Tom felt the tension that racked his body lose a little of its grip. He realised he’d been holding his breath. He unclenched his fists and saw his palms were scored with nail marks. The taste of blood at the back of his throat soured, turning his stomach. The danger of the change taking hold was fading. For now.

‘I think we lost the ’wolf,’ he said shakily.

Jasmine nodded, apparently satisfied.

Rico had stopped coughing, and was breathing a little easier now, in shallow wheezes. Tom squeezed his hand. ‘It’s OK,’ he told the kid. ‘Everything will be fine soon.’ For a second he could almost make believe he was talking to Joe, riding through the night to Seattle in the back of Dad’s old Chrysler before this whole nightmare started. He thought back to the press conference on TV. Now his whole family was snared in Marcie Folan’s twisted plans … and where the hell was Kate? He shut his eyes, wished he could think of some clean way through all this.

‘You falling asleep back there?’ Jasmine enquired.

He sighed. ‘I can’t imagine ever sleeping again.’

‘Good. ’Cause now we gotta go wake up Doc Woollard and get Rico fixed up. Then we can check back with the crew and your uptight little girlfriend. OK?’

Tom just nodded, feeling a strange unease that went beyond the horror they’d just experienced. Jasmine had just seen her home wrecked and her friends beaten up, been shot at and then chased by a hungry ’wolf. And yet here she was, driving along in her stolen car, so calm and so in control. Taking it all in her stride. He couldn’t help but shudder. Just what messed-up crap did you have to live through to get that way?

g

‘This is our rink,’ said Swagger proudly, leading the way down the central aisle through the tiers of seating. ‘Shaun, stay on security.’

‘Check.’ Shaun the bodyguard stayed by the exit doors, but gestured that Kate should follow Swagger down into the auditorium.

Kate did her best to look impressed as she stared around the ruined expanse, hidden away beneath a cordoned-off derelict warehouse building on East 91st. It was hard to believe this dilapidated, echoing arena had ever been an actual ice rink, a place of brightness and music and fun. Now its surface was damp, grimy concrete, spattered and stained with stubborn pools of dried blood. Dim lights burned high above the endless, empty seating, casting distorted shadows over the arena. If there was any ice left in the place it must be in the air; each breath Kate took chilled her insides, then ghosted out of her mouth in a fine cloud of freezing mist.

Swagger eased himself on to the front row of rotting wooden benches and looked at her expectantly. Clearly her opinion was being sought.

‘So,’ she managed at last, ‘this is all yours, huh?’