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  He stopped the taps and plunged his face into the water, the temperature the shock his system needed. The door to the bathroom creaked open behind, footsteps coming to a halt as whoever it was clocked sight of Henry with his head in the sink. Elle had probably told Dixie what had happened and he'd come to check up on him. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Henry raised his head and looked toward the entrance to the bathroom in the sink mirror.

  In the doorway stood a creature.

  It was around five feet tall, with mottled green skin and tufts of white hair distending from large pointed ears that curved back around its head. It's black eyes focused on Henry, unblinking, as it’s head tilted slightly, almost as if it found the sight of him confusing. Henry stared down at the sink, shaking the vision from his mind. He was going crazy, it was the only explanation. He looked back into the mirror once again, only to find that the creature remained in the doorway looking at him, an oddly recognisable look of uncertainty adorning its alien features. Was he hallucinating? Maybe he was dreaming? Or maybe Father Christmas would escort the Easter Bunny into the bathroom any minute now. Something paused Henry’s thoughts of insanity. The creature was wearing an off white polo shirt and jeans, normal human clothes. Henry gazed down at the water and took a deep breath.

  “I must have hit my head.”

  Henry peered up a final time. The creature still stood staring at him, with what he took for a look of concern. Was this paranoid schizophrenia kicking in, psychosis taking its hold? Perhaps some trick his mind was playing, yet, he saw it in the doorway as clearly as his own reflection. Henry turned around to face the creature head on, fighting every instinct telling him to run. In front of him stood a face he recognised, in place of the monster he had just seen. Daniel, from the haematology lab, stood in the doorway where the creature had been moments before. He wore a dirty white polo shirt and jeans, like the creature had. He did not, however, have green skin and his ears appeared distinctly normal. Henry turned back to the mirror. In the reflection, the creature stood where Dan did, wearing Dan's clothes. It was as if Dan was the creature, but that made no sense. Henry turned back to face him again, his mind unable to produce any logical explanation for what his eyes were seeing.

  “Dan?” Henry said wearily.

  As soon as they made eye contact, Dan's face turned ashen. He stood perfectly still for a moment, like a deer caught in headlights, before he turned and fled. Henry shouted after him, running to catch up, but Dan was halfway down the corridor by the time Henry had crossed the bathroom. What the hell was going on? Was this the end of the line, last stop, crazy town? The start of some mental breakdown where soon he'd be seeing monsters everywhere and battling the nurses in whatever asylum they stashed him in? Henry's pulse raced, his veins throbbing as every muscle in his body ached - he was having a panic attack.

  Henry walked down the corridor back to the lab, he probably needed help after all. As he moved towards the end of the corridor, Henry noticed a strange noise coming from beyond the security doors that sectioned off phlebotomy. Phlebotomy should have been empty after 5pm, the noise of complaining patients diminishing over the course of the day from the cacophony of 8am, where people queued like cattle, waiting to have their blood taken. What could make such a noise now? Reaching the door, Henry squinted through the glass square, which was reinforced with a chequer of metal wire. The corridor and waiting room were cloaked in darkness and as he reached for the door handle, Henry instinctively paused. Something was wrong. Pressing his face against the glass, he scanned the waiting room beyond.

  There was a roar, deep and animalistic, as the glass pane of the door shattered, a fist beating furiously against it. Pieces of glass showered across Henry's face as the metal grid held in place. He stumbled backward as a face stared at him through the shattered windowpane, crazed eyes burning red for an instant with anger. Fists continued to pound the door, trying to get in and, through the darkness, Henry could see other figures pacing, a pack of sharks waiting for the kill.

  Alerted by the sudden noise, people spilled out from the labs, surrounding Henry. Someone tried to calm the crazed man, but he continued to shout, cursing incoherently. Henry's subconscious took over and before his mind could catch up, he was sprinting down the corridor away from the man at the door. He ran as fast as he could, as if his existence depended on it, past the staff bathroom and to the emergency flight of stairs. Henry skipped as many as he could at a time, desperately correcting himself when he faltered and fell. He ran for his life, although he did not know what from. Nothing made sense.

