^^Above, top: Luke Evans (pictured in The Alienist) as Augustus Selling; Middle: Guy Remmers (pictured in The Buccaneers); Bottom: Joel Edgerton (pictured in The Great Gatsby) as Marcus Trotter.^^

(Note: Just like before, italics and parentheses indicate a strikethrough.)

Blood-Binding: An Introduction

By Marcus Trotter

To my son — Do not take this lightly. There are very serious concepts here.

Sincerely, Father.

9 April.

I don't like Langdon Wilkes.

I don't like. Langdon Wilkes.

(I don't)

I'd read those words so many times they sounded hollow. I didn't like Wilkes when we first met, true. And I'd tried to maintain that mindset for the few weeks we'd known each other. But I was discovering, day by day, how hard that was becoming. Something about Wilkes made me want to open up. Tell him what happened to our father, our mother, and how we barely manage to hold onto our reputations, both in society and in the hunting world. Most of them know it's just us now, and only one of us — me — is old enough to hunt independently without supervision.

Even when Naomi dug up his father's name in an old blood-binding book from the 1850s, I couldn't quite muster the same dislike. I saw none of Trenton Wilkes's coldness, ruthlessness, or the inability to feel anything in his son. Of course he'd rushed to his father's defence, but that was instinct, not upbringing. I knew, as soon as we'd looked into each other's eyes that night, that he was nothing like his father. And I'd felt the dam keeping my feelings back crack straight down the middle, letting out a steady trickle that would turn into a flood. I couldn't stop them—it was only a matter of time before they'd come bursting out.

"So you can dress nice when you want to," Naomi said when I came downstairs that morning. She gave me a wry wink to go with it.

I rolled my eyes. "We're having company."

"Oh, 'company'?" Her eyebrow went up. "So that's what Langdon is to us now?"

I tugged at the neatly knotted cravat I'd thought of putting on at the last minute. I'd seen how comfortable Wilkes was, dressed in a nice suit of clothes. And, for no reason I could find, I figured I could at least make an effort to tidy myself up once in a while as well.

"You're saying that as if we don't know him at all," I said, pulling out the chair opposite her and dropping into it.

Naomi sighed, and all her teasing manner disappeared. "I told him, Wells. About...you."

I was on my feet again in a second. "Why would you do that?"

"I had to," she said quietly. "I couldn't hide it from him forever. I really began to feel something for him. And then...then I saw the look in your eyes, that night we broke into the school, and...he had to know."

"You had no right, Naomi," I snapped. "I told you that would never leave this house."

"I know," she whispered, swiping at both her cheeks. "But I see how hard it is. You suppress your true feelings every day. And I wish I could help you, but I don't know what to do..."

"And you thought telling Wilkes would?" Strangely I'm not angry about the fact that she told him, but rather the fact that she might have been right to.

"I'm sorry. Truly I am. If I could undo it—"

"No," I said. "No. I think you did it right."

Naomi looked up at me, brow furrowed and fresh tear tracks streaking her cheeks. "I thought you said—"

"I know what I said. And even though I wish it wasn't true, I think you telling Wilkes was the right place to start."

At that, my sister said nothing. She dropped her eyes to her tea, both her hands clenching into fists. I felt a twinge of guilt for lashing out at her, because I knew she was just trying to help me. That was all she'd ever done, her whole life.

"We're not going to talk about that when he comes," I said after a long silence. "Not unless he does."

She nodded, biting her lip.

"I don't want this to confuse him any more. By now he probably knows how you feel about him, and now...how I might feel about him. He needs time to figure it out."

"I know," she said, just barely a whisper. "I wasn't trying to force anything, I promise..."

I sighed heavily. "I know you weren't. You were trying to help."

Another long silence, this one a little more comfortable, passed. Naomi stood from her chair and slipped into the kitchen, gone for only a few moments before she was back with breakfast — eggs, toast, rashers, even porridge. She hadn't wanted to take up the domestic role in the house, and for the most part we both did the cleaning and cooking. But when she really needed some time to think, she would retreat into the kitchen and whip up something elaborate enough to rival the best restaurants in London.

