Bad Moon

Book 4: Elizabeth Cage

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Historical Thrillers; Time Travel; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

BOOK 4 IN THE GRIPPING SUPERNATURAL SERIES BY THE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY'S

I will send the serpent.
I always send the serpent.
It's kind of my signature move.

Things are not going well for Elizabeth Cage.
It all started with the Christmas she can't quite remember.

There's blood on her doorstep every morning.
Something unpleasant is heading her way.
And then there's the sinister note threatening her life.
The one that seems to have been written by Elizabeth herself . . .

Twisty, dark and incredibly gripping, the Elizabeth Cage novels are perfect for fans of Sarah Painter and Genevieve Cogman.

Readers love Jodi Taylor:

'Jodi Taylor does brilliant, strong female heroes, and Elizabeth follows on from Max in the St Mary's series'

'I look forward to another adventure with this quirky and perfectly matched pair'

'Hold on to your seat and close your eyes if you dare!'

'Gripping and full of curious plot turns'

'An on-the-edge-of-your-seat thriller where no assumptions can be made'

Release date: August 14, 2025

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Prologue

I took my time getting out of bed. There was no rush. This day would almost certainly be a carbon copy of yesterday – and tomorrow wouldn’t be much different, either. Nor the day after that. This seemed to be my life now – a few days of panic and terror and fighting for my life, followed by months of nothing happening at all. Literally nothing. Everyone else would drift off to new days, new experiences, new lives, but here I would sit, silent and still – widow of this parish, living alone in my pretty pink world in my pretty pink house, waiting for the next time the universe decided I should be frightened out of my wits. I’ve seen visions, ghosts, demons, evil trees, the dead. I’ve been threatened with death, incarceration, and sectioning under the act. I’ve been kidnapped. I’ve even been menaced by a red armchair.

I used to think all I wanted from life was just peace and quiet and to be left alone to enjoy it. Now, for some reason – something had changed. What had formerly been peace and quiet was in danger of turning into uneventful tedium. Day after day of unchanging nothingness.

I wasn’t sure what might be different. I suspected it might be me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It hovered in the back of my mind – tantalisingly out of reach. I knew it was there and I knew it was important but I just couldn’t quite drag it out into the light.

 

I’d been puzzling over it for ages but nothing had stirred my memory, so I’d tried to tell myself it was only my imagination. And if it hadn’t been for Michael Jones then I might easily have talked myself into believing just that. Everything in my life was exactly as it had been, except for him. Outwardly he was unchanged – unemotional, sarcastic, capable, kind. Inside, however . . .

No one can keep a secret from me. Whether they want to or not. You could be the best liar in the world but ten minutes with me and I know what you are. I can tell whether you’re happy or sad, bored or interested, tired, angry, anxious, afraid, hiding something . . . lying . . . Whatever your state of mind – I know it. No – I can’t read minds: I read people’s colours.

Everyone has a colour. An aura, some people call it. When I was young, before I’d heard that word, I called it a colour. Along with its shape, its movement, its depth – your colour tells me all about you. And no, I don’t like it any better than you do. It’s not a gift – it’s a curse. Do you want to know what people think of you? What people really think of you? Your best friend who’s scheming behind your back? Your husband who fancies your neighbour? Your boss who’s secretly taking credit for your work and despises you for it? The shop assistant who thinks you’re too stupid to notice your change is wrong?

I try to filter it all out as best I can, in the same way other people automatically filter out the noises of a busy street, so that after a while they just don’t hear them. That’s what I try to do, but it doesn’t always work. It certainly wasn’t working now.

I’d spent years trying to hide my gift. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out, because now here I was, on the verge of being employed – and by the government of all people – just because of this so-­called gift. A gift they thought that, under certain circumstances, might prove useful to them. They hadn’t actually detailed what those circumstances might be. I’d signed a very vaguely worded contract, together with the Official Secrets Act, and was on a retainer to some sort of government organisation – in the form of the very enigmatic Mary Bennet, together with her . . . what? Henchman? Employee? Spy? Security guard? I don’t know. Pick any label – Michael Jones was all, some, any, and none of them.

 

I’d thought he and I were friends. There had even been one or two moments when I’d thought – I’d hoped – we were about to become more than friends. We were just hovering on the brink . . . and then something had happened last Christmas – the

 thing I couldn’t quite remember.

We were both doing our best to carry on as normal. I had returned home and Jones himself was back at work. Perhaps that was where the problem lay. And there definitely was a problem. Because while he was actually doing a very good job of concealing whatever it was that was troubling him, unfortunately for him, I’m me, and no matter how carefully, how casually, how normally he tried to behave, there was no getting away from it. Something had happened. Something that danced just outside my memory, and now Michael Jones was . . . what? Worried? Wary? Suspicious?

None of those were quite the right words. The word I was looking for was . . . afraid. For some reason, Michael Jones was afraid.

Of me. 

Chapter One

That was the first day I found blood on my front doorstep.

I’d heard my elderly neighbour, Colonel Barton, outside and had gone out to say hello because I hadn’t seen him for a few days. Instead, I found him peering over the wrought-­iron railings that separated my steps from his and frowning.

‘Something nasty happened here, Mrs Cage.’