  He reached the bottom of the staircase and barged open the fire escape, heading across the square of parked cars and ambulance bays. The sound of drunken punters spilling out from the nearby pub was all that disrupted the still night, as moonlight failed to illuminate the street ahead. He had no clue where he was going, but he carried on regardless. Henry heard footsteps behind, chasing him. He did not turn back, pushing himself to breaking point as if his survival depended on his escape. Perhaps it did, or maybe this was just a paranoid fantasy. To suppose that was true would mean he should stop running, that was the only sensible and rational course of action. There was no reason anyone would chase him, let alone want to do him harm.

  Henry kept running.

  There was a sharp prick, as a needle plunged into Henry’s neck. He hadn't seen the man standing amongst the gloom. A warm sensation spread under his skin and his legs gave way without warning. An arm thrust under his shoulder dragged him around the street corner and, taking a firm grip of his lapel, threw him across the back seat of a car. He could hear more running footsteps, closer this time, followed by the start of an engine and screeching tyres. Henry had been kidnapped.

  - Chapter 4 -

  Torn Tweed

  He was late, but in all honesty, Meyer didn't care. It wasn't as if he was travelling by choice, he was being summoned by a fool. Turning into Greys Inn road, Meyer pulled his collar up against the chill wind that swept around the corner of the street. Small beads of sweat formed across his brow from the minimal amount of exercise he had completed in walking this far; God, he was unfit. He was greeted by pulses of royal blue light, the iridescent hues rhythmically chasing away the dank yellow streetlight as it swept along the road. The source of the light was clear, even without Meyer's thick spectacles which, if he remembered correctly, had been left on the table in the library. In the near distance, a swarm of police cars huddled around the entrance to Greys Inn gardens as blurred fluorescent jackets ran back and forth between the vehicles and the entrance like bees collecting honey. What were they there for? Meyer could easily find out, and it would use only the most modest amount of power, but then that was exactly the type of expenditure the doctors had told him to avoid. The problem was, he was still interested. In fact, ‘unfortunately interested’ would be a good summary of his life to date.

  Meyer crossed the road to avoid the blockade, but more accurately, as a vain attempt to further distance himself from the enticement of the mystery. As he passed them, he glanced back one final time as three more cars pulled up at the entrance. Whatever it was, it was big. Enough. There were plenty of other things to keep his mind busy without delving into human matters. For one, Wade was dragging him to Holborn Bars for some God-forsaken task and he should try to figure out what that was. Sure, he understood why Wade so obnoxious, not wanting everything to come crashing to an end on his shift, but with Meyer, he always made the extra effort to be whole heartedly insufferable. Wade made the tough decisions, that is what everyone repeatedly said. It was just unfortunate that he did not always make the right ones.

  Meyer headed off the main road and down the street that ran beside St Alban's church, the route he'd always taken to the Bars since he was a teenager. The journey was as natural to him now as breathing. While letting his thoughts be consumed by his hatred for Wade definitely distracted Meyer from the incident at Greys Inn, it also meant that he remained ignorant to the three men in
dark hooded jackets that had been following him since he entered the previous street. He was so consumed with his inner rant that he didn't even notice them quicken their pace behind him. The first Meyer knew of what was happening was the pain of his face being scraped along brick as he was shoved against the wall of the church.

  “Wallet. Now,” a voice barked from behind him, the words slightly slurred, but the accent stereotypically East-end.

  The flat of a blade pressed up against his face, the metal cold against his cheek, as he remained pinned to the wall. Instinctively, Meyer summoned his magus, gathering it like a fire in his chest before he let his thoughts drift outwards. A mental echo was the technical term for what he had just done and from it, Meyer knew there were three men surrounding him, two in their early thirties and the last, no older than eighteen. Their intentions were clear enough though, even without Meyer's powers. God, he hated humans.

