She sifted through the new memories, arranging them beside the memories she'd formed on her own. There had been a careers class in school. The teacher had tried to get them to declare what they wanted to be when they left school, or at least what they'd like to study in college. Nobody had any idea, of course. The reflection had stayed quiet too.

Valkyrie thought about this. She didn't really need a regular career, after all. She was set to inherit Gordon's estate and all his royalties when she turned eighteen anyway, so she'd never be short of money. Besides, what kind of career would interest her outside of magic?

If she'd been in that class, she knew what she would have answered. Detective. That would have garnered a few sniggers around the room, but she wouldn't have minded.

The main difference between her and her

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friends was not the magic, nor was it the adventure. It was the fact that she knew what she wanted to do with her life, and she was already doing it.

Valkyrie undressed, pulled on her Dublin football jersey, and climbed into bed. Twenty seconds later she was asleep.

Chapter Five

The Terror of London

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A DARK SHAPE flitted high above the streets of London, moving from rooftop to rooftop, spinning and twisting and cavorting in the air. He wore no shoes, and his footsteps were light, his tread no more than a whisper, snatched away by the night breeze. He sang to himself as he moved, and giggled, a high-pitched giggle. He was dressed in black, with a battered top hat that stayed perched on his misshapen head no matter what acrobatic feat he performed. His suit was torn, old, and musty, and his long-fingered hands were tipped with long, hardened nails.

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He landed on one leg on the edge of a rooftop and stayed there, his lanky body curled. He looked down onto Charing Cross Road, at the people passing below him, at the cars zipping by. His cracked lips pursed, his small eyes moving, he browsed the selection on offer, making a choice.

"Jack."

He turned quickly to see the young woman walking toward him. Her long coat was closed, and the breeze played with her tousled blond hair, teasing it across her face. And such a pretty face. Jack hadn't seen as pretty a face in many a year. His lips parted, showing the small yellow teeth, and he gave her his best smile.

"Tanith," he said in a voice that was high and strained, in an accent that was a cross between East London and . . . something else, something unknowable. "You're lookin' ravishin'."

"And you're looking revolting."

"You are too kind, I'm sure. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

Tanith Low shook her head. "It's not your neck of the woods any longer, Jack. Things have changed. You shouldn't have come back."

"Where was I gonna go? Old folks' home?

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