Sharon gave a shrug. "Okay, so, yeah, I know you've got problems with it. But before you say anything, I think you should know that we've got way more members joining now. And if you do try and shut us down, then I think there'll be letters, and maybe we'll have to get a solicitor and that, and it'd be really shit of you anyway."

"Actually-"

"And don't think you can intimidate me with this 'I'm the Midnight Mayor' crap, because I'm way past the point where that's impressive. And actually, just because you're good at fire and lightning doesn't mean you know shit about where to shoot it, so really..."

"What I wanted to say-"

"And Facebook is a useful tool of social media!" she insisted. "I mean, we get like, all these hits there, and so far no one's posted to say 'Whoa, you mean magic's real?' And Rhys is putting in a new spam protection system anyway, to prevent anyone who can't complete a basic TFL ward from accessing the group, and I think that'll make a massive difference and-"

"Sharon!" Swift gestured violently to get her attention. "Ms Li," he corrected himself as the shaman raised her eyebrows expectantly. "While, naturally, I think you and your support group are possibly the most whacked-out thing I've heard in a long while, and while obviously times are hard with the financial crisis being what it is, and while I really think you should consider getting beanbags, not chairs, for Gretel to sit on, because your furniture budget is just gonna soar otherwise, what I meant to say is, all things considered... would you like a job?"

The words took a while to sink in.

"What?"

It came out before Sharon could stop it, an involuntary splutter of incomprehension. Swift pushed his coffee aside and leaned towards Sharon. "I'm thinking of a titlesomething like community support worker. The salary's not great, and the hours are... a little unusual, and I can't promise much in the way of expenses or anything like that, though I think I can swing you something reasonably okay from the Aldermen's fund. But you can decide for yourself what it is you want to do, since, I figure, you invented the job anyway."

"I... I did?"

"Yup."

"You... want to pay me... to run Magicals Anonymous?"

"There might," he admitted, "be memos too."

Time passes.

The lights fade across London.

Office lights switching off on a timer; pub shutters pulled down over the last glow of tungsten. Cars parked and headlamps extinguished for the night; the grey dancing of televisions going out behind window panes; the golden glow of bedside lamps snapping out behind curtains. The great tourist lightsthe orange lamps of Westminster, the purple circle of the London Eye, the green washes of the Westminster Clock Tower, the silver spires of Canada Water, the spilt colours from the bridges that stain the river washing beneath themall fade as the night progresses. The streets fall silent, a kingdom where rats and foxes scuttle through the dark.

Herea lonely security guard paces beside a shuttered multi-storey car park.

Therethe cleaning woman in her bright blue gloves runs a vacuum cleaner across the floor of a deserted office.

Belowthe railway maintenance man checks there is no power left in the track before stepping into the waiting maw of the Tube's coal-black tunnels.

The dead-shift nurses pace through the silent wards of the hospital, clipboards in hand, and struggle not to sleep.

The duty fireman, left awake in the empty crew room, flicks from quiz show to porno movie in search of something to fight back the drowsiness that no amount of caffeine will prevent.

A lorry rattles across the empty space of Waterloo Bridge.

A woman pulls off the heels that she has worn for eight hours continuously at an utterly worthless party and steps barefoot onto the ground, sighing with relief as her ankles relax and her toes curl against the cool wet paving stones.

A night-bus driver accelerates into fifth gear down Oxford Street, tearing past the empty stops, and whoops in triumph as he jumps the red light and passes forty miles an hour at the top of Dean Street, honking his horn at the sleeping silence.

Sharon Li walks alone.

She walks the ordinary walk, the tired-man's shuffle, the walk of 4 a.m. and a long journey home, of a mind that has thought too long and too hard, and now can't remember how to think at all. Easilyso easilyshe could walk the spirit walk and drift through the time and shadows of the city, tangling her toes in the bones of the dead and listening to the stories spat out with the chewing gum stuck to every stone beneath her feet. Easily too she could walk the dream walk, tangling her mind in the thoughts of others, riding the great snore of the sleeping city, the flashing white coat of Dez at her side, her spirit guide, lighting the way. Easy to fade, easy to turn invisible, easy to become a part of the city.

She doesn't.

She walks down the middle of a street where, by day, there would be traffic, hopping from yellow line to yellow line, and stretches out her hands to catch at the cold night air.

She feels the breeze stir against her palm and wonders if it is possible to catch a fistful of it and carry it home like a souvenir from the beach, then shakes her head and realises she is tiredtoo tired. She thinks she hears something scuttle in the dark, and pauses, one foot poised above the next yellow line.

A snuffle in the dark.

A pumping of lungs.

A scratching of claws.

A grumbling of great, monstrous, blood-washed flesh.

