“Do us all a favour and focus, all right? You’re the starter’s pistol. You go down there, cause a distraction like only you can do. That’s the signal for Jack and Sabine to start picking off the mortals and for Tanith to go after the bow.”

“Where’s the vampire?”

“There’s a reinforced door down the other side of this courtyard – I’m assuming that’s where they keep the vamp. They’ll release it soon after you make yourself known, so be ready. And if you see a guy with a wand, leave him alone. He’s mine.”

Annis peered downwards. “How am I supposed to get down there?”

“Tanith said something about that,” Sanguine told her. “Let’s see, what was it? Something about the element of surprise. Oh, yeah, I remember.”

He put a hand on her back and pushed, and Annis was suddenly tumbling, arms flailing as she fell, skirt up around her head. The ground came to meet her and its embrace was not soft. She bounced, rolled and lay there on her back, gasping, struggling to breathe. She looked straight up and saw Sanguine, waving down at her. Her skin started turning blue.

She heard running footsteps, getting closer, and forced herself to sit up, gritting teeth that were already lengthening in her mouth. Her fingernails were growing too. Moaning slightly, she got to her feet as half a dozen men ran up, guns in their hands. When they saw her, the men at the front pulled up short, and the ones behind ran into them. There was much cursing and shoving, but they all turned silent when her jaw popped, allowing her teeth to grow to their full size.

Black Annis stood before them, blue-skinned and wild-haired, fingernails click-clacking together and saliva dribbling down her chin.

“What the hell is that?” one of the men whispered.

Another man raised his gun. It trembled in his grip. “A monster,” he said.

Annis snarled.

The men spread out from each other, forming a line. Annis looked down the barrels of all those guns. She didn’t like guns. Guns hurt.

A man with a silly moustache was the first to pull the trigger. The bullet hit her in the shoulder. The others fired, then, and she staggered, bullets slamming into her torso, her legs, her head. She pitched backwards, the hard ground embracing her once again.

The gunfire stopped. The last cartridge did a little dance on the ground and went still. The smell of cordite filled the air like smog.

“Is it dead?” one of the men asked.

“I don’t know,” another answered. “Go over and check.”

“I’m not going over,” the first man said. “You go over. I’ll cover you.”

“You’re a terrible shot.”

“I’m better than you. I got three headshots there. You shot its ankle.”

“I did not.”