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  “By lighting a man on fire?”

  The fever blazed behind her temples. She really should have stayed at home tonight. “I don’t know how…” She trailed off. She had no clue what had happened. “One second, I was trying to stop him from hitting some guy, and the next thing I knew, his shirt was on fire.”

  “Was he smoking a cigarette?” Rufus narrowed his eyes. “Were you smoking?”

  “Neither of us were smoking, as far as I know. I just looked down at my hand, and it looked—hot.” No idea why she’d said that last part. She realized it made her sound insane, and quickly corrected herself. “He probably was smoking, now that you mention it.”

  “Did you say your hand was hot?” He winced. “You do realize what you could be accused of?”

  Witchcraft. He was talking about witchcraft.

  It would have sounded completely crazy a few months ago, but the world had changed, ever since a group of mysterious men had been caught on American TV slaughtering people in a Boston park, before disappearing into thin air in a whirl of demonic activity. Now half of London was talking about witches and magic. For her part, Ursula had no idea how they’d disappeared, but she liked to believe magic wasn’t the culprit. There was enough shit to worry about without adding in a supernatural threat.

  She loosed a sigh. “Look, all I said was my hand was hot. I have a fever. You know, I think I should go home.”

  Rufus leaned back in his chair. “It’s not as crazy as you might think. Madeleine knows all about witches. She’s been doing a lot of research since the attacks. She works with a professor at UCL.”

  “I’m not a witch, for God’s sake. I don’t even believe in them. And who is Madeleine?” His new girlfriend, no doubt. Poor lamb had no idea what she was in for.

  “Never mind that.” He gave her his puppy-dog eyes. “Oh, Urse. Why is it so hard for you to get things right? Why do you always feel the need to mess everything up?”

  Somehow when he was trying to be nice it was worse than when he was just an arsehole. “That’s what you think of me? That I can never get anything right?”

  For a moment, he pressed his lips into a thin line. “You always look so lovely, and that’s an asset in my club, though tonight you haven’t even managed that. You’ve achieved remarkably little with your life. You never managed to get into uni. You nearly got evicted last month. Again.”

  She gritted her teeth. “We talked about this when you dumped me, and I told you, those are both the kinds of things that happen when you’ve got no money.”

  He leaned over his desk. “It’s just that you’ve got no plan for success. No goals. I’ve been building an empire, investing money—”

  “Your father’s money.” Shit. She shouldn’t have said that out loud. It would hit a nerve, and that wasn’t good for her employment prospects.

  “Whatever,” he snapped, cheeks reddening again. “I’m building something. Just because you were famous once, you think you’ve made it.” He stood, throwing his shoulders back. “Honestly, you’re just a sad cow who won’t make anything of your life.”

  It took all of Ursula’s willpower not to slap his smug face. Rufus had brought up that tidbit up all the time when they were dating, as if her former celebrity status was some kind of personal affront to him.

  “I never asked for my fifteen minutes of fame. The press showed up as soon as they found me. And besides, after that fourteen-year-old gave birth to sextuplets, I was pretty much forgotten.” She was desperate to tell him to sod off and head home, but she needed this bloody job.

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

  “Rufus, honey? Are you in there?” A neatly-coiffed blonde poked her head in, smiling for only an instant until her eyes landed on Ursula. “What are you two up to?”

  Rufus blinked. “I… I didn’t know you were coming by now, Madeleine.”

  “The lecturer let us out early.” She eyed Ursula warily, running a hand over a pink silk blouse. A week’s wages right there—and Ursula couldn’t even imagine how much her fat diamond earrings cost.

  Rufus cleared his throat. “Madeleine is my girlfriend, Ursula. She’s studying mythological history and cryptozoology. She’s very accomplished.”

  “That sounds really interesting,” said Ursula, trying—and failing—to mask her irritation. “Looks like it’s time for me to go.”

  Madeleine’s eyes lingered over Ursula’s soaked shirt. “Did something happen?”

  “Beer accident,” said Ursula. It was all the explanation she needed.

