Will wheeled around to the dark, empty street, looking for an attacker, to see nothing, to hear only his own panting breaths in a silence that stretched out, just long enough for him to feel how completely he was alone.
And then, footsteps.
The leisurely sound of shiny boot heels on cobblestones. Step, step, step. James came strolling out of the dark as Will’s pulse skyrocketed. James was dressed for an evening out, in exquisite tailoring. Everything faded, this world insignificant; James the only real thing in it. You, you, you. James’s extraordinary beauty pressed in like a knife; it hurt.
‘No, don’t get up,’ said James pleasantly, and before Will even thought to rise, an invisible force slammed him forward so that he sprawled onto his hands and knees.
It was like pressure. Like James’s hands on him, if James had a thousand hands. It was hard to breathe. It was hard to do anything but stay on all fours, unable to move a muscle. He had seen James stop a crate in midair with his power; he knew James could do this. He hadn’t realised it would feel personal, like James’s hands all over him.
‘The boy saviour,’ said James conversationally.
‘Simon’s Prize,’ said Will.
That got James’s attention. Will’s own heart was pounding. The scent of night flowers in a garden … Everything felt so familiar. Having James close to him was making him dizzy. He was aware of James strolling closer when James’s long legs came into view.
‘Everyone thought you died at Bowhill,’ said James. ‘You were supposed to die there. Instead you survived and escaped Simon’s ship. How exactly did you do that?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Will.
James said, ‘Pretty necklace.’
Will’s breath shallowed. The collar of his shirt began untying itself, invisible hands pulling it open, exposing his neck, then his collarbone, then baring his chest. Will’s pulse spiked with danger as the medallion swung free from his shirt.
It was part of the old world just like James was. For a heart-stopping moment Will wondered if James recognised it, not from this world but from that one. James isn’t merely a descendant, the Elder Steward had said. He is the Dark King’s general, reborn into our time.
It hit him fully then. James was a Reborn. Not a reflection in a mirror, nor a fake mounted on a wall. He was a living piece of the old world, somehow strolling around in this one.
No wonder London seemed to fade around him. No wonder being near him felt like reaching across time. I will find you. I will always find you. Try to run.
And they had thought they could capture him? The audacity of it struck him. Three of them against James – his plan felt foolish, juvenile. This wasn’t hunting for rabbits with slingshots. This was bringing down big game. The Betrayer. Even the greatest Stewards feared him. Will remembered the squadron James had decimated, the bodies wrapped in grey cloth that he had torn apart without even touching them.
‘Did you get it from your mother?’ said James, and the fingers on Will’s neck slid to his chin, tilting it up. They weren’t James’s real fingers. James wasn’t close enough to touch him.
His eyes travelled up James’s boots to his satisfied expression. Behind James, Will could see Cyprian’s sword, lying in its sheath near his sprawled body.
‘Don’t touch it,’ said Will as the medallion started to slide from his neck.
‘Or you’ll do what?’
On Simon’s ship, he had called a sword to himself – it had jumped to his hand. Now – he couldn’t reach the sword; he couldn’t move his arms or legs, no matter how much he strained against James’s invisible hold on his body.
‘You can’t use your power, can you?’ James said.
All those lessons, hours with the Elder Steward, trying to concentrate. He was supposed to be the one with the same powers as James. He was supposed to be the one who could stop him.
‘You’re weak,’ said James.
Will focused everything on the sword. Reach beneath the surface. Look for a place deep inside. The Elder Steward had taken him in believing that he could do this. Believing that he would be the one to help them. And he wanted her to be right … to prove her right.
‘Like your mother.’
And this time, when he hit that closed door, he threw everything he had against it, even though there was a part of him that was afraid of what was on the other side—
It hurt; a sick, nauseating pain, like pushing on a broken bone, but he forced himself through it, dots of black and red swimming in front of his eyes. And for a moment he saw—