction as it burst out of him, picking up the four louts and throwing them over the nearest lampposts. It would be hard for them to get down without help. If they fell … it was at least five metres, perhaps more, to the ground. He didn’t think they could clamber down the posts themselves.

“If you ever come near me again,” he said, with all the power he could muster. “I’ll kill you on the spot.”

And he turned and walked back to Gatehouse. Back home.

***

Janet didn’t relax, not completely, until she was back at Gatehouse.

The talks had been long and tedious, broken only by brief breaks and private sessions between her and a handful of government agents. It hadn’t been easy to answer their questions – in some ways, they’d reminded her of her own ignorance – and some had been insulting, often in ways that she didn’t quite realise until it was long afterwards, leaving her feeling slow and stupid. She knew what they were trying to do – get an understanding of what sort of people they were dealing with – but it was still annoying. If they’d wanted to ask questions of a spy, they should have asked Norris.

Helen caught her arm, before she could hurry back to her room for a shower and a nap. “Can we talk?”

Janet hesitated, then nodded. “If we must.”

Helen walked beside her as she led the way up to her room. Janet wasn’t sure how she felt about inviting Helen inside, but … she shook her head and motioned for Helen to sit on the bed, feeling a twinge of amusement at the distaste on the older girl’s face. She wasn’t sure which of them was older, come to think of it … Helen had acted like a spoilt brat at first, yet she’d grown up a lot even before remaining behind on OldeWorld. But did it matter?

“I need a favour,” Helen said. She sounded as if she would sooner have done something unspeakably awful than ask anyone for a favour. “Can I ask for your help … rather, your advice?”

“You can ask,” Janet said. She told herself that Helen was not about to ask if she could steal Janet’s homework. No matter how she looked at it, Helen had had far more years of magical education than her. “What can I do for you?”

Helen met her eyes, evenly. “I am interested in courting your brother,” she said. “How do I broach the subject with him?”

Janet blinked, honestly surprised. She had known Steve was attracted to Helen – there was no accounting for taste; Helen really was gorgeous, and smart too – but she hadn’t known Helen felt the same way about her brother. The sheer bluntness blew her away. Some girls giggled and blushed, dancing around the subject as if silliness would keep the discussion from becoming too real; some girls were simply not allowed to have anything to do with boys, not even to discuss them with their peers. Helen … she reminded herself, sharply, that Helen was from a very different society. She’d been betrothed to Brains … hadn’t she?

She found herself unsure what to say. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. It crossed her mind to suggest Helen simply kissed Steve, but she swallowed that thought before it could emerge from her lips. “What are you doing with Brains?”

Helen’s lips thinned. “We were betrothed, because my family and his believed our match would be good for us,” she said. “It was expected that we would … cooperate … to produce children, and after that … we could go our own way. No one would be surprised if we took lovers, as long as the children were ours. But …”

She paused. “The idea of doing that no longer appeals. I want … someone I can actually talk to.”

There was another pause. “My family won’t be pleased if I break the betrothal,” she added, slowly. “But if I can offer them someone in exchange …”

“My brother is not a pawn,” Janet said, hastily. She’d heard of one boy who’d agreed to a marriage to save a friend from a much worse marriage, but it hadn’t worked out very well. “If you treat him so, he won’t be very pleased himself.”

She found it hard to speak. “Why don’t you just talk to him?”

Helen shot her a sharp look. Janet understood. It was dangerous to let a boy know you were interested in him, if it turned out he wasn’t the knight in shining armour you thought he was. It might be worse for Helen, if she got her family – and his - involved before discovering the truth. If Steve hadn’t been interested in her … Janet had no idea if they’d have to go ahead with the match anyway, once the two families came to an agreement. The entire system stuck her as absurd, no matter how effective it might be in breeding stronger children, but … it was a fact of life. And now she – and Steve – were part of Helen’s world.

“I think you should have a talk with him,” she said, finally. She didn’t know if Steve had had any girlfriends. It wasn’t something they’d ever discussed. The idea of asking her brother if he was a virgin … she shook her head. Absurd. “I think he likes you” – she hoped to God that was true, now she’d spoken the words out loud – “but you need to be careful. His idea of a relationship will be very different than yours.  You can’t even assume the words mean the same things.”

Helen grimaced. “I’ll try,” she said. “It would have been easier …”

“I suppose.” Janet had seen arranged marriages. Some had worked reasonably well. Some had had rough beginnings, then settled down. And some had been utterly disastrous. It would be nice, in some ways, if her mother had found her a man, yet … how could her mother have been sure the man would actually be good for Janet? “He’s just as nervous as you are.”

“Really?” Helen gave her a sharp look. “How can you tell?”

“I know him,” Janet said. “And I know how hard it is for a man to ask a woman out.”

Helen smiled. “How long did it take Richard to ask you out?”

“Too long, and not long enough,” Janet said. She felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t made anything like enough time for Richard, over the last few days. She promised herself she’d make it up to him as soon as possible. “And Steve has it even worse.”

She paused. “He knows nothing about your society,” she added. “If he gets into trouble through ignorance …”

“He won’t,” Helen assured her. “I won’t let him.”

Chapter Fourteen: Glasgow, Now

Jack looked up as Janie slipped into the abandoned house. “You found the stuff?”

Janie nodded and squatted down beside him. “Pretty much,” she said. “You know how hard it was to find?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “But we made it.”

He gritted his teeth as he stared down at the pack. He had no illusions. It was hard enough finding genuine magical instructions on the internet – the vast majority of sites featured Harry Potter spells, a problem made worse by reports that some of those spells actually worked – and harder still to find the right ingredients for the ritual. There was little demand, these days, for goat’s blood, or vole fur, and obtaining both of them had been tricky. They’d been lucky Janie’s uncle worked in a specialist food shop. And that they’d been able to find a stuffed vole and strip the poor beast of its fur.

“Once we get started,” Janie said, “we won’t be able to stop.”

Jack swallowed, hard. The last two weeks had been chaotic – he wouldn’t have believed half the news reports if he hadn’t seen a sea serpent swimming down the Clyde – and yet, they’d been amongst the best weeks in his life. Ten days in lockdown had kept him indoors, safe from the bullies and thugs who infested his school like fleas on a dog. Ten days … he’d tried, hard, to master the magic he was sure he’d had, but results had been minimal … so minimal that he’d wondered if he had any magic at all. Faith was important, if the internet was telling the truth, yet developing and keeping that faith was proving impossible.

They made an odd pair, he reflected, as he opened the bag and carefully laid the spell components out on the wooden floor they’d painstakingly cleaned over the last two days. He was a middle-class teenager, blond and pale, while Janie’s face was unmistakably a blend between British and Indian features. Her parents had died when she was young, forcing her uncle to take her in … an uncle, Jack had heard, who hadn’t been very keen on taking his niece into the family and didn’t have any interest in her, beyond providing her with bed and board. They wouldn’t have been friends, he admitted sourly, if they hadn’t been neighbours … and, he supposed, they hadn’t been so isolated at school. But at least they were alone together.

“Make sure you follow the lines exactly,” Janie reminded him. “Don’t make a single mistake.”

Jack nodded, reaching for the chalk, dipping it in the goat’s blood and drawing the first circle on the floor. It wasn’t easy to keep the lines perfect and he had to rub it out twice – the instructions warned that the ritualist couldn’t correct his mistakes; he had to start again – before they had a handful of perfect circles, drawn with tainted blood. Janie produced the rest of the components one by one – rare herbs and spices, some of which had fallen out of fashion years ago – and put them in place, calling on Jack to check her work as soon as she was done. Jack checked carefully, while she looked over his work. It might have been his imagination, but there was already a tingle of power in the air. The instructions had made it clear the ritual was dangerous, and the slightest mistake could prove fatal. He didn’t think he could make himself believe they were playing a game, playing in the make-believe world they’d constructed – together – to keep out the outside world. It was real.

Magic was real.

“I think you did everything right,” Janie said. “Did I?”

Jack looked up at her, suddenly struck by just how beautiful she was.  Her clothes were shoddy and slipshod, handed down from her cousins, and she wore a pair of oversized glasses, but they couldn’t hide her beauty any longer. She was perfect … he sucked in his breath, kicking himself for the moment of weakness as he forced himself to look away. She was his friend, his only friend. She didn’t deserve to be ogled or treated as anything less than the person she was.

“I think so,” he managed. Janie had always been precise, working hard in a bid to build a future for herself. Her uncle had no interest in providing for her, once she turned eighteen, and she had admitted to Jack early in their friendship that it was quite possible her uncle would kick her out of the house. He wasn’t even prepared to arrange a marriage for her, although that was no bad thing. The idea made him feel a strange mixture of naked jealousy and sympathy, for the poor sod who wound up marrying her. “Shall we begin?”

Janie hesitated, noticeably. “Do you know what you want?”

“Power,” Jack said. It was a crude thing to want, but he needed it. The power to defend himself, the power to defend his best friend … the power to make something of himself. “You?”

“I want to speak to my mother, one final time,” Janie said. “And ask her why …?”

Jack looked down, feeling a twinge of guilt. He’d often bitched and moaned about his parents, who were both rich enough to attract the wrong kind of attention without having the funds to send him to a good school, but at least he had them. Janie’s parents were dead, dead so long ago that she barely remembered them. Hell, she wasn’t even sure – she’d admitted in a tearful moment – if her memories were real, or if her imagination had filled in the gaps. Jack couldn’t imagine what it was like to be so unsure of himself. Janie would never know the truth. How could she?

“I understand,” he said. He glanced at his mobile phone – the hour was almost upon them – and looked out of the window. The sun was setting rapidly. “You told your uncle you were going to be home tomorrow?”

“He thinks I’m with a girlfriend.” Janie’s voice was laden with scorn. “I needn’t have bothered. He doesn’t care.”

Jack nodded. His parents thought he was spending the night with a friend too … a pleasant fantasy, perhaps, but a fantasy nonetheless. He had no friends, apart from Janie, and there was no way he could spend the night with her. His lips twisted at the thought. He was going to spend the night with her, just not in the way everyone would think, if they heard about it afterwards.

He took a breath. The air was still tingling with power, and unspoken promise.

“If you want to back out,” he said, “this is your chance.”

He didn’t think she would, but the instructions were clear. It was bizarre to think that centuries-old instructions for magic rituals placed more focus on informed consent than many modern-day contracts, yet he supposed it made a certain kind of sense. Ritual Magic was deeply rooted in symbolism – there might be enough fragments of the True Cross out there to build a brand new Ark, but it didn’t matter as long as the ritualists believed it was a piece of the True Cross – and someone being dragged into the ritual against their will, or unaware of what it truly was, would have a very different symbolic meaning to someone who walked into the ritual with their eyes wide open. He had to ask her, and she had to ask him. They dared not play fast and loose with the rules.

“I’m in,” Janie said. “You?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’m in.”

His hands shook as he reached for his jumper and pulled it off, then shook again as he removed his trousers and underwear. Janie gasped as his manhood jumped out at her … Jack reached down to cover himself, feeling a wave of pure embarrassment that almost made him turn and run. She had never seen him naked before, and … he tried to look away as she undressed too, taking each piece of clothing off separately like a person trying to inch their way into a freezing cold swimming pool. Jack suspected that was a mistake – it was better to rip the bandage off than try to ease it off piece by piece – but he said nothing. They’d carefully read the instructions, and noted that they had to be naked while casting the spell, yet there was a difference between reading and doing. He forced himself to pick up his clothes and carry them out of the room, leaving them by the door. Janie followed a moment later. Jack tried hard – he tried – not to stare at her rear. It was a million times better than porn.

“I’m ready.” Janie sounded uneasy, even though she had known what was coming. She knelt on one side of the circle, pressing her legs firmly together. “Jack?”

Jack felt a stab of sympathy for her, mingled with lust and a twinge of guilt. They’d had to time the ritual perfectly, to make sure they carried it out when Janie was at just the right stage of her lunar cycle. The instructions hadn’t been vague on that point, but they’d used so many euphemisms that it had taken several hours to work out what it meant and then … she’d been so embarrassed that he’d come very close to calling off the whole idea. But in the end she’d insisted they went ahead, swallowing her embarrassment and timing her cycle to allow them to proceed.

He took his place on the other side, and fixed his eyes firmly on the small pile of spices and herbs in the centre. The ritual instructions hadn’t been clear on how the small pile was actually to be lighted, so he struck a match and carefully pressed the tiny flame to the pile, waiting until it caught fire. A faint haze started to form in front of them, an aroma of spice touching his nostrils. He looked up and saw Janie’s bare breasts, bobbling in front of her, but … his mood shifted, the world itself seeming to shift around him. He was suddenly very aware of himself, and her, and the building around them … and how fragile they were, compared to a much greater world. He saw things moving in the gaps between fragments of reality, great entities that were so vast as to be completely beyond his comprehension. The world felt as if it were coming apart around him …

… And it was all centred on the gathering haze.

Time itself seemed to slow down as he stared at the haze, feeling as if he were caught in a dream that could easily become a nightmare. His lips moved soundlessly, shaping the words they’d taken from the instructions and practiced time and time again until they could say them without hesitation. He could hear her saying the words too, although she spoke as quietly as himself. They were sharing the ritual together … he was suddenly very aware of every last atom of her body, of the meat that housed a human soul … he thought he saw flashes of her life and feared, despite himself, that she would see flashes of his …

… And then he was back in his body.

He staggered, feeling as if he’d been forced to run a marathon. The world felt … unreal … as if he were still dreaming. He thought he saw eyes peering out of nothing, strange spiders crawling through the air and resting on human minds … his awareness seemed to expand, revealing more people … he felt tears prickling at the corner of his eyes as he realised that every human had some kind of connection to magic. It was so wonderful he almost forgot why they were there.

The haze was growing brighter, a form slowly taking shape within the circle. Jack felt his eyes hurt as he looked at it, yet he was unable to look away. It was hard, almost impossible, to pin it down to any form. The only thing he saw clearly were a pair of inhuman eyes, staring at him so intensely they burned into his very soul. He heard Janie whimper and knew it was looking at her too, even though he could no longer see her. The entity was so bright, so real, that it was impossible to see anything beyond it. Reality itself was bending, twisted by its mere presence. It occurred to him to wonder, too late, if reality was a sheet of thin ice and the entity a hot coal …

“WELL.”

The voice thudded into Jack’s head without going through his ears. He’d never heard anything like it. No mortal man could speak in such a manner. It was cold and hard, yet also curious and playful … Jack knew he had to keep his eyes on the entity, to keep the doorway open, and yet it was hard to escape the urge to prostrate himself in front of the circle. It was … his awareness twitched suddenly, showing him a protuberance that reached out and out and out, into realms his mind could not comprehend and places he could not go. The entity in front of him was just the tip of an iceberg, an iceberg so vast that he couldn’t even begin to grasp its size. And he’d summoned it …

Jack felt the words jam in his throat. “We …”

He forced himself to continue. “We have called you because we desire …”

The entity seemed to look at him. There was no visible nose, but Jack had the impression it was looking down its nose at him anyway. It was the kind of look he was all too familiar with … it crossed his mind to wonder if his mind was trying to interpret what it was doing in a manner he could understand, or if the entity was not bothering to hide its contempt. The instructions had suggested the entity might try to truck them, like an evil genie from the old stories that might have been deeply rooted in truth, but this entity didn’t seem inclined to bother. Jack couldn’t tell if it was trying to lull them into a false sense of security, or if …

“YOU DESIRE,” the entity said. “WHAT DO YOU DESIRE?”

Janie’s voice was weak, trembling. “I want to see my mother again.”

Jack tried to keep his voice calm. He failed. “I want power.”

The world seemed to twist around them again. The walls fragmented and broke … Jack wasn’t sure, he honestly couldn’t tell, if their minds had been yanked out of their bodies again or if the abandoned house really was coming apart at the seams. The entity was all around them, holding them tightly … Jack felt his awareness expand again, too late. A translucent figure was taking shape in front of them, tiny compared to the entity. He gasped, despite himself. Janie’s mother was darker than her – he wasn’t sure how he could tell - but otherwise they were practically identical. Mother and daughter …

Janie breathed a word Jack didn’t recognise. He guessed it was Urdu for mother.

“Janie,” the ghostly mother said. “Run!”

“YOU WANT POWER,” the entity said. “YOU SHALL HAVE POWER.”

Jack opened his mouth, too late. The world seemed to explode around him. A fearsome surge of power, a sense of power, washed through him. He crashed back into the mundane world, the entity vanishing now the ritual was complete, but … it had left its mark. The world was suddenly very fragile … he pushed down, trying to stand, and felt the floor break underneath him. He shivered, and stumbled to his feet, driven by a strange and terrible belief he could do anything, anything he liked. It was almost like being drunk and yet, this time there would be no morning afterwards, no hangover or bruises. It would be …

Janie was right in front of him. He looked at her naked body and saw her, really saw her. His manhood stiffened. He could take her. He had the power. He could do whatever he liked and no one, no one at all, could stop him. The sudden fear in her eyes was almost intoxicating. It was obvious she was trying to run and yet her terror kept her rooted firmly in place. His eyes lingered on her breasts, then dropped down to her legs, firmly pressed together. It would be easy to part them, to reach for the sacred core of her womanhood and force his way into her very being. Who could stop him? There was no one …

The magic was all around him, humming with power. He could feel it, wield it, as easily as if it were part of him. It was part of him. He could see secrets beyond imagination, understand rituals and charms that would not otherwise be practical for years to come … horror washed through him as he realised his mistake. The entity hadn’t cheated him. It had given him what he wanted. But now he saw the price.

And the power was still getting stronger.

“Run,” he managed. He was bleeding, only bleeding fire rather than blood. A hundred things ran through his mind, a hundred things he wanted to say, but it was hard to think let alone speak. He’d been a fool and Janie was about to pay the price, if she didn’t get out in time. “Run …”

Janie stood and fled, scooping up her clothes as she ran. Jack had one last look at her rear, an instant before his vision turned red. His soul was burning, the air around him catching fire … he tried to hold himself together as long as possible, to buy time for Janie to make her escape, before letting go …

The world exploded around him. Something laughed, and then it was dark.

His awareness just drifted away.

Chapter Fifteen: Lake District, Now

“We were here, only a couple of weeks ago,” Steve said, his arms wrapped around Helen’s back as she guided the broomstick towards the estate. “Did you know …”

Helen shook her head. Her relatives –some of them, at least - had had to abandon their mansions and estates in OldeWorld, when the time came to go through the gates or lose their magic forever. The replacements had been built within Mystic Albion and no one, as far as she knew, had bothered to work out where the estate was in OldeWorld. Her family had never felt the lack, at least until now. It hadn’t been easy for her mother to get the estate back in touch with the rest of the magical world, let alone come to terms with the fact it was now surrounded by the mundane world.

“I …” Helen swallowed and started again. “You recall how to behave?”

“I listened to your lecture,” Steve teased. “Is it really that important to impress her?”

Helen nodded, stiffly. “She has to see you as a suitable replacement for Brains.”

Steve tightened his grip, just slightly. Helen sighed to herself. He didn’t understand. The nobility placed vast importance on birth and breeding, carefully planning matches to ensure the bloodlines were mixed and matched to birth stronger children. Helen had watched the diviners studying the different families, working out which couples were likely to produce the best results and carefully integrating newcomers from outside the old aristocracy. Janet might be getting an offer, sooner or later, if she stayed in the magical world. A person with both Head and Heart talents would be a worthy addition to any family.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. If nothing else, Steve would be more charming than Brains. The bar wasn’t set very high. “And …”

The wards around the estate parted suddenly, revealing an exotic jungle in the heart of the Lake District. Strange creatures, including some who had never been seen in Britain for hundreds of years prior to the sundering, wandered the garden and prowled the walls, unsure what had happened to the world around them. Helen felt a twinge of gratitude for the paranoia of her ancestors, as silly as they’d seemed after the gates had closed without anything appearing to threaten the new world. It was just a matter of time before the locals noticed the estate had suddenly appeared in their midst, if they hadn’t already. And who knew how they’d react?

Steve sucked in his breath. She tried to see the huge sprawling property through his eyes. It was larger than Buckingham Palace, so big and so oddly constructed that it was easy to believe it was several smaller buildings that had been woven together into one. They’d joked, back when she’d been a child, that the mansion had been designed by a madman and built by craftsmen who hadn’t really known what they were doing, but there was a logic to the design. The building rested on a ley line nexus, the design shaped to take advantage of the magic flowing through the region and the entities that lived around it. She wondered, suddenly, how many of the old agreements still held force. The old world – her lips twisted, humourlessly – had changed, beyond all hope of repair.

“And you grew up here?”

“Yes.” Helen felt her tone becoming more formal as she stared at the hall. “It was …”

She slung the broomstick over her shoulder and started to walk, pointing out a handful of features. The ritual stones, channelling power into the wards; the private herbal gardens, supplying the family’s needs; the small houses, half-hidden in the distance, that housed the tenant farmers and others who lived on the estate, trading their service for patronage and protection. They were all willing servants, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Mystic Albion was so desperate for manpower, even hundreds of years after the sundering, that anyone who wanted to find a job elsewhere could. Her heart started to race and she took a breath to calm herself as they reached the main doors, trying not to think about just how large and intimidating they were. A dragon could have flown through the gap and landed neatly in the entrance hall, without so much as brushing his wings against the stone.

The doors opened slowly, revealing the giant entrance hall. Steve gasped. Helen gave him a moment to recover, then stepped into the mansion. The wards felt different, somehow; she cursed under her breath as she realised that some of the older wards, rooted in the local magic, had been changed by the merger between the two worlds. Others were newer, unaffected by the shift … she hoped, prayed, they lasted long enough for a permanent understanding between the merged populations. The world was already in a mess. It could easily get a great deal worse.

“Helen,” a calm voice said. “Welcome home.”

Helen forced herself to look up, then drop a perfect curtsey. Lady Penelope Burghley – her mother – was not a woman to be taken lightly. Her position as the family’s matriarch meant she had to put the interests of the family first, even ahead of her own children. Helen had been told, when she’d tried to argue about the betrothal, that Lady Penelope had felt the same way about her match, but Helen hadn’t believed her. Her mother’s personality was just too strong to let anyone dominate her.

“Mother,” she said. “Thank you.”

Lady Penelope looked Steve up and down, her cold eyes sweeping over his body even as her sixth sense probed his magic. Helen held her breath. They’d found Steve a nice suit – there was no point in trying to pretend he was a native, insofar as the team had any meaning after the merge – and she’d briefed him extensively on how to behave, but there was no way to cram over a decade of etiquette lessons into a handful of hours. If Steve made a mistake – quite by accident – it could ruin everything. Maybe. Her mother would overlook a lot if her prospective son-in-law had the potential to father strong grandchildren.

“You are welcome in my family home,” Lady Penelope said, finally. “You may eat and drink freely, without obligation.”

Helen let out her breath. A person who ate and drank without the customary greeting could find himself being held prisoner, or worse, for the rest of his life. There was no need to keep that rule amongst humans, she knew, but it was ironclad amongst the Fae. She wondered, numbly, just how many people in the mundane world understood the dangers of eating and drinking magical food, with no clear statement that they would owe nothing in return. Her mother wasn’t being unreasonable. A mistake here might be overlooked. A mistake in a high-magic zone might be lethal.

“Come,” Lady Penelope said. “We have much to discuss.”

Helen nodded to Steve, then followed her mother into the parlour. It felt almost as if she were a guest in her own home, although she supposed she had to be treated that way as long as Steve was with her. Invisible presences – house spirits – hovered around them, bringing food and drink before shimmering away into the unknown. Helen took a seat and motioned for Steve to sit on the next armchair, rather than beside her. Lady Penelope would not be pleased if they shared a chair, no matter how romantic it seemed.

“You chose to stay in OldeWorld,” Lady Penelope said. “Why?”

“I discovered we had relatives over there,” Helen said, flatly. She was surprised that was how her mother chose to begin the discussion, although it was a serious concern. The House of Burghley might wind up bearing some of the blame for whatever their relatives had been doing, over the years. “I believed I could track them down. And stop them.”

Her mother met her eyes. “And did you?”

Helen forced herself to look back. She was no longer seven, nor seventeen going on seven. She had grown up, to the point she looked back on her earlier behaviour and cringed in shame and remorse. Her mother might be her superior, as long as she remained tied to the family, but Helen would never be cowed by her again.

“Sort of,” she said. She ran through the whole story, ending with the fight to stop the invasion that had ended, completely by accident, with the two worlds merging together. “I don’t believe they’re dead and gone. We have to track them down, before it is too late.”

“Which may be politically difficult,” Lady Penelope said. “No one is quite sure how to proceed.”

Helen scowled, not bothering to hide the expression. It said volumes, she thought wryly, that her mother hadn’t ordered her to wash her mouth out with soap. “They’re our family,” she said. “Rogue members of our family, but family nonetheless. We have to stop them.”

“And there are political issues,” Lady Penelope said. “The negotiations aren’t going well.”

“I know,” Helen said. “But …”

She sighed. The Princesses had decided to downplay the invasion attempt, on the grounds that the mundane government hadn’t known anything about it and that an open discussion would prompt calls for war amongst the magical population. Helen suspected that was a mistake, if only because Cecil Burghley had clearly had close ties to the government even if he hadn’t held any official position. She wasn’t sure if he were dead or alive, but surely he had relatives of his own …? It was rare for an aristocrat not to be married and have at least two or three children by thirty, at least in Mystic Albion, and she dared not assume it wasn’t true of OldeWorld. Cecil had looked old enough to be her father, and he had sired ten children.

“We will discuss the issue,” Lady Penelope said. “Perhaps we can take independent action.”

Steve shifted, uncomfortably. Lady Penelope looked at him. “You have something to say?”

The challenge in her voice made Helen grit her teeth. Steve kept his face – and voice – calm.

“Your government is relatively small,” he said. “Ours isn’t. It will disapprove of any attempt to enforce magical law outside the magical world, whatever the reason behind it.”

“Perhaps so,” Lady Penelope said. “But we cannot afford to overlook a potential threat.”

She switched subjects so quickly Helen was sure it was meant to disconcert them. “I understand that you wish to switch your betrothal from Hiram of Hardwick to this gentleman,” she said. “Why?”

His name is Brains, Helen thought, coldly. And the fact you insist on calling him by his family name is one of the many reasons the relationship will not work out.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Brains – ah, Hiram – is incredibly clever, but he has too many limitations to serve as a family consort. I do not believe he is interested in sexual relationships with anyone” – even Richard, her thoughts added darkly – “and frankly, I suspect his family will not choose to honour the betrothal. Even if they did … his limitations would make it hard to maintain the match.”

Lady Penelope said nothing. Helen pressed on.

“There is no need to look for a person of good breeding,” she said, silently congratulating herself on discussing the matter with Steve beforehand. Very few people in either world would be happy with a suggestion they weren’t of good breeding, no matter their other attributes. “I have good breeding enough for both of us. I can marry for magical power and other traits, can I not?”

She kept going, just in case her mother decided to answer the rhetorical question.

“Steve is magically very capable, all the more so for only having studied magic for the last few months,” she said. “He was deeply involved with finding ways to blur magic and science together, creating ways to cast spells even in low-magic zones and assisting us to reopen the gate – briefly – and catch up with the rogue magicians. If he had been born and raised here, he would be a match for Brains. I think that Brains himself acknowledged the point. They worked together very well.

“He is also brave, ambitious and cunning. He had a plan to get his family out of poverty and that plan would have succeeded, even without our involvement. He understood both the potential and the danger of magic very quickly, and chose to come with me when he realised there were rogue magicians, putting his own life at risk to stop them. And he has shown strong ties to his family, taking good care of both his mother and sister. I like him.”

Steve grinned. “You’re turning me into a Mary Sue.”

Helen snorted. Steve had explained the concept to her once, when they’d been resting in a hotel room, but the whole idea had made little sense. The idea of fighting a nerd war over who played what character was just absurd. Didn’t they have anything real to complain about? But she took his point. She was extolling his virtues to a degree he had to find almost comical, if not absurd. It had to be done.

“He was checked by the healers at Gatehouse,” she finished. “His body is unscarred by magic. There is no reason to believe he is incapable of siring children” – Steve made a faint sound Lady Penelope chose to ignore – “or otherwise incapable of serving as my consort.”

She paused. “And there is a final reason.”

Lady Penelope quirked her eyebrow. “Yes?”

“The two worlds have merged. Like it or not, we are going to be deeply involved with the mundane world for the rest of time. Any hope of separating the two worlds again, or segregating them, was lost before we realised we needed to consider the possibility. There will be more magical students from mundane backgrounds, more attempts to blend magic and technology together, and – I’m sorry to say – attacks from rogue magicians as well as mundane factions. Having Steve join our family would help position us for the brave new world, but it would also send a message that there is a place in our world for mundane-born magicians, no matter their backgrounds.”

Helen took a breath. “The match is not only in my best interests, but also in the best interests of the family itself.”

Lady Penelope looked at Steve. “Do you understand what you are getting yourself into?”

Steve kept his face under tight control, despite the double-meaning Helen knew her mother hadn’t intended. “Yes, My Lady,” he said, carefully. “The match is advantageous to both of us.”

Helen heard the faint uncertainty in his voice and hoped to hell her mother hadn’t. Steve liked her, she knew, but … they were from very different worlds. It wouldn’t be easy to build a relationship, even without her mother demanding they announce their engagement and tie the knot as soon as possible. Steve would feel a great deal of pressure, and so would she … she wondered, suddenly, if she could delay matters until she graduated or if her mother would insist the wedding went ahead as quickly as possible. The plan had been to wait, but plans could be changed. If her mother felt they needed to move ahead fast …

“There is much you need to know about joining our family,” Lady Penelope said. “Helen will tell you the basics, if she hasn’t already, but there is much more. We will arrange for you to be told the rest, before you take the final step.”

She paused. Helen knew what Lady Penelope had left unspoken. She would make her own inquiries, as best as possible, about the man her daughter wanted to marry. Steve’s mother was already resident within Gatehouse … Helen wondered, suddenly, just how she’d react to Burghley Hall. Would she be impressed or would she tell Steve to run?

Lady Penelope stood. “Helen, you may show your young man around the hall,” she said, calmly. “The formal announcement of your engagement will be made shortly, once the family can be gathered. It will take some time to do so.”

She nodded politely, then strode out of the room. Helen glanced at Steve and tapped her lips. There was no such thing as privacy in the hall, outside the bedrooms, and she’d never been sure they were as private as her mother swore. There was so much magic woven into the building that her mother could see anything she liked, watch her children from a safe distance …

“Come with me,” she said, holding out a hand. “I’ll show you my suite.”

Steve seemed stunned, as they walked up the stairs and into her private rooms. Helen remembered his tiny bedroom in his tiny house and cursed under her breath. Her private bathroom was bigger than his entire house … it was too much and yet, she knew there was no point in trying to hide anything. Steve had to know what he was getting into, in all senses of the word.

“You grew up here?” Steve said, softly. The bedroom was almost absurdly frilly. Helen kicked herself for not having it redecorated, when she’d left for school. It looked like a nursery for an overgrown child, not a teenager. “It’s just …”

Helen shook her head. She had been a spoilt brat when she’d been a little girl, alternatively indulged and restricted by her parents. They had denied her nothing, back then, but they’d also tried to make it clear there was always a price. She was a Burghley, and that meant she had obligations that were deeply tied into the family magic. She couldn’t avoid them without surrendering her name. In hindsight, the way she’d treated Richard owed much to envy of his relative freedom. And his friendship with Brains.

“I know it can be overwhelming,” she said. She recalled the tantrum she’d thrown, when she’d seen the school dorms, and mentally cringed. The housemother had been incredibly patient. Helen wouldn’t have blamed the older woman, in hindsight, for slapping her. “But please give it a chance.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll try.”

Chapter Sixteen: Gatehouse, York, Now

Norris was starting to wonder, in all honesty, if he’d been forgotten.

He’d done what he could to help Brains, but Brains had moved ahead of him so quickly that Norris had felt useless. Richard and Janet had been unwilling or unable to spend time with him, while Marian and the rest of the students didn’t want to have anything to do with him. He hadn’t developed any close friendships with anyone, apart from Marian, before they’d discovered he was a spy and now it was too late to try to make new friends. The only person who had even spoken to him, willingly, was Lucy and that had only been because she wanted a target to test her new spells. It said something about how badly the isolation was starting to bite that he’d actually agreed to let her cast her spells on him …

It was hardly the first time he’d been alone, even in a crowd, but it was made infinitely worse by the certain knowledge it was his fault. Kids back home could smell a freak – a weak and defenceless freak – a mile away and allow their inner sadists to run free, yet here … the things that had made him everyone’s punching bag back home had given him a chance for a better life, and he’d thrown it away. How many of the students who shunned him would have been a friend, if he hadn’t been a spy? And how much of the suffering did he deserve?

He sat in the highest chamber, looking over York, and tried to come to terms with everything that had happened. His mother was dead and he had no one else … not now. He’d driven Marian away and everyone else hated him … he wanted to find Marian, to beg on bended knee for her forgiveness, but how could she ever forgive him? How could he blame her for wanting to have nothing more to do with him? He could have insulted her, slapped her, even raped her … and it would have been far kinder than what he’d done. He couldn’t ask her to forgive him when he couldn’t even forgive himself.

Magic crackled around him, a gift that had come too late. Cecil Burghley had used him and then discarded him, without even bothering to praise him, and now he was all alone. There would be no magnificent career as a magician, no brilliant apprenticeship … he wondered, numbly, just how long he’d be allowed to stay in Gatehouse. The school was open to all, without fear or favour … that policy might be rethought, after he’d taken ruthless advantage to infiltrate the school and spy on the staff and students. How many would curse his name, in the months and years to come, for depriving them of an education? He couldn’t blame them if they wanted to kill him. If he’d been in their shoes, he would have wanted to kill them.

Lucy stepped into the room. “Norris, the Merlin wants to see you.”

Norris stood slowly, too tired to be afraid. The school didn’t need him any longer. He was probably about to be kicked out, or sent to jail, or … he had no idea. He forced his legs to move, walking down the stairs and trying to ignore the sharp glances aimed at him by other students. The only upside, he supposed, was that no one was trying to hex him. If he’d been at St. Champions, someone would have pushed him down the stairs by now. Or worse. There’d been one kid who’d squealed on the drug dealers, for very good reason, and they’d slashed her face. She should have known better. No one gave a shit about anyone, as long as they were criminals …

He put the thought out of his mind as he knocked on the door, then stepped into the office. The Merlin was seated behind his desk, reading a sheet of paper. Norris experienced a flash of cognitive dissonance as he spotted the laptop on the table, right next to a piece of magical equipment that was so wrapped in raw power it was difficult to make out anything beyond a faint golden glow. Another man stood behind the desk, wearing a simple mundane suit … Norris blinked, wondering just how a mundane man from the mundane world had stepped into Gatehouse. He laughed at himself, mentally, a moment later. The two worlds were one now.

“Norris,” the Merlin said. His voice was calm, but it sent shivers down Norris’s spine. “Take a seat.”

Norris sat, trying to compose himself. The other man looked disturbingly authoritative … it took Norris a second to realise the man’s appearance bothered him because his general bearing was a lot like Cecil Burghley’s. They were very different in appearance – the newcomer looked younger, with lighter hair – but they had the same attitude. Norris tried to reach out with his senses, to determine if the newcomer was a magician, yet there was too much magic in the air for him to get any sense at all.

“This is Inspector Javier of Scotland Yard,” the Merlin said. Norris tensed. He’d heard of Scotland Yard. “We need to ask you some questions.”

Norris swallowed, hard. He hadn’t reported his mother’s death to anyone … what would have been the point? He didn’t know – he still didn’t know – if the death had been murder or suicide. If the house hadn’t been ransacked, he would have been certain it was the latter. His mother had always been highly-strung, and having her child be the target of a murder investigation might well have pushed her over the edge.

The Merlin leaned forward. “What happened when you returned to your home?”

It isn’t my home, Norris thought, reflexively. He was homeless now, to all intents and purposes. Gatehouse would toss him out soon enough and then … he had no idea. He had been promised a vast amount of money, as well as everything else, but he’d bet everything he owned that it had never been paid into his bank account. Did he even still have a bank account? He had no idea about that either. I am homeless and …

He forced himself to speak. “I discovered my mother was dead,” he said, grimly. “It was … I don’t know if it was murder or suicide.”

“I see,” Inspector Javier said. He had a rich plummy voice that sang of growing up in a decent home and attending a decent school and building a decent career … Norris hated it with a sudden passion that surprised even him. “And you didn’t think to call the police to report a dead body?”

Norris couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You think anyone would care?”

Inspector Javier looked surprised. Norris was sure he was faking it. The estate had been a shithole. Norris knew there had been bodies left lying around – dead homeless or druggies, perhaps – until they started to stink. No one gave a damn about his mother, or him, or anyone who remained trapped on the estate. It was a sick joke that they’d only cared about one dead man … Colin. And Norris2 had killed him.

“Move on,” the Merlin ordered. “What happened after you left?”

Norris’s eyes narrowed. “This is about Gammon?”

The Merlin’s voice was cold. “What happened?”

“They accosted me,” Norris said. The shame and humiliation of endless suffering washed through him, despite his easy defeat of the four. “I … I pushed them away.”

“You left them hanging over lampposts,” Inspector Javier said, flatly. “One fell off and broke multiple bones. One tried to climb down and lost his grip, breaking both of his legs. The other two remained on the lampposts until the fire brigade rescued them. I should add that both of the wounded had secondary injuries, mostly from the lack of immediate care.”

Norris felt a hot flash of anger. “And if you had done your job and arrested the louts who thought throwing rocks at ambulances and fire engines was a good idea, perhaps the ambulances would have come faster,” he snarled. Gammon and his mates had been amongst those louts, he was sure, or his name wasn't Norris. “What is your point?”

“They gave your name,” Inspector Javier said, coolly. “You should be arrested for assault and battery. Their families are also planning to sue you …”

“Sue?” Norris wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. “They bullied everyone on that fucking street, demanded money to leave our homes and return, and you did nothing! They did …”

He felt tears prickling at the back of his eyes and blinked them away, hard. “They were thugs, who made everyone’s lives a misery, and you did nothing! They harassed girls from eight to eighty and you did nothing! They raided shops and everything else and you did nothing! I … you know what they did once? They stole my trousers and pants and made me walk home nude below the waist and you did nothing …”

It was hard, so hard, to calm himself. “And they finally get hurt, and they won’t be hurting anyone ever again, and you want to arrest me for it? Go fuck yourself!”

“Language,” the Merlin said.

Norris took a breath. “Tell me,” he said. “Why is it alright for them to bully me, but not alright for me to lash out in self-defence?”

“You seriously injured two of them,” Inspector Javier said. “And the other two are in shock …”

“You don’t think pushing me around and cat-calling every girl walking down the street causes harm?” Norris felt his magic surge. Where had the inspector been, when his life – and countless others – had been ruined by the thugs? No doubt he’d been learning to make excuses for the bastards, like everyone else; no doubt he’d been taught that their excuses – a poor childhood, a bad upbringing – made it alright for them to treat everyone else like shit. “I’m pretty damn sure they actually did rape someone. You could go looking for that person and …”

He bit his lip. The sheer unfairness was galling. “How can they complain if they start a fight and it ends with them being seriously injured?”

“It isn’t your place to make those judgements,” Inspector Javier said. “Nor is it mine. It is a court that decides guilt or innocence …”

“And that court didn’t care.” Norris braced himself. “People used to call the police, when shit happened. But the police didn’t come, or the criminals were briefly taken off the street only to return shortly afterwards to take revenge, and people just stopped calling. What was the point, when the only people who suffered were the fools who relied on the police? You did nothing to help me, when you had a chance.”

He met the inspector’s eyes. “I acted in self-defence.”

The inspector looked at the Merlin. “I must take Mr. Nicolson with me …”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” the Merlin said. “Every word Norris spoke was true” – Norris blinked; he hadn’t even noticed the subtle lie-detector spell – “and self-defence is a valid justification, as far as our laws are concerned. Under the circumstances, Norris could have gone a great deal further without crossing the line. Had he killed them …”

He let the words hang in the air, suggestively. Norris felt cold. He had never really believed he could kill them. Colin had been killed by Norris2 … Norris himself was a wimp, lacking the ability to kill even if he had the power. But the Merlin was right … there were a great many things he could have done, from entrancing them to turning them into snails and stepping on them, to … he wondered, suddenly, if he could turn them into something permanently. No one would bother to look, he was sure, if the four thugs vanished completely. Even if they did, would they look at a handful of worms in a tiny garden?

But if you killed them, his thoughts pointed out, you would be a murderer even if no one knew what you’d done.

Norris scowled. They would deserve it, he answered himself. Wouldn’t they?

“Regardless, there is a case to answer,” Inspector Javier said. “And we must insist …”

“You may ask questions, if you wish, but Norris has been accepted as one of us and that means he will be treated under our law,” the Merlin said. “Those teenage thugs chose to attack him. He is entirely justified, legally speaking, in taking whatever steps he chose to defend himself. Had he actually killed them, there might have been a decent argument he stepped over the line, although I do not believe it would have been legally sound under our law. I do not believe he has a case to answer. They suffered their injuries in the process of committing a violent act.”

“And the fact they had no concept of the danger,” Inspector Javier said, “means nothing to you?”

“The fact they picked on someone they thought to be weaker than themselves is contemptible,” the Merlin said. “The fact they picked on anyone is contemptible. The fact that their families, far from realising that their children are bullies and treating them accordingly, are trying to extract Danegeld is contemptible. The fact that you claim to be the law, yet refuse to enforce it against four minor thugs, is also contemptible. If you fail to enforce the law, or refuse to do so, you cannot argue when others choose to take the law into their own hands.”

He paused. “If you have further questions, ask them now.”

Norris stared at him in surprise. He had expected to be thrown under the bus. The Merlin would hardly go out on a limb for him, perhaps not even for Richard and Janet and the rest. The magical world was merged with the mundane world now … the two would have to find a way to get along. Somehow. And if that meant letting him go face a kangaroo court … he swallowed hard, feeling an unaccustomed burst of admiration, even warmth, for the older man. Was this what it was like to have a father? A man who would raise him, and teach him, and discipline him, and …

Inspector Javier looked at Norris. “I do understand your point, but the law …”

“… Has been an ass for far too long,” Norris snarled. “Why did you let the estate get so far out of hand? Why?”

The Merlin tapped the table. “If you have no further questions, you can be escorted out of the school,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I must caution you against contacting Norris directly. I understand your problem, and we will do what we can to help, but we cannot let you turn Norris into a scapegoat. Or an example.”

The door opened. “Lucy will show you out,” the Merlin said. “Norris, stay here.”

Norris nodded, stunned. The Merlin had gone to bat for him … why? It was incredible. It was unbelievable. And yet … he couldn’t have been more surprised if the three hottest girls in St. Champions had visited his home, stripped naked, and had a foursome with him. It was the sort of thing that just didn’t happen, outside porn movies that sold a story too fantastic to be taken seriously. It didn’t happen …

… And yet it had.

He swallowed hard. “Why …?”

“Because they want someone to put on trial, to send a message,” the Merlin said, tiredly. He leaned back in his chair. “Do you have any friends in Glasgow?”

Norris blinked, unsure why the subject had suddenly changed. “No,” he said, with considerable restraint. Glasgow wasn't that far away, as the trains ran, but it might as well have been on the far side of the moon, for all the hope he had of getting there. “I don’t know anyone in Glasgow. Why?”

“There was an incident last night,” the Merlin said. “A very big explosion in Glasgow. The lone survivor swears blind they were trying to perform a magical ritual, following instructions they found on the internet. One confirmed death, perhaps more. Given the sheer intensity of the explosion, and how it was confined by the remnants of a containment circle, we may never be sure how many other people were killed.”

Norris swallowed. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“I never said it was,” the Merlin reminded him. “But it is clear that something went badly wrong with the ritual. And that the government is trying to crack down.”

“It won’t work,” Norris said, slowly. He was too aware of his own flaws to try to hide from them. “Magic … there are too many people tasting power, real power, for the first time in their lives.”

“We know,” the Merlin said. “Your society is disgraceful.”

Norris winced. “Why … why did you fight for me?”

The Merlin met his eyes. “Which answer would you like? I could give you several.”

“The truth.”

“They’d all be true,” the Merlin said. “You are one of us now, for better or worse, and you are entitled to the protection of the law. There is also the simple fact that you did act in self-defence. And, regardless of my personal feelings, to allow them to take you would set a dreadful precedent. And I do not choose to allow you to be turned into a scapegoat for the failings of a government that is incapable of living up to its promises, or wishes to make an example of you to deter others.”

He paused. “And you deserve a chance to redeem yourself. You can’t do that in a jail cell.”

His eyes went very sharp. “That said, you got lucky. If you’d killed them, or worse, I could not defend you. Nor would I.”

Norris nodded. “I understand.”

“Good,” the Merlin said. “Now, I have a job for you.”

Chapter Seventeen: Cromwell High School, York, Now

Janet felt like both an imposter and an infiltrator.

Cromwell High School might have been in York, only a few short miles from St. Champions, but it was so different from her old school it might as well have been on another planet. The students wore uniforms, carried the latest in educational technology and generally behaved themselves in manner utterly alien to her. The teachers looked calm and composed, not permanently on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and the corridors appeared clean and tidy. Here and there, she spotted a few hints of adolescent rebellion – a skirt a little too short, a shirt unbuttoned to reveal a little too much – but they were islands of discontent in a sea of tranquillity. The whole experience was almost surreal. Gatehouse had been neat and tidy, by and large, but Gatehouse was – had been – in a whole other world.  Cromwell High was in York.

Her surge of raw anger caught her by surprise, magic flickering around her as the student – a Prefect, by all the gods she’d never believed existed – showed them into a large classroom. She had no idea what the secret was, unless it involved taking all the rowdy students and sending them to St. Champions, but … it just wasn’t fair. If she’d gone to a school like Cromwell High, she might have made something of herself even without magic; if she’d had the chance to study in peace, without being disturbed or groped or threatened with far worse, she might have had an actual future! She caught sight of a young girl who reminded her of herself, except better … she felt, suddenly, as if she was staring into an alternate universe. The girl looked happy and content and studious. No one was snapping her bra, making snide remarks, or …

Richard put a calming hand on her arm. Janet glanced at him, then gritted her teeth and centred herself as best she could. It was one thing to visit a school in another world, but quite another to come face to face with the sheer inequality of modern Britain. The students looked surprisingly uniform, the teachers looked decent … her envy was enough to make her want to go back to London and give the Prime Minister another piece of her mind. It was all just too much. It was … she looked around the classroom, trying to keep her face under control. A large monitor where the blackboard should have been – it would have been smashed within hours at St Champions – and windows that were neither boarded up nor barred.

