“This is bad,” the man muttered.“This is very bad. There’s something a lot worse going on than.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Someone must be trying to undo the spell we cast. Someone is trying to bring down the wall between our world and the other one. And if that happens, magic will start to return, and all the horrors associated with it. The demons on the other side…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. A demon army trapped on the other side. Waiting for seventy years to attack.

“How is that possible? I thought not being able to die was part of your curse.”

“It must be a soul blade. That’s the only thing that could kill one of us. It sucks all the magic out of a warlock, or even a former warlock like myself. If all three of us were killed, the spell we cast would be broken. The wall would come down. The demons on the other side will be more powerful than ever. All that energy trapped behind the barrier, waiting to explode back into our world. I can’t begin to imagine the consequences.”

His lip trembled.

“You have to stop this. You have to protect me. You have to protect Marian.”

“Marian?”

“The third of us. She was the most reluctant of our trio. She tried as hard as she could to find any other way, but in the end, even she realised there was no other option.”

Protecting this person, or anyone else involved in Operation Blackstar, was not something I felt like doing. But if the consequences were as severe as he said, I had no choice. Whoever had killed the first cursed one would come here at some point.

I considered my options and came to a simple conclusion. This was the Section’s mess, so they could clean it up.

“I need a phone.”

The cursed one pointed to the hallway, where an old landline sat on a small table.

“I think it works,” he said. “I’ve never used it.”

I wiped the dust off the receiver, heard a tone, and punched in the number Moorecroft had given me, which I’d been careful to memorise.

Moorecroft picked up on the third ring.

“Who is this? How do you have this number?”

“It’s Ethan Hall, and I have it because you gave it to me.”

“What is it, Ethan?” he asked irritably. “This isn’t a good time. I’m at dinner.”

In the background, I could hear subdued conversations and soft music. The light clattering of cutlery on plates and glasses being chinked. Wherever Moorecroft was, it sounded swanky.

“I need your help. It’s urgent.”

“It had better be,” Moorecroft replied.

“It’s about the Pryces. I have a witness here. Someone who knows all about what they’re up to. His life is in danger, and he needs protection.”

There was no time to explain what was really going on, and it was unlikely Moorecroft would believe a word of it, anyway. Telling him I had something on the Pryces was a sure-fire way to get his attention.

“A witness, you say?” Moorecroft considered.

“Yes.”

I heard Moorecroft take a gulp of liquid and imagined an expensive red wine.

“Well,” he said, “You have been busy since we last spoke. Tell me more.”

“There’s no time. This man is in immediate danger. We both are. You need to send a squad to pick us up, and you need to do it now.”

“I hope this isn’t a wild goose chase, Ethan,” Moorecroft replied. “I’d view that poorly indeed.”

“It isn’t. I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent.”

“Give me the address,” he said. I did so.

“High Wycombe. I can have a van there in an hour and a half. In the meantime, sit tight. We’ll pick you up and then I want a full report on all of this. Including what happened when you went dark yesterday at the Pryces’ the other day.”

“Fine,” I said, and hung up.

“I know nothing about anyone called Pryce,” the man said, his voice querulous.

“Don’t worry about it. It was just the quickest way to get help here. Trust me.”

He shrugged. Finished his tea. Got up to make another cup. The fear in his eyes had abated now he knew someone was on the way. He asked if I wanted more tea. I shook my head. I didn’t want to be here at all, but at least I was halfway to fixing this mess.

Fifteen minutes passed.

The silence between us was broken by a terse phone call from Moorecroft assuring me a squad had been dispatched. Another fifteen minutes passed. Time was crawling now. Ten more minutes.

I fidgeted, went out into the garden, left the man sitting inside. He had nothing more to say that I wanted to hear. Five more minutes. A car pulled up outside the front door with a screech and a brief flash of headlights. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

Something was wrong. I could just feel it.

The doorbell rang. I walked back inside and towards the front door. My instincts were on overdrive, my body was flaring up, getting ready to fight. The fire was there, for no reason other than every fibre of my body was screaming something is wrong!

Through the dirty, glazed window in the front door, I could see the shadow of a tall man.

“Is it them?” the man on the sofa asked.

The doorbell buzzed again.

“No,” I said, “it isn’t. Do not open the door.”

I rushed back into the living room, slid the large glass door closed. Pulled the curtains across.

