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PROLOGUE
In the first of my three endlessly recurring Gabriel Thornber dreams, I’m walking along a deserted London street at midnight. I’m perfectly calm. My powers mean the dark and the dangers of the city hold little fear for me, either in reality or in my subconscious. And then I turn a corner, into a narrower street, and he’s there.
“Sadie Sadler. It’s been a while.” Gabriel is smiling as though bumping into me—or more likely, finally tracking me down—is the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time. He’s wearing tight jeans and a blue and white striped shirt, with his shoulder-length hair pushed back and his customary sunglasses hiding his terrifying eyes. Even through my mounting terror, I can appreciate his beauty. A demon in the body of an angel.
I freeze, barely able to breathe, but quickly summon enough self-preservation to spiral my arms around myself and throw up a strong shield.
He steps closer and lazily waves a hand in my direction, probably more for effect than anything else. His magic requires nothing as crude as hand gestures. My shield drops before I can even think about resisting.
“Come on, Sadie, you’re not playing fair. I only want to take what you promised me. You know full well it’s breaking all the rules to resist a lien.”
I nod shakily. It’s very difficult to resist a lien. The power of them sort of compels you, sort of puts practical barriers in your way. And if you push your resistance attempts too far, you’ll die.
Hiding out down south is not exactly in the spirit of the thing, but it’s not really resisting… just making things a little more difficult for Gabriel. But trying to stand against him now would be completely unacceptable. Besides, as he’s amply demonstrated, I’m in no position to do so.
“Come here,” he whispers, half command, half lover’s entreaty.
I stay where I am, incapable of movement.
He shrugs and closes the distance between us, until he’s facing me, close enough that I can hear his steady heartbeat and feel his breath, but deliberately not touching me.
“Sadie. I’ve waited six years. May I?”
Such a pointless question. As if he’d simply smile and walk away if I said no. But he always has to play the gentleman.
I take a deep breath. When I speak, my heart is racing but my voice is gratifyingly calm.
“I’ll honour the Old Ways.”
There’s nothing more to say or do.
PART1
ONE
LONDON—PRESENT DAY
I pour black coffee into my favourite mug and Evian into my silver scrying bowl. Once I’ve taken a swig of the coffee, I breathe rhythmically and wave my hand over the water until it’s steaming and swirling.
I’ve sworn off magic nowadays, but I make an exception for checking up on Tinder dates.
After a few seconds, the water calms and the vision comes into focus. Christopher looks just like his photos, which is a good start. His apartment is clean, decorated, and seemingly only occupied by him: another tick. Judging by his outfit, he’s about to go out for a run. No obvious red flags here. He seems as blandly pleasant as the messages we’ve exchanged suggest.
We’re going to view the latest exhibition at the Tate Modern art gallery, then try some new Indonesian restaurant. It’ll be lovely. It’ll be unbearably dull. I’ll have to grit my teeth to avoid letting my emotions or my powers get out of control. If I let my guard down, I’ll end up setting the gallery’s Turbine Hall on fire with an idle thought.
Later, I imagine we’ll come back here. Christopher will no doubt be gentlemanly to a fault, like he’s trying to win the prize for Feminist Ally of the Year. We’ll probably sleep together, probably instigated by me. I’ll probably come, despite it all. I almost certainly won’t feel satisfied in the slightest.
I try to make an effort to go on dates, but I ruined myself for other men six years ago, aged eighteen. When I look at Christopher’s earnest blue eyes in the scrying bowl, in my mind I see a different face—eyes with diamond-shaped pupils like mine, glowing red like the fires of hell and trying to see into my soul.You made a bargain.
The image fades away, and I make a mental note never to spy on my dates again. I’m about as likely to stick to that as my semi-regular hungover vows to give up gin.
More coffee is definitely required. I methodically grind the beans before putting them into the cafetière. They cost ten pounds for a single serving. My mum would kill me if she knew, but then my family’s principles are rather skewed. Controlling an entire town with magic, fine. Enforcing magical debts, no problem. Demanding obedience from acolytes and plotting against enemies or rivals, absolutely. Wasting money or seeming too pretentious and intellectual, no way.
Luckily, as my relatives still live three hundred miles north of London, they don’t know much about the habits I’ve picked up or the traits I’ve abandoned in a desperate attempt to seem normal.
If I’m going to force myself to go on a date, I might as well attempt to look good. I grab my make-up bag, my laptop, and a small mirror, and drag them all to my one table. It functions as an eating place, a storage space, and, when I’m working late into the night, a home office. My home’s well-situated and beautifully decorated, but spacious it ain’t.
I blow-dry my hair with more enthusiasm than skill. Left to its own devices, it’s naturally the deep black of a teenage goth who has gone overboard with the cheap hair dye, in stark contrast to the pallor of my skin. It’s also a tangle of curls with a tendency to frizz. Back home, I used to straighten it with spells. Nowadays, I rely on the pseudo-magic of the local salon. Between the Brazilian blow-dries to keep it straight, the spectrum of deep brown highlights, and the shoulder-length cut, I look more like a young urban professional and less like a fairy-tale witch.