‘Oh.’ I stared down at the small puddle of sticky blood on the top step. A few smears on the lower steps indicated that something had either dragged itself down and, given the lack of body, escaped – or dragged itself up, which seemed unlikely, since I have four steps up to my front door and they’re quite steep.

‘A cat with its kill, I expect,’ he said. ‘Or possibly, given the location, an urban fox. Something brought you a gift in the night, anyway.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t as dead as it thought it was,’ I said confusingly. ‘I’d like to think it got away.’ And then, in an effort to introduce a slightly more cheerful note, ‘Are you going out, Colonel? A lovely day if you are.’

‘Mrs Barton and I,’ he frowned heavily at the absent Mrs Barton, ‘are attending an event at the tea rooms.’

‘How lovely,’ I said, because it was. Up until a few months ago, Mrs Barton wouldn’t have been well enough even to leave the house, and now they were painting the town red at the tea rooms. ‘A piano recital?’

 

‘A private showing of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The latest version.’

‘Oh,’ I said, quite taken aback. The latest version was – or so I had read – full of blood and violence and nudity and sex and not in that order. That would teach me to stereotype the elderly. ‘Well, that sounds very . . . pleasant.’

‘It might well be,’ he said grimly, ‘but at this rate we are unlikely to find out.’ He called through his open front door, ‘Do get a move on, Dolly!’

Mrs Barton appeared, her delicate robin’s-­egg blue colour floating gently around her like gossamer in the breeze. ‘Why are you booming at me, Arthur?’

Colonel Barton tapped his watch. ‘We’re going to be late.’

‘No, we aren’t, dear,’ she said placidly. ‘I know very well you always tell me things start thirty minutes earlier than they actually do. We have plenty of time yet. Oh, look, Elizabeth. Here comes one of your young men.’

Much as I would love to give the impression Rushford is simply dripping with young men belonging to me, sadly – no. Particularly not this one. This one belonged to someone else. Which didn’t stop him turning up on my doorstep whenever it suited him, taking over my sofa and my TV, watching the latest episode of Olympian Heights, spending an hour discussing the finer plot points, scrounging fish and chips afterwards, and very often staying the night. On the sofa, of course. And he invariably brought his faithful companion, Nigel. A dog who made the dead smell good.

Iblis halted dramatically at the foot of my steps in full view of the Bartons on one side and the respectable solicitors’ firm on the other, together with everyone enjoying the sunshine on the green that afternoon. His silver colour streamed behind him like a banner. He flung his arms wide.

 

‘It is I who appears before you. Iblis.’

The colonel snorted.

good health with a little flirting, then more power to her elbow. If I hadn’t been acquainted with the somewhat scary love of Iblis’s life, then I might flirt with him, too.

As always, he looked magnificent. A gentle breeze teased his long blond hair back off his shoulders. His T-­shirt only emphasised his impressive physique. Everyone was staring at him, and he knew it. A couple of the younger solicitors were nearly falling out of the window. If Jones had been here, there would have been scowling and sarcasm.

Nigel, scenting food and drink, bundled himself up my steps and disappeared through the front door to make himself at home.

Extending a hand, Iblis helped Mrs Barton down her steps as carefully as if both they and she were made of fragile glass. Once safely at the bottom, he bowed extravagantly and kissed her hand, folded it gently and held it between his own. ‘My heart rejoices in your presence.’

If she’d had one of those old-­fashioned fans, she would have flirtatiously rapped him across the knuckles with it.

The colonel coughed and stumped down the steps, determinedly under his own steam. ‘You’re making us late, Dolly.’

‘Alas, Venerable One, it is I, Iblis, who must bear the blame. My eyes were dazzled . . .’

 

‘Ha,’ said Colonel Barton. He’s not terribly enthusiastic about being referred to as Venerable One. Offering his arm to Mrs Barton, he said formally, ‘Good day to you, sir, Mrs Cage.’

The two of them set off down the path. The colonel’s back was ramrod straight and it would have been a very impressive exit, if Mrs Barton hadn’t ruined it by turning around and blowing Iblis a kiss.

He snatched it dramatically from the air and pressed it lovingly against his heart.

I said, ‘Idiot,’ and he laughed. I asked him why he was here.

‘To visit the light of my life, my friend, the incomparable Elizabeth Cage.’

‘And to watch Olympian Heights which starts in five minutes,’ I said. ‘It’s the omnibus edition. Get a move on or you’ll miss it.’

He peered at the top step. ‘Is that blood?’

‘Looks like it. The colonel thinks something came to a sticky end on my doorstep last night.’

‘Mm,’ he said, apparently losing interest. ‘Is there beer?’

‘Well, I don’t have any. Jones might have left some in the fridge.’

‘Good,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘It always tastes better when it’s his.’

 

One hour and thirty minutes later, he switched off the TV, crushed the last can in his fist and turned to me, his eyes sparkling. ‘Well, who’d have thought?’

‘I know,’ I said, equally excited. ‘Who would have believed that Shady would turn out to be the missing triplet? After all these years. And that Danton knew all along. And that Mrs Clapp the cleaner is actually Rosella’s long-­lost maiden aunt and knows the secret of the Mystery Room where Othello thought he’d buried the locket, which will prove he was the pilot whose flying accident killed Rachel’s mother’s cousin, who isn’t actually dead after all.’

