"This has got to be the stupidest fucking idea you've ever had."

Sitting in the front passenger seat of Fenton's car, Harper glared at me in the rear view mirror, his dark brows knotted together. His eyes were heavy with a thunderous mood that threatened to break and rain heavily down upon everyone and everything, particularly me.

I sighed, exhausted. We'd been over this so many times. We'd discussed the plans, argued with each other, ranted till I thought we might actually come to blows and still he was fighting this right up until the last minute.

The problem was that despite being mildly irritated that he wasn't prepared to accept this was happening and was belligerently blocking the plans at every possible opportunity, I understood his reservations completely. I got it. A big part of me agreed that this really might be the stupidest fucking idea I'd ever had and to be fair, I'd had a few of those in my time. Even Fenton, who would usually relish the chance to disagree with Harper at every turn, had looked at me with a shade of doubt lingering in his cool, steady gaze. In the end, of course, he had agreed and had even helped put the plan together, much to Harper's disgust. To my surprise, Fenton Grainger turned out to be something of an expert strategist, methodically going over every step with a fine-tooth comb, researching the map of the area to search for any possible areas of ambush, planning everything to the minutest detail. Then when he was done, he went back over it again, and again, and again, until he was completely satisfied that it was concrete.

Not that all the planning in the world could ever combat against the unpredictable and that's just what bothered Harper. Hell, it bothered me. This had unpredictable and dangerous, and yeah, stupid, written all over it but I knew I had to do it. As much as I wished I could just turn my back and walk away, the phone call had touched a nerve, one that sent little stabs of pain into my heart that I just couldn't ignore. My only hope against the perils of the unknown was the knowledge that the meeting was to take place in public, or at least in a place where seven foot lycan-esque creatures were bound to cause a bit of a scene and despite being assured that I was not in danger, I was allowed to come armed should I feel under threat at any time.

Agreeing to meet my enemy and feeling under threat is kind of a given, I had said sardonically into the handset.

And yet regardless, here I was, about to face the unpredictable, about to walk straight into danger, about to put myself under threat for a past that clearly wasn't finished with me yet.

"It's time," I said, nodding towards the clock on the dash.

Ignoring Harper's volley of curses that were so colourful they would have made a street kid blush to hear them, I got out of the car, my eyes naturally scanning the street as I stood by the kerb. I still felt that instinctual apprehension from being out in the open, as if I was in a movie and at any moment a sniper concealed in one of the surrounding buildings would neatly and effectively take me out with a single shot to the head and tonight I was more apprehensive than usual, knowing what I was about to face. Yet strangely, I felt invigorated standing there, feeling the buzz of human hearts on all sides, drinking in the sounds and smells of this busy London street. Even the acrid stench of exhaust fumes did little to dampen my exhilaration at being a part of life, albeit a life usually lived in the shadows. During my time at Josiah's, the only thing I had wanted to do was get out, but it was just the desperate need to escape from the seer's binds that had driven that desire. I hadn't realised how much I missed the city. How much I needed the city. If it wasn't for the task at hand and the sight of the building in front of me, I might have grinned madly.

"What's wrong with you?" said Harper at my side. "You look almost excited to be doing this. Are you high or something? Please tell me it's drugs because at least it would explain why the hell you're intent on going in there."

Standing on the edge of the street, I grasped his hand and we waited there for a moment, hand in hand and both staring at the crimson sign on the shopfront.

"I have to help him. He doesn't deserve this."

Harper snorted and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "He's a Varúlfur. He might hide behind his snotty London eatery and his fancy wine list, but strip it all away and underneath he's just as much an animal as the rest of them. Goad him enough and you'll see that skin start to bubble and those beady yellow eyes staring right back at you."

"Then I won't goad him."

"You're a vampire. Your very existence will goad him."

"Well Garrick managed to meet with him enough times without it turning into a fight." I raised an eyebrow in challenge.

His thumb brushed feather-light strokes across my knuckles. "You might be wearing his coat, angel, but you're no Bartholomew Garrick."

"No," I said, craning my neck up and planting a soft kiss on his jawline. "I'm Megan Garrick, vampire and archangel apparently and I'm more than a match for Phillippe Charmonde."

"It's not him I'm worried about."

"I know," I said, softly. "I know." Squeezing his hand one last time, I stepped off the kerb and began crossing the road towards the entrance of Le Loup Rouge.