It really was too much.

The prefect escorting them stepped back as the teacher cleared her throat. Janet sucked in her breath as, miracle of miracles, the class quietened. She’d seen some teachers lose their cool and scream for silence, and others do their best to start the lesson despite the back rows chattering so loudly it was impossible to hear the teacher, but here … she wondered, again, what she’d have become if she’d gone to Cromwell High. It could hardly have been worse than St Champions. The uniformity might be slightly disconcerting, but she couldn’t spot the telltale signs of drug abuse, parental neglect, sexual abuse or the simple blank eyes of a teenager who had given up, frightened to live and yet too afraid to die. She suspected Richard found it disconcerting too, for different reasons, but …

“Please welcome Richard and Janet of Gatehouse School,” the teacher said, nodding to the window. Gatehouse still loomed over the city, dwarfing a small helicopter that was buzzing around the towers. “They are here today to teach us about magic.”

Janet swallowed, hard. That wasn’t entirely true. They were here to warn of the dangers of magic, of the risks of death and damnation – literally – that shadowed any attempt to cast a spell without the caster knowing what he was doing. Janet knew better than to expect students to stop experimenting – whatever had happened in Glasgow hadn’t been the only incident, merely the worst – and there was an awful lot of information on the internet, much useless even when it hadn’t been deliberately crafted to drain or kill any magician who tried it. Steve was doing what he could to get better information out there, but the truth was constantly on the verge of being buried under a mountain of utter nonsense. Or worse.

Richard stepped forward at the teacher’s nod, clasping his hands behind his back. “Magic is all around us,” he said, in a tone that suggesting he was recalling a speech he’d heard years ago. “It is in the air we breathe, the food we eat, the world around us … and yes, it is in our bodies. Some are born with a talent for magic, others have the skills to take advantage of the magic around them and shape it to their will; others still, I should add, take the risk of bartering with supernatural entities, trading for magic and the skill to use it.”

He paused. “Magic is not a tool. Magic is a living thing. It can respond to your innermost desires, the intentions you refuse to admit even to yourself; it can sometimes be dangerously unpredictable, when the caster goes into the spell with dishonest intentions or simply doesn’t know what he’s doing. Some spells call on entities that are personages in their own right; others can shift and change as they interact with people with different intentions. And there is always a price.”

Richard held out a hand and cast a simple lightspell. Janet saw eyes going wide – the spell looked remarkable, for all its simplicity – and smiled. A handful of girls were eying Richard with interest – she felt a pang of jealousy – while other students were studying the spell in a manner that disconcerted her more than she cared to admit. Magic was power, and the students in front of her had very little power. Cromwell High might be more civil than St Champions, but she’d be surprised if the school didn’t have its very own Norris. What would happen when someone at the bottom of the school found a way to climb the ladder? She doubted it would be anything good.

“That was true, in our world,” Richard continued. “But now it is true of yours too. There are people” – he nodded to Janet – “who will discover they have a talent for magic, and others that will learn how to shape the forces around them, and others still who will find themselves coming face to face with inhuman entities. There is no point in telling you that you shouldn’t develop your talents, if you have them, but you need to be aware of the dangers. A handful of basic precautions now can save you from utter disaster.”

Janet forced herself to listen, feeling a twinge of guilt, as Richard kept speaking, outlining the different types of magic and the dangers they represented. She was astonished he could speak so well, although Gatehouse taught public speaking as well as magic. It made a certain kind of sense – the magical world allowed a surprising degree of social mobility, and few aristocrats were fool enough to dismiss commoners completely – but it still surprised her. She took a breath and allowed her eyes to sweep the room, noting which students were writing down everything and which appeared to be paying little attention. There were surprisingly few of those. Back in St. Champions, Richard would be wasting his breath. Only a handful of students would even try to pay attention.

“Human magic is one thing,” Richard continued. “Supernatural entities are quite another.”

He paused. “How many of you watched The Giggle?”

Janet frowned, inwardly, as nearly two-thirds of the class raised their hands. Richard had only watched The Giggle because Steve had tried to introduce their visitors to Doctor Who, but he’d found it more than a little disconcerting. Janet hadn’t understood why until she’d encountered the Fae. And … back home, only someone as socially awkward as Norris would have dared admitting to watch.

“There are some entities out there that are fully as powerful as the Toymaker,” Richard said, coolly. “They are so magical that they can do practically anything, by our standards, although they are bound by rules that make little sense to us. Others are far less powerful, but again they have very different ideas of how the world works, which can make them dangerously unpredictable. In a low-magic zone, the danger is very limited; in a high-magic zone, they are incredibly dangerous.”

He ran through the basic guidelines, noting they weren’t complete or conclusive. If you found yourself in a high-magic zone, stay on the path; if you encountered anyone – or anything – that could speak to you, be as polite as possible; if you were offered food or drink or even a gift, do not take anything unless the offer was made freely and without obligation. Janet shivered as he ran through some of the lesser rules – do not step into a mushroom ring, do not follow distant lights no matter how much they called to you, do not open your door after dark – and swore under her breath. The world of 1900 would have adapted far better, she was sure, to a sudden influx of magic. The old folk traditions had been dying out for years, killed by modern technology and society. But now they were back …

“Some of the entities you may encounter are openly malicious towards humanity,” Richard finished. “They will stop at nothing, save openly breaking their rules, to lure humans into their clutches. Others do not intend to be dangerous, but their sheer inhumanity means they will give gifts and blessings that are nothing of the sort. There are no shortage of horror stories of people asking for gifts, without considering the possible consequences.”

Janet nodded. She’d been urged to read the stories. Very few had had anything resembling happy endings.

“You must always be careful,” Richard concluded. “A mistake with magic can be lethal.”

The teacher smiled. “Any questions, before we break for lunch?”

Janet glanced at the clock. Richard had been speaking for nearly two hours? It was incredible! The students she’d known had had attention spans that rarely – if ever – lasted more than ten minutes. The sheer boringness of some speakers had had something to do with it, she was sure, but … these students had paid attention, or at least had pretended to pay attention, for two hours. It was yet another reminder that St Champions had been right at the bottom of the ladder, as far as schools were concerned.

“I was reading about a girl who cast a love spell on a boy she wanted,” a girl said, diffidently. “Is that a bad idea?”

Richard gave her a sharp look. “Yes.”

He let the word hang in the air for a long moment. “As a general rule, there are lust spells and love spells. If you cast a lust spell on someone, there is a very real chance they will be overwhelmed by lust and force themselves on you. You will probably discover your protective wards don’t work, because you’re the one who cast the lust spell. Love spells are even worse, because the target can become utterly fixated on you. It almost always ends badly.”

His gaze sharpened. “I should add, for the record, that casting a lust or love spell on anyone is a very serious crime, all the more so if you are not trying to get them to fixate on you. You could find yourself facing an entire string of charges, each carrying a very severe penalty.”

“They are date rape drugs,” Janet said. She’d wanted to let Richard do the talking, but someone had to make the obvious point. “Don’t think of them as anything else.”

There was a long pause. The teacher leaned forward.

“Lunch time,” she said, with strained brightness. “We’ll convene again after lunch.”

Janet sighed inwardly as they were escorted down to the lunch hall. Magic had seemed a joke, once upon a time. She knew girls who had played with fake spells and fake wands, tarot cards and dreamcatchers and other pieces of nonsense … she recalled one girl who had tried to attract a boy with an absurd charm, one that had little or nothing in common with real magic. In hindsight, she wondered if the sheer fantasy of the ritual had erased any questions of morality. The concept of charming a boy – or a girl – into loving you was so fantastical there was no need to consider the cold reality. But now … lust spells and love potions were little more than date rape drugs, and needed to be considered the same way. It was the difference between a rape fantasy and an actual rape …

She shuddered. It was just … ugh.

Lunch was surprisingly – or perhaps not – tasty. The sausages were decent, the potatoes were actually cooked properly and the beans were heated thoroughly, rather than being shoved into a microwave for a few seconds and then dumped on plates for unwilling students to eat. Janet felt out of place, especially after spending so long in Gatehouse. Cromwell High wasn’t a bad school – she guessed the students who were grumbling about the uniforms had no idea how bad their education could become – but it wasn’t hers. She couldn’t wait to go back home. It was Gatehouse now.

“You’ll be talking to the girls,” the prefect said, afterwards. “Your friend can talk to the boys.”

Janet nodded, and reminded herself it had been her idea. She hadn’t been keen on joining the outreach program in the first place, and the only reason she’d gone along with it had been the chance to teach girls how to defend themselves, in a manner that left no room for doubt the victim deserved everything he got. There would still be doubt, Janet was sure, but only amongst the people who knew little of women’s rights and cared less. She hated the idea of giving a class to a group of girls who were the same age as she was, at least physically, though it was likely they were a few years older than her mentally, but there was no one else. Helen was the only other person who understood how grim OldeWorld could be for girls, and she was occupied elsewhere.

Her nerve almost failed her as she stepped into the classroom. The girls were smart and pretty and everything she wasn’t, their attitude showing a confidence that might – might – be based in ignorance, but might not. Even in uniforms, there was a hint of money around them … a sense they had nothing to fear, because they would be protected. Janet bit her lip, hard. She was imagining it. A young girl might be wealthy, but that didn’t mean she had a comfortable or safe life.

“I won’t waste your time,” she said, forcing herself to sit on the teacher’s desk. She might be able to talk to someone one-on-one, easily, but she knew she would always be overshadowed by a crowd. “Magic responds, as Richard told you, to intention. Protective spells respond to the intention of the person attacking you, as well as your own. A person who grabs your arm to save your life, even if you are in no real danger, will be unharmed; a person who grabs your arm to drag you off and rape you will be zapped.”

There were some giggles. Janet relaxed, slightly.

“It isn’t actually easy to demonstrate the spells,” she continued. It was hard to put it into words. The language wasn’t designed to share magical concepts. “Anyone I recruited to grope me would have my consent to touch me, which means the spells would not blast him even though the intention is to demonstrate the spells. It is simply impossible to convince the spells that consent was lacking – and he knew it. For the record” – she allowed her voice to harden – “if you use these spells and someone touches you without being harmed, it is considered proof he honestly didn’t mean to touch you against your will.”

A young girl leaned forward. “So I could withdraw consent and he’d still be unharmed …?”

“You’d have to tell him you were withdrawing consent,” Janet said, bluntly. It was hard not to flush. She had no idea how her mother gave lectures on birth control without dying of sheer embarrassment. “If you were kissing passionately and his hand started to slip under your shirt, you would have to say no. If he kept on, the spell would blast him.”

The girl smirked. “Blast him?”

“It depends on how you set the spells,” Janet said. “Some girls cast spells to give the boy a nasty shock, others to turn him into a toad. Which raises other issues, by the way.”

She sighed, again. Richard’s lecture had included ways for a transfigured person to signal they were a person, rather than an animal. She just wasn’t sure anyone would know to look, before it was too late … at least not immediately. If someone wanted to murder someone – and did it by turning them into a snail and stepping on them – would the police even realise the person was gone, let alone that they’d been murdered? How long would it take for them to wrap their heads around the concept?

Not long, she answered herself, if the victim is someone important.

She put the thought out of her mind. “Some of these spells can only be cast in direct self-defence,” she added. “Casting them successfully is proof you thought you were under attack. However, if it turns out you were wrong, there will be consequences. Be careful.”

Her eyes darted from face to face. The girls still looked … confident, in a way Janet knew she would never match, but there was something there … a kinship, perhaps, that both awed and frightened her. Her eyes lingered on a skirt … it might touch the wearer’s knee, yet it would still be easy for someone to put their hand on that knee and send it slipping upwards … she shuddered, feeling sick. It was going to change. She’d make it change.

“Watch me,” she said. “And listen carefully.”

Chapter Eighteen: Glasgow, Now

“This is …”

Norris shook his head in disbelief. He had never flown before and he’d never expected he’d ever have the chance to fly, and now he was riding through the sky in a carriage that could have come straight out of a Disney movie. He half-expected a fairy godmother to pop up and announce that yes, he would be going to the ball. He’d seen a lot of magic in the last few months and yet, there was something about the flying carriage that was difficult, if not impossible, for him to wrap his head around. It was just … too much.

He forced himself to stare through the window, even though cold logic told him the lack of any glass – or anything stronger – meant he should be buffeted by the slipstream, if he didn’t have his head torn off. Glasgow lay spread out below, a drab grey city straddling a river that flowed down to the sea. It had once been a prime shipbuilding site, if he recalled correctly, but the great shipyards were now much reduced, leaving a city that was struggling – like so many others – to reinvent itself. Glasgow reminded him of York, and not in a good way. The core of the city was wealthy, warm and welcoming as long as the guest had money, but it was surrounded by poorer suburbs, populated by people who were one bad day away from finding themselves on the streets. It was hard to imagine the city could be regenerated, certainly without massive investment. And that was lacking in the modern age.

The carriage descended sharply, coming down to land near a massive crater. Norris sucked in his breath. He’d seen devastation on the telly – it had always struck him as massively unfair the media cared more about war in foreign lands than the deprived regions in his own home country – but it was the first time he’d seen such destruction in person. The crater was huge, easily big enough to swallow St. Champions … he wondered, suddenly, what had happened to the remnants of the school. Crushed under Gatehouse? Or lost somewhere in an interdimensional wasteland? It couldn’t have happened to a nicer place.

He gritted his teeth as they landed, the door throwing itself open. The air stank of tainted magic, the rancid vinegar stench billowing into his nostrils and poisoning his mind. It was hard, so hard, not to stumble back and run … but then, there was nowhere to go. The Merlin placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a little comfort, as Norris stumbled down to the ground. Up close, the crater looked like a smoking volcano. The interior was steaming, so hazy that Norris only caught glimpses of what might be inside. Whatever it was that he almost saw was so fearsome, he was glad he couldn’t see them clearly.

Sir Pellaeon stepped down beside him, his face grim. Norris glanced at the Knight, feeling a complicated mixture of emotions he didn’t want to look at too closely. Admiration and fear, awe and resentment … Norris wanted to become a Knight himself and yet he knew he could never make it, no matter how hard he worked. Sir Pellaeon was a true leader, a hero among men, a man so certain of himself he didn’t need to raise himself up by putting everyone else down. Norris had never believed in the alpha male concept, not least because those who did believe in it insisted he was a worthless gamma male, but just looking at Sir Pellaeon made him wonder if there really were such things as alpha males. The thought was oddly amusing. The bastards who had insisted they were alpha couldn’t hold a candle to Sir Pellaeon.

He forced himself to look at the Merlin. “What did they do?”

“Good question,” the Merlin said. “Shall we go find out?”

He turned and walked towards the edge of the housing estate. Norris followed, taking in the devastation. It looked as if an entire block had been blown to rubble. The surrounding buildings scorched and pitted, even though they hadn’t been knocked down. A row of burnt-out wreckage lined the street … it took him a second to realise that the rubble had once been parked cars, ignited by the blast and left to burn themselves out. The police had set up barricades at the end of the street, blue lights flashing as they blocked public access. Norris winced as he saw cameras beyond, filming the scene. The media would get it wrong – as usual – and magicians would pay the price. All magicians.

“Say nothing,” the Merlin advised, as they neared the line. “Let us do the talking.”

Sir Pellaeon stepped forward and spoke to a police officer with a strong Scottish accent, who studied Norris thoughtfully before returning his attention to Sir Pellaeon. Norris wasn’t quite sure what to make of him – in his experience, the police were worse than useless – but he couldn’t help thinking the two men had quite a bit in common. Sir Pellaeon was a policeman, in a sense. The Knights were supposed to keep the peace …

“She’s being held in there,” the policeman said, finally. Norris guessed he was a high-ranking officer, although he had no idea how to read the badges on his uniform. “I have orders to keep her in custody until we know what happened.”

“Understood,” Sir Pellaeon said. “We have orders to provide assistance.”

Norris shivered as the wind shifted, blowing the stench of tainted magic over the lines. The world appeared to be shifting and changing, things flickering at the corner of his eye as they made their way to a sealed and heavily guarded building. It felt almost fragile … the policeman on the door eyed the visitors, then stepped aside to allow them entry. The air inside was warm, but with a cold edge that bothered him. The door led directly into what had once been a bedroom, he guessed. A young woman – her dark features suggested she was probably mixed-race – lay in bed, staring at the television. The BBC announcer was babbling about strange lights being seen at Stonehenge and a drum beating remorselessly … but the news meant nothing to him.

Sir Pellaeon stepped up to the bed. “Young lady,” he said, calmly and firmly. “Janie. We need to discuss what happened. And why.”

The girl looked at them. Norris swallowed, hard. The girl was pretty, and exotic, and yet she was vulnerable in a way that made him feel guilty for looking at her. He could almost imagine her thoughts. Two weeks ago, two men in wizarding robes and a third wearing a suit of armour – although armour that looked weirdly liquid – would have been a joke. Now …

“You’re magic,” Janie said. She had a Scottish accent, although it was clearly tinged with something else. “Aren’t you?”

Norris nodded and looked for the remote, switching off the TV. He doubted either the Merlin or Sir Pellaeon would be able to figure out how to turn it off themselves, at least in a hurry. The girl sat up, revealing that someone had dressed her in an ill-fitting nightgown that hid everything below her neck. Norris told himself he should be relieved. Janie had enough problems without him ogling her.

“Tell us what happened,” Sir Pellaeon said. “Please.”

“We found this ritual,” Janie said. Her eyes were wide. “If we took all the right steps, with the right spell components, we could get whatever we wanted. I wanted to speak to my mother, to ask her why she abandoned us … Jack wanted power.”

Norris felt himself stiffen. “Why …?”

Sir Pellaeon shot him a sharp look. Janie answered anyway.

“He was bullied at school, a loner and a loser … I was his only friend,” Janie said. “We were loners and losers together. And …”

Norris felt a hot flash of envy, mingled with bitter resentment. He hadn’t had any friends … and he’d been a loser. How much better would it have been, he asked himself, if he’d had a single friend? And a girl, at that! Perhaps he should have tried to befriend Janet … but then, that would have made her a target. The bitterness rose within him once again … he hadn’t had any friends, because no one wanted to be close to him when the bullies came calling. Not until Marian. And he’d fucked that up himself.

Janie kept talking, outlining the ritual. Norris felt his mood grow worse with every revelation. Janie had gotten naked for Jack … maybe it had been for a ritual, instead of the prelude to sex, but still … no one had ever done that for him. She’d been a good friend, a great friend … and look what had happened. Norris would have treated her better, he was sure, but instead …

“My mother told me to run,” Janie said. “And then Jack exploded with power and … it wasn’t him.”

“The ritual was booby-trapped,” Sir Pellaeon said, coldly. “Where did you find it?”

“The internet,” Janie said. “I … I thought we could make it work.”

“You used spells to break down the barrier between worlds, then asked for wishes that could be easily twisted or turned against you,” Sir Pellaeon said. “And you made your requests while in a frame of mind that could easily have led to complete disaster, even without malicious intent. Jack’s demand for power led to his entire soul being set on fire. He couldn’t control it and …”

Boom, Norris thought. It had been hard, almost impossible, to generate enough magic to kill Colin … and even then, he’d needed Norris2 to cast the fatal spell. If he’d tried that after the merge, with enough magic in the air to perform wonders and summon terrors, he’d have blown the entire school to hell. That could have happened to me.

“What you did was incredibly stupid,” Sir Pellaeon said. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Janie said. “I didn’t know …”

“Playing with magic is like playing with fire,” Norris said. “Except … sometimes you’re striking that match in a room full of gas, unaware you’re about to cause an explosion until it is too late.”

Janie looked down. “What … what now?”

“Good question,” Sir Pellaeon said. He was holding a small talisman in his hand. Norris guessed it was a lie detector, of sorts. There were legal rules surrounding the use of spells that compelled someone to talk, from what he’d heard, but using a talisman to confirm someone wasn’t intentionally lying was a very different matter. “Right now, we will be holding you until a final decision is reached.”

He paused. “I’m not technically sure if you’re under arrest – negotiations about jurisdiction and suchlike are going poorly, and you might escape being charged on a technicality – but I should inform you that anything you say will be extracted from my memory and might wind up being used against you.”

Janie gave him a dirty look. “Shouldn’t you have mentioned that earlier?”

Sir Pellaeon ignored her. “Furthermore, I would prefer not to compel you to accompany us, or shrink you so you can be carried in my pocket, but I will do so if you attempt to escape,” he added. “It will unleash another set of legal headaches, so please cooperate.”

“I’ll try,” Janie said. “Do I get a lawyer?”

The Merlin leaned forward. “If you were one of our children, raised in a society that discussed the dangers of such rituals from the moment you started formal education, there would be no question of your guilt. You would be lucky if you were spared a life sentence. Given that you lacked that sort of knowledge, the precise degree of guilt you hold will be difficult to determine. Your cooperation will work in your favour.”

Janie sagged. “We didn’t know …”

She forced herself to look up. “Was it really my mother?”

Sir Pellaeon cleared his throat, loudly. The Merlin shot him a sharp glance.

“It has been hotly debated over the years,” the Merlin said. “Spells to summon and speak with the dead have not always worked, and the dead themselves often appear to be very different than how they were in life. Some speak the truth, some lie, some have no interest in the affairs of the living. We do not know if the summoned shades wait until the last summoning is completed, before they go on to their just reward, or if they are plucked from Heaven or Hell to answer the call. We do not know …”

He looked compassionate, but firm. “What is important to us isn’t always what’s important to the dead. Like I said, they can be very different. It might have been your mother or it might have been something else, something wearing her face. Lucky for you, it was benevolent.”

Janie blinked, hard. “Is there any way to bring her back to life?”

“It doesn’t work,” the Merlin said, flatly. “I understand the urge – really, I do – but attempting to raise the dead never goes well. The rituals often fail, or lead to dangerous magical surges, or simply create the walking dead. There are only two documented cases of a successful attempt to raise the dead, at a huge price, and both ended in suicide. You can no more raise the dead than you can let yourself be a child again. Innocence, once lost, can never be regained.”

Norris swallowed. He’d never thought to raise his mother from the grave … whatever had happened to her body. If he had … what would’ve happened? Would she have told him she’d always been proud of him, or that she’d always hated him, or … would she have forgotten him? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. And his father … what had happened to the bastard? Did he want to know?

“I’m sorry,” the Merlin said. “But magic can’t do everything.”

Sir Pellaeon held out a hand. Janie took it and let him help her out of bed. Her body was unmarked, but her soul … Norris realised, in a way, that she’d made the same mistake as himself. She’d thought magic would change her life for the better, little realising it could be just as dangerous as everything else, perhaps more so. He wondered, numbly, why the Merlin had insisted on bringing him with them … had it been to tap his knowledge, or to let him see how badly things could go wrong? Or … who knew?

The police officer was standing outside the house. “Their homes have already been searched and computer equipment seized,” he said. “The families insist they knew nothing of the planned ritual, but we’re taking them into protective custody anyway. It is only a matter of time before someone works out what happened and broadcasts the news far and wide, provoking revenge attacks. Really, we should be taking her too.”

“You don’t have the ability to hold her,” Sir Pellaeon pointed out. “We do.”

Norris frowned as a thought struck him. He nudged the Merlin, who drew him back and cast a privacy ward.

“They took the computers,” he said. If Janie had been telling the truth about where they’d found the ritual, their computers would have copies. “If they have the ritual …”

The Merlin looked puzzled. Norris sighed. The Merlin hadn’t heard of a computer until six months ago, if Richard and Janet had told him about them, and he certainly hadn’t used one until the two worlds had merged. It was quite possible the Merlin still didn’t understand the internet, or the cloud, or how a computer actually worked … Norris had seen filmmakers show bad guys shooting computer monitors, as if that were enough to erase their memory beyond hope of recovery. The Merlin knew even less than the filmmakers …

“The police could recover the data and use the ritual themselves,” Norris warned. The temptation to recall dead men and ask who killed them would be overwhelming, perhaps irresistible. “Or they could do something worse.”

“We’ll warn them,” the Merlin said. “But taking the data might prove impossible.”

He spoke briefly to Sir Pellaeon, who spoke briefly to the officer as Norris tried not to look at Janie. The girl looked shy, shy and scared … he wanted to tell her it was going to be alright, but he knew better. He’d killed someone, and then spied on someone else, and … he shook his head as the Merlin and Sir Pellaeon led them back to the carriage. The crater didn’t look any better. It was still smouldering like a volcano that might be on the verge of erupting again.

“You’re to stay at Gatehouse,” Sir Pellaeon said, once the carriage was back in the air. “You are not to leave the school without special permission, which will not be forthcoming until we have a clear idea of just where the legal lines will be drawn, and you are to make yourself available to anyone who wishes to question you further. Beyond that, you are welcome to join the new classes and study magic properly.”

Janie shuddered. “And if I don’t want anything further to do with magic?”

“You can stay in your room, if you like,” Sir Pellaeon said. “That said, if you do attempt to leave we will be forced to resort to more stringent methods to keep you in place.”

Norris leaned forward. “I’ll take care of you,” he said, softly. “And I’ll show you around.”

“I …” Janie looked up. Her voice was strange, a mixture of pleading and bitterness that reminded Norris of himself. “How many people did I kill?”

“We don’t know,” Sir Pellaeon said. His tone was flat, too flat. “We may never know. But did you intend to kill them?”

Janie shook her head, bitterly.

“Good,” Sir Pellaeon told her. “Keep that in mind.”

Chapter Nineteen: York, England, Now

“They refused to hand Mr. Nicolson over,” Inspector Javier reported. His tone was cold, angry. “Apparently, seriously injuring – and nearly killing – four teenagers is a very minor matter.”

Polly kept her face under tight control. She had enough experience to know that the refusal to surrender Norris Nicolson wasn’t the true cause of the inspector’s unhappiness, even though it made a suitable excuse. The man was an authoritarian, who believed his uniform gave him the right to boss everyone around; he was wholly incapable of tolerating, let alone accepting, any challenge to his authority. The idea of being balked by a mere school headmaster was intolerable, although said headmaster was not only extremely well connected in his own right, but had the power to turn an imprudent inspector into a toad. The wretched man was lucky he had friends in high places, who understood his weaknesses well enough to ride herd on him. Polly suspected it was just a matter of time before Inspector Javier caused a major diplomatic incident.

“It is unfortunate that those blessed with magic are completely incapable of appreciating the mindset of those who lack it,” Cecil Burghley said, smoothly. Polly suspected her boss hadn’t expected the inspector’s visit to produce anything, although he certainly hadn’t said that to Inspector Javier. “Mr. Nicolson will be dealt with in due time.”

“It isn’t their job to determine what is right and wrong, let alone legal or illegal,” Inspector Javier fumed. “Sir, with the greatest of respect …”

“You did a fine job, Inspector,” Cecil Burghley told him. “We will continue to monitor the situation. Thank you for your time.”

Inspector Javier visibly hesitated. “They also took the little bitch from Glasgow into custody,” he continued. “If they excuse her too …”

“It will be handled,” Cecil Burghley said. His voice was suddenly very cold. “We shall speak later.”

Polly stood before the inspector could continue the argument. “Sir, it’s time for your twelve o’clock appointment.”

“Very good.” Cecil Burghley met the inspector’s eyes. “We shall speak later.”

Inspector Javier stood and managed a nod, before turning and leaving the room. Polly was mildly surprised he didn’t slam the door. The inspector was not used to any sort of dissent, let alone being dismissed in a manner more fitting to a serving maid than a police inspector. Polly wondered, not for the first time, just how many of the allegations of police brutality, directed at Inspector Javier’s old unit, were true. The inspector was not the sort of man to betray his subordinates, as he would see it, at the behest of a gang of whinging libbers who knew nothing about real police work. He was lucky the unit had merely been broken up, Polly reflected, because he was still useful. The day he wasn’t would be the day his sins caught up with him.

And Norris deserves a chance at a better life, Polly thought. Norris had been a typical young man in many ways – she’d caught him staring at her from time to time, his conflicted feelings nowhere near as well hidden as he’d thought – but he wasn’t a bad person. They’d used him and then … Polly wasn’t sure what had happened, in the moments before the merge, yet he had clearly freed himself. He didn’t need to be punished for putting some thugs in their place.

Cecil Burghley didn’t move for a long second, his eyes oddly unfocused, before he stood and made his way to the inner door. Polly smoothed down her skirt and followed him, all too aware she would have been dismissed if her boss didn’t want her along. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped through the door, and then walked through the servant corridor that led down to the training hall. It was hard to shake the feeling there was something wrong with her boss, no matter how normal he seemed most of the time. Perhaps it was the sheer weight of responsibility. The Prime Minister had given Cecil Burghley vast power and authority, but if something went badly wrong he’d also get the blame. And who knew what would happen then?

The lower door opened, revealing a chamber that had once been a dining hall before being converted into a training centre. A small crowd of men, clearly soldiers or police even though they’d been told to wear civilian garb and travel separately, waited for him, their eyes calm and intensely focused. The Brotherhood had tagged them long ago as possessing a little magical talent, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort of recruiting and training them. Polly understood the logic – there was a certain risk in trying to recruit men who might reject the whole idea of the Brotherhood, if they didn’t mistake it for a particularly strange test of their common sense – yet in hindsight it had been a mistake. The Brotherhood’s army had been destroyed – somehow – when it had been needed the most. And now they had to depend on raw recruits …

She stepped to the side and noted, approvingly, that the men kept their eyes on Cecil Burghley. They were fit and handsome, by and large, and even the ones who looked rough – even ugly – had a kind of confidence and charisma that suggested they’d never lack for feminine company. None were married, she reminded herself. The vetting process had specifically excluded men who were married or had close family ties. She wasn’t sure why.

“I’ll come right to the point,” Cecil Burghley said. He spoke quietly, but a combination of magic and training sent his voice echoing across the room. “You all know what’s happened. You all know the risk magic poses to our country, magic in the hands of rogue magicians as well as supernatural entities that are both extremely dangerous and almost impossible to defeat. You know that some of our cities have merged with their cities, and some of the countryside has become nearly impassable. The news is, if anything, understating the case.”

Polly nodded to herself. Magic on the streets of London … and five other cities. Magical estates, appearing out of nowhere … magical establishments, defended by magicians and their familiars. It was possible to laugh at the council officials who had made their officious way onto an estate, only to be turned into pigs and sent running back out again, but … what it represented bothered the government. And that was just the magicians … too many people had gone missing, in the last few weeks, for anyone to sit comfortably and wait for the world to settle down. The news was a constant liturgy of horrors, from the little child who had been carried away by tiny fairies to the older teens who had run into something that had turned them into stone. There was no way to avoid the simple fact there were now large swathes of the country where the government’s rules no longer applied …

And if something wasn’t done quickly, it was going to get worse.

“Magic has always been with us, but the last major eruption was during the Second World War,” Cecil Burghley continued. “That was on a far smaller scale than this” – he waved a hand in the general direction of Gatehouse – “and didn’t involve magicians from a whole world of magic. The Nazi Warlocks might have been amongst the most evil men in history, but they had the same limitations as ourselves. They had to work hard to develop and shape their power and channelling the energy of a mass blood sacrifice – the Holocaust – was beyond them. The newcomers are different. They are steeped in magic, to the point some are as powerful as minor gods. Do any of you feel this is likely to end well?”

Polly waited, but no one spoke. The military and police officers she knew were often ruthlessly practical people, not given to dreaming or foolish notions. They had no faith in the rule of law, or the rules of war, when those rules could not be enforced. There were no shortage of laws banning all sorts of illegal acts, most thoroughly deserving to be considered illegal, but it was a great deal harder to put them into practice. And once people got into the habit of defying them …

“You were selected because you have a talent for magic,” Cecil Burghley said, smoothly. “That talent remained undeveloped. It was our belief that the last traces of magic were slipping out of the world, and that there was no point in training you when your training might be worse than useless, for everyone involved. In that, we were wrong. The country needs men who can serve as both a magical army and a police force, one that can take on all kinds of magical threats.

“I won’t lie to you. You will be required to take a blood oath, one far harsher than anything else you might have taken, and you will be giving up much of your freedom. You will be required to obey orders that will seem strange, absurd, bizarre, perhaps even borderline illegal … without question. There will also be a great deal of danger, danger that is very hard to quantify. You might wind up spending the rest of your lives as frogs” – Polly noted there were uneasy glances, rather than the laughs she’d expected – “or worse. If you join up, I can promise you adventure, but I can’t guarantee your safety … or even that whoever, whatever, who injures or kills you will face justice.”

There was a long cold pause. “If you are willing to sign up, please remain in this chamber. If not, you may leave though the side doors and make your way to the bus. The driver will take you to the train station, where you can return to your units. It will not be held against you if you refuse to join, and your commanding officers will be informed that you were found unsuitable through no fault of your own. You have five minutes to decide.”

Polly sucked in her breath, watching the men consider the issue. Some debated with their friends and comrades, others seemed alone … she noted, grimly, that the latter seemed more inclined to leave the hall. It was one thing to back out if you were on your own, but quite another to do it when your friends were watching. Five men left … six …

“This is your last chance,” Cecil Burghley told them. “Once you stay, you are committed.”

The pause lasted a minute. It felt like hours.

“Very good.” Cecil Burghley gestured at the doors. They closed with a thump. He made another gesture and a stone altar appeared at the front of the room, covered with silver daggers. The gathered men stared, their eyes darting from the altar to their new commander and back again. Some had doubted, even after seeing all the evidence. They didn’t doubt now. “Undress.”

Polly felt torn between embarrassment and confusion as the men started to undress, some more reluctant than others. She wasn’t even sure why she was still in the room … had Cecil Burghley forgotten she was there, or was her presence intended to test the men, to see how quickly they’d disrobe under a woman’s eyes? She felt a flicker of warmth as she tried to look at the naked men without making it obvious. She’d never been attracted to men with muscles on their muscles – she’d always thought such muscles masked a certain kind of insecurity – and she was pleasantly surprised to note that most of the soldiers looked strong and wiry, rather than beefy enough to make Rambo look a wimp. Some were clearly embarrassed, unwilling to even look in her direction; others were standing tall, their arms resting by their side as if they had nothing to hide. Polly tried to keep her eyes to herself. She’d been ogled herself, time and time again, and it felt odd to be on the other side. But then, if there was even a lone man in the room who couldn’t best her in a fight, he was clearly in the wrong line of work.

Cecil Burghley spoke into the silence. “Take a dagger,” he ordered, indicating the waiting blades. “Hold them above your palm. All of you – the oath will turn very dangerous if you are not all carrying a blade.”

The men moved forward, almost as if they were in a trace. Polly watched as they took a dagger each … something … tickling at the back of her mind. The air was changing, in a manner she felt hard to put into words. It felt as if something was about to happen … the tingle grew worse, a shiver running down her spine … she felt naked, the sensation so strong she looked down to check that she was still wearing clothes. She was, and yet she felt almost as if she wasn’t.

“When I say the word, cut your palm and let the blood drip onto the floor,” Cecil Burghley commanded. His voice was stronger now, almost hypnotic. “Prepare yourselves.”

He stepped up to the altar, rested his hands on the stone, and started to chant in the old tongue. The very old tongue. Polly had been taught a little of the language, and its history, when she’d been initiated, but she knew she could barely speak a single word without her tongue feeling as if someone was trying to twist it out of her mouth. Her tutors had noted that the old tongue was the root of Latin, Old Norse, Sanskrit and so many others, had asserted it was practically the original language of humanity itself, the one lost when God destroyed the Tower of Babel and scattered the would-be builders across the globe. Polly hadn’t been sure she believed that, although she’d seen enough to wonder if there was some truth behind the myth. Far too many of the old stories were metaphors, intended to try to convey their meaning in a manner the listener would understand. And …

The chanting grew louder. Polly felt her hands creep up to her ears and cover them, almost against her will. It didn’t work. The words were echoing now, echoing through reality itself. The sense of nakedness was growing stronger, as if something was peering down at her from a very far distance … the world seemed to fragment around her, angles everywhere …

Cecil Burghley spoke a single word. “Cut.”

The world heaved. Polly staggered, as if someone had struck her a mighty blow. She wasn’t even sure what had hit her … she nearly lost her footing as she looked up, just in time to see something shimmering through the room. Her mind refused to accept what she was seeing … the world spun, the floor came up and hit her. She thought she blacked out, just for a second, as the booming noise echoed through the room, through the world itself ..

The next thing she knew, a naked man was helping her to her feet.

“Welcome, all of you,” Cecil Burghley said. Polly looked at him and blinked. He looked wrong again… she shook her head a moment later, a dull headache pounding behind her skull. “You are all welcome here.”

Polly felt … weirdly disconnected from the world, as if the whole experience was a strange nightmare. A naked man was holding her and … he was just holding her. It felt wrong, very wrong … she wasn’t sure why, but she knew something was. Her legs felt wobbly as she pulled herself free, the man making no move to hold her or to push her away. If she hadn’t known better, she would have wondered if he male at all.

“Go to your stations,” Cecil Burghley ordered. “When the time comes, we must move fast.”

He looked at Polly as the men filed out of the room. Polly found it hard to even look at the men. It wasn’t the shame of being caught staring, but something else … something that bothered her. The men moved like robots … biological robots. It was hard to wrap her tired brain around what she was seeing. She could almost believe she was dreaming.

“They are magnificent,” Cecil Burghley said. In her tired state, his face looked wrong …  “Are they not?”

Polly staggered, and blinked. He looked normal again. “What … what did you do to them?”

“I gave them what they needed, and what they wanted to be,” Cecil Burghley told her. There was a hint of amusement in his tone, as if he were quietly laughing at her. “And now, all we have to do is wait.”

He paused. “Oh, and contact Mam’zelle. I dare say we will need her services soon enough.”

Polly blinked. Mam’zelle was a high-class procurer, a pimp by any other name. Polly knew, through the grapevine, that she specialised in finding young girls for the high and mighty, then taking care of them after the deed had been done. It said much that her name was unknown outside her customers, who had enough influence to ensure that any police or media investigations were quietly cancelled. It had been one of Cecil Burghley’s better aspects that he’d never made use of her. Polly had wondered if he’d find a girl for Norris …

“Yes, sir,” she managed. “I’ll inform her.”

“And then prepare a full report on the coming festival in Edinburgh,” Cecil Burghley added, almost as an afterthought. “I think we will need to get involved.”

Polly nodded, although she didn’t understand. The festival seemed unimportant, compared to the desperate need to keep the magic from tearing the rest of the world apart. But she was sure her boss knew what he was doing. It was rare, almost unknown, for him to make a false move.

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter Twenty: York, Now

Helen sat on the broomstick and floated high over York.

She knew she shouldn’t be flying so high, certainly not now. The skies over Britain were teeming with aircraft, from tiny little propeller planes and helicopters to jumbo jets that were larger than anything she’d ever imagined, before she’d found herself in a whole new – or, rather, a very old – world. The risk of a midair collision was small, but she had no idea what would happen if her broomstick – and the magic surrounding it – crashed into a jet aircraft and no one wanted to find out the hard way. And yet, flying was always a way to be alone for a few short hours, with no one standing between her and her thoughts.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked down, the city illuminated by a thousand lights that parted the darkness and filled the night sky with light pollution. There was something almost fantastical about the sight, as if the mundane city was just as wonderful as its magical counterpart from such a distance. The dark hid the scars, the drab grey buildings and the ruined streets and the piles of litter, growing ever worse as the rubbish men threatened to strike over encounters with supernatural vermin. It was hard not to look at the city in broad daylight and know its creators to be morally unsound, inheritors of a fantastic tradition who seemed intent on tearing it down. The sheer splendour of York Cathedral – a building that reminded her of Gatehouse, and in fact predated the school – contrasted oddly with the dour apartment blocks, or the cookie-cutter homes on the estate. There was no soul to those buildings, nothing to stir the heart; she supposed, deep inside, that probably explained the blight pervading mundane society. How could you reach for the stars, when you were surrounded by a sense there was nowhere to go and no point in struggling? In hindsight, it was astonishing that Steve had been trying to climb out of the hole well before he’d met the three magical intruders. Everything was weighted against him, trying to keep him on the estate until the day he died.

And Janet would not have gotten anywhere if we hadn’t given her hope, she thought, tiredly. She would have been lost, never knowing what she could have become.

She scowled, a twinge of unease washing over her. Things were going well, or at least as well as could be expected. The magical education project was going ahead, cautioning new students of the dangers of exploring whole new realms, and now that the shock of the merge had worn off the two societies were actually starting to work together. Her family’s interests were doing well – the Burghley Family had always specialised in magical healing and the mundane world needed it desperately – and they weren’t the only ones. Nearly every magician had a chance to earn money from the mundane world, and most were taking advantage of it. The country appeared to be settling down …

… But she still felt uneasy.

Her heart hardened as her eyes swept over the city. Her relative was still out there. Helen wanted to believe he was dead, but she couldn’t convince herself. There was no hint of the rogue magicians, no suggestion they still existed … she knew they were out there somewhere, up to something, but where? It wasn’t in their bloodline to simply give up and go away. Helen refused to believe the blood had worn so thin, since the two branches of the family had been separated. Cecil Burghley might be an enemy, who had plotted the invasion of Mystic Albion, but he was still a Burghley, with all the family’s virtues and vices. The sheer pigheaded refusal to admit defeat, Helen was sure, would be as much a part of him as it was a part of her. So too, she admitted sourly, was a reluctance to admit she could be wrong.

You’re out there, somewhere, she thought, staring at the lights – and the darkness beyond. What are you doing?

The sense of unease refused to fade, even as she kicked her broomstick back into motion and flew over the city again. She could feel something was wrong, a feeling – she suspected – that wouldn’t be taken seriously by many others. Helen knew to trust her instincts, but … she also knew they’d misled her from time to time. She had been wrong about Richard, mistaken about Janet, incorrect about … she shook her head, feeling as if someone had just walked over her grave. It was eerie, but … she had the uneasy sense the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Two worlds smashed together, she reminded herself, as Gatehouse came into view. The school was surrounded, as always, by powerful currents of magic. It would be more surprising if something didn’t happen.

Her skirts rustled as she flew through the currents, her broomstick quivering unnaturally between her legs. Her lips twisted sourly. The jokes from the mundane world about that had been about as funny as a punch to the face, and part of her wanted to hunt down the unfunny comedian who’d made them for the first time and show whoever it was what made her laugh. Perhaps it was just the comedian’s way of dealing with the chaos sweeping over the world, the sudden lack of certainty about anything. Helen supposed she could understand that, even though she’d rather not. Her life had been plotted out in minute detail before she’d been a year old, but now … she had no idea what was going to happen next. No one did. The world was a very different place now.

She landed neatly on the perch, brushing her hair back as she dismounted and walked through the door. The broomstick store was normally empty at this time, but there was a young blonde girl sorting through the brooms and making sure they were either in place or signed out to someone qualified to ride them. Helen’s lips quirked in annoyance. There had been a time when the brooms had been free for anyone to take, but that had been before new students had arrived who hadn’t even known they could fly on broomsticks a few months ago. Helen had been taught when she’d been a little girl … it still astonished her, even now, that there were mundane students who thought they didn’t need lessons before mounting a broom. The first idiot who’d tried had been lucky he’d only broken his leg.

“Thank you,” the girl said. She sounded irked by the job. Helen couldn’t tell if she was annoyed at having to do the work, if it was some kind of punishment, or if she was annoyed for other reasons. “Did you have a good flight?”

“It’s better to fly at night, these days,” Helen said. OldeWorld still had some spectacular landscapes, but most of the island was thoroughly urbanised. It puzzled her that they somehow managed to have both a surfeit of homes and a housing shortage. “The views are better.”

The young woman smiled, then frowned. “You’re Helen of Burghley, right?”

Helen blinked. She had been popular at school – or at least she’d thought she was, which wasn’t always the same thing – and everyone, from the junior students to the seniors, had known her name and face. She’d been surrounded by students who’d wanted to be her friend, none of whom would have stayed with her if she was disowned or her family took a tumble into the abyss of history … she wondered, in hindsight, just how much of her anger and resentment towards Brains and Richard had stemmed from the two boys being genuine friends. Being a Burghley was great, but the name brought troubles as well as privileges …

… And this girl didn’t know her? That was odd.

“I am,” Helen confirmed. The girl didn’t look like one of the new mundane students – and a mundane student wouldn’t have been trusted to take care of the brooms either. “And you are …?”

“Marian,” the girl said. She offered no family name, indicating she was a commoner or someone who intended to make it – or not – on her own merits. Helen studied her for a long moment and guessed the former. Marian didn’t hold herself like an aristocrat. “What was it like, out there?”

Helen hesitated. “Different,” she said, finally. “It’s a very different world.”

“I’ve been asked to join the outreach classes,” Marian said. “You know, the ones that send students to mundane schools to tell them about magic …?”

“Yes.” Helen had been asked to join herself, and she’d politely declined. She’d seen enough of mundane schools to last her a lifetime. Steve had agreed to become involved … she felt a flicker of irritation, even though neither she nor her mother could fault Steve’s dedication to duty. “Are you going to go …?”

“I don’t know,” Marian said. “What do I have to teach them?”

Helen considered it. Marian had to be new. If she’d been at the school seven months ago, she would certainly have known Helen by sight. Someone would have pointed Helen out to Marian, perhaps in the dining hall or the playing field, if only to make sure Marian knew all the movers and shakers before she graduated. Or accidentally offended someone who would blight her entire career … it wasn’t supposed to happen, but everyone knew it did.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She was an aristocrat and Marian … she might be a merchant’s daughter, which was far from impossible, but nearly every other occupation didn’t have a good counterpart in OldeWorld. Farmers, craftsmen, magicians … there weren’t many of them. The apprenticeships that were so much a part of Mystic Albion rarely existed in OldeWorld. “But even a very new student can give the basic lecture and demonstrate basic spells.”

“I suppose,” Marian said. “But I have been asked to work with Norris too.”

Helen frowned. “Norris?”

“He was the spy,” Marian said. “And he had something in his brain. And he hexed me.”

Helen winced. She vaguely recalled Norris from St. Champions, but … he hadn’t made much of an impression. She’d known Cecil Burghley had sent a spy into Mystic Albion … Norris? She kicked herself, mentally, for not following up on it. If she hadn’t been so busy with the merge, and then introducing Steve to her family …

“He wasn’t quite operating of his own will,” Marian said. “But … I don’t know how much of what he did was of his own volition.”

