“She sounds terrifying,” said Donegan.

“Hush, you. I will hear no bad word spoken of your sister.”

“Stephanie is not my first,” Fletcher repeated. “I really don’t need any advice.”

“Lads,” said Gracious, “any words of wisdom for Fletcher here?”

The others closed in.

“Honesty is, honestly, the best policy,” said Saracen. “But when honesty doesn’t work, lie, and lie convincingly.”

“Treat her right and with respect,” said Vex from up ahead. “Even when it ends, you want to remain friends.”

Donegan pondered. “My advice would be to go for someone better than you are. Stops you from getting complacent.”

“Grow a beard,” said Dai.

Fletcher frowned back at him. “Sorry?”

“A beard,” Dai said. “Women love beards. Grow one like mine. Mine is a manly beard.”

“I suppose it is kind of … manly.”

“I’ve had it since I was twelve.”

“You must have been a very hairy child.”

“The hairiest.”

“Hold on a second,” said Donegan, waving around a forked branch. “My divining rod is picking up something.”

“It’s not a divining rod,” Saracen said. “It’s a twig. You broke it off a tree.”

“It does work, though,” Gracious said. “It’s not one hundred percent accurate, it doesn’t lead you straight to the source of magic, but it gets you into the general area.”

“This way.” Donegan led them down a narrow alley. “Something’s close. Very close.”

“How sure are you?” Vex asked.

“Pretty sure,” Donegan called back. “This isn’t an exact science.”

“It’s not even remotely a science,” said Saracen.

“Aha!” Gracious said, picking up speed and passing Donegan. He pointed to two chocolate bar wrappers as they skipped along on the breeze.

“I’m missing something,” said Fletcher.

“One of the strongest urges a Remnant has once it takes a new host is to sate its appetites,” Vex told him. “It needs sensation. It needs to experience pleasure or pain. Food is an instant source of pleasure.”

“So all these sweet wrappers …”

“Classic signs of a Remnant possession. Look. More.”

They followed the trail to a loose pile of wrappers beneath an open window. Fletcher peered in. A small office with a single desk and cheap trophies on a shelf.

“A dojo,” said Saracen.

Fletcher looked back. “What?”

“A martial arts school. Looks like our Remnant might be an instructor.”

They walked round the corner to the street entrance. It was an unimpressive building with a cheap sign showing a badly-drawn man executing a flying kick. Fletcher followed the others inside. They passed a framed photograph of a man with a ponytail in a black karate uniform. The name under it was Noonan.

They pushed through another set of doors, entered the hall. Parents sat at one end while their kids stood to attention in the main space. The uniforms they wore were black and red. Only the man in charge, the one called Noonan, had a black belt around his waist.