He did not reach his target. He was hurtled backwards by an invisible wall of protection, landing on his back with a hideous thump that rattled his bones.

Jack faced Tom. He looked younger, stronger, almost like Young Jack, almost like Tom’s father, almost like Tom himself. ‘And why do you think I killed your parents, Thomas Swinton?’ His hands were clasped in front of him. He looked so unperturbed, so calm. With one of his hands he gently began to stroke the velvet of his sleeve. His eyes were distant.

‘I needed you to have nothing left.’ Jack smiled, his lizard eyes dark. ‘Everything you loved has gone. You have no other way.’

Tom’s energy was ebbing away from him. He propelled himself once more at Jack, but the force of the rebound was too great; he fell, sobbing, to the floor.

Looming over him now was Jack. ‘There is no use in your resistance. Give way. Give way to me, Thomas Swinton, last bearer of your name, last bearer of my name.’

As he rose into a crouching position, Tom felt something in his pocket. It was a flask, full of the healing draught he’d made. He pulled it out, drew the stopper with his teeth and, in two gulps, drained it.

Warmth and strength rushed through him. Zita’s smile flashed before his mind. He watched Jack.

He waited.

Jack was now pacing along the other side of the room. Tom knew that he would come round the square, back to where Tom was crouching. A few paces more. Jack was singing something slowly to himself. Two more paces. One.

Now.

Tom launched himself at Jack, and burst through his wards, feeling them shattering around him like tiny pieces of glass lacerating his skin.

For a flicker of a second, Jack’s face showed surprise. Tom took advantage of the momentary weakness. He could take him now. The sword was out, its point so near to Jack that he could pierce him within a moment.

‘Thomas, my boy … you would kill your uncle?’

There was something so suddenly frail about Jack that Tom paused, the sword-tip poised half an inch away from Jack’s stomach.

Tom hesitated.

Surging forwards, Jack pinned Tom by the throat against the wall. Those cold, strong fingers closed around his neck. The eyes, obsidian, furious, glimmering with dense fire.

His parents’ killer, the dark magician.

Tom choked. He had lost. He was going now to the depths, to where his parents were gone, to beyond the spheres of this world or any other. His eyes began to flutter. He saw a bright white light that emanated from a source he could not see and felt himself slipping away.

What seemed like a few moments later, he opened his eyes.

Quiet. There was a clean smell to the air. He shifted uncomfortably. He was lying on some wooden boards. He was thirsty.

‘Tom … Tommy boy!’