I didn't address that as we tucked in. Nor did I say anything about what had happened just before. I'd gotten the feeling she'd been growing closer to Wilkes, even if he seemed to not notice it most times. The way she'd looked at him was enough to tell me that, especially because she'd seen me doing the same thing.

Instead, I said, "I found the blood-binding book that mentions Wilkes's father."

"Did you?" Her eyes flicked up to me. "And here I thought you'd let me do all the hard work."

"We're a team, Naomi. We pull our own weight."

A corner of her mouth lifted, just slightly. "Says the boy who thought he could get by without touching a single book."

"I told you, research is your strength, not mine."

Her smile grew. "Then we ought to change that, wouldn't you agree?"

Once again, I rolled my eyes, but this time I allowed a flicker of my own smile. "And I thought you loved me."

"I do, dear brother. But this is what family is for, isn't it?"

—

Wilkes rung the bell shortly after eleven, not long after we'd finished breakfast. It was Naomi who answered the door and showed him in, and me who offered him a cup of tea, which made a slightly dazed look cross his face. I'd read him right — his feelings were still very much a mess, and it would be better for all three of us if he sifted through them on his own.

"This is the book that mentions your father," I said to him as I sat down across from him, motioning to it on the table between us. "It says he is very uniquely skilled at it."

"May I...see?" Wilkes set down his teacup and reached out towards the book, hand stopping just short of touching it.

"Please do." I slid it closer to him. "The page is marked, there."

He picked it up, slid his fingers between the pages I'd tucked a bookmark in, and opened it very carefully. I saw his brow furrow, then smooth out, then furrow again.

"Who wrote this book?" he asked, without looking up.

"Marcus Trotter," Naomi answered, standing behind my chair. "He's proclaimed himself to be a specialist in the dark arts. Black magic and blood-binding specifically."

"Father's had him to the house a few times," said Wilkes. "My instructors have said Trotter's writings are mostly speculation, but Father says they're wrong."

"Black magic's mostly in the eye of the beholder," I said. "I've never seen it working."

"But you do know blood-binding does," he pointed out. "You said so yourself."

"We don't want to get your hopes up, Langdon," Naomi said, and I heard a note of melancholy in her voice. "It's very hard to maintain for long periods. And to control an entire other being outside your own...it leaves the caster entirely wrung out. For hours."

Wilkes thumped the book shut. "I've got an idea."

I exchanged a glance with my sister, who shrugged.

"That is?" she asked.

"Trotter can prove it to us," Wilkes said.

"I'm sorry, what?" I squinted at him.

"He lives in West Hampstead," he said patiently. "And I'm sure he's in at this hour. What I mean is...I'm sure he won't mind a visit from his old schoolmate's son."

—

I wasn't sure what I expected from a man with the last name Trotter. Especially one that had been schoolmates with Wilkes's father. But Wilkes seemed confident this would work, just to fit another piece into the puzzle that was his father's motivations.

And when we disembarked from the hackney cab in Blenheim Terrace, it was Wilkes who led the way up the front walk of the semi-detached house in front of us. I took a deep breath, and felt Naomi's hand slip into mine and squeeze before she let go and followed him. As usual, I went last, looking around me for any sign of danger. But it was a perfectly quiet late morning in an upper-class neighbourhood in northwest London.

By the time I joined them on the front steps, the door was opening and a beetle-browed man in thick round spectacles was peering out.

"May I help you?" he asked, his voice wheezing like he had a sore throat.

"Mr Trotter?" Wilkes said, leaning slightly forward. "Langdon Wilkes. You and my father go back a long while."

"Wilkes?" Trotter squinted at us. "Yes. I remember now. But who are they?"

"Naomi Hudson, Mr Trotter," Naomi said, putting out a gloved hand. "And behind me, my brother Wells."

"How do you do, Mr Trotter," I said, managing the politest tone I could muster.

