He frowns, takes a sip and looks deep into the mug, as if all the secrets of life are held there. And when he looks up at me again I’m convinced he’s going to shed some light at last. But then he says: “Like I said, I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Then what good are you?” I blurt.

He doesn’t flinch. No flicker in his eyes. He’s tough. But he’s hiding something. I see it. In the darkness of his irises. It’s there—the hurt.

“All right,” he says. “Then, if you must know, I think it’s the Order that’s taken her.”

“The Order?”

“A group of Pathfinders that have gone rogue.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Years ago,” he says, “the Pathfinders split into two factions. The Collective, like us, and the Order. The Collective believes in a free, connected multiverse. Each world in charge of its own destiny. The Order wants to destroy the multiverse so they can build a new world order. And rule over it.”

“Great,” I say. “Extremism. The Order sounds like a riot.”

“Pathfinders are not always aligned,” Malik says. “And they’re not born equal. Some have limited abilities. Others—the masters—are powerful beyond measure. And some elder masters have been around longer than anyone can remember. There’s one here in Soho, one of the few left. We call her Mother. Look, she knows things. If anyone has answers, it’s her. After that, we’ll try a Council Meeting in Ares.”

“So, then, let’s go.”

He gives a gruff laugh. “Hold your horses. We’re waiting for the others.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a hundred ways to die in the multiverse, Ana. You need someone to watch your back. All the time.”

Before I can respond, the door blasts open and two figures enter the club.

“Ana Moon, this is Akuji Na,” Malik says, standing as they approach the table. “She’s one of us. Which is just as well.”

I stand too.

She?

Akuji seems androgynous to me. Neither feminine, nor masculine—somewhere between. Her skin is pale and her hair is albino-white and shaved to the bone. Even her eyebrows are white. I figure we’re the same age, but she’s all thin sinew and muscle. She wears a cut-off sports top, canvas combat trousers and a long, jet-black jacket. Crossed and spiking from twin scabbards in her belt—fighting sticks. She gazes at me with steady, scrutinising eyes. Eyes that seem to shift colour—opalescent, then silver. She looks nerveless, competent as hell.

“And this,” Malik continues, “is Vidhan Blue.”

Slim-shouldered. Spiky, truncated dreadlocks and skin the colour of hazelnuts. He looks of Asian descent and older than the girl, around Malik’s age maybe. He wears a pair of oversized tortoiseshell glasses, jeans, a grey hoodie and a jacket. And, like the girl, he’s armed. In his belt, in a scabbard, a short-blade knife.