The wind was howling now. Tom struggled to his feet, rain streaking across his face. The Captive whooped a war cry, and the Samdhya danced around her, beating their drums, some turning into birds and swooping around her, others racing round and round.

Three figures remained on the island. Zita, now comforting Kit, and Jack, whose face was stricken with anger. They were all drenched, their clothes streaming, and the sky once more shook with thunder, electricity humming in the air.

For a moment Tom thought Jack might give in.

‘Kit,’ said Jack. ‘My boy …’

‘No!’ screamed Kit. And he ran at him, tearing at Jack, beating at him with his fists.

Jack was too strong for Kit. He was going to kill him, as the rain poured down around them, forming into puddles at their feet, bouncing off the moat, flattening their hair to their skulls.

Tom knew now that this was his fight. He was the only one who could kill Jack.

He felt a tug at his arm. It was Tanenwod. He understood her look. He nodded at her and, taking a deep breath, he ran back across the moat, holding the dagger. Zita tried to stop him, but he shrugged her off.

‘Jack,’ said Tom, confronting him, ‘this dagger has been made for you.’

‘You can’t do it,’ sneered Jack, throwing Kit to one side. ‘You are too soft. I have power still!’ He squeezed his hand into a fist, and Tom felt a terrible tightness around his neck. He fought blindly against it. It faded.

Jack looked surprised and readied himself for another attack. But he was panting now, and he looked old, stooping, bowed, the weight of the centuries and his wickedness pressing down upon him.

‘That you may,’ answered Tom. The lightning struck once more and Jack’s whole face was lit with devilish brightness, and the crowd of Samdhya beyond the moat seemed at once animal and human, a chaos of feather and tooth and horn. ‘But so do I.’

Sensing the energy around him, Tom, with a surge of power, lashed out towards Jack, wrapping him in thick tendrils of smoke, chaining him about with wards until all that could be seen were Jack’s eyes, and all that could be heard was a muffled roar.

‘You’re right, Jack. I can’t kill you. I am too soft. I know you killed my parents. I know I should kill you. But I can’t.’

‘What will you do, then, Thomas Swinton?’ Jack was dissolving the wards, his face clear now, his grin apparent.

Tom smiled. He lifted a hand. A window shattered above them, and out of the house came, at Tom’s command, the glass box.