But at least the project means that whenever Sally sends me a needling email asking for an ETA on my report, I’m able to say: “2,891 pages down and graphed, 3,385 to go.” And when she says, “Why can’t you automate it?” I can point to the memo forbidding us from selling our personally identifying data to the Big River Corporation, whose terms and conditions of service are incompatible with our security policy. Check mate.

The next Wednesday I make my way into the office on foot, as usual. I take the shortcut along the ley line. It’s late enough in the autumn that there’s a distinct chill in the air; so close to the BST/GMT clock change that I approach the side door in the wan, predawn gloom. Wrapped up in worries about the upcoming weekly DRESDEN RICE meeting this afternoon, I barely notice at first when my ward—worn on a cord around my neck—throbs. Once for a warning: someone or something is watching me.

Then it throbs again. That gets my attention. I spin round, scanning for threats, and open my inner eye and feel hunger. Then I look down. “Oh. You again. Go away.” It’s the cat that’s been hanging around the dumpsters for the past couple of weeks. At least, I think it’s the same one. Small and black, it’s looking rather damp and miserable right now. It gazes up at me and chirps like a bird. “No, really, you don’t want to follow me in here. The night staff would eat you.”

I look away—eye contact only encourages them—and punch in the keycode. But as I step inside the darkened lobby I feel something brush against my leg. Stupid animal! The door slams behind me and I pull out my torch and head towards the stairs, then a pang of conscience prompts me to hesitate.

I hear shuffling footsteps approaching from beyond the nearest fire doors. “Here, puss. Puss?” It’ll be the night staff, coming to eat the intruders. I fumble my warrant card out of an inside pocket, transfer it to the hand holding the torch. “Cat? Puss? Here—”

“Grraaaah . . .”

I look around, inner eye wide open. Hunger and fear. A body limned in balefire hunches towards me, arms outstretched, as the fuzzy nexus of deprivation that got my ward’s attention hurtles away from it with a startled hiss and runs up my leg.

“Fuuuck!”