"What can I do for you?" Mr Trotter asked, clearly addressing Wilkes even as his gaze skittered away and settled on my sister.

"Perhaps if you'll let us in, we could explain," said Wilkes.

Trotter opened the door just wide enough for Wilkes to pass him, then stopped us before we could even cross his threshold.

"Don't think you two have fooled me for a moment," he said. "I remember your father well...a year behind us in school and believed he already knew everything."

"Mr Trotter, we're not here to ambush you," I said. "There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why we've come."

"There'd better be." He stepped aside, and as we passed him he caught Naomi's arm. I heard her gasp before I saw it, and it was only her reaction that made me notice. "Well, aren't you a bit of all right. Who made you, then? Venus herself?"

"Hands off, Trotter," I snapped.

He let go with a slight curl in his lip, but even in the dimness of his foyer I saw the predatory glint in his eyes. "Into the sitting room then. Got tea."

It was more dimness and dinginess when we stepped inside. The furniture and the drapes looked tired, and even the small flame in the hearth was a listless yellow tongue. Wilkes stood in the middle of the room, on the Persian rug woven in faded, washed-out colours. His expression was mildly affronted, although I wasn't sure if it was over the state of the house or the man.

"We ought to sit," said Naomi, and even though she kept her voice low, I heard a faint tremor. In all our jobs hunting, no man had ever touched her or been as forward as Trotter had been just now.

"Everything all right?" Wilkes's brow furrowed with concern. So he'd missed the exchange in the doorway.

"We'll tell you later," I said, giving the uncomfortable-looking couch — sunken in the middle and so threadbare it was impossible to tell what it used to look like — a sideways glance. "Trotter told us there was tea?"

We perched on the edge of the couch, Naomi in the middle and the two of us flanking her. That way Trotter would have to reach across me to touch her again, and I wasn't going to let that happen.

"So what do I owe this visit?" Trotter asked, as he entered the sitting room. "Been a while since I've seen you or your father, Langdon."

"It's about this book, sir," said Wilkes, and with that he took Trotter's book from his coat and handed it across to him. "Apparently there's a mention of my father. Saying he was an accomplished caster of blood-bonds."

"If you're looking to disprove me, you'll be sorely disappointed," said Trotter, examining the book. "He was. And still is, as far as I know."

"That's dark magic, Mr Trotter," I said, not about to call him "sir." "Why would he want to master something like that?"

"I'm not sure why you're asking me," he said. "I could never fathom Trenton, you understand."

"You wrote the ble-blooming book on it," I said sharply. His eyes snapped to mine. "Tell me, is your obviously vast wealth built on your publishing lies?"

"Wells," Naomi said softly, laying her hand on my knee. "Stop, please."

"Does my father know how to blood-bind?" Wilkes leaned forward, and I saw his brow lower. "Have you seen it done?"

"Yes," said Trotter stiffly. "I have. Because I was the one who taught him how."

"Will you show us?" Naomi asked. Her voice was soft, but edged with steel.

"I really don't do it anymore—"

"I want to see it," Wilkes said firmly. "Because you did write an entire book on it. You must know something."

"Fine," Trotter said with a scowl. "But I can't just perform it for you like a magic trick. If you...you youngsters want to see it, hunt down a creature for me, preferably soon. And don't kill it, just subdue it. Otherwise the blood-bind is less effective."

"We have a spectre to catch tonight," I said. "Can you manage with that?"

"It'll have to do," Trotter said. "Bring the source to me tomorrow. I'll have everything ready by then."

The three of us shook on it with him, and then just like that, we were leaving again. I'd sensed Wilkes's discomfort from the second we'd set foot inside, making me think he'd noticed more than I thought at first.

"The tea smelled off," he said, at the top of the street. "I can't explain it."

"Everything about that place was off," Naomi said with a shudder. "He wouldn't stop staring at me."