Something cool brushes the palm of her hand. It has no shape, nor weight, nor form, nor visible nature; it cannot be called any thing by the normal rules of reality. But Sharon smiles as it passes by, stirring the leaves in the trees overhead as it moves, tumbling yesterday's rubbish along the surface of the street beside her, rippling across the waters of the puddles.

It speaks, this nothing, as it moves, and though it has no voice to frame the words, it whispers in her ear: Do not be afraid.

I am with you.

extras.

meet the author.

KATE GRIFFIN is the pseudonym of Carnegie Medalnominated YA author Catherine Webb. Her first novel for adults was A Madness of Angels, introducing the sorcerer Matthew Swift. She lives in London. Find out more about the author at www.kategriffin.net.

introducing.

If you enjoyed.

STRAY SOULS,.

look out for THE TROUPE.

by Robert Jackson Bennett Vaudeville: mad, mercenary, dreamy, and absurd, a world of clashing cultures and ferocious showmanship and wickedly delightful deceptions.

But sixteen-year-old pianist George Carole has joined vaudeville for one reason only: to find the man he suspects to be his father, the great Heironomo Silenus. Yet as he chases down his father's troupe, he begins to understand that their performances are strange even for vaudeville: for wherever they happen to tour, the very nature of the world seems to change.

Because there is a secret within Silenus's show so ancient and dangerous that it has won him many powerful enemies. And it's not until after he joins them that George realizes the troupe is not simply touring: they are running for their lives.

And soon... he is as well.

Friday mornings at Otterman's Vaudeville Theater generally had a very relaxed pace to them, and so far this one was no exception. Four acts in the bill would be moving on to other theaters over the weekend, and four more would be coming in to take their place, among them Gretta Mayfield, minor star of the Chicago opera. The general atmosphere among the musicians was one of carefree satisfaction, as all of the acts had gone well and the next serious rehearsals were an entire weekend away. Which, to the overworked musicians, might as well have been an eternity.

But then Tofty Thresinger, first chair house violinist and unofficial gossip maven of the theater, came sprinting into the orchestra pit with terror in his eyes. He stood there panting for a moment, hands on his knees, and picked his head up to make a ghastly announcement: "George has quit!"

"What?" said Victor, the second chair cellist. "George? Our George?"

"George the pianist?" asked Catherine, their flautist.

"The very same," said Tofty.

"What kind of quit?" asked Victor. "As in quitting the theater?"

"Yes, of course quitting the theater!" said Tofty. "What other kind of quit is there?"

"There must be some mistake," said Catherine. "Who did you hear it from?"

"From George himself!" said Tofty.

"Well, how did he phrase it?" asked Victor.

"He looked at me," said Tofty, "and he said, 'I quit.' "

Everyone stopped to consider this. There was little room for alternate interpretation in that.

"But why would he quit?" asked Catherine.

"I don't know!" cried Tofty, and he collapsed into his chair, accidentally crushing his rosin and leaving a large white stain on the seat of his pants.

The news spread quickly throughout the theater: George Carole, their most dependable house pianist and veritable wunderkind (or enfant terrible, depending on who you asked), was throwing in the towel without even a by-your-leave. Stagehands shook their heads in dismay. Performers immediately launched into complaints. Even the coat-check girls, usually exiled to the very periphery of theater gossip, were made aware of this ominous development.

But not everyone was shaken by this news. "Good riddance," said Chet, their bassist. "I'm tired of tolerating that little lordling, always acting as if he was better than us." But several muttered he was better than them. It had been seven months since the sixteen-year-old had walked through their doors on audition day and positively dumbfounded the staff with his playing. Everyone had been astonished to hear that he was not auditioning for an act, but for house pianist, a lowly job if ever there was one. Van Hoever, the manager of Otterman's, had questioned him extensively on this point, but George had stood firm: he was there to be house pianist at their little Ohio theater, and nothing more.

"What are we going to do now?" said Archie, their trombonist. "Like it or not, it was George who put us on the map." Which was more or less true. It was the general rule that in vaudeville, a trade filled with indignities of all kinds, no one was shat upon more than the house pianist. He accompanied nearly every act, and every ego that crossed the stage got thoroughly massaged by abusing him. If a joke went sour, it was because the pianist was too late and spoiled the delivery. If a dramatic bit was flat, it was because the pianist was too lively. If an acrobat stumbled, it was because the pianist distracted him.

But in his time at Otterman's George had accomplished the impossible: he'd given them no room for complaints. After playing through the first rehearsal he would know the act better than the actors did, which was saying something as every actor had fine-tuned their performance with almost lapidary attention. He hit every beat, wrung every laugh out of every delivery, and knew when to speed things up or slow them down. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to augment every performance he accompanied. Word spread, and many acts became more amenable to performing at Otterman's, which occupied a rather obscure spot on the Keith-Albee circuit.