Helen heard a hint of an accent in Marian’s voice and frowned, inwardly. Was Marian’s father a family client? It was very far from impossible. It would certainly explain why Marian was asking her, instead of someone she knew better. And … the relationship between patron and client – and their families – had been laid down for hundreds of years. If the client needed help, the patron was supposed to offer it.

She took a breath. “From a legal point of view,” she said, “if Norris was under a compulsion spell he cannot be held responsible for his actions. A geas might be a little more iffy, depending on the exact nature of the spell. He might have agreed to have the spell cast on him, knowing what he’d be ordered to do, or whoever cast the spell might have taken advantage of his sudden vulnerability to alter the deal. If he was not, then yes … he could be held accountable for whatever he did. Perhaps. There are ways to twist someone’s mind to the point where they think up is down and right is wrong, making it impossible to offer anything resembling informed consent to anything.”

The words hung in the air. “I don’t know precisely what happened, or what he was thinking at the time, but the Merlin would have dealt with Norris if he could be considered legally responsible for his actions. If he isn’t …”

Marian snorted. “He’s walking around freely …”

“Noted.” Helen tried to hide her irritation at being interrupted. “Regardless, you have every right to refuse to work with him, or even to give him the time of day, if you wish. If you don’t want to go with him” – and she had no idea why someone had even thought it was a good idea – “you can say so. I don’t believe anyone will force you, and if they try you can make a formal complaint. This isn’t the mundane world. You don’t have to put up with him if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks,” Marian said, dryly. “Is it wrong of me to be angry?”

“No.” Helen was sure of that. “Your feelings are valid. What you do because of your feelings is a little more iffy.”

She turned away before Marian could ask another question, walking down the long stairwell to the dorms. It had been easy to hear the hurt and betrayal in Marian’s voice, the grim awareness that Norris wouldn’t have managed to hurt her so effectively if she hadn’t already cared about him … Helen felt a twinge of contempt, mingled with envy. It was so much easier to have one’s relationships sorted out coldly and logically, and to sit down and discuss the matter like grown adults, but at the same time … she had to admit there was a certain thrill to reading stories of forbidden love. She supposed that was yet another difference between the two worlds. OldeWorld thought a couple defying their parents was romantic, and that their love would bind them together even as romance gave way to reality, but Mystic Albion disagreed. Stories in which a young girl ran off with a peddler, or a young nobleman married a scullery maid, always ended badly.

And you are planning to marry Steve, she reminded herself, dryly. What is the difference?

She opened the door to her suite and stepped through, trying not to yawn until the door was firmly closed behind her. There was a pile of letters on her desk, including a handful written on mundane stationary. She eyed them warily – the school’s wards should have caught anything dangerous, but it was hard to be sure when some of the threats weren’t magical – and then pushed them aside. She’d open them tomorrow, after she’d slept. She had no idea when normal classes would resume, or even if they would, but …

There was a handful of knocks on the door, beating out a familiar pattern. Helen muttered a spell, feeling the power flickering through her to open the door. It was so good to have magic once again … she felt as if she’d been half-dead, ever since they’d fallen through the gate, until the worlds had started to merge together. And now … she smiled, openly, as Steve stepped into the room. He wore a simple set of robes, but she had to admit they suited him.

“Helen,” Steve said. “How did it go with your family?”

Helen recalled her earlier thoughts and flushed. “I wish I could trust someone else to handle the legal work,” she said. She did have a reasonably decent legal education – it was very common in aristocratic circles – but one truth held by both worlds was that the lawyer who represented herself had a fool for a client. She made a mental note to remind everyone that OldeWorld’s legal system was absurdly complicated, and what she’d thought was a complete legal education – and was, in her world – was nothing of the sort. “It’s a tricky task.”

“We could just elope,” Steve pointed out.

“Bad idea,” Helen said. Quite apart from all the stories suggesting it was a bad idea, common sense mandated against it. “We have to settle everything first, before we tie the knot, or it will come back to haunt us.”

Steve grinned and took a seat. “You really want to get married so quickly?”

“It’s fairly common,” Helen said. She didn’t know why OldeWorld seemed to think a woman’s career should come before childrearing. The older the mother, the harder it was to have children. “Have children early. Raise them. Go back to your career when the children are old enough to take care of themselves.”

“Your society is very different,” Steve said. “And the lessons are going … strangely.”

He paused. “But we have learnt more about how magic and mundane tech can be blended together,” he added. “Brains and I have come up with a concept for casting spells without a magician.”

“That’s going to be fun,” Helen said. She hadn’t heard of a single person in Mystic Albion who didn’t have at least some magical potential, but vast numbers of people in OldeWorld could no more cast a proper spell than they could jump to the moon. It wouldn’t be long before hatred and resentment started to overwhelm them, leading to … what? Helen doubted it would be pleasant for either side. “How much do the rogue magicians already know?”

“We don’t know,” Steve admitted. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “They’ve had centuries to figure out how to cast very low power spells, and decades to work out what they can do with computer modelling and spellcasting. They could be light-years ahead of us.”

Helen nodded. There were some spells that were theoretically possible, but practically impossible because they required a degree of precision no human magician could meet. A computer … could it do the spell? No one knew, but if a computer could be programmed to cast a series of tiny spells that worked together … it would change the world. Both worlds.

She shivered. She was in her bedroom, in the safest place in the known world … and yet, deep inside, she still felt uneasy. Something was about to happen.

She could feel it in her bones.

Chapter Twenty-One: Gatehouse, York, Now.

“This is the dining hall,” Norris said, as he showed Janie into the giant chamber. “I think you will find the food is actually edible, unlike the slop they used to serve back home.”

Janie didn’t smile. Norris understood. She’d spent the last day answering questions from countless people, from the school staff to police and government security officers who’d been allowed into Gatehouse for a few hours, and then gone to bed early. Norris had woken her in the morning and taken her to breakfast, then started to show her around the school. It would have been easier, he supposed, if the magical students hadn’t been giving him the cold shoulder. He hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with the mundane newcomers , either… he thought they would take one look at him and put him firmly back in his place. It would be like he’d never gone anywhere at all. Janie, thankfully, didn’t seem inclined to try.

Norris shot Janie a sidelong look. It was hard to be sure – he’d never been the most empathic person – but she looked depressed, perhaps even grieving. Norris had no idea what it was like to have a proper friend. It was hard not to feel a tidal wave of envy for the now-dead Jack, yet … he supposed that Janie having lost Jack had to be painful. The fact she’d played a role in his death, and the deaths of several others, couldn’t have helped, either. Norris didn’t feel any guilt over Colin’s death, but he’d been Colin, the resident bullying arsehole who made normal bullying arseholes look decent by comparison. Norris would have danced on his grave, if he’d had a chance, and besides … it had been his other personality, Norris2, who’d killed him. Janie had helped to kill her best friend, and – perhaps – a few innocents. She could hardly be blamed for feeling guilty.

He picked up a tray and led her to the counter, where he picked up slices of roast chicken, roasted potatoes, and a selection of vegetables that were cooked properly. It still staggered him to realise that one could cook a decent meal for an entire school, rather than feeding kids meals that had been rejected by the local jail, when they didn’t look suspiciously like cardboard covered with brown water. Janie followed him like a duckling following her mother, keeping her eyes lowered as they made their way to the drinks counter – no coloured water here – and then a table at the far side of the room. Norris felt weirdly protective as she sat down, eyes following their every move. He deserved their suspicion. Janie did not.

“They don’t seem to like you,” Janie observed, quietly. “Why?”

Norris made a face. “You’re not the only one to make a dangerous mistake,” he said, a statement that was technically true even though it was a little misleading. “And my mistake was a great deal worse, because I went into it with my eyes opened wide.”

Janie eyed him for a moment, then started to pick at her lunch. Norris studied her for a moment, feeling conflicted. Janie was pretty, in an exotic way, and yet she was almost childlike in a manner that bothered him, even though he knew they were the same age. A flash of the old envy swept through him – girls whinged they had it harder than boys, but his lived experience told him otherwise – before he could banish it. Janie had fucked up her life as surely as Norris had fucked up his own, and no matter what happened to her – legally – she’d have to live with the guilt the rest of her life. Norris had heard about spells that allowed someone to wipe their memories, but they were considered dark magic. And yet, the idea of forgetting his crimes was very tempting …

You’d probably forget why you shouldn’t commit them and commit them again, he thought, rather waspishly. It would be one hell of a cycle. Crime. Forget. Commit the same crime again.

He shook his head and delved into his food. He’d never been a big eater back home – his mother had been an indifferent cook and the school cook had been worse – but the food here was great, cooked to perfection. It was hard to imagine anyone here complaining about the food, although there was a certain sameness he supposed might come to bother him after a while. The menu was all British, very old British. There was no pizza, no curry, no burgers … not even anything from France or Ireland.

His lips twisted in dark amusement. What was the old joke? Two Englishmen go on holiday to Spain. One turns to his mate and complains he can’t stand fancy foreign muck … give me a pizza or a curry any day.

Janie looked up. “What do we do now?”

“We eat, then we see the rest of the school,” Norris said. He had been tapped to join the outreach program, but he had no idea if that was still happening. The Merlin had hurried off, the moment they’d returned to the school, and no one else had been around to ask. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“And then what?” Janie asked. “It’s just …”

Norris shrugged. He didn’t know. Janie had been ordered to stay inside and … he wasn’t sure if that order applied to him. On one hand, he had been allowed to go visit his family home; on the other, that had been before the police had tried to arrest him for defending himself. He had no idea what would happen if he tried to leave.

“We take each day as it comes,” he said. “And deal with our fate when it arrives.”

He paused as he felt the magic shift, an instant before Marian stepped into the dining hall and headed straight for him. His heart skipped a beat. Marian was incredibly pretty, all the more so because there was absolutely nothing fake about her, and … she hated him now. He had wanted to hang around outside her room and beg on bended knee for her forgiveness, but why should she forgive him? If he had been treated in such a manner, he would have refused to forgive the person no matter how much she begged or pleaded.

“Norris,” Marian said. The way she said it made the word sound like an insult. “We need to talk.”

Norris hesitated, torn between relief and fear. Marian wasn’t that dangerous, compared to Lucy or Helen or even Richard, but … he was deluding himself. No one would take his side, if they came to blows … he snorted in disgust. There were few girls on OldeWorld who could fight the average boy and win – a real boy, not a wimp like him – but here … magic levelled the playing field. A girl could tie him in knots, literally. Or worse.

“I need to get Janie back to her room first,” he said. He briefly considered going for desert … no. They needed to have that talk and the sooner the better. “Do you want to come with us?”

Marian studied Janie for a long moment, then shrugged. Norris had no idea what she was thinking. There hadn’t been many magicians, back in the days of Elizabeth Tudor, who had been anything but white. Not in Britain, at least. He wasn’t sure how much of them had gone through the gates, before they closed, but there couldn’t have been more than a handful. Janie looked exotic and Marian might be jealous … he shook his head, telling himself he was being silly. The idea of two girls fighting over him was about as absurd as the Death Star.

“Sure,” she said. “Shall we go?”

Janie stood. Norris stood too, careful to pick up the tray and return it. The staff here didn’t deserve to have to clean up the mess … and, besides, not returning a tray could lead to a demerit. Norris wasn’t sure what would happen if he got too many demerits, but he didn’t want to find out. He was in quite enough trouble already.

“I may want to talk to you later,” Marian said, to Janie. “You’re from OldeWorld, right?”

“Yeah.” Janie sounded tired, although it was only lunchtime. “I used to be.”

Norris’s mouth was dry as they made their way to Janie’s room and dropped her off, then stepped into a nearby study room. He had no idea what to say. A dozen arguments ran through his mind, all great speeches he knew he could no more say than he could snap his fingers and make sure nothing he’d done had ever happened. He wished he could go back in time and befriend Richard and Brains, instead of only picking up magic too late to join them, and then accompany them when they left the old world for the new. It wasn’t going to happen. Time travel didn’t work, he’d been told. It was simply impossible.

Marian said nothing too, perched on a desk that seemed a mite too small. Norris wanted to reach for her and take her in his arms …he bit his lip hard, quashing that desire before it could burn him. Colin had been able to do things like that, but everyone had been scared of him. Norris had no doubt that half the sexual conquests he bragged about had involved at least some degree of coercion and the other half had never happened at all, certainly not outside his own mind. And yet … he bit his lip again, telling himself not to dwell in the past. Colin was dead. Norris had fucked up his life, post-Colin, without any help from him at all.

“I …”

Marian swallowed and started again. “I am mad at you,” she said, holding up a hand. “I know your mind was damaged, and not entirely by yourself, but not everything you did can be blamed on your evil mind-twin.”

Norris looked down. He had created Norris2. He didn’t know how Lord Burghley had warped and twisted the other personality into something dark and dangerous, a secret agent shadowing the spy he’d sent into Gatehouse, but there was no way Norris could blame everything on his master. He had lacked the nerve to use magic to kill his enemies, even when there was no danger of any comeback … how could they have known, even slightly, what had happened to them? He hated his own cowardice …

“I know.” A flash of resentment ran through him. Did she expect him to grovel? Should be grovel? Or was her mind already made up, to the point there was nothing to be gained by throwing himself at her feet? “It was all my fault.”

“Partly,” Marian agreed.

She paused. “I have been asked to join the outreach program,” she said. “And that you will be coming with me.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Norris said. He hadn’t known Marian had been asked to join. It didn’t make sense. Marian hadn’t spent any time in OldeWorld, at least until now. She had known him … the hell of it, he supposed, was that knowing him made her better qualified than anyone outside the original trio. “They sent me to Glasgow, and then told me to look after Janie.”

“Rumour says she destroyed a city,” Marian said, quietly. “Is that true?”

“No.” Norris was very sure of that. “She … she accidentally helped destroy a city block, I think, but she certainly didn’t destroy the whole city. It isn’t clear how many innocents were caught in the blast.”

Marian said nothing for a long moment. “I am mad at you,” she repeated. “I liked you. I trusted you. And you abused that trust.”

Norris blinked, hard, to erase the tears before she saw them. The idea of a girl trusting him had seemed absurd and he hadn’t been able to believe it … fuck! If only he’d had the wit to sneak out of the school alone, instead of using her for cover. He could have kept her and … no, it wouldn’t have lasted. Even if Norris2 hadn’t enchanted her, she would still have known he was a spy. Fuck.

“We can work together,” Marian said. “But it will be a long time before I trust you again.”

“I understand,” Norris said. “And I am sorry.”

“Good.” Marian’s voice was sharp. “I heard what happened when Richard and Janet visited a school. Their lesson was televised” – she stumbled over the unfamiliar word – “and shown to many other schools. If you saw it too, what do you think?”

Norris hesitated. “Richard is a good speaker,” he said, finally. There had always been something reassuringly solid about Richard, the few times they’d met. If Brains was Sherlock Holmes, Richard was Doctor Watson. “And he managed to cover all the important points.”

Marian nodded. “And what would you add? Or advise me to add?”

“I …” Norris forced himself to think. Richard and Janet made a pretty good team. Marian and he … maybe not so much, not now. “You have to understand …”

He stopped, unsure how to put his feelings into words. It was difficult. Marian was from a very different culture, true, but even someone from the same culture – someone like Steve – would have trouble understanding what he wanted to say. It wasn’t just that his experiences would be alien to her, it was that it would expose him as a fraud, a coward, a weakling … he felt the magic curling inside him, waiting to be used, and feared he wouldn’t have the nerve to use it.

“There are two problems,” he said, finally. “The first is that most of the people who will press ahead with studying magic, with trying to use magic, will have a massive chip on their shoulder. They feel they are oppressed, that they are constantly put down … and there is a certain amount of truth in it. Magic offers them the first chance of real power, the chance to push back at their tormentors … they won’t just want to push back, they’ll want revenge.”

He winced, inwardly. He was describing himself, except … he hadn’t had the nerve. Someone else had, if the internet was to be believed. A jerk jock had woken up to discover he’d been turned into a frog, a bitchy young woman had discovered her clothes fell off every time she called someone a nasty name, a football team had been cursed to ensure every ball they aimed at the goal went wide. Whoever had cast that spell hadn’t been caught yet, according to the news. Norris wanted to think it was a nerd who’d decided to take a little revenge, but it was just as likely to be a rival team cheating shamelessly. Or maybe not. Most spellcasters were nerds and geeks and they didn’t get on with jocks. The idea of a nerd helping a jock was just …

“I see,” Marian said.

Norris doubted it. Marian lived in a society that was far freer, in so many ways, than his. She had power and knew how to use it. Her father could leave his patron any time he chose, if the patron mistreated him, or seek justice from paladins sworn to enforce the law without fear or favour. He supposed that was why she’d trusted him, so long ago. It had never crossed her mind that she needed to be wary of him.

“The second point is that they will push you,” Norris continued. “You’re seventeen. They won’t take you seriously. They’ll take one look at your chest and make snide remarks, or try to grope you, or …”

He shuddered. There had been one trainee teacher at St. Champions, two years ago, who had been in her early twenties. Colin had sneaked up behind her, one morning, and yanked down her skirt. He’d suffered no punishment, of course. She’d never been seen again.

“You have to be ready,” he warned. He doubted she’d believe him. She had grown up in a world where self-defence was a right and authority could be trusted to be reasonable. “If they try something, you have to smack them down.”

“You make your world sound so alluring,” Marian said, dryly. “How did you grow up there?”

“I didn’t,” Norris said.

Marian gave him a sharp look. “How so?”

Norris felt the old bitterness starting to well up. Again.

“I didn’t grow up, not mentally,” he said. He supposed he should be glad of the mind healer. The man had made it easier for Norris to take a good hard look at himself. “I got smacked down so much I just … gave up and stopped trying to grow. I fell into my own hatreds and resentments, hatreds directed at myself for being so weak as much as they were directed at my tormentors.  I loathed them, and I loathed the people who did nothing to stop them, and I loathed the girls who were tormented and took their torments out on me because they couldn’t stand up to their real tormentors. I wanted to die, and yet I was too frightened to kill myself. I …”

He shook his head. “And then came magic, and him, and … I was so lost in myself that I never thought there might be a way out, not until it was too late.”

Norris fell silent, bracing himself for mockery. It was a mistake to reveal so much. It always was … certainly, at St. Champions. Weakness, any sort of weakness, was mercilessly mocked.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” Marian said, finally. She looked him in the eye. “Are you going to try to become a better person?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Marian said. “Try.”

She paused. “I genuinely liked you,” she added, after a moment. She didn’t try to hide the hurt in her voice. “And someone else, in the future, will like you too.”

Norris flushed. “That’s another difference between our worlds, right there,” he said. “Your world has hope. Ours … does not. Not any longer.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: South Queensferry, Now

Selena – her real name was a closely-guarded secret, certainly from the rest of the Sisters of the River – had always loved the Forth River, right from the moment her parents had moved to South Queensferry when she’d been a young girl. It had seemed natural that she would learn to swim in the river, despite the dangers of a fast-flowing current or large ships moving up and down the water, and equally natural – as she grew older – that she would drift into environmentalism. She had nearly drowned in the river once, losing consciousness and recovering – on the small stony beach near her home – convinced that something within the water had saved her for a purpose. It hadn’t been hard to let herself shift into the Sisters of the River, despite mockery from the unaware, and become one of their priestesses. The river needed her maidens.

It wasn’t an easy life. The Sisters had never been taken seriously, unlike the patriarchal religions that blighted the world. It was all too easy for men to point and laugh at the women, to make snide remains about naked dancing under the moonlight or even to accuse them of having truck with the devil. It was nothing like that – the Sisters were part of the natural order, maintaining it as well as worshipping it – but there was no point in trying to convince the ignorant of their ignorance. Selene had grown up looking at the three mighty bridges over the river, the rail bridge and the two road bridges, and knowing they offended the natural world around them. She had danced a blessing many times, to soothe the nature spirits, but …

She liked to think she was a benevolent person who never bore a grudge, but she couldn’t help feeling a little vindicated when the magic came flowing back into the world. She’d always been in tune with the world around her and she’d sensed it instantly, the sudden influx of strange creatures, some so eldritch it was hard to even see them properly. She had felt the magic growing stronger, watched dragons flying from Edinburgh – where two cities had become one – to unknown worlds she could barely imagine. There had been ghosts as well, haunting cries and spectres of men who’d died at sea or fallen from the bridge when it was under construction; she’d heard stories of Mary Queen of Scots walking the corridors of Holyrood, her head under her arm. The world had changed … and the Sisters were finally ready to step into the light. They had never been a very wealthy sect, but they had a backer now. And they needed to carry out the ritual for the good of all.

Two motorboats rested on the beach, waiting for them. The bridges were as busy as ever, with cars and trains crossing the river, but sea travel had been cut to the bare minimum as the country adjusted to the new world order. Selene had planned to hire the Maid of the Forth, the tourist boat that sailed from South Queensferry to Inchcolm Island, yet the operators had flatly refused to take the booking, something she was sure was a reflection of government pressure. The Sisters had real power now, and nothing scared men more than powerful women. It hadn’t been enough to stop them. Selene – and most of the other women – worked on the water. Obtaining two speedboats hadn’t been  difficult. There was a very good chance no one would realise what they were doing until it was far too late.

She clambered into the boat, not bothering to don a life jacket. If the river wanted to claim her, if it was her time to go, she would go calmly into the water’s welcoming arms. The speedboat roared to life a moment later, gliding out into deeper water before cutting loose and heading east to Inchcolm. Selene kept her eyes open as they passed the oil refineries – and spat in disgust as she spotted a Royal Navy destroyer making its way up to the shipyards – but nothing moved to stop them. She wasn’t too surprised. The Sisters had known Inchcolm was a place of power for centuries, its history dating back well before King David I of Scotland had built a monastery on the rocky atoll in hopes of claiming the power for himself. Nothing would be allowed to stand in their way now their time had come around at last. The boats slowed steadily as they neared the island, heading straight for the rocky beach. There was no sign of the watchman, or anyone else remotely human. The air was pregnant with possibility.

She lowered her hand into the water, feeling raw magic sparking in the waves. The tide was rising slowly, heading towards a peak. She could sense something in the water, waiting for the Sisters. The water felt cold and yet … she was sure, somehow, that today she could have swum to the island without trouble. It was a day of power.

The boat grounded itself on the shore. The women disembarked in silence, leaving the boats on the beach. There should have been seagulls overhead, launching themselves from the remains of gun emplacements and other ruins that dated all the way back to 1940, but instead the air was surprisingly – almost eerily – quiet. Selene walked up the beach and onto the grass, looking towards the distant rocks. There were four seals resting there, and a real mermaid. Awe rushed through her. If she had wanted a sign she was doing the right thing, it was there, right in front of her.

They kept moving without speaking, somehow aware that to speak aloud would be to risk the whole ritual. They’d rehearsed the dance before, time and time again, and practiced laying out the stones until they could do it in their sleep. Selene allowed herself another moment of vindication as she put the final stone in place, then checked her watch. Morris dancing might be traditional, but very few understood how traditional. The dances weren’t just there to welcome in the new season and bid farewell to the old. They were there to reaffirm mankind’s tie to nature, and offer their blood to the land.

It bothered her, sometimes, that the Sisters were the only ones who knew the secret. But the modern world didn’t want to know.

She looked from face to face, then reached for her dress and lifted it over her head, tossing it behind her. It had been hard, the first time she’d gotten undressed in front of the other Sisters, but now it was easy to let herself be naked. The Sisters weren’t judgemental. No one cared if your breasts were too large or too small, or if you were overweight or dangerously thin, as long as you brought your whole self to the dance. Tears prickled in her eyes as she looked from face to face, knowing deep inside that this was how life should be. There were no men here to intrude, their masculine energies ruining feminine life; there were no women who would primp and preen in front of the men, betraying their sisters for a hint of favour from the patriarch. She raised her right hand, still not saying a word, then touched her forehead. The others followed her lead.

Selene felt the world shift as she drew her finger down, between her eyes, down over her chest and stopping, for a few raw seconds, on top of her womanhood. She had wondered, once upon a time, why it was always the virgin beauty who was sacrificed, but she knew now. She was a woman. Inside her was the spark of life itself, the ability to give birth … an ability that could never be stolen, not by any man. And now …

She fell into the dance, joining hands with the others as the time reached zero. The magic seemed to flicker and flare around them, her awareness expanding rapidly as the magic grew stronger. She had always had a connection to the river, but now … she was suddenly almost painfully aware of every atom within the water, every last piece of raw iron burning through something – a presence – that was beyond her comprehension. The ground shook beneath their feet as her awareness spread wider, sensing how pollution had poisoned the water and contaminated the riverbed. The Forth was not a tame river, no matter how many bridges crossed it, and it was angry. She could feel its rage.

It crossed her mind, in the last second before her awareness was swept up and absorbed by something far greater than herself, that she might have made an awful mistake …

But it was already far too late.

***

Gareth MacAndrews was bored.

There was very little to do in South Queensferry, if you were a teenager who didn’t particularly care for water.  There were no cinemas, no sports centres, nothing beyond countryside walks and beaches that were barely worthy of the name. The magic surge had only made his boredom worse, as far as he was concerned. The schools were closed, half the town’s population had hopped in their cars and driven away, and most of the shops were closed too. It didn’t help that his father had gone to work in Edinburgh and his mother had gone to join her weird little cultist friends … giving him, once again, an incurable case of being terminally uncool. His mother was the laughingstock of the town and he, as her only son, bore the brunt of it.

He scowled as he walked towards the jetty, knowing there was no point in going but also no point in hanging around doing nothing. The beach was empty, the high tide licking the waterfront and leaving seaweed bobbling about to contaminate the sand once the tide went down again. There was no sign of the Maid of the Forth, or any of the other tourist boats that bored him to tears. Perhaps she’d been sent upriver, or …

The ground heaved.

Gareth blinked in surprise. Earthquakes were vanishingly rare in Scotland. He wondered, for a moment, if he’d imagined it … and then the ground heaved again. He looked around, half-expecting to see a fireball rising from the direction of the naval shipyards, but there was nothing. A plane crash? Aircraft flew over South Queensferry all the time, as they came into land at Edinburgh, but there was no sign of any explosion. The ground heaved again, a third time … he looked east, towards the railway bridge, and saw water bubbling around it. He stared, one hand reaching for his smartphone to record the scene. What was it? A sinking boat? There hadn’t been one there a moment ago …

The water exploded upwards, a geyser of raw power that shocked him to the bone. He stumbled back, expecting to be drenched, but instead the tower of water was rising higher and higher, taking on a vaguely humanoid form. Gareth couldn’t take his eyes off it. There were hints of long hair, and breasts, and disconcertingly human eyes, within a watery form that ebbed and flowed in a manner he found hard to follow. It kept growing, towering over the bridge … the ground shook again and again, the tremors merging together into a single endless shaking. He gripped hold of the railing, uneasily aware it wouldn’t be enough to save him if the water-thing collapsed back into the river. The tide was going out, impossibly fast … no, the water was being sucked up, revealing hundreds of beach toys and pieces of debris, even a ruined boat, that had been lost and never recovered. A dark shadow fell over the land. The shape was now so large it was blotting out the sun.

A whistle blew. Gareth looked back, just in time to see an intercity train heading north. The water-thing reached for the bridge, waves of water splashing everywhere as it took hold of the train and pulled. Gareth heard metal screeching as the train came free, its speed carrying it over the side and straight into the river. Horror washed through him a second later as the entire train crashed down, smashing into the water hard enough to utterly destroy the carriages and kill everyone onboard. The water-thing didn’t seem to notice, or care, as it kept ripping up the bridge, surges of water tearing through stone and metal with a savagery that chilled him to the bone. He thought he saw movement at the far side, another train, but it was hard to be sure. The water-thing didn’t seem to notice. It was turning slowly, dark and angry eyes meeting his …

… For a second, their minds were one. Gareth had a sense of something incredibly large, something that had been in chains … something that was now free, free to wreck revenge on the world of men. There was an eternity of rage and hatred bound up in the towering giant, something so inhuman that he couldn’t even imagine it …

… The contact broke, a second later, as the water-thing turned and smashed the original road bridge with almost casual ease. Cars went flying, one spinning over Gareth’s head and crashing down somewhere to the south. The bridge shattered a moment later, the supports ripped free from the riverbed and thrown in all directions. Gareth felt water – no, not water – trickling down his legs, found himself on his knees with no idea how he’d fallen. The ground was still shaking, the water-thing tearing the third and final bridge asunder … Gareth hoped, desperately, that anyone who’d been on the bridge had had the sense to drive away, before it was too late. A military boat charged out of nowhere, right at the giant water-thing … Gareth had no idea what the sailors thought they could do, but it hardly mattered. The ship was sunk before it could fire a shot, waves of water crashing down the river and straight onto the oil refineries. A series of explosions billowed up, casting an eerie pallor over the scene.

The entity turned, standing right in front of South Queensferry. Gareth stared up at it, helpless. He couldn’t move … the entity came apart a second later, water crashing down with terrifying – impossible – force and raging out in all directions. Gareth had the brief impression of a tidal wave, coming right at him …

… then the world went dark.

***

Flying Officer Patrick O’Neal hadn’t expected much, when the two Eurofighters had taken off from RAF Lossiemouth to investigate an unexplained radar contact over North Queensferry. Edinburgh was one of the conjoined cities, now unexpectedly paired with a magical twin, and the RAF had – in the last few weeks – flown interception missions against targets as bizarre as children on broomsticks and dragons that made Smaug look cute and cuddly. They weren’t a real danger, unlike Russian aircraft probing the edges of the United Kingdom Air Defence Region, and the fighter pilots had started to get used to them. The fact the mystery contact had appeared well inside the UKADR suggested it was another wild goose – or dragon – chase, not …

He swallowed, hard, as he saw the tidal waves battering North and South Queensferry. The RAF was discouraged from flying too close to bridges – the days of fast-jet flying under the bridges were over, as far as the brass were concerned – but he had flown over the bridges before and he knew the area well. Now … for a moment, he honestly thought he’d messed up his navigation so badly that he might be in France, not Britain. The three bridges were gone! Tidal waves were marching inland, wiping the two towns off the map. The military shipyard further up the river appeared to be gone too, along with …

His hand tapped a control, sending back a live feed from his gun camera footage to the base. There would be others on the scene shortly – lifeguards, press helicopters – but for the moment the skies were clear. Suspiciously so. He wondered, numbly, if the tidal waves had reached as far south as Edinburgh Airport, washing over the runways and wiping out a handful of aircraft before they had a chance to take off. God, he hoped not. He’d seen disasters before, but … disasters on this sort of scale just didn’t happen in Britain.

It just didn’t happen.

He tilted the aircraft, then reduced his speed and flew as low as he dared over the remnants of South Queensferry. The northern part of the town looked like a giant mudslide. He doubted there was anyone left alive, although he hoped he was wrong. The southern part looked drenched, the waters having swept over the buildings and smashed everything they could. It was weird. There were no visible survivors. They couldn’t all be dead, could they?

“Ah … we have a weird energy signal to the east,” the operator said. He sounded badly shaken. Right now, the military and emergency services would be trying to coordinate a response to the disaster. The situation would be chaotic, for quite some time to come. Whatever police or fire stations there’d been in the two towns, they were no longer in any state to assist. “Check it out.”

Patrick nodded and steered the Eurofighter down the river. It was a scene of utter devastation. A giant ship – it took him a moment to realise it was an oil tanker – had been picked up and capsized. The oil refineries were burning ruins. Smaller towns and settlements were gone. And Inchcolm …

He sucked in his breath. “Control, Inchcolm has become a volcano,” he said. He hoped it was Inchcolm. The island was in the right place, he thought, but it was so different it was hard to be sure. “I say again, we have an active volcano in the River Forth.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: London, Now

“… Death toll is currently estimated to be around thirty thousand people,” the BBC announcer said. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t had time to put on makeup before being rushed in front of a camera. “The First Minister has called for calm, and asked the public to respect the air and land exclusion zone surrounding the incident site, but reports from the scene indicate hundreds of people are either looking for their relatives or heading inland as fast as possible …”

Polly swallowed hard as the aircraft banked over London, then started to descend into RAF Northholt. The sheer scale of the disaster was beyond her. America had hurricanes and Japan had earthquakes and tsunamis, but Britain  ... disasters simply didn’t happen in Britain, certainly not disasters so big they overwhelmed the emergency services. The police, ambulances and fire brigades were well-trained and equipped, yet the idea of coping with so many dead or wounded was beyond them. Polly had seen private reports, forwarded from government agents in the zone, and they indicated the disaster was worse than the media suggested. The total death toll might never be determined. God alone knew how many bodies had been swept out to sea.

She changed the channel, gritting her teeth as more images of death and devastation appeared in front of her. It was too much, like staring at a disaster movie so intense that she was certain such things didn’t happen in real life. Some enterprising media personality had put out a call for live footage, despite government orders, and shown whatever they received to the public. There weren’t many recordings – far too many people near the incident had been killed, and the government had refused to release what few CCTV recordings had survived – but what little footage the media had obtained was terrifying. A giant watery figure, looming over the shattered bridges … she wanted to believe that someone had faked the images – it was astonishing how accurate such fakes could be, in this day and age – yet she found it impossible to convince herself. Such fakes had to be credible, and the images were just too much … they had to be real.

The aircraft touched down neatly, the hatch opening the moment they reached the hangar. Cecil Burghley stood and led the way down; Polly followed him, trying to ignore the two bodyguards bringing up the rear. Her boss had brought in more and more volunteers – some clearly military or police, others almost certainly civilians who’d been dragooned into service – and they gave her the creeps, although she wasn’t sure why. They looked normal, mostly, but her instincts told her to keep her distance. She hadn’t felt so uneasy since she’d accompanied Burghley to interrogate a man convicted of abusing and murdering his children – the list of crimes had shocked even him – and even that monster in human form hadn’t made her feel so uneasy. She’d read the charges, seen the evidence that made his conviction a foregone conclusion, and yet …

She put the thought aside as they clambered into the car, police outriders fanning out around the vehicle as it sped through the gates and onto the streets. There were only a handful of people in evidence – the disaster had only been three hours ago, but word had already spread right across the country – and most were heading home. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted a man carrying a sandwich board, with the words REPENT YE INFIDELS – THE WAGES OF WITCHCRAFT ARE THE FIERY FURNACE – clearly written in what she hoped to hell was red paint. He made a hex sign at their vehicle as it drove back, then followed it up with the sign of the cross. Polly suspected he was more mentally disturbed than a believer in anything. But the world really had turned upside down.

Burghley laughed, in a manner that suggested he wasn’t really amused. “That man is more right than he knows.”

Polly gave him an odd look. The Folk had been demonised – quite literally, in many ways – over the years, before the sundering and the inevitable destruction of the common-born magicians of old. Burghley and his ancestors had never believed that magic led straight to the devil, at least magic that didn’t rely on devils and demons for power, and she’d honestly thought there was no truth in it. Who’d sell their soul for power if it meant an eternity of torment after their death? She’d been taught that magic was just a tool, and it was how the magician used it that mattered, and yet …

The car slipped through a chain-link fence and drove straight into a warehouse. Polly spotted a handful of security guards who were clearly soldiers and close-protection specialists, dressed in a manner that made them look sloppy and unprofessional without compromising their professionalism one iota. She’d seen enough security guards to know they were the real deal, no matter how much they looked like posers. The car came to a halt, allowing them to exit the vehicle, pass through a brief security sweep and step into an elevator, going deep underground. Polly sucked in her breath. She hadn’t known there was a government bunker so close to Northholt, although she supposed it made a great deal of sense. The PM would be close enough to Downing Street to return in a hurry, if it turned out his close-protection team had overreacted, and could also head straight for the airfield if it turned out the emergency was a great deal worse than they’d thought. Polly looked around with interest as a young woman in plain clothing led them through an operations room – crammed with men and women working computers, or speaking frantically into headsets – and into a small meeting chamber. The PM was already there, looking haggard. The two cabinet members who’d stayed with him looked worse. There was no sign of the Deputy Prime Minister. He would have been taken further from London, just in case.

Burghley took a seat. Polly stood against the wall as two other people entered, a military general and his aide. The former had a sense of reassuring competence, although there was a hard edge to his face that suggested he was heading towards collapse if he didn’t find a moment soon to catch his breath and relax. Polly doubted that would happen in a hurry. Emergencies, by definition, tended to be unexpected, and plans to deal with them were often over-optimistic to the point of absurdity. On paper, the system should have moved into action as smoothly as a train moving down the tracks; in practice, half the first responders would be out of place and the other half completely confused, unsure what was going on. It would take time to get organised, even for a military as professional as the British Army, and someone – afterwards – would insist they’d fucked up. There was always someone …

“General Ball,” the PM said. “What is currently happening?”

The general spoke calmly, but firmly. “The early hitches in emergency response have been smoothed out, Prime Minister, and we have nearly five thousand troops, and other emergency servicemen, on the scene, with more on the way. We have sealed off the afflicted area as best as possible, and are currently combing the site for wounded, but it will take weeks - at least – to put together a clear picture of just how many are dead or wounded. The damage is quite substantial. Both North and South Queensferry have been battered so badly that both towns may be no longer viable, at least for several years to come.”

He paused. “We have set up emergency shelters for evacuated civilians, and I am pleased to report there has been a very positive response from townspeople outside the disaster area, allowing us to start housing the evacuated in civilian homes and schools. That may change, as the days and weeks wear on, but for the moment we should be able to provide for all of them.”

There was another pause, longer this time. “I should add that wild magic” – he grimaced – “has made it hard, almost impossible, to approach Inchcolm Island and random surges of magic near the waterfront have interfered with our rescue and recovery operations. We do have some support from the magical folk” – his face twisted again – “but it seems they were even less on the ball than us. It may be some time before they can help more, if at all.”

The Prime Minister stared at his hands. “What happened?”

Cecil spoke with quiet intensity. “My staff have been carrying out an investigation for the last two hours. We have determined that the epicentre of the magical disaster was Inchcolm Island” – he ignored General Ball’s snort – “and focused our investigation on determining who went there, to a known place of power, and why. It appears that the Sisters of the River, a cult that – like so many others – was galvanised by the return of magic, intended to carry out a magical rite on the island. Ignoring orders to leave known places of power strictly alone, they went to the island early today … and, shortly afterward, carried out the ritual.”

General Ball looked unconvinced. “Can you be sure?”

“The Sisters of the River were quite open about their beliefs,” Cecil said. “There was no reason to think of them as anything more than just another bunch of crazies, perhaps with a little titbit of knowledge from the magical era, so we didn’t pay them much attention. You would be astonished to know how many such groups there are, and how little fragments of knowledge are surrounded by mountains of complete nonsense. They performed quite a few rituals over the past few years, without any noticeable result. This time was different. Very different.”

He leaned forward, his voice pulsing with utter conviction. “We have to crack down hard, Prime Minister,” he said. “We cannot rely on the magical folk to handle it. We must declare a state of emergency – another state of emergency – and use the new forces we have at our disposal to crack down hard on unlicensed magic, before it is too late.”

His words hung in the air. “The Sisters aren’t the only group with fragments of knowledge,” he added. “Many cultists hate the government – many drifted into cults because they were looking for something more in their lives – and we cannot assume they will refrain from carrying out rites of their own. They want to tear the world down, Prime Minister. Many believe they will be favoured in the new world, the one they think will be born from chaos, and others just want to see the world burn. And even they aren’t the worst ...

“We’ve already had a string of nasty incidents. Our failure to crack down on rogue magic users is encouraging more, as well as empowering their defenders in the magical community. It is only a matter of time until some nerd blows up his school or finds a way to unleash a disaster that makes Inchcolm look like nothing. You can split atoms with magic, if you know how. How long will it be until someone works it out?”

Polly sucked in her breath. She’d met Norris. The young man had been bitter and resentful, consumed with a hatred so all-encompassing he even hated himself. He had been easy to manipulate, in the days when magic was subtle and almost unknown outside the Brotherhood, but now … she swallowed, hard, as she realised Norris was hardly alone. She had had a good education, in a decent school, and even she had had times when she’d fanaticised about setting fire to the building and watching it burn. Norris had to have been the same, and he now had the magic to make it happen. Cecil Burghley had a point. They had to act fast, before it was too late.

The Prime Minister looked hopeful, for the first time since the meeting had begun. Polly understood, better than she cared to admit. It was always good to have a plan, even when the plan was being thrown together so quickly there were oversights and mistakes and incidents that, afterwards, made a lot of money for lawyers. The sheer scale of the disaster was threatening to overwhelm the PM, presenting him with a challenge unmatched since COVID or the Blitz. Burghley used his advantage ruthlessly. The PM needed options and Burghley intended to offer them to him.

“We crack down hard,” Burghley said. “We seal off the places of power, and the magical communities. We declare it illegal to practice magic in any shape or form and arrest, without hesitation, the members of any cult that intend to carry out rituals of their own. We remind everyone that assault and murder are still illegal, even if the crime is committed with magic rather than brute force, and we make examples of those who carry them out. And quickly.”

General Ball frowned. “You’re talking about declaring war on the magical communities.”

“This is our country,” Cecil Burghley said. “We have the final say in what happens on our soil. We can allow smaller groups a degree of autonomy, perhaps, but not at the expense of compromising our sovereignty over our own country. We do not allow foreigners to come to our lands and impose their laws and customs on us, and we cannot allow magical folk – even those with whom we share a common heritage – to do the same.”

Polly knew people who would dispute his remark about foreigners, but she held her peace. It was one thing to turn a blind eye to cultural practices like forced marriages, or to quietly ignore problems that only harmed the working class, but quite another to ignore a disaster – however accidental – that had killed over thirty thousand people. The country was already on the brink of anarchy. If the government didn’t take control quickly and make a show of proving it was in control, there would be chaos. How long would it be before magicians – and magical wannabes – were attacked on the streets? How long would it be before those attackers were zapped into frogs, or worse? Polly couldn’t help admiring the magical community’s insistence that its members had the right to defend themselves, but right now it was only going to lead to trouble. There would be many issues, along with revenge attacks, and the country would fall into civil war. The prospect was too horrifying for words.

“It is going to be difficult,” General Ball observed. He sounded too polite to come out and show his disbelief openly, but Polly heard it anyway. “Can you be sure of success?”

Burghley looked at him. “We have the forces,” he said. If he noticed the general’s disbelief, he didn’t show it. “Given authority to act, and act fast, we can freeze the situation now and prevent further death and destruction. I don’t say it will be easy, or painless, but there is no other choice. If we let the situation get any further out of hand …”

He looked at the PM. “The magical community will do nothing,” he said. “They are, at best, dangerously irresponsible. At worst, they intend to let their rogues – and our fools – knock us down a peg or two, before they take over. They brag of being a free society, but there is such a thing as too much freedom. What happened in Edinburgh will be repeated, time and time again, unless we act now.”

There was a long chilling pause. Polly suspected she knew what was going through the PM’s mind. Burghley’s planned crackdown would be more than just a declaration of martial law. It would be a crackdown on civil liberties that would make COVID look like a walk in the park, carried out against people who had done no wrong and others whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there was little choice. Magic put the power of a nuclear bomb, or something worse, in the hands of hundreds of people, some of whom had been through absolute hell. By the law of averages, some would be mad, bad, dangerous to know or simply suicidal, intent on taking as many people as possible with them when they killed themselves.

She shivered. She’d read a comic, once, where Totally-Not-Harry-Potter had carried out a massacre at Totally-Not-Hogwarts. The author had been making a point, but … somehow, it didn’t seem so funny now.

Not that it ever was, she reflected.

“We can do it,” Burghley said. He held out a sheet of paper. “Give us the authority. We can do the rest.”

The PM took the paper and read it, shortly. Polly felt a twinge of sympathy. The man wasn’t a Churchill or a Thatcher. He didn’t have the backbone to cope with a war, let alone a threatened invasion … or what was, in many ways, an accidental invasion. An entire ecosystem, for want of a better word, had merged with his country, throwing the world into chaos. And he was largely alone. There could be no collective government with the cabinet dispersed around the country …

“History will judge me,” the PM said. He signed the paper with a flourish. “Don’t fuck up.”

“Understood,” Cecil Burghley said. The sheer confidence in his voice was terrifying. “There will be no mistake.”

He said nothing else until they were back in the car, then smiled. “Contact the lead assault team in York,” he ordered. Beside him, the bodyguards shifted oddly. “Tell them I said they’re good to go.”

Polly swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Today, the world will change,” Cecil Burghley continued. He sounded as if he was laughing at a joke only he understood. “And we will be there to midwife a whole new era.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Stafford High School, York, Now

“So tell me,” Mr. Staunton said, quietly. “What the hell happened in Edinburgh?”

Norris had no answer. They had been sent to Stafford High School only a few short hours ago, to teach the local students about magic, the magical community and the dangers of messing around with magic when the would-be magician knew next to nothing about it, a task he would have found a great deal easier if the students had seemed inclined to listen to him. They hadn’t, at least until one young man – who had wolf-whistled at Marian – had found himself turned into a frog .

Then all hell had broken loose.

“It is impossible to say, without further information,” Richard said. He and Janet made up the other two members of the team, although Norris wasn’t sure if they were there to show the newcomers the ropes or to keep an eye on him. “We simply don’t know.”

Norris scowled, checking his smartphone. The first alerts had started within moments, social media going crazy with reports from Edinburgh, followed rapidly by emergency government broadcasts. He had been in the middle of watching as Marian explained what life was like, growing up in Mystic Albion, when the phone started pinging … it hadn’t stopped. The government’s emergency broadcast, nearly thirty minutes after the disaster, had told everyone to stay where they were – unless they were military, police, or emergency services – but it wasn’t clear how many people were listening. The headteacher had told his students to stay in school, yet – not remotely to Norris’s surprise – a number of students had already headed home or found themselves yanked out by terrified parents. Norris wasn’t sure why Richard had insisted on them remaining at the school, unless it was to set a good example. It wasn’t as if anyone gave a damn.

He took a breath, forcing himself to relax. The constant bombardment of messages wasn’t helping. Some rumours were crazy beyond words, but what – in this day and age – could truly be called insane? The Loch Ness Monster had swum up the river to destroy the three bridges and the surrounding towns … someone had clambered onto a dragon and commanded the beast to vaporise the region … someone had decided to turn himself into a cheap and nasty Voldemort and cast a volcano spell right out of Populous … terrorists had smuggled a nuke into the river and it was all being blamed on magic … Norris shook his head. It was madness, utter madness. There was just no way to be sure what had happened, and what was still happening.