 

I had to pause to get my breath back.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said, ‘while you and Nigel get your head around things. Tea or coffee?’

There was a knock at the door.

We both knew that knock. Iblis stared at the three empty beer cans on the coffee table and then at me.

‘He knows I don’t like beer,’ I said. ‘You’re on your own, I’m afraid. Unless you want to nip out of the back door now.’

‘I am Iblis,’ he said with dignity. ‘International Man of Mystery. I do not nip out of back doors.’

‘In that case,’ I said, pulling out the mugs. ‘Can you let him in?’

Jones stepped over the threshold, glaring at Iblis. ‘There’s blood on the step. Dare I hope it’s yours?’

‘Not this time,’ said Iblis. ‘Although even were I mortally wounded, I would still use my last strength to drag myself to the feet of Elizabeth Cage. My heart could not rest without one last glimpse of her exquisite beauty and—’

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked, because otherwise this could go on all night.

‘Fish and chips,’ he said, effortlessly diverting into

 more important areas than my exquisite beauty.

Jones was surveying the signs of our late afternoon debauch. From there, his gaze travelled to Nigel, stretched out in a patch of sunshine and displaying bits better left concealed. Or even buried. Looking at the state of him – Nigel, I mean – I couldn’t help worrying about the lower life forms currently abandoning ship to live long and prosper in my soft furnishings. Iblis assures me Nigel benefits from regular grooming and I’m not sure I believe a word of it. Except, as far as I know, the two of them still live with Melek and I couldn’t see her allowing Nigel to shed his load all over her sofa. Not for one moment.

 

Jones hadn’t finished. ‘Was that my beer?’

‘Good afternoon, Cage,’ I said. ‘Well, good evening, actually. How lovely to see you again. How are you? You’re looking very well. In a moment I shall remember why I’ve come to see you, instead of carping on endlessly about blood and beer, and getting on your nerves.’

‘You drank my beer?’

‘Not me, buster.’ I indicated a grinning Iblis. ‘And I think Nigel had half a can as well.’

He turned to Iblis. ‘You gave my beer to that . . .’

‘The kettle’s boiled,’ I interrupted. ‘Nigel and I are having tea. You two can look after yourselves.’

To add insult to injury, I tossed a digestive at Nigel, who snapped it out of the air without even opening his eyes. That dog had major skills.

I curled up on the sofa with my tea while Jones took himself into the little kitchen area on a beer hunt. My house is all open plan downstairs. The front door opens directly into – well, not a large room, but it’s big enough for me. And the sun streams through the front window, from which I can see the castle opposite. And the green with its ponds, and the willow trees and the swans and ducks posing for tourist photos.

I love my room with its wooden floor, colourful rugs, and bookcases. There’s a small sofa and an armchair with a low table in between. Nothing matches, nothing’s coordinated, but it’s comfortable and quiet and mine.

 

The kitchen is at the rear and looks out over my tiny 

walled backyard. Downstairs there’s a cellar that I use as a laundry room, and a flight of rickety and very narrow stairs winds up through the middle of the house to an upstairs landing. The single bedroom is off to the left and the bathroom to the right. Everywhere is bright and light and shining. Yes, I love my house and my house loves me. I can tell.

Jones was stamping around, pulling open cupboard doors and investigating the contents of the fridge.

‘This fridge is empty.’

‘Of beer, yes.’

‘You drank it all?’

‘Omnibus episode of Olympian Heights,’ I said briefly. ‘Why are you here?’

‘What are you doing early next week, Cage?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, without even having to think about it.

‘Fancy a trip out to the Sorensen Clinic?’

I regarded him warily. ‘For the purposes of . . . ?’

‘Sitting in on one of Sorensen’s interviews. He’s been given the all-­clear to travel and they’ve brought him back to the clinic for the preliminaries. My boss thinks the change of scenery will do him good. Plus, of course, the clinic is the scene of his crimes, so he’ll have a chance to mull over all the poor life choices he’s made over the last two years or so. Ever since he met you, in fact.’

Dr Sorensen was the former director of the Sorensen Clinic, a very upmarket rehab clinic just outside Rushford where, ostensibly, the great and the good went to be listened to as they talked endlessly about how dreadful their lives were. In reality, that was just their cover and a very good one it was. Hiding behind its high profile, the clinic’s true purpose was to provide a sanctuary – a refuge, perhaps – for people far more important than politicians and celebrities grappling with their latest public catastrophe. The clinic’s main purpose was to take in burned-­out members of the military, security people, those who were coming in from the cold and needed to be quietly debriefed, and those whose loyalties weren’t quite as clear-­cut as they should be and needed reminding. All these and more found a temporary

home at the Sorensen Clinic, while that manipulative bastard – please excuse the language, but Dr Sorensen is really not a nice man – teased out their secrets and reported back to his masters.

 

My lovely husband, Ted, had worked there for some years as head of security, which is how Sorensen had crossed my path – deliberately, according to Jones. Sorensen used Ted to get to me. I don’t know how he’d found out about me, but he had. He didn’t know everything, but certainly enough to suspect I was far from what the world would describe as a boring 1950s housewife. He’d been trying to get his hands on me from the moment Ted had introduced us and I’d been trying to shift him out of my life ever since.

