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‘Get back,’ Nick murmured to Joan, his posture dangerous suddenly, and calm fell over her. This man didn’t know who he was dealing with.

Almost as quickly, her understanding reframed. Nick couldn’t fight this guy. Not anymore. Not after what Joan had done to him.

She scrambled around the counter and grabbed Nick’s arm before he could take another step.

‘It’s okay,’ Nick told Joan softly. ‘Just get back behind the counter.’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off the man. ‘I’m going to—’ He stopped, eyes widening.

A few paces from him, another man was stepping out of thin air, striding into the world as if through an invisible door. And now more people were materialising all around the room—men and women in anachronistic clothes: heavy 1940s suits and 1920s gowns. Monsters.

The man in the doorway spoke: ‘Take the girl. Kill the boy.’ He barely raised his voice, but the new arrivals scrambled into motion.

As if a switch had been flicked, Joan’s numb shock at seeing Margie vanished. If she and Nick didn’t get out of here, they were both going to end up dead too.

She shoved over the nearest table, full of uncleared plates and cups. A man in pale linen startled back from the smashing china. ‘Through the kitchen!’ she said to Nick.

Nick didn’t hesitate. Together, they dove around the counter and into the kitchen. Nick slammed the door behind him, and Joan grabbed a heavy cart stacked with baking trays. Nick caught the other side, and they toppled it with a loud clatter of metal, blocking the door.

‘What’s going on?’ Nick gasped out as they sprinted for the back door. ‘They appeared out of thin air! How?’

Joan shook her head. They were monsters. More than that, she didn’t know. ‘As soon as we’re out, get to the alleyway on the right and run!’ she gabbled. Take the girl, the man had said. Kill the boy. But Joan knew that if she and Nick split up, the attackers would go after her, not Nick. They hadn’t even expected Nick to be here. ‘Just get away from me! They’ll follow me, not you!’

Confusion flashed across Nick’s face. ‘You mean let them have you?’

‘Just do it! Just—’ Joan reached the back door and flung it open. She gasped. More monsters were materialising in the courtyard, filling the tiny space. She hesitated, staring.

Nick grabbed her hand. ‘Come on!’ he said. And there was no time to think. Together they tumbled out the door. They dodged around the materialising monsters, and they ran.

three

Joan didn’t make it out of the courtyard. A man caught her around the waist, the heavy belt of his arm knocking the air from her. Her knees sagged, and the man squeezed her into a bear hug.

Ahead, Nick passed the gauntlet of monsters and was almost out on the street. Joan felt weak with relief. He was going to make it.

But Nick turned, apparently realising that he’d lost his grip on Joan’s hand.

‘No!’ Joan croaked out. ‘Go!’

A monster grabbed at him, but Nick shook off the grip with irritated ease. He threw one punch, and then another, fighting to get back to Joan. And then the other monsters converged.

Joan struggled, trying to break the iron band around her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision spotted and faded. From the grunts and gasps, Nick was holding his own, but all it would take was a single touch to his neck. Clawing, Joan dug her fingers under her attacker’s arm. He shifted, and her lungs reinflated with a sudden rush. She forced out: ‘Nick, run!’

‘Corvin!’ someone snapped. ‘What are you waiting for?’

The man holding Joan raised his voice in command. ‘Stop! Stop fighting!’ His chest rumbled against Joan’s back. ‘Be quiet. Be still.’

The command was so ridiculous that Joan almost laughed. Did he think they’d stop just because he’d told them to? She wrenched and kicked at her attacker—Corvin, someone had called him. Her heel impacted with his shin, and he swore.

For a long moment, the only sounds were Joan’s feet scuffing and slipping against the wet cobblestones and Corvin’s grunts as he tried to hold her still.

They really were the only sounds, Joan realised slowly … She couldn’t hear Nick. She twisted, searching desperately, already imagining her worst nightmare—Nick, dead on the ground, like Margie.

But Nick was still standing. Joan barely had a moment to feel relief, though, because his posture was strange. He was in the middle of the courtyard, still as a stone, his eyes on Joan. The attackers had pulled away from him, but Nick wasn’t taking the opportunity to fight. His arms were stiff by his sides.

And his eyes … His eyes were so eerily blank that Joan had a horrible flash of Margie’s lifeless face. Of Gran’s. Of Lucien’s. The eyes of the dead.

‘Nick?’ Joan said. It came out scared and uncertain. He didn’t move. ‘Nick?’ she said again. What was wrong with him? ‘What did you do to him?’ she said shakily to Corvin.

Instead of answering, Corvin raised his voice in an order: ‘Hand me the cuff!’