“There’s no point in further lessons,” the headteacher said. Norris, who had worked that out the moment his smartphone had started beeping, rolled his eyes. This headteacher might be slightly less incompetent, or cowardly, than his last headmaster, but the man lacked the power and presence of the Merlin. “You can answer questions, at least until you can go home.”

Norris glanced at Janet. She was chewing her hair … he felt a strand of fellow-feeling, shocking in its intensity. Would his life had been better if he’d reached out to her? Or would she have rejected him, like so many other bitches … he bit down on that thought hard. He hadn’t deserved to be victimised, as a young boy struggling with puberty, but he was solely to blame for how things had gone with Marian. There was no point in thinking otherwise, no matter how much he wished to convince himself.  No doubt trying to strike up any kind of relationship with Janet would have gone the same way.

He put the thought aside as they sat in the classroom, waiting. A handful of students circled them, asking questions, but most were engrossed in their phones or pacing the corridors outside, clearly trying to decide if they were willing to ignore orders and head home. Norris was surprised they hadn’t already left. What could the headteacher do to them? The days in which teachers had real authority were long gone. It wasn’t wholly a bad thing – Norris couldn’t name a single teacher he’d trust to administer corporal punishment without abusing it – but it contributed to the decline of public schools. If a handful of the worst students were allowed to be expelled, the remainder would have a better time …

“There are all kinds of basic defence spells you can learn,” he told a younger boy who looked almost painfully like himself. Janet and Marian were teaching girls how to defend themselves … why shouldn’t he do the same? It really was painful to look at the boy, to see his own weaknesses staring back at him. “This one redirects the force if someone hits you, aiming it right back at them.”

And with a couple of minor modification, you can shape the spell to amplify the redirected force, he added, silently. If the younger boy was anything like him, it wouldn’t take too long for him to figure it out. Norris saw the headteacher shift uncomfortably and smiled to himself, despite the flash of anger. Heaven forbid the bullied kids had a chance to fight back! Hell, the spell was neat because it wasn’t aggressive. A bully who punched a spellcaster would be lucky if he only broke his arm. If you did your fucking job, I wouldn’t have to do it.

Richard looked up, suddenly. “What is …?”

Norris sensed it too, a … wrongness that seeped through the air, something magical and yet … not. It pulsed all around them, as if they had suddenly fallen through the floor and into a cesspit, but … worse. Much worse. Norris felt his entire body cringe in disgust, although he wasn’t sure just what was disgusting him. It felt as if he were rubbing his fingers in polystyrene. The sensation had always creeped him out. He’d never been able to force himself to hold it for long.

His student moaned, one hand clutching his head. He felt it too …

The door exploded inwards. Norris looked up in shock, just in time to see dark objects flying into the room. The world flared brightly a second later, light pulsing so brightly he found himself momentarily blind. He heard someone shouting orders, but the words were lost in the howling in his ears. A woman screamed – Norris couldn’t tell if it was Janet or Marian – an instant before something slapped into him, hard enough to pick him up and throw him across the room. He landed badly, his eyes hurting so much he could barely see … his leg felt broken, perhaps shattered. He closed his eyes for a moment and muttered a healing spell, hoping and praying the attack wasn’t magical. Mundane damage was easy to heal. Magical damage could be a great deal harder …

His vision cleared, just in time to show him black-clad men storming the classroom. The headteacher was lying on the ground, blood leaking from a nasty-looking head wound. There was no sign of either Richard or Janet. Norris saw Marian stumbling to her feet, an instant before one of the intruders grabbed her shoulder and forced her to her knees. A burst of magic radiated around her arm – Norris felt a flicker of hope, sure she was about to blast her attacker into atoms – and then came apart in a shower of light. Marian was shoved down hard, her captor pressing his knee into her back and holding her down. Norris blanched. The world had turned upside down, again.

Another man turned to him, moving weirdly … Norris had an odd sense of déjà vu, as if he’d seen something like the man before. It was … it was as if he occupied both worlds at once, even though the magical world no longer existed. His face was cold and hard and … Norris heard Marian scream and found his nerve, summoning a spell to turn the man into a mouse. Raw magic sparkled and crackled, then snapped out of existence. Norris swallowed – all the old insecurities bursting back into his mind – and cast a different spell, picking up a broken table and hurling it at the intruder. The table seemed to strike its target and …

… Norris’s head hurt. The target was shifting through the dimensions, his form moving in directions Norris couldn’t follow. It was almost as if he was teleporting, atom by atom, to allow the table to move through his body – or where his body had been – and then snapping back into reality. He strode forward, utterly unhurt, and grabbed hold of Norris’s collar, lifting him up until their eyes met. Norris felt terrified due to the sheer wrongness of the man’s eyes – dark and cold, yet damned and suffering – an instant before he felt something poke its way into him. His captor dropped him a second later. Norris hit the ground and lay still.

His head hurt, badly. He felt as if someone had stabbed a knife into his brain and then started slicing randomly, cutting his head apart piece by piece. Cold logic told him that was absurd, but what hadn’t been in the last few months? His brain was being cut open and something was forcing its way into him, something so immensely vast it was beyond his comprehension. His body twitched violently, a shudder running through him. He had the impression that something was trying to take control of his body, that something was experimenting to see what he could do … his eyes opened and closed, his arms flailed about as if he were having a fit, his legs kicking the air like a baby learning to walk. For a moment, he was suddenly – almost unpleasantly – hard. It was …

No, he thought. It wasn’t Norris2. His other personality had grown from him … had been part of him, as much as he hated to admit it. The newcomer was something else, timelessly ancient and incredibly malicious. He could feel the malice, a cold malevolence that would have scared Colin to death … the bully had been a monster, but the thing trying to control him was so much worse. Norris felt all the old fear threatening to overcome him, the sense there was no point in trying to fight …  No!

He composed himself as best he could, then concentrated. He could feel long ghostly fingers reaching down from somewhere, trying to drag him out of his own mind and swallow him whole. His head threatened to explode … he forced himself to shove the aspects of his brain that had once belonged to Norris2, the part of his mind that he’d burnt out, front and centre, offering it to the intruder. His body jerked as the intruder took hold, realising – too late – that those parts of Norris’s mind were worse than useless. The possession could take hold, if it wished, but it was like trying to use a keyboard that wasn’t connected to a computer. Norris felt himself smile, realising he could win. Whatever the intruder was, it wasn’t all-powerful.

His eyes opened, without him quite being certain when he’d closed them. Marian was lying on the floor beside him, her face contorted with horror. She looked as if she were trapped in a nightmare, desperate to wake and yet unable to force her eyes to open. Norris saw their captors standing oddly, like puppets who’d been left to dangle from strings, and realised, to his horror, that the men had been possessed too. And they were trapped in their own bodies, aware of what was happening and yet unable to free themselves …

Norris acted without thinking, rolling over and pressing his lips against Marian’s. His magic rose within him, shaping itself in a manner he couldn’t quite define, and slammed into her. Norris’s awareness went with it, sensing the contamination burning through Marian’s mind and slowly reshaping it into something else. He could sense something – the puppet-master – slowly turning, an inhuman gaze slowly coming to bear on him … a flash of panic shot through his mind as he blasted the contamination, shoving it out of her mind and slamming the door closed behind it. Marian gasped and screamed … her magic flared, throwing Norris back into his own body. The impact knocked the breath out of him, even though he knew – logically – it shouldn’t. But logic had no meaning now.

Strong arms gripped him, pulling his hands behind his back. They were cuffed a moment later, his body yanked upwards until he was dangling from a man’s hand. Norris had no love for the police or the military, men who were supposed to defend the defenceless – like him - and never did, but the sheer suffering in the man’s eyes was too much. Norris felt a surge of pity and tried to lunge forward, to save the man from possession, but his magic failed him. He was too tired, too drained … he was grimly aware of Marian being hauled up and cuffed too, her face streaked with tears. He hoped he hadn’t saved her from one ghastly fate only to prepare her for another. There were all kinds of horror stories about what happened to pretty young girls who found themselves at the mercy of policemen or security guards – Colin had boasted that his security guard brother forced girls to give him blowjobs in exchange for not calling the police after catching them shoplifting – and Norris had no idea how many of those stories were even remotely true, but the horror in his captor’s eyes was enough to convince him they were heading for a truly ghastly – and inhuman – fate.

He forced himself to look around. Richard and Janet were gone. The headmaster was bleeding … as he watched, one of the invaders put a foot on his head and pushed down hard, crushing the poor man’s head as if it were an eggshell. Norris retched, then threw up everything he’d eaten for lunch. His captor didn’t seem to notice, or care. He picked Norris up effortlessly, tossed him over his shoulder, and carried him out of the classroom. His comrade picked up Marian and carried her out too. The rest of the students followed …

They’ve been assimilated by the Borg, Norris’s mind whispered. It was a terrifying thought, one he didn’t want to think about, but it refused to go away. He could have understood students stumbling after the cops fearfully, ordered to move at the point of a truncheon, yet these students moved as if they were in a trace. Or as if whatever had taken over their bodies was still getting used to them. Guilt washed through him. He’d saved Marian, but the others … the others were gone. Fuck.

The remainder of the school was surprisingly empty. A handful of students and teachers sat on the floor, in the hall, under supervision by a pair of dark-clad men, but there should have been more … many more. The playground and playing fields were equally empty, even though he’d thought the sporty types had been told to go kick a ball around to keep them from thinking about what had happened in Edinburgh and sneaking home. His captor never broke step as he carried Norris around the school and into the car park, shoving him into the back of an unmarked car. Marian was tossed in beside him. Norris guessed it was a police car. The barrier between the rear compartment and the driver’s seat looked intimidatingly solid. Norris guessed that even a strongman would find it impossible to break.

The car started a moment later. Norris’s lips twitched – their captors hadn’t bothered with seatbelts – and forced himself to straighten up so he could look out the windows. A handful of students were marching into the vans; some clearly possessed, others being shoved along by their possessed peers. Norris saw a girl kick a possessed boy in the groin – he couldn’t help wincing in sympathy, no matter who or what the boy had been – but the boy kept moving, seemingly unaffected by a blow that should have left him screaming in agony. He made no attempt to strike back, and in a way that was the most terrifying thing of all.

The Borg, his mind insisted.

He told that part of him to shut up as the car picked up speed. The streets surrounding the High School had been busy, when they’d arrived, but now they were nearly empty. A handful of students were hurrying home … Norris hoped to hell they’d be safe, although he feared otherwise. The police were out in force on the edge of the estate, he noted; they were shutting down the roads, directing traffic elsewhere. They made no attempt to stop the car carrying Marian and him, no matter how desperately he tried to signal them. The windows were oddly tinted … perhaps, he realised numbly, they were designed to keep people from peering into the car. Or charmed … his power was still drained, too drained to give him any hope of escape, and his sight was hazy. Marian was still shaking, tears dripping down her face. Norris tried to nudge her, in hope she’d look at him, but she didn’t move. He had some experience with possession, Marian … she’d just been violated, in a way few could comprehend until they experienced it. How many others, Norris asked himself, were already out there …?

His blood ran cold. He’d never been that familiar with the city outside the estate, but he had a rough idea of where they were going. Unless he was completely wrong, they were on their way to Lord Burghley’s mansion …

… And this time, he feared, the man would be nowhere near so welcoming.

Last time, he used me and then discarded me, his mind pointed out. What’ll he do now?

Chapter Twenty-Five: Stafford High School, York, Now

Richard had been mentally preparing to leave as soon as he saw the first news reports.

It hadn’t been easy to decide if they should stay or go. It was uncommon, back home, for an incident on one side of the country to have any immediate effect on the other, but that wasn’t true on OldeWorld. The local communications network was so much faster than anything in the magical world that a lie could get right around the world, and take root in people’s heads, before anyone could figure out the truth and put it online. There were no verification spells, no charms to determine if the person genuinely thought they were telling the truth; Richard suspected that, if anything, the sheer level of misinformation, disinformation and outright lies spreading through the internet would help calm the spread, if only because it was impossible to tell what should be taken seriously and what should be simply ignored. He’d been very tempted to leave when the headteacher started ordering students to stay put, and he would have if Janet hadn’t been enjoying herself so much …

… And then he felt the sheer wrongness approaching them.

He jumped to his feet, hastily triggering the protective spells he’d worked out over the last few weeks. The wrongness reminded him of the first experiment, the one that had thrown the three of them into OldeWorld; the wrongness was a sense that someone was messing with multiple dimensions, in a manner that was actively dangerous. He was halfway to getting the shrunken brooms out of his pocket when the door exploded inwards, the blinding light burning through the air and brushing against his defences. He breathed a sigh of relief as his defences held. Most magical wards and charms weren’t designed to deal with mundane weapons – a shield that could stand up to a blunderbuss might not be as capable against a machine gun – but he’d gone to some trouble to tighten his defences. The Burners hadn’t had magic – or so he’d been told – yet they’d still found ways to counteract magical defences. He dared not assume the modern world wouldn’t do the same.

Janet stumbled backwards, tears streaming from her eyes. Richard caught her arm and yanked her back as the next set of lights exploded, the blinding flash only partly deflected by Richard’s wards. The headteacher’s body seemed to twist violently, arms and legs flying out in all directions, before slamming face-down into the floor and lying still. Richard had no idea if he’d been hexed, or if he’d been struck by a previously unknown mundane weapon, and he had no time to find out. He aimed a blasting hex at the lead figure storming through the door and winced, cursing under his breath as the magic came apart harmlessly. It didn’t feel like a standard ward …

Worry about it later, he told himself. He shaped another blasting spell and aimed it at the wall behind them, blowing a hole in the brickwork. The broomstick expanded in his hand, the magic enveloping him as he pulled Janet to him and took off, heading right through the gap in the wall. We need to move.

He glanced back, spotting more dark-clad figures coming after them. Norris and Marian were nowhere to be seen. Guilt ran through him – one did not abandon one’s allies – before he realised there was no hope of escape if they didn’t go now. The whole world appeared to be converging on them, strange magic crackling around him as he yanked the broomstick around and headed into the open hall. Stafford High was very different from St. Champions, he noted absently. There was an open interior, a colossal waste of space that gave him a chance to escape. He hurled the broomstick up, feeling space and time start to contract as he tossed another blasting charm ahead of him. The cupola exploded, pieces of glass and plastic showering around him and falling to the floor below. Richard relied on the broom’s magic to shield himself as he powered through the gap, keeping one arm on Janet as he flew higher. She wasn’t mounted very well – or at all – and she was in no state to catch herself, if she fell. He doubted there was time to stop and reposition themselves either …

Dark magic crackled below. He risked a look down. Someone had been busy, setting up strange structures surrounding the school … he shuddered as he realised they combined magic and science in a way that would be very hard to defeat, once the devices were up and running. The way they’d had problems leaving the school … he guessed they were designed to isolate the target area, perhaps even fold it into another dimension. Clever, and dangerous. He didn’t want to think about what they might do if they were programmed to compress the target zone instead. It could kill everyone within the zone effortlessly.

And they set it up while we were inside, without us noticing, he thought, grimly. The implications bothered him. The attack had to have been planned for some time. There was no way any mundane force could deploy so rapidly without preplanning, and if they’d used magic Richard would have sensed it. He thought. If the rogue magicians are involved …

Something exploded against the protective bubble surrounding the broom, hard. Richard swore as the shockwaves crashed against the stick, nearly breaking it. He glanced back and saw nothing … he recalled a documentary about air-to-air combat and remembered something about missiles being fired from outside visual range, something he’d considered rather unsporting at the time. There was no point in worrying about it now … the broom’s magic was spinning madly, forcing him to struggle desperately to control their flight with only one hand. Janet was still too stunned to do anything … he cast a sticking charm on her, praying desperately her defences wouldn’t see it as a threat, and grabbed hold of the broom with both hands. Their wobbly fall slowed, moments before they hit the ground. Richard heard sirens in the distance and knew they had no time to land, not even long enough to gather themselves. He picked a direction and flew, keeping as low as he dared. If there really was a fighter jet following them, he wouldn’t see it until it was too late.

Janet stirred. “What …?”

“Hold on,” Richard snapped at her. Sticking charms felt unpleasant, no matter who cast them or why. Most magicians would try to undo the charm at once, which would send Janet plunging to her death. “We need to run!”

He gritted his teeth as they swept over York, heading away from Gatehouse. The attack was a planned attack, which meant the attackers had more in mind than just targeting four known magicians. They might be planning to act on a far greater scale, after revising their invasion plan to take control of the magical world. Gatehouse might already be under attack, or sealed off, or … he swore as a pair of helicopters appeared in front of him, their green hulls bristling with pods he guessed were weapons. He darted forward, flying between the two aircraft long enough to work out a rough plan, then dropped like a stone. The helicopters didn’t collide – he was relieved, even though they were incredibly dangerous – but dropped themselves and came after him. Richard pushed the broom as hard as he could, leaving the two helicopters behind. But it wouldn’t be long before they caught up.

“Hang on,” he muttered. The first explosion, whatever it had been, was proof the enemy intended to kill. “We have to let them think we’re dead …”

He dropped to the ground, releasing Janet as he cast an illusion spell over the broomstick and channelled his magic into the charms. Broomsticks were not designed to fly without a rider – and hacking the charms was regarded as a very bad idea – but Mystic Albion had never been as safety-conscious as OldeWorld. The illusion would hold, he hoped … he launched the broom into the sky, hoping and praying the helicopters would take their shot. The only thing that would stop the hunt was for the hunters to think their target was already dead. He hoped.

Something flickered. The broomstick exploded a moment later, the illusions snapping out of existence with the rest of the charms. A small jet aircraft flew past a second later, a dull roar following the shape as it vanished into the distance. Richard didn’t know what it was – Norris would probably know the exact make and model – but hopefully the pilot thought he’d killed them. It was going to be hard enough to get to safety even if the hunters did think they were dead.

Janet coughed, rubbing her eyes. “Richard …?”

Richard explained, unable to keep the guilt from his voice. Norris had been a spy and he’d barely known Marian, but he’d still had a duty to them …a duty he’d flunked. He told himself there’d been no choice, that he would have been caught too if he’d stayed – and Janet would have been caught or killed too – yet it still bothered him. Hopefully, they’d fled the other way and made it out. Marian knew nothing about OldeWorld, but Norris should be able to keep her safe long enough to get back to Gatehouse …

If they can, Richard thought. Norris was clever, in a certain way, but he was also morally and physically weak. They might be dead now, or prisoners.

“They attacked us once before,” Janet said. “Is this …?”

Richard remembered. He’d been taken prisoner then, but … their attackers, back then, had thought they were alone and nearly powerless. They’d been right. This time, they were declaring war on an entire civilisation. Richard reached for his magic and felt it curling around him, tired and drained and yet there. He wasn’t powerless. Nor were the rest of his people.

“We need to move,” he said. “I don’t suppose you know where we are?”

Janet shook her head. Richard looked around, half-expecting to see Gatehouse looming in the distance. There was no sign of the school, suggesting they’d flown a great deal further than he’d thought. They’d landed in an estate that looked decidedly odd; an upper garden as neat and soulless as anything he’d seen in OldeWorld, and a lower garden that appeared to have been allowed to grow wild. The small building at the top looked like a slimmed-down manor, neat and tidy without being too big for its inhabitants. Richard hesitated and then walked towards it, casting an invisibility spell over them. There was no way to know how the owners would react to seeing them, and if they called the police the jig was up. Richard didn’t want to do anything to innocent people and yet …

“I have no idea where this is,” Janet said, as they walked around the house and down to the road. “How far did we go?”

Richard shook his head as he looked around, taking in the country road. It looked like something Richard would expect from Mystic Albion and if it hadn’t been for the modern materials he would have thought it was. The bushes were magical, tainted by strands of magic; someone living in the opposite house, perhaps more versed in the old ways, had left a saucer of milk out for the brownies. And a sock. The latter puzzled him. Brownies wanted bread and milk for their services, nothing else. They were normally friendly, but they could be very dangerous when angered.

He tried to think. He could ask for help – if the neighbour had made contact with the brownies, they might be able and willing to assist – but that was risky. Back home, he wouldn’t have hesitated; here, he wasn’t so sure. People just didn’t build the same kind of relationships, and a stranger might not be trusted … or helped. And that meant … he took her hand and walked down the road, picking a direction at random. There weren’t many houses on the road, but they were all clearly fancy – and expensive. He was surprised there weren’t more humans around. Perhaps they had all fled, when Gatehouse had appeared in the heart of York.

“I used to dream of a place like this,” Janet said, with a twinge of bitterness. “There were stories of a girl growing up in a little village, so sweet they’d rot your teeth but … what have we lost?”

She shook her head. “The stories got deconstructed, after the old ways got taken apart too.”

Richard didn’t understand her reference, but he took her meaning. He’d grown up in a community where everyone knew everyone else, where people could be trusted and strangers – although sometimes treated warily until they proved themselves – were held to account for what they’d did, if they turned out to be unfriendly. His community ran itself and if someone didn’t like it, they could go elsewhere; they could find a more suitable community, if they liked, or found a new community of their own. Mystic Albion had been littered with tiny hamlets run according to one set of principles or another, some of which had grown into bigger towns and others abandoned by their founders, after it became clear their concepts didn’t work in the real world. But Janet …?

He winced in sympathy. Janet had trusted no one beyond her mother and brother – and she’d been lucky she’d been able to do that. Everyone else was a stranger, who could be very dangerous when the people were rarely able to defend themselves and the laws were not enforced; the government was an uncaring monster that did little to help the people who needed it, while giving aid and comfort to the enemies of society. Richard hadn’t believed all of Steve’s rants – he’d found it hard to wrap his head around the concept – but there was a certain degree of truth in them, a truth that poisoned an entire world.

“There,” Janet said. “Look!”

Richard followed her finger. There was a train making its way across the countryside, heading towards a tiny little station. They shared a laugh as they hurried to the station – the train was long gone, by the time they arrived – and found a sign. CATTLE. Janet checked the route map – Richard couldn’t make head or tails of it – and grinned at him. They weren’t that far from York.

“There’ll be a train in the next twenty minutes, if they’re still following the timetable,” Janet said. “We might as well sit down and wait.”

Richard nodded. There were few facilities at the station and they didn’t have the money to waste. Cattle was tiny, compared to York. The stationmaster’s house, above the signal box, was inaccessible, but he could hear the faint sound of a radio or television. It appeared to be repeating the same message, over and over again.

“This is the Prime Minister. A state of civil and military emergency is now in effect over the entire country. All magical zones are now closed to the public. Remain in your homes. If you are outside, return home as quickly as possible and stay there. If you are caught outside without good reason, you will be arrested and detained. Do not practice magic. If you see someone practicing magic, contact the local police immediately. I repeat, do not practice magic. This is the Prime Minister …”

“Shit,” Richard muttered.

Janet nodded. “Where do we go?”

Richard rubbed his forehead. If they’d flown straight to Gatehouse … no, there was no point in crying over spilt milk. Bad decisions were inevitable, his father had taught him when he’d been a child. It was how you handled the mistakes that mattered. He had no idea who’d attacked them, but they clearly had official backing and that meant …

“I don’t know,” he said. Gatehouse was probably out. They couldn’t hope to slip through if the school was already sealed off, by people who knew about magic and how to counter it. He wasn’t sure where else they could go. York had never been a particularly magical town, outside Gatehouse, and the nearest magical city was quite some distance away. He didn’t know if they could get there, before someone asked a few pointed questions. “I think …”

A thought struck him. “Do they know about Steve’s workshop?”

Janet hesitated. “He was planning to go there,” she said. “If he’s still there …”

“Yeah,” Richard said. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was a start. “If …”

He looked up as the train appeared in the distance and came towards them, slowing to a halt as it reached the platform. He felt a twinge of guilt as he used a cantrip to hide them from the ticket inspector, just to make sure the man didn’t demand money they didn’t have. He’d have to pay for that later – magic always extracted a price – but there wasn’t any other choice. He was mildly surprised the trains were still running, although the government probably needed to ensure as many people as possible got home before they shut them down completely. The thought mocked him as they reached York, which was teeming with people. The big screens were showing images from Edinburgh …

A water elemental, Richard thought. He’d sensed one sleeping, during the visit to London … he hadn’t known there was one in the River Forth, but it didn’t surprise him. Some idiot had woken it up and now … all hell had broken loose. How many others are there?

He scowled, as they made their way through the station. Armed police were everywhere, holding their weapons as if they expected to be attacked at any moment. The people looked nervous, barely speaking as they hurried to the trains before it was too late …

It felt like the end of the world.

Chapter Twenty-Six: York, England, Now

Norris knew what it was like to be treated as someone who didn’t matter.

It was – it had always been – part of his life, but this was different. His captors didn’t seem motivated by malice or hatred or the simple need to displace their own pain onto him … in a way, they didn’t seem to care about him at all. They drove onwards, through a pair of roadblocks that had been thrown up with terrifying speed, and through a set of gates he knew all too well. Magic crackled in the air as they parked in front of Burghley Hall, a strange combination of old charms and newer wards that appeared to have grown far more powerful now that the magic was back. Norris would have admired the craftsmanship, if it wasn't keeping him prisoner. It was an inescapable trap.

He glanced at Marian, who appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Her face was pale and sweaty and she was mumbling to herself, in a language he didn’t recognise. There hadn’t been much linguistic drift since the sundering, he’d been assured, and his own experience had only bolstered the conviction the two worlds could talk to each other, yet it was quite possible Marian spoke languages he’d never even heard of. What had they spoken, back in Tudor England? He didn’t know. He’d been given some lessons in Latin and Old English, although he knew better than to think he spoke either ancient language well enough to make himself understood, but it wasn’t either of those languages. The mumbling grew louder as the car doors were thrown open. Norris barely had a second to gather himself before a man – his face expressionless; his eyes damned and suffering – grabbed hold, yanked him out of the vehicle and threw him over his shoulder, then carried Norris through the main entrance and into the hall. Marian followed, her long hair hanging down as she was carried like a sack of potatoes, as if she didn’t matter either. He felt a surge of guilt. If he hadn’t befriended her, perhaps she wouldn’t be in this mess.

Norris gritted his teeth, trying to think of something – anything – he could do. Captain Picard would have made a speech. Captain Sisko would have fought his way out. The Doctor would have waved his sonic screwdriver, spouted some technobabble and won effortlessly. Harry Potter would … Norris scowled, inwardly. His heroes all had patriotic scriptwriters who made sure there was always a way out, no matter how corny. Norris was entirely certain that if he had been Voldemort, the little Potter brat wouldn’t have survived his first year at Hogwarts. It wouldn’t have been that hard to poison Gryffindor House and blame the whole thing on Professor Snape. He’d written a fan fiction about him doing just that ...

… And his mind was wandering.

He bit his lip, suddenly aware of the ward that had nearly caught him. He’d come close, very close, to being lost in his own thoughts, trapped in a recursive cycle of thoughts and memories that could have held him as effectively as any chains, perhaps more so because he wouldn’t have the slightest idea he was a prisoner. He shifted as his captor carried him further down the corridor and into a room so heavily warded Norris knew it was a cell. The rear wall was covered with metal rings … it took him a moment to realise they were going to be cuffed to the wall. He started to struggle, too late. His captor didn’t seem to notice. He moved like a robot. Their eyes met, just briefly, and Norris recoiled. There was something more in the man’s eyes now, a cobra waiting to strike. He dared not risk making eye contact again.

The black-clad men turned and left, leaving Norris and Marian alone. She was slumped against the wall, face flushed as if she were feverish. Her lips were moving soundlessly now, in a manner that bothered him at a very primal level. He wasn’t sure why … he dropped his eyes, then cursed himself for looking at her chest. They didn’t have time, even though he had no idea how they were going to get out of the cell. The cuffs were cold iron, interfering with his magic, and he heard the sound of running water in the distance. The last cell had rested in running water too. Clearly, whoever held them thought the old ways were still the best.

He scowled, inwardly, as the door opened again. The air shifted. Norris forced himself to look up, into the face of Cecil Burghley. It was him, the man Norris admired and respected and envied and hated, but … it also wasn’t. He looked the same – the stern face, the dark hair tied back into a loose ponytail, the air of authority that made the mere thought of defying him almost impossible, yet there was something about the way he moved that suggested he wasn’t the same person. Norris felt his head hurt, just looking at him. The man felt wrong, utterly wrong. The woman behind him – Norris recalled meeting her, what felt like years ago – looked haunted. Norris didn’t want to meet her eyes. He had no idea what he’d see looking back.

“Good afternoon,” Burghley said. His voice was the same, and yet … different. It oozed authority and also … something that made Norris want to believe every word he said, no matter how insane. It reminded him of watching porn and listening to a girl promising him the world – or at least her body – and wanting to believe even though he knew she was just reading the script. The thought made him smile, despite himself. The absurdity made it easier to resist. “It’s been a while.”

Norris looked down, hating himself. There was no point in shouting and screaming his defiance, not when it would just bring pain. He was a coward and … he hated himself, deeply, for lacking the nerve to even try to fight. Marian was right beside him, seriously unwell and completely at their captor’s mercy. Norris didn’t think the Cecil Burghley he’d known would lower himself to molest or rape a young girl, but the man in front of him was a stranger. And if he decided he wanted to make Norris watch …

“You betrayed us,” Cecil Burghley said. There was something odd about his voice, as if he didn’t take the betrayal – the supposed betrayal – personally. “And then you committed a crime.”

“You betrayed me first,” Norris said. He didn’t look up, even as he braced himself for the blow. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing,” Cecil Burghley said. There was no blow. Norris wasn’t reassured. “You did it to yourself.”

Norris shook his head. “I wouldn’t have …”

“You did,” Cecil Burghley told him. “You might have warped and twisted your own mind, severing ties until you created a split personality, but that personality still stems from you. It is – it was – the darker part of your mind, the Hyde to your Jekyll. You can no more escape your own darkness than you can cut your own throat.”

Norris looked up. “I’m not that … that thing!”

“We all have darkness within us,” Cecil Burghley said. “You just lost control of yours.”

Marian moaned. Norris glanced at her.

“You … what did you do to us?” Norris knew it was dangerous to ask questions, but Marian was in danger. “What did you do to your … your men?”

“Merely prepared them for their role in the greater scheme of things,” Burghley said, dark eyes sparkling. Norris met his gaze briefly and shuddered. Cecil Burghley was dead and gone. The thing in front of him might be wearing the older man’s body, but it was very far from human. “Unfortunately, the process was unsuccessful in your case.”

He reached out and tapped Marian’s forehead. She closed her eyes, her body relaxing as she went to sleep. Norris shuddered, unsure if he should be grateful or worried. Marian might have been saved from possession, but she was still at the mercy of an inhuman thing.

“You tried to possess us,” Norris charged. The women behind Cecil Burghley didn’t seem to be possessed herself. If she knew what was happening … he shook his head mentally, even as he pressed on. The woman had been with Cecil Burghley since before his madcap plan to invade the magical world. She wouldn’t abandon him now. “Why?”

“Not possession,” Cecil Burghley said. “Something else. But unfortunately you damaged your brain to the point of uselessness.”

He stood straighter. “You could have been great, if you had done as you were instructed, but … you were just the pawn in a far greater scheme, an innocent victim caught up in a plot you could neither comprehend nor challenge. You will still serve a valuable purpose, as a poster child for magicians who abuse their magic. You will stand trial – in public – and you will be convicted. And you will die.”

Norris swallowed. It wasn’t the words, so much as the tone. “Who … what … are you?”

Cecil Burghley dismissed his aide with a wave of his hand, and waited until she was gone before taking a step forward. Up close, his presence felt immense – Norris felt as if the room was suddenly cramped, as if he was being squashed against the wall even though he wasn’t being touched – and very far from human. His flesh and blood looked fragmented, as if the surface was cracking and something awful was about to come bursting into the mundane world. Norris thought of Alien and really wished he hadn’t. Cecil Burghley was so wrong he didn’t understand why no one had noticed. But then, with enough magic, one could hide anything from prying eyes. The Brotherhood had remained hidden for centuries. And no one had believed they were truly real.

“A long time ago, a deal was struck,” Cecil Burghley said. His voice no longer sounded even remotely human. There were too many teeth in his mouth, all inhumanly sharp. “And now the bill has come due.”

Norris swallowed, unable to even look at the man. His eyes were streaming, hot tears running down his cheeks and dripping to the floor. “What …?”

“You know,” Cecil Burghley said. “Magic always has a price.”

He turned, the shadowy presence fading – folding – away as he made his way to the door and stepped through, closing it behind him. Norris swallowed, hard. Burghley wasn’t human and … and what? Norris knew he needed to get out, but … how? His magic was suppressed and there was no way he could snap the cuffs and escape. He tried, in hopes he could get free of the wall, but it was no use. He was a prisoner – Marian was, too – and they were going to die. Or worse.

Marian jerked awake. Norris turned, feeling guilty as her eyes darted from side to side before settling on his face. She looked stunned, as if she’d forgotten the last few hours … Norris almost hoped she had, although he knew it was selfish. The possessed men had tried to possess her …

“Norris?” Marian sounded shaky. If she really had lost some of her memory, she had to be incredibly confused. “What … what happened?”

Norris swallowed. “We’ve been taken prisoner,” he said. Did she remember Edinburgh? Did the recall the raid? Or did she think she’d gone to sleep in Gatehouse and woken to find herself cuffed to a wall. “I’m sorry.”

Marian eyed him for a long moment. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Norris couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “But you’d be surprised by how little that matters.”

***

Polly wasn’t sure, in all honesty, why Cecil Burghley had insisted on bringing the arrested magicians back to the hall. The authorities had been setting up holding camps for magicians – and doing what they could to recruit magicians from the magical world – and there was no reason why Norris and the other girl should have been brought here, unless it was a degree of personal pique. Norris had betrayed the Brotherhood, after all, and Cecil Burghley wasn’t the sort of person to let that go. And yet …

She scowled as she returned to her office and sat down in front of her computer. The inbox was already crammed with messages, from various high-ranking police officials to media bosses, the latter complaining about the censorship that had been imposed by governmental fiat. Polly would have sympathised more if the media had shown a little more responsibility, rather than gleefully reporting on every incident and encouraging a hail of copycats, or vastly under or overstating the death toll in Edinburgh. She put them aside for later attention, when she had time, and frowned as she spotted the email from Mam’zelle. What was she complaining about?

Her eyes narrowed as she opened the email. Mam’zelle had supplied a number of girls to the hall and … Polly winced. Some were being very badly mistreated indeed. Polly was no naïf – she knew there were people in the upper regions of society with tastes that would shock a sybarite – but there were limits. There had to be. The girls had known what they were getting into – or what was getting into them – and yet, she doubted they had been told everything. If Mam’zelle was correct, a couple of girls had never returned home …

Which isn’t that unusual, she thought. She knew wealthy and well-connected men who kept a handful of mistresses, buying them apartments and paying them a salary as long as they made themselves available whenever their sugar daddy wanted them. The decent ones ensured the girls kept the apartments after the affairs had run their course. It was one of Cecil Burghley’s better traits, she thought, that he didn’t have a mistress of his own. But this … this is too much.

She grimaced. She’d done her fair share of experimenting, when she’d been at university, but she’d never let a man cut her, or beat her black and blue, or choke her, or use magic to hurt her, or … it was sickening. She understood how easy it was to get bored of mundane pleasures, and how alluring immoral or illegal pleasures could be, yet …

Cecil Burghley stepped into the office, looking as if he were amused by a private joke. “I take it the troops are in place?”

Polly glanced at her inbox, although she already knew the answer. “The lead units are in position around Gatehouse, sir,” she said. “The school is already sealed off. The major magical communities are currently being surrounded, with isolated magicians being rounded up one by one. So far, there has been no major response. The princesses have attempted to contact the Prime Minister, but as per agreement we haven’t replied to their messages.”

“Good,” Cecil Burghley said. “And how many magicians do we have in custody?”

“Thirty-seven magicians from their world, fifty-seven from ours,” Polly said. They’d need to sit down at some point and work out a common terminology, rather than struggling with imprecise terms. There was no way to draw a line between magicians who’d been born in the magical community and magicians who hadn’t even known they were magicians until recently. “They’re currently being held in holding cells …”

“Have them transported to the camp near York,” Cecil Burghley ordered. “They can be held there until the matter is resolved.”

Polly nodded, then leaned forward. “There is another matter,” she said, carefully. “We’ve had a set of complaints from Mam’zelle.”

“I see.” Cecil Burghley looked oddly surprised. “And this is a problem?”

“Yes,” Polly said, with more force than she meant. “The girls are … servicing the … ah, wizard police. The ones you raised. And they are being mistreated.”

“A minor detail,” Cecil Burghley said. “It is not important, in the greater scheme of things.”

Polly blinked. “What?”

“It is not important,” Cecil Burghley repeated. “Return to your duties. We have work to do.”

“I …”

Polly hesitated, suddenly aware she was on very thin ice. She had few illusions about the realities of the world she inhabited, about how cheap life could be if it belonged to the lower classes, but … this wasn’t kink. It was cold-blooded torture. She had met too many people who cared nothing for the girls, who didn’t see them as anything other than pretty faces and sexy bodies, yet this … it wasn’t someone indulging himself, in a manner that would shock and repel any decent-minded person. It was a grown adult pulling the wings off flies. It was … it was disgusting. And yet, there was little anyone could do about it. Young girls from the wrong side of the tracks simply didn’t matter. There were always more.

But she’d thought Burghley was better than that.

“Return to your duties,” her boss repeated. “We’ll speak soon.”

Polly nodded, keeping her face blank with an effort. The PM had put emergency powers in Cecil Burghley’s hands and, to all intents and purposes, he was running the country. The men under his command, the remnants of the Brotherhood and the newcomers, would do whatever he said, as would the military and emergency services. And the media had been muzzled …

And if she said a word, she’d be fired. If she were lucky.

She stared down at her keyboard, feeling trapped. There was no point in resigning in protest or … or anything. She’d never get another job, certainly not one as well-paid. She knew too much to be let go. The NDA might have been magical – she’d been cautioned that trying to break it openly would be painful, perhaps lethal – but no one would trust it completely, not when there was so much at stake. She could neither speak up nor resign.

In a way, she was as much a prisoner as the two youngsters in the cell.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: York, England, Now

“What the hell are we going to do?”

Helen said nothing, as she sat in the back of the workshop and watched the television. The first horrific images from Edinburgh – that had been a water elemental, unless she was very much mistaken – had been bad enough, but the declaration of a state of emergency and martial law had been worse. She honestly wasn’t sure what she should do – try to get back to Gatehouse, despite the increasing number of police on the streets, or stay where she was and hope for the best? She kicked herself, mentally, for not thinking to let anyone in authority know where she was going. She’d never liked the idea of the Merlin watching her every move – she’d had quite enough of that from her mother – but right now it might have come in handy. She felt almost terrifyingly exposed.

The speaker, a young man who looked like a cross between Steve and Norris, looked around wildly. Helen thought his name was Harry, but she hadn’t paid enough attention to be sure. “What are we going to do?”

“You have two choices,” Steve said. He sounded surprisingly calm, although this wasn’t the first time he’d gone on the run. “You can go home now, as ordered, or you can stay here.”

Helen scowled, inwardly. She had no idea how easy it would be for anyone to get home now. Mundane York was big, and Mundane London even bigger. She’d grown up in a world where it rarely took long to get anywhere, and most people worked fairly near their homes. Steve and his peers might need hours to get home, even if they drove or took a train. The government was talking about shutting down the transport networks, yet if they did it would be impossible for half the workers to get home.

Someone changed the channel. The announcer was replaced by a serious-looking man in a serious-looking jacket, holding forth in tones of deep regret about the dangers of magic and how important it was to bring the magical world under control, for its own good of course. Helen’s eyes narrowed. She’d seen her mother handle disasters that could have embarrassed or damaged the family, and there had always been a degree of chaos as the older woman struggled to work out what was happening before working out how to deal with it. Her mother had told her, more than once, that anyone who had a perfect plan to deal with a crisis was someone who had known, in advance, what was going to happen. And that tended to imply they’d made it happen. The mundane world might be different in so many ways, but Helen would bet her life the basic principle remained the same.

“They knew what was going to happen,” she said, out loud.

Steve glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“They had a plan to deal with us,” she said. “They had everything in place, ready to go, before the disaster in Edinburgh. And that meant they knew it was going to happen.”

She scowled, considering the possibilities. Prediction was an imprecise art at the best of times, if only because everyone used it in a bid to divine their futures and wound up cancelling each other out, but here … could someone had predicted the disaster? Or could they have made it happen? Helen wasn’t sure what rites and rituals one could use to summon and direct a water elemental, or torment one to the point it would lash out, yet she was sure it could be done. Somehow …

Harry eyed her warily. “What do we do?”

“You can stay or go,” Steve said. “Make up your mind.”

The door opened, before Harry could answer. “I just got back from the estate,” Gavin said. “The police have sealed off Gatehouse completely.”

Helen frowned, exchanging glances with Steve. There was no way a mundane force could keep the magicians from breaking out, but the rogue magicians had to be involved. And that meant they had to have some kind of plan to keep the school sealed, at least until they did …whatever they had in mind. She cursed under her breath. Her relative had been planning to invade Mystic Albion and take it for himself. Perhaps he’d just scaled up his plans and determined to take both worlds. It wouldn’t be impossible. Steve had told her the government had vast emergency powers, and given time – and magic – they could be used to subvert the government and replace it with a magical dictatorship.

The television personality – an odd term, for one who had no personality – was still babbling, yammering on about the corrupting influence of magic. Helen suspected – rather darkly – that he had a point. Her relatives had grown up in a world where there was very limited magic and now they had too much, enough to get dangerously drunk on their own power. The Burghley line had never produced a Sinister before, but there was always a first time.

“We can’t stay here,” Steve said. “They might know about this place.”

Helen shuddered. The local government had no conception of the importance of minding its own business. Every purchase was tracked, every letter went through a central sorting exchange … even the internet, billed as a censorship-free environment, could be subverted by a government or a corporation, ruthlessly undermining trust to bolster their position for a few years longer. It was incredibly difficult, she’d been cautioned, to keep from leaving an electronic footprint, one that could be used to track them down. If she hadn’t had magic, her relatives would have caught her a long time ago. And now …

The door opened again. Helen braced herself, then felt a flare of pure relief as she saw Richard and Janet. Steve gave his sister a hug, as Richard met Helen’s eyes briefly and nodded. They might never be friends, but they were allies. They’d been through too much not to work together when all hell broke loose. Janet let go of Steve and nodded too. Up close, it was clear she was using an obscurification charm to hide her robes. Helen suspected that was a good idea. Most magicians wore clothes that were archaic, by local standards, and it provided an easy way for the police – and the rogue magicians – to pick them out from a crowd.

She sighed, then looked at Richard. “What happened to you?”

“We were meant to speak at a school,” Richard told her. “We were attacked.”

He ran through the whole story, bit by bit. Helen groaned, inwardly, as she considered the implications. She’d considered flying back home … that wasn’t going to happen, not if the rogue magicians had weapons that could shoot a broomstick out of the sky. Steve said something about missiles that moved faster than the speed of sound, striking their targets before they even knew they were under attack. Helen didn’t pretend to understand the theory, but she got the implications. Getting back to Gatehouse – or anywhere – was going to be very difficult.

“And they have Norris and Marian as prisoners,” Richard finished. “We have to do something.”

Janet made a face. “We have to help Norris?”

Steve elbowed her. “Be nice.”

“He betrayed us,” Janet reminded him. “Why should we put our lives at risk for him?”

“It wasn’t as if any of us bothered to reach out to him, before it was too late,” Steve countered. “If we had tried …”

“He was creepy,” Janet said, crossing her arms under her breasts. “If we had tried … why would we have tried?”

Helen wasn’t sure what to make of it. Norris hadn’t impinged on her awareness – not much, anyway – but she recalled what Marian had said and frowned inwardly. Even if Norris was not wholly responsible for his actions, it was hard to blame Marian for wanting to have nothing to do with him … not now and not ever. But … if Marian had been captured, Helen had a certain responsibility to help. And that meant …

She cleared her throat before the argument could get any worse. “Where is he?”

Richard hesitated, noticeably. “The manor they held me?”

“We know about it,” Steve reminded him. “They know we know.”

“Yeah.” Helen considered the possibilities. The enemy hall wasn’t a secret, not any longer, but it was designed to hold magical prisoners. Norris might be a uniquely dangerous prisoner too, as far as her relatives were concerned. He knew more about their style of magic than anyone else. They’d had to teach him some tricks to ensure his mission went undiscovered and that meant a regular magical prison might not be enough to hold him. “If he’s there …”

She explained her reasoning, then frowned. “Does anyone here have any sort of tie to them? Either of them?”

There was no answer. Helen winced, feeling a twinge of sympathy. “If we move now, we might be able to get them out … if they’re there.”

“If,” Steve said. “And how can you get through the wards?”

“I have an idea,” Helen said. Last time, they’d been crippled, barely able to use their magic. This time … she felt godlike power sparkling around her fingertips. This time, it was going to be different. “There’s no guarantee, of course, but we can give it a try.”

She paused. “There’s another reason,” she added. “Right now, their plan is unfolding perfectly. If we can throw them off balance, even for a few hours or days, it might buy time for our world. And for everyone else.”

Steve nodded, looking from face to face. “Richard, Janet, Helen and I will go,” he said. “The rest of you will stay here.”

“But I have to go home,” Harry said. “You heard the news …”

“If you go, you have to be very careful,” Steve said. “And if you are caught, you could be made to talk.”

“You made us sign a secrecy contract,” Harry pointed out. “We can’t be made to talk.”

Helen had her doubts. Steve had woven magical protections around the group long before the two worlds had merged together, ensuring that the secret would be kept, but the mere fact someone had gone to such lengths was telling in its own right. The rogue magicians might not be able to break the contact, or find a loophole, yet they’d know the contract existed and that would tell them all they needed to know. They would retrace Harry’s steps and figure out where he’d been, then find their way to the workshop …

“Stay here until we go,” she said. “And then you can do what you want.”

“Sure,” Harry said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“My people are at stake,” Helen said. She might not be the heir, unless her elder siblings died or messed up so badly they were removed from the line of succession, but she’d always assumed she’d take up a position of leadership one day. She was a Burghley and such places were her birthright … it occurred to her to wonder, too late, if Cecil Burghley felt the same way. “I have to go.”

