Sammy stared, doing his best to disguise his un-shaman-like expression of surprise.

Swift looked away. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that.

Still glaring, Sharon carefully put her hands in her pockets as if to contain the righteous fury that might yet erupt.

"We've got a problem," she said.

"Actually, we've got two," muttered the Midnight Mayor, but as Sharon's eyes flashed bright again, he raised his hands defensively and said, "But why don't you go first?"

"The problem," declared Sharon, "is that Mrs Rafaat is human."

Swift and Sammy both considered this. "No," Swift admitted. "That's not what I was expecting at all."

"Why, what's your problem?" Her eyes narrowed sharply when Swift cringed. "And how much am I not gonna like it?"

"The thing is," muttered Swift, "the circle of wizards who tried to summon Greydawn for Burns and Stoke... they've been dying, yes? I mean, Gavin McGafferty was... and then Scott Hidsley was mowed down while running for the old city boundary, and Christian Ardle was disembowelled on Fleet Street, and half of Camilla Long was found floating under Blackfriars, and..." he became aware of the looks on his audience's faces so hastily moved on to "... and the only member of Burns and Stoke's summoning team left alive, Eddie, has been hearing the howling in the dark for a couple of nights and so a few hours ago he broke cover and turned king's evidence, or maybe queen's evidence, or whatever that evidence is you turn when you try to use it to escape prosecution or being disembowelled by an angry dog spawned of the nether reaches of nightmare and time looking for his mistress, and he is rather running for his life and I did perhaps tell him to come here."

Silence in the alley.

"You pillock," said Sammy.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You incompetent arsehole!"

"I figured, save Eddie's life, maybe get a couple of shamans to have a look at Dog-"

"You undead wanker nit!"

"Hey, that's a bit much really."

Sharon said nothing.

In the stillness she became slowly aware of the ever-present gentle smell of urine which was a required feature of all such passages between dark places. She could smell the beer-soaked breath of the man who'd left his mark in this place, hear the footsteps of the beggar looking for a place from the cold, the laughter of children playing hide and seek in the park at the end of the alley, smell the coal smoke that had once burned in the chimney stacks of Clerkenwell, see the footsteps that stretched out impossibly behind Sammy, a great long journey at his back, still not complete, and she thought she saw a flash of brilliance as Dez flickered across the surface of her mind, her spirit guide winking lewdly as he passed, and when she looked at the man called Matthew Swift she saw...

feet shuffle lonely on cold street too far too far too far splash! bus tyres through the puddle sheet of water drenching the passer-by help us aerial hum with TV signal window rustle with feedback noise we be light we be life we be fire!

hooooowwwwlllll!

come be we and be free blood in the stones ... everything.

"I'll just go and combat Dog with all the primal forces of fire and magic at my command, shall I, while you have a mull," Swift was proclaiming.

"Bloody hell," she said, and didn't realise she'd spoken until the words were already out, "you're, like, an angel."

Swift started. The words came from so far from beyond his field of expectation, he didn't know how to respond.

"Which isn't like, to say, divine or pretty or sweet or any good at playing the trombone," she asserted, "because there's blood on your hands and fire under your skin, and where you walk the shadows turn. But I'm just saying... holy shit, and that."

Sammy nudged Swift in the kneecaps. "Told you I was a bloody amazing bloody teacher," he murmured. "Less than a week and she's already doing the truth-of-things shit. Just you wait till we get on to the walking-of-the-path stuff, it's gonna be immense."

"You left your tribe." Sharon knew she was speaking but couldn't connect the knowledge with the power to stop. The words happened around her, through her, with the absolute certainty of fact, and as she spoke she saw Sammy's eyes widen and felt the dirt beneath his feet and the dryness in his mouth. "You were their shaman and you left. Why would you do that?"

"Then again," offered Sammy, "there's being a decent student and being an insufferable swot."

"Sharon?" Swift's voice was lined with cautious concern. "You okay?"

"I... Yes. I'm fine. I can see... and I can hear." She swayed, the sweat beginning to stand out on her face. "He's close. His feet are silent, but his footsteps burn the earth. He can smell his mistresshe knows she's herebut the scent is confusing. He's frightened, Dog is frightened. So he grows angry. That's how he lives with being afraid. He wants his mistress back."

