“That was weird,” she said, sounding drunk. “Did that happen?”

“It did,” said Gordon, making sure she could stand on her own. “Are you OK? Will you be OK here?”

Susan frowned at him. “Where’re you going?”

“I’m going after Fawkes.”

Susan grinned. “I’m fine. You go get him, tiger.”

He nodded, left his mask with her, and ran as fast as his costume would allow. He got to the door, emerged into a narrow corridor. He followed it to an empty kitchen with three doors leading out from it. He chose one at random, ran the length of it, and found Sebastian Fawkes trying to get out of a window.

“You’re going nowhere,” Gordon said.

Fawkes turned. “Edgley,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here? Go away. There are forces at work you cannot possibly fathom.”

“I know all about magic,” Gordon said. “I know about the Sanctuaries and the sorcerers. You’re not the holder of dark secrets. You’re an idiot, and you’re not going to get away with what you’ve done.”

Fawkes stopped trying to get away, and regarded Gordon with new eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re against this. It’s power. It’s success. It’s wealth. And it’s a longer life to enjoy all that. Why won’t you just go along with it?”

“Because you’re hurting your readers,” said Gordon.

“Writers hurt their readers all the time! And the readers love it!”

“This is different. This is torture.”

“Nonsense! How can it be torture, how can it be cruel, if they don’t even know it’s happening? We give them stories, they give us longer life. It’s a fair trade.”

Gordon approached. “So what about the readers who’ve died reading your books? What do you call them?”

Fawkes shrugged. “The learning curve.”

“No. This will not continue.”

Colour rose in Fawkes’s cheeks. “Who are you to stand up to me? I am Sebastian Fawkes! The Telegraph called me the world’s greatest living horror novelist. The New York Times said my work was artfully sublime. My last novel was heralded as a humane, heartbreaking journey through a nightmare landscape and a triumph in form. What awards have you won? What accolades have you gathered? You’re a flavour of the month, easily dismissed, easily forgotten. I am a literary horror novelist. What the hell are you?”

Gordon took a last step towards him. “I’m a storyteller, you pretentious buffoon,” he said and he pushed Fawkes.

Fawkes stared at him, his eyes wide. He pushed Gordon back.

Gordon lost his temper, gave Fawkes an extra-hard push to teach him a lesson.

Fawkes let out a roar and charged. Gordon tried to keep him away, but he was too slow. They collided, and stood there, wrestling. Every so often, they’d move their feet slightly. There was a lot of grunting.