  The pressure lessened on his back, allowing his face to lift slightly from the wall, the freshly grazed flesh tingling in the night air. The cut would take forever heal at his age, but what annoyed him more was the tear he heard his jacket make. It was one of his favourites, even if tweed had not been in fashion for quite some time.

  “Give us your wallet now, fatty.”

  The man released Meyer from the wall and, spinning him around, drove him back into it again, pressing hard against his shoulder. Pain shot across Meyer's back as the distinctive sound of another tear to his jacket dropped Meyer's mood even further. This was all Wade's bloody fault for calling him out at this time of night.

  On the upside, he was facing his attackers, which meant Meyer could have some fun.

  “Sodding kids,” Meyer muttered under his breath. They were human, which explained, though not excused, their lack of manners. Alternates always presented an extra level of showmanship when they robbed you.

  “What the hell you saying old man?” one shouted.

  Old. He didn't need to be reminded of the fact and he wasn't going to engage them in conversation for God’s sake. Meyer glanced across at the first of the would-be muggers and, for a moment, they froze.

  “In corde tuo.”

  A glimpse was all it took and he was in. Meyer turned his attention to the next man, who was shouting something at the others. Again, a glimpse and the old phrase repeated, and the second mugger was caught in the same trap as his companion. The last of the three was looking away nervously and the lack of eye contact meant, without increased effort from Meyer, he was temporarily free from his persuasion. It didn't matter, he could get him later.

  “Enough? I'll give you enough, you stupid old-”

  Before the youngest of the muggers could finish his sentence, he did something he did not quite understand. Casually, he turned his knife towards himself and, with all his strength, plunged it straight into his arm. His expression was priceless, a mixture of shock and confusion at what he had done. A similar expression adorned the faces of his accomplices who, correctly so, thought he was out of his mind. Confusion morphed into pain as blood poured from around the knife which remained protruding oddly from the wound.

  The man screamed as he stumbled to the floor, desperately trying to pull the knife from his arm, which to him felt like it was set in stone. What he didn't know, was that he wasn't actually making any sound at all, his mouth stretched wildly as he howled without noise. It would probably have been enough to stop there, but Meyer wanted them to pay for the damage they had caused, both to his face and the jacket. He focused his attention on the second attacker and, like a puppet, the thief's arm lifted into the air, his blade pointed downwards. Meyer could feel him fighting his influence, his thoughts battling his own muscles, but he was too weak willed to break Meyer's hold. Frenetically, he attempted to hold back his own arm, to unclasp the knife his fingers gripped so tightly, but it was no good. In a single thought, Meyer persuaded him to send the blade slicing down into his own thigh. The man collapsed to the floor, writhing with silent screams. Persuaded, what a wonderful term for what he had just done. Everyone avoided the ancient terms of course, magus now being treated as a scientific principle, but to Meyer it was a far more eloquent way of describing what had happened. He had persuaded them, just via telepathy rather than words.

  The last man ran into the darkness and out of sight. Meyer considered chasing him, but decided it wasn't worth the energy. The two remaining men continued to wail as blood splattered across the pavement. Meyer took a careful step back to avoid getting any on his shoes.

  “What have you been up to?” said a voice from the corner of the church. In front of Meyer stood a small, fat woman with curly grey hair that stuck-out absent-mindedly from her head. Although she was quite round, she had a glint in her eye that said she would merrily challenge anyone who crossed her path. She wore a grey cardigan that appeared to be at least two sizes too big, the material coming to an end just above her knees, revealing creased blue trousers and scuffed brown boots that had, like all the clothes Ruth wore, a rustic look to them.

  “Ruth my dear, the whole point of this journey is that it is made alone. What are you doing here?”

  “Made alone?” Ruth said, in a thick West Country accent and with an exaggerated look of puzzlement.