She sat back and watched Steve gather his tools, feeling a rush of warmth and affection. Steve was good, especially considering he’d only known about magic for the last few months. If he’d been raised in Mystic Albion, he would have been as good as Brains … better, even, because he had the social skills Brains so conspicuously lacked. His lanky frame drew the eye … she knew, deep inside, that making babies with him wasn’t going to be difficult. She wanted to lean forward and kiss him …

“We’d better change into something more practical,” Richard said. “We dare not risk attracting attention.”

“There are clothes next door,” Steve said. “Mostly male, I’m afraid, but you should be able to find something.”

Helen nodded, and followed Richard and Janet into the next room. The clothes looked crude and unfinished to her eye, ill-fitting and uncomfortable, but her dress and their robes would draw too much attention. They couldn’t use magic either, not if they were trying to elude other magicians. In hindsight, Richard and Janet had been very lucky. The charms they’d used might have been enough to delude a passing mundane into automatically dismissing them, but they’d be a huge red flag to a magician who knew what to watch for. Helen cursed under her breath – the shirt was not designed for a wearer with breasts – and told herself to tolerate it. Being uncomfortable was better than being killed.

“I have the wands,” Steve said, holding up the metal devices. The first batch of wands had exploded after the merge – they’d been designed to channel driblets of magic, not powerful surges – but the second appeared to work well, as long as they were used by someone who knew what they were doing. “If we need them …”

Helen frowned, inwardly. “We might,” she said. She could have crushed any mundane enemy – or a regular magician like Richard, at least if he didn’t have time to prepare for her – but she dared not take her long-lost relative lightly. “Did anyone have a chance to slip out?”

Steve gave her an odd look. “They’re my friends,” he said. “They won’t willingly betray us.”

“They might,” Janet said. The bitterness in her voice was striking. “If they get their arms twisted.”

“They might,” Helen agreed. Janet had been betrayed by a friend … twice, in a manner of speaking. It had made her a little wary of fair-weather friends … not, Helen supposed, that she could blame Janet for that. Steve might have faith in his contract, but she knew better. “But as long as they stay here until we go, they should be fine.”

She quietly prepared a spell as they cleaned up, then returned to the main workroom. The television was still blaring, the government spokesman promising rewards to anyone who supplied information on magicians and magical activities. Helen wondered, grimly, just how many magicians had already been caught. The princesses had tried to discourage magicians from wandering into mundane towns and cities, but they didn’t have the authority to ban it completely. There could be dozens, perhaps hundreds, of magicians in enemy hands already. If the whole affair really had been planned in advance …

Ice ran down her spine. We are alone.

Steve said his farewells to the rest of the gang, then led the way downstairs. Helen brought up the rear, motioning for Janet and Richard to go ahead of her, then cast a modified freeze spell before anyone had a chance to react. The air seemed to turn cold, just for a second. The victims weren’t just unable to move, they were unaware of time passing … the spell would break, eventually, but when it did the victims would never know they’d been enchanted. They might figure it out, yet it would be far too late …

She winced, inwardly, as she walked down the stairs. Steve would not approve. She didn’t care about Richard or Janet’s opinion, not really, but Steve …? If he was mad at her … she knew it had to be done, just to make sure they got a head start before they were betrayed, yet she knew that he would never approve. How could she blame him? She would be mad if someone did it to her friends. Her heart twisted at the thought. She hadn’t had many friends. Too many students had been unable to look past her name to the person beyond.

The air felt cold outside, as they hurried away from the city centre. Gatehouse still towered over the city, but there was something surrounding the school that sent a shiver down her spine. She shuddered inwardly, wondering if they dared borrow or steal a car. There weren’t many people on the streets now, almost all hurrying home. She guessed the buses and taxis were being shut down, leaving the rest of the population with no choice but to walk. It struck her as absurd, if the idea was to get everyone home as quickly as possible, yet bus and taxi drivers had homes too. The locals didn’t have self-flying carriages.

We could have sold them, she thought, numbly. There had been hundreds – perhaps thousands – of ways for magicians to earn a living, in the modern world. A healer would be worth many – many – times his weight in gold. We could have made it work, if we’d had time.

She braced herself as they passed a police checkpoint, the policemen looking around nervously, but nothing happened. If they had any ability to sense magic, they weren’t showing it. Helen’s heart sank. There had been so many ways for one world to benefit the other, and vice versa, but now … the two worlds were on the brink of outright war. She wondered, tiredly, how the war would go, if all hell really did break loose. Wands against guns, broomsticks against fighter jets, elementals against atomic bombs … and, of course, the rogue magicians. No matter who won, the world would lose.

Richard glanced at her. “What do you think the Princesses will do?”

Helen felt a flash of anger. She might be an aristocrat, but she wasn’t exactly a close confidante of any of the Princesses. It just didn’t work like that, not even in the magical world. She could no more answer his question than she could predict the future of the magical world …

“I don’t know,” she admitted, finally. She spotted something under a garden bush and shivered. She had no idea what it was, but it was clearly magical – and possibly very dangerous. She hoped the homeowner was smart enough to leave it alone. “But right now, we’re on our own.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: York, England, Now

Richard had known, without false modesty, that he lacked the raw power of a Helen, a Brains, or even a Janet. He’d known, not entirely to his pleasure, that Janet would run ahead of him very quickly, once she got some proper training under her belt, although he had never let a tiny wisp of jealousy get in the way of their relationship. He had compensated, as best as he could, by developing the finesse and precision he needed to make the most of what little power he had, using it in a way that – given proper preparation – would have made life very difficult for Helen, and anyone else like her. And it had saved their life, when they’d found themselves stranded in OldeWorld …

He had wondered, despite everything, if the manor had been abandoned after he’d been held prisoner within the walls, only to be rescued by his friends and a flash mob. The logic seemed sound and yet they had no idea how many mansions their enemies might own, with the right kind of cells to hold magicians helpless until they could be interrogated and executed. They could not have expected to have the entire magical community suddenly dropped into their world, Richard told himself, and yet … they had been planning an invasion. He had no idea how they’d intended to treat the native population – human history suggested a number of answers, none remotely reassuring – but they had to have had something in mind. If they were wrong … the wards flickering across the road, designed to detect any magician who happened to pass by, suggested they’d been right. It was something of a relief.

“I can get us through without being detected,” he said, after checking the wards. There would be closer wards, of course, and they’d be a great deal harder to crack. He suspected Norris had sent a spellbook or two into OldeWorld and now the worlds had merged the local magicians suddenly had enough power to make them work. “Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Steve confirmed. The others nodded, looking nervous. Richard felt a twinge of guilt for bringing Janet, although she’d volunteered to come. He wanted to tell her to wait for him … not, he knew, that she’d listen. Janet had nerve, as well as raw power. “Get on with it.”

Richard exchanged glances with Helen, then turned and forced himself to concentrate. The ward was very simple, which perversely made it harder to fool. He suspected it wasn’t intended to provide anything beyond early warning, although he did wonder why it wasn’t more subtle. There was no point in using such a ward to warn people off, not when most people couldn’t sense it … he put the thought aside as he carefully opened up the charm, hollowing out a space for them as they inched towards the wall. It looked harmless to the naked eye, yet his magic revealed all sorts of nasty tricks woven into the brickwork. Anyone who tried to climb up without permission would not only fall, they’d fall hard. They’d be very lucky indeed if they didn’t break their legs.

“Careful,” Helen muttered, as Richard parted the charms. “There might be something more hidden underneath.”

“Yeah,” Richard said. He could already see the secondary charms, more subtle than the first and directly linked to a third set of wards that were out of reach, close enough to monitor the secondary set without being close enough for him to break them. They didn’t appear to be connected to a living mind, but that was meaningless. “Give me a moment …”

He smirked. “You know, if you hadn’t been such a pain in the rear, this might have been a little harder.”

Helen snorted. Richard ignored her as he carefully – very carefully – cast a series of spells, hacking the wards and stretching them out to allow entrance without breaking them. It wasn’t easy to levitate himself up and over the wall or lower himself to the ground without breaking the wards, but he made it. Helen and Steve followed slowly, Janet bringing up the rear. Richard grinned at her, then turned to face the manor. It would have fitted in well, he thought, if it had been in Mystic Albion. Here … it was remarkable, surrounded with an air of tranquillity, and utterly out of date.

“It could have been an original Hardwick,” Helen muttered. “Do you think it is?”

Richard shrugged as he opened his awareness, reaching out to the half-hidden side door. Bess of Hardwick, a well-known sorceress who had been a close ally of Elizabeth Tudor, had crafted home after home, before faking her death and passing through the gate to Mystic Albion. Her art had fallen out of favour since – there was no longer any need to conserve magic – but here, it might have continued to flourish. It hardly mattered. He inched forward, keeping a wary eye on the grass. The locals clearly hadn’t had time to absorb every lesson from Mystic Albion. They’d made no attempt to turn the grass and bushes into deadly threats.

He came up to the door and stopped, dead. The charm embedded in the door was far stronger, and far harder to crack. The spells flowed through the entire wall … he looked up, hoping to spot a window that would be easier to access, but they were all closed and bolted. He looked back at the charm and swore under his breath. He doubted he could get inside. Even trying would set off the alarms …

“Here,” Helen said. She stepped forward, holding a knife in her hand. She slashed her palm and reached for the doorknob before Richard could stop her, the charms drawing back as she grabbed hold and opened the door. “Hah!”

Richard blinked. “Did you know that would work?”

“No, but we have a long history of tying our charms to our bloodline,” Helen said. “It stood to reason that our enemy would do it too.”

“Oh.” Richard scowled as Helen pushed open the door. Helen wouldn’t side with her relative – he was sure of that, after everything she’d done – but it was still disconcerting. They were lucky the two bloodlines were still compatible. There’d been over four hundred years since the sundering, and at least five or six generations between Helen and Cecil Burghley. “Good thinking.”

He put the matter aside for later consideration as he peered down the corridor. The air was quiet and still, reminding him more of an abandoned home than an aristocratic residence. Brains’s family home was practically a small town in its own right, but … he frowned inwardly as he concentrated, trying to feel out the wards. Magic crackled everywhere, yet the patterns were loose, almost as if they were on the verge of coming apart. It was strange. The exterior had been repaired, after the first rescue, and enhanced, but the interior had not …

Helen nudged him. “You know where to go?”

“If he’s in the same cell,” Richard muttered back. The magic was weirdly concentrated, further down the corridor. He wondered, suddenly, if they’d walked right into a trap. “Stay behind me and get ready to run if you must.”

He heard Janet gulp as he started to inch forward, keeping his eyes and senses peeled for trouble. The floor was wood, not hiding any sensors; the walls were bare, carved in a manner that made them look strikingly natural despite the lack of any real decoration. It felt as if he were walking into a merged building, a place where the magical and mundane worlds collided in odd ways. The manor could have come right out of the magical world, if it hadn’t had electric lights and other modern conveniences. The sense of unease grew stronger as he reached a sealed door, locked and bolted. He’d done what he could to learn about the mundane world, but it was so big – and advanced – that it was impossible to be sure what technology could do.

We could be being watched right now, he thought. A camera so tiny it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye could be filming them, and he’d never know it until they were attacked and captured. The air could be slowly filling with odourless and colourless gas, or … there were just too many possibilities. This could be a trap.

He braced himself, then examined the door. There was a spell – a very complex locking spell – on the lock itself, one that he doubted he could crack in a hurry, but the caster had made an elemental mistake. He hadn’t cast the spell on the door itself. Richard hoped to hell it had been a mistake, instead of a deliberate trap, as he cast a simple cutting spell to open the door, slicing around the lock without touching the charm. The door opened, the sound of running water suddenly very loud as he stepped into the cell. Norris and Marian were sitting by the wall, their hands behind their backs. Their eyes went wide as they saw Richard.

“Be quiet,” Richard hissed. He had no idea if the cell was being monitored, but it was what he’d do if he was keeping prisoners. “We have to move …”

He inspected the cuffs – cold iron, disruptive to spells – and then poked and prodded at the lock with his tools, until they came free. The design was surprisingly simple, no more advanced than anything he’d seen in the workshops back home, but he supposed it made a certain kind of sense. It was the wearer who wasn’t supposed to be able to take them off, not anyone else. Norris stood, his eyes tired and a cast to his face that suggested he’d long since passed the point of no return; Marian followed, seeming surprisingly unbothered by her captivity. Richard frowned, inwardly. It made little sense.

The alarms started howling seconds later.

***

Helen had no idea what, if anything, had triggered the alarms, but there was no time to worry about it. The house wards were coming to life, shreds of magic merging together to produce a greater whole and lock down the entire building before the prisoners could escape. She had studied the wards back home and while they were a lot more powerful and advanced the principle was the same, to the point she wondered if Norris really had been the only spy Cecil Burghley had sent into Mystic Albion. If there had been one, there could easily have been two – or more.

She touched the blood on her palm and allowed her magic to flow through it, channelling the raw power directly into the wards. There’d be bare seconds, if she was dealing with a skilled magician, to act before he realised what she was doing and threw it back at her; she braced herself, then smashed her magic into the wards – through the wards – as hard as she could. There was nothing subtle about the attack, and she knew it could easily end badly if her opponent knew how to counter it, but … the entire building shook, violently. She sensed magic sparking around hidden gems, used to power and steer the wards, then snapping out of existence as the gems exploded one by one. It would take time, time they didn’t have, for the enemy to recover …

Her magic sparkled around her as the first set of guards came into view, men wearing drab grey outfits rather than the family livery. Helen was almost relieved. Her mother had scolded her, when she’d been a child, for teasing the guards and the lesson had stuck, to the point she would have found it hard to lash out at men wearing the family colours. She shaped a spell quickly, allowing her emotions to guide the magic; the men tumbled forwards, their forms shifting rapidly into frogs. They hopped on the ground, croaking madly; the couple she’d missed turned and fled, as if the devil himself was after them. Helen felt torn between relief and a twinge of horror at herself, a grim awareness she might have crossed the line. Steve might react badly, after watching her do that … she didn’t want to look at him. She was too afraid of what he might say.

Another crash echoed through the building. Helen looked up in time to see a second line of guards appear, holding staffs as they marched forward in a curious dance. She shaped a second spell and tossed it, only to see the magic sparkle around the staffs and snap out of existence. She’d known Morris dancing had survived in some form, but she hadn’t realised the rogue magicians knew how to use it to shape magic. That tradition belonged to the commoners, not the aristocrats … she shook her head as Steve held up a wand, casting a spell of his own. The air shimmered around the oncoming guards, slowing them down. It wasn’t enough.

“Get everyone back,” Helen snapped. Norris and Marian looked ghastly, but at least they were alive. The manor’s wards were still cracked and broken, yet she could feel someone trying to put them back together and trap the intruders. “Hurry!”

Richard nodded and half-dragged the two former prisoners back to the door. Helen glanced at Steve – he was waving his wand, casting a complicated spell that was unlikely to work – and then at Janet. She had both magical talents … it was a shame she hadn’t had time to train properly or she would have been much more effective than Helen, certainly against the dancing guards. They were being careful – they’d seen their comrades turned to frogs – but it wouldn’t be long before they picked up speed and closed in. She had to act fast.

She took a breath and summoned a sheet of flame, hurling it towards the guards with all the force she could muster. The guards held the line – she acknowledged, sourly, that they were well trained; they’d avoided the panic that could easily get them killed – and warded off the flames, shifting their staffs to send streams of liquid fire pouring in all directions. Helen braced herself and directed the fires at the wooden floors, walls and ceilings, setting fire to the entire house. The magical flames could be deflected, but the mundane flames would be less resistant to their charms. By the time they realised they needed water, it would be too late to keep the flames from spreading …

Her lips twisted as she turned and ran, casting one final spell behind her to superheat the running water. The building nearly exploded around her, steam boiling through cracks in the walls and floors and scalding everyone within reach. Helen felt her skin burn as she plunged though the door, noting that Janet was throwing fireballs at the garden and setting fire to everything within eyeshot. Richard had blown a hole in the wall, allowing him to drag Norris and Marian out onto the street. A car skidded to a halt as the driver saw them, his eyes going wide …

“Sorry,” Helen muttered. She shot a spell at the driver, turning him into a stone. It wouldn’t last long, but it would keep him from interfering for a few short hours. She could already hear sirens in the distance. “Get in, quickly!”

Steve gaped at her as she tossed the stone out of the car. “He’ll die!”

Helen shook her head. The spell would keep the driver alive, his thoughts frozen, until it wore off. Being turned to stone could be restful, in some ways, but she had no idea if the driver would agree. He’d recover without any clear idea of what had happened to him … she felt a twinge of guilt, even though it was the best of a bad set of options. Enchanting him would be even worse.

“He’ll recover soon, and he’ll be fine,” she said. “Hurry!”

Steve took the wheel and restarted the engine, driving down the road at high speed. Helen hoped – prayed – they made it clear before the police arrived. Richard had told her there were at least some mundanes who knew how to deal with magic, even if they didn’t have magic themselves. She could testify to that.

Or could she?

“We’ll switch cars quickly,” Steve said. “And then … where do we go?”

“Good question,” Helen said. Gatehouse was out. Londinium was out. But there was one alternative. “We’ll go home. To my home.”

She frowned, puzzled. This was the second time they’d recovered a prisoner from the very same manor. The enemy defences had improved, but … they’d had far more power at their disposal too. And yet, Norris and Marian had been captured – and Richard and Janet forced to flee – and that should have been impossible, if the enemy had only mundane tricks at their disposal …

A nasty little thought grew in her mind, a canker in the rose. Had they been allowed to rescue their friends?

She didn’t want to believe it, but … they’d gotten through the outer wards and over the wall and even through the sealed door and all the way to the cell, without so much as seeing anyone until the prisoners had been freed. The guards hadn’t even put up a real fight. The first group had been useless, but the second … if they’d charged, they would have won. Helen knew she was good, knew the others were good, yet … they would have been captured or killed, and that would have been the end …

Were they bait to draw us into a trap, she asked herself, or were we meant to recover them?

“We may have a problem,” she said, as they drove onwards. She couldn’t keep her concerns to herself. Not now. “Don’t you think that was just a little too easy?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: York, England, Now

Polly retched, helplessly.

She had known, intellectually, what magic could do. She had seen the little tricks the Brotherhood used to maintain its power, the subtle weirdness censors that let it do whatever it wished without fear of discovery; she’d seen the footage from Glasgow and Edinburgh and a dozen other places, in the last few weeks, where magic had been used to create atrocities and horrors she had thought unimaginable. But the nightmare in front of her was different. Men – strong men – reduced to frogs, signalling helplessly as the fire bridge quenched the remaining fires; others still human, yet badly burned or scalded in the aftermath of the attack. It was sickening, a savage nightmare beyond words. She understood the terror now, the thoughtless fear of a power beyond all human comprehension. The hatred and fear of witches that dated back over a thousand years had its root in reality, a reality that scared her as much as it called to her. It was …

Cecil Burghley seemed unbothered as he surveyed the scene, even though his prisoners had been yanked out of their cells and taken away. The police were already looking for the hijacked car – a CCTV camera had survived the attack, providing live footage of the escape – but they weren’t hopeful. Polly suspected, if anything, they were understating the difficulties of tracking down a handful of magicians who knew what they were doing. They could hide the car under a glamour, or simply turn it invisible, or even change the colour and number plate to ensure it was unrecognisable. It wouldn’t be that hard to steal another number plate to replace theirs, or even steal another car. Hell, they could ditch the car they had and call a taxi. There were still some on the streets, taking the last few stragglers home before the lockdown started in earnest.

“This location has been thoroughly compromised,” Cecil Burghley said. “Did you copy all of your files to the backup location?”

Polly blinked. A dozen men dead, nearly twice that number wounded or transfigured … and he was asking about backups? She didn’t believe it. They had a real problem on their hands and yet her boss seemed unconcerned, his mood almost jovial as he turned away. The manor he’d loved so much was in ruins, the damage so extensive it would be cheaper to claim the insurance and build a new manor rather than trying to repair the old … he’d loved the manor. Polly had understood. In a world increasingly dominated by soulless grey buildings, and unwelcome intruders from distant lands, the manor had been a reminder of a history that dated all the way back to the Norman Conquest, even though it was only five hundred years old. Cecil Burghley had resisted all calls to move operations elsewhere, even after the PM had given him emergency powers. And now his family heritage lay in ruins and he didn’t seem to care.

She swallowed, hard. “Sir, what about the frogs …?”

The look he gave her made her take a step back. He looked almost … pleased.

“They will be fine, I am sure,” he said. “We’ll proceed to the backup location and work from there.”

He turned and headed to the car. Polly stared after him, utterly at a loss. The estate felt as if it were overrun by police, firemen and close-protection officers, as well as the new magical agents, and … she found herself going after him, despite the sudden urge to hand in her notice and flee. The car was waiting … she had the weirdest sense he’d leave her behind if she didn’t follow immediately. And …

A police officer met them at the car. “We put out an all-points alert, sir,” he said, in a tone so confident it was clear he had no confidence at all. The police had been trying to come to grips with the new world, as much as everyone else, but they had barely even begun to figure out ways to work with their magical counterparts, let alone recruit magicians themselves, before all hell had broken loose. “We’ll catch them when they try to pass through a checkpoint.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Cecil Burghley said. He smiled, as if he was amused by a private joke. “Please keep me informed.”

He stepped into the car, a degree of rudeness to a high-ranking police officer that was surprisingly out of character. Cecil was always polite, even when he was giving someone a lecture. Polly had never heard him swear, though he could tear someone to shreds – emotionally speaking – without raising his voice. She followed, shooting the surprised officer a look of silent apology. It wasn’t uncommon for a politician to be rude to the hired help – which often tended to include their bodyguards – but she had thought better of Burghley.

But then, she reflected, he is under a great deal of stress.

She removed her secure tablet from her bag and linked into the government net. The news was already reporting on the incident, blaming everything on rogue magicians who’d killed at least seventy people, and pushing the line the PR staff had already authorised. It wasn’t the only incident in the last few hours either – a young boy had nearly blown up his school, a young girl had entranced her entire class – and the news joined a steady drumbeat of propaganda, warning of the dangers of magic to those who wielded it as well as anyone unlucky enough to be standing next to them. The results had been surprisingly good, she noted. A number of magicians – who hadn’t known they had magic a few months ago – had already been reported to the authorities and arrested. They were on their way to the holding camp near York now.

“Quite a surprise,” Cecil Burghley observed, as the car roared into life. The police outriders fanned out around the vehicle as it glided onto the road and headed west. “But not, exactly, unexpected.”

Polly looked at him. The interior of the car was surprisingly roomy – it was more like a luxury taxi than a regular car, complete with a fridge for alcohol and a table for her laptop – and yet it felt cramped. Cecil Burghley was not remotely overweight – and he’d never so much as flirted with her, let alone tried to push her against the wall and grope her – and yet she felt confined, almost trapped, as if something much bigger was sharing the vehicle with her. She shifted uncomfortably – she hadn’t felt so uncomfortable since she’d made the mistake of getting into an already-crowded lift – and stared down at her tablet. No one was sitting beside her, let alone touching her, and yet …

She swallowed, hard. “You wanted them to escape?”

“It is not disadvantageous.” Cecil Burghley gave her that smile again, as if he were greatly amused by a private joke. “And right now, it works in our favour.”

He sat upright, suddenly normal again. “Do we have an update from the six cities?”

“Yes, sir,” Polly said. Her head spun, her memories flickering into a haze that made it hard to think clearly. “Everything is in place.”

“Good,” Cecil Burghley said. “And now we wait.”

***

Norris hadn’t expected to be rescued.

It wasn’t as if anyone cared about him. The only real friend he’d had in his entire life was Marian, and he’d betrayed her in a manner that had destroyed whatever feelings she’d had for him. The Merlin might have stood up for him, but Norris couldn’t hide from the reality he’d actually been trying to prevent the setting of an uncomfortable precedent than anything else. Janie … Norris was honest enough to admit he liked her, yet …

He shifted uncomfortably, his wrists aching. The rescue had been a complete shock. Cecil Burghley – or whatever was wearing his form – had clearly learnt something from Richard’s earlier escape. Norris had tried to hack the spells holding them in place, after carefully working his way around the cold iron binding him, and it had been useless. He had been forced to face the fact he was about to die, perhaps after being used as the poster child for the government’s new antimagic campaign. The hypocrisy burned him – Cecil Burghley and the Brotherhood were magicians - but it didn’t surprise him. Everyone knew that if the government didn’t have double standards, it wouldn’t have any standards at all.

And everyone knows the rich and powerful can get away with anything, he reflected sourly, while the poor and weak suffer what they must.

The car came to a halt. Norris glanced at Marian, who seemed stunned. Norris understood. He’d found the magical world hard to grasp, despite extensive preparation; Marian was probably having trouble understanding the car, the surrounding buildings, and everything else. He supposed it was like visiting a foreign country, one similar enough to his homeland to be disconcerting, if not deceptive. Marian had never seen a car until now, let alone buildings so crude they made their inhabitants crude too. He didn’t blame her for having problems.

“We’ll swap cars here,” Steve said. Norris felt torn between gratitude and envy. Steve was just like him in so many ways, only better. “And then head further west.”

Norris stumbled out of the car. Steve had already obtained a second car – Norris didn’t want to know how – and motioned for Norris to help Marian into the back. The touch of her hand felt wonderful … he bit his lip, letting go of her as soon as she was safety seated in the rear. She didn’t know how to use a seatbelt either … she was used to vehicles that were protected by magic, if they collided with anything …

“Your uncle knows who we are,” Janet said to Helen. “Can he track us?”

“He’s not my uncle,” Helen said. “He’s …”

“It isn’t him,” Norris said. “It’s not him.”

Helen shot him a sharp look as the rest of the gang piled into the car. “What do you mean?”

Norris tried not to flinch. He’d never known Helen very well and what little he did know he didn’t like. A girl with delusions of grandeur that weren’t actually delusions – he’d heard enough to be sure Helen was a genuine aristocrat – and who looked down on someone as accomplished as Richard … it was unlikely, to say the least, that they’d ever get on. But he had to tell them what he’d seen. And sensed …

“I knew him,” Norris managed. “Your uncle …”

“He’s not my uncle,” Helen repeated, waspishly. “At best, we’re fifth cousins. At best!”

Norris had to admit the two didn’t look remotely alike. Helen was young and blonde, her hair framing a heart-shaped face as it fell down to her waist; Cecil Burghley was at least twenty years older, with dark hair and a very angular face … it was quite possible, he supposed, that the two might never have realised they were relatives, if they’d met under very different circumstances. But … there was a certain something – a belief in their own authority – they had in common. Norris hated and envied that assurance in equal measure.

“I knew him,” he said. “The first man I met was …”

He hesitated, unsure how to put it into words. “He was Captain Picard, as he was on the bridge of the Enterprise. He spoke with authority, an authority so profound he didn’t have to establish himself by pushing everyone else down. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind he was in charge. He was … he was a very real alpha male.”

Janet snorted, rudely. Norris had never liked the social-sexual hierarchy – he was honest enough to admit it was because he was at the bottom, while far too many of his tormentors bragged they were at the top – but his life experience suggested there was some truth in the concept. Cecil Burghley had been at the top, so securely at the top he could afford to be kind to those who found themselves trapped at the bottom …

Norris pushed on. “The person I spoke to, before you rescued me, was very different. He wore the same face, the same body, but … it wasn’t him. I think he was possessed because … he was surrounded by possessed men. They tried to possess us!”

“Name of a name,” Helen muttered. She made it sound like a swearword. Norris guessed that was exactly what it was. “What happened?”

“They caught us, when they stormed the school,” Norris said. He felt a twinge of annoyance that Richard and Janet had fled, although he knew he should be grateful. “The men tried to shove something into our heads, but … I drove it out. They were just …”

He found himself struggling to put the experience into words. The men had been wrong, the magic surrounding them had been wrong, the whole experience had been wrong … he had no idea what had happened, or why, but if he hadn’t been able to save himself – and Marian – it would have ended very badly indeed. It would have been the end in all senses of the word.

“He couldn’t have been possessed,” Helen said. “Surely, he’d know better …”

“Because he’s a Burghley?” Richard sounded irked by the question. “He didn’t grow up with you, not in Mystic Albion. He might easily have done something stupid, without realising the dangers … or believing in them.”

“You can’t be possessed unless you let the possessor in,” Helen protested. “It just doesn’t work!”

“They tried, on me,” Norris said. “It nearly worked.”

Richard glanced back. “Why didn’t it work?”

“I …” Norris swallowed. “I damaged my own mind, when I was burning Norris2 out of my head. The possession couldn’t get a grip on me, letting me shove it out and then save Marian.”

Marian slipped her hand into his. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was light and breathy. “If you hadn’t been there …”

Norris swallowed, feeling a strange mixture of horniness and naked guilt. If he hadn’t gone to Gatehouse, if he hadn’t betrayed Marian, she would never have been in danger. The two worlds would have remained separate and … she would have been safe. Instead … her touch felt … he wanted to pull free, yet he also wanted to pull her to him. He remained still. There was no way he could do anything else.

Helen made a rude noise. “If he’s possessed, if he’s possessing other people, why?”

“I don’t know,” Norris said. “What is the point of any of this?”

“World conquest?” Richard sounded teasing, but there was a hard edge to his voice. “Does he think he can rule both worlds?”

“The radio announced a state of emergency,” Steve said. There was no humour in his tone. “Parliament has been suspended. Martial law is in effect across the nation. The mainstream media is under government control, and the internet is being actively disrupted. Whoever is in charge, in London, is now an effective dictator, at least for the moment. It will be hard, perhaps impossible, for anyone to mount resistance, at least in a hurry.”

Janet cleared her throat. “And everyone is just going to go along with it?”

Norris swallowed. He’d met too many people who wanted power – and couldn’t be trusted not to abuse it, if they ever got any. Give someone a little power – even over something as petty as an internet forum – and watch them turn into a dictator who abused his power ruthlessly, partly because there was nothing at stake and partly because they’d never had any real power and therefore simply didn’t know how to handle it. He had no trouble believing there were policemen who wanted to take the gloves off, soldiers who wanted to push civilians around, and intelligence officers who wanted to play at being the secret police … he shuddered, remembering how many of his tormentors had bragged they were going to join the army, then come home with a gun and shoot him. They wouldn’t hesitate to follow orders from a dictator, if it meant they got to push people around.

“Right now, everyone is confused,” Steve said. “The panic, after Edinburgh, will give our enemies all the time in the world to establish control.”

“Except they can’t get into the magical communities, right?” Janet sounded as if she were pleading. “They’ll remain safe?”

Norris wasn’t so sure. “They sent me into Gatehouse,” he reminded them. It wasn’t something he wanted to remember, but he had no choice. “They were planning to invade. They wouldn’t risk such a step unless they were sure they’d succeed.”

Norris’s heart sank. Cecil Burghley wouldn’t take the risk, he thought. The man I met wouldn’t gamble everything on one throw of the die, not if the odds were already against him. But the entity wearing his face might have something else in mind …

“Good question,” Richard said. Norris didn’t miss the affection in his tone. “We may have to figure out a way to get back to Gatehouse, or Londinium.”

“If we can,” Steve said. “They’re shutting down all the roads, remember? We’ll stick out like a sore thumb if we drive too far.”

Helen shook her head. “Not much further to go,” she said. “We did it before.”

“Yeah, but that was before all the king’s horses and all the king’s men were after us,” Steve said. “It won’t be easy to get much further.”

“We have no choice,” Richard said, bluntly. He sounded like he’d come to a very unpleasant conclusion indeed. “If our enemy isn’t human—”

“He isn’t,” Norris said.

“—then his motives will be incomprehensible and his actions unpredictable,” Richard continued.” We have to move fast.”

Norris shivered. Marian squeezed his hand.

Chapter Thirty: Lake District, Now

Helen couldn’t help feeling dangerously exposed as they picked their way along a set of back roads, tiny tracks that didn’t deserve the name, even though there was almost no one in sight. The radio spoke constantly of the lockdown, and the air was so dangerously magical that she knew why so many had fled the district after the two worlds had merged, yet she couldn’t help feeling as if they were being watched. The sense they’d been allowed to escape kept nagging at her, no matter how much she tried to tell herself otherwise. She was a Burghley, and she knew how stubborn her family could be, and … she refused to believe her relative lacked the family virtues, as well as the vices. He knew she was out there …

Yet, he’d missed a good opportunity to capture or kill all of them.

Her mind churned. It could be a simple oversight. Helen’s mother spent most of her time running the family interests, from the family’s ancestral home to their complex network of patronage that reached all the way into the towns and cities, and even she had admitted she’d missed a few things over the years, no matter how closely she tried to manage the estate. Cecil Burghley was trying to run a whole country, a place so complex Helen honestly didn’t understand why it hadn’t fallen apart long ago. Perhaps he’d just missed a trick. Perhaps … but Helen didn’t believe it. Her instincts were telling her that they’d been allowed to rescue Norris and Marian; she knew better than to ignore her instincts. It felt almost as if someone was walking across her grave.

She scowled. Norris insisted that Cecil Burghley had been possessed. Helen didn’t want to believe it – she’d been taught the dangers of summoning entities, let alone allowing them access to her mind, from the moment she’d cast her first spell – but she had to admit it was possible. There was no shortage of horror stories, from the man who’d listened to bad advice from a known Sinister and ended up opening his mind to creatures from Beyond to the idiot who’d tried to summon a god and discovered that the entity overwhelmed his mental defences simply by existing, and yet Cecil Burghley had been raised in a very different tradition. How much dangerously won knowledge had been lost, she asked herself, because it appeared outdated? And how many warnings had been allowed to lapse because they no longer seemed important?

“We’re here,” Steve said. He sounded tired and cranky and a little bit off. “Can you open the gates?”

Helen looked up. The family gates were right in front of her, wrought iron structures surrounded by high stone walls that – she knew – were carefully charmed to keep out unwanted intruders. The air was heavy with magic and dimensional distortion, the tenant farms surrounding the estate contrasting oddly with the mundane Lake District. She’d seen the merged world before, when she’d flown Steve to meet her mother, but she hadn’t taken the time to look at it from ground level. It looked as if a mad artist had covered one painting with another, a style that sometimes worked but mostly didn’t. She vaguely recalled passing nearby, before the merge, and noting a small town only a few miles away. Was that part of the Burghley Demesne now? It would be an interesting legal headache, no matter what the townspeople wanted. She suspected the matter wouldn’t be resolved in a hurry …

Steve cleared his throat. Helen closed her eyes and reached out to the spells warding the gate. There was a long pause, just long enough to make her wonder if something had gone wrong, before the gates slowly opened to reveal the driveway. Steve drove forward, passing through the gates and up to the hall, parking in front of the main entrance. Helen opened the door and jumped out, eying the nearby foliage warily. The inner defences were normally kept depowered, particularly when the hall had visitors, but her mother was clearly feeling paranoid. Helen didn’t blame her. The world had turned upside down – again – in less than a day. She wondered, suddenly, just how much her mother knew. The magical world didn’t have email, or televisions, or radio. There were ways to send messages instantaneously, and have a two-way conversation, but they weren’t used that often.

Janet scrambled out of the car. “This is where you grew up?”

Helen nodded, resisting the urge to say something biting. Janet was going to be her sister-in-law – it dawned on her that Richard might wind up being her brother-in-law – and there was no need to pick a fight. There were enough horror stories about cranky in-laws that she felt it would be better to at least try to be diplomatic, despite the tiredness pervading her body.

“I was born here, yes,” she said, finally. She wondered, suddenly, just how many of her siblings were in residence. They didn’t live in the hall normally, even though there were rooms kept ready for them, and even with the world in chaos they might not be home in a hurry. They loved their mother, but could handle her only in very small doses. “I grew up and …”

She shook her head. “Don’t leave the hall and don’t walk into the jungle, at least without permission,” she added. “And please be polite to my mother.”

Janet nodded, looking pale. Richard’s face was harder to read. Helen knew it wasn’t the first time he’d seen a fancy home – he’d been a Hardwick client since time out of mind – but he’d never been here before. Was he impressed? Or fearful? Or … Helen saw Norris gaping at her ancestral home and hid her amusement, Marian holding his hand as if someone had cast a sticking charm on them. Steve swung his bag over his shoulder, then nodded to her. His face was grim.

“This way,” Helen said.

She led the way up the steps and through the outer door. The wards sparked around them, checking their identities before allowing them to enter the hall. Helen wasn’t surprised to see Lady Penelope standing there, although she was surprised her mother was alone. She groaned inwardly as it occurred to her, too late, that Richard was the only one who had any proper etiquette lessons. Steve knew a little, but the others knew nothing. She hoped her mother would understand. Lady Penelope had always insisted that good manners were the underpinning of high society …

“Helen,” Lady Penelope said. “Welcome home.”

Helen curtsied quickly, noting that Marian managed a decent curtsey of her own and Janet at least tried to perform one, although it wasn’t easy in jeans that clearly weren’t the right size for her. Steve and Richard bowed, Norris followed them … his expression flicking in a manner Helen knew all too well, resentment mingled with mild amusement. She guessed he hated doing anything that suggested he might be subordinate, something that was hardly surprising. He was far from the only one.

“I thank you, Mother,” Helen said, formally. It was lucky there was an old tradition of welcoming guests. There was an entire society of people who wandered from manor to manor, offering fine conversation and entertainment in exchange for a few weeks or months of board. Lady Penelope would be a good host, as long as the guests didn’t take advantage of her hospitality. “We have much to discuss.”

“We can have the conversation over dinner,” Lady Penelope said. “Your guests will be shown to their rooms. You will accompany me.”

Helen nodded, shortly. “Yes, Mother.”

She glanced at Steve as the invisible presences revealed themselves. Her mother rarely hired servants and when she did, they were almost always for specialist roles. The invisible house spirits were far more helpful, as well as far less inclined to betray their masters or seek better employment elsewhere. Janet seemed disturbed by their appearance, Norris seemed almost fascinated … Marian, Helen noted, showed no visible reaction.

“Show them the rooms,” she said to Steve. He’d seen the rooms before. Helen wanted to go herself – it was her duty as a good host – but she also needed to tell her mother what was happening. “I’ll see you all at dinner.”

Steve nodded, curtly. “Got it.”

***

Janet had seen Gatehouse, and Buckingham Palace, but Burghley Hall was something else again. It felt unreal, a strange combination of a world that only existed on television and a home that was actually lived in, shameless luxury and a sense of history stretching back hundreds of years to encourage the current generation to remember the past even as they looked to the future. The walls were lined with portraits of Helen’s ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow her as they made their way down the corridor and into a bedroom that was almost impossibly luxurious, yet also curiously empty. There was no television or radio, nothing even remotely modern; the four-poster bed was immense, easily large enough for two or three people. The room was well-lit, but there was no visible light source. She suspected the lighting was magic. What else could it be?

“I don’t belong here,” she said. She felt as if she’d been trapped in a museum. “Did she really grow up here?”

“Yeah,” Richard said. “Believe it or not, this place is actually quite tame.”

Janet looked around the room slowly, very slowly. The walls were covered with golden carvings … she was sure, somehow, they were real gold rather than gold paint. The bathroom was huge, with a bathtub as well as something she guessed was a shower; she might not be able to swim in it, but she could immerse herself in water and relax. Invisible forces hummed in the air, just waiting for her to call on them. The bathroom was weirdly complex … she realised, suddenly, just how hard Richard and his friends must have found their first few days on Earth. They would have found it hard to go to the bathroom and have a shower, let alone anything more complicated. They’d been so ignorant of the modern world that they’d been ignorant of their own ignorance.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, quietly. No wonder Helen had been so snobbish, when they’d first met. She’d grown up in a palace! She must have found the tiny home Janet had shared with her mother and brother to be nightmarishly tiny. “I think …”

She eyed him for a moment, wondering if she dared kiss him. The bed was tempting and yet … she had no idea how Helen’s mother would react. The room was pervaded by so much magic that Janet couldn’t even begin to work out what half of it did, let alone determine if they were being watched – or monitored – by the aristocratic woman. Would she throw a fit if Janet so much as kissed Richard? Or … Janet didn’t want to know, or take the risk of asking Helen. It would be incredibly embarrassing even if it wasn’t also incredibly offensive.

A low chime rang through the air. “Afternoon tea is served, Honoured Guests.”

Richard turned. “This way.”

Janet nodded. She could feel it too, the pull drawing her towards the dining room. She stepped outside and allowed it to draw her along the corridor, up a flight of stairs so incredibly grand she felt reluctant to risk setting foot on them, and into a hall so large she thought it could accommodate the entire school. Bright afternoon sunlight streamed through the giant windows, so bright Janet had to look away. Lady Penelope had set up a table in the centre of the chamber, large enough to take the entire group and yet very small compared to the sheer immensity of the room. Janet couldn’t help feeling a little silly as she took her seat, staring at the cupcake and sandwich stand. It felt as if she’d walked into a high-class café where tiny cakes and biscuits were served, at prices so high she could not possibly have afforded them. She had heard there were people who took tea in such a manner, but she’d never believed it. But then, if you had enough money, you could do anything.

And you can hire someone else to cut up the bread and cucumber for sandwiches, and bake the cakes and prepare the tea, she thought, as she eyed the teapot. She’d normally just dropped a teabag in boiling water, but Helen’s mother was doing it properly. Janet was entirely sure Lady Penelope had never cooked anything in her life, let alone washed the dishes or changed diapers or anything she didn’t want to do. You don’t have to do all the work if there’s someone else to do it for you.

Norris and Marian joined them, still holding hands. Janet wasn’t sure what to make of the scene. Norris had always been a loser – she felt a flash of guilt for thinking of anyone like that – and he’d betrayed Gatehouse as well as Marian personally, but he had saved her from being possessed and Janet supposed that made up for an awful lot. Helen seemed more amused than anything else as a low ding echoed through the room, pouring tea with all the care alchemists used to pour potions. Janet had to admit the ritual was surprisingly comforting, if time-consuming. She wasn’t even sure how much time they had.

“The cities appear to have been sealed off,” Lady Penelope said. She had a rich plummy voice that made Janet want to grind her teeth. There was something oddly insecure about Helen’s mother, even though she was a powerful magician who owned a manor and had an entire network of client magicians working for her. “There has been no reply to my message.”

Steve looked worried. Janet eyed him thoughtfully. They’d always been close and it was clear, now, that something was bothering Steve. She wanted to talk to him – they had always confided in each other – and yet, she wasn’t sure she dared. Not here.

“If our enemy can seal off entire magical districts,” Steve said, “how?”

Janet shrugged. She had no idea. The deeper roots of magic were often weirdly symbolic, from what she’d heard. A summoned entity might be held in place by a circle, unable to leave even though a human could simply have stepped over the line on the ground and escaped. Maybe setting up a wall around the magical regions was enough to keep the magicians under control. Maybe …

“Good question,” Norris said. He sounded a little too eager. “They might have scaled up the spells they already knew, now that they have the power to do it …”

The building shook. Janet felt a hot flash of panic as a wave of something ran through the air. Lady Penelope closed her eyes, magic sparkling around her as she communed with the wards. Janet cursed under her breath. Perhaps they’d missed a trick. Helen had used her blood to unlock her relative’s wards … why couldn’t he do the same to them? Another shockwave ran through the building, the crystal chandeliers waving back and forth before settling down … Janet wanted to stand, to run, even though she had no idea what was going on. Helen looked alarmed … she was the person who had grown up in the giant mansion and if she was worried … perhaps everyone else should be worried too.

Lady Penelope opened her eyes. “They followed you.”

Helen looked as if she wanted to swear, but didn’t quite dare. “What have they done?”

“They appear to have cast wards around our wards.” Lady Penelope sounded quite astonishingly calm. “They’ve sealed us off from the outside world.”

Norris stood and hurried to the window. Janet looked up. The sunlight was gone, replaced by an eerie inky blackness that chilled her to the bone. There were no stars, no hint of light … she forced herself to stand and follow him, to stare over the garden and beyond. It was hard to see anything outside the mansion and nothing beyond the wall, nothing save for an eerie shifting darkness. They were trapped.

“The wards are holding, for the moment,” Lady Penelope said. “But they are under constant pressure.”

“They worked out ways to use their magic to hack your wards,” Norris said. “I mean, the wards at Gatehouse. Here … they could be worming their way into your wards even as we speak.”

The darkness shifted. There were things out there, things so wrapped in shadow that Janet hoped she was seeing things and feared she wasn’t. Her eyes hurt, the more she tried to look into the shadows. She had no idea what was out there, and she suspected she didn’t want to know. The inky shadows were quite bad enough.

“They followed us,” Helen said. “And now they have us pinned down.”

Norris sounded panicked. “Do we even have enough food?”

“Yes,” Lady Penelope said. “The wards will fall before we run out of food.”

“How very reassuring,” Richard said. “How long do we have?”

If Lady Penelope minded his tone, she didn’t show it. “Around five-six days, at most,” she said. “The wards can be reinforced, and we will do that, but there are limits. We might manage to last longer, but …”

She let out a heavy sigh, then sipped her tea. “I’m afraid that all we can do now is face death with dignity,” she added. “Will you all please return to the table?”

Janet couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or cry. They were trapped. She could feel the shadows oozing against the wards, looking for weaknesses. It was just a matter of time before all life within the wards was snuffed out, effortlessly. And yet, Helen’s mother insisted they took tea together? It was insane …

And yet, what else could they do? They were trapped.

It was over.

Chapter Thirty-One: Lake District, Now

Helen had never felt unsafe in the manor. Not until now.

Her mother’s wrath was to be feared, of course, and her father could be stern when he could be bothered to tear his attention away from his work and pay attention to his children, but neither of her parents had struck their children, screamed at them, or generally acted like the abusive parents she’d seen in the mundane world. The manor had been safe, even for a little girl. The worst that had happened to her, as a child, was getting caught in a crawlspace and even that had been more unpleasant than hurtful. The wards had alerted her mother at once and she’d been rescued, then cautioned never to do it again. The manor had been her safe space, in so many ways …

Now, everything was different. She could feel the shadows pressing against the wards, feel them pooling inside the estate, the darkness infecting the interior and threatening to grow into a very real threat. Her mother had said nothing, as she concentrated on keeping the wards intact, but Helen was starting to wonder if they’d actually been displaced into another dimension. It wasn’t impossible … or was it? Everyone had thought Mystic Albion was another dimension, until they’d discovered it wasn’t … too late. The rogue magicians had thought so too, she reminded herself. Could they have gone looking for the impossible and actually found it? Or was she completely wrong and they were merely trapped?

