It felt strange to be on the other side of the river again.

Having spent my whole human life living and working in north London and then my short vampire life feeling like those streets were engrained upon my very soul, I now felt like the stranger here. It was as if we were trespassing on hallowed ground and that the longer we remained here, the longer we risked that thunderbolt from the heavens, eradicating the demons that had dared to tread over the border.

We sat in Garrick's car; Garrick, Harper and myself, with the engine and lights off as we watched the door of La Loup Rouge, Philippe's brasserie. Inside the lights were still on and we could see the maître d' and the waiters bustling around, putting chairs up onto the tables and cleaning the floors. After a while, one by the one, they donned their coats and scarves and any other armour they needed to shield themselves from the harsh winter night, and they left, chattering to each other, their breath sending little clouds of vapour into the air. Moments later, a man still inside the brasserie busied himself by the doorway, putting on his own coat and activating the alarm, before finally, the lights went out and he stood shrouded in shadow as he locked up behind him.

I held my breath. My eyes widened as I waited for him to step out into the haze of the streetlights. 

The shock of unkempt red hair was unmistakable. As he pulled his collar up around his neck and glanced furtively around, Philippe Charmonde, my husband's former friend, restaurateur and exiled Varúlfur, walked swiftly away, dodging agilely in and out of the stream of pedestrians walking the pavements.

"How odd," I murmured as my eyes followed him.

"What is?" Harper replied, looking back at me from between the front seats.

I shook my head in wonder, hypnotised by Philippe as he continued to walk away. "Before he was just like anyone else. You wouldn't have picked him out from a crowd. But now....."

"Now you see him for what he is." Garrick's fingers tapped impatiently against the window.

"Yes," I whispered, then again, louder this time. "Yes. It's something in the way that they move. How funny that I never noticed it before."

"Hardly surprising," Harper said, with a dismissive snort. "Humans rarely see what's right in front of their noses, but it's there alright. Just look at them all, herded around like sheep never knowing that the wolf lives among them."

Philippe had crossed the road, cutting across the zebra crossing with his vintage leather bag held tightly in one gloveless hand and his other thrust deep inside his coat pocket to ward off the cold. He was just another businessman heading home, seemingly no different to the rest of the people who headed across the black and white stripes to the other side. Just another Londoner ending his day, hoping to get home into the warm for some well-deserved rest before his day started all over again. Just another person endlessly going round and round in circles; work, eat, sleep, repeat. Except, Philippe wasn't like all the others. It was all pretence. Nothing but a carefully reticulated image.

"Come on, Megan, we'll be late for our date," said Garrick, gruffly, unbuckling his seat belt and opening the door.

"You're not coming?" I said to Harper when I unbuckled my own belt and then realised he hadn't moved an inch.

His knuckles tightened around the wheel. "No, I'll follow in the car and be waiting close by. Philippe doesn't like me very much."

I raised an eyebrow, unable to suppress a smirk. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?"  

"Cute, very cute," he drawled, narrowing his eyes. "Get out of here; you don't want to keep wolf-boy waiting."

Stepping out of the warm confines of the car, I hissed a curse at the chill which quickly found my skin and set to work burying deep under my flesh and into my bones. Usually the cold didn't bother me too much, but tonight the breeze that swept down the street was particularly merciless and it seemed that even creatures of the night such as us were not totally impervious to winter's cruel touch. My legs felt like blocks of ice, weighty and unyielding as we followed at a distance, our eyes locked on the tall red-headed Varúlfur as he headed towards the end of the street, abruptly taking a left and heading down one of the darkened side roads. An unusual off-the-track route for most, but again it was a stark reminder to me that Philippe was not like most people and had nothing much to fear from those humans who might lurk in the shadows, waiting for that unsuspecting traveller to take the wrong turn.

Picking up the pace, I felt my shoulders tense instinctively as we turned into the same side road and I saw the dark shadow of Philippe continuing his path, disappearing out of sight as he rounded the corner. Looking back, I watched as the car, unable to follow down the narrow side street, crawled past and was gone too.