******

This place screamed with memories so loud that the resonating echoes of my past made me falter as I neared the other side of the street. Only the harsh shriek of a car horn brought me back to the present as the tyres almost clipped my heels, forcing me to seek refuge on the pavement directly in front of the French brasserie.

I remembered standing here, squeezing the hand of another, feeling so full of excitement for our friend and his new business venture. I remembered looking through this same window, watching the hustle and bustle of the waiters as they danced from table to table, taking orders, serving drinks, all with a charm and welcoming aura that was so typical of Philippe. This place was Philippe. Warm, inviting and not at all snotty as Harper had intimated. The quiet, unassuming man personally welcomed all his guests with a smile and handshake but tonight, it was not a smile that he wore as he stood staring back at me through the window. I doubted very much I would get a handshake either.

As I moved towards the door, the 9mm automatic handgun carefully strapped under Garrick's coat felt like some alien parasite attached to my body. The weight of it seemed to throw my balance off kilter and I felt as if I might as well have a big neon arrow was pointing to my head, alerting all to the fact that I was carrying a pistol.

"Can't I just stick it in my waistband like they do in the movies?" I had asked Fenton earlier, only to be met by his steely dead-pan stare.

"Sure," he had said. "If you want to accidentally shoot off your own leg."

As it turned out, it wasn't my leg I almost shot off during the impromptu target practice session, but Clayton's, who had to move incredibly fast to dodge the bullet and who looked ready to kill me once he'd recovered from the momentary shock. Only Harper's blade at his throat had forced him to stop charging at me like a fanged freight train.

"I'll never get the hang of this," I had lamented miserably.

"You'd better learn," Fenton shot back. "There'll be no point doing target practice when you're dead."

Pulling Garrick's coat tighter around me, I took once final glance over at Harper who remained like the eternal bodyguard, alert to everything around him even though his eyes were fixed upon me and I felt overwhelmed by pride and fear. As much as his arrogance sometimes drove me to distraction and made me want to punch a wall, my heart swelled with pride to see him standing there, brazen as Hell, in silent challenge to any Varúlfur who might be thinking of an ambush. They might have tried to drive the vampires out of London, but Harper Cain wasn't about to give up his city, his streets. From the looks of it, he wasn't about to give me up either and that filled me with fear – for him, for us both – especially considering I was about to step into the beast's lair.

The sign on the door of the lair read Closed For Staff Training. I held my breath as I watched Philippe through the glass, fumbling with the lock and dropping the keys, before retrieving them and successfully managing to unlock the door on the second attempt. In an unnecessarily dramatic, but perhaps understandable gesture, he swung the door open and stepped back to let me enter, giving me a ridiculously wide berth. I wasn't sure whether it came from a fear of me or disgust at being in close proximity to a vampire. The idea of both made my heart sink a little.

Cautiously I stepped through the doorway, my senses immediately assaulted by the strong scent of garlic and herbs, wine and candle wax. There was a faint trace of fresh paint in the air as if something had been recently decorated and it was mixed together with something else, that unmistakable putrid stench of Varúlfur that made my nose wrinkle in revulsion.

I hated how this place was now so tainted by their scent, how my memories were corroded by the knowledge it had all been a lie. I had felt so comfortable during my visits here, marvelling at what Philippe had achieved and how his face used to light up every time we tasted his food and complimented him on how incredible it was. Many a night we had stayed after closing, conversing, laughing – usually consuming way too much Rioja – the three of us seated around one of these tables with the tea-lights burning down to nothing or outside in the small courtyard terrace around one of the wrought iron café tables, surrounded by fairy lights and trailing begonias. Le Loup Rouge had been his dream and yet now it seemed nothing but a nightmare to me.

The sound of the lock clicking into place behind me almost had me reaching for the what lay concealed under my jacket, but I urged myself to remain calm, or at least appear to be calm even if inside my head and heart was a tumult of chaos and screams.

Even when he made efforts to move past me without getting too close, unceremoniously knocking into a couple of tables just so he could keep his distance, I tried to bury the hurt that stirred inside. Yet all the self-control in the world couldn't stop my eyes from widening with surprise when Philippe raised his gaze to tentatively meet mine and I finally got a chance to take a good look at my old friend.

Philippe's tousled red hair was longer than he usually wore it, long enough to tuck it behind his ears and he frequently raked his fingers through it to sweep it back off his forehead. Rough ginger stubble crowded his jawline and dark circles framed his eyes, giving him a haggard appearance. In truth, he looked shattered, practically dead on his feet and I noticed how he seemed unable to keep still, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The skin around his fingernails was ragged and reddened. Philippe had always had a bit of unkempt chic about him, that kind of thrown-together style that I was always a little jealous of because even when his clothes were a bit crumpled he still looked damn cool. But this was different. This was a Philippe I'd never seen before, a Philippe who looked so haunted that I expected to see ghosts hanging off his back, draining the life from him as he stood there.