And then, around last Christmas, Sorensen had got himself mixed up in something very unpleasant indeed. Not only was a very dangerous drug – Ghost – being manufactured on the clinic’s premises, but patients and staff had died in various unpleasant ways. Some were still missing and had never been found.

What role Ghost had played in all this was something Jones and his colleagues were still trying to establish. With some difficulty, because everyone who had taken Ghost had died shortly afterwards. No one survived Ghost.

 

Except for me. I’d taken Ghost and lived. I had no idea why.

I knew that Ghost opened doors best left closed. Because what came through had not been the victims’ longed-for loved ones as promised. Every single one of us carries our own demon around with us. It’s always there, standing invisible at our shoulder, whispering silently in our ear. Most people are completely unaware of its presence – until they take Ghost. Ghost opens that door and their demon is suddenly visible to them.

From that moment on, it never leaves them. No matter how far and how fast they run, they’re never able to shift it. They could run and run and run until they drop with exhaustion, but it’s still there. Then, when they are too weak to defend themselves, the thing crouches on their chest and just . . . eats their life force. I’d seen it happen. I’d seen the demon tear at the victim’s colour with clawed hands, ripping it to pieces, then cramming it into its mouth and gobbling it down. And when the victim’s colour was all gone, then so was their life. I’d seen it happen almost right outside my own front door and I’d never forget it as long as I lived.

Sorensen had drugged me with Ghost and escaped in

the confusion. I’m genuinely unsure what happened next – I know there were dead people everywhere, and I know that at some point something had stood behind me, but the details were becoming hazier and hazier as time passed, and these days it took a conscious effort from me to remember them at all.

I wasn’t actually sure how much I wanted to remember, but I knew I’d been dragged from Jones’s bedroom just as . . . well, I’m not saying any more about that. I knew I’d been taken to the clinic. I knew Sorensen had drugged me. I know Mrs Pains­wick was there. I think she’d tried to help me and was killed because of that. I have a vague memory of being imprisoned in the basement and of overwhelming fear, but the next thing I clearly remember is being with Jones in hospital.

 

Jones himself had fought like a lion for me and taken a really bad beating. His left eye had been damaged. Possibly permanently. He was making light of it, but he had another physical coming up and his colour told me he was worried.

I watched his colour now as he worked his way around the kitchen, searching out the secret stash of beer he knew I’d have somewhere. His usual red-­gold glow was muted. The red had darkened, almost to a crimson, and the gold – that lovely luminous golden colour that had lit up his bedroom like a firework display – was almost completely gone. The shape was different, as well. Less swirly – more solid. Like a shield. Because he was afraid of something, and I was pretty certain it was me.

I looked away and drank my tea.

‘Aha.’ He reached into a cupboard and pulled out two cans.

Iblis sat up, eyes sparkling.

Jones threw him a look and sat down as far from Nigel as possible in such a small room. ‘Hands off, you scrounging bastard.’

The scrounging bastard grinned irritatingly. ‘You can buy more when we go out for food.’

I live at the top of a very steep hill in a little close which isn’t accessible to vehicles. Other than the postman, no one would deliver up here. If Iblis wanted food, someone was going to have to go out and get it.

Jones groaned. ‘Oh God, are you staying that long?’ 

I suspected Melek had chucked the pair of them out. Probably one of them had peed in the corner.

‘Of course you can stay,’ I said. ‘We’ll have something to eat and I’ll make you and Nigel up a bed for the night. What would you like?’

‘Fish and chips,’ he said again.

‘Indian,’ said Jones.

I stood up. ‘That’s fish and chips then.’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Jones indignantly. ‘How do you work that out?’

‘Two to one.’

‘The scruffy mongrel doesn’t get a vote. Nor the dog, neither.’

‘We’ll have Chinese then,’ I said. ‘A diplomatic compromise because I’m hungry and I want to eat this side of midnight. And what were you saying about Sorensen?’

‘We’ve been given the all-­clear at last. To begin his debriefing.’

‘I thought he was too traumatised to give a statement.’

‘It’s been made clear that he’ll be even more traumatised if he doesn’t. Mary Bennet would like you to sit in.’

I must have looked worried because he said hastily, ‘It’s just the preliminary stuff. I suspect that getting down to the nitty-­gritty will be done behind firmly closed doors. Too embarrassing for the public to know lethal drugs were being manufactured by a prominent member of the establishment. We’ll just want you to sit in during the early stages and indicate any areas that might repay further investigation. And to tell us if he’s lying his socks off, of course. Are you up for that?’

The Sorensen Clinic wasn’t my favourite place in the world, but I’d agreed to do this. Mary Bennet was my new employer. Michael Jones was my colleague. Officially, I was a consultant, brought in to assist with difficult interviews and such. Sorensen had spun it out for as long as he could but now the time had come, and he had questions to answer.

 

‘Yes,’ I said, with considerably more confidence than I felt. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ll let you know when and what time I’ll pick you up.’

‘No need – I’ll go on my moped.’

Something else that had happened at Christmas: Jones had bought me one of those little moped/scooter things. I wasn’t sure what a ‘cc’ was, but mine had a whopping great fifty of them. I never know whether to call it a moped or a scooter but according to Jones – probably not the world’s greatest expert – it’s a moped if it’s under fifty cc, and a scooter if you can sit on it and there’s a platform on which to put your feet. Who knew?

