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greatest power there is?”
    Ben felt drained. This, on top of last night’s work! “Look, if it will make you feel better, I’ll visit Lancelyn, sort this out.”
    Terror flashed in her eyes. “No, don’t! Don’t tell him. I only came to say, be careful, both of you. Just be careful.”
    Disentangling herself from the cat, Deirdre stood up and squashed the floppy hat on her head.
    Holly rose with her, concerned. “Where are you going?”
    “Home to my family in Dublin. I’ll be safe there.”
    “Don’t go,” Ben said helplessly. “You’ll be such a loss to the Order.”
    “No I won’t, because I don’t care any more. I’m sick of the occult. The secrets were never meant to be used like this. Grownups dressing in silly costumes and playing power games; it’s not worth dying for, is it?”
    Ben smiled sadly. “That sentiment could apply equally to any great British institution. Why single us out?”
    “Well, damn the whole lot of them, then,” Deirdre said with feeling, trying to smile back. “God go with you.”
    They saw her off. Ben rocked on his heels, watching the autumnal gleam of her hair as her figure dwindled along the street. Then he and Holly went back inside, closed the door, and hugged each other.
    “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Poor James, poor Deirdre. But how could she accuse Lancelyn?”
    “It’s true he has a temper, and the power to control people,” said Holly. “But he wouldn’t... He’s like a father to me, more than my own father ever was. He wouldn’t!”
    “I don’t think she told us everything.”
    “Probably not, but you didn’t want to listen, did you?” she said. Ben glared at her, but couldn’t reply. “Will you see Lancelyn? Will you tell him about last night?”
    Ben looked into her bird-bright eyes, and read beneath the surface of the question: Do you still trust Lancelyn? Tell me you do, so that we can both still trust him.
    “Yes, of course I’ll see him.”
    “And promise me one thing. Never, ever try to repeat last night’s summoning again!”
    Deirdre’s description of her nightmare had brought metallic revulsion to the back of his throat, a disgust that now extended to the previous night’s visitation. He’d been too arrogant. Some things were not to be meddled with.
    “I promise,” he said easily. “I promise.”
    * * *
    The theatre was in Milan, the performance the Ballet Janacek’s Giselle .
    In the foyer, the audience flowed to take their seats, a sea of voile and jewels, of dark suits, crisp shirts and groomed hair. Beautiful, ugly or mediocre; all were made elegant by fine clothes, by the glamour of theatre lighting and the heightened atmosphere. Glittering, the mortal crowd tantalised a vampire’s senses on every level.
    Karl and Charlotte moved with the throng. Their pretence of being human was a pleasure as satiny as seduction.
    Karl usually wore black or charcoal. On him, a dark suit and white shirt, black overcoat, gloves, and a white cashmere scarf looked timeless and enticingly elegant.
    Charlotte chose the muted colours she loved: shades of bronze and mushroom, dusty lilacs and sunset tints, sometimes a touch of gold, cream or silver. She liked soft fabrics, silk and lace and beads, ankle-length skirts with floating handkerchief-points. Everything soft, subtle, indefinable.
    Often Charlotte would see someone glance at them, then blink and stare, as if in unconscious recognition. But no one guessed the truth. They did not see two monsters, only a tall, slim, charismatic man and a solemn-faced woman with crystalline eyes; and if anyone looked twice, they took preternatural glamour for surface beauty.
    Karl drew the most stares, especially from women. Charlotte didn’t mind. It suited her temperament to be in the background. She was simply glad to be with him, that he wanted her; because if he hadn’t - if he’d left her or never loved her at all - she would have given up and died. Such was the extremity of her