‘I wouldn’t give him any more,’ she snapped, and slammed the door of the bar behind her as she hurried away.
You need help.
Oh God, that was truer than she knew. Flinging a few notes on to the bar, Ranjit seized his backpack and almost ran to the door. Outside, the Brussels rain stung his face and brought him to a halt. He took a breath and tried to orient himself, taking the opportunity to double-check yet again that the fastening on the backpack was secure, then hunched his shoulders and hurried on into the night.
He’d come so close to losing control. He’d tried really hard lately and so far it had worked, but she’d come on so strong, and his spirit was so hungry. And what’s more, she’d been sweet, and gutsy, he couldn’t help being reminded of—
No! Don’t think about her …
He couldn’t let it happen again. When he’d … Ranjit hesitated even thinking about it. When he had killed Jake in Istanbul … and come so close to killing Richard, he didn’t know whether he’d betrayed his spirit, or his spirit had betrayed him. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to happen again. Regardless of the role the cursed Pendant had played in what he’d done, he had to have been responsible on some level. He’d blown it forever, he knew that. He would never see Cassie again, so the fact that he had no idea what the hell he was going to do now didn’t seem to matter anyway. Oh, God, why had he thought the Pendant would be the key to him and Cassie being together? How could he have been so stupid?
Disgusted at himself, and filled with remorse, all Ranjit felt he could do after the horror at Hagia Sophia was run. Cities had proved a good place to hide: bustling, crowded, anonymous. His spirit needed to feed, as it always did, but he could keep its hunger at bay with vagrants and drunks and lost tourists. With longing he remembered the easy days at the Darke Academy, feeding from his cooperative roommate Torvald.
He wouldn’t let himself remember what else, who else, he’d left behind.
At the mouth of a dark and rain-soaked alleyway, Ranjit came to a halt. Something was in the air: a vague threat, an aura of harm. Slipping the backpack nervously from his shoulders, he clutched it tightly against his chest. Money be damned; but the thing in the backpack, the Urn that he’d stolen from Sir Alric Darke in his time of madness? That he must not lose.
That, and his self-control.
He wouldn’t even harm a mugger. Let them take everything, so long as they left him his soul, and the Urn. All the same, his muscles were tense as his bleary gaze searched the darkness, and he could hear his heart thrashing.
And then he saw them. At first they were only vague shapes, and he realised he’d drunk more than he’d thought. And then they walked towards him.
NO! It couldn’t be!
He was dreaming, surely. A nightmare through the warped haze of alcohol. Shock immobilised him for just a second, and then the fear kicked in, colder than the rain. They stalked forward, one to his right and one to his left, and he saw their pale hair glitter in the streetlights. That confirmed his worst fears, even before he belatedly, blurrily focused his mind, and recognised the dark spirits glowing in their chests.
Brigitte and Katerina Svensson. Renegade spirit-hosts, banished from the Few. But still alive. Clearly still very much alive – and deadly.
He snarled, but his first instinct was to grip the backpack tighter rather than lash out, and he wasn’t ready when they lunged for him. Stumbling back, he tried to kick out at them, but in his desperation to hold on to the Urn, he lost his balance.
Dammit, he thought. You are drunk.
Katerina leaped, grabbing his head in a powerful underarm lock, dragging him backwards as Brigitte tore at the backpack and slammed a powerful punch into his midriff. Doubling over on the ground, Ranjit tried to curl himself protectively, but Katerina’s grip on his neck was too strong, and Brigitte’s blows were coming hard and fast.
His right foot caught Brigitte in a fierce blow to the chest, and she staggered back, but it was a lucky fluke. As he tried to follow it up by striking out at Katerina with one arm, Brigitte recovered fast and grabbed the backpack. He gave a single howl as he felt it ripped from his weakened grip.
He could fight them properly now, get it back. But as his view of the Few women reddened with his eyes, as the rage inside him began to boil, something inside caused Ranjit to freeze for a split second, and it wasn’t his spirit.
What if he did kill them?
No. I won’t kill again! Not even them. I can’t give in to it—
But he knew he must—
Too late.
Brigitte and Katerina were raining kicks and blows on him now, claws raking at his eyes and skin. The world began to fade as blow after supernatural blow struck him. His skull hit the pavement hard, and the streetlights above him whirled and exploded in a dazzle of pain. Cruel hands gripped his arms and began to drag him away, scraping his skin against concrete and tarmac. His ears rang; there was a screaming in his head, but through it all he could hear their triumphant, disbelieving laughter, their cries of savage joy.
‘We have him! He’s ours! WE HAVE HIM!’
CHAPTER ONE
Cassie Bell stared out of the small oval window. Below her the land seemed endless, a yellow expanse dotted with scrubby trees and threaded with rivers and the ancient tracks of animal migration. Kenya, from this height, was wildly beautiful. Her mind buzzed with anticipation, and not just of a new term in a stunning new location. This was going to be the term when she turned everything around. Everything.