I spot Pete huddling in a chair with his arms wrapped around him, looking most unhappy. He’s a modern enlightened vicar of the variety who has a PhD in Aramaic Studies. He probably thinks of the whole Bible thing as a fascinating abstract historical puzzle (which he has read in the original tongue—at least those bits that survive via the Dead Sea Scrolls). Of course he’s unhappy! He’s trapped in a committee with a bunch of demonologists and necromancers, the Eater of Souls, two vampires, and a kindly-looking old gent in half-moon specs who scares them all shitless. He must feel like an atheist at a revival meeting.

“I’d like to open this session by announcing that it’s a Code Blue emergency briefing. You are all involved, to some extent. Is anybody unclear as to why they’re here?”

Hands go up all round the room. “Yes!” It’s Doris from Health and Safety. (My heart sinks: old Basil the coffin dodger is sitting right beside her, sucking on his dentures and rocking slowly.) “What’s this about?”

“Ah, Mrs. Greene!” The SA smiles, apparently in genuine pleasure. “You’re here because you’re the Health and Safety monitor on the DRESDEN RICE committee. And I see you brought Mr. Northcote-Robinson from Archives along, too? How charming. (Basil, we really must get together one of these days, it’s been too long.) The reason for this meeting is somewhat less happy, I’m afraid to say. This lunchtime we became aware that one of our vampires was missing. I believe James and Mr. Howard are just back from investigating . . . ?”

Angleton clears his throat. “Evan Elliott is confirmed dead. Bob identified him. Cause of death was hemogolic incineration followed by V-parasite autophagosis. His neck was broken, immobilizing him; the killer then positioned him in front of a window.”

He falls silent. “It was a professional hit,” I add. “Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing and left no forensic traces. There may be CCTV footage from the lobby and the cameras nearby, but I expect the assassin took care to avoid standing too close.” CSI’s magic image enhancement software doesn’t actually work on real-world CCTV footage: a blurry low-resolution image saved at eight frames a second won’t tell us anything useful about a careful professional who never came within fifty meters of a camera.

I’m interrupted by a retching sound. It’s Alex, with his head between his knees; Pete is leaning over him, clearly concerned. From across the room, Mhari catches my eye: she’s clearly upset.

“Would someone care to explain what this means in plain English?” complains Doris Greene. “As the incident didn’t occur on our premises I don’t see how we can possibly be blamed—”

“What—what?” chirps Basil Northcote-Robinson. He looks puzzled.