Yet now he was leaving, almost as abruptly as he'd arrived. It put them in a pretty tight spot: Gretta Mayfield was coming specifically because she had agreed to have George accompany her, but that was just the start; after a moment's review, the orchestra came to the horrifying conclusion that at least a quarter of the acts of the next week had agreed to visit Otterman's only because George met their high standards.

After Tofty frantically spread the word, wild speculation followed. Did anyone know the reason behind the departure? Could anyone guess? Perhaps, Victor suggested, he was finally going to tour with an act of his own, or maybe he was heading straight to the legitimate (meaning well-respected orchestras and symphonies, rather than lowly vaudeville). But Tofty said he'd heard nothing about George making those sorts of movements, and he would know, wouldn't he?

Maybe he'd been lured away by another theater, someone said. But Van Hoever would definitely ante up to keep George, Catherine pointed out, and the only theaters that could outbid him were very far away, and would never send scouts out here. What could the boy possibly be thinking? They wasted the whole morning debating the subject, yet they never reached an answer.

George did his best to ignore the flurry of gossip as he gathered his belongings, but it was difficult; as he'd not yet made a formal resignation to Van Hoever, everyone tried to find the reason behind his desertion in hopes that they could fix it.

"Is it the money, George?" Tofty asked. "Did Van Hoever turn you down for a raise?"

No, answered George. No, it was not the money.

"Is it the acts, George?" asked Archie. "Did one of the acts insult you? You've got to ignore those bastards, Georgie, they can be so ornery sometimes!"

But George scoffed haughtily, and said that no, it was certainly not any of the acts. The other musicians cursed Archie for such a silly question; of course it wasn't any of the performers, as George never gave them reason for objection.

"Is it a girl, George?" asked Victor. "You can tell me. I can keep a secret. It's a girl, isn't it?"

At this George turned a brilliant red, and sputtered angrily for a moment. No, he eventually said. No, thank you very much, it was not a girl.

"Then was it something Tofty said?" asked Catherine. "After all, he was who you were talking to just before you said you quit."

"What!" cried Tofty. "What a horrendous accusation! We were only talking theater hearsay, I tell you! I simply mentioned how Van Hoever was angry that an act had skipped us on the circuit!"

At that, George's face became strangely still. He stopped gathering up his sheet music and looked away for a minute. But finally he said no, Tofty had nothing to do with it. "And would you all please leave me alone?" he asked. "This decision has nothing to do with you, and furthermore there's nothing that will change it."

The other musicians, seeing how serious he was, grumbled and shuffled away. Once they were gone George scratched his head and tried not to smile. Despite his solemn demeanor, he had enjoyed watching them clamor to please him.

The smile vanished as he returned to his packing and the decision he'd made. The orchestra did not matter, he told himself. Otterman's did not matter anymore. The only thing that mattered now was getting out the door and on the road as soon as possible.

After he'd collected the last of his belongings he headed for his final stop: Van Hoever's office. The theater manager had surely heard the news and was in the midst of composing a fine tirade, but if George left now he'd be denied payment for this week's worth of performances. And though he could not predict the consequences of what he was about to do, he thought it wise to have every penny possible.

But when George arrived at the office hall there was someone seated in the row of chairs before Van Hoever's door: a short, elderly woman who watched him with a sharp eye as if she'd been expecting him. Her wrists and hands were wrapped tight in cloth, and a poorly rolled cigarette was bleeding smoke from between two of her fingers. "Leaving without a goodbye?" she asked him.

George smiled a little. "Ah," he said. "Hello, Irina."

The old woman did not answer, but patted the empty chair next to her. George walked over, but did not sit. The old woman raised her eyebrows at him. "Too good to give me company?"

"This is an ambush, isn't it?" he asked. "You've been waiting for me."

"You assume the whole world waits on you. Come. Sit."

"I'll give you company," he said. "But I won't sit. I know you're looking to delay me, Irina."

"So impatient, child," she said. "I'm just an old woman who wishes to talk."

"To talk about why I'm leaving."

"No. To give you advice."

"I don't need advice. And I'm not changing my mind."

"I'm not telling you to. I just wish to make a suggestion before you go."

George gave her the sort of impatient look that can only be given by the very young to the very old, and raised a fist to knock at Van Hoever's door. But before his knuckles ever made contact, the old woman's cloth-bound hand snatched his fist out of the air. "You will want to listen to me, George," she said. "Because I know exactly why you're leaving."

George looked her over. If it had been anyone else, he would not have given them another minute, but Irina was one of the few people at Otterman's who could command George's attention. She was the orchestra's only violist, and like most violists (who after all devoted their lives to an ignored or much-ridiculed instrument) she had acquired a very sour sort of wisdom. It was also rumored she'd witnessed terrible hardships in her home in Russia before fleeing to America, and this, combined with her great age, gave her a mysterious esteem at Otterman's.