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‘Seventeen,’ Nick murmured shakily, and Joan realised that he’d counted the number of bodies.

Joan put a hand over her mouth. It wasn’t just the visceral horror of it. She’d forgotten how wrong this world was—it was evident even in a recording. Something deep inside her said that this shouldn’t exist. It was a corrupted version of reality. An incorrect timeline.

Now, a ripple shuddered through the market room, and the hairs on Joan’s neck rose. It was like the timeline itself was trying to raise the alarm. As if it was as disturbed as Joan was.

‘This is what you saw?’ Aaron breathed, and Joan nodded. He’d gone very pale. ‘I felt the timeline react to it,’ he said, and Joan nodded again. ‘Like it couldn’t abide its existence.’

‘It doesn’t exist yet, and it never will,’ Nick said. He was so certain that he sounded eerily calm. ‘We’re going to stop it.’

They decided to leave from the south bank, within sight of St Magnus. Close enough that they could access the church, but not so close that they’d accidentally run into any of Eleanor’s people.

‘And we can borrow a Hathaway boat from the wharf when we get there,’ Tom said.

They walked across London Bridge together, in the dim light of gas lamps. It was a cool night, and Joan was glad of that; they were all in overcoats to conceal their 1920s clothes. They’d talked through the initial jump already. If everything went to plan, they’d arrive on February 24 with plenty of time to surveille St Magnus. With luck, they’d find Eleanor before March 5—and with even more luck, they’d find out who was working with her. Aaron had warned that she could have allies with unusually strong family powers, and the more they knew about those allies, the better they could plan.

As they reached the south bank, Owen Argent pushed away from a warehouse wall, hands in his pockets.

‘He’s coming with us,’ Tom said.

‘Tom,’ Joan said. That hadn’t been the agreement. And if Owen travelled with them, it would cost another thirty years of human life.

Tom glanced meaningfully from Jamie to Nick. ‘Just in case,’ he murmured without apology. He checked Nick’s reaction, but Nick’s expression stayed blank.

‘Nick.’ Aaron beckoned to Nick with an elegant curl of his fingers. ‘It’s time.’

Joan wet her dry lips. Don’t ask Aaron to do this, she wanted to tell Nick.

Nick’s cuff was still empty; only a Mtawali would have been able to embed more time into it. But the cuff had a backup function; whoever wielded the controller could use time they’d stolen themselves to drag their prisoner.

And Aaron was still the only one of them able to wield that controller.

Please don’t, Joan thought again. Let Aaron use a piece of jewellery instead.

But Nick went to Aaron, stopping just within his circle of personal space. He was only a little taller than Aaron, but his muscled body gave the impression that he was towering over Aaron’s narrower frame.

‘You’re sure about this?’ Aaron said to Nick very seriously.

‘I’m sure,’ Nick said steadily.

‘Very well,’ Aaron said. He reached up and ran his hand over the back of Nick’s neck.

Nick took one shuddering breath and released it.

‘I have it,’ Aaron said softly, and Joan was torn between feeling sick and relieved. She’d been so afraid that Nick would drop dead like Margie had. And then the true horror of it hit her. Nick had just lost more than thirty years of his life. Just like that. It was gone. How much did he have left?

‘I didn’t even feel it,’ Nick said, eyes a little wide as new understanding dawned on him. Monsters stole human life so easily and secretly that humans would never know it.

Aaron was still staring at Nick, seeming off-balance. Joan bet he’d never looked a person in the eyes as he’d taken time from them.

‘We’re travelling from here?’ Aaron sounded a bit shaky.

‘No, just a bit farther up,’ Tom said.

They’d found a spot between two warehouses, with a view of the Thames. Tom and Nick led the way, and Joan let herself fall behind. She’d been putting off taking time from herself—she’d been too scared. She couldn’t delay anymore, though. They were almost there.

Without letting herself think about it, she put a hand to the back of her neck and wrenched away what she hoped was thirty-two years—no more and no less.

Just like last time, it was agony—like she was tearing into her own flesh. Humans didn’t seem to feel it, but Joan’s body knew what she was doing to it. She heard a sound work its way up her throat. Last time, she’d screamed. This time, she clenched her teeth as hard as she could, holding it in.