One night I tried going to see Liss. It was raining outside, and I longed for the warmth of her stove. But I couldn’t. Not after what had happened with Warden. After I’d helped the enemy, again, I couldn’t have looked her in the eye.

I soon found a new refuge, a place to call my own: an enclosed archway on the steps of the Hawksmoor. It must once have been a majestic structure, but now its grandeur made it tragic: it was cold and heavy, crumbling at the edges, waiting for an age that might never come again. That place became my bolt-hole. I went there every night. Sometimes, provided there were no bone-grubbers on duty, I would steal into the abandoned library and take a stack of books back to the archway. They had so many illegal novels in there, I started to wonder if this was where Scion sent them all. Jax would have sold his soul to get his mitts on them. If he had a soul to sell.

Four nights had passed since the bloodletting. I still didn’t understand why I’d helped him. What sort of dirty trick was he playing? The thought of my blood inside him made me sick. I couldn’t stand to think of what I’d done.

The window was ajar. I’d hear them if they came for me. I wouldn’t let them sneak up on me, like they had in I-5. I’d discovered a book called The Turn of the Screw, hidden among the bookshelves. The rain was heavy; I had elected to stay indoors, in the library. I lay prone under a desk and lit a little oil lamp to see the pages. Outside, the Broad was quiet. Most of the harlies were starting to practice for the bicentennial celebration. Rumor had it that the Grand Inquisitor himself was due to attend. He had to be impressed by how we were spending our new lives, or he might not allow the special arrangement to continue. Not that he had much choice. Still, we had to show that we were useful, if only for entertainment. That we were worth a little more than it would cost to give us NiteKind.

I took out the envelope David had given me. Inside was a fragment of text from a notebook, torn and yellowed. I’d studied it several times. It looked as if a candle had fallen on it: the corners were hard with wax, and a large hole had been burned right through the middle. There was a blurred sketch in the corner of the page, something that must once have been a face, but now looked faded and disfigured. I could only make out the occasional word.