She put the thought out of her mind as she strode into the makeshift workshop. Steve, Norris and Richard had been working there for the last two days, trying to find a way out of the trap. Helen wished Brains was with them and then felt guilty for wishing it … they could have used his genius, but they – she – also wanted him to live. He didn’t deserve to die with them, not caught in what Steve had called a lobster pot … the more they struggled to escape, he’d argued, the harder it became to get out. Helen didn’t like the implications and …

… She’d had an idea. But it was going to cost them. Cost her.

“We need to talk,” she said. Steve had been burying himself in his work, trying to avoid her even though they were – technically – engaged. “Now.”

“I need to finish this,” Steve said. Helen could tell her was still trying to avoid her. “If we can’t get out …”

“Come with me,” Helen repeated. She caught his hand and practically dragged him out of the room. “We must talk.”

Steve made no effort to pull away as she half-dragged him up the stairs and into her bedroom, closing and warding the door behind them. The desks were littered with books she’d taken from the library, ancient tomes her mother had forbidden her to even consider borrowing until after she’d completed her education. Some were old enough to predate the sundering … a couple dated back to the Roman Republic … one, she’d been assured, had been recovered from the ruins of Atlantis, although she wasn’t sure she believed it. If there hadn’t been so much power running through the parchment, she would have doubted it was an eldritch tome at all.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Helen said, flatly. She had no idea how to have the conversation, so she decided to be blunt and hope for the best. “Why?”

Steve said nothing. Helen cursed under her breath, a word she knew would provoke a sharp response from her mother. She didn’t understand it. They were engaged! Steve could kiss her and no one would care, as long as they were discreet about it. Or more. There’d been quite a few weddings in the family history where the date had been moved forward sharply, and no one had said anything as long as the formalities were observed. She knew Steve was attracted to her and yet … she sighed, inwardly. They were from very different cultures. For all she knew, Steve thought she should make the first move.

She met his eyes, and lowered her voice. “Why?”

“You could have killed a dozen men,” Steve said, quietly. “And you could have killed that driver.”

Helen swallowed, suddenly unsure of herself. The guards would probably be fine, once the spell wore off. She lacked the finesse – as well as the time, and the malice - to make the spell permanent. The guards would be shocked – she supposed the shock would be great, because they hadn’t expected such an experience  - but they would have captured or killed the entire gang. The driver wouldn’t have such a rough time. As far as he was concerned, no time at all would have passed …

“There was no choice,” she said, quietly. “I didn’t want to kill them and I didn’t want to risk them killing us.”

She pushed him onto the bed and sat next to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. It felt wrong to be so forward, even if they were engaged. Her heart started to pound in her chest … what would happen, she asked herself, if Steve ended the engagement? Was he … was he scared of her? It felt wrong to even consider it, but Steve had met her when she’d been a cripple – to all intents and purposes – and he’d never known, not really, just how powerful she actually was. Or how different … did he think she’d crossed a line? Her culture allowed her to act in self-defence. His took a different view of things.

“I think I did the right thing,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Do you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “And that bothers me.”

Helen stood and forced herself to pace. She’d been raised to know her marriage would be arranged, and that she and her future husband would be expected to sit down and talk – like mature human beings – about just how they intended to make the marriage work. There would be children, of course, but otherwise … they were free to be close friends as well as lovers, or live apart with other lovers, as long as the formalities were observed. Steve was from a very different world. And that meant …

“We have to talk about something else,” she said, slowly. “You do realise we’re trapped?”

“Yeah.” Steve didn’t look to have given up hope, but if there was an easy way out of the trap they’d have found it by now. Richard knew more about his brand of magic than Helen – and Norris was no slouch – yet the three magicians had only been able to confirm they were isolated, trapped in their own wards. Helen had already known that. “If the wards break …”

“We die,” Helen finished, curtly. The shadows, whatever they were, appeared to be deadly. They had tried a couple of ideas, from repelling charms to blinding light, but neither had worked. She didn’t think they’d made any impression on the shadows at all. “There’s no way to use normal magic to escape.”

She closed her eyes for a long moment. She could feel the shadows gathering on the outer edge of the wards, slowly compressing them … it was just a matter of time, she knew with a certainty that could not be denied, before something snapped or they found a weak spot, allowing them to flood into the family home. Her mother was doing what she could, but … there was no way out. Except …

“The roots of magic are symbolic,” she said, slowly. “And you can offer something up as a sacrifice, according to the laws of magic, in exchange for power.”

Steve blinked. “And this might be the key to escaping?”

Helen giggled, despite herself. “More like a keyhole,” she said. “If we can get it to work …”

She looked at him, meeting his eyes. “There are rites and rituals that have been passed down through the ages,” she said. “They’re not very common. Some can only be performed by women, others have to work perfectly the first time … and there are easier ways to get what you want, without the sacrifice. But I know how to perform the rite, at least in theory.”

Steve looked disturbed. Helen understood. It wasn't like her to dance around the topic and Steve knew it.

He spoke quietly. “Do you intend to sell your soul?”

Helen shook her head. “No,” she said. “But I intend to offer my virginity.”

“What?” Steve stared at her. “Are you mad?”

“There is a ritual that can get us out of here,” Helen said, pushing ahead to keep from staggering under the weight of her own conviction – and desperation. “It can work, if I offer up my virginity freely. But I need your help.”

Steve looked weirdly nervous. “Are you sure?”

Helen nodded. The only other men in the manor were Richard and Norris and the idea of taking either of them to her bed was unappealing. Steve was a little older too … he’d have more discipline, she hoped, than either of the younger men. Besides, neither Janet nor Marian would understand. She swallowed, hard. If she failed, the other girls would have to try … if they were virgins. She cringed at the thought of having to ask them.

“Yes,” she said. “Will you help?”

“Yes,” Steve said. She wondered, suddenly, why he wasn’t leaping at the chance. She knew he found her attractive. “I … should we use protection?”

“We can’t,” Helen said. “It has to be natural. And …”

She took a breath. “Please.”

Steve nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

Helen said nothing for a long moment, composing herself. The ritual was so raw, so closely tied to her feminine magic, to her very being, that there was no need to draw out runic circles or do anything, anything other than welcome him inside her. She centred her mind as best as she could, telling herself that she wanted him … that she was making the decision to offer up her virginity of her own free will. It wasn’t enough, part of her mind noted coldly, to break her maidenhead herself. She would still be a symbolic virgin.

She braced herself. There was a reason the ritual was frowned upon …

“Undress,” she said. It crossed her mind that she wasn’t being particularly romantic. “Just … take off your clothes. All of them.”

“How very romantic,” Steve said, dryly. He’d had the same thought. “Nothing else?”

Helen laughed, humourlessly. “Get undressed,” she said, as she ran through the rest of the instructions. Steve looked doubtful … it was a relief, she supposed, that he was so reluctant to do something that could easily hurt her, even with her full consent. They would be more careful later, she promised herself, and it would be better for both of them. “Hurry.”

She tried not to hesitate as she undressed herself, ensuring she was both symbolically and physically naked. It was harder than she’d expected to remove her underclothes, even though she could feel the ritual existing – in potential – inside her. She hadn’t been naked in front of anyone, even her dormmates, once she’d mastered the art of dressing herself. It felt as if she was crossing a line … she was, in a sense. No matter what happened, her life would never be the same again.

Steve sucked in his breath. Helen turned to look at him, catching herself a little too late. Steve was tall and lanky, neither as muscular as a farm boy or as handsome as an aristocrat. Different, very different. She tried not to look at his groin. She knew how everything worked and yet the ritual demanded a certain level of sacrifice, a certain awareness that she hadn’t wanted to give up the maidenhead just yet. She wondered, suddenly, just who had devised the ritual and why. If it wasn’t for certain details, she would have blamed it on a teenage boy …

The old joke made her smile as she sat on the bed and inched backwards, keeping her eyes on his face. Steve was staring at her, his face slack … Helen wondered, suddenly, if he had less fire in him than she’d supposed. But then, he had grown up in a place where there were girls who were grandmothers at thirty. Helen knew she was meant to have children young and yet even she wouldn’t expect to be a grandmother until she was at least in her fifties and probably in her sixties. It was sickening, all the more so because the poor girls were often abandoned by their boyfriends, left to raise their kids in a manner that would only perpetrate the cycle. Steve had had high hopes of escaping, and that meant not leaving a child behind … it spoke well of him. She had chosen well.

She centred herself again, then lay back and opened her legs. Steve’s breathing grew louder as Helen stroked ritual lines over her skin, drawing attention to her womanhood. A moment of doubt held her still – it wasn’t too late to change her mind, to find another way out – and then she looked at him, meeting his eyes. It was time.

“Now.”

Steve moved like a panther, climbing onto the bed and kneeling between her legs. It crossed her mind to wonder, too late, if he was a virgin himself. It didn’t matter for the ritual – it was her maidenhead that was being offered up – but it might make a difference if he fumbled around before going inside her. She wasn’t sure. There had never been very much research conducted into such rituals, and most related rites were closely tied to wild magic … his hands fumbled with her breasts, his fingers stroking her nipples as his lips brushed against hers, kissing her with a sudden savage intensity. She willed him to hurry as he inched closer, all too aware that time was not on their side; she felt a stab of pain as his manhood slipped into her, breaking her maidenhead with a sudden and very masculine force. He seemed to hesitate, just long enough for Helen to mentally curse him for screwing up, then started to move inside her. Helen gritted her teeth, trying her best to ignore the pain as she felt the energy build. His strokes were fanning a furnace within her, a surge of power that could easily become lethal if she lost control. She felt her blood spilling on the bedsheets, proof – as if she’d needed it – that she’d surrendered her virginity. The sensation gave her strength, allowing her to channel the power until it grew strong enough for her to cast the spell …

Her awareness expanded, her body – and his movements, within her – fading as she channelled the power. They’d been right, part of her mind noted. Their enemies had displaced them into another dimension, leaving them trapped at the mercy of something utterly inhuman. It was completely alien and yet … she had a sense, just for a second, of long tendrils reaching into the world beneath her, a sense the interdimensional barrier had already taken a beating … that it was just a matter of time before it completely collapsed.

Steve came within her. Helen took the final surge of raw power and channelled it into a single wish, undoing the spell – the very weird spell – that had trapped them. The building shook violently, light streaming through her awareness even though the curtains were firmly drawn, and then fell still. Helen crashed back into her body, suddenly very aware of Steve lying on top of her. He was surprisingly heavy, for one so lanky. The look on his face was strange, a constant shift in emotions that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable, and grimly aware he felt the same way too. He might be inside her – she could still feel him – and yet she was inside him too. And if she said the wrong thing, their relationship might never recover.

“I …” Steve shifted backwards, pulling his spent manhood out of her, and met her eyes. “Are you alright? I thought …”

Helen felt a rush of affection. She had understood what she was asking him to do … and it was lucky, in a way, that he had been reluctant to take her so quickly and roughly, without even a hint of concern for her pleasure. The other girls had talked about selfless men and selfish men and teased her, in the dorms, about Brains not being either … Steve was a selfless man who’d been asked to do something selfish, and in doing so ensure they both did something selfless.

She lifted her head and kissed him, suddenly very aware of the throbbing pain between her legs. There were charms that were supposed to help with the wedding night, but she hadn’t dared use them. Any magic, no matter how small, might have interfered with the ritual. Steve hadn’t meant to hurt her, but … she shook her head. They were safe. For the moment.

“It was very IKEA,” Steve said.

Helen gave him an odd look. It was hardly the first time he’d mentioned something she didn’t understand, and had no concept for, but … here and now, it just felt absurd. IKEA was a furniture store, wasn’t it? She’d seen one in York.

Her voice felt weak. “IKEA?”

“Next time, it’ll be better,” Steve promised her. He looked torn between the desire to do it again and the awareness Helen might have other ideas. Helen did want to do it again, after she’d healed and she had a chance to check she wasn’t already pregnant. “I …”

“I understand,” Helen said. She waved a hand at the windows, casting a spell. The curtains opened smoothly, allowing bright sunlight to stream into the room. “But right now, I think we have to move.”

Chapter Thirty-Two: York, England, Now

“You know,” Polly remarked sourly, “the guard could have been a little more gentle.”

She adjusted her clothing meaningfully. The female guard had taken her into a private room and searched her so thoroughly she’d been tempted to ask if the guard would be buying her dinner later, although there had been something about the cold and clinical examination chamber that had quelled any desire before she could give it voice. She was no stranger to secure compounds, from places that searched handbags and coats to places that confiscated everything she was carrying before she was allowed to enter, but the security measures surrounding camp seemed a little excessive. Too excessive.

Cecil Burghley didn’t seem to care. His suit looked untouched, as if his valet had helped him dress, brushed down the suit to make sure there wasn’t a single crease, and then cautioned him to walk carefully until the meeting was concluded. Polly wondered, rather sourly, if he’d been poked and prodded so thoroughly. He was the de facto dictator of the country right now – the PM seemed glad to pass the buck, no doubt expecting to use her boss as the scapegoat if things went south – and she doubted any guard would risk pushing him too far. There were plenty of ways to ruin a career without making it obvious, and magic could easily be used to make sure the victim never knew what had happened – or, worse, could never convince anyone else of the truth. She knew the Brotherhood had destroyed at least one politician through dark magic, before the merge, and she had no doubt the techniques had been refined since then. Magic was power, and no one gave up power unless he wished to give up safety too.

“It is of no concern,” he said, as they walked through the inner gate. A low hum echoed through the air, generators powering the devices that merged magic and science into an eerie whole. The nearest device looked like a Rube Goldberg machine, glowing with a faint light that made her head hurt, the moment she looked at it. “It is all the more important to keep the prisoners under control.”

Polly shot him a sharp look. The last two days had been spent transporting the prisoners to the camp, or – more accurately – supervising as the police and military did the dirty work, before handing their captives over to Cecil Burghley’s men. She understood they were in a state of emergency, she understood that normal rights had been suspended as the country grappled with an unprecedented crisis, but she couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the precedent they’d set. A government that had refused to round up known dissidents on moral grounds had crossed the line into arresting anyone who showed traces of magic, a surprisingly high number of people. It made her wonder just who else would be arrested, as Cecil Burghley tightened his grip. There were plenty of aristocrats who would happily turn the clock back to the 1900s, when the aristocracy had real power, and plenty of idiots – whose only exposure to the aristocracy was through sanitized television programs – who’d support them. The longer the state of emergency continued, the greater the temptation to make it permanent. And who knew what would happen then?

She put the thought aside as they stepped through the inner gates and looked around. She’d seen the figures, but she hadn’t realised just how big the camp was until now. The original plan had called for repurposing a set of disused army barracks, yet that plan had been replaced by a hundred tents of varying sizes surrounded by a high fence patrolled by armed guards. The camp reminded her of one of the summer camps her parents had sent her, once upon a time, in hopes she’d build a little character … there hadn’t been any armed guards, she’d thought, but otherwise they’d had an awful lot in common with the detention centre. She hadn’t enjoyed the experience and, looking at the prisoners, she was sure they weren’t enjoying the experience too.

Her heart twisted. The prisoners were largely teenagers, although there were a handful of men and women in their later years. They had all been stripped to their underwear, young men stumbling about in pants while their female counterparts wore bras and knickers. A number had clearly been beaten badly, their bodies covered with visible bruises that looked as if they wouldn’t heal in a hurry; several others, she noted with a flicker of horrified disgust, had been caught up in magical accidents. One young man looked almost inhuman, his arms ridiculously long and his legs practically dwarfish, his genitals so misshapen she had to avert her gaze as her gorge rose in her throat. She glanced at Cecil Burghley and shuddered to see a cold smile crossing his face, as if he was oddly amused by the scene.

“This is outrageous,” she managed. “Sir …”

Cecil Burghley didn’t reply. She honestly couldn’t tell if he hadn’t heard her, although there was nothing wrong with his hearing, or if he simply didn’t care. His smile was growing wider, stretching until it was almost too wide … she thought she saw, just for a second, too many teeth in his gaping maw. She blinked and the impression was gone, replaced by a stern paternalistic face that proclaimed, to all who cared to see, that everything he did was for the good of the entire country, if not the world. The impression grated on her mind. She’d known too many politicians who divided the world into children and adults, casting themselves as the adults and everyone else as the children. She had a feeling it was one of the reasons those politicians were rarely liked, and often outstayed their welcome. Very few people liked being treated like a child, and the few that did were the ones who really shouldn’t be treated as anything other than a grown adult.

She turned away, allowing her eyes to wander over the prisoners. They looked tired and broken, almost soulless. She would have expected the young men to be ogling the women – they were almost naked – and yet, most shuffled around listlessly. The women weren’t any better. A hint of deep despondency hung in the air, a tone that gnawed at her thoughts and made it hard to think. Polly tried not to feel guilty. It was one thing to lock up criminals who actually deserved it, but quite another to round up people whose only crime was discovering they had magic. How could she blame them for experimenting?

Easily, her thoughts pointed out. Some of their experiences led to tragedy.

A man hurried up to them. “Sir,” he said. Polly vaguely recognised him as the warden, a man who had supervised black prisons – holding centres that were firmly off the books, where prisoners who could never be openly acknowledged spent the rest of their short and miserable lives – before being repurposed to run the holding camp. “Would you like to join me in my office?”

“You can give your report here,” Cecil Burghley said. He was still studying the prisoners, his face unreadable. “I trust that will be possible?”

The warden hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he said. His eyes met Polly’s – briefly – and she thought she saw a hint of terror. The warden had seen the worst of the worst, terrorists so dangerous they could not be put on trial, and yet … she shuddered. The warden must’ve seen terrible things in the last few weeks, things that haunted his dreams … she wondered, suddenly, if he took pills to help him sleep. “As per your instructions, the camp was put together to hold magicians arrested under the Emergency Powers Act. We obtained supplies and suchlike …”

Cecil Burghley interrupted him. “Tell me about the prisoners.”

Polly blinked. Rudeness was never her boss’s style. But now …

The warden swallowed, then recovered his train of thought. “We currently have around three hundred prisoners, two hundred and sixty-five having demonstrated magical power after the two worlds crashed together. Their case files are open for your review if you wish. The remainder are from the other world and were arrested after the government declared a state of emergency. I should note that several resisted arrest, and additional charges of assault and battery have been filed. It will be an interesting legal case.”

“It is of no concern,” Cecil Burghley said.

“Yes, sir,” the warden said. “The prisoners have been effectively stripped, to remind them of their helplessness, and confined under heavy … ah, wards. A handful caused trouble in the first day and have been isolated in special cells; the remainder have caused no trouble beyond demanding lawyers” – his lips twisted – “and pretending to be shocked when we told them that emergency legislation empowered us to deny them legal counsel for the foreseeable future. The remainder have been very well behaved, compared to some I could mention. I think your guards are intimidating them.”

Polly shivered. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with the men Cecil Burghley had brought into the Brotherhood, but … something was wrong. They acted like monsters, tormenting young girls and boys hired for their pleasure … she had tried to bring it to her boss’s attention, after the latest set of complaints from Mam’Zelle, yet he’d dismissed the issue as unimportant. It was just … she looked up and spotted a guard on the other side of the camp. He looked … normal, and yet her instincts screamed when she looked at him. She swallowed, hard, as she looked back at her boss. He seemed unconcerned.

“Overall, we can hold the prisoners indefinitely,” the warden continued. “They’re being fed and watered, as planned, and we’re currently working on expanding the camp.”

“They are to be moved when I give the word,” Cecil Burghley said. “Do you have transport prepared?”

“Yes, sir,” the warden said. “We have secured a number of coaches, as per instructions, and prepared them for transport. When do you want to start the move?”

“My people will pick the first batch up tonight,” Cecil Burghley said. “Make sure the illegal immigrants” – Polly was sure she saw him smile at the absurdity – “are in the first group to be transported. The remainder can be made up of new magicians.”

“Yes, sir,” the warden said. “Thank you, sir.”

Cecil Burghley nodded. “Are there any other issues?”

The warden hesitated, visibly. “Sir … I brought most of my old staff with me to this post, men and women who are very aware of the importance of what we do, and the reasoning behind it. However, some are asking questions. The prisoners here are not terrorist masterminds or others who deserve to be forgotten, their bodies burned to ash and the ashes buried in unmarked graves. If they are asking questions …”

Polly nodded, inwardly. The men and women who manned the most secret and secure prisons in Britain, supervising prisoners who were too dangerous to be put in front of a jury, would understand that sometimes the law – written by people with no experience of the real world and enforced by people who had nothing at stake – had to be circumvented for the greater good. It might be legally wrong to make a known terrorist disappear, without any attempt to give him a fair trial, but morally … she found it hard to come up with a good counterargument. The guards rarely had qualms about keeping illicit prisoners – many were recruited from the relatives of people killed in terrorist attacks - and if they were asking questions, perhaps the government was crossing the line.

“You will name the complainants to my officers, when they arrive to collect the first set of prisoners,” Lord Burghley said. “They will be transferred elsewhere.”

The warden hesitated. “Sir, sir …”

Cecil Burghley fixed him with a cold gaze. “There is no room for doubt or scruple when it comes to defending the country from all enemies, foreign or domestic,” he said. It was a surprise to hear him use an American term, although a great many American expressions had crossed the Atlantic and vice versa.  “These people may look harmless, but the magic within them is incredibly dangerous. They are children, playing with matches in the middle of a minefield. If your guards are unable to handle their roles, they will be re-educated.”

His voice hardened. Polly found herself both trying to back away and yet rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. “Do I make myself clear?”

The warden’s record was impeccable. He had supervised a secret holding centre for the last five years, dealing with terrorists, criminal monsters and the downright insane, all capable of being incredibly intimidating. His record was crammed with reports of bribery, threats – direct and indirect – and a dozen other attempts to subvert him, all of which had been reported to the proper authorities; he was an unarmed combat expert as well as a sharpshooter, who had a commendation for tackling a pair of extremely dangerous terrorists with his bare hands and beating them both into a bloody pulp. He was a violent man who knew how to control his violent streak, knew how to direct it onto the enemies of his country …

… yet, he took a step backwards as his master spoke.

“Yes, sir,” he managed.

Polly swallowed, hard. She had met too many tough guys – some big and muscular, some less overtly dangerous but often more so – and she knew that humiliating them in public left them plotting their revenge, even as they took it out on their subordinates. The warden seemed too intimidated even for that … she knew he was far less of a brute than his demeanour suggested, or he wouldn’t have been promoted, but still …

“Good,” Cecil Burghley said. He took one last look at the prisoners, his eyes sweeping from face to face, then turned away. “You may show us the rest of the camp.”

Polly kept her face under tight control as the warden, still cowed, showed them around the complex. The prisoners didn’t have anything better than tents, save for the handful being kept in isolation; the guards, it seemed, had barracks that weren’t much better, she noted sourly, than the tents, although they’d have more protection if it rained. The weather had been unpredictable since the merge, with tropical rainfall – warm rain – being reported in Scotland and snow down near Portsmouth, and it had only grown worse since the disaster in Edinburgh. Apparently, it hadn’t stopped raining for the last four days.

Her heart clenched, painfully, as they walked past the isolation cells, prisoners chained to the walls in a manner that chilled her to the bone. She wanted to ask if it was necessary, but she wasn’t sure she dared. The old Cecil Burghley could have justified anything with a clever argument; the new one didn’t seem inclined to bother trying to rationalise anything, not now. She shivered, helplessly, as she spotted a prisoner who reminded her a little of herself. The young girl was sitting on the ground in her underwear, staring at nothing.

Cecil Burghley squeezed her shoulder, once they were on their way back to the car. “It would be a shame to end up somewhere like here, wouldn’t it?”

Polly swallowed, hard. Was that a threat? She was a magician, if one who had barely had any power before the merge and no time to develop anything she had afterwards. She hadn’t even realised she could experiment, despite all the reports of chaos right across the country. And yet … she looked back at the camp as the gates slammed closed behind them, a faint haze – a concealing glamour – making it hard to see what was inside. She wondered, suddenly, what had happened to the local population. Normally, the government couldn’t do anything without footage going on social media within moments …

Moved away, she guessed. Cecil Burghley had vast authority and no qualms about using it to get whatever he wanted. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d evacuated a district to make way for his own operations, and back then he’d had much less authority. He wouldn’t need to bother with a bullshit cover story this time. But … what the hell is really going on?

The thought haunted her as she clambered into the car, took her seat, and opened her laptop. She understood the dangers of magic. She understood the risks of allowing the two societies to merge without a certain degree of understanding, of control. But … she wondered, suddenly, if her boss had known what was going to happen? It was astonishing just how quickly the other cultists had been rounded up, something she would have thought impossible unless the lists had already been prepared. And now … Polly had her issues with modern society, but did they justify mass arrests and detentions? And all the other horrors she knew were waiting in the wings …?

She looked at her boss. He seemed normal and yet … she had the sudden impression, too visceral to ignore, that Cecil Burghley was gone, replaced by something else wearing his face – his body – as a mask. And that meant … she swallowed, hard. She’d sworn oaths, but those oaths were to Cecil Burghley, not to the thing wearing his face. If he wasn’t who she thought he was …

Her fingers darted over her laptop, her eyes narrowing as she forced herself to think. There was no point in emailing the media. There were government officials in every television studio and newspaper office now, ready to arrest anyone who ran a story without prior permission. The internet wasn’t much better now. The government had blocked some social media sites and was actively censoring others, as well as flooding them with disinformation and outright lies. But there was one possibility. She knew one person who might help …

And if she got caught, she reminded herself as she sent the email and then wiped her tracks as best as possible, she would be lucky if she was only thrown in the camp to die.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Lake District, Now

Norris didn’t like feeling slow and stupid.

It was frustrating, he thought sourly, to know he had awesome potential and yet be aware it was almost painfully underdeveloped. He felt like a man trapped in a realistic isekai fantasy, one where the harem of girls who fell in love with him – no matter how much a loser he’d been on his homeworld – didn’t exist and, instead, he found himself confronted with the sheer scale of his own ignorance. He knew how to use a computer, but he didn’t know how to build one from scratch; he knew, in theory, how to build a car, yet he could neither drive nor – in truth – turn his abstract knowledge into reality. There were just so many life skills he didn’t know … he wondered, once again, just what he would have become if he’d grown up in Mystic Albion. There was a lot he could do, true, but nothing really valuable. And …

He felt his mood darken as he stared at the device positioned just outside the manor. It looked like a scorpion’s tail, a weapon right out of a science-fiction movie … he guessed, from what had happened, that it had been designed to displace the manor into another dimension, but there was no way to be sure. Steve was poking and prodding at the device, inspecting how it went together, while Norris just felt useless. It didn’t help that Steve and Helen had clearly consummated their relationship. Norris didn’t really know Helen – and what little he knew he didn’t like – but he couldn’t help feeling jealous. Steve was like himself, only a thousand times better, and he’d scored with a major babe … he knew he was being silly, and yet it was so hard to convince himself when the jealously burned in his gut.

Steve didn’t betray Helen, his thoughts pointed out, darkly. You betrayed Marian.

“Take a look at this,” Steve said. “What do you make of it?”

Norris looked and tried not to show his irritation too openly. The device looked as if it had been torn from the starship Enterprise, a weird little gadget that was nothing more than a handful of lights embedded in plastic, no more capable of doing anything useful than a plastic car. It occurred to him to wonder if it was a decoy, designed to waste their time when they were trying to study the device, but there was a flicker of magic running through it. He took the box and pulled it open, sucking in his breath as he saw the interior. It was a nightmarish combination of metal and flesh, utterly creepy in a way he couldn’t put into words …

“It’s a thingy,” he said, finally. “And …”

He paused as something occurred to him. “Do they use flesh and blood to channel the magic, then tech to boost it?”

Steve shot him a brief smile. “I think so,” he said. “If there’s a point where magic and science blend together, it’s possible they found a way to simulate spellcasting …”

“Their spells are very small, compared to the others,” Norris said. “But they are very effective.”

He looked around, a sudden frisson of fear running down his spine. They’d expected to be attacked, the moment they returned to their dimension, but the land outside the manor was as empty as a teacher’s head.  The enemy had searched and destroyed the farmhouses, leaving no stone asunder, then retreated, seemingly convinced the manor would be destroyed in short order. It bothered Norris in a way he couldn’t quite put into words. Cecil Burghley was hardly the kind of man to assume he’d defeated them, and it wouldn’t have cost him anything to leave someone watching from a safe distance …

“I wish we had Brains here,” Steve said. “He was studying this crap before we knew it was a thing.”

Norris felt another stab of envy. If only he’d been the one to meet Richard, Brains and Helen. He was sure he could have been much more helpful and gone into their world as a guest rather than a spy. It would have been so much better … the envy grew, again, as he reflected on how wonderful it must have been, for Brains, to grow up in such a world. He’d had everything he needed to develop his genius, while Norris …

A thought shot thought his mind. He hesitated, feeling sure Steve would mock him, and then spoke. “Why don’t you email him?”

Steve blinked. “What?”

Norris plunged on, suddenly aware it was too late to keep his mouth shut. “He has an email address, doesn’t he? I was working with him” – he tried not to remember just how little he’d actually taught Brains, when it came to everything from small magics to computer coding – “and he had a set of laptops, as well as servers and everything else. They were talking about setting up a LAN in Gatehouse, and a Wi-Fi network, and …”

Steve made a choking sound. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Norris bit his lip, unsure what to say. If it worked, great; if it didn’t, Steve would take it out on him. Except … Steve wasn’t like that, was he? Norris had certainly never seen him mistreat Janet – she didn’t seem to have any problems being alone with her brother – and really, he’d never heard of Steve picking on anyone. But then, he was old enough to be able to chart his own path. And he wasn’t nasty …

“Give me a moment,” Steve said. “I think some of these emails remain uncompromised.”

“Oh,” Norris said. “Are you sure?”

Steve shrugged. “On one hand, the government can scan every message that passes through the country’s servers,” he said, “and a message that is obviously encoded will stand out like a beacon in the night. On the other, there are an awful lot of messages every day and as long as it doesn’t stand out, a message might go completely unnoticed.”

Norris shrugged, then took his smartphone out of his pocket and eyed it thoughtfully. He’d been careful not to register it, as well as making sure the internet connection was as a anonymous as possible, although he wasn’t sure how well that would work if the government wanted him. The police had tried to arrest him … he scowled inwardly as he opened his inbox. There was nothing, beyond spam and a single message from an email address he didn’t recognise. He scowled in self-loathing – he rarely got messages from anyone, unless they were trying to sell him something – and opened the message. His eyes went wide a second later.

“I think you need to take a look at this,” he said. Steve was taking photographs of the device and uploading them to the server … Norris guessed Steve had managed to contact Brains. “I think we have a problem.”

Steve gave him a sharp look. “You opened your fucking email inbox?”

Norris tried not to cringe. He knew that tone. It always preceded a blow.

“I thought …” Norris swallowed hard, and held out the phone. “Read the message.”

***

“The good news is that we have managed to get through to Brains,” Steve said, when they were assembled in the entrance hall. “The bad news is that the government is actively rounding up magicians. There’s at least one holding camp near York, and probably quite a few more.”

Janet sucked in her breath. Steve had been grinning like a loon an hour ago – she had a feeling she knew what he’d been doing with Helen, although she didn’t want to know – but now he was deadly serious. She’d read enough books and watched enough movies where making a phone call or sending an email was enough to bring the enemy down on their heads, and she had no idea where they’d go if they had to run again. Helen’s mother insisted the manor’s wards were stronger now, and that enemy trick wouldn’t work twice, but Janet feared the worst. Getting pinned down would be almost as bad as being arrested.

Richard squeezed her hand, then leaned forward. “Can they track the emails and phone calls?”

“It’s possible,” Steve admitted. “It depends on just how carefully they’ve locked us all down. Most of my … off-the-record addresses and accounts and suchlike shouldn’t be known to them, but an intensive data trawl could probably turn most of them up. There’d be a lot of false positives, yet … they have the resources to monitor all of them. It wouldn’t be that hard.”

He paused. “A couple of accounts do rest on secret servers, and in theory the government wouldn’t have access to them, but even they would be noticeable once the emails pass through public servers.”

Janet chewed her hair, a nervous habit she’d never been able to break. “So we have to move …?”

“We have to do something about that holding camp,” Helen said, firmly. “They’re holding our people prisoner.”

“They could also be using them as bait in a trap,” Norris countered. He sounded reluctant to say a word. Janet understood, feeling a twinge of fellow-feeling. Helen was an aristocrat – her mother even more so, while both Richard and Steve were extroverts and Marian an unknown factor … Janet and Norris didn’t have much in common, but they were both shy and reluctant to speak out when there was anyone more extroverted in the room. “I don’t know why Polly sent the email.”

Marian gave him a sharp look. “How well do you know her?”

Janet winced, inwardly. Of all the questions to ask …

Norris reddened. “I don’t,” he said. “She was Cecil Burghley’s secretary, except she wasn’t called a secretary. She was polite and professional and very distant. I don’t think she liked me or hated me. I don’t even think we exchanged more than a handful of words. And … I have no idea why she would send me the information.”

“So it could be a trap,” Richard said.

“Or she could have nowhere else to go,” Steve added. “You saw the news. Martial law has been declared. The country has been practically shut down. It’s worse than COVID out there and that’s saying something. Who else is she going to call?”

“I don’t know,” Janet temporised. She tossed the question around and around in her mind. “The Prime Minister? The King?”

“God knows,” Steve said. “I read this book once where an evil mastermind declares a state of emergency, uses it to arrest and remove his political opponents, then holds rigged elections to ensure he remains in power more or less indefinitely. If Cecil Burghley is doing the same thing …”

“This is a modern country,” Janet protested. “He can’t get away with it … can he?”

“Who’ll stop him?” Steve shook his head. “There isn’t anyone who can shut it down. The country is effectively at war. Anyone who gets in the way will be arrested first and charged later, if there is a later. The demands of wartime will keep the police or the courts or anyone from acting, until it is far too late.”

“And it will get worse,” Helen said. Janet couldn’t help noticing she was standing a little too close to Steve. “Did Brains have anything to say about the devices we found?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “He’s still unlocking the mystery, but he’s fairly sure it needs at least six poles – ah, the devices we saw after we escaped – to display something into another dimension. The shift isn’t permanent either … from what he said, we would have returned to this world in a couple of weeks anyway.”

“After we had all been swallowed by the shadows,” Helen said. “My mother was very clear we were on the verge of losing everything.”

“Quite,” Steve agreed. He paused. “Do we try to do something about the prisoners? Or do we do something else?”

“If it isn’t a trap, we need to save them,” Norris said. “But …”

He hesitated. Steve gave him an encouraging smile. “Go on.”

“Cecil Burghley is possessed, right?” Norris spoke with utter certainty. “His goons are possessed too. If … if you need some trace of magic to be possessed, why not possess the prisoners? It would be an easy way to get reinforcements for himself while denying us additional magicians. In fact, if possessing them means they get access to their memories, possessing people from Mystic Albion will give him far greater understanding of magic … right?”

Helen looked unconvinced. “For someone to be possessed, they have to let the possessor in.”

“They could be tricked into lowering their guard,” Norris said. “Or there might be a loophole in the rules, one he’s mercilessly exploiting. Or …”

He looked down. “It just makes no sense, if it isn’t a trap. The enemy isn’t stupid. What are we missing?”

Steve frowned. “They might not have gotten around to possessing them yet …”

Norris shook his head. “They tried to possess me and Marian on the spot,” he said. “They didn’t waste their time with any sort of ceremony or torture or anything, they just tried to shove their tendrils into my mind. Our minds.”

“You did interrupt the possession,” Marian pointed out. “They could have interpreted your resistance as a way of saying no, which they had to honour.”

“How very civilised,” Janet said, sarcastically. She’d met young men who argued, apparently seriously, that any show of resistance from the girl they were trying to get into bed was a sign she wanted them and they should keep going. How strange that an extradimensional creature – or whatever had possessed Cecil Burghley – should be more decent than such boys. “If that is true …”

Richard leaned forward. “If this is a trap, we should stay away,” he said. “But where else can we go?”

“Gatehouse is surrounded,” Helen said. “The towns and cities are surrounded. The hamlets and isolated manors have fallen, or are falling even as we speak. It is just a matter of time before they put the boot in, unless we do something to distract them.”

Janet shook her head, feeling a sudden wave of despondency. She’d intended to go to Gatehouse and study magic. Steve had intended to introduce magic and turn himself into the magical Bill Gates. Now … the mundane world was waging war on the magical, taking a thing of wonder and joy and crushing the life out of it, turning magic into something … mundane. Steve had told her the internet had been fantastic, before it became commodified and turned into a giant marketplace. The thought of magic going the same way made her want to cry. Would they put dragons in zoos, fairy creatures in natural preserves … sell magic, fifty pounds for a single spell? Or … would they just keep it for themselves?

“There are things we can do,” Helen added. “If we go now, we can survey the camp from a distance and determine if it’s a trap.”

“And if it is, we back off,” Richard said. “There’s only a handful of us.”

“Agreed,” Helen said. “I’ll show you some of the things we have here.”

Janet started to follow them, only to be caught by Steve. “You should probably take a good look at this,” he said, holding out his laptop. “You understand the lingo a little better.”

“Richard does it better,” Janet said. She looked up as Norris and Marian left the room. It was odd … Marian’s behaviour didn’t make sense, not given the history she shared with Norris. She owed him her life and sanity, true, but he’d also mistreated her quite badly. “Is this a mistake?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “But I think we have to leave the manor, and fast.”

Janet nodded. She felt out of place, but … that wasn’t the real problem. Someone would realise, sooner or later, that they’d escaped the trap, and that someone would do something incredibly drastic in response. Helen had bragged of the manor’s wards, but they hadn’t kept the enemy from tossing them into another dimension and no one knew how well they’d stand up to a missile strike. Mystic Albion didn’t have aircraft and missiles. They had no way to test their wards against cruise missiles designed to take out apartment blocks or concrete bunkers. For all they knew, the missile was already on the way.

“Yeah,” she said. She met his eyes. Steve seemed oddly bothered by something. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Steve echoed. “No. I’m not sure.”

He paused. “You know what we did?”

Janet flushed. “You and Helen had sex?”

“Sort of,” Steve told her. His face was red too. “Ritual sex. And it felt … weird.”

“Oh.” Janet wasn’t sure what to say. They had always been close, but there were limits. “Does that bother you?”

“I’m not sure,” Steve said. “I … part of me is grateful she trusted me to help her, part of me feels it lacked a certain something. Does that make sense?”

Janet had no answer. She was a virgin herself. She didn’t have any experience beyond kissing and groping and even that had been more fumbling than anything else. The whole idea of ritual sex struck her as odd, perhaps nothing more than an excuse to have kinky intercourse without making it seem weird. Or …

“I don’t know,” she said. “If you want to talk about it …?”

Steve grinned. “Find someone else?”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Janet said. She had no idea who Steve could talk to. Richard wouldn’t be a great choice and Norris would be even worse. Helen’s mum …? Janet was mildly surprised the formidable woman hadn’t turned Steve into a toad, never mind that the whole affair had been Helen’s idea. “But yeah.”

“You’re all heart.” Steve stuck out his tongue at her. “Go get ready. We might have to leave in a hurry.”

Chapter Thirty-Four: York, England, Now

Helen felt cold, despite the spells wrapped around her, as she steered the broomstick through the dark sky.

Steve had told her, and she’d had no reason to doubt him, of the devastation wrecked on the tenant farmers, but she hadn’t truly believed it until she saw it with her own two eyes. The bastards hadn’t been satisfied with effectively destroying the mansion, sentencing her and the rest of the inhabitants to death … no, they’d arrested the farmers, whose only crime had been living too close to the mansion, and wiped out their family properties in a ruthless display of pure spite. Helen had tried a handful of spells to determine what had happened to the farmers, whose families had been pledged to hers for hundreds of years, but they’d all come up blank. She hadn’t even been able to tell if they were alive …

There weren’t any bodies, she thought, grimly. But what does that prove?

Helen scowled, suddenly understanding just how Janet and Steve must have felt when they’d been confronted with magic for the first time. She had felt the same way, in a sense, when she’d found herself in the mundane world, yet … it was different. She understood magic and her friends understood technology, but the combination of magic and science scared her to the bone. Norris had done things that should have been impossible – Helen knew she couldn’t have burgled a teacher’s officer, and the only reason Norris’s raids had even been noticed was because Brains was very aware of where each and every last piece of paper rested on his desks – and Helen refused to believe her relative would be fool enough to teach Norris everything about magic. Norris was a weakling at heart, lacking the courage of his convictions – in a sense, he even lacked convictions – and it made him unreliable. She supposed it explained why her relative had made use of Norris2. A young man so dangerously unreliable needed a quiet watchdog to keep an eye on him, and to take over when his weaknesses finally got the better of him. In hindsight, perhaps he should have expected it …

She pushed the thought aside as she checked the web of spells covering the broomsticks. They’d put some of the dangerously advanced and subtle spells into the weave, ensuring the broomsticks could not be tracked by radar … although there was an open question about other ways to track them. Did Cecil Burghley have something else up his sleeve? Helen knew they had a duty to free the prisoners, but she also feared it was a trap. Her relative was a Burghley, after all, and he’d demonstrated so many of the family’s traits she feared he had them all. Leaving the camp in the open was remarkably lax, suspiciously so. No matter how she looked at it, it just didn’t make sense.

Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the distant city. York was half-hidden in darkness, the eternal light pollution almost completely absent. She’d seen cars on the streets the last time she’d flown over the city, and trains making their way through the station, but now there were only a handful of moving cars, the flashing blue lights suggesting they were police vehicles. A nasty tension hung in the air, as if something was waiting to happen. The massive shape of Gatehouse was lost within the shadows, isolated from the rest of the city. She wondered, suddenly, if they were trying to toss the school into another dimension too. Or if they already had.

We wouldn’t be able to email Brains if they had, she told herself. The school is safe. Just isolated.

She felt the cold air shift against her as she glided west, towards the holding camp. It was brightly lit, spotlights pulsing so brightly she feared the light would be visible even through the tents. She told herself to be grateful. The lights were so bright that anyone on the ground would have no night vision at all, while if they tried to overcome it through spells they’d be blinded due to the sheer intensity of the light surrounding them. Her senses twanged unpleasantly as she felt out the strange wards surrounding the camp, dampening wards so powerful and yet so subtle that even looking at them made her uneasy. She shuddered, unable to imagine what it must be like to be an inmate, to spend her days with a slimy wet blanket –she hoped only metaphorically – pressing down on her mind. It would be ghastly …

The smartphone in her pocket pulsed once. Helen braced herself, half expecting a swarm of curses – and bullets, and missiles – to come blasting at her. Steve and Norris – and Brains – had sworn blind the smartphone sensor was passive, ensuring it couldn’t be detected, but magic was tricky. Helen knew spells to catch people spying on her, even from a safe distance, and she dared not assume the enemy didn’t. Steve had gone on and on about something called quantum principles, and how the observer affected the observed even if the observed didn’t realise he was being observed, and it was quite chilling to realise the enemy might have mastered such spells long ago. If they were wrong … she breathed a sigh of relief as nothing happened. They were safe. For now.

She glided back to the others, holding position just above a patch of woodland. Norris looked pale and wan in the half-darkness, the others grim and determined. Helen wished there had been more time to give Norris a proper flying lesson – neither he nor Marian had taken the opportunity to learn – but they had to make do with what they had. Steve took the smartphone and checked it, his eyes glinting with delight as he held it up. The pattern on the display meant nothing to her.

“Six-pointed star.” Steve explained. “That’s the … ah, ward-generating thingies.”

“We have to work on your technobabble.” Norris sounded like he was trying desperately to think of something – anything – other than the fact he was hovering thirty metres above the ground, on a broomstick that was thinner than … Helen bit off that thought very quickly. “You could call it a Scorpion.”

“It will do,” Helen said. Now Steve had pointed it out, she could see the six generators emplaced around the camp. The waves of power pulsing around them were strange; individually, they weren’t that dangerous, but collectively they were almost impossibly strong. She had a sudden mental impression of an infinity of ants pushing a massive boulder up a hill. An ant couldn’t move a stone on its own, but if they all worked together …? “Are you ready?”

“The barrels are ready,” Steve said. “Are you?”

Helen nodded, stiffly. There weren’t that many guards surrounding the camp, but as long as the prisoners didn’t have access to their magic it wouldn’t matter. They couldn’t tear down the fence and even if they did, the guards had enough guns to shoot down the prisoners before they could escape. Her lips twisted in disgust. The guards were treating the helpless prisoners like Sinisters, as if they were too scared to risk moving them for fear of what they might do. It looked as if the guards had less confidence in their own security than they should. If she’d been inside the camp, she would have been trapped too.

“Let’s go,” she said.

She levitated the first barrel into the air, then added the rest one by one. The enemy leadership had a great deal of confidence in their wards; she had to admit that, normally, their confidence would’ve been fully justified. The wards would snuff out any hostile spell before it could touch the Scorpions and there was no reason, normally, for anyone to expect attacks with actual military-grade weapons. Steve had told her there were more guns in private hands than anyone knew, but missiles and other such weapons were vanishingly rare outside the military. There was certainly no reason to expect the defenders to have antimissile weapons, or the time they’d need to deploy them …

“Remember to go in hard,” she said, as she braced herself. “A bullet can kill you as easily as a killing curse.”

She turned away, then rose higher and launched the first barrel. It was a purely ballistic weapon, completely mundane save for the charm she’d used to make sure it wasn’t detected by radar, and practically invisible in the night sky until it struck its target. A brilliant flash of light, followed by a fireball, rose up, followed rapidly by a shimmering wave of unstable magic. Helen thought, for a horrified moment, that it was an attack, then realised it was too unfocused to be anything other than a rapidly destabilising magic field. A normal ward would try to compensate for the sudden loss of a single anchor point; she had no idea how the mundane generators would react, but she suspected they’d try to do the same as quickly as possible. She aimed the remaining barrels, taking out the generators.

The magic field flickered one final time, then died. The spotlights died a moment later. And all hell broke loose.

***

Richard would have been happier if Janet had remained behind, rather than coming to support him, but she was the only person who could. Helen had to drop the barrels – she was the best flyer in the group – while the remainder simply didn’t have anything like enough experience. He had no idea why Norris had declined to learn to fly, when he’d had a chance, but there was no point in crying over spilt milk. They were already dangerously short of time.

