I stare at him, nonplussed. “The others have her?”

“Just…trust me, Ana. OK? It’s time to see the bigger picture.”

“What if I don’t come with you, Malik? What then?”

“Not a good idea,” he says straight-faced.

“Why?”

“Because Reapers don’t just come to hunt. They come to kill.”

13

The night is cold and the new moon a silver sickle in the sky. We climb out the window, quietly, so as not to disturb the strange new occupants of 7 Underwood Lane. We clamber down the yew tree, Malik first, me following with my heart in my throat, and we drop onto a sodden patch of lawn—the garden. Last time I was here, it was dry as bone. Now it’s wet and spongy underfoot. Another anomaly, but I’ve stopped counting. Besides, if Malik is telling the truth, that dry garden is a whole world away. I need time to process that, but time isn’t something we have, apparently.

We jog to the road, the straps of my backpack digging into my shoulders. I threw it together in a few breathless minutes: a jumble of underwear, T-shirts, a second pair of trainers, socks, phone charger. I forget the rest.

Reapers don’t just come to hunt.

They come to kill.

I feel loose and wild. A kite caught in a hurricane. Frightened, but also reassured by the presence of this long-legged, gun-toting stranger. This Malik Habib with his dark eyes that speak of worlds beyond the known. Whose voice comes into my head uninvited. Who runs with an athlete’s lope, as if he’s never far from a sprint.

I turn and stare at our front door trapped in a pool of moonlight. Black, not red. My home? Not so much.

That’s when I hear the growl, low-throated and mean.

I swing around, half expecting teeth. But it isn’t the dog that greets me and it isn’t some mythic beast. It’s a motorbike. Malik has swung his leg over a black metal beast and he’s sitting at the curb, holding out a jacket and helmet to me. The bike is big and sleek, like a shark fin, all metal and polished chrome—not new, but well looked after. And then there’s this: it doesn’t have any wheels.

It’s hovering. Hovering. I mean. What. The…

“Forget it,” I say, shaking my head. “No way in hell I’m getting on that thing.”

“Thing? This is a Dyson Thunderbird.”

“Are you taking the piss? Where are the wheels?”

“Why would a Thunderbird have wheels?”

“That thing’s a monster.”

“No. The monsters are coming. Hop on the back, Ana Moon.”

“No.”

“Scared?”

“I’m not scared.”

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “C’mon. I’m not the bad guy here.”