Anyway, it was beautifully simple to operate. You sat on it, pressed the starter thing and away you went. No gears, no clutch – simple. I’d had a charging point installed in my shed, applied for a licence, taken my CBT test and was beginning to venture out and about. Around Rushford, to the supermarket – no more toiling up the hill laden with heavy groceries – and I’d explored nearby country lanes and local beauty spots. For someone whose only choice had been between walking, public transport or not going out at all, this had, literally, opened up my life. I was still a little nervous and my mind did tend to fill with visions of being laminated to the road by a giant lorry, or falling down a pothole, or being thrown off by a wonky manhole lid, but I kept telling myself loads of people had these little mopeds. They

were electric and easy. Mine lived in the shed and represented freedom.

 

‘OK,’ said Jones amiably. ‘How’s that going? Ridden into a ditch yet?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nor will I. I’m very careful.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, Cage. I’ll give you the details as soon as I know them and meet you at the clinic. On the steps outside. Inside if it’s raining.’

‘I’ll be there.’

There was a pause.

‘So, Chinese,’ I said. ‘What does everyone want?’

Well, that was a mistake. The volley of words nearly pinned me to the wall.

‘Crispy fried beef.’

‘Special fried rice. Three portions.’

‘Prawn crackers. For Nigel. Better get two bags.’

‘Those little duck things.’

‘And spring rolls.’

‘Are those for Nigel?’

‘No. I will require six of those. And some for everyone else, as well.’

‘And noodles.’

‘And sweet and sour pork.’

‘Hold on, hold on,’ I said, and got up to find my shopping pad. I tore off a sheet and it didn’t come off cleanly. I noticed that the perforations were wonky.

I started with my favourite, lemon chicken, because I’d probably end up paying for this, and then jotted down everyone else’s requirements. It was actually quite a long list by the time I’d finished.

‘Who’s going for all this?’ I said, handing the list to Jones.

‘We’ll both go,’ he said, tucking it into his pocket and turning to Iblis. ‘I’ll pay. You carry. Cage sets the table. Teamwork. I’ll phone the order through on the way and it should just about be ready when we get there.’

 

‘And beer,’ said Iblis. ‘Lots of beer.’

Jones sighed. ‘Anything for you, Cage?’

‘No, thanks. I made lemonade yesterday.’

‘See you in about half an hour. Longer if there’s a queue.’

They disappeared out of the front door.

Nigel remained. To guard me, presumably. He flung himself into this task by sighing deeply and turning over to resume his slumbers.

I put plates and bowls in the oven because my mother would have had something to say about eating straight out of the cartons. I laid the table, pulled out Nigel’s dish – yes, he kept his own dish here – put the empty beer cans out for recycling, made space in the fridge for their future brethren, opened the back door to let in some cooler, fresher air, and sat down to wait, because I thought Jones’s estimate of thirty minutes was a little over-­optimistic.

As it turned out, I was completely wrong. They were

back in less than ten. Without food.

‘What happened?’ I said as they came in through the front door. ‘Did they refuse to serve you?’

They looked at each other. No one said anything. Something was wrong. Iblis’s colour was curled tightly around him while Jones’s had darkened, fringed at the edges with orange streaks of anxiety.

‘What?’ I said, suddenly feeling cold. ‘What’s happened?’

Jones walked up to the kitchen worktop, the one that divides my kitchen from the rest of the room. Iblis slipped past him and opened the door to the stairs. He peered up and then disappeared. I could hear him moving around overhead.

 

Jones stuck his head out of the back door before shutting it and turning to look at me. ‘Cage, you haven’t let anyone in recently, have you?’

‘No,’ I said, alarmed. ‘Of course not.’

‘You’re alone?’

‘Of course I am,’ I said bitterly. ‘I’m always alone.’

His colour was crackling all around him. Something was very wrong.

Iblis reappeared. ‘Nothing upstairs or in the cellar. Just us. And Nigel is still asleep.’

This was true. Nigel was apparently comatose – which was good because he’s quite a useful barometer. I’ve seen him when something dodgy is about to happen and he’s a fanged ball of fury. Jones says he’s Rushford’s answer to the Komodo dragon. His bite has only to break the skin and his victim is as good as dead – they just don’t know it yet. I could easily imagine Nigel patiently tracking some poor soul as they dragged themselves around for two or three days before dying hideously of his poisonous bite.

I joined them, keeping the worktop between us. ‘What’s going on?’

Jones pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This.’

He unfolded it and laid it out on the counter where we could all read it.

Written in my own handwriting. 

One day soon I will send the serpent.

You know I always send the serpent.

It’s my signature move. 

 

Chapter Two

I picked up the note and looked at it. I turned it over, just in case, somehow, my Chinese food order was on the other side. It wasn’t.

‘Did one of you write this as a joke?’

They both shook their heads. For once, Iblis wasn’t smiling.

Jones took the piece of paper off me and pulled over my shopping pad, carefully laying the torn sheet on the top. The jagged tear matched exactly. There was no doubt that that page had come from this pad.

I looked at it again. Black ink. I picked up the pen and made a tentative scribble. Blobby black ink. Just the same as the ink on the paper. And my handwriting.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I wrote lemon chicken, crispy fried beef and all the rest of it.’

‘Write it again,’ said Jones. ‘No – on another sheet.’