He flew forward, one hand firmly gripping the broomstick while the other cast a series of spells. The guards would have guns, he was sure, and the prisoners wouldn’t … it was probably the best way to tell the difference between the two sides in the semi-darkness. The spotlights were gone … he muttered a quick night-vision spell on his right eye – if the spotlights came back, that eye would go blind for far too long – and flew closer, watching in delight as the guards were tracked down and stunned by his spells. A faint light appeared inside the camp, rapidly growing to an eerie crescendo as the prisoners realised their powers had returned. Richard had planned to blast the fence from high above, freeing the prisoners so they could run, but it didn’t look as if he needed to bother. The fence was coming to life, tearing itself free of the hard concrete ground, and shredding the remainder of the camp effortlessly. Richard hoped no one would be killed, even the guards, although he feared the worst. Killing someone could easily leave a stain on the victim’s soul.

Someone shouted, standing on top of the barracks. Richard looked down, just in time to see the man start to roar a spell in rather mangled Latin. He didn’t recognise the words – the caster’s accent was terrible, so bad Richard wasn’t sure it was Latin – but they didn’t sound pleasant. A blast of raw magic lanced towards him, threatening to smash him into the ground. Richard modified his wards hastily, defecting the magic before it could do more than light up the sky. Janet struck a moment later, sending the man crumpling backwards. His form melted into an earthworm as he hit the ground, leaving him helpless until the spell wore off. Richard felt a twinge of envy – he wished magic came to him so effortlessly – and pushed it aside as he dropped into the barracks. A man sat at a desk, drinking heavily. Richard slammed a spell into his chest, sending him flying over backwards. It was hard not to feel a twinge of contempt. There was nothing to be gained from trying to lose yourself in alcohol, or so his father had said. You just woke up with a hangover. And you still had to deal with the problem that had driven you to death in the first place.

He slotted the USB dongle into the man’s laptop and tapped his smartphone, sending a message to Brains. If they’d programmed it properly, Brains would be able to access the secure network remotely and download everything into the servers at Gatehouse. If … Steve hadn’t been sure, pointing out the enemy had had plenty of time to secure their computers against magic-aided hackers, as well as being wary of putting everything on the net, but there weren’t many other options. Richard let it run and turned his attention to the papers on the desk. They told a grim story. A number of prisoners had been transferred only a few hours ago, a handful of guards reassigned to other duties, a collection of notations that made absolutely no sense to him …

A hand grabbed his neck and sneezed, tightly enough to nearly choke him. “You start to cast a spell and I’ll snap your fucking neck,” a voice growled. “Got it?”

Richard could barely move. He knew he was strong – he’d grown up on a farm – and yet the man holding him was stronger, his fingers digging into Richard’s neck to keep him still. The man had been behind him … no, it was the man Richard had thought he’d stunned. His breath stank of alcohol. Richard tried to think of a plan, but the man seemed to be reading his thoughts, adjusting his grip to ensure Richard couldn’t compose himself enough to cast a spell. He hadn’t been so effortlessly beaten – not physically – since he’d been a little boy, when a much bigger cousin had picked him up one handed. The man holding him now was actually shorter. It didn’t seem to make any difference.

“Stupid witch,” the man growled. He definitely sounded drunk, although not drunk enough. “You think I can’t kill you?”

Richard gritted his teeth, despite the pain. It was very difficult to take a Sinister into custody. They were just too dangerous. The Knights often had to kill them in cold blood, despite the risks. The man holding him might feel the same way too. If Richard could move his hands …

He froze, magic snapping around him. His captor froze too. Richard felt him shifting a moment later, his body crashing to the floor, before he found himself suddenly able to move again. Janet stood behind him, her face pale. Richard wondered, suddenly, just how their captor would feel, when he realised he’d been beaten by a teenage girl. It wasn’t uncommon in Mystic Albion – Richard knew how many times Helen had bested him – but here? Their captor would probably have to change his name, as well as his job, to escape the taunts.

“Thanks,” he said. He scooped up the remaining papers, then risked a glance at his smartphone. Brains was still working … they’d leave the USB stick in place, hoping they’d have time to download everything before the clean-up crew realised what had happened and remove it. “We’d better go.”

He shoved the papers in his pocket, then mounted his broomstick and threw himself into the sky. The camp had rapidly turned into a nightmare, some of the former prisoners fleeing into the night while others were cursing their former tormentors, transfiguring them into animals or warping them into horrors that would make anyone blanch. Richard couldn’t hear sirens in the distance – they were quite some distance from York – but he was fairly sure the police and the army were already on their way. Helen was bellowing orders, her amplified voice cutting through the night air, yet not everyone seemed inclined to listen. Richard would have been amused if it hadn’t been so deadly serious.

“IF YOU WANT TO FIGHT, COME WITH US,” Helen bellowed. “IF YOU WANT TO RUN, RUN NOW. IF YOU WANT TO STAY, STAY. CHOOSE NOW!”

Janet hovered up beside him. “Not all are coming.”

Richard shrugged. Some would want to go back home. Some would want to strike out on their own. Some might even think they deserved to be in jail. Who knew? Raw power was spiralling out of control around them, flickers of dangerously powerful magic that threatened to draw more attention than they wanted – or needed. He thought he saw shapes within the darkness, hints that all was not well …

“We can’t force them to come,” he said. The fires were dying now, leaving the camp in ruins. There was no time to push the matter any further. “If they come with us …”

He shook his head as he – finally – heard sirens in the distance. The noise seemed to decide the issue for most of the prisoners, who either joined the group or fled. Richard snapped orders, directing them away from the camp as fast as possible. They’d worked hard to hide their base, and he thought no one would expect them to go into the city, but there was no way to be sure. Brains had worked out ways to hide from the enemy spells, yet … the enemy had had years to refine their techniques. There was simply no way to be sure.

Helen shouted a final command, then flew into the darkness, keeping low so the rest of the freed prisoners could follow. Richard climbed high, spotting the line of cars roaring towards the ruined camp. The lead vehicles were police, blue lights flashing in the night, but the remainder were unmarked. He extended his senses towards them and felt … something … that made him want to retch. Something scratched at the edges of his mind, something so ghastly he nearly lost control of the broom. He’d wondered, deep inside, if Norris had been wrong, when he’d insisted the enemy were possessed …

He knew, now, that they were.

And not by anything remotely human.

Chapter Thirty-Five: York, England, Now

The warehouse was so old and dusty even the druggies gave it a wide berth.

Janet felt grimy as she landed the broomstick, mentally checking the spells that were supposed to hide the warehouse from unfriendly eyes, or – more accurately – convince them there was no reason to take a closer look at the building, let alone search it to make sure it was empty. The spells nagged at her, odious in intent even though they were supposed to be on her side; she found it hard, very hard, to tolerate their existence although she knew there was little choice. Their enemies would be searching for them soon, if they weren’t already, and she dared not assume they’d overlook the warehouse if it wasn’t heavily warded. They might have overdone it. The wards were impossible for a person lacking magic to sense – a muggle, her mind whispered darkly – but there was no way to be sure they couldn’t be sensed by a rogue magician.

She took a breath and nearly choked. Dust hung in the air, so heavy she wondered – for an awful moment – if they’d been found out, their enemies pumping gas into the warehouse rather than trying to confront them. The place belonged to a wealthy corporation, she supposed, and the distant owners would pitch a fit if the police stormed it – doing immense damage in the process – or the military dropped a bomb on it from a safe distance. She recalled The Midwich Cuckoos – the book, not the ghastly modern series – and shuddered. It was quite possible the military would bomb them, rather than risk engaging a number of magicians. And then …

“Janet?” Janet looked up as someone spoke. “Is that you?”

Janet blinked. It took her a moment to place the face; Alice, a black girl who had been one of Annabelle’s friends … it felt like a lifetime ago. She should have understood what it was like to be different, Janet thought with a twinge of the old resentment, but instead she’d been a social butterfly, a mean girl who boosted her position by putting everyone else down. She’d been pretty, once upon a time, but now she looked as though she’d been through hell. Her face was thin, a nasty bruise visible on her cheek, and her clothes hung limply on her body, suggesting she’d been deliberately kept hungry. She hadn’t had much weight to lose either, Janet conceded sourly. Annabelle's crowd had worked hard to keep their weight as low as possible, fearing the taunts they’d face if they put on so much as a single ounce of visible weight.

“Yeah,” she said, finally. Once, Alice’s barbs would have hurt; now, she had too many other problems to worry about. Besides, she had magic. She could turn Alice into a slug if the other girl reverted to her bullying ways. “What happened to you?”

“They caught us after you left,” Alice said. “I don’t know what happened to the others, but they just moved me from cell to cell until finally dumping me in the camp.”

“Ouch.” Janet wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to Annabelle. Her false friend had been studying magic, and she had helped free Richard and reopen the gate, but afterwards …. Janet had hoped Annabelle was fine. Her father had been the richest man on the estate and he could’ve easily gotten her away before the police – and the rogue magicians – came calling. “As long as you behave yourself, you’ll be fine here.”

She turned away, deliberately. Alice might not have been as obnoxious as some of the other mean girls, but Janet had no intention of letting Alice get too close, at least until she’d proven she could be trusted. She’d learnt that lesson with Annabelle … although, part of her mind pointed out, if she hadn’t let Annabelle dupe her into spending a night in St. Champions, she would never have met Richard and the rest. There was no time to worry about it now. Helen and Steve were already calling for attention.

“Norris will take care of you,” she said, with a hint of malice of her own. Norris had been even less popular than she’d been, before the world turned upside down. It would be an interesting test to see how Alice reacted to him, and Marian. “I have to deal with the others.”

Steve nodded to her as she joined the small crowd, seated around a laptop. The warehouse, for whatever reason, was linked to the internet, allowing Steve to make a video call without drawing the police down on their heads. Janet hoped … Steve was smart, a genius where computers were concerned, but his education hadn’t been much better than hers and she was painfully aware there were a lot of gaps in her knowledge. It was quite possible the cutting edge of computer tech was light-years ahead of him, rendering his precautions as useless as a child covering his eyes and insisting no one else could see him. Or that the combination of magic and science would track them down, eventually. Janet hoped for the best and feared the worst.

Brains looked out of the laptop screen, face grim. Janet felt a frisson of alarm. Brains rarely – very rarely – let anything bother him. The only time she’d seen him really agitated had been when someone, later discovered to be Norris, had broken into his bedchamber and gone poking through his papers. And, she supposed, when he’d worked out the truth underpinning the magical world …

“The good news is that we were able to copy a great deal of data into our servers before someone pulled the plug,” Brains said. His voice was as calm as always, but Janet felt Richard stiffen beside her. “The bad news is that I think I know what they’re really trying to do. And that our enemies aren’t remotely human.”

Norris snorted. “We knew that long ago.”

Brains ignored him. “The enemy does not appear to have been cracking down on all magical rituals,” he continued. “They have actually been encouraging magicians who have tried to summon entities from beyond, using spells that cannot fail to weaken the walls between dimensions. The merger between the two worlds – technically, the unfolding of the magical world into the mundane – cannot have made those walls any stronger, not least because of the number of supernatural beings with ties to higher dimensions. I suspect the reopening of the gate started this process and it was then made worse – deliberately or not – by the latter gates and finally the merge itself.”

“And tossing Burghley Manor into another dimension,” Helen noted. “That cannot have made things any better.”

“No,” Brains agreed. “Janie” – he nodded to someone off-screen – “has been quite helpful in tracking down reports of supernatural encounters. They’ve been getting more noticeable – and worse – in places where the interdimensional walls were already thinning, even before the merge. It is difficult to be sure – my sensor was never designed for this – but my guess is that the merge allowed something to access our realm, then bring in parts of itself from its home dimension.”

Richard leaned forward. “I see, I think,” he said. Janet wished she did. “The greater the mass it brings into our world, the greater the danger.”

“Yes,” Brains said. “The enemy appears to be very interested in Gatehouse. They’ve manipulated the fabric of our dimension to trap us inside the school … I suspect it is because Gatehouse is the original gate, a place where reality is so thin it can be torn right open.”

“I see,” Helen said, slowly. “If that is the case … what is the point? It’s insane!”

Brains said nothing for a long moment. “If reality was torn right open, it would be incredibly – totally – destructive to us,” he said. “But to an entity that rested in the higher dimensions, it would be … nothing. It might not even rise to the level of stepping on ants. It could reshape our local reality as it pleased, heedless of whatever damage it did to us … it might be so alien, so different, that direct contact would kill us, while it doesn’t even notice our presence. There are old stories about such things …”

“Eat souls,” Norris said, suddenly. “That’s what it tried to do to us. Eat our souls and turn our bodies into puppets.”

“But you can’t possess someone without their consent,” Helen protested. “It can’t be done!”

“The rules can be rewritten,” Brains said. “Or the original possessor might have symbolic authority over his subordinates and can thus grant permission for them to be possessed. Or … it might not be possession in the conventional sense of the word. We may never know.”

He paused. “If my readings are accurate, each possession helps weaken the fabric of reality still further. My guess is that the possessed serve as tools to channel the shift in reality, shaping everything to suit the unseen master. And …”

Norris interrupted. “If they need more possessed slaves, and those slaves need magic,” he said, “why not try to possess the prisoners?”

“I’m getting to that,” Brains said. “A sacrifice grants vast power. We know that to be true. I suspect they have been moving some of the prisoners to Gatehouse to use them as fuel for their sacrifice, to provide the energy they need to open a really big tear in the fabric of reality and … and … I don’t know what the entity has in mind, but it will be utterly destructive to us.”

Janet swallowed. “I don’t understand …”

Richard spoke with quiet intensity. “Imagine you have a sheet of flexible plastic,” he said. “You put a heavy weight on that plastic and it” – he hesitated, searching for words – “leaves an impression on the plastic, but it doesn’t actually tear a hole. But … if you press a pencil against the plastic and push down, the sharp tip does punch a hole; if you keep pressing down, that hole gets wider …”

“And if you put a heavy weight on an already weakened piece of plastic, that weight might fall through and crash to the ground,” Norris put in. “You’re talking about a black hole, right?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Brains said. “The math is very simple. If they tear a hole at Gatehouse, they could tear open all of reality.”

He paused. “We overlooked something. And it is going to hurt us.”

Richard’s grip tightened on Janet’s hand. “What?”

“What happened to St. Champions?” Brains leaned forward. “The merge put Gatehouse on top of St. Champions, and we assumed the old school had been crushed into dust, but we might have been wrong. The old school is currently part of the gate’s … ah, super-structure … it’s the pencil, as Richard said, that is widening the gap in reality. And if they carry out the sacrifice there …”

“We’re dead,” Norris said.

“Or we will be wishing we were,” Helen added.

Janet shivered. She couldn’t follow the equations – they were light-years beyond her – and the explanation had left her more confused than ever before, but she’d met the Fae. She’d read stories about the games they played with humans who fell into their realm, their blue and orange morality that allowed them to perform acts of astonishing kindness and atrocities of staggering cruelty with an unpredictability that terrified her. And, if the stories were accurate, the Fae were practically human compared to some of the distant beings from the higher realms. They were so different that there were simply no points of comparison.

Helen swallowed. “How …? How is this even possible?”

“I have a theory,” Brains said. “Tell me … who, or what, made the bargain with Anne Boleyn? And why?”

“I thought no one knew,” Janet said.

“No one does,” Brains said. His face darkened. “It would have had to have been a being a great power, but such an entity would hardly be likely to involve itself in our affairs … not unless it got something in return, something worthy of the effort. It told Anne that she had to bear the king’s child … the king’s legitimate child. The symbolic ruler of the realm could give the entity permission to open the gates, to fold space and time to create what looked like an alternate universe … it can’t be a coincidence that the gates started to close after Elizabeth’s death. She was no longer monarch and her successor knew nothing of the deal.

“But folding space allowed it to concentrate a great deal of magic in one spot. It also forced the left-behind magicians to concentrate on developing spells that used little magic, as well as ensuring most of the population forgot the dangers of meddling with magics. How many old traditions were forgotten, because they were no longer needed? And now, with the return of magic and all sorts of dangerous spells being used because the dangers have been forgotten, perhaps the entity is finally ready to claim its reward. Us. An entire realm at the mercy of a mad god.”

Norris swallowed, audibly. “How do we fight something like that?”

“We stop the sacrifice,” Richard said, flatly. The iron determination in his voice made Janet’s heart skip a beat. “And that means we need to get back to Gatehouse, get into St. Champions, and stop it.”

“There may be ways to turn their own spells against them,” Brains said. “I’ve had some ideas, but … you’d need to be back here. Helen, in particular. We’ll need a Burghley.”

“Getting there will be difficult,” Norris said. “If the school is surrounded …”

“We got out of one alternate dimension,” Janet said. “Can’t we do the same trick twice?”

Helen made a sound that suggested she couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or cry. “It won’t work twice,” she said. “Believe me, it won’t.”

Steve was as red as a tomato. “No,” he said. Janet hadn’t seen him so embarrassed since she’d caught him watching porn, two years ago. “It won’t …”

“We did find ways to channel magic into spells,” Norris reminded them. “Cecil Burghley did manage to open a gate into Mystic Albion, and certainly planned another. We could do the same.”

“It’s possible,” Brains said. “How many magicians do you have?”

“We got forty-seven out of the camp,” Steve said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Janet tried not to roll her eyes as Brains, Norris and Steve started to talk in technobabble, their language so obscure she rapidly lost track of what they were saying. Helen listened carefully, adding a comment from time to time, although Janet had a feeling Helen was nearly as lost as Janet was. Norris was smiling broadly as he talked, despite the literally unimaginable stakes. Janet understood, better than she cared to admit. Norris had been so alone for so long that it was no wonder that Cecil Burghley had been able to snare him in his web, to offer him something he craved in exchange for his service. Janet wanted to condemn Norris, but she couldn’t. She’d let Annabelle make a fool of her because she’d been so desperate to resume their old friendship. Norris hadn’t even had that.

Richard stepped up to her. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Janet said. She knew what was at stake, but she found it hard to believe it. The sheer scale of the impending disaster was just too big. She’d had trouble wrapping her head around the Edinburgh catastrophe and that had ‘only’ killed a few tens of thousands … this one threatened everything. She could barely grasp the concept of Britain, let alone the rest of the world. “Are you?”

“It’s something we can handle, I think,” Richard said. His lips quirked. “Of course, I could be being optimistic.”

“Keep being optimistic,” Janet told him. She needed to hear his confidence, no matter how ill-judged it seemed. “Why … has this ever happened before?”

Richard shrugged. “There have always been stories,” he said. “People who wandered into the higher realms, following paths that lead straight into the high-magic zones and don’t come out again, or reappear hundreds of years after – or before – they left. Whispers of entities so different they cannot be understood, disasters on scales beyond our imagination … there was a person, when I was a boy, who claimed to have seen visions of an impossible future. If anyone knows the truth, they never shared it with me. I don’t know if any of the Princesses ever took it seriously. They might have …”

He shook his head. “The multiverse is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine.”

Janet nodded, slowly. She’d seen the Fae. She’d watched their paths leading into the unknown … it was strange to imagine that someone might return home before they left, if they were lucky, but when space and time had been folded up anything was possible. The sheer immensity of the deed, the creation of Mystic Albion, was staggering … she didn’t want to think about what sort of being could do something like that. A god …? Someone – she forgot who – had written a story about tiny humans being trapped in a model town and used for experiments … the bad guys, if she recalled correctly, had wanted to test out their advertising techniques on a captive audience. The sheer mundane aspect of the motive had added an extra degree of horror.

“We can’t fight a god,” she said. She had never been a fighter … and how did she fight a god? It was impossible. “Can we?”

“Perhaps not,” Richard said. He leaned forward, until his lips were brushing against her ear. “But I do have an idea.”

Chapter Thirty-Six: York, England, Now

“It’s good to see you again,” Alice said. Helen had no trouble remembering her name. Her mother had drilled her until she knew everyone who was anyone, as well as a great many others, and besides … Alice was the first dark-skinned person Helen had ever met. “Is this safe …?”

Helen sighed, inwardly. “No,” she said. The idea of getting all the magicians together, chanting a spell to open a portal between the warehouse and the school, was incredibly risky. Brains had checked and rechecked the math – Helen had insisted on it, after the original portals had collapsed during the merge – but the sheer level of power they were going to be channelling was dangerous in its own right, especially if they were detected by the enemy … or, she admitted sourly, their efforts somehow added to the thinning of reality itself. “If you want to leave, leave now.”

She felt a twinge of guilt as the other girl flinched. They didn’t have time to drive to Gatehouse and besides, they’d probably be unable to get in. The school hadn’t been tossed into another dimension, but the combination of folded dimensional walls and a small army camped outside made it impossible to get anywhere near the school. Helen didn’t pretend to understand the math. All she really needed to know was that one could walk to the school and keep walking, for hours upon hours, without reaching the destination. The distance they had to cross was both tiny and infinite in size.

Clever, she acknowledged sourly. They get to make use of the gate while depriving us of access to Gatehouse.

She took a breath. “Richard, you, Steve and Janet are going to go in first,” she said, as they drew the lines on the dusty floor. They’d swept as best as they could, but the dust had come creeping back. “Norris, you and Marian are to go in next. The rest of us will follow.”

Steve hesitated, noticeably. Helen gave him a sharp look. They might have consummated their relationship, in a manner that effectively made them a married couple, but … she didn’t need him trying to protect her. The very thought was absurd. She had more power in her little finger than he had in his entire body … she bit her lip, telling herself that Steve was far more important to their struggle than she was. He understood how to combine magic and science in a way she couldn’t match …

“Go,” she said. “If we’re cut off” – she indicated the laptop, still connected to Gatehouse – “we’ll be in touch.”

She raised her voice and addressed the remainder of the former prisoners. “You know what to do,” she said. She was a Burghley, and command was in her blood. “If any of you want to back out, this is your last chance. The door is over there. If you remain, you are committed.”

The words hung in the air. Once started, it was incredibly dangerous to refuse to finish a rite. She would have preferred to sacrifice her virginity again, rather than rely on untrained ritualists, but that was obviously impossible. She had considered – seriously considered – asking Janet or Marian if they would make the same trade, yet anything resembling pressure could undermine the rite and render it worthless, or worse. Something as precious as one’s virginity could only be offered freely … she recalled reading an assertion by a long-dead relative that a rape victim was still a virgin, because she hadn’t had sex willingly. It sounded like nonsense to her. The relative in question hadn’t quite become a Sinister, but he’d been edging towards the line before blowing himself up in a terrible accident. His home had been destroyed, leaving behind a dark patch upon which nothing would ever grow again … she wondered, suddenly, where that patch was in the merged world, and just how many problems it would cause if someone stumbled across it.

She shook her head, pushing the thought aside as she surveyed the room. Thirty-two former prisoners remained, dressed in their underclothes. Helen told herself they should be grateful the rite didn’t call for nudity. That would have been bad, for all sorts of reasons … she put that thought aside too and motioned for the first three to step into the inner circle, then gestured for everyone else to take their places too. Her heart started to beat faster as she gathered herself. The rite was surprisingly simple, but in her experience that meant it was very easy to mess up, and with the power they were trying to summon and channel they could easily blow themselves sky high. If they made a mistake …

And we’re going to be weakening the fabric of reality ourselves, she thought. In hindsight, perhaps it had been a mistake to re-establish the portals between the magical cities. They could weaken reality too. Perhaps. We need to do this, but …

“We begin,” she said.

She started to sing, carefully shaping the words even as she wished they’d had more time to practice. She’d been amused, then suspicious, to realise that Janet and Alice had heard the words in St. Champions, when so much else had been lost. The locals seemed intent, on times, on destroying their own history … she shook her head mentally and waved her arms around, gesturing the different singers to join in at the right times. It was like conducting an orchestra, except … most orchestras weren’t trying to channel magic. The sound grew rapidly, the voices blurring together into one … Helen braced herself as the air started to shimmer, raw magic crackling around them and forming into a portal. It wasn’t the first she’d seen, obviously, but there was something different about it. She had the horrible sensation of being a mouse, hiding in her hole, unable to hear anything and yet knowing the cat was waiting on the far side … the sensation was so strong she glanced down, half-expecting to find her body changed. It hadn’t, but …

We’re hammering on the fabric of reality, she thought, as the circle of light grew solid. The edge was weirdly out of tune … she had the impression, just for a second, that the light was forming hands that waved pointlessly in the air before fading back into the ether … or were they clawing at reality too? The warehouse shook, lightly. A flash of déjà vu ran through her. The last time she’d felt anything like this, she’d fallen into OldeWorld and found herself stranded. And we’re running out of time.

She gestured for Richard to move, not daring to stop singing for even a moment. Richard caught Janet’s arm and yanked her through the gate, their forms twisting oddly as they vanished. Steve hesitated noticeably, then followed. Helen bit down on the urge to say something sharp and nasty, then glanced at Norris. He was singing with the rest, mouthing his words instead of saying them out loud. Helen guessed he had no training in public speaking, unlike her, and probably no singing lessons either. Marian glanced at her, meeting Helen’s eyes …

Helen recoiled, staggering in pain as something alien crashed into her mental defences. Her eyes were locked on Marian’s, which were shifting and changing into something utterly inhuman … Helen brought her hand up, breaking contact before Marian, or whatever was wearing her body, could force a protuberance into Helen’s mind. Horror washed through her as she realised their mistake. Norris had been wrong. He hadn’t saved Marian. The thing pretending to be her had just kept up the pretence, until now. And it knew what they had planned.

Magic crackled around the circle. The portal started to destabilise, oscillating wildly as it lost contact with Gatehouse. The sense of something trying to force its way into mundane reality grew stronger … Helen saw, just for a second, something immensely huge reaching down from a higher dimension and into Marian, moving her body as if it were a puppet. A voice echoed through the realms, whispering words she could barely hear and yet thought she might come to understand, if she listened carefully. The pull drew her onwards and yet … she bit her lip, hard. Her magic was flaring out of control. It took her everything she had to lash out at the lines she’d drawn on the floor, to erase them and cancel the portal. It snapped out of existence so completely the world went dark. Helen found herself kneeling on the floor with no clear memory of how she’d gotten there …

“Marian?” Norris sounded shocked. “What did you …?”

Helen blinked hard, trying to clear her vision. The lights had failed. The rest of the former prisoners were lying on the ground, unmoving … she hoped to hell they were stunned, rather than dead. Some were mumbling to themselves, the words hinting at secrets she could learn if she listened closely. Perhaps that was how the possession was done. It would hardly be the first time someone had allowed themselves to be possessed, without realising they were surrendering themselves …

Marian loomed over her. She’d been a pretty young girl, once upon a time, and she still was … if Helen didn’t look at her with a witch’s eye. The thing possessing her wasn’t bothering to keep up the façade any longer. Marian’s body bulged in impossible directions, her form more than merely human – or material. Helen prayed Marian was dead, that she’d died when the creature infested her body, rather than being forced to watch as her body was used as a tool – or a weapon. Up close, she looked pretty … and yet, there was something sickening about her. Helen thought she smelled rotting flesh.

Norris stumbled to his feet. “Marian …”

Marian backhanded him, casually. Her expression twisted into a sneer, her lips curving into a smile so wide – and cruel – it should have been impossible. Norris tumbled to the ground, gasping in pain. Marian studied him for a long moment, then looked back at Helen. There was nothing human in her face any longer. Her bones were shifting in impossible directions … something was underneath, waiting to be burst free. Helen felt sick. They had made a dreadful mistake and now they were doomed.

She reached for her magic and threw everything she could muster at the thing. The magic splintered, spilling off Marian’s body at impossible angles before fading completely. Marian reached down, yanked Helen to her feet and held her, dark inhuman eyes pounding into her skull. The voices grew louder. Helen gritted her teeth, telling herself she would not submit. Marian shrugged and picked up Norris with her other hand, then carried them both outside. A line of black cars already waited. Helen knew, without even looking, that the drivers were possessed.

She risked opening her mind, just a fraction. The light pervading the magical realm – it wasn't light, but something more – was blindingly bright, but she could see some things. There weren’t a hundred entities, each possessing a single man; there was just one, controlling all of the possessed men. She had a horrible impression of eerie fingers reaching down into the human world, each one sliding through reality itself, creating gaps where something awful could peer through. Norris groaned, yanking her back to reality, as they were tossed into a car. The driver started the engine a moment later …

Norris forced himself to sit up, blood dripping from his cheek. “You … what did I do wrong …?”

Helen shook her head. It was hard to think clearly. The car was drenched in wards, pressing down on her mind and squashing what little magic she had left. She told herself she was a Burghley, that she was strong and that she could take it, but it was hard to focus, hard to do anything in the face of the utter despair that threatened to overcome her. She’d thought it had been too easy to get Norris and Marian out of the secret prison … in hindsight, perhaps she should have told them both to go elsewhere, or checked Norris’s story more carefully …

“You didn’t,” Helen said. She wanted to shout and scream at him, but she’d been fooled too. Her own preconceptions had blinded her to the truth. She’d had that thing in her family home … or had she? Perhaps the possession wasn’t what she’d thought. Perhaps it was an infection, a disease. Perhaps Marian had been slowly losing the fight for control of her body all along. Perhaps … “We were all fooled.”

The car turned a corner and passed through a roadblock, illuminated by flickering blue lights. Helen forced herself to sit up as well and looked around, cursing under her breath as she realised where they were going. The estate … and Gatehouse. Policemen were everywhere … she opened her mind again, just a fraction, and realised, to her horror, that they, too, were possessed. A handful of bodies lay on the streets … some in uniforms – she guessed they’d been less vulnerable to possession – and others in civilian clothes. Several looked as if they’d been beaten, raped, mutilated and then left to bleed out. The sheer inhumanity chilled her. The possessor – there was only one, she reminded herself – was experimenting with what it could do.

“I loved her,” Norris said. “I thought …I …”

“She’s gone,” Helen said, more sharply than she intended. “Her soul has gone elsewhere.”

And yet, you said they ate souls, her thoughts added. What really happens to the damned?

“They should nuke us,” Norris said. His voice shook. “We don’t deserve to live.”

Helen had no idea what he meant, but she doubted it mattered. Cecil Burghley – or the thing controlling him – had the country in his thrall, with everyone who could resist either under his control or helplessly scattered, fighting their own desperate battles. Her mother had promised to rouse the Princesses, but right now the Princesses had problems of their own. By the time they realised the real threat, it would be too late. The world would end.

Or, rather, everyone who survived would be left wishing they were dead too.

A dark shape appeared in front of them as they reached Gatehouse. Helen barely had a second to realise it was a portal before they drove right through, a flash of inky darkness seeming to pervade the world before clearing to reveal St. Champions. The school was surprisingly – suspiciously – intact, but surrounded by darkness … darkness that pulsed like a living thing. She wasn’t sure how she could even see the school. There were no visible sources of light, just the darkness … and the not-darkness.

The door opened. They were grabbed, yanked out of the car, and carried into the school. Helen heard Norris moan as they were taken down the corridor and into what had once been the headmaster’s office. The school was well-lit, compared to the outside realm, but there were pools of darkness everywhere and some of the corridors led in impossible directions, as if the school were trapped between several separate universes. She heard generators straining to power the lights, a low hum that rose and fell unevenly, but the lights appeared constantly on the verge of failing. A number had failed. Helen knew, deep in her bones, that they’d die once the lights failed for good.

“Helen, I take it,” a voice said. “And Norris.”

Helen sucked in her breath. Cecil Burghley sat behind the desk, but … it wasn’t him. His face was unchanged, his body was unchanged, and yet his shape was bulging in impossible directions. She had a horrible sense of a wasp within his skull, a baby monster eating his brain before bursting free to wreak havoc. There were some creatures that reproduced by laying their eggs inside another creature, she thought, and wished she hadn’t. The idea might be absurd, when dealing with a multidimensional nightmare, but it refused to go away.

Norris swallowed hard, clearly trying not to be sick. “What did you do to her?”

“I reached into her and made her mine,” Cecil Burghley said, not pretending to misunderstand Norris’s question. His voice was odd, as if whatever was speaking through him didn’t know quite how to use his mouth. The words were slightly out of sync with his lip movements. “I laid my eggs in her mind.”

“You let us get them out,” Helen said. There was nothing of her relative left now, just something horrible that wore his face. “Didn’t you?”

“I have always been well-served by traitors,” Burghley said. He looked to the side. “Is that not right?”

Helen followed his gaze. A woman was chained to the wall, naked, her eyes wide and staring. Norris made a choking sound … Helen guessed, in a flash of insight, that the captive woman must be Polly, the one who had alerted them to the prison camp. If she was a traitor … horror ran through her as she recalled her lessons in symbolic magic. Polly was a traitor to her master, which meant she could be sacrificed as one … she guessed Cecil had pushed her into treason, giving her plenty of room to make herself what he needed her to be. It was horrific …

“Let her go,” Norris said. “And Marian …”

“The game that began when a scared young woman opened the first chink in reality will end tonight,” Burghley said. “You should be honoured. Your world will become the spawning ground for something far greater than yourselves.”

And they have me, Helen thought. Her blood ran cold. There’s no way the others can get in without me …

Tears prickled in her eyes. They were doomed.

It was over.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Gatehouse/St. Champions, York, Now

“What happened?”

Richard wasn’t sure. One moment, the portal had been open; the next, it had snapped out of existence so quickly it was hard to believe it had been there at all. He, Janet and Steve had stepped through the portal, but the others … Steve was staring in horror, one hand reaching towards where the portal had been. There was nothing left, not even a hint of power in the air. Richard felt an odd twinge of guilt. A few months ago, he would have been quite happy to be separated from Helen; now, they were allies and he had the feeling they’d miss her dreadfully …

Besides, Steve loved her.

“The portal vanished,” Richard said, as Janet gave her brother a hug. He’d never heard of that happening, certainly not so quickly. Had the military bombed the warehouse, killing everyone …? It was possible, he supposed, although the portal should still have been in existence. The blast should have reached through the tear in the fabric of reality and killed them too. “I don’t know why.”

“Reopen it,” Steve snapped. “Please!”

“I can’t,” Richard said. He wasn’t the genius Brains was, but he knew enough to fear the portal couldn’t be reopened from the far end. Helen might be able to do it – if she was still alive, his thoughts whispered – yet they couldn’t count on it. Helen, Norris, Marian and the rest were beyond their ken. “Right now, we have other problems.”

Steve snarled something, his fists clenching as if he wanted to punch Richard. Richard braced himself, all too aware he’d be horrified if something happened to Janet and someone else wasn’t allowing him to go back for her. But there was no way to go back. The enemy had sealed off Gatehouse and he doubted it was possible to escape, at least without paying a terrible price. And he just didn’t have time.

“I checked your math,” the Merlin said. He was sitting at a table, besides Brains and a dark-skinned girl Richard didn’t recognise. She reminded him of Janet, although Richard wasn’t sure how. Physically, they were very different. “If you’re correct …”

“They’re going to tear reality wide open,” Richard said, shortly. The equations were bloodless. The reality was anything but. “We have to get down there and stop them.”

Brains looked up. “We may have an edge,” he said, wryly. “You recall our surprise when we accidentally reopened the gate?”

“All too well,” Richard said. It shouldn’t have been possible. In hindsight, it should have warned them that all was not as it seemed, and things they’d taken for granted were nothing of the sort. “Can we create a gate of our own?”

“No,” Brains said. “But then, we never did. We just triggered the gate that was already there.”

“I recall,” Richard said. “And you think we can do it again?”

“I think so,” Brains said. “But the risks are considerable.”

“There’s another problem,” the Merlin said. “The enemy used Burghley magics to ward themselves. We can’t break them down without a Burghley.”

Richard felt his blood run cold. Helen was missing, perhaps dead, and the rest of her relatives were out of reach. “Can’t we hack their spells? Norris did it to us.”

“We didn’t know what to watch for,” the Merlin said. “Norris took us by surprise. The spellcasters who invented those spells will know how to detect and deal with them.”

“I …” Richard bit his tongue. Had they been beaten, their grand plan foiled before it even got off the ground? “What if we try to open the gate and flood the interior dimension with raw magic …?”

“It would trigger the disaster we’re trying to stop.” Brains was being serious – and focused. Richard shivered. This was bad. “We need to undermine their spells, and we can’t do that without sneaking in and …”

Steve cleared his throat. “What do you actually need?”

“A Burghley,” Richard snapped. He couldn’t recall if Helen was the youngest of her siblings, but she had made a big deal about being the only Burghley at Gatehouse … by the gods, had that only been a year ago? “And we have none.”

“Helen said that … that what we did was a marriage ceremony,” Steve said, slowly. “I know I don’t share her blood, but if we’re married … would I count as a symbolic Burghley?”

Janet made a choking noise. Richard almost joined her. He had known what Helen and Steve had done – he had to admire her determination, as well as her nerve – and yet, he hadn’t thought through all the implications. He wondered if she had either. She might not be the heir to the family title, at least formally, but it could land her in hot water if her mother chose to disapprove. And if they were married in such a way … his lips twisted. It wasn’t uncommon for a couple to have a quick private wedding, a day or two before the big shindig, but … not like that!

“You might,” the Merlin said. “It would be risky …”

“I can take the risk,” Steve said. “Everything is at risk.”

Richard nodded. “Brains, start working on ways to reopen the gate,” he said. Getting in wasn’t half the battle. They’d be lucky if it was a tenth. “The rest of us need to sit down and come up with a plan.”

Brains leaned forward. “I think there’s something we need to bear in mind,” he said. “If my readings are accurate, the entity behind all this is operating at one remove. It is controlling everything from a distance, and even with super-intelligence there will always be a slight time delay between action and reaction. The entity might as well be playing a computer game over the internet, with a poor connection. There will be gaps in its awareness and we can take advantage of them.”

Steve chuckled. “And there I was thinking that introducing you to video games was a mistake.”

“It was pointless, once I figured out the underlying logic,” Brains said. “But it was quite illustrative of something else.”

He looked down at his papers. “Give me an hour or two,” he added. “The key isn’t opening the gate. The key is keeping a portal open long enough to be useful.”

There was a long pause. “And there is a final option. We could collapse both interlocking interdimensional conduits.”

Richard frowned. “And what does that mean in plain English?”

Brains waved his hand in the air. “Right now, St. Champions is resting within the interdimensional wall,” he said. “It’s held down by Gatehouse, because two structures cannot occupy the same space at the same time. I think the two will actually start bleeding into each other, the longer they remain in such a state. Point is, we can slam Gatehouse into St. Champions and basically knock both structures out of reality. We’ll close the gate and save the world—”

“—At the cost of our lives,” Steve said, flatly. “And those of everyone in both schools.”

“We will treat it as a last resort,” the Merlin said. “Right now, we need to plan.”

Richard nodded. “I think I have an idea,” he said. “And if we can make it work …”

***

Janet felt out of place as the planning session went on and on, the students and staff debating attack plans in a manner that reminded her – uneasily – of Steve’s short-lived obsession with Dungeons and Dragons. She could offer little, besides outlining a floor plan for St. Champions, a floor plan she suspected might be worse than useless. If the school had fallen into a twisted nexus of folded space – the only halfway comprehensible piece of technobabble she’d heard – the interior might have been twisted too, corridors warped until they led places they’d never led before. There was just no way to know. She left the others arguing and fighting over what to do and walked up the stairs to the observation chamber, pressing her face against the window as she stared out over York. It looked weird, as if it were a model village, rather than a place humans might reside. The cars and other vehicles outside the school looked like toys, as if she were staring down from a great distance …

After a long pause, it came to her. In a sense, she was.

She wondered, numbly, if she bore any part of the blame for the impending disaster. Would things have been different, she asked herself, if she’d told Annabelle to go play with herself and refused to let the other girl bully her into doing something stupid? Seeing Alice had brought back all the old feelings, no matter how powerful – and mature – Janet was now. If she had made a different choice … she shook her head. Richard and his friends might have been trapped without her, caught by the rogue magicians and used to open the gate once again … and who knew what might have happened then? Perhaps the two worlds would have merged, without her knowing that she was a magician. Perhaps she would have ended up in the camps too.

There was so much promise, she thought, bitterly. The return of magic had been a shock – of course – but she’d thought things had been calming down. Magic was on the verge of making the world so much better, she’d told herself, and she was going to be a part of it. Meeting the PM and actually having her say was a dream come true … she had been sure, despite everything, that the PM would listen. And then everything went to hell.

She closed her eyes for a long, bitter moment. Had she done the wrong thing? Had she been selfish in befriending the trio instead of calling the police? Or had she been caught up in a plan stretching back nearly five hundred years, with little regard for who played her role or why as long as someone did? Or would it all have happened anyway, even if she’d turned away from magic? Her lips twisted. If she’d called the police to report a trio of magicians, it wasn’t as if anyone would have believed her.

And now we might be about to die, she thought. She hadn’t wanted to save the world. Not really. She would have killed for a letter from Hogwarts, years ago, or the chance to travel with the Doctor or go off on an adventure with Gandalf, but all of those adventures were fictional, with scriptwriters who couldn’t go too far. No one had expected Harry Potter to die for good, everyone knew the Doctor could change his face like she changed her clothes; everyone knew Gandalf the Gray had become Gandalf the White, after giving his life to save the Fellowship of the Ring. We could all die here.

Her hands shook. She knew she should rest, in preparation for the coming nightmare, but … she couldn’t. Time was ticking slowly – she could hear the clock – and inevitably towards midnight. She would have to go into danger once again, to save a world that hadn’t been very kind to her now … a nasty thought crossed her mind, a dark whisper that the universe might have love-bombed her to ensure she wanted to save it. Cold logic told her she should, but the old her – all too aware that she would never accomplish anything, that her life was over well before it actually came to an end – would have been very tempted to let it die. And yet, now …

The door opened. Richard stepped into the chamber.

Janet felt a flood of affection. Richard was … solid. He wasn’t flighty like Steve, or a self-obsessed entitled brat like the late and unlamented Colin, or so bitter and resentful at the universe that he was unpleasant company like Norris. Maybe not as smart as Brains, or as pretty as Helen, but solid and reliable. Not a fighter, in the sense that he would intentionally go and pick fights with anyone or everyone, yet someone who would refuse to back down if pressed. She wondered what her life would have been like if she’d had a father like him, or if the boys at school had been like him. But then, Richard was the product of a very different society. It was unlikely, to say the least, that it would have ended well if any of the boys she’d known had been like him …

The ideal working class-hero, she thought, suddenly. The hard worker with all the virtues and none of the vices of his real-life counterpart. That’s who he is.

“We have a plan,” Richard said. He didn’t sound enthusiastic. “No guarantees, of course.”

Janet nodded. “When are we leaving?”

“Two hours,” Richard said. “We need to get everything together …”

He grimaced. “Half the students were pulled out, when all hell broke loose, and the remainder aren’t much good in a fight,” he added. “They’re too young. The staff will want to be with us, but they’re going to be needed here.”

“If we have to blow up the school to save everyone else,” Janet said. She understood the logic, and the cold equations, but it still felt fundamentally wrong. “If …”

“We’ll try to avoid it,” Richard said. His voice was flat. “But yeah, it might come down to that.”

Janet hesitated, wishing – not for the first time – that she was more like Helen. Or even her ex-friend Annabelle. They knew what they wanted and they moved heaven and earth to get it … she couldn’t. She understood Norris more than she cared to admit, even though he was creepy and socially isolated and generally unpleasant. It was hard enough to work up the nerve to make the first move, even when the object of your affection wasn’t inclined to mock you mercilessly for daring to try to ask her out. Perhaps it was harder for a girl – showing interest could easily be taken the wrong way – but she knew Norris would think differently. Of course he would.

She gathered her nerve and kissed Richard as hard as she could. He kissed her back, his arms wrapping around her and slipping down to stroke her back as the kisses grew more intense. Janet cast a locking spell on the door, then started to fumble with his trousers, gasping as his fingers slipped into hers. This time, she promised herself, there would be no interruptions. If they were going to face something beyond space and time, an evil so great that calling it an evil was like calling Hitler a naughty boy, she was going to make sure Richard knew how she felt about him …

… if nothing else, it would keep her mind off the horror to come.

***

There had been a time, Norris acknowledged sourly, that he would have killed to see Polly naked. Or Helen. Or Annabelle. Or even Marian, although it was harder to think of her as a mindless body, taunting him with her beauty … and the certain knowledge he would never, ever, get the chance to touch it. Their relationship had been a friendship that could have become something more, before he’d ruined it … and then he’d ruined it again, because he’d been sure he’d saved her mind and life. Instead …

He hung from the walls, as naked as the day he was born, feeling his head pound as the possessed moved among them. Helen and Polly hung beside him, their naked bodies arousing no feeling in him as the air grew colder and darker. St. Champions had always been nightmarish  – a jail would have been nicer, he was sure, if only because there were laws against brutalising prisoners – but now it was a shadow of its former self, in every sense of the word. The once-solid walls appeared translucent, things his mind refused to comprehend pressing against the far sides; images came and went, student ghosts flickering in and out, eyes dull and lifeless, brushing against him before vanishing again. His magic refused to manifest, no matter how hard he struggled. He was helpless.

Hannah – a girl he recalled with astonishing clarity, a tease who had set her boyfriend on him for shits and giggles – stepped into the room. She’d been beautiful and evil a year ago, but now … her body seemed twisted and warped, bending in directions he hadn’t even known existed, while her eyes were as dark and lifeless as the remainder of the possessed. Her arm looked painfully thin, as if she was on the verge of starving to death; her legs were impossibly thick … Norris tried to look away as the whispering grew louder, illegible words echoing on the air. Only one thing came through clearly … The Many-Angled Ones.

Norris shivered. Lovecraft had invented them, hadn’t he? Cecil Burghley’s crash course in magical history – the hidden history – had mentioned Lovecraft, but the tutor hadn’t gone into detail. Lovecraft had had a talent he’d unlocked through drug abuse, if Norris recalled correctly, and seen something – in a trance – that had warped his mind so badly he’d spent years trying to outline what he’d seen, yet never quite succeeded. His writings – Norris had read some of them, years ago – had left something to be desired.

Despair washed over him as Hannah shuffled out again, her form both more and less than human. He’d failed. He’d failed so badly that he was a traitor to everything, to Marian and Steve and Brains and the entire human race. The monsters were slowly burning their way into the human world, and there was no longer anyone who could stop them. Norris couldn’t even kill himself. He knew he didn’t have the nerve. Or the tools.

It’s over, he thought, numbly. There were no more clever tricks. No more magic. His joke of a life had finally come to the end of the line. It’s all over …

Chapter Thirty-Eight: St. Champions, Interdimensional Void

“When I was a kid,” Richard muttered, “I wanted to be a Knight.”