  Madeleine’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh. Well, I stopped by so you could escort me home, honey. You don’t know what sort of creatures are lurking on London’s streets these days. Professor Stoughton said the city’s been filled with magical activity in the past few months. Witches, demons, all sorts of horrible things. He has a meter to measure it.” Madeleine blocked the exit, her voice laced with jealousy. “What were you two talking about, anyway?”

  “I was discussing Ursula’s future here,” said Rufus.

  “Oh?” Madeleine plastered on a saccharine smile. “There’s a future?”

  “Well, that’s just it,” said Rufus. “I simply can’t keep someone employed who lights people on fire. It’s a liability.”

  Ursula could feel herself heating up again, and the fever that had been quietly throbbing behind her temples turned into a dull roar. She held onto the door frame for support.

  “Well, chin up. I’m sure you’ll be able to find another job,” said Madeleine, barely containing her glee. “It’ll be exciting. A new adventure.” She didn’t move from the doorframe, obviously savoring the moment.

  Ursula felt her temper flare, and she gripped the wood by Madeleine’s side. “Are you going to let me leave? Or do you plan to keep blocking the door all night?”

  Madeleine gasped, jumping back. She gaped in horror at Ursula’s hand—and the smoke that curled from beneath Ursula’s fingers.

  “Oh my God! What did you do to the door?” Her eyes froze on Ursula’s face, and she whispered one word: “Witch.”

  Chapter 3

  Ursula skulked along Bow Road, her hands jammed in the pockets of her leopard-print coat, fingers curled up for warmth. With the beer-drenched shirt plastered to her skin, the winter air was brutally cold. At least her feet were warm in her boots, though she’d probably have to sell them soon for cash. She had only one more paycheck coming in, and it wouldn’t cover the rent that was due in two days.

  Disappointment crushed her. If she didn’t figure something out, she’d be homeless soon, sleeping on the streets through the freezing winter. How long, exactly, did it take for a landlord to evict someone? And how long would it take for another homeless person to rob her of her leopard-print coat?

  A biting wind nipped at her ears. She could have used a bit more of that fever now. Skint and unemployed, she’d chosen to walk from Brick Lane back to Bow—nearly two miles. She wasn’t spending the last of her money on a bus. And, more importantly, it had given her time to think. Well, time to stew, really. Her chest ached with a familiar hollow feeling.

  She could have done without meeting Madeleine, with her beautifully coiffed blond hair, French-manicured nails, and all the letters she’d have after her name when she graduated.

  Ursula shivered. My eighteenth birthday. This should have been a night for a celebration, but apart from her flatmate she hardly had any friends left. After her breakup with Rufus, he seemed to have taken her whole clique with him—probably because he could lavish them with champagne and pick up the tabs at fancy restaurants.

  Or maybe it was just like Rufus had always said: she wasn’t very good with people.

  She pulled her coat tighter as she passed the warm lights of a pub, wishing she’d had the foresight to wear a scarf. Break-up aside, she’d been expecting something a little more momentous for her eighteenth birthday. This was the night something big was supposed to happen—she just had no idea what.


  Apart from her birthday, there weren’t many things Ursula knew about herself. Her background was so outlandish, it was like something out of a soap opera: a rare case of amnesia that had rendered her childhood a complete blank slate. There was simply nothing in her memory before the age of fifteen.

  What she knew for certain was that a few years ago she’d turned up in a burnt-out church, with a strange, triangular scar on her shoulder and a piece of paper in her pocket. The paper had read:

  On your 18th birthday,

  March 15, 2016,

  ask for a trial.

  - Ursula (You)

  She’d started to think of herself as two people: Former Ursula and New Ursula. Former Ursula was a complete mystery, and her one link to Former Ursula was the white stone in her pocket, its surface now worn smooth from constant rubbing. It was a strange little anchor to her old life.

  Occasionally, glimpses of a bygone life appeared in her dreams: fields of wild thyme and orchids, skylarks and adders. She had no idea what it meant, except that she’d probably grown up in the countryside.