I tore off another page – more carefully this time – and wrote lemon chicken and crispy fried beef. When I’d finished, I laid it on the worktop for everyone to see and looked at the first note again. I think I was hoping that somehow it would have morphed back into the original list, but no. There it sat. Unchanged. Inexplicable. My paper, my pen, my handwriting.

‘I didn’t write this,’ I said, pointing to the original. ‘I didn’t. I wrote the list for the takeaway. Like that one.’ I gestured to the second sheet. ‘Why would I . . . ? Who wrote this? What serpent? Who sends a serpent? Why send a serpent to me?’ I could feel panic rising. ‘What’s going on?’ I slammed my hands down on the worktop in frustration. ‘Why do I never know what’s happening? Why am I always kept in the dark?’

 

Iblis turned to Jones. ‘I will return.’

‘Yes,’ said Jones sardonically. ‘Go and tell Melek she’s entangled in her own lies again.’

Iblis stood for a moment. His colour had completely lost its sparkle. ‘Nigel – stay.’

Nigel rolled over again.

The door banged behind Iblis. Jones and I were left alone.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘No, it’s not well, Cage. Come and sit down.’

I jerked my arm away. I don’t lose my temper very often, but I was losing it now. ‘No. No. I’m not going to sit down. Or have a cup of tea. Or hoover the carpet. Or do what everyone wants me to do. I’m warning you, Jones – I am well pissed-­off and very, very tired of being the only person who never knows what’s going on.’

‘Of course you are,’ he said, suddenly sounding very tired himself. ‘I don’t blame you. And, if it’s any consolation at all, I was against it. But . . .’ He took my hand. ‘Please think very carefully about how much you want to know. Ignorance has kept you safe for a long time now and . . .’

‘Safe from what? Ignorance of what? Do you honestly think you’re helping?’

‘No. No, I’m not. But I think it’s probably best if I leave the explanations to the person whose fault all this is. If you promise not to throw it at me, can I make you another mug of tea?’

 

My throat and mouth were dry. I nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you. And since we’re discussing secrets, tell me why you’re suddenly so afraid of me.’

He sat back down again. ‘You’ve noticed.’

‘Yes.’

He sighed. ‘There’s no hiding anything from you, is

 there? You are going to be so good at your new job.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘Cage, I honestly don’t know what to say. Do you remember, at the beginning of this year, we had a talk?’

‘About working together? Yes, I remember it well. You said because weird stuff happens to us wherever we go, the least we could do was capitalise on that. We were going to investigate other people’s weird stuff. Help them. Make a little money, perhaps. I also remember you saying you would make the decisions and I would make the tea. Because it was important for me to feel I was making a contribution.’

‘Yes, you would remember that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Nothing wrong with my memory,’ I said, pointedly ignoring the fact I suspected there was something very much the matter with my memory. Not only were there the inexplicable gaps, but I was also cursed with equally inexplicable flashes – names, places, images – things of which I had no previous recollection. I sometimes felt like a badly tuned radio, picking up bits of other people’s memories.

The evening had darkened. I still hadn’t eaten. There was still blood on the doorstep. Nigel was still snoring. At some point he’d farted. Apparently he’d eaten a compost heap for lunch.

‘That lanky witch will be here any moment,’ Jones said, meaning Melek, presumably. They’d never liked each other.

 

I still wasn’t absolutely sure about Melek – or Iblis, either. Most of the time I believed they were something strange and strong left over from older times, but then sometimes I would wonder if they weren’t just a pair of con artists with a good act. And then I’d look at their colours – Melek’s subdued gold and Iblis’s swirling silver, the way they moved and the shapes that they made – and be back to strange and strong again. I had no idea what to make of either of them. I wasn’t even sure if they were a force for good or bad.

Jones had no such doubts. ‘Don’t agree to anything she says without thinking about it very carefully.’ 

‘What are you saying?’

‘Just listen to what she says and take your time before making a decision.’

‘Jones – what’s going on?’

He opened his mouth, but someone tapped at the front door.

He let them in. Iblis and Melek – the lanky witch, as he called her. True, she was tall. As tall as Iblis and he wasn’t short.

‘There you are,’ said Jones, falsely amiable. ‘Has Iblis explained everything to you? I can’t wait to see how you lie your way out of this one. Go on – off you go.’

He settled back on the sofa and took my hand. I was unsure whether this was a gesture of defiance or solidarity.

Melek inspected me very closely. ‘Elizabeth? Is everything all right?’

‘Why don’t you tell her?’ said Jones.

‘If you have nothing helpful to say, then say nothing. Or better still, leave completely.’ She scowled, completely unintimidated by him. Her dark red hair was scraped back tight and hard in a bun on the nape of her neck and her boots could bring down a building.

 

He stood up. I’d forgotten how quickly he could move. In a second, they were eyeball to eyeball. I watched their colours clash, Melek’s gold butting against Jones’s crimson. Both of them tight and angry. Neither would back down. I suspected she could snap his neck in an instant if she wished. Although Iblis would probably have something to say about that. And I certainly would.

I was just so tired of everyone treating me like an idiot. Too stupid to make my own decisions. Being used for other people’s purposes. Everyone wanted a piece of me. Sorensen. Mary Bennet. Melek. Jones, in his own way. And I was becoming very tired of being meek, helpless, biddable Elizabeth Cage.

