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  Glory was only allowed a sip or two of champagne, thanks to Auntie Angel’s beady eye and the need to keep a clear head. But she was on a natural high. It almost didn’t matter that she hadn’t got to do any witchwork herself. Their escapade had all the colour and daring she could have wished for. This, she told herself, was how it was going to be once the Morgan brothers were bang to rights, Harry Whoever-He-Was had gone, and she was free to claim her inheritance. This was only the beginning.

  The morning after, Glory decided to prolong the festive mood by buying everyone doughnuts for breakfast. Passing her dad’s room, she could hear the inevitable bleeps from his games console. He had been more rambling and distracted than usual at the party last night, and only stayed for a short while. She knew he was unhappy about her involvement in the heist. He wouldn’t even admit she looked pretty in the diamonds, however much Auntie Angel pestered him. Now he appeared to be the only other person awake. At half past eleven, the lounge was still full of prone bodies and bubbling snores.

  The baker’s was a ten-minute walk away. Glory was just leaving the shop when a silver Mercedes drew up outside. Troy leaned out of the window. ‘Perfect timing – I was on my way for a visit. Hop in.’

  He looked every inch the young entrepreneur in his sharp blue suit, laptop and leather briefcase on the seat behind him. Successful mobsters needed to be good businessmen. But Glory was ready for the next round of negotiations. Unlike the last time he’d given her a lift, all the cards were in her hands.

  Feigning reluctance, she got into the front seat and put the greasy bag of doughnuts on the dashboard. Troy raised a brow.

  ‘“A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips . . .”’ he quoted.

  Glory ostentatiously bit into one of the doughnuts, so that sugar crystals rained on to the car’s leather interior. He winced. Good. With a bit of luck, she’d get some jam on there too.

  Moments later they were turning into Cooper Street. Troy parked at the end of the road, just like last time. Neither of them made any move to get out.

  ‘Congrats on the bling,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied mid-mouthful. She shook the bangles on her wrist. ‘Talbot Road market. Five for a quid.’

  ‘I reckon you can do better than that. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, after all.’

  ‘Oooh . . . like on a ring? ’Cause I gotta tell you, Troy, I ain’t the marrying kind.’

  ‘Don’t get cute with me.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘We all know that the Blake Gordon scam was Cooper Street’s. Dad’s steaming mad and Mum’s worse.’

  Glory shrugged, and brushed more sugar off her hands.

  ‘Everyone agrees it’s got to be one of the most pointless stunts on record. What have you got to show for it? A couple of poxy grand, and your very own witch-hunt.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve already had a whistle-wind and a train crash, and now there’s been an attack right outside the Inquisition. Witchcrimes, all of them. Before we know it, there’ll be curfews and round-ups and lynchings. Just like the old days.’

  ‘Lucky for me I’m no witch then.’ She reached for another doughnut. Troy smacked his hand down on the bag.

  ‘But you know a boy who is. Hexing hell, Glory – even if it wasn’t for yesterday’s caper, Cooper Street’s new witch-kiddie would be the talk of the town. Your outfit leaks information like a broken sieve.’

  ‘People need to know we’ve got assets.’

  ‘Cooper Street’s assets are the Wednesday Coven’s liabilities. That’s why new recruits need our approval: we do the checks, and we ask the questions.’

  ‘Check away. Harry’s got form. Auntie Angel’s been scrying on him for weeks.’ She tossed her hair. ‘Me, I don’t see what the fuss is about. His fae might be flavour of the month, but it ain’t nothing special.’

  She and Troy both knew that yesterday’s job required witchwork of the highest level. That was why he’d been sent to sound her out. But the situation was more plausible if she talked Harry down, and let Troy see her jealousy and resentment.

  ‘All fae’s special. That’s why it’s dangerous. Are you sure this boy is what he seems?’

  ‘Yeah. Worse luck.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘’Cause he’s a pillock.’

  Troy gave a grudging smile. ‘Well, Dad and the uncles want to meet him. Tonight at the Gemini. You’re to come too . . . Unless, of course, you’ve got another half-arsed heist to plan.’

