The Sorceress was sitting with her back to the warm stones of the Alcatraz lighthouse, staring into the liquid in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head to look at the city across the bay. The realization that Nicholas and the children were unprotected had set her heart thumping. When she’d been talking to him earlier, she’d just assumed Scathach was there, somewhere in the background, but she’d been distracted talking to William Shakespeare and then the vetala had attacked. She looked down again. Scathach had stepped back from whatever reflective surface was carrying the image and Perenelle was able to see more of her face. There was a quartet of long scratches like claw marks on Scatty’s forehead, and one cheekbone looked bruised. “A spot of bother. Are you all right?” she asked. She had trouble trying to decide what the Shadow might call bother.

The Shadow’s vampire teeth appeared in a savage inhuman smile. “Nothing I could not handle.”

Perenelle knew she needed to remain calm and focus her aura. She was concentrating so hard on scrying and keeping the connection with Scathach that her other defenses were failing, and already she could see the flickering movement of the ghosts of Alcatraz in the air around her. As more and more of the protective layers of colors fell away from her aura, the ghosts would start to flock around her, disturbing her, and she’d lose the link with the Warrior Maid. “Scathach, tell me,” she said calmly, staring hard at the water, “where are Nicholas and the twins?”

The Shadow’s bright red hair swam into view. “London.”

“I know that. I spoke to him earlier.” Perenelle had picked up on the slightest hesitation in the Warrior’s voice. “But…?”

“Well, we think they are still in London.”

“Think!” The Sorceress drew in a deep breath and bit back a wave of anger. A tremor of white light curled across the surface of the water and the image rippled and fragmented. She was forced to wait until the image re-formed. “What’s happened? Tell me everything you know.”

“There have been some reports on the news channels of odd disturbances in the city last night…”

“Last night?” Perenelle asked, confused. “What time is it? What day?”

“It’s Tuesday here in Paris. A little after two in the morning.”

Perenelle did the calculation, working out the time difference: it was still Monday on the West Coast, and now around five p.m. “What sort of odd disturbances?” she continued.

“Sky News reported a thunderstorm and torrential downpour over one tiny section of North London. Then euronews and France24 carried a story about a huge fire in a derelict car yard, also in North London.”

“That could be nothing,” Perenelle said, though she instinctively knew it was somehow connected to Nicholas and the twins.