‘We should wait outside,’ said Iblis to Jones.

‘No, we really shouldn’t,’ said Jones, not taking his eyes from Melek’s. ‘Someone has to look after Cage’s interests.’

‘I have told you before, I mean nothing but good to Elizabeth Cage,’ she said, still staring him down.

‘Yeah? How’s that worked out for her so far?’

I turned to him. ‘Why are you so angry? What are you afraid of?’

He sighed and said more quietly, ‘I’m afraid for you,

 Cage. And yes, a little bit afraid of you. Of what you could do.’

I heard myself say, ‘Me? What could I do?’ but I knew what he meant. I still remembered the endless, angry snow slowly covering the world. I still saw the whirlwind chaos of blood and people exploding through the roof. I still remembered lying in the blood-­soaked snow staring up at the stars as I brought the Sorensen Clinic down around me. Oh yes – I’ve done some damage in my time.

 

He looked over at Melek. ‘Will you tell her, or shall I?’

‘Neither.’

He was becoming very angry. ‘We three know who she is, but not Cage herself. Ignorance is no longer her protection. Ignorance could kill her.’

‘It has always protected her in the past.’

‘But the secret is out now. If everyone knows but her, then you no longer have a choice.’

She was silent for a long time. No one moved. No one spoke. The street lights came on outside. Finally, she said, ‘There is still a choice.’

Jones made a movement and she continued. ‘Elizabeth, the choice will be yours. I will tell you what you need to know and then you can decide. To continue with that knowledge and deal with everything that will entail – or to forget and continue as you were before.’

‘But everyone else will still know?’

‘Iblis and I have always known. The man Jones – well, he must find his own way to deal with it.’ She didn’t look at the man Jones. ‘It will be his problem. My concern is for you. What do you say? I promise – whatever you decide – everyone here will abide by it.’ She looked over at Jones. ‘Won’t they?’

He looked at me. ‘Do you agree to this, Cage?’

‘Actually, I can’t see any other way. Yes, I agree.’

‘To what do you agree?’ said Melek.

I considered my words and then said formally, ‘I agree to be told the truth, and then decide whether or not I want to remember it or continue as I was 

before.’

She turned to Jones. ‘What do you say?’

‘I think I’ve made my views known. Stay out of my head.’

 

‘Your knowledge is not giving you peace of mind.’

‘Stay out of my head.’

She stepped back from him. ‘Elizabeth? Shall I continue?’

Perhaps I should have taken a little time to reflect on know­ledge so terrible that it had been kept from me. I didn’t.

‘All right.’ I turned to Melek. ‘Do it.’

She came to sit beside me on the sofa and took my hands. Hers were as cold as ice. Her grey eyes bored into mine.

‘Tadia, I have something very important to say to you.’

There was a bright light in my memory and then everything else was blank.

‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ said Jones.

I opened my eyes. Oh, God – I’d fallen asleep. I had guests and I’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

‘Right,’ he said briskly, heading for the door. ‘Back in half an hour, Cage. Anything else you want?’

Had I missed something? Were we still arguing about food? I scrambled for my last memories. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Off to get the food,’ he said, opening the front door. ‘Nigel hasn’t eaten for hours, and I’m worried he’ll start on us.’

He disappeared into the dark. Iblis followed him out.

Melek regarded me from the armchair.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, struggling to sit up and get to grips with the evening. ‘My mother would have been so cross with me. Falling asleep in front of a guest.’

‘You do look tired,’ she said. ‘The nap will have done you good. Just remember, whenever you feel uneasy or that something isn’t quite right, you made your choice, and it was the right one.’

I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, but she was smiling and I should be polite, so I said, ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you. As soon as they return, I must depart. How are you these days, Elizabeth Cage?’

‘Um, very well, thank you.’

‘There is blood on your doorstep.’

‘Oh yes, I think a cat killed something there. I must wash it off tomorrow. How are you?’

‘I am well.’ She paused, opened her mouth as if to speak and then changed her mind.

‘You won’t stay to eat with us?’

‘No, thank you.’

I suddenly felt very sorry for her. Iblis had no qualms at all about inviting himself for TV, free beer and food. Melek never would. How did she spend her time?

‘You’d be very welcome,’ I said, and meant it.

She smiled. ‘Thank you, that is kind, but I have an appointment later.’

I knew better than to ask. ‘If you’re pressed for time, do please feel free to leave.’

‘No. I will remain until they return. They should not be long.’

That turned out to be true. In less time than I expected, they were back, overloaded with foil cartons and beer.

Nigel sat up immediately. Melek regarded him without favour. He lay back down again.

She went to leave and as I stood up to see her to the door, I caught sight of my original note – the one that should have been about the food and wasn’t – lying unnoticed on the worktop. I moved the kettle and tea things to make room for all the ­cartons and took the opportunity to slip the note into my pocket as I did so.

Jones and Melek said a polite good night to each other. Iblis waved a spring roll at her in farewell. Nigel didn’t bother looking up from his dish. I saw her into the night, looked again at the blood, a dark patch under the porch light, and went to close the door.

 

As I did so, a shadow moved. Across the grass and under the willow trees. I stared for a moment but saw nothing more, so I closed the door and went back inside.