Swift gave an uneasy thumbs up. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed. "Full marks on channelling the raging essence of an unleashed primal monster. Minus several hundred for freaking me out while doing it."

"Oi! I give the grades for shamaning round here," snapped Sammy. "And while I'm with you on the high marks for sensing the stones of the city and that, I got a few technical niggles with technique. There weren't no chanting or ceremonial drums or nothing, and that's just gonna let down the punters."

"Ceremonial drums?" demanded Swift. "What the hell?"

"You gotta think what your audience wants. It's all very well being wise and shit, but if people don't buy into the spiel then what's the point?"

"Chanting? I thought more of you."

"Like you haven't added a few pyrotechnics when you wanna-"

"Hey, if I do that, to convince people that throwing spells at me is a stupid idea, it's showmanship where death is on the line, rather than this whole dancing, drumming, feathers shit."

"Did I say anything about feathers, did you hear me say anything about feathers?"

"He's here." Sharon was leaning on the wall for support and there was a ghostly greyness about her face, eyes focused on nothing much and everything in particular.

Howl!

And there it was, all around, not so much a sound as a pressure, a shaking, a street-depth wall of fury that rose up from the stones beneath their feet, split the air, tinkled the drifts of broken glass and sent birds flapping for safety.

HOWL!!.

Sammy looked at Swift; Swift looked at Sammy. In a moment of immediate resolution they each took Sharon by an elbow and guided her back down the alley and into the wreckage of St Christopher's Hall. The ragtag remains of Magicals Anonymous were still gathered round Kevin, who, minus one crowbar to the chest, was now sitting back on a broken plastic chair being fanned by Chris with his copy of Psychoexorcism Monthly. Pigeons still fluttered in the rafters while beneath, Jess's partner, the long-suffering Jeff, struggled to lure them down with biscuit crumbs strewn on the splintered floorboards.

Mrs Rafaat was staring up through the shattered windows at the gloomy night beyond. "Did anyone hear something?"

A second later, Edna, red-faced and breathless, was by Sharon's side. "Did you hear it? It's-"

"Dog, yeah, we know," said Sammy. "Oi, Sharon!" He shook her, but, having only an elbow within shaking distance, the effect was rather feeble. "Oi!" he shouted. "Soggy-brains!"

Sharon blinked dreamily down at him. "Hello, Sammy," she replied with an empty smile. "I think I need an early night."

"Who's that?" demanded Rhys on seeing Swift. It came out more defensively than he'd intended.

Swift beamed at the ginger druid and held out a gloved hand. "Hi. Matthew Swift, Defender of the City, Guardian of the Night, Keeper of the Gate and so on and so forth, nice to meet you. You wouldn't be, by any chance, an extremely competent battle mage ready for a fight?"

"I'm a druid, see," blundered Rhys, too numb to shake the hand that was offered.

"A potent and angry druid?" suggested Swift hopefully.

His only answer was a profound and sudden sneeze.

HOWL!!.

There were no doubts this time, no illusions; the whole hall looked up at the sound, felt it ripple through the earth, bend the walls.

Mrs Rafaat drifted towards the door before Edna grabbed her and exclaimed, "Dearie, I'm not sure you'll like it out there."

An inane grin was still stuck to Sharon's face. "Actually," she offered, "I think she'll be okay."

Edna detached herself from Mrs Rafaat. "Maybe," she said quickly, "I haven't told you everything you need to know about Greydawn's dog."

"No, we got the gist," said Sharon with a cheerfulness that Rhys was beginning to recognise as near-hysteria. "Partner of Greydawn, does the darkness, does the violence, killing all those who tried to trap her, roaming the night, looking for its mistress. Am I missing anything?"

Edna looked taken aback. "I heard a howling..."

"Dog's coming here."

"Why?"

"Uh... fiendishly brilliant luring?" suggested Swift.

"This one," Sharon pointed at Swift and giggled, "thought it would be a good idea!"

"But he can't! Without his mistress there's nothing to hold him back. He'll-"

Another howl broke the night, closer now. The battered building creaked.

"We ought to close the door," whispered Edna.

Sharon pointed at the place where the door had been, a troll-sized tear in the wall, and giggled again.

"Is Ms Li all right?" queried Rhys.

"She's fine," retorted Sammy, patting his apprentice on the knee. "She's at one with the city, is all. Happens like thatstress, tension, that sort of thingbut she'll snap out of it."