"Don't worry, he'll be close by," Garrick said, flicking me a grin.

"I'm not worried," I shrugged. But I was. I was worried and with every step, the more I felt those seeds of doubt worming their way into the pit of my stomach.

As we reached the end of the road, I was hit by the fetid stench of foul water and if it didn't smell so familiar I might have wrinkled up my nose in disgust. Turning the corner, a set of stone steps led downwards and at the bottom, running parallel to the narrow walkway was the canal that had, until recently, served as my hunting ground. Although the odour was unmistakable, this section of the waterway wasn't and I wondered whether I had subconsciously avoided coming this far down the canal, remembering somehow that it was close to places I had frequented during my human life.

The walkway bent round to the left, opening up wider to allow for a grass verge alongside the wall that separated the canal from the buildings behind and a line of thick, gnarled trees provided enough coverage for me to hold back in the shadows, while Garrick carried on to where Philippe waited by the railing, with his back to us.

As Garrick approached, Philippe spun round, his face twisted with anger.

"What the Hell is going on, Garrick?" he spat in fury, but I could hear the tremor in his voice and the quickening of his heartbeat from where I stood. "We're done talking. I have told you everything you need to know," he insisted.

Garrick shrugged and leaned against the railing, folding his arms across his chest. "Oh Philippe, if only that were true." He offered the Varúlfur a small smile but I could see the hard steel in his eyes.

"What?" Philippe's jaw dropped. "Do you honestly think that I would risk everything I have, everything I love, by lying to you?"

"I am fully aware of what you risk, as you rightly know, but you risked that by agreeing to speak to me in the first place. What is one lie to you? In fact, let's not call it a lie as such, more an omission. Now the question is: why? Why omit to tell me such a thing? I'd very much like to think it just slipped your mind maybe? That in your haste to save what you cherish the most, you just forgot? Could that be it, Philippe?"

Philippe took a step backwards, his hand curling tightly around the railing. "I don't know what you're talking about Garrick. I don't know what you think I have omitted to tell you, as you put it, but I have told you everything I know. If you believe I have not, then you are wrong. Maybe I have only been given some of the information, did you ever think about that? Maybe I don't know everything? You can hardly blame me for that!" His voice rose an octave and his fear smelt almost as bad as the waters of the canal did.

Garrick chuckled and shook his head, fixing his dark eyes on Philippe. "Do you know something, dear Philippe? And this is not something I would usually admit to, trust me, but I'd like to think that if this situation were different - if we were different - then you and I might be friends so forgive me for being so honest. I have to begrudgingly admit that I've always admired the wolf. There, I said it! But it happens to be true. You see, in the wild, the wolf has very few natural predators. Strength in numbers, you see. It always works, doesn't it? It's very, very effective." He flashed a brash grin at the confused Varúlfur. "But therein lies the problem; therein lies the wolf's weakness. Get him away from the pack and he's lost, cut adrift from his cohort, he's in trouble for sure. Wandering in the wilderness isn't so much fun when you're a lone wolf. You'd have to be the strongest, the smartest wolf to survive and let's face it, your neither of those are you, Philippe?"

"Garrick, please," urged Philippe desperately. "I really don't know what you are talking about."

"Then maybe this might refresh your memory," Garrick said, holding out his hand and curling his index finger, beckoning me to approach.

When I stepped out into the light, Philippe almost stumbled backwards, his hand clutched over his chest.

"Oh my God, Megan," he gasped. "Megan, I thought you were dead..." He took three unsteady steps towards me and stopped abruptly. Sniffing the air, he recoiled, his lips curling back off his teeth in a skeletal grimace as he picked up on my alien scent. His head whipped round to face Garrick. "What is this?" he demanded through gritted teeth. "What the Hell have you done?"