  Here she was, waiting for her life to change by some sort of magic on her eighteenth birthday, but that was obviously a sad joke. At what point in this disaster of a day was she supposed to have asked for a trial? On the crowded bus she took to work, burning with a fever? Midway through losing her job? Or while meeting Rufus’s new girlfriend? The whole day had been a series of ordeals, one trial after another, but none of them particularly momentous.

  It didn’t matter. She’d been gradually losing faith in the idea that her fortunes would magically turn around, that someone or something would waltz into her miserable life bearing a gift of a diamond or a secret bank account.

  And now, she had to figure out how to save herself from complete destitution.

  She shivered, hugging herself tighter. A normal life would be nice: a family and a steady income. Maybe some childhood memories, and hands that didn’t spontaneously ignite.

  She stalked past a row of crooked Victorian homes, warmly lit from within. She didn’t even want to think about what had happened with her hands. Madeleine had called her a witch, for crying out loud. Maybe there was a trial in her future.

  Her door came into view—the one she could always pick out from the rows of identical houses, by the chipped red paint on the doorframe. She jammed her key into the lock. Thank God I’m home.

  She stepped inside, hoping to hear a welcoming Hello from her flatmate Katie, but the flat was as dark and quiet as a grave. She flicked the switch by the door, but the lights didn’t turn on. Shit. The electric key must have run out. It would remain dark and cold until she got to the shop tomorrow. She shook her head. Maybe the point of the note was that her whole life was a trial.

  Sighing with frustration, she steadied her hand along the wall as she crept down the carpeted stairs.

  It wasn’t a stunning place—a one-bedroom basement flat—but it was home nonetheless. Katie had the bedroom, since she paid more in rent, and Ursula slept in the living room, tidying up an air mattress every morning. With Katie’s help, she’d brightened up the woodchip wallpaper with canary-yellow paint and some posters of wildflowers—forget-me-nots and golden aster—that reminded her of her most soothing dreams.

  Ursula pulled out her phone, flicking open a text from Katie.

  Happy Birthday Ursula! I’m coming home soon. Let’s go out.

  A pit opened in her stomach. She was going to have to tell Katie about her little rent problem. She dropped her phone on the sofa, then peeled off her leopard-print coat and the beer-soaked shirt and bra, still shivering, before yanking a black shirt and bra off the drying rack. Might as well have an outfit to match my mood.

  She slipped into her dry clothes, then crossed to the kitchen, a cupboard-sized space with a tiny vinyl countertop. As she flipped open the blinds, she let a little light in from the streetlamp outside. Crouching before a kitchen drawer, she rifled around for a box of matches.

  After lighting two tea candles by the stove, she felt her stomach rumble. When was the last time she’d eaten?

  Yanking open the fridge door, she grabbed the last smear of butter. Bread and butter for dinner.

  Just as she reached for the loaf of bread, the hair on her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. She could always tell when she was being observed. And right now, someone was most definitely lurking in the shadows of her tiny flat.

  Slowly, she turned, and her heart nearly leapt from her chest. Moving silently through the living room was a broad-shouldered man, his face hidden in the gloom. Probably her flatmate’s latest conquest, but better safe than sorry. She slid open the knife drawer.

  Carefully, so as not to alarm the stranger, she gripped a knife’s hilt, her hand hidden in the drawer.

  The man prowled closer, his movements smooth and almost inhuman.

  Ice licked up her spine. Just outside the doorframe, the stranger paused in the shadows.

  She swallowed. “Who’s there?”

  His green eyes seemed to glow in the dark, and the word witch flitted through her mind.

  “My name is Kester.” His deep voice slid through her bones.

  When he stepped into the flickering candlelight, she gasped in recognition. Rich chestnut hair, sharp cheekbones, and perfect lips. The hot bloke from the club. What the hell is he doing here?

  Cold fear tightened her chest. Ursula tightened her fingers around the knife’s hilt. “You followed me.” A tendril of horror curled around her heart. “Did you just watch me take off my shirt?”