 

Iblis, as expected, stayed the night. I made him up a bed on the sofa and brought down an old pillow for Nigel. Tactfully, Iblis took him out for a

 last-­minute walk, leaving me and Jones alone. I’m not sure what he thought we would do with the time.

‘I’ll call you as soon as they’re ready for you to report to the clinic,’ said Jones. The food seemed to have done him some good. His colour was stronger and brighter. As it used to be. ‘Any plans over the next few days?’

‘Just staying at home,’ I said sadly.

‘Listen – that note . . .’

‘Mm?’ I said vaguely. I should have known better.

‘The one you slipped into your pocket.’

I sighed. Dodgy eyesight or not, he never missed a thing, did he?

‘Oh – that note.’

‘When you have a minute . . .’

As if I didn’t have hundreds of minutes . . . thousands, even.

‘When you have a moment, sit down and make a list of anyone who might have it in for you.’

I was genuinely surprised. I could number the people I knew on the fingers of well . . . two hands, but I’d still have a few fingers left over. ‘Why would anyone possibly have it in for me?’

 

‘I know you tend to regard yourself as some home-­loving little nonentity, but I think – in fact, I know – you’re pretty badass, Cage. Sorensen thought the same and, for all his faults, he wasn’t often wrong about people. Mary Bennet tends to agree as well and we’re not the only ones. So, make that list. We’ll have a chat when I see you next.’

‘You’re still working on the Ghost thing?’ I said. ‘That’s dragging on a bit.’

‘I’m only slightly involved at this stage. Uncovering the evidence and lining up the witnesses is being done by others.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, mostly because I’m still not completely fit, but also because my boss informs me that, for some reason, it’s felt I’m not good with routine work.’

‘That is astonishing.’

‘Listen, I . . .’

Iblis and Nigel appeared. One of them had the

appearance of one who’d performed his functions for the evening. Iblis waggled his eyebrows at us as he edged between us on the step. Jones gave it up.

‘See you soon, Cage. Stay out of trouble.’

‘Of course,’ I said indignantly and even Nigel laughed.

 

Leaving Iblis with the last can of beer and the TV remote, I took myself upstairs. I climbed into bed, dimmed the light, punched my pillows to make them comfortable and lay a while, mulling things over. Then I sat up, found a pad and pen in the bedside cabinet and started to think of all the people who would have a reason to dislike me. To hate me, even. I didn’t think it would take that long but I was wrong.

 

I started with Philip Sorensen, which would please him, since he had a very exaggerated idea of his own importance. He was the first on my list but he was in custody and had been for some time. He’d presided over the manufacture of Ghost and a lot of people had died. Cruelly and unnecessarily. And now, mostly due to me, he’d lost his job, his clinic, his reputation and his liberty. It would probably be fair to say he hated me, although how he would have the opportunity to do me any harm was a bit of a mystery. Nevertheless, he went on the list. Pride of place, in fact.

Then there was Thomas Rookwood. As far as I knew, he was still miles away in his castle up in Northumberland. He was an unpleasant man, who couldn’t be far enough away as far as I was concerned. He didn’t love me but he had an awful lot to lose if any of his secrets ever came tumbling out. Worth checking, I supposed.

The vengeful spirit of Clare Woods, Jones’s ex-­partner and girlfriend, who had been executed in a grimy basement in Droitwich. I shivered and pulled the quilt up around my shoulders. Possible, I suppose, but again – not very likely and what if it was her? What could I do about it? Nothing. I didn’t bother adding her to the list.

The Harlows – Veronica, Becky and Granny Miriam. The Mother, the Maiden and the Crone. Veronica was dead. As was Granny. Sadly, in my world, being dead never seemed to be much of a handicap when it came to bad behaviour.

Three Sisters? Iblis had done them irreparable harm. Dealt them what had looked to me like a fatal blow. I closed my eyes and saw the stone fall. Saw Veronica and Alice Chervil’s bodies crushed beneath it. I’d wrecked their Year King ceremony. The one that went back who knew how many centuries. The ceremony that ensured the women of Greyston another year of long life and prosperity. And, most importantly, continuing power. I’d destroyed a millennia-­old tradition in just under half an hour, but there might still be something nasty remaining. I remembered the moment our car had been dragged, slowly, inexorably backwards towards the standing stones. What fate would have awaited us there?

 

But the power of the stones had been broken – along with the stones themselves – and these days the village was surrounded by dead men. Hundreds – possibly even thousands – of them. Victims of the Year King ceremony – each and every one of them shot through with hatred and thoughts of revenge against the women who had done this to them. True, the men couldn’t get in – but the women couldn’t get past them. A dreadful stalemate. I wondered how that situation had developed. Veronica and Granny might be dead, but what about Becky? She was very young but was it possible she could harness enough power to cause me harm? That also should be checked out.

Then there was the spirit of Caroline Fairbrother – I’d tied her to a wall down by the river. Doomed her to spend eternity in the cold and the dark. She definitely hated me.

Or what about Leanne Elphick – that woman who regarded the human race as her puppets and played cruel games with people’s lives? I’d stood in her way as well. How difficult would it be for her to track me down?

I laid down the pad and pen, suddenly tired. There would be more. Either deliberately or unknowingly, everyone makes enemies. How many people didn’t I even know about? I turned out the light, rolled over and tried to sleep.  ...