Garrick moved closer to my side and coiled a hand around my waist. "Oh, I'm afraid I can't take the credit, I wish I could. No, this is my brother's handiwork. He did this."

"No, he didn't," I said, anger surging through me at Philippe's obvious disgust of what I now was. "Brandon did this. He forfeited my life to pay a debt he owed to Richard and Grayson. He fucked up a deal, tried to screw his client over and I was the price he had to pay. I would be dead now if it was down to him. Instead I'm very much alive so you can turn your nose up all you want, Philippe, but rest assured, this is all Brandon's doing."

The red-headed Varúlfur looked stunned, his mouth dropping open as if he wanted to say something, anything, but he closed it again, turning away sharply and staring into the dark, sludgy waters of the canal. I stepped closer, pulling away from Garrick's grasp and approached Philippe slowly, warily. Stopping just a few feet away, I tried to hide my own grimace, detecting that awful Varúlfur stench. It wasn't as strong as I had expected, but it was there nevertheless and it still surprised me how as a human, I had never once noticed the odour they emitted.

“But….”he stammered, still looking down into Regent’s Canal as if he daren’t look at me. “He wouldn’t….not you…”

“He did, Philippe. I never wanted to believe it myself, but he did. He sold me off to save his own skin. Harper was hired to kill me, but instead….well, instead I am as you see me now and I know everything; about Brandon, about Clara, about the sham that is Walter and Noble.”

He made a strangled sound in his throat and shook his head, his care-free red locks tumbling over his forehead. “He loved you…”he murmured.

"Yeah, well, I guess love can’t save you from your own fate, right?" I said, more softly now, sensing his internal struggle. "You really didn't know did you? About what happened to me?"

When he raised his head and I saw the deep sorrow in his eyes, it was I who wanted to recoil. There was too much there that reminded me of the friendship Brandon and I had shared with him, too many happy memories of nights dining in his restaurant, too many warm images of us all sharing a bottle of wine after hours, laughing over lame jokes and jousting with playful banter.

"Of course not," he said sadly and his voice cracked with pain. "As far as I knew, you had been killed. It was an awful, tragic thing. They found your belongings...your clothes discarded. It was terrible, horrific. Your body wasn't found, they said that it had probably been dumped somewhere, maybe here in the canal, maybe buried somewhere. I couldn't bear to think about it, couldn't bear to think how much Brandon must have been grieving." He shook his head and his eyes glistened with tears I did not expect. "I sent him a note, you know. I wanted him to know how sorry I was, how I knew we were no longer friends but that I knew how devastated he must have been by your loss and how I was grief-stricken about your death. And I was, Megan, I was. You were my friend too."

I was struck by his words. Frozen. Numb. I knew that if I could turn back the clock, I would have reached out to him then. I would have grasped his hand in mine. I would have comforted him. And I wanted to so very much, because he was still Philippe. He was still that same wild-haired red head with freckles on his nose and a habit of pulling on his ear lobe when he was nervous. He was still the same self-deprecating man with a passion for food and a dream to own his own brasserie, not to make a fortune mind you, just to be able to live every day doing something he loved. He was still that shy London boy who had adored his Parisian mother and had been heartbroken when she had passed away. I remembered comforting him then. I remembered how I had squeezed his hand at the funeral, and then waited patiently with Brandon as he'd downed half a bottle of whiskey afterwards and sobbed with his head in his hands, grasping handfuls of his messy red locks.

"I am sorry, Philippe. You were my friend also. I understand this is difficult to say the least...." I broke off, hearing the tremor in my own voice and not trusting myself to say anymore. As my gaze wandered helplessly over the face of my old friend, I found my attention caught by the glint of gold on his left hand as it gripped the railing. "Philippe," I smiled, wistfully. "You are married now?"

He held up his hand and rubbed his thumb over the thick gold band. "Yes," he admitted, almost glumly. "Do you think I would be here if I wasn't?"

"I don't understand?" I frowned.