I needn’t have bothered. The doorbell rang one last time and then the front door exploded inwards as it was kicked open.

I swore, the fire building up in me.

“What’s going on?” the man asked me. His voice was panicked, confused.

“Get behind me,” I said.

I lifted him off the sofa like I was picking up a teddy bear and pushed him back against the drawn curtains. I needed a weapon, something. Apart from the small television and the grubby little coffee table, there was nothing. I span round, looked up. The curtain pole was solid wood.

I tore the curtains down, bringing the wooden pole with it, then pulled the curtain off. It left me with a makeshift staff about a metre and a half long. Not much, but it would have to do. I didn’t know how to fight with a staff at all, but I figured any weapon was better than none.

A tall, thin, dark-skinned man in a pristine white suit stepped into the dirty room. He had a hard face, eyes that took in the space with a cynical glance. He was carrying a thick, ornate black blade that was thirty centimetres long and about ten centimetres wide, where it connected to the hilt.

I faced him, my makeshift weapon raised. The man gave me a sardonic glance. I stood my ground as Paul cowered behind me.

“You must be Ethan,” the man said.

His voice was terrifying.

It wasn’t one voice at all; it was several, all speaking at the same time, some whispering, some sounding as if they were screaming a long way away, like from the pits of hell. It was as if there were a thousand trapped souls within him, all repeating his words. The effect sent a shiver up my spine.

“Get out,” I said. “Section 13 will be here any second. They’ll put you down in a heartbeat.”

“A second is all I need,” the man said in his many voices. “Get out of my way.”

“No.”

He ran towards me, his free hand raised to counter my staff, his knife drawn back. I swung as hard as I could, catching him across his right cheek with the curtain rail. He staggered back, his cheek bleeding.

“Ethan,” my opponent said, wiping the blood from his cheek, “This is your last chance to walk away from this.”

I didn’t move. I wasn’t scared of him, or of anything. The fire had taken over me, adding reckless confidence to my anger. I was ready to fight. Hell, I wanted to fight. After the past ten days of fear and uncertainty, after everything that had happened with Jess and Dee, after being bullied and scared half to death, I wanted a fight.

I guess having beaten Major Wilson had given me a taste for it.

Knowing that I was facing a demonic creature also meant I wouldn’t have to pull my punches.

The tall, thin man twisted. Shifted. Horns sprouted and muscles bulged as his already dark skin turned jet black, hardening as it did so. Teeth sharpened, claws extended, and his eyes glowed red.

Bring it on!

He charged at me.

I jabbed him with the staff as he tried to slice me with the black blade. I dodged to one side as the blade whistled through thin air, caught him on his shoulder with my staff. I barged forwards with my shoulder, slamming him into the far wall.

He recovered, ducking my next swing with the staff and punching me hard in my stomach. I staggered backwards, winded. The demon smacked the staff out of my loosened grip and made for a slice with his blade that I just avoided. I lashed out with my left arm, swinging it around and hitting him on the side of his face. He grunted in surprised as I backhanded him, caught off-guard by my speed and strength.

I felt a split second of pride. Despite not being used to fighting, and despite being up against a hard as nails demon, I was holding my own.

The demon stumbled away from my backhanded punch. I leapt forward, staff forgotten, and aimed another blow at his head with my right fist. I hit him in the face with everything I had.

Or I would have done if he hadn’t ducked out of the way at the last second.

Instead, I hit the solid brick wall behind him, with all the strength I possessed.

Remember how I said my bones break just the same as anyone else’s?

I broke my hand against the wall. Broke my arm. Pain shot through my body. I screamed as my forearm crumpled in front of my eyes and splintered bone burst through the skin in a bloody shower.

The demon wasted no time pressing his advantage. The thirty-centimetre blade sliced into my stomach, going so deep that I felt it scrape against my spinal column. He twisted the blade, causing me to scream again as I slumped to my knees.

Then he pulled the knife out.

Blood spilled from my guts. My right arm was shattered and useless. I crumpled into a corner, clutching the wound in my stomach, unable to do anything but watch as the demon turned his attention to the cursed one.

“Stop,” I croaked.

Paul scrabbled at the door, trying to slide it open, but in his panic, he couldn’t manage it.

“Please,” he whimpered.

The demon drove the knife under the cursed one’s chin and up into his brain.

Paul, the second of the three cursed ones, was killed instantly.