Sharon glared. Kevin cowered.

"I think it's an excellent and noble cause," intoned Gretel. "Together we shall rid the city of evil and then we shall have a celebratory feast with aperitifs."

I personally think that this is in the finest spirit of the community, wrote Sally, from her position hanging off the ceiling. It is appropriate that we give something back to our society.

"Ms Li?" asked Rhys. "Can I have a word?"

He hurried her out into the hall. "So, uh, Ms Li," he said, his voice urgent and low, "it's not that I'm not happy to see everyone, see, but are you, I mean... are you really thinking we should, maybe, pick a fight with a wendigo and his minion hordes? We just met the men who could turn the ground beneath your feet to liquid sucking concrete and it didn't go well last time with just four of them, and did I mention the minion hordes?"

"They work in financehow bad can it be?"

"Exactly! It's like bankers, but with claws! And, with the greatest respect, Magicals Anonymous is a wonderful thing, but we're not fighters. We're... well, we're..." he gasped down air, seeding the words, "we're only good in support!"

Chapter 64.

There Are No Secrets Between Friends Something rather remarkable is happening.

It begins here: Posted at 13.13 on Magicals Anonymous by Rhys Ellis: Amazing meeting everyone, tell all your friendsMagicals Anonymous is here to stay!

Posted 14.28 on Magicals Anonymous by Sally: I would like to say thank you to everyone at Magicals Anonymous for all their support, and a very big thank you to Jess in particular for recommending the Kandinsky; once the security guard had passed out, I found the exhibition very stimulating.

Posted at 21.38 on Magicals Anonymous by MS (Protector of the City, Defender of the Night, etc. etc. etc.): Hi everybody! So, someone's sucking the soul of the city and I was wondering if any of you guys felt like doing something about it? Drop me a line if you do! Cheers!

Posted at 21.48 on Magicals Anonymous by S.Rafaat: Oh, no! Is the city going to be all right? I'll bring snacks if anyone needs them.

Posted at 23.41 on Magicals Anonymous by Burns & Stoke Ltd: If you wish to live another night, you will give her to us. We will not warn you twice.

This last post was censored by admin within half an hour of being placed. But half an hour was more than enough.

The word spread.

It began with the techno-literates: young summoners who couldn't quite get their containment circles right and who had fallen back on Facebook to keep themselves occupied while the sacred incense was cooked in their mum's microwaves; eager diviners who scoured the internet for clues as to the future of tomorrow, and who read the truth of things in the static at the corners of the screen; bored vampires who knew that it was too early to go out and hunt, too late still to be in the coffin. The message was tweeted and texted onwards, sent out through the busy wires of the city, from laptop to PC, PC to Mac, from mobile phones the size of old breeze blocks through to palm-held devices that not only received your mail, but regarded it as their privilege to sort it into colour-coordinated categories for your consideration. The word was whispered between the statues that sat on the imperial buildings of Kingsway, carried in the scuttling of the rats beneath the city streets, flashed from TV screen to TV screen in the flickering windows of the shuttered electronics stores, watched over by beggars and security cameras, and the message said: We are Magicals Anonymous.

We are going to save the city.

Later, scholars would detect more than a little digital technology in how quickly the word was transmitted. They would study the emails that spurted forth, examine the text messages and consider the stories of those lonely ghouls in their cellars who, in the dead of night, received phone calls with no voices but which seemed to impart through static alone a sense of urgency and fear.

Some might question why the Midnight Mayor, usually to be found on such nights prowling the streets of the city, was sighted sneaking into a telephone exchange a few minutes before the word began to spill across the streets, spreading outwards from the website of Magicals Anonymous. Some might wonder why one or two computers, having received their messages, exploded three minutes after. But, as the Midnight Mayor was the first to point out, all this was speculation. Nothing could be blamed on him.

Chapter 65.

A Puppy Is For Life, Not Just For Christmas It paws the earth.

Paces.

Its snout is longer than a child's arm, its fangsand let us make no mistake, for they are fangsare ancient bone flecked with spittle and blood. Its lips curl back from its mouth in a great growl that sends vibrations pulsing through its flesh like ripples over muddy water. By day it is still too weak to break through the city gates, the ancient, unseen gates of London which stand guard against the nightmares. There's thousands of years of magic in those old black stones, too strong to penetrate while the sun shines. But by night... by night when the minds of the city are sleeping, and the barriers between what is and what is perceived grow thin, by night there is nothing to hold it back.

It growls at the setting sun, willing it to sink faster, and as it paces the shadow lands beneath the veil of what is seen, its footsteps burn the earth.

The scholars call itor possibly him, although no one has got close enough to speculatethe Lady's Companion, for whereas Greydawn is a comfort in the night, her companion is the terror of the dark. The goblins call him Great Growling and hide their spawn from him as he goes out to hunt. To the White City Clan his are the mad eyes that they paint on the columns beneath the city bypasses; to the Neon Court he is Blackpaw, the footstep in the dark from which there is no hiding.