"Hate to say it, but you look bloody terrible," I said finally.

He gave me brief smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Like a ghost, I thought.

Seconds ticked by painfully as Philippe seemingly struggled to form words, his face crumpling with the effort.

"Philippe, save yourself the trouble and just tell me where he is."

His eyes clouded with consternation.

"He is here, isn't he?" I said, noting the flicker of shame redden his face. "Did you really think I wouldn't know? Anyway, this place reeks of him. You reek of him."

Philippe nodded, gnawing at the flesh around his thumbnail. "This way," he mumbled, before stopping and turning back to me. His red-rimmed eyes glistened with tears. "I'm s-sorry, Megan. I had to....he.....threatened Elizabeth. You have to believe me."

"I do," I replied. And I did believe him. Philippe might not have turned out to be the man I thought he was, but I knew he'd do anything to protect his wife. At least that put him one up on Brandon anyway.

I followed him through the restaurant, past the bar at the back, knowing there was only one way we were heading and the knife of my past twisted a little deeper in my heart. The memories screamed louder still, enough to make my head spin, but not enough to drown out the sound of the phone ringing madly in my jacket pocket. Stopping in the open doorway, I felt the cool breeze on my face as I retrieved the mobile and hit the call accept button.

"Where are you going?" Harper's voice hissed sharply through the speaker.

"I'm right here," I replied, my voice calm and measured even though I felt anything but. "Everything's fine. I promise."

I hit the end call button and stepped out into the small courtyard terrace. The fairy lights remained where they had always been, draped from one side of the terrace to the other, twinkling like magical orbs overhead. Out here it was like a fragment of French countryside hidden in the middle of the dirty claustrophobic city. The sounds of the street were muted as if it was enclosed in this perfect little bubble and as I stared at the man in front of me, ghostly laughter whispered in my ears, memories shrouding me so tight that I could barely breathe.

"Hello, Bran."

If I thought Philippe had looked like shit, Brandon looked remarkably worse. Sitting on the lower steps of the fire escape of the adjacent building, he looked thinner than usual which accentuated his cheekbones and made his brows look heavier. His skin was almost grey in tone, his eyes sunken and dull. His hair was longer, straggly and slightly greasy and his clothing didn't look like it had seen an iron in a while. His appearance shocked me more than Philippe's did because Brandon didn't do messy, he didn't even do unkempt chic. He did pristine, immaculate, and well-groomed. What bothered me more than the way he looked, was the way in which he sat with his shoulders slumped, the way he seemed unfazed by the sight of me, the look in his eyes. We were natural enemies now and yet instead of being wary and guarded, he looked deflated, exhausted. I could have walked right up and pressed the muzzle of the gun against his forehead and I don't think he would have flinched. Right then he didn't look much like the Leader of the Varúlfur Clans and he certainly didn't look like the God-slayer.

Philippe, on the other hand, was clearly agitated and troubled. Standing near the wall, he stood no nearer to Brandon than to me and his eyes darted from one to the other as if he wasn't sure which one of us was the greater threat.

"Megs." Brandon's tone was soft. "You look good. Different....but good." His eyes wandered over me, his brow furrowing slightly when his gaze drifted down to my jacket and a glimmer of recognition flickered across his features. A spark of acidic yellow flashed dangerously as he stared at me, but he blinked it away quickly, chewing pensively on his bottom lip.

"Did you get a promotion?" he said, waving his hand at Garrick's coat.

"Fuck you," I hissed.

"Okay, you're still angry about that, I understand." He shrugged. "I did what I had to do, Megs. It's standard battle tactics. Take out the generals and you swipe the rug out from under the army's feet. Disable the army and the war is won."

He was right. I was angry. The rage burned inside me, boiling away like lava and threatening to erupt. I wanted to scream at him for what he did to Garrick, I wanted him to feel the same pain that I did, I wanted to rush at him and pummel him with my fists over and over. Instead, I sucked in a breath and exhaled long and deep.

"I didn't come here to talk about him," I said through gritted teeth. "I came here to tell you to leave Philippe and Elizabeth alone."

Brandon raised an eyebrow. "Careful, babe, I doubt your new friends would like to hear you getting all sentimental about a Varúlfur."