  She climbed out of the car and slammed the door.

  ‘Hey – don’t I even get a goodbye?’

  She leaned through the window, and wiped her sticky fingers on the dashboard. ‘You get to keep the doughnuts.’

  From Number Seven’s front window, Lucas watched Glory lean into the Mercedes. It looked like she was giving the driver a goodbye kiss.

  Nate loomed beside him. ‘Smarmy git. Should’ve known he’d be sniffing round before too long.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Troy Morgan.’ Nate gobbed into an overflowing ashtray. ‘He and Glory are pretty tight. She reckons he’s her ticket out of here.’

  In the thick of his hangover, all yesterday’s good humour had gone. He eyed Lucas balefully. ‘You’d better watch yourself. I bet Glory’s been whispering sweet nothings about you and your witch-tricks into his ear. Troy won’t take kindly to competition.’

  Lucas already knew that Troy was a force to be reckoned with. The heir to the Wednesday Coven was studying Finance and Business Economics at Imperial College. The perfect training for a career in extortion, racketeering, larceny and fraud.

  There was something distasteful about the idea of Glory being with a slick thug like Troy. He was a lot older, and her second cousin too. But Troy might seem a good catch to a girl like Glory, Lucas supposed, remembering the weary teens pushing prams on the estate, and the leers and wolf-whistles that had dogged their own progress. Watching her from the window, he idly wondered what she’d look like if she scraped some of that cosmetic gunk off her face.

  He wished he could scrape off Harry. At first, he’d been reassured by the protection of the glamour. After over four days and nights of it, it was as if his old self – his real self – wasn’t just invisible, but unreachable. He felt the loss every time he made a gesture with Harry’s hands, or responded to someone with Harry’s frown or smile. Agent Andrew Barnes had lived undercover as Harry for a couple of months. Lucas wondered how he’d kept himself sane.

  He missed other things too. A proper bed and a working shower. Cleanliness. Quiet. Normal conversations and real food. Trying not to dwell on the big things made it harder to shake off the little.

  This made his meeting with Zoey that afternoon all the more important. It was his only chance of contact with somebody who knew the real him. She would also have a message from his father. It didn’t matter how brief or restrained. Just a few words would be enough. Something to hold on to, to make him feel a real person again.

  Then there were the things he needed to talk to her about – like the unease he felt about Angeline. The old lady was much more alert and active than she’d first appeared. And now there was the Troy issue. Lucas distrusted Nate and his innuendos, but if Glory did have a thing for her cousin, could she be compromised?

  He was back in the attic, trying to distract his thoughts with Jacko’s football magazine, when Glory burst in. ‘It’s on,’ she said. ‘You and the Morgan brothers. Tonight.’

  Excitement and dread swooped through him. He tried not to let either show. ‘That was quick. I’d . . . well, I’d better let my handler know.’

  They’d already pre-arranged for Glory and Auntie Angel to cover for him while he went to see Zoey. But Glory shook her head.

  ‘We can’t risk it. The Wednesday Coven’ll be snooping and scrying like mad. Troy said they’re doing full checks.’

  WICA had laid a false trail of school reports, medical and biometric records and other documentary evidence for a mole or hacker to uncover. This w
as the real proof of Harry Jukes’s identity, and Lucas was all too aware that his own safety depended on its success.

  Glory handed him a cheap mobile. ‘You can phone to reschedule on this. It’s prepaid, and we’ll get rid of it afterwards. Now’s not the time to take any chances.’

  The Gemini Club was named after the Starling Twins’ first legitimate business venture, a cabaret bar in Soho. This former hang-out of the rich and infamous was now part of a coffee chain. But the Morgan brothers continued to invest in London’s nightlife, and had revived the Gemini brand in memory of their mother and aunt.

  Lucas knew the place by reputation. A dilapidated Edwardian music hall, it had been converted into a live music venue and club about ten years ago. Unlike the other Morgan investments, it was in a rough end of town, near Talbot Road market. Even if he’d been old enough to get in, it wasn’t the kind of venue he and his friends aspired to.