To everyone else, to the Friendlies who dare not whisper his name, to the shamans and the sorcerers of this city who know enough to fear the rumours, he is simply known as Dog, the companion of Greydawn, loyal and unstoppable.

Dog has lost his mistress.

Time to get her back.

Chapter 66.

He Is Perverse, You Are Stubborn, I Am Determined Magicals Anonymous, assembled again at St Christopher's Hall in Exmouth Market.

Some came because it was that time of the weekmeeting dayand because they'd heard about how positive the last meeting was.

Some came because friends recommended the biscuits and said it was a nice place to chill.

At least one came because she was looking for a hot date who didn't mind the occasional lump of lava between the bedsheets.

But many came because of the message, blasted out via emails and telephones: the city is in danger, and now so are you.

Rhys came in a wheelchair. He didn't really need a wheelchair, but once the idea had been suggested everyone was very much in favour. Sally the banshee said he shouldn't take risks with his health after a wendigo attack and explained that banshees had never like wendigos to begin with, though she was sure that wasn't a species thing. Kevin pointed out that you couldn't be too careful with stitches. Gretel said she didn't mind pushing, and, actually, with seven foot of troll at his back Rhys did feel rather more safe.

Sharon hadn't really approved of the wheelchair, but then Sharon had a lot on her mind. Rhys had seen her talking, in corners, voice lowered, with the goblin about what he could only assume were Shaman Things.

Mr Roding the necromancer had decided to attend because, "The Midnight Mayor gave me this spiel about the fate of the city and said he needed a necromancer. I told him how poorly I thought of that idea, but then someone firebombed the local Friendlies shrine, which left a very bad impression on me."

The Midnight Mayor visited me too! wrote Sally as chairs for the guests were laid out beneath her in the church hall. He is a little ignorant of modern art, but I think we had a breakthrough with some of the bolder sculptures. Also, four angry men attacked an ambassador from the Beggar King, proclaiming that none would survive unless they showed them where Greydawn was, which I think is very bad manners.

"Firebombing is a very unpleasant reaction," confirmed Gretel. The plastic chairs were warping beneath her fingertips as she gingerly placed them in a ragged circle around the centre of the room.

There were more attendees this week, Rhys noticed. He'd heard the clattering of laptops as he recuperated in Frances's flat but hadn't appreciated just how far the word had spread. As Junior Judo cleared out and Magicals Anonymous filed in, he spotted a family of imps wriggling out of an air vent at the side of the hall ("Is there more to life than landfills?"), felt the wash of cold air as a grubby ice demon wafted by, spawned from the back reaches of catering freezers ("Global Warming really concerns me"), heard the snicker-snack of tiny claws on the polished floor as a gremlin spider ("You just can't get the recycling"), its plastic head spinning above its articulated body, tried to climb up a plastic chair and into a splayed sitting position. Kevin had retreated to a corner, a white face mask pressed over his mouth and nose.

"Do you know how many germs imps have?" he quavered.

"What disappoints me," offered Chris ("Exorcism doesn't have to be exciting!"), "is how low the turnout of the living dead is."

Before long all the chairs were occupied, albeit with Gretel taking two, and those members of Magicals Anonymous with limbs best suited to the floor were folding themselves up inside the circle.

In the true spirit of the occasion, Sharon had bought biscuits. Gretel had clearly consulted on the purchase for, to the standard fare of Jammie Dodgers and custard creams someone had added a Deluxe Mixed Family Pack and an Authentic Shortbread.

The time came for Sharon to climb onto one of the chairs and bring the meeting to order.

"Hello!" she called out, and was ignored. "Hello!" she tried again, a little louder. From his corner by the neglected dusty piano, Sammy slurped toothpaste; plastic seats creaked beneath Gretel; and a couple of witches wearing T-shirts proclaiming FREE SANITARY TOWELS FOR ALL! furtively leaned away from Mr Roding's body odour.

"Oi, you lot!" yelled Sharon, and the meeting turned to look. "Um, hello," she added. Dozens of pairs of eyes, only some of which were in the usual bluebrown spectrum, flickered, blinked or bulged at her. "So, my name's Sharon..."

"Hello, Sharon!" chorused the room.

"... and I'd like to talk to you tonight about the fate of the city."

Chapter 67.

Jess It started when I was nineteen.

I was at college studying Gothic literaturewhich was awesomebut then my sister, she got ill and needed a donor and I was a perfect match. And that was all cool, you know. I mean, it's not like you get to save your sister's life every day, is it? So that went fine and she's okay now and I had the surgery and I was fine too. But they'd put me on these meds for my blood pressure and then these blood thinners too. And so, two weeks after we'd both come out of hospital I was writing my dissertation when I stood up and was all like, "Whoa," and my dad said, "Are you okay?" and I was going to say "I feel kinda odd" and then it just... happened.