  “Never mind. Let's be going, we wouldn't want to keep Wade waiting. Mind the blood,” Meyer said.

  “My, you have made a bit of a mess my lovely,” she said, giving one of the muggers a slight kick with her boot. “Do you mind? I'm trying to get past here.”

  The pair climbed over the two bodies, who were still rolling around in pain. The silent trick Meyer used on the thieves was his favourite, if only he could use it on Wade. The little scene would have been quite the incident without it and the last thing Meyer needed was a nosey neighbour kicking up a fuss. He inspected the stitching on his jacket once more and sighed.

  “I can fix that,” Ruth said.

  Meyer smiled and Ruth's face lit up in response. Arm in arm, the two rotund shadows continued on into the darkness, towards the building that could only be found by those who knew where it was.

  - Chapter 5 -

  A Point Of View

  Meyer and Ruth made their way across the courtyard, surrounded by the skylights that illuminated the basement floors below. At the centre stood a glass dome, confined by intricate oil lamps that cast amber light across the courtyard stones. The Inquisition had made Holborn Bars their home since its erection in 1878, although it looked different back then. Meyer first saw it after the Victorian Gothic building was remodelled in the 1930s, the result resembling a grand sandcastle. The original entrances were still in use on three sides of the building, the main one passing underneath the tower which held Wade's office, creating a secondary courtyard of its own.

  One was always gratified and amazed how you found your way to Holborn Bars. Meyer still didn't quite understand the science behind it, but it was a place you just didn't notice. It wasn't invisible, camouflaged, or anything horribly technological like that. The place just never caught anyone's attention enough to be seen or thought about. Meyer remembered first being shown the way in by Ruth aged seventeen and the feeling of dread that followed when she said that from then on, he would be expected to let his subconscious guide him there. That, naturally, had turned out to be quite the task. It is a leap to let your subconscious completely take over, requiring a level of trust and belief most people struggle with. After his first attempt took him over two hours to find the place, Meyer thought this a ridiculous building to use as a headquarters, even for an organisation as secretive as the Inquisition. Eventually, his time to travel here reduced and, for the past sixty years, like all visitors to Holborn Bars, Meyer had taken exactly the same route, even if he wasn’t sure of all the details of it himself.

  At the other side of the courtyard, glass doors opened to a series of staircases that led around the building. Holborn Bars was a maze of corridors and rooms, with nobody sure what was ever going on in every part of it. Ackn
owledging the guard with the vacant expression, who appeared to have been on duty since 1910, Meyer and Ruth walked to the back of the staircase. Further concealment meant the area was only visible if viewed from the right perspective and, as the pair walked around, the black marble stairs revealed themselves. The alternate world was built on principles like this, only being able to see what others deemed you should and nothing more. To Meyer, the building symbolised everything wrong with the order, although most in the community remained ignorant of that fact. Trust was not something associated with the Inquisition, even by those who are a part of it. Threats kept their world safe and deals with the devil helped them survive.

  Meyer and Ruth reached the bottom of the stairs and continued along the dimly lit corridor as it wrapped around the edge of the council chamber. Moonlight cascading through the skylights cast long shadows from the ornamental suits of armour that lined the walls of the corridor, their silhouettes contorted by the uneven stone floor. The corridor opened to a wide sitting room, which was filled with a juxtaposition of plump leather chairs, dark oak furniture and priceless alternate artefacts, giving the place the feel of a gentleman’s club turned magic shop. That metaphor wasn’t far off, some of the doyens waiting around almost fitted the Hollywood idea of magic, with their draping long robes and weary expressions. At the end of the room stood double black doors leading into the council chamber, intricately inscribed with hundreds of runes that, from a distance, appeared to be nothing more than random patterns. Naturally, the truth was quite the opposite. The room was one of the safest locations in London, more wards protecting it than anyone had attempted to count. It was by these doors that the majority of people clustered, the gentle hum of conversation drifting across the room as everyone waited for the meeting to begin.