Janet grinned at him, her slight smile making his heart swell with protectiveness. They’d had sex … no, they’d made love … and part of him wanted to tell her to stay behind, even though he knew she’d never forgive him. Cold logic pointed out that if the plan went wrong, and it might, she would die even if she remained behind, but … he shook his head and gripped her hand tighter as the Merlin performed the spell, opening the first gate into St. Champions. Steve noticed and shot them both a wry look … Richard winced inwardly, wondering if Janet’s elder brother would have a thing or two to say about the change in their relationship. Or their mother …

“Get ready,” the Merlin said. “The gate won’t stay open forever.”

Richard nodded, wishing – not for the first time – that they had a small army behind them. A few hundred trained magicians, perhaps, or even mundane soldiers. But there was no way to summon reinforcements, not in time. He had to hand it to Cecil Burghley – or the entity wearing his face. It had neatly separated Gatehouse from anyone who might come to their aid, keeping everyone running around as they defended their communities or tried to track down rogue magicians while ignoring the true threat as it took shape and form. He cursed the decision to allow the students to go home if they wished, ensuring they couldn’t even call on the older students … the staff weren’t ill-trained, but they were needed to maintain the gate and – if worse came to worst – use Gatehouse as a projectile to crush the mundane school and close the gap in reality by force.

The gate shimmered into existence, a wavering sheet of darkness that pulsed like a living thing. It seemed so simple and yet so sinister … Richard felt his legs take a step backwards of their own accord, as the sheer wrongness of the gate struck him like a physical blow. He had grown up on stories of the dangers of stepping through doors to nowhere, or walking into mushroom rings that hid gateways to higher dimensions, but this gate wasn’t remotely inviting. Richard liked to think he was a brave man, yet he had to force himself to step forward and approach the gate. Sweat prickled down his spine as he neared the dark light, Janet right beside him. He stepped up and through and …

He gritted his teeth. The sensation was like stepping through a sheen of oil. His entire body felt dirty … he thought, for a horrible moment, that he’d gone blind before his eyes started picking out details in front of him. The mundane school was trapped within the shadows, the darkness near-absolute … he wasn’t even sure how he was seeing anything. He reached out to touch the nearest wall and recoiled in shock … the wall should have been reassuringly solid, but instead it was soft and oily, the sensation suggesting that he could put his fingers right through the structure if he tried. He didn’t dare. His instincts were screaming there was something on the far side, just waiting for him to make a move. The sense of threat was overpowering.

“We’re in the upper corridor,” Janet said. Her voice sounded tinny, as if she were standing a very long way away. Richard risked a glance and sucked in his breath in relief as he confirmed she was right next to him. She looked bright, almost ghostly in the darkness. “Why is it so quiet?”

Richard nodded, slowly. It was silent, an eerie deadening that wasn’t a sound … he gritted his teeth, wondering just what he’d hear if he dropped something on the floor. The ground beneath his feet had the same springy, fundamentally wrong, sensation as the walls … he swallowed hard, trying to convince himself they’d merely fall down a level if they fell through the floor. It was impossible to force himself to believe it. St. Champions had been a soulless nightmare of a building, when it had been in the mundane world, but now …

It’s still a soulless nightmare, he thought, grimly. And it’s the key to allowing monsters into our world.

Brains and Steve stepped through the portal, followed by a handful of students. They staggered, as if they’d been struck, and then gathered themselves. Brains pulled a smartphone out of his belt and held it up, muttering to himself as he tried to hack the combination of magic and mundane tech holding the school between the dimensions. Steve stuck his head back through the portal, returning a moment later with a long power cable. Richard would have smiled, if it wasn’t so serious. Reality itself was hanging by a thread.

“They kept the last set of hostages in the hall,” Steve said. “You think they’ll still be using it?”

Richard shrugged. Brains might be able to determine something from hacking the spells, but … he forced himself to think. The odds were good that the enemy had taken over the headmaster’s office, symbolically laying claim to the school, and they’d be performing the first part of the rite there. Probably. He struggled to recall the layout of St. Champions, all too aware the school was now in a place where normal rules didn’t apply. The interior might not be any bigger than the exterior, unlike some of the buildings he’d seen in Mystic Albion, but it might have been stretched and warped in directions a human mind might find incomprehensible.

“Here,” Steve said. He passed Richard a directional compass, mated to a splash of his blood. “Bring her back safely, please.”

“I’ll do my best,” Richard promised. If the mission failed, the only thing he could do for Helen was to give her a quick death before it was too late. “You do your bit.”

Brains looked up. “I’ve found the hostages,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“We’ll buy you as much time as we can,” Richard said. The plan was held together by spit and baling wire. He was uneasily aware of just how much could go wrong. “Good luck.”

He glanced at Janet, then motioned for her to follow him down the corridor. The silence was almost deafening, the pressure so oppressive he couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat. The school had once been boring beyond words, more of a prison than an actual place of learning, but now it was a nightmare. The walls seemed to pulse with eerie life as they passed, faint impressions of the past flickering in and out of existence, coming and going so rapidly he couldn’t get more than a glimmer of their true form before they were gone again. He paused outside an open door and peered into what had once been a bland and boring classroom, but was now slowly oozing into the darkness. The far walls were gone … he had the sudden, horrific, impression of an iceberg slowly melting into the endless ocean.

Janet gripped his hand tighter. “And to think I used to wish someone would blow up the school.”

Richard understood, better than he cared to admit. “We’ll get out of here,” he promised, although he had no faith in his ability to keep his promise. “And you’ll never have to come back here again.”

The nightmare didn’t abate as they made their way down to the ground floor. The stairs were long and twisty, far longer than they’d been in the mundane world. The pictures on the wall were warped, nice inoffensive artworks suddenly replaced by horrors his mind was unable to grasp. There had been a picture of sunflowers, if he recalled correctly … it was now a nightmarish vision of a bloody battlefield, the flowers drenched in the blood of a thousand men. The next picture had been of a boy and a girl attending school for the first time; now, the boy was slowly torturing the girl to death, the image growing worse with every passing second. Richard didn’t want to look at the rest. The first two were quite bad enough …

Man’s inhumanity to man, a voice whispered.

Richard jumped. The thought had appeared inside his head, without passing through his ears, but it wasn’t his. It felt as if someone had shoved something disgusting right into his brain, something that made him want to be sick … beside him, Janet doubled over, retching painfully. Richard patted her back awkwardly, then looked up. Alarm ran through him. They were no longer alone.

“Shit,” he muttered.

The things … it was hard to tell, now, that they had once been human … were monstrous. They remained vaguely human-shaped – Richard noted that one was wearing the remnants of a policeman’s uniform – but their bodies bulged in impossible directions, their forms warped and twisted so savagely he had no idea how they were still alive. Their heads pulsed and bulged, as if something inside was fighting to get out. He had an impression of something overlaying them, overshadowing them, peering through their eyes. It was hard, so hard, not to be sick.

“Move,” he snapped, casting an explosive charm and following it up with a firestarter. The charm should have shaken the entire building, but instead it was almost completely snuffed out by something. The firestarter should have set fire to the walls … but did nothing. “Hurry!”

He pulled her along as they ran, tossing a handful of spells behind. The figures marched after them slowly, moving with a casual deliberateness that was all the more terrifying for being – he was sure – the work of a higher being. The things that had once been men had no will or awareness of their own, not any longer. He recalled playing video games with Steve, a lifetime ago, and shuddered. The entity was controlling them as he’d controlled Sonic the Hedgehog … his lips twitched, although it wasn’t funny. It must have been a nightmare for Sonic.

And how do you know that Sonic isn’t a real person, his thoughts asked, who is occasionally controlled by an entity from beyond?

Janet muttered a spell, her voice so quiet Richard could barely hear the words. A rush of wind filled the corridor, yanking poisonous pictures off the walls and throwing them at the oncoming creatures. They didn’t seem to notice, let alone slow down, even when one was decapitated by a picture frame. The headless body kept moving forward … Richard’s earlier thoughts returned to haunt him, reminding him of just how much damage a video game character could take without dying. And that meant …

He shoved the thought aside and kept running, casting spells as they moved in circles, trying to buy time. He had the impression of something slowly shifting its gaze to look at them, something so dark and dangerous he dared not try to look back; he told himself, as they ran faster, they were doing what they could, buying time for Steve and Brains. He wished they’d had time to get some mundane weapons, guns or bombs or something that didn’t rely on magic to work. In hindsight, it had been yet another missed opportunity.

The world twisted around them. They found themselves suddenly running straight towards the once-men. Richard skidded to a halt and raised his hand, chanting a spell, only to find the air somehow tightening around him. Janet squeaked and started to stumble back, then yelped as she was grabbed by another once-man. Richard yanked a knife out of his belt and threw it at the nearest creature, putting the blade right through what remained of the poor bastard’s eye. It should have been lethal, even without the deadly charms woven into the blade. The creature didn’t seem to notice it had been struck …

A hand caught his arm and held him tightly. Richard gritted his teeth, expecting to feel the entity extending its reach into his head. He tried to summon a spell to kill them both – they dared not assume the entity wouldn’t know what they were doing, wouldn’t realise that they were the distraction, after it took control of their minds – but the magic failed to take shape and form. His captor dragged him down the corridor, heedless of his struggles; Janet’s captor carried her behind them. Richard’s heart sank. Whatever happened, they were unlikely to get out of the dark dimension alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said. The plan might not have failed, but he’d failed her. “I’m sorry …”

***

Helen had never been particularly bothered by nakedness, at least until she’d fallen into OldeWorld. She was a powerful magician and being naked didn’t render her any less defenceless, as anyone foolish enough to hurt her would learn to their cost. It hadn’t been until she’d been rendered effectively powerless that she’d realised the dangers that came with being naked, and how rituals that demanded the caster disrobe rendered them vulnerable in more ways than one. She bit her lip hard as she hung from the wall, trying hard to muster her power in the face of Polly’s sobbing and Norris’s snivelling. It wasn’t easy.

She forced herself to focus, silently thanking all her ancestors that she’d spent weeks with Steve. The chains and wards drained most of her power – in hindsight, she should have spent her childhood mastering the steps she’d been able to skip, her power allowing her to advance by leaps and bounds while Richard and his peers had to struggle to complete even a single step – but she had a little left, just enough to start clawing her way into the wards. It helped that she was a Burghley. Cecil Burghley, or what was left of him, had been the original caster, anchoring the wards in the family bloodline. She had access to them too …

Polly gibbered something. Helen didn’t spare her a glance. There was no time. She had to hack the wards and break free, to do something – anything – to stop the rite. Perhaps if she killed herself, her death would be a moment of cold reality she could use to do anything … she bit her lip again, as rationality returned to her mind. If she killed herself, she’d be dead before she could do anything with her own death … the walls, the pulsing sensation of wrongness pervading her mind, was making it hard to think . There were ways to set up a ritual to work even after her own death, but … she didn’t have the tools she needed. Norris wouldn’t be any help, and Polly was even worse. In fact, killing Polly might bring on the catastrophe Helen was trying to prevent …

“I should have listened,” Polly gibbered. Her words came in fits and starts, so garbled it was clear she was on the brink of madness. “I should have done something.”

Helen said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The door opened, reality itself twisting oddly as Richard and Janet were thrust inside. Helen gaped, shocked beyond words. How were they even here? It should have been impossible … she’d assumed it was all up to her, because there was no way anyone else could get to them. She wondered, numbly, if it was an illusion, a trick to make her give up, or if her mind had finally snapped and she was seeing things. It was hard to tell, in the nightmare the mundane school had become. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been hanging from the walls.

Cecil Burghley shifted from his position behind the desk, his form slopping in directions Helen’s eyes refused to follow. He was no longer even remotely human … his mass pervaded the chamber, making it feel small and cramped even though there should be plenty of room … he was an iceberg, the tip of something far vaster poking its way into the human realm. Helen had wondered where he intended to set up the gate, the linchpin of the mad plan, but she knew now he was the gate. Her relative was long dead … she hoped. It was quite possible there was still a piece of him inside the monster, watching and screaming helplessly as his body prepared to carry out an atrocity that would dwarf anything merely human.

“It is time,” he said. “Let us begin.”

The walls seemed to bulge, growing tentacles that freed Polly from the wall and carried her to the desk, pinning her to the wood and leaving her spread-eagled, vulnerable and helpless. Norris twisted, trying to look away, then twisted back as he saw Marian standing by the wall. She wasn’t as far gone as Cecil Burghley, but her body was well on the way to becoming something else. Polly screamed and shouted, begging for mercy in a manner that would only give her death more power. Helen wanted to tell her to offer herself up freely, in symbolic recompense for her treason, but it was too late. She could feel the anticipation running through the chamber, a watching presence all around them, a nightmare waiting to be born. A wave of horror was taking form. She knew they had seconds before it washed over them, dragged them into hell. And it would be hell.

She made one final attempt to free them both and this time it worked, the magic shifting around her as she fell from the wall – Norris fell beside her – but it was already too late. Cecil Burghley was holding a blade composed of reality itself, a blade that was so real that it made the rest of the world seem as insubstantial as a story … she stumbled to her feet, too late, as the monster brought the knife down. Polly screamed as she died, her life force triggering the deaths of the remaining prisoners. Helen knew it was over.

The world shook …

Chapter Thirty-Nine: St. Champions, Interdimensional Void

Norris wasn’t sure how long he’d been hanging on the wall.

Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? He couldn’t tell. Time itself seemed to have slowed to a crawl, his thoughts broken and fragments and shattered by the scale of his failure. Marian was dead because of him … no, she was condemned to a fate worse than death. It was hard not to give in to the inevitable, to finally give up all hope and admit to the world that he was a total failure, a loser who deserved to fail time and time again. It didn’t help that Helen, a major babe if ever there was one, was taking her nakedness in stride. It was hardly the first time he’d been stripped against his will – Colin had been fond of running up behind him and yanking down his trousers and underwear – but … he felt sick and useless, unable to do anything. The world was doomed and it was all his fault.

He felt worse as Richard and Janet were forced into the chamber, followed by Polly being carted to the table and … Norris hadn’t known where to look, his head aching painfully as Cecil Burghley prepared to kill her. Even finding himself falling to the ground hadn’t been enough to clear his mind, not when the sacrifice began. The world seemed to shake around him, the mad reality coming apart at the seams …

… then it just stopped.

Norris forced himself to stagger to his feet. His entire body hurt – he’d landed badly, the aches and pains blurring into the rest of the nightmare – and yet, he could move. Polly was dead, her body decaying at an impossible speed, but … they were alive? The thing wearing Cecil Burghley’s body seemed astonished, almost flabbergasted. Norris giggled helplessly as it waved the knife in the air, motions slow and jerky, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The presence he’d sensed all around them was starting to fade, as if it was receding …

His giggles grew louder, his sanity hanging on a knife edge. Something had clearly gone very wrong.

“Over here,” Richard shouted. He cast a spell Norris didn’t recognise, blasting the warped and possessed men surrounding him. “Now!”

Norris hesitated. He hated it when people bossed him around and he hated how he always obeyed for fear of pain and more pain and he hated the fact he was naked, that Janet and Helen would make fun of him … he gritted his teeth and forced himself to run around the desk, ducking just in time to avoid a tentacle that came out of nowhere and flashed over his head. He glanced at Polly as he ran, but even he could tell there was no point in trying to rescue her. Her body no longer even looked human.

He tried not to flinch as Richard nodded to him. “What … what did you do?”

Richard grinned. “Hacked their spells,” he said. “Took the prisoners out, left an illusion in their place …”

A shudder ran through the school. Norris saw a wall crack and break, just for a second, revealing something nightmarish outside. The crack was gone a moment later, as if the school’s solidity was trying to assert itself against the madness, but he knew it was just a matter of time before it came apart. He’d always had pleasant fantasies about blowing up the school, along with his bullies and the ones who did nothing to help, yet the reality was terrifying. There was something outside, waiting. It was pressing against the school, slowly breaking it down … they had to run. He just didn’t know where to run to.

“This way,” Richard snapped. “Hurry.”

Norris nodded and followed him. The corridor outside the headmaster’s office had always scared him – the headmaster was powerless against anyone who could fight back, but Norris couldn’t – and yet, he would have sold his soul to return to the mundane corridor rather than the nightmare surrounding them. The darkness was growing stronger, tendrils of shadow reaching through the walls and clawing at reality itself. Norris saw a classroom start to explode, uncomfortable chairs and desks designed for children two or three years younger than his current age shattering in slow motion, and in eerie silence. The air seemed suddenly very cold, ice seeming to reach into his very soul. Norris cursed the day he’d messed with magic, cursed the luck that had turned his life into a joke, cursed his own failings … Richard grabbed his arm and yanked him along, even as he caught sight of eyes staring at him from outside the fabric of reality. The school was melting, and local reality was melting with it …

“It’s coming,” Helen said. She seemed untroubled by her nakedness … Norris tried not to look at her breasts, bouncing as she ran. “I can feel it.”

Norris could too, a grim presence pervading the school, its awareness shifting through reality itself to find them. His mind expanded briefly, upon touching it, and he felt tendrils of thought leading all the way back to the upper dimensions … he shuddered as he felt a pool of raw darkness making its way towards them, except … he wasn’t sure what he felt. It was as if the world was changing around them …

The stairs led to the top floor. Norris shuddered helplessly as they ran, his instincts insisting they should be going down … not, he supposed, that the doors that should have led onto the playground now led anywhere they wanted to go. He wasn’t even sure he knew where they were going, although he was sure – he hoped – that Richard had a plan, a way to get them out of this nightmare. Horror washed through him a second later as he realised something had gone horrifically wrong. The stairs had always been nightmarish to him – it was all too easy to be caught by the bullies there – but they had never been so endless. Never … his head spun as they reached the top of the stairs and ran into the main hall. It was impossible. They’d been going up.

Richard keyed his smartphone. “The others got out …”

Norris barely heard him. The hall had always been a nightmare, a place for assemblies that had been boring at best and downright counterproductive at worst, but now … the shadows were creeping in from all sides, the remainder of the school seemingly lost in the darkness. He could see things moving towards them, like sharks approaching swimmers … he thought, suddenly, of a team of cave divers who had been trapped deep underground, threatened with drowning as the water levels rose higher and higher. There’d been a happy ending there, but not here. The world might have been saved, yet he was going to die.

“The gap between worlds is closing,” Richard said, softly. “But it should have closed by now.”

“Don’t complain,” Janet said. “It’ll kill us …”

The school shook, again. Norris looked up and saw the monstrous shape of Cecil Burghley, sitting there as if he’d been waiting for them all along. Norris’s head hurt just looking at him, his mind refusing to accept a trim older man could also be a mutated monster and a creature that could have passed for a multidimensional Jabba the Hutt. He could sense the magic twisting around him, the power holding the gap open … the loaded gun, he realised suddenly, pointed at reality itself. They hadn’t won. They’d barely bought themselves a few more seconds before the end swept over them.

Helen’s voice shook. “If there’s anything left of Cecil in there …”

Her voice cut off as magic crashed around them, holding them still and helpless. Norris gritted his teeth – he was so sick of everyone pushing him around – as he felt something vast and incredibly dark rushing towards them. He could feel the tear in reality, the gap that was slowly widening, and sense the thing that was trying to claw its way into the human realm. His eyes hurt and he looked away, closing his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. Marian stood in front of him, naked and beguiling. She was everything he had ever wanted. Everything.

Norris swallowed, hard. The outside world had vanished. Instead … he was in an ideal world; a computer, a bed, a willing girl, a life of respect and freedom and safety, a life where bullies simply didn’t exist or found themselves actually being held to account for their crimes. His eyes dropped to her breasts and then up again, only to see an inviting smile instead of the disdain he’d braced himself to face. It was astonishing just how girls would lash out at a boy like him for staring, when they’d nod and sigh nervously when a bully went a great deal further, but … who cared about them now, when paradise awaited? He took a step forward, his hand inching out to touch her …

… He looked up and met her eyes, preparing for rejection, and saw something damned and suffering looking back.

The shock jarred him out of his trance. He summoned everything he’d been taught, the disciplines Cecil Burghley had taught him and the skills he’d learnt in Gatehouse, and looked. Really looked. The scene in front of him wasn’t real. The room didn’t exist. The world didn’t exist. Marian was real, but she was trapped within her own body, a spiderweb of magic beyond his comprehension linking her to the entity beyond. Norris knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she’d be trapped forever, her body used as a lure to convince him to give himself to her master. And then … Norris wasn’t sure what would happen if he surrendered, but he doubted it would be anything good. He widened his awareness and sensed the others, all trapped in their own private heavens … all teetering on the brink of accepting those heavens and discovering, too late, they were actually hells.

And it was all his fault.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t know if she could hear him, trapped within her own mind, but he owed it to her to try. “I’m so sorry.”

He gritted his teeth, then grabbed hold of her – her body felt both wonderful and terrible, as if she had covered her naked self in human waste – and cast a spell, combining his knowledge of chemistry and magic to create an explosion. Fear washed through him, powered by his cowardice … which came, in turn, from the bitter learned helplessness he’d never been able to shake, until now. The entity reacted, but the sheer distance between them ensured it didn’t have time to do more than dampen the spell. Norris grinned, despite the certain knowledge it wouldn’t need more than a spark to trigger the explosion, despite knowing he was about to die and take her with him, freeing her from her bondage …

The world went white, and there was a sense of her taking his hand, and then faded away.

***

Helen had had no trouble in dismissing the illusion the entity offered her. The tactic was sophisticated, she acknowledged, but in the end it was nothing more than a more powerful version of spells that showed your deepest, darkest, desire. She had faced herself before, standing in front of a mirror and studying the warped reflection. She knew how dangerous it could be to let herself be caught, and how to free herself. She knew, above all, that the illusion wasn’t real.

She still hadn’t managed to break free of the magic holding them. The spell was more than just magic, more than just the combination of magic and science that the entity had used to bedevil them. It was the fabric of the pocket reality itself, now pervaded so completely that the entity could twist the world itself against them. Helen studied the pattern and shuddered at how her relative had become the gate, the key to everything …

The spiderweb tore. Helen wasn’t sure what had happened, but she threw herself forward anywhere as the illusionary paradises flickered and died. She caught brief glimpses of heavens she supposed were Richard and Janet’s – she told herself to forget what she’d seen – as she kept moving, channelling every remaining drop of magic she had into her spell. The power surged, buying her time to bite her lip to secure a drop of blood. The magic oozed through the blood and though the link … there was no time to target the link precisely, but there were only two people who shared the bloodline in the pocket dimension. Her awareness slammed forward and deep into Cecil Burghley’s mind.

His memories assailed her. It was an odd life, so familiar and yet so different. She saw his struggles with magic, tasted his desperation to find newer and better ways to conserve what little power the family had remained; tasted his hope and fear, when he’d heard of their arrival, and his determination to claim the family’s birthright by invading the magical world and taking it for himself. And she saw his fall into the darkness, into the gap between the worlds, and how the darkness had reached out to claim him …

She shivered. In many ways, they were alike. They were both Burghleys.

Helen reached deeper, to all that was left of Cecil Burghley, and asked him a question. He answered yes. She cast a spell, channelling a final droplet of magic into his mind, and allowed him to take it to set fire to his own soul. His master hadn’t eaten it, but … Helen yanked her awareness back as Cecil Burghley went up in flames, supernatural fires burning through the spiderweb tying him to the ancient entity. Helen sensed it looking back at her, cold and hard and very cruel, a moment before she reached out and pushed. Cecil Burghley fell out of the pocket dimension …

And Helen fell back into her own body.

“We have to run,” she managed, as she tottered and fell. The ground was cracking under her feet. Cecil Burghley had been the cork in the bottle, and now that he was gone the pocket dimension was no longer safe. “Hurry …”

She hit the ground. The world went black.

***

Richard felt dazed as he fell out of his private heaven. It had been disconcerting to see so many fantasies seemingly granted, even though he had been sure they were nothing more than illusions. He’d been cautioned, time and time again, about entities that made promises they couldn’t keep, or – worse – entities that took a malicious pleasure in giving the unwary exactly what they asked for, then laughing at their shock as they discovered that getting what they wanted wasn’t always the best thing in the world. And yet …

The sudden sound was almost deafening, all the more so because the oppressive silence was gone. The pocket dimension was collapsing, the remainder of St. Champions shattering before the rubble crashed into the void. Richard glanced at Janet – she seemed stunned– then darted forward to scoop Helen off the ground and throw her over his shoulder. The laws of physics themselves appeared to be coming apart – he saw a chunk of debris fall from the ceiling, stop dead, and then somehow head to the side – and the entire dimension was imploding. The staircases were shattering into nothingness … he reached out with his mind, trying to find the gate. Was it still there? Brains would keep it open as long as possible, but if the pocket dimension was collapsing there was a good chance the gate would be amongst the first things to go. They might be doomed to fall into the void and die.

“There!” Janet shouted.

Richard looked up and saw the gate spinning towards them, pushed by the collapsing dimension. The wavering darkness looked sickly, threads of bright light pulsing though the shadows and threatening to destroy the gate itself. Richard gritted his teeth and darted forward, suddenly aware they were on very thin ice. The floor was cracking beneath their feet, darkness – and something worse – leaking up into what remained of the school and consuming what remained of the pocket dimension. Richard jumped over a patch of darkness and looked down and …

… For a second, he looked the entity right in the eye. He knew it as thoroughly as he knew himself. There was no rage, no anger at being spited by lesser beings, just a cold terrible purpose that was utterly inhuman, combined with an awareness it had all the time in the world. They hadn’t won, he realised dully. They’d just bought themselves a little more time. A year, a decade, a century … what was time to a timeless entity so far beyond his comprehension that it thought of him as an ant? Less than an ant. There would be another encounter and they’d better be ready, because defeat would be total …

And then he snapped back to himself.

Helen moaned, as if she were caught in a nightmare, as Richard pushed Janet through the gate and risked a glance back. Doom was rushing towards him, a wave of pure despair sweeping through St. Champions and threatening to spread through the gate. Richard jumped, casting a cancellation spell as he made it through. The gate snapped out of existence. It was over.

No, Richard thought dully, as Steve took Helen from him. It’ll never be over.

The Merlin caught his eye. “Norris? Marian?”

“Gone,” Richard said, flatly. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but – somehow – Norris had won them a little time. Just enough time. He’d given his life to save the rest of them, to save the entire world. Not too bad, for a young man who had seemed determined to make mistake after mistake. “But that thing is still out there.”

“Yes,” Brains agreed. “And next time, we’ll be ready.”

“Yes,” the Merlin echoed. He jerked a hand towards the wall. “And first, we have to clean up the mess outside.”

Chapter Forty: Ten Downing Street, London/Gatehouse, York

The Prime Minister looked as if he’d been through hell.

Helen felt little sympathy. The man had allowed himself to be pushed into ceding his authority to Cecil Burghley, a step that would have been disastrous even if Cecil hadn’t been nothing more than a human face worn by an inhuman monster. Helen knew her family too well to believe that Cecil would have given up his power so easily, after seizing control for himself and putting the entire country into lockdown, and she suspected the PM would have been cursed into obedience or simply murdered, once the real Cecil had been firmly established as the country’s de facto dictator. The fact he had been so desperate that he’d grasped at a straw proffered by such a man, who had wrapped his truth up in a very flimsy lie, spoke poorly of him. The news reports were already insisting the PM was facing a vote of no confidence from his own party, before the opposition parties could get organised and vote to kick him out of office. Helen wasn’t impressed. A real man wouldn’t have gotten into such a mess in the first place, but if he had he would have resigned on the spot, taking the blame to spare his party the worst of the punishment to come.

She sighed, inwardly. The brief conflict between the mundane and magical worlds had been short but incredibly disastrous. Some communities had unleashed forces they could barely control, just to save themselves, while others had been too scattered to save themselves from being rounded up and sent to the camps. God alone knew how many mundanes had been caught in the crossfire, or possessed, or simply enchanted on suspicion. The remaining possessed had all collapsed, after the gap between realities had been closed … they, at least, were not to be blamed for what their bodies had been made to do. The antimagic bigotry fostered by Cecil and his master, the tidal wave of hatred and fear of magic, was a far worse problem. And that wouldn’t go away in a hurry.

They were lucky, she supposed, that the country had been so badly shaken up. If the government had been feeling more confident, if the PM hadn’t been so badly tarred by his association with a power-mad lunatic who’d turned out to be bent on a crime worse than genocide, it would have been harder to come to an agreement. The most the mundane government could accept, under normal circumstances, was far less than the magical community could or would offer. Helen knew her own people too well to think they’d willingly compromise their independence, certainly without safeguards and a huge say in policy. The Princesses represented the popular will of their cities, but they didn’t speak for the entire community. How could they?

The PM cleared his throat, awkwardly. Helen hid her brief flash of amusement with the ease of long training. The mundane world wasn’t used to dealing with relative youngsters in positions of power. She’d looked it up, purely out of curiously, and discovered the youngest ambassador in modern British history had been thirty-one when she’d taken office, although she had been assigned to a country that was, on the global scale, relatively small. The magical world took a more progressive view of such matters, judging children and adults by their accomplishments rather than their chronological age. Helen knew her appointment was partly political – she could be said to represent all aspects of magical society, as well as being married to a magical man from the mundane world – but she had no intention of failing in her duty. She was a Burghley. She was not allowed to fail, certainly not without giving her all first.

“I understand the agreement has met with the approval of most of your people,” the PM said, without preamble. Helen appreciated his bluntness, although she had the feeling the PM was just going through the motions until his party agreed on a successor. “And that you can keep the rest in line.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Helen said. The agreement was vague in places, but it did cover the important details. The magical community would exist as a semi-autonomous entity within the borders of Great Britain, with internal autonomy and very limited – ideally no – ties to outside nations. It wasn’t something the government would have willingly agreed to, if it had had a choice, but the risk of an even greater conflict had to be avoided. “If you don’t trouble us, we won’t trouble you.”

She felt her heart sink. There were already hundreds of contacts between the two worlds, from businesses looking to work with their magical counterparts to criminals trying to recruit magicians willing to commit crimes. Magical crime had always been relatively low, apart from the Sinisters, but there was always someone in search of a quick buck. Human nature didn’t change, even when there was magic involved, and she had no doubt there’d be hundreds of magicians willing to play big fish in a small pond, especially if they thought they could get away with it. They probably could, at least for awhile. There had never been that many Knights – the magical world had never needed to raise an army – and the mundane police forces that had been training to deal with magic had been crippled, and then discredited, by Cecil Burghley. The chaos would take years to subside …

And then some idiot will trespass on magical land, and the idiot of a landlord will turn him into a toad, and then the whole chaos will start again, she thought, grimly. We don’t even have a joint legal system, let alone a way to deal with people who blunder into trouble through sheer ignorance.

“We will see how it goes,” the PM said. He looked past her, at Steve. “I understand you are to wed?”

“We’re already married, technically speaking,” Helen said. The fact they’d consummated their relationship hadn’t stopped her mother from planning the wedding of the century. She had argued, and Helen couldn’t disagree, that a joint ceremony could bring the two worlds together, at least for a few short hours. Helen knew there would be nothing short about it – family marriages were for the family, not the bride and groom – but she supposed there was something to be said for a ceremony both worlds could support. “But yes, we are to exchange vows again.”

The PM nodded. “Good luck,” he said. “I wish you both the very best in the future.”

Helen nodded, wishing she could say the same. She was the ambassador now, charged with smoothing out clashes between the two communities that could easily lead to diplomatic incidents, or even outright war. The PM, by contrast, would be lucky if he got to slip into a peaceful retirement. Parliament was out for blood, pushed by the magicians – and suspected magicians – who had been arrested during the state of emergency, or the relatives of those unlucky enough not to survive. The MPs were desperate, looking for ways to shift the blame onto the PM. They knew they were looking at an electoral bloodbath in their future.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll do my best to serve.”

She winked at Steve as they left the office, having presented her credentials. It wasn’t the sort of life she’d expected, a year ago, and she had no idea how it would all work out, but it was better than having her future planned in exacting detail, or being married off to the right person to ensure her – their – children were born with stronger magic. It was a life she could build for herself, and a role she could define for both herself and her successors, and a chance to get her name into the history books …

And she’d helped save the entire world. It didn’t get any better than that.

***

“Brains couldn’t make it?”

Richard nodded as he joined Janet, under the statue. It was astonishing how quickly the local government had agreed to erect it – or, more accurately, emplace it; the statue itself had been carved by a stone mage – but he supposed it really shouldn’t have been a surprise. The world felt terrifyingly fragile now, even though the vast majority of the population had no idea just what sort of disaster they’d narrowly headed off. But then, an emerging dictatorship was quite bad enough. Norris, the most loathed boy in St. Champions, would go down in history as a great hero, the first of the magical age.

“He’s busy with Janie,” Richard said. The two had hit it off, somewhat to his surprise … it made him wonder, sometimes, if he should be jealous. “And this isn’t his cup of tea either.”

He looked up at the statue, shaking his head. The stone mage had worked from memories of Norris, provided by the Merlin, and crafted something that was surprisingly close to the reality while also maintaining an air of quiet dignity, even heroism, that would have amused the real Norris. Richard knew perfectly well that Norris hadn’t been a good person, not in the sense Richard understood, but Norris had also tried to fix his own problems and died saving the entire world. It was hard to come to any sort of conclusion, Richard thought, about Norris being a hero or a villain … he had, after all, been a product of a very different society. If he’d been born in the magical world instead …

The Merlin joined them. “The ceremony is about to begin,” he said. “Will you be saying a few words?”

Richard shook his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. Norris hadn’t been a friend. Not really. There had been a weakness about him that Richard had found repulsive, although he had tried to turn himself into a better person before going out in a blaze of glory. “He was a very contradictory person.”

“Quite,” the Merlin said, without apparent condemnation. “And you’ll be helping others like him.”

“Yeah.”

Richard let out a long breath. Janet and he had been asked to remain as teachers, teaching both magical students and the next generation of magical teachers. The disaster in Edinburgh had galvanised the teaching program, although there were limits to how much they could teach without risking a second disaster. There were few in the magical community who wanted to unleash hell, but the mundane community had far too many who believed they had nothing to live for, or wanted to revenge themselves on their tormentors even at the cost of their own lives and souls.

He sighed. “We’ll do our best, sir.”

The Merlin nodded and hurried to the stand. Richard glanced at Janet. “Are you alright?”

Janet hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said. “Norris was always creepy, and he was also harmless. I held him in contempt because it was safe … but … I could have reached out to him instead. Or …”

Richard shook his head. “You are not responsible for anyone else’s life,” he said, thoughtfully. “Norris could have risen above his circumstances. Instead, he chose to wallow in depravity and betray us, and when he started to change his mind it was too late.”

“That’s easy to say,” Janet said, sharply. “Harder to do.”

“True,” Richard agreed. “But that doesn’t excuse his actions.”

Janet said nothing for a long moment, then sighed. “It isn’t one thing,” she said. “It’s the constant torment, the physical, emotional and mental bullying, that grinds you down until you can no longer tell right from wrong, until you will do anything – anything at all – to escape. It’s being picked on by everyone, even the people who get picked on themselves.  If I hadn’t had Steve and my mother, I might have gone the same way too. I had no hope of a better life until I met you. Norris just met you too late.”

“You don’t need to make excuses for him,” Richard said. Janet was … sweet. Norris had been sour. “You could never have been like him.”

“I could have, if things had been different,” Janet said. “I had a safe space. I could go home and take the mask off and relax. Norris … didn’t. He had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run …”

Richard looked up as the gates opened, a crowd of mourners entering the field. Perhaps Janet had a point, although he refused to believe she could have been anything like Norris. Or perhaps … Richard had grown up in a world where there were opportunities aplenty, just waiting to be picked up and seized, while Norris had had few opportunities and none that offered the chance of building a better life. Steve might have made it – Richard knew Janet’s brother had the skills to have climbed out of the ruined estate, no matter what – but Norris? Probably not.

“We’ll make things better,” he promised. “But we’re not naming our first child after him.”

Janet giggled.

***

Francis hadn’t attended the ceremony.

He’d wanted to go, when he’d heard the story, but it would have meant standing in a crowd, exposed and vulnerable, and he just didn’t dare. He had never known Norris Nicolson – and he would bet his collection of action figures that none of the people praising Norris to the skies had really known him either – but the older boy was an inspiration. He had been a loser, a loser so low even the other losers thought he was terrible, and yet he’d learnt magic and saved the world! Francis wanted to follow in his footsteps, to be a great wizard who would always stand for the right and defeat the bad guys. And he was already learning magic …

He slipped out of the house after dinner, while his parents were having their nightly argument and his siblings were fighting over the television remote, and muttered a brief cantrip to keep himself safe from supernatural vermin as he walked to the park. Gatehouse towered over the city, and the remnants of the estate, the magical school’s mere existence clear proof that there was hope in the world, that he could make something of himself. He’d applied to attend as a new student, although he was up against some very stiff completion. Half the advice he’d seen online seemed designed to sabotage a new magician, and much of the rest was beyond his comprehension. But he would do it. He knew, deep inside, he would.

The statue stood in the centre of the park, alone. There were no crowds, not even any supernatural creatures. Francis wasn’t surprised. Norris – like so many others – had been ignored in life and recognised, after his death, only for what he’d done for others. There were no mourners now, not even a handful of people who realised what he’d done and wanted to sit a vigil for him. Francis wondered, as he stared up at the stone face, just how long it would be before Norris was forgotten, a deeply embarrassing reminder of a past the city – and the country would prefer to forget. It wasn’t as if there would be anyone trying to keep his memory alive.

Poor bastard, Francis thought.

He heard something rustling behind him and turned, his heart sinking as he saw Cruncher walking into the park. Cruncher – his real name was a closely-guarded secret – was a thug, a bully, a rebel without a cause … Francis gritted his teeth, all too aware he was in some trouble. Cruncher could do whatever he liked, after he’d assaulted a teacher and gotten away with it, and everyone knew it. Francis’s cantrip had protected him against supernatural threats, but human assholes were still dangerous …

“He was a nerd,” Cruncher said. Francis caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath and shuddered. Cruncher was too young to buy alcohol, legally, but who was going to say no to him? “And now he’s dead.”

Francis stepped backwards, bracing himself for a beating. Cruncher came after him, his lips twisted into a savage smile. Francis felt a flash of pure terror, which rapidly morphed into anger. Cruncher was thick as two short planks, a barbarian savage who couldn’t count past ten without taking off his socks and twenty without taking off his pants. The idea he could push Francis around without consequence was appalling and yet it was true …

… But it wasn’t, not any longer.

Cruncher’s smile turned into a leer. Francis gritted his teeth and shaped the spell, drawing on the magic he’d practiced and the spellcasting he’d memorised, and let it go. Cruncher’s face went wide with surprise, an instant before his body melted so rapidly his clothes tumbled into a pile on the ground. Francis gasped – he hadn’t been sure that would work – and then stepped forward, picking up a football shirt that had seen better days. His skin crawled as he tossed it aside and then looked down. A small frog looked up at him.

Francis giggled, feeling a surge of power flowing through him. No one, absolutely no one, would pick on him again. Ever.

Cruncher tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a croaking sound. Francis felt his giggles grow worse, nearly turning into hysteria before he could stop himself. Cruncher had been the absolute master of the situation a moment ago, but now he was a little frog, staring up helplessly at a giant of a man. Francis had no idea how long the spell would last, but it hardly mattered. Cruncher would never be the same again. And nor would the relationship between bullies and nerds, now the nerds could teach the bullies a lesson they’d never forget. Norris would be proud, Francis was sure. The world was his now.

“You know,” he said to the cringing frog, “I think things are going to be different from now on.”

And he turned and walked away.

The End?

Afterword

Back in 2019, I read a book entitled The Women’s War by Jenna Glass that was called, not entirely without reason, fantasy for the #METOO era. The story was set in a fantasy world dominated by patriarchal societies, to a degree unknown even in the worst eras of real history, with woman were treated as property, effectively unable to use ‘real’ magic and limited to (apparently) weak female magic. The plot kicked off when a trio of women cast a spell, very long in the making, that fundamentally changes the structure of magic: suddenly, women not only have access to new and different and very powerful magics, but it is suddenly impossible to force a woman to bear a child against her will, or for a rapist to escape justice. The world has turned upside down, and both men and women have trouble dealing with the new reality.

I remembered this when, in the wake of J.K. Rowling speaking out on transgender issues, a fan put forward a piece of Harry Potter fanon that stated that when a transgirl came to Hogwarts, and made her way up the steps to the female dormitories (which are charmed to prohibit male entrance), the stairs would allow her to pass without impediment, ensuring she could join her sisters in the dorms. It was a nice suggestion, and I understand the desperation for acceptance they put behind it, but it is simply impractical in the real world. You see, both examples rely on one thing.

Magic.

In The Women’s War, the spells used to punish rapists are perfectly capable of telling the difference between a man who genuinely transgressed against his victim and a man who honestly didn’t realise he was doing anything wrong. Furthermore, it was impossible for a woman to cast such a spell unless she genuinely believed she had been assaulted; it was literally impossible for a woman to make a false accusation, to strike at a man out of petty grievance rather than genuine cause. And the change in the natural order that allows a woman’s body to auto-abort an unwanted child is capable of reading that woman’s deepest desires, ensuring that she literally could not carry a child unless she genuinely wanted it.

But in the real world, such spells are impossible.

This sort of issue extends well beyond fantasy books. Iain M. Banks created the Culture - a spacefaring post-scarcity society whose only real problem is a search for meaning - and is often held up as an ideal we should work towards, but it rests on both super-technology to solve the scarcity issue and super-intelligent entities to devote their vast capacities to solving the other problems facing the society’s original citizens. Wakanda - a super-advanced African nation that claims to be two hundred years ahead of the rest of the world - rests on both a rare metal that is effectively unobtainium and a myopic worldview that allowed it to both escape colonisation and yet criticise the colonial powers without actually bothering to do anything to help their African brethren, or - for that matter - to tackle Africans who were fully as compliant in the slave trade as the European slaveowners.

The same could easily be said of the post-scarcity future of Star Trek, in which the entire population can be fed and housed with ease and true poverty no longer exists. Captain Picard can say “the acquisition of wealth is no longer the driving force of our lives. We work to better ourselves and the rest of humanity” because Picard lives in a world where the problems of our age have been solved. Indeed, they may have been solved a little too well. The Federation was heedless of its own defence and found itself facing defeat three times, first at the hands of the Borg and then the Dominion (and then an alliance between the two enemies). I criticised many of the problems shown in the first season of Star Trek: Picard, but they do make a certain kind of sense. Clear proof the universe was not as safe as they had assumed brought back many of humanity’s old problems, which have a habit of lingering in the shadows until they come out into the open.

I was a young boy, then a teenager, who had more in common with Norris than I would like to admit. I was lucky that many of the modern issues – internet porn, for example, or social media - undermining young men had not yet arrived by the time I left school. I was still bullied, and socially isolated, and I coped with that - to some extent - by retreating into a fantasy world, where I was a Marty Stu character with superpowers or simply lived in a world where the weak and nerdy were accepted, or at least tolerated, rather than being bullied at all hours of the day.

But would magic make the world any better?

I would like to believe that it would, but experience has taught me that every world-shaking change in our environment had brought problems as well as solutions. It might be possible for magic to determine, automatically, if someone was objectively right or wrong; it might also be possible for someone’s subjective belief in their own rightness to override objective reality. A fantasy novel can afford to be clean and tidy and simple; the real world is a messy place, where two people can disagree on the details of what happened, or one person can accuse another of having motives that have nothing in common with that person’s real motives, and instead of clear simple answers we struggle to determine a truth that may be a compromise between the subjective truth of two people. It is often impossible to say something with complete certainty, which is why the social sciences are often pretty messed up.

When I started this trilogy, I had the idea that the first book would focus on magic students being trapped in our world, and the second would follow non-magical students who wind up in the magic world. (In hindsight, it might’ve been wiser to add a character who lacked magic.) The third would focus on the impact of the two worlds colliding, as both struggle to understand what has happened and shadowy figures move to take advantage of the sudden shift in reality. The first group of students would be horrified at our world; the second would be fascinated by magic, in much the same way Harry Potter saw Hogwarts as a wonderland, and only slowly discover the grim reality underlying the fantastical world. And the experience would profoundly change them.

The core difference between the two worlds is personal responsibility. Richard and Helen - and to a certain extent Brains - were treated as miniature adults to a very great extent, allowed a great deal of freedom to choose their own paths and to deal with the consequences. They knew from a very young age that the world was a serious place, and that they would be doing things of consequence, and this practicality shaped their personalities. Janet and Norris, by contrast, had very little control over their own lives, and very little hope of becoming more as they climbed into adulthood. Their school was not so much a place of education as it was a prison, with very little connection drawn between the work they were doing and future careers. The lack of any proper trade skills, even making things - woodwork or cooking, for example - did not imbue them with any sense that what they were doing was important, nor did it give them any pride in their work. The lack of any sense of responsibility damaged them in ways they could not hope to overcome easily, in adulthood. Norris was savagely bullied and would carry the scars of that bullying the rest of his life, while Janet would eventually be destroyed by her own sense that her life was hopeless and there was no point in trying to strive something she could not possibly achieve.

Magic gave them hope. But it also gave them new problems, and made them vulnerable to threats that had, once upon a time, taken no notice of them; threats, unsurprisingly, they were unprepared to meet, or even recognise as threats, until it was far too late.

You see, magicians might be … well, magicians. But they’re also human.

Magic doesn’t exist, but the problems facing kids like Norris and Janet are all too real. It isn’t just that they go to schools with severe discipline problems, because the teachers are unable or unwilling to isolate the bullies on the rest of the school, or that the schools are increasingly infected with educational philosophies that bear very little resemblance to the real world and assume a degree of ‘magical’ ability that simply doesn’t exist. Those policies are driven by people who want to look good, rather than actually be good, and they come at the expense of students who lack political support and backing; in response, they fuel a suspicion and hatred of teachers, amongst both students and their parents, that is increasingly reciprocated.

And this is unfortunate, because most teachers are not responsible for proposing or driving these foolish policies.

You may have noticed that I was careful not to say anything about events outside Britain. I do have some ideas about how other countries would have been impacted by the sudden return of magic, but those ideas are for other books (perhaps written by other authors).

I hope you enjoyed reading this book. If you did, and would like to see more, please go to the place you bought it and leave a review. It has grown much harder, alas, to make a living through indie authorship, so a review - or even a rating - would be very helpful indeed. So would following me on social media, my mailing list, and my blog.

Thank you for your time.

Christopher G. Nuttall

Edinburgh, 2024

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