As polymorphic instabilities go, it's kind of awesome. Though I do know these guys who turn into rats or squirrels, and then bits of them get eaten by the local cats and they turn back and they're missing toes or... other bits, which is just not cool. Or guys who don't even turn all the way, but just become bits of other things, like the head of a dog and the claw of a cat and the fur of a fox and all that. At least I'm not doing any of that. And pigeons are actually okay, once you get used to them.

The problem, I guess, is the fact that it is pigeons, plural. Lots of them. It's a mass-energy thingif I weigh sixty kilograms and all we're really doing is rearranging the weight, then either I need to turn into sixty pigeons or we are talking one mother-scary bird, and no one wants that. And I think I've got better at keeping it together. I mean, even when the flock divides and there are bits of me flying off all over the place, it's still all me, but like I'm thin, stretched out, if you know what I mean?

My husbandJeffhe's really understanding.

He even puts down breadcrumbs now, to help guide me home.

Chapter 68.

All (Man)Kind Are My Kin There was a babble of voices. Sharon, still on her chair, shouted, "Oi! Oi, you lot!" but it had little effect. The assembled members of Magicals Anonymous just gossiped and flustered and gave indignant cries of "But why must we save the city?" mixed with such as "I've got this terrible cramp in my talon."

"Oi!" yelled Sharon again, stamping her foot. "You lot bloody, shut up!"

There was the crunch of metal on woodthe sound of a chair leg gouging floorboards. All eyes turned. Gretel had pushed back both her seats hard enough almost to destroy part of the floor.

There's something about seven foot of belligerent trollit catches even the most occupied of attentions.

"Ms Li," grumbled Gretel in a voice like an ancient engine winding up, "has something to say."

Silence fell. Trolls have that effect.

Sharon beamed. "Thank you, Gretel. Now, I know that not everyone here is pleased by the notion that we are the defenders of the city against unstoppable evils. Rhys over there, for example, got torn up by a wendigo, while Edna over there has had her shop smashed into lots of bits. And I guess that doesn't encourage the team. But" she clapped her hands together to show her enthusiasm "the fact is that this same wendigo has declared war on the Friendlies, who I think we can all agree are really positive people with a really good mental attitude. So, by association, the wendigo and his creatures have declared war on all of us, who they blame for standing between them and Greydawn, which I know sounds like a problem, but I think is more of an issue... or maybe an opportunity... or like, one of those.

"Anyway..." She took a deep breath, aware of the words struggling to escape her. "I really think that if we like, work together as a team, we can kick that wendigo arse and find Greydawn and restore the city wall and send Dog packing and shut down Burns and Stoke and all that, without like, missing any TV or major social events.

"And since we can't exactly go to the police on this, I think that, as a community, we should really try and take the situation in hand and give something back to, you know, people. Because that's what we'd like people to do for us. Whatcha say?"

In the silence a hand went up at the back of the room. The hand belonged to Jess I-turn-into-pigeons. "Excuse me? Can I ask a stupid question?"

"Of course."

"Is there going to be death happening? Only, I've just got a mortgage and I don't think I can be doing death at the moment. I know it's really selfish. Sorry."

"Speaking of death, you can't be killing wendigos anyway," said Mr Roding. "They're like Dogthey just come crawling back out of the shadows, spun together from dust and shed skin. Best thing you can do with a wendigo is slow it down."

"What if we seal the breach in the city wall?" asked Mrs Rafaat I'm-sure-it'll-be-okay. "Won't that keep him out?"

"He's already inside, isn't he!" Mr Roding exclaimed. "Besides, there's no sealing the wall without finding Greydawn."

"Which is what Burns and Stoke want to do," added Rhys. "And I don't know much about Greydawn and that, but it seems like if a wendigo is killing people to find her, then he's probably not going to be very nice."

"We cannot," agreed Edna, "let that... individual find Our Lady of 4 a.m., wherever she is! Greydawn has... inclinations that must never be exploited."

"Inclinations?" echoed Sharon. "Is this like... when you have an inclination for fried bread even though you know it's wrong? Or is this more like an inclination to inflict a magical doom?"

Edna writhed beneath the gaze of the room. "I told you," she breathed. "I told you Greydawn came originally from blood. In the time of the Temple of Mithras there were... sacrifices to her in this city. Some accounts suggest she could grant your deepest desires, but there had to be... blood. Obviously we're not into that now," she added, her voice rising against the sound of general disapproval, "but that isn't to say that others, less ethically inclined, might not be interested in exploiting the legend."

"Oh God," moaned Kevin. "More arseholes wanting to shed blood without proper surgical protection. Have you ever once, ever, seen someone sterilise a sacrificial knife before use? I don't think so!"

"Maybe we could talk to them?" suggested Chris the psychoanalytical exorcist. "Maybe if we just explained the situation patiently..."

"What about the claws?" wailed Rhys.