  Plenty of other people did, however. At half past eleven on a Saturday night, the queue for entry was already snaking far down the street. Many of the punters were in fancy dress: according to the flyers, the theme of the night was ‘Fears and Fantasies’. Lucas and Glory got dark looks as Glory sashayed straight to the top of the queue to exchange banter with the bouncer.

  She turned to Lucas. ‘Paul says to go straight through. He’ll let Troy know we’re here.’

  In spite of the throng of people, the place felt cavernous, its sweeping stage, broad balconies and plush boxes a reminder of its former role as a theatre. The fact that the paintwork was peeling and the gilt chipped only added to its decadent air. So did the costumes on display, though it wasn’t always clear which were the fears and which the fantasies: aliens, clowns, queens and soldiers mingled with men in drag and women in bondage gear. No one was dressed as a witch, in the fae-tale trappings of pointed hat and crooked staff. That wouldn’t be daring, just dangerous.

  Glory moved smoothly through the crowd, hips and shoulders swinging to the music’s beat. Her eyelids were pasted in smoky black, her lips cartoon red, shiny as her nails. Her cheekbones were highlighted in glitter and her hair teased into a tousled blonde mane. In the dark heat of the club, she didn’t look overdone, but exotic.

  Then, unbelievably, Lucas saw a face he knew. They had gone through the main bar and were waiting to get on to the stairs down to the dance floor, when he caught sight of someone in the antique inquisitor’s costume of a scarlet and black cape. Gideon.

  Lucas craned to get a better look. Gideon was the last person he’d expect to see in a place like this; what’s more, he was deep in conversation with a bony-faced, heavily tattooed young man in a white tracksuit. They were huddled together in one of the bar’s velvet-lined booths. As if sensing Lucas’s stare, Gideon turned around. Their eyes met, and Lucas backed away in confusion. For a second he had forgotten about the glamour hiding him. But Glory was tugging his arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s this way.’

  They were making for the Stage Right exit from what had once been the stalls and was now the dance floor. The door had a box of bells built into the lintel, and a burly bouncer in front of its ‘Staff Only’ sign. On stage, acrobats in black leather writhed through hoops. Lucas wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if Charlie Morgan had popped up through a trapdoor in a puff of smoke, like the villain in a pantomime.

  He came to a halt. If things went wrong with his own performance, there would be no smoke to hide in, no exit route . . .

  Glory touched him on his hand. ‘We’ll be OK,’ she said, warm breath in his ear. ‘They’re greedy murdering scum but we’re better than them. I know you can do this.’

  For once, the way she was looking at him was uncomplicated: no mockery or aggression. But for all her bravado, she was nervous, he could tell. Her hand had trembled.

  In any case, it was too late to turn back. The bouncer was already muttering into his walkie-talkie. ‘One at a time.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Lucas. ‘Him first.’

  Another sentry was waiting in the holding area on the other side of the door, ready to check for the three Ws: witchwork, weapons and wires. He had a small LED device for detecting spy-cameras too. The search was both speedier and more thorough than Nate’s. Lucas had to unbutton his shirt and take off his belt and shoes for inspection. But his glamour remained safe in his watch.

  A pair of swing doors took him into a lounge area equipped with CCTV monitors showing the exteriors as well as the inside of the club. Troy Morgan was there, doing something with spreadsheets on a laptop.

  In spite of the impressive CV, Lucas had pictured Troy as an older version of Nate. Face to face, however, Troy was intimidating in a way Lucas hadn’t expected. He looked polished, astute.

  ‘It’s the boy genius,’ he said.

  Lucas did the Harry Jukes shrug. Whatever. Troy didn’t say anything else, just continued to scrutinise him as if he was a glitch in the spreadsheet, albeit slightly more tedious. The silence lasted until Glory arrived, protesting about the indignity of the stop-and-search. ‘Bleeding hell. If this is how you treat family, I hate to think what you do to your other visitors. Did Harry get a torch shone up his nose?’

  ‘We’ll save the body cavity search for his departure.’ Lucas hoped that was a joke. Troy glanced at his watch. ‘You might as well go in, Harry. Through there, then second on the left.’

