Something burned on his neck, tugging him back towards consciousness.

Noah gently pressed his fingers against his skin, where the twinging pain of a fading rune was the worst. There was a thin, raised scar already forming, as though someone had sliced into his skin with a sharpened blade, and was leaving it to heal on its own. The burning intensified for a moment, and the scar hardened under his fingers. The fog finally began to clear, letting his eyes flutter open, just as he ran the pad of his thumb over the scar once more. Of course – the shape was that of a sleeping rune.

He blinked a couple of times in the dim light. Something bright was winking at him in the corner, but his eyes were blurred up with sleep; he reached up to rub his eyes, and he blinked a few more times – the brightness was just a single guttering candle, casting a tentative light on the small room.

He tried to push himself to his feet, but his legs were still heavy from the sleeping rune, so he settled for sitting cross-legged. A crumpling noise sounded as he moved – glancing down, he saw that he was sitting on yellowing paper that was covered in fading ink.

A quick look around told him that the room was cramped, and filled to bursting with outdated rubbish; textbooks in dusty covers were stacked almost as high as the single latticed window, which was divided by a mullion; the desk pushed up against the wall was covered in scrunched up pieces of paper, which formed a nest for a number of grotty, stoppered bottles, all filled with an odd rusty liquid; a couple of chairs with missing legs stood behind him, leaning against dark wooden panelling that covered half of the wall. Everything reminded him a little of the clutter he usually associated with the Academy's disused classrooms, except this room was a fraction of the size.

The faded rune on his neck twinged again, and he reached for his stylograph to extinguish it with a healing rune – except his belt was empty. Both his sword and stylograph were gone. But how? He frowned, feeling the memory rune tattooed on his shoulder begin to prickle. Last night... He remembered the pale corpse of the fairy girl; how Edgar and Joy set off after the shadowy figure; the burn of a powerful rune against his neck...

He ran his fingers over the scabbard in his boot – surprisingly, his dagger was still secured there. Whoever had brought him here probably hadn't noticed the small bump of the dagger's hilt that stuck just above the top of his thick leather boots, designed to keep his feet – arguably a demonhunter's most important asset – from being damaged.

He scrabbled to his feet, and he hurried over to the single window. A quick fiddle with the catch told him that it was locked tightly, and with no stylograph he had no hope of forcing it open. He cupped his hands against the glass, trying to peer out, but there was only blackness. He pulled back – his reflection stared back at him, pale and strained. The scar from the sleeping rune was an angry red against his pallid skin.

Wheeling around, he struggled over the piles of clutter to the wall. He ran his fingers over the panelling, feeling for a join in the wood that might reveal an entrance – for there was no door in sight.

His fingers found a gap in the wood, and he peered through – there was light on the other side, revealing a sliver of a messy, candlelit office, but no amount of shoving would force it open. There was nothing for him to pull on the wall with, and again, with no stylograph, he had no hope of forcing anything open.

His legs were still shaky, so he let himself sink to his knees, with his back leaning against the wooden panelling of what he suspected was the door. Maybe, in the morning, he could try banging on the window – maybe there would be someone outside whom he could call for help? He hugged his knees to his chest, his heavy leather gear squeaking a little as he moved, and he rested his head against the wood. Nothing made sense. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he could have sworn he heard the tinny scratch of a bird's talons against the warped glass, like nails on a blackboard.