He shot Garrick an accusatory glare. "I'm here because I need to protect Victoria from the likes of him." He spat out the words with venom. "Because if I don't comply I risk the life of my wife and the life I have built up around us, the restaurant, our home, everything."

When I whirled round to face Garrick, he fixed me with his dark steady gaze and shrugged again. Sagging against the railing, defeated and saddened for my old friend, I knew that whatever means Garrick had used to get Philippe on side, it had been necessary, as much as I hated to admit it. This was a war, after all. I had been collateral damage, just as Philippe's wife clearly now was too. A terrible thought struck me then.

"Philippe, is your wife human?"

When he quickly averted his gaze, I knew the answer. "Oh Philippe....."

"Don't you dare judge me, Megan," he hissed. "You loved Brandon. You were happy together."

"But it was a lie," I retorted angrily. "Our whole life was nothing but a dirty, filthy lie. He wasn't the man I thought he was!"

"And I am not Brandon!" His face darkened, a thunderous shadow crossing his features and I stepped back when a small bubble of flesh began to pulsate above his eyebrow. Crying out in horror, he clapped a hand over his forehead and staggered backwards. For a moment, he said nothing, but I could hear his laboured breaths as he inhaled and exhaled deeply, clearly fighting the beast within that scratched and flailed to get to the surface. When he seemed calmer, he rubbed his palms over his tired eyes and as he removed them, they trembled slightly. He caught my gaze and smiled almost timidly. "Forgive me," he muttered. "I can control it, it's usually very easy but I am not used to talking much about the past. It seems to affect me, but it's fine now. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry, Philippe." And I was sorry. Sorry for everything. Sorry for him. Sorry for his wife. Just sorry for this whole damn mess. "I never came here to upset you."

"Then why did you come? Why are you here?" When he locked his eyes with mine, I knew instinctively that he was only too aware that this was no meeting of old friends for sentiment's sake, although a big part of me had wanted to see him one more time.

"This information you provided....I need to know...did you get this from Brandon?"

He laughed then, a great guttural laugh that grated my ears; it was so cold and harsh. So unlike the Philippe I had known.

"You're not serious, surely?" he said. "I spent two weeks recovering from my injuries the last time I saw Brandon. All those years of friendship and he left me bloodied and broken on the floor of my own restaurant simply because I refused to rejoin the clan. He said he wanted people around him that he could trust, that the time would come when he would be leader and he wanted me on his side. I ended up with four broken ribs and a bust eye socket simply because I said no. I didn't care much for his vision of the future, you see? I'd heard enough stories, I'd heard enough of what his new generation of Varúlfur were getting up to and I wanted no part in it. I'd left the clan because I saw no future for myself there, what reason had I to go back? I begged him to do the same. I actually begged him, Megan, can you believe that? And I got nothing but a fist in my face for my troubles. So no, no, I did not get the information from Brandon, you can be rest assured by that."

I looked at him, doubting his words and yet wishing with my whole heart that I didn't.

"You don't believe me."

I sighed and raked my fingers through my hair, tugging on a stubborn knot. "You said yourself that you left the clan for a reason. They turned their backs on you. You were exiled, Philippe and as far as I know, the only one you remained in contact with was Brandon. No one else wanted to know you. If you didn't get this information from Brandon, who else could it have come from?"

"I never said the information came from within the clan."

Even Garrick flinched at that one.

"Philippe," I gasped. "Who told you?"

Philippe glanced around nervously, his eyes darting into every shadow, before turning back to face us and stepping closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that was barely audible. "Not everyone believes that it is in the best interest of our race for Vánagandr to rise to power. Some believe it should remain as it was, nothing but a story we tell our children." He slicked a tongue across his dry chapped lips. "He cannot rule, Megan. Everything we know, everything our forefathers built would be destroyed.  He will rip our world apart and nothing will ever be the same again. The clans would dissipate....."

"So basically you're saying that the other clan leaders don't want to give up their fancy seats? We know that already."