  ‘What about me?’ Glory demanded.

  ‘You’re only the escort, princess. Sit down and have a cup of tea with your favourite cousin.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I was hoping for something stronger.’

  ‘Not if you want us to keep our licence. But if you play nicely, I’ll let you have a biscuit too.’

  They were still goading each other as he left. Lucas didn’t look back at Glory. It wouldn’t do to appear weak.

  He was backstage, among the old dressing rooms. The sounds from the club were faint here, an echo of freedom from a distant world. The first door on the left was ajar, but as Lucas walked down the passageway, whoever was inside pulled it abruptly shut.

  Lucas straightened his back, and knocked on the one next to it.

  A jovial voice invited him in. ‘Aha,’ said its owner as Lucas entered the room. ‘The Witch-King of Cooper Street.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Charlie Morgan and Lucas shook hands. Somehow he managed not to wince at the strength of the man’s grip. The small shrewd eyes crinkled appreciatively, as if they were sharing a joke.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘And these are my brothers, Frank and Vince.’

  Lucas had resolved not to think of this as an interrogation, but as a job interview. It helped that the office was as impersonal as a boardroom, the table empty except for a couple of water glasses and a notepad. No windows. In scale and turnover, the Wednesday Coven was the equivalent of a big corporate company. And here he was before the Members of the Board. Charlie, the Chief Executive Officer. Frank, the Financial Director. Vince . . . Director of Operations.

  Frank was balding and bespectacled. He leaned forward to examine Lucas, hands clasped as if in prayer. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

  ‘So you’re the joker who thinks a glamour belongs in a gossip mag,’ growled Vince.

  Their father the hit-man had been known as Ginger Fred, and both Frank and Charlie’s hair had a reddish tint, but Vince’s was darker, his colouring more like Troy’s. His face showed the remains of craggy good looks in spite of the broken nose. Lucas tried not to think about his record. Grievous Bodily Harm. Assault and Battery. Wounding with Intent.

  ‘Now, now,’ said Charlie. ‘Harry didn’t pull that stunt on his own. Dear old Auntie A will have put him up to it.’

  Frank pursed his prissy lips. ‘Angeline always did have a theatrical streak. She’s like her sisters in that respect.’

  ‘But without the talent,’ said Vince.

  ‘Talent,’ Charlie agreed. ‘Exactly. Witchwork doesn’t grow on trees – and nor do diamonds and movie stars. You’re a talented boy, Har
ry. Question is, are you a stupid one?’

  Lucas thought that Harry probably was. He tried the shrug again.

  Charlie’s tone was still tolerant. ‘D’you take an interest in current affairs, for example? Read the papers? Watch the news?’

  ‘Four witch-lynchings in the past seven days, one of them fatal,’ said Frank in his light, precise voice.

  ‘It’s not just the usual yobbos,’ Charlie continued. ‘The God-botherers are getting in on the act. That witch beaten up in Bradford? It happened right outside a mosque. The Bible-bashing brigade are even worse – choirboys turned vigilantes. Those prickers at the Inquisition don’t even have to lift a finger.’

  ‘A bit of bashing sounds good to me,’ Vince growled. ‘We could all do without the plagues of boils and whistle-winds. If I get my hands on the hagbitch responsible, I’ll set light to their balefire myself.’

  Lucas was surprised. It sounded as if the recent spate of witchcrimes weren’t connected to the Wednesday Coven, or the Goodwin trial, after all. Of course, the Morgans could be bluffing. Or else they didn’t like to admit that their own witches were out of control.

  ‘I, erm, didn’t mean to cause trouble.’ He shifted on his chair. ‘Angeline and the rest of the coven have been good to me. Getting those diamonds was my way of paying them back.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll always pay,’ said Vince. ‘One way . . . or another.’

  Lucas felt a trickle of fear slide down his back.

  Charlie, meanwhile, was nodding benignly. ‘I’m sure Cooper Street considers you quite a catch. My informant tells me you’re not even on the pyros’ watch-list.’