We didn't talk about it again until we arrived home again. Naomi disappeared inside almost instantly, but I lingered out on the front walk with Wilkes. Neither of us seemed inclined to leave, and I knew it was because of the elephant between us.

"So Naomi—" Wilkes started, but I nodded before he could continue.

"I know," I said. "She told me about it this morning."

"I can't imagine how it must be," he said, and he sounded like he genuinely meant it. "Having to suppress a part of yourself all the time. I'm guessing difficult doesn't begin to cover it?"

"You'd be right." I shoved my hands in my trouser pockets. "But because of some circumstances, I have to."

Wilkes scuffed a heel on the ground. "I'm sorry, Wells. That's no way to live."

"Don't apologise. It isn't your fault."

He didn't answer right away. Instead he gripped the spine of Trotter's book, held under his arm, tighter, and kept his eyes on the street. "Father believes it's a good law."

"Easy for him to say, when he fancies women and all."

"Right." I saw Wilkes gnawing the inside of his cheek. "I don't know if you know this, but I'm not sure about the way I feel sometimes...I get these odd thoughts, you know...notice things. About you, especially."

"Odd thoughts?" I repeated. "What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know." Wilkes ran his hand over his hair, and that forelock fell into his eyes. "It's just...it's hard to put into words. Sometimes...I don't know if it's because we've been spending so much time around each other lately, or if...I suppose...I've been suppressing something as well."

"You can't suppress what you don't know is there," I said. "And by the sound of it, you're not sure if it is or not."

"What does it feel like?" he asked suddenly. "Have you ever...been able to? Feel things, I mean?"

"No," I said, which was a lie. Back when my sister was too young to come on hunts with me, I'd taken on a partner just temporarily. He was between posts at hunters' guilds, and needed something for a few months to keep his skills sharp. At least that was what he'd said, because I couldn't afford to pay him. But he was a fine hunter, better than me. Older than me too, and years beyond my maturity. I hadn't understood what my feelings had meant back then, but they'd grown too fast for me to control, and once he'd found out my intentions, he'd resigned and left without a forwarding address.

"Wells, I'm—"

"I swear if you apologise to me again, Wilkes, I'll blood-bind you and walk you right out of our lives."

His expression was startled, which quickly turned into a shy smile. "Habit. Sorry."

I shook my head and ran my hand over my face. "How is it that you stopped one apology with another?"

"Father makes me apologise a lot." He shrugged. "Not in words. But I'm always apologising for everything I do around him."

I said nothing in reply. Now I knew the truth: he was suppressing something, even if it wasn't his feelings. Instead it was something I'd never experienced — the fear of his father's disapproval.

—

9-10 April.

The hunt was the easy part. Spectres and lesser ghosts were probably some of the simplest hunts we'd done, and this time was no different. I brought along my rapier made of pure iron, and Naomi brought a pair of razor-edged throwing stars. She had the better aim out of the two of us, and could slice through a spectre's neck without looking in pitch blackness.

We cornered the spectre in a squalid tenement attic room, deep in Limehouse, where it just so happened that its body — the source — had been shoved under the floorboards. Someone had attempted to burn the body but had failed badly, not even using salt or iron filings. We subdued the spectre with a stab to its ribs in the heart region and binding the body's brittle wrists with iron bands.

Getting it out was a different problem. I'd brought a burlap sack to carry the bones — which were mostly falling apart anyway — and that was no trouble fitting everything in. It was carrying a rattling sack through a slum and being stopped by a harried-looking peeler asking where I thought I was going with it.

"Two o' yous 'r hunters, eh?" He asked, his eyes flickering to the long shining rapier in my belt. "Never seen a lady hunter b'fore."

"It's our business," Naomi said, each word flinty. "My brother and I are a team."

"Too pretty t' be slummin' in these parts, missy," said the peeler. "'Ow old 're you anyways?"

"Don't answer that," I said to her. To the peeler, I said, "That's not any business of yours. We're good at what we do, and that's what should matter."