  “I averted my eyes. I’m not here to disturb you. I’m just here for your signature.” He raised his arms over his head, holding on to the door frame. Candlelight flickered over his golden skin, dancing in his green eyes. Despite his beauty, there was something predatory in the way he stared at her, like he was about to devour her.

  “Signature? What are you on about?” Any fast movements, and she’d fling the knife at him. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.” She couldn’t call the police, since she’d just chucked her phone across the room, but he didn’t need to know that.

  His gaze slid over her, as if he were memorizing her. “I won’t linger any longer than you want. I just need you to sign the contract. You must have been expecting me.”

  “What contract?” Slowly, she lifted the knife in front of her. Only instead of looking at the tip of a blade, she was staring at the soft silicone paddle of a spatula. Bloody hell.

  He smiled, and white teeth gleamed in the candlelight. “If you want to make me pancakes first, I won’t object.”

  “I don’t have the ingredients,” she said lamely.

  Where are the kitchen knives? They must be dirty. If she could inch over to the sink, she could get a proper blade, one with an edge that could slash his throat.

  “Look, I can see you’re having a bad night. And I’d truly love to help you.” Dropping his arms from the doorframe, he widened his eyes, all sincerity. “But you committed yourself years ago, and it’s your eighteenth birthday. All you need to do is sign the contract, and I’ll be on my way.”

  There it was again. How did he know it was her birthday? She didn’t know him. Hell, she didn’t know anyone remotely like him. There was a strange edge to his plummy voice, one that reeked of old money and private clubs with three-hundred-year-old mahogany bars. Not exactly Ursula’s sort of crowd.

  She eyed the stove to her right. A dirty cast-iron pan rested on the nearest burner. Perfect for frying sausages, or for smashing skulls, depending on the occasion.

  “Ursula. You don’t need to be scared,” he soothed, his emerald eyes drinking her in. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  If he weren’t such an obvious nutter, the guy would be seriously seductive. She laid the spatula down on the countertop with feigned casualness. “Look, I’ve had an awful day. I’m tired, and I want to finish my bread and go out for one little drink with my flatmate, who will be here any minute.” She pause
d. “And she’s huge, by the way, and lethal. I’m sure you’ve got somewhere better to be. I’m advising you to leave me alone. I can be a little… unpredictable when I’m irritated, and I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Unpredictable? Sounds exciting. But I’m afraid I cannot leave until I get your signature. For Emerazel. Then I’ll leave. Unless you want me to stay to attend to your other needs, of course.”

  “I have no idea who Emerazel is. But if you’re here because you think I owe you something for helping me out at the club, that’s not going to happen. I don’t have anything. I can’t afford electricity. I can’t afford socks. My boyfriend just dumped me last week, and then fired me. So on top of all the other shit, I’m unemployed. I’m eating sodding bread and butter for dinner on my eighteenth birthday. So if you’re planning on robbing me, have a wonderful time. Take the spatula. Take my threadbare socks. Take the moldy shower curtain. Whatever you desire.” She could feel her cheeks burning as anger flooded her. “Then fuck right off.”

  “I’m not here about the club, and I’m not here to rob you.”

  “So what are you? Some sort of pervert?” Her body grew hot, her pulse quickening. Pure strength surged through her muscles, and she wanted to break something. If he thought he was going to get his hands on her, she would choke the life out of him.

  He opened his palms, eyes widening, all innocence. “Ursula, you’re not listening. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here about that triangular mark you carved somewhere on yourself, the one that gives you the fire. You do understand the bargain you made, don’t you?”

  My scar. So he did see me without my shirt on. There was no air left in the room. “You said you looked away.”

  “I did. Emerazel sent me, and that’s how I know you have a scar. You owe her your signature. It’s fine. There’s nothing to panic about,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice a dangerous caress. “Everything will be fine, Ursula.”

  She shook her head. Who was this Emerazel he kept talking about? She had no idea where the scar had come from, or what it meant. All she knew was that only stalkers and serial killers followed women home from work.