"No, you don't know anything," he hissed, reaching out and grabbing my hand. Electricity shot up my arm and I tensed up, wishing that I could wrench my hand out of his.

"This isn't just about an intra-clan battle of wills. This isn't about who gets to rule and who doesn't. No, it is so much more than that, Megan. When I say, Vánagandr will rip the world apart; I mean my world, your world, their world." He nodded in the direction of the city. "He will not stop, Megan. Once he has broken the clans, his power will continue to grow, do you understand? He is Vánagandr. He is the Great Wolf. He is the God-slayer."

Staring deep into his fevered eyes, I saw the desperate panic within and knew that he believed it. He believed that his former friend would tear our world to shreds and that everything we knew would fall under his dominion.

"No." I shook my head vehemently. "He wouldn't. This is Brandon we are talking about."

"It has already begun, Megan, don't you see? If the other clan leaders do not bow to his rule, he will slaughter them all. And how do I know this? Because it was another clan leader that told me, that's how."

Garrick pushed closer, his arm snaking out and gripping the lapel of Philippe's long wool coat. "Who then? Which clan leader told you?"

Philippe did not flinch. Instead he fixed his angry gaze on Garrick and when he spoke; his words were firm and steady. "You will promise me this time, Garrick. You will not ask anything more of me. I don’t want to you come near me or Victoria again."

Garrick's grip tightened. "Damn it, you will tell me, Philippe. You will tell me who seeks to betray Vánagandr."

"Not until you promise!"

"Garrick, for goodness sake," I said, exasperated and caught within the heat of Philippe's mad fever. "Just say it. You will leave him alone from now on. Say it."

Garrick snarled and released Philippe, shoving him away with a growl of anger. "Fine," he spat. "Fine. I will leave you be, dear Philippe."

Exhaling deeply, I turned back to Philippe. "Now you?"

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Philippe smiled weakly. "The Hammond clan," he said. "Leighton Hammond told me."

Garrick hissed a cursed. "I knew it! I knew the southern clans wouldn't stand for Brandon's delusions of grandeur."

"He is not deluded," whispered Philippe and the chill of the night air finally broke through my ribcage and wrapped its icy fingers around my heart. "I only wish he was."

************

As I watched Philippe walk briskly away along the towpath, it was like watching a ghost as the fog swirled around him, tendrils of misty air curling around his body and finally swallowing him up whole. It felt strange to watch him walk away; as if I were watching the last vestiges of my old life wither and die in front of my eyes.

When he had disappeared into the night, I turned and looked down into the dark waters of the canal. Staring back at me, the old Megan lay half-submerged, her body naked and broken, slimy reeds twisting in her hair.

“Megan, come on, we need to go,”Garrick said as we stood apart on the towpath. When I did not move or answer, he said again “We need to go now, Megan.”

The old Megan’s eyes were wide and lifeless; her mouth open in a silent scream and the reeds that coiled around her wrists and ankles began to tug her under the surface. Numbly, I watched as the fetid water filled her mouth and her pale bruised body faded away under the black surface. 

When Garrick's fingers grasped at my wrist, I flinched and looked up into his face.

"It was hard for you to see him again." His thumb brushed lightly over my pulse.

"Yes." The water was still now, with nothing but the moonlight reflecting off the dark, slick surface. "He was right, you know."

Garrick raised an eyebrow in question. "How so?"

"I am dead."

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "No. She is dead. You are very much alive." When I said nothing, he sighed and leaned back against the railing. "What is it, Megan? What's wrong?"

"Did you hear what he said? He said that Vánagandr is the God-slayer. The God-slayer, Garrick!"

"You're frightened."

"Of course I'm fucking frightened! Aren't you? Brandon has allied himself with Drachmann and we all know who his boss is. Does that not seem a strange coincidence to you, Garrick? The God-Slayer and the Devil together? What if Brandon is a much bigger part of this than what we thought?"