"And I doubt your new friends would be pleased to know that you're meeting with the one person who could ruin all their plans. Especially if they knew this wasn't the first time you'd tried to hide something from them." I smirked as his face darkened. "Tell me, babe, do they know it was you that spared my life at Oxleas? Do they know you had the perfect opportunity to kill me but let me go free?"

"For which you should be grateful," he spat back, before tearing his blazing eyes away from me and raking his fingers through his tousled locks in frustration. "I didn't come here to talk about Oxleas either."

"Then what did you want to talk about? You went to enough trouble to get me here, not that I'm surprised at your methods. Human wives tend to be pretty disposable, don't they?"

I expected him to bite. I could see that he wanted to. There was a burning indignation emblazoned across his face and yet instead, he stood up, shaking his head and walking over to one of the café tables. Pulling out a chair, he sat down and gestured for me to do the same.

"Please, Megs," he implored, seeing me visibly recoil. "Let's sit together here.... one last time."

Glancing over at Philippe, who still wouldn't meet my gaze, I cautiously approached the table, seating myself opposite Brandon and thinking how ironic that we three would end up here once again, enslaved together in this never-ending circle of dreams and lies from which there seemed no escape.

"We loved this place." Brandon ran his fingers slowly around the edge of one of the small glass tea-light holders on the table. Inside the flame flickered gently. "Do you remember?"

"Yes, we did."

"Do you remember how jealous I was of Philippe back then?" He shot Philippe an apologetic look. "I was, you know. Believe it or not, old friend. I was insanely jealous of all this. I wanted a dream of my own too."

"You could have had that, Bran," I said. "But you chose them. You chose this."

"You don't choose fate, Megs. It chooses you and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it."

"Bullshit," I snapped. "You could have walked away, you almost did once, remember that? Don't sit here and talk of regrets when you put yourself on this path."

He gave a sad smile. "You're wrong," he whispered. "You don't know how wrong you are. I knew it back then. I felt it. It was always there, you see. Oh I might have talked about following my own dreams, I might even have let myself believe it for a split-second, but I knew I was lying to myself just as much as I knew I was lying to you."

"Something you were always very good at. Now there's something I do remember."

"And you weren't so bad at it yourself from what I recall." Slumping back in the chair, he laid his palm flat on the table, stretching it out towards me. There was a time when I would have reached out and taken his hand, let his fingers interlock with mine and have his lips burn a trail across my shoulders, my neck, and my mouth. And though I didn't think he believed for one moment that I would take his hand in mine, he let it rest there for a few seconds before withdrawing it into his lap, rubbing it gingerly as if my rejection had scalded him.

"I don't want this, Megs. Really I don't."

"Then what do you want? And you'd better tell me quick because I don't know how much longer I have until they come and find me."

Brandon locked eyes with mine. "I want you to get out of London. Go to the coast. Go abroad. Cross the sea so I can't track you."

I laughed coldly. "Are you actually being serious? You've brought me here just to tell me to run away?"

"Yes." He nodded. "Start tonight. Run as fast and as far away as you can. Keep going, don't stop and don't ever, ever come back here. "

"Don't you think your master will have something to say about you coming here and telling me to run, when you should be dragging me back to grovel for mercy at his feet? Is this another one of your lies, Bran?"

Curling his lips into a sneer, he slammed his fists down onto the iron table-top. "Damn it, Megs, why won't you listen to me?"

"Maybe because I know you. Maybe because after all this time, I know that everything that falls from those lips is nothing but a damn lie. You abducted me. You let your goons beat the shit out of me. You chased me halfway across the countryside baying for my blood and you expect me to now believe that you're giving me a get out of jail free card? Your master, Mr Drachmann wants me dead. He wants Lucius dead. He's not going to let me go."

"No, but I will. But you have to go now, before it's too late."

"Too late for what? What's going to happen?"

"Please, Megs," he cried and I heard the painful desperation in his voice. "I'm begging you."

"Then tell me why!"

"Because if you don't, it's going to kill you."

"What is? Bran, you're talking in fucking riddles. What is going to kill me?"

He stood up abruptly, the chair shrieking against the cobbles. Leaning over the table, his face twisted into an ugly snarl.

"This," he growled, jabbing a finger hard against his forehead and I gawped as a small area of skin bubbled frantically, as if it sought to tear itself free from his skull. "This thing inside me, it's going to kill you, Megs. It wants to kill you and I don't think I can stop it again."

