All vampires smell of rotten meat to werewolves. Rue was not in wolf form, yet her inferior human nose wrinkled in disgust at the powerful odour. Vampires at home were not as obvious about what they were and how they ate. Dama, for example, always smelled of lemon pomade. He also had no moustache to speak of. This creature showed outwardly that he was a bloodsucker, with no pretence at anything civilised. The lack of artifice was off-putting, not to say embarrassing, and explained the crew’s reaction.

The vampire had an unctuous way of moving. His eyes were so full of malevolence that Rue actually thought he might charge and bite without even the courtesy of a greeting, let alone an introduction.

Rue stepped to the front of her group and pulled off her gloves. She was repulsed by the very idea of touching this creature. She would not want to turn into such a being, even as a lark, but she had better be ready in case it became necessary.

Quesnel took position on her left, pushing back his coat and shirt sleeve to expose the dart emitter strapped to his wrist. She knew without having to check that Percy had extracted the long sharp wooden cravat pin he always wore and that Prim had pulled out the tiny little crossbow she carried in her reticule and armed it with a wooden dart. All four of them had parents who saw no harm in training children to protect themselves. And all of those parents – whether supernatural or not – knew what form that protection should take when faced with a vampire.

The creature drew back his lips further and actually hissed at them like a rat.

“Pardon you,” said Rue. If one already looked as ugly as he did, there was absolutely no call for hissing.

He darted at her. Rue raised her bare hands. Her best threat to any supernatural was her metanatural state. Few immortals could face the idea of being mortal, even for a short space of time. It was what made Rue’s preternatural mother so universally despised. The idea that not only would he lose his form, but someone else would have access to it, was adding insult to injury. Where a soulless was merely the enemy, a soul-stealer was dishonourable, a defiler of the supernatural state. Rue was not just despised, she was vilified.

It was pure instinct which caused Rue to raise her hands in defence. And it was that very instinct which gave her away.

The vampire turned all his attention on her and spoke in broken English. “Soul-stealer. Go home. The Rakshasas do not welcome you here.”

It was so reminiscent of Sekhmet’s first approach that Rue wondered if this was the contact she was supposed to have met at the garden party. “Quite the unoriginal sentiment, I’m afraid,” she said.

“You are not invited to India.”