"And what if he is?" He shrugged. 

I stared at him, aghast at his apparent nonchalance. "Do you even hear what I'm saying?"

He laughed then and it took all my strength not to smack him hard in the face. Instead, with tightly clenched fists, I whirled around and stormed off down the towpath towards the steps but before I could reach them, Garrick caught hold of me and pushed my back up against the wall. I struggled to get free of his grip, wedging my hands against his shoulders and shoving as hard as I could.

"Let me go, Garrick," I warned. "Get off, damn it."

"No," he said, pinning me there, although not without some effort as I fought hard against him. "Not until you hear me out."

"So you can fob me off with bullshit that you don't even believe yourself?" I sneered.

He glared at me then, the hurt visible in his eyes. "You want to know what I believe in?" he spat. "You, Megan, I believe in you."

I stopped struggling against him instantly and dropped my hands to my side, the fight fading as quickly as it had burned within me. We stood facing each other, just inches apart, our breaths heavy and rasping between us.

"You shouldn't," I said, finally. "You mustn't." The tears stung before they fell, leaving a hot trail down my cheeks.

Moving closer, he held my face in his hands, his gaze locking with mine. "Well I do. I can't help it, I'm afraid. And you might not want my faith, but you have it whether you like it or not. Do I think it is a coincidence that the Devil has the God-slayer by His side? No, I don't. I think it was meant to be. Just as I think you were meant to be. It is not a coincidence that you are here now. I believe that more than anything. Am I frightened? No, I am not. Because we have you and you are more than a match for the Devil and his mutt. You are Michael. You are the way."

"But Garrick, I don't have the faintest idea how to be Michael!" I cried. "I don't know what to do. Not so long ago I worked in a bloody office, for goodness sake! And now I am this?"

"But you believe it. You believe what you are?"

"Yes," I said grimly. "When Lucius showed me, I remembered everything. I remembered Michael, I remembered being so aware of everything that happened to me. It was like I had always known, I have no idea how that can be, but somehow it was as if it had always been there. It all made sense. But now....now not only do I have the Devil to contend with, but a God-slayer too?"

"And how funny that you seem more concerned about the possibility of facing Vánagandr than the Devil himself. Tell me something, Megan, if it were not Brandon you had to fight, would you waver so?" His eyes bore into mine and I squirmed uncomfortably, pulling his hands away from my face.

"That's not fair," I snapped.

He smiled softly. "Megan, no one would blame you for feeling anxious at the thought of facing Brandon again. He was your husband. I get that, even if others wouldn't."

"You mean Harper?"

Chuckling, he twisted a lock of my hair around his finger. "Deep down he understands but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He's far more sensitive than you think, you know."

I couldn't help but break into a small smile. "If you say so," I said, rolling my eyes. Reaching out, I ran my fingers over the buttons on his military-style jacket, rubbing my thumb over the stamped metal, deep in thought.

"Okay," I said finally with a deep sigh. "So we're up against the Devil and a God-slayer. I'm used to dealing with powerful egomaniacs; I did used to work in fashion buying after all." I winked. "And I'm meant to be....well, Michael, a bloody archangel of all things. I believe that. But what next, Garrick? I might be Michael but I haven't got a clue how to be him. How can I beat anyone when I don't have the foggiest idea how to use these powers I'm meant to possess? I can't even help those poor tortured souls in Purgatory, let alone try and defeat the Devil and his God-slayer."

"Then we find out how. Lucius will help us, just like he did before," he said.

"You seem very confident I can do this," I replied, my brow wrinkling with anxiety.

"I am. I told you I believe in you, when will you ever listen to me?" He shot me a wide cocky grin that lit up his face and warmed his hard handsome features.

Trailing a hand down my cheek, Garrick held my chin between thumb and forefinger, raising my head so he could look intently into my eyes.

"Michael slew the serpent and if those dark times rise again, then so will you. I think it's about time you learned how to dance with the Devil, Megan Garrick."