I suspect I was in shock at this point, because my memory of the camera is that it felt as if it was made of solid tungsten, and my knees were shaking, and my vision was blurred and I could barely focus on the screen and I felt sick and hot and cold simultaneously. But that’s nothing compared to how Basil felt when I took his picture.

What happens when you point a basilisk gun at a semi-skeletonized vampire elder?

Basil sparkles electric blue for just a moment. There’s a loud bang! A fragment of skull whizzes past my ear. And then the pile of red-hot bones collapses across the floor, as does the submachine gun they were holding a fraction of a second ago. (Thankfully, there is no accidental discharge.) One of the hot pieces of bone lands on the edge of the warded bubble, and begins to burn a hole in the paper, scorching the letters and linkages away. The bubble flickers and vanishes, revealing an apprehensive-looking vicar contorted over a chair holding a child. (Thankfully, Basil’s instructions to Scary’s men have overridden my orders to shoot anything that comes out of the bubble.)

A voice calls, from the office: “Is Basil dead? Can I stop killing this guy yet?”

What? “Yes, stop!” I shout. On second thoughts: “Alex, I want you to lie down, with your hands behind your back. Wrists together.” I realize I’m still pointing my deadly little camera at the opposite wall and force myself to lower it. I turn and see the soldiers turning away from the wall, shaking themselves and focussing. “Go and restrain him in case Sparkle Boy here implanted any post-mortem commands,” I tell them. “He’ll need burn support. I’m going to sort out the vicar.”

I’m shaking and shivery but I know what needs to be done. Pete is straightening up and saying something about untying the kid, about V syndrome and needing to get him to a hospital. I blink, feel the shuddering sense of exultation that woman would have taken at the moment Basil’s skull exploded, almost enough to give her a spontaneous orgasm—she hated him and lusted for him at the same time—and I bend over and spit on the floor, because I can taste blood on my lips. I’m soaking in the stuff, actually. I nearly throw up. It’s Steve Howe’s. Poor bloody Steve. It’s scant consolation knowing that if I’d gotten in front of him I’d have taken the vampire hunter’s booby-trap right in the face.