From my right, Philippe made a high-pitched mewling sound and my head turned sharply towards the noise. I watched in growing horror as he shoved his fist into his mouth and pushed his face against the wall, his eyes screwed tightly shut. When he opened them again, I saw slits of venomous yellow shining back at me and I jumped up from the chair, sending it flying to the ground behind me.

"Stop, Philippe," barked Brandon and our old friend bowed his head in deference and whined pitifully, inhaling great gulps of air in an effort to regain control.

"Oh," I said, bereft with a deep, aching sadness. "Et tu, Philippe?"

He slumped against the brickwork, grasping his hair in his hands and I turned back to Brandon, full of anger.

"Not him, Bran," I begged. "You have so many others, please just leave him be. Let him have the life you always wanted. Please."

"He cannot control this any more than I can. Don't you get it yet, Megs? This, inside, is what we really are. What you see is nothing but a mask, we wear it to hide the truth but soon there will come a day when cannot conceal this any longer."

"I don't understand...."

He began pacing up and down behind the table, his movements becoming more erratic as he spoke. "Everything's changing, Megs. The world will soon be so different and there's nothing you or I can do to stop it. It's inevitable."

I shook my head vehemently. "No, no, I don't believe that. You don't have to do this. You never wanted it to begin with. You told me that. You think you can't change things, but you can, Bran. I know you can. Think about it, you saved me. You did the one thing that no Varúlfur has ever done before. You saved a vampire. You fought every natural instinct to do that and I know that it wasn't easy, I was there, remember? But you did it anyway."

He had stopped pacing by then and was watching me very intently. Tilting his head to one side, he smiled wistfully. "Oh Megs, still always willing to believe that people are better than they really are! Trust me, there is no escape from this. I was a fool to think I could ever run. How can you run away from something that is inside you? Wherever I go, whatever I do, it's there, always under the surface, always waiting. And that's what it's been doing...biding its time, waiting for the right moment and that moment is soon. I can feel it so badly now. It wants out and I can't control it any more. I'm losing, Megs. Every time I change back, it's like I lose a little bit of what makes me human and soon there'll be nothing left of me. I'll be pure Varúlfur and I will never ever be able to be this again. Please Megs, leave London before that happens because when it does, I won't be in control anymore. I won't be able to stop it and I won't be able to save you."

He began moving towards the door, past Philippe who shrank back against the wall as Brandon drew closer.

He's leaving, he's leaving, you can't let him leave.

"Bran...." I stammered and withdrew the gun, aiming it at his head. He turned and waited there, making no attempt to run or to try and stop me. Instead he just smiled as he hovered in the doorway, his face calm.

I stared at him, this man who had killed Garrick, Jenny and countless others. This man who had betrayed me over and over. This man I had built my dreams around, only for him to claw them to shreds. I couldn't believe that what he was saying was true and that one day, he would be gone and the only thing that would remain would be the beast inside of him. I didn't want to believe it. The notion seemed too horrific, too terrible to even contemplate. And what's more, it would change everything and I couldn't let it happen. I just knew I couldn't.

A tear slipped down my cheek as my finger trembled over the trigger.

"You won't kill me, Megs," he said. "You can't. But if you don't do as I say, if you don't run, the next time we see each other, I will kill you. I won't want to, but it will and I'll do it. I'll have no choice."

And with that he was gone and I stood there for a moment, frozen to the spot. After a few seconds of trying to tread the waters of my growing panic, I raced after him, charging through the restaurant, into the unlit kitchen out back where the service door was swinging shut. Skidding across the tiled floor and almost falling to my knees, I grabbed at the handle, wrenching it open and running out into the backstreet behind Le Loup Rouge in time to hear the roar of an engine. The red lights of Brandon's car disappeared round the bend and were swallowed by the city beyond. I sagged back against the doorway, feeling the heavy weight of the gun in my useless hand and knowing I was probably going to pay for letting Brandon leave in more ways than one.

A light touch to my shoulder made me flinch and I looked up to find Philippe standing there, much closer to me than he had dared all night. His presence suddenly felt ominous, oppressive, and for the first time, seeing my old friend again sent a real shard of fear stabbing into my heart.

"You should leave now, Megan. Before it's too late."

I wasn't entirely sure whether he was warning me to leave London or Le Loup Rouge, but looking up into his amber-flecked eyes that glinted at me from the gloom of the darkened kitchen, I decided the latter should happen sooner rather than later.

I tightened my grip on the pistol and nodded grimly.

"Au revoir Philippe."