"You're just a boy. 'Oo 'r you t' tell me—"

"I suggest you step away from my brother, Constable." Naomi had her dagger out, gleaming in the flickering light from the gas lamp above us. "How many spectres have you caught tonight?"

The peeler didn't answer, his eyes fixed on my sister's blade.

"I thought so," she said. Then she put it away and caught my elbow, tugging me past the stunned policeman. "We should go, Wells."

Then, exactly ten hours later, we were meeting Wilkes at the end of Trotter's front walk. He looked as haggard as I felt, eyes red and blurry from little sleep and that forelock of hair falling forward into his face. Not to mention his waistcoat was buttoned wrong, an empty hole at the top and a spare button at the bottom.

"All right?" he asked me, regardless, as we proceeded up the walk with me lugging the clattering sack of bones behind me.

"Fine. You?" I was overcome by a wanting to push the hair out of his eyes.

"After three and a half hours of sleep? Just spiffing."

Trotter let us in quicker than last time, and offered us coffee instead of tea. He wasn't much better than us, his hair in flyaway tangles and his jaw covered with a greying stubble. His eyes blinked groggily behind his spectacles.

"We'll do it in there," he said, motioning to the dining room, which had been entirely cleared of furniture. "Make yourselves comfortable. I have to get ready."

We did, taking up the same arrangement as yesterday: Naomi in the middle and the two of us on either side of her. Neither of us had had restful sleep — after coming back from the hunt, I'd heard her pacing in her room for at least an hour. I'd sat in my chair by the window, trying to read, but I hadn't been able to make my mind concentrate on the words. Instead I'd given up and collapsed into bed without changing my clothes, staring up at the ceiling.

Then Trotter was back, in shirtsleeves, bow tie, and matching grey trousers and waistcoat. He carried an assortment of bowls, a rosary, a silver dagger, and two candlesticks. We sat back as he set up quickly — one bowl for each corner of the room, the candlesticks in the center, the rosary wrapped around his knuckles, and the dagger in the other hand.

"The body, Mr Hudson?" He nodded to the sack still slumped at my elbow.

I dragged it around in front of me, loosened the top, and tipped it over. The skull tumbled free, followed by a segment of spine. I shook it some more, and the bones clattered out in no particular order. Leg bones mixed with ribs, and the bound hands ended up somewhere down between the feet. The three of us quickly rearranged them, so everything was roughly in the right place. Then, with direction from Trotter, Naomi lit the two candles — one made of white wax, the other black.

"What do the colours mean, Mr Trotter?" Wilkes motioned to them.

"The two sides of a human psyche," he said. "The dark and the light. Just as the four bowls around the room represent the four human humours. Having these will trap the spectre inside this room, and will keep it subservient. Move anything, and the blood-bond breaks."

Wilkes looked over at us, and I saw Naomi shrug — just a slight lift of one shoulder. We inched back from the candles anyway, giving Trotter and the body some space.

Somehow I couldn't imagine Wilkes's father doing this, something that looked like an old prehistoric ritual for a deceased person. Especially when Trotter slashed the hand that held the rosary and murmured a string of Latin words I didn't recognise, scattering his blood over the bones as he did. The candles shivered and the black one nearly blew out when a sudden draft swept through the room, swirling around us and then the bones on the floor. Trotter's voice rose and fell as the candle flames suddenly flared and sparked. He raised his hands, palms facing, then clapped them together with a sound like a lightning strike. The candles exploded like firecrackers, making Naomi yelp and cling to me, face hidden in my shoulder.

"Cripes," said Wilkes, when we recovered. "Look."

I did, peering over my sister's head. In front of Trotter floated the spectre, in the shape of a young woman in a long flowing dress. But it didn't look like any spectre I'd ever seen. This one was hardly transparent at all, and had colour and definition between its hair, clothes, and skin.

"Naomi." I nudged her. "He did it."

She reluctantly released me, and turned to see it for herself. I saw her face pale, then flush, and her mouth rounded into an O shape.

"Good God," she breathed.

"Is it going to do something?" Wilