‘No. But I’ve come across the name before,’ breathed Jicaque. ‘It originated in Saxon England. It means “guardian of wolves”. A name given by the Shipapi to humans sympathetic to the ways of the ’wolf.’

‘Coincidence,’ Tom said uneasily, ‘it must be. Stacy’s working to develop a cure for the lupine toxin.’ He glared at Jicaque. ‘And you’ve had the knowledge all along. You could’ve helped her properly, not just sent over a bunch of sappy herbs.’

‘It is not for me to say whether a race shall die or live,’ Jicaque retorted, ‘but to preserve the proper balances of life. Dr Stein seeks to control life through her … chemicals.’ He spoke the word with a grimace, like it was somehow disgusting.

‘She’s trying to help the reluctant newbloods control their cravings,’ Tom said fiercely. ‘While you were burying your head in the sand, Takapa’s turned a whole lot of kids ’wolf. Too many. It’s a bloodbath waiting to happen, and that’s what Stacy’s been trying to prevent.’

‘I know it,’ said Jicaque quietly. ‘But suppose … suppose her good work has been perverted in some way?’

‘But who could’ve …’ Tom trailed off, his breath catching in his throat. ‘Woollard?’

Jicaque met his worried gaze evenly. ‘Think of the effect this concoction had on you.’

‘Then I’ve got to warn Stacy,’ Tom realised, jumping to his feet. ‘Right now.’

‘Yes,’ Jicaque agreed, rising as well and nodding farewell to the man behind the counter. ‘And I must prepare.’

‘Prepare?’ Tom frowned, following him out of the coffee shop and on to the neon-soaked sidewalk outside. Rain was falling, and people hurried by with their heads down, their coats clutched close. ‘What do you mean, prepare?’

‘The bloodbath you spoke of,’ Jicaque replied grimly. ‘It must be prevented. Whatever the cost.’

Tom peered out into the road. ‘Do you have money for a cab?’ he asked Jicaque, trying to spy any yellow in the traffic. ‘I’ve got to get to Ramone’s hangout, quick—’

But when he turned back, he found the medicine man had vanished.

‘Jicaque?’ He spun around, scanning the sidewalk, picking through the frantic figures fleeing the rain, but there was no sign of him. How could the old guy have moved so fast?

Then Tom realised someone was watching him too. A cop, staring at him hard through the downpour, like he was trying to remember something.

‘Hey!’ the cop shouted. ‘Hey you, hold it!’

Tom swore, then turned and splashed off down the street, muttering under his breath: ‘Teenage kid wanted on a charge of Murder One and crimes against fashion …’ The good, the bad and the hairy –everyone wanted a piece of him. And he knew with a sick certainty that any time now his luck was going to run out.

*