"Now the thing is," tried Swift. "I don't want to put any pressure on people here, but the thing is-"

"Help me!"

The voice came from the door, a shrill, faint wail. All eyes turned. The source of the wail didn't look as faint as his voice. He was a squat well-muscled man with a body tone suggesting that here was a gentleman who enjoyed the gym. He wore a pale blue suit and a red tie tangled from running; buttons popped from the strain of his breath, and as he staggered through the door his eyes showed a breathless delirium from more-than-strenuous exercise.

"Help me," he pleaded again and, without another sound, collapsed.

"Oh. My. God." Kevin's voice broke the silence. "He could be like, diseased!"

Swift ignored this and stepped towards the unconscious body. "Ladies and gentlemen," he exclaimed, "please meet Eddie 'Magners' Parks, hedge-fund manager, captain of the South Harrow five-a-side football champions, sometime summoner and employee of Burns and Stoke. Most of his colleagues have passed away over the past few weeks, their bodies torn limb from limb by the rampaging monster known as Dog, but Eddie here" Swift gave him a not-too-fond prod in the ribs with his toe "was bright enough to appreciate that, and so came to me for help. And whatcha know!"

Another howl split the night, so close it seemed to come from inside the room. It was a sound with no physical properties, but went straight to the brain.

"I figured he'd be perfect bait to bring Dog running. Cool, huh?"

The assembled Magicals responded with dumb incredulity.

"You what?" asked Kevin.

"No, no, because think about itit's perfect," insisted the sorcerer. "The last surviving summoner of Burns and Stoke, his colleagues murdered, comes running to us, and of course, but of course Dog is going to follow and-"

"And what? And we all get rabies?" shrieked Kevin.

"Perhaps if we all just sat down and talked about it," offered Chris.

"Does he like stewed rabbit?" contributed Gretel.

"I spent thirty years getting reasonable blood flow to my right arm, I cannot be having it detached now," fumed Mr Roding.

"Oh, dear, but I'm really not sure any of these will work," whimpered Edna.

Do you think we can distract this Dog with some coloured sheeting?

"I get this terrible itching from dog hair," Rhys said. "On the other hand the anti-histamines do make me drows-"

"Look!" cut in Swift before the babble of voices could become a storm of inaction. "I understand that everyone is very concerned here, but really... Where'd Sharon go?"

Eyes looked, but Sharon was nowhere to be seen.

As it were.

"Outside!" barked Sammy.

The street was sleeping. The pub had closed its doors, the sports cafe had turned off its TVs, the Spanish restaurant had pulled down the shutter over the chorizo and legs of ham in its window, the lights had gone out above the pharmacy. The city slumbered in the still, cold sleep where dream walkers wandered.

Mrs Rafaat stood in the middle of the street, with its black iron bollards and occasional long-dead bicycle, and stared. Her mouth was open, her head raised, her fingers stretched out though her arms hung at her side. Her orange sari looked mud-brown beneath the street lights, her hair, pulled back, revealed the grey at her temples. She stared down the street, past the bookshop and DIY stores and sandwich shops. And, not thirty yards away, Dog stared back.

His fur was matted and oily, his jaw hanging low and huge; a black tongue lolled between his fangs; his red eyes were wide with exertion and madness, his ribs puffed and swelled like a blacksmith's bellows and, as his feet padded over a layer of drizzle on the street, it steamed and hissed beneath his claws.

Sammy stopped, a few yards behind Mrs Rafaat, so fast that Swift piled straight into the goblin, knocking him off his feet. Edna bumped into Swift, and Rhys just about managed to avoid them all by pivoting around Gretelonly to stare straight at the great black head of Dog.

Rhys sneezed.

Dog growled, a low rumble that rippled all along his body. On the back of his neck the fur stood up, blood and brown-black oil parting as the knotted mess stiffened for a fight.

Mrs Rafaat took a step towards Dog. The monster's attention snapped towards her. Two great nostrils puffed and flared, oozing a trail of exhaust smoke. He didn't strike, didn't attack. But he stared at the approaching old lady, legs hunched, ready to pounce.

Edna whispered, "Oh God, stop her."

"Lady, I'm good," asserted Sammy, "but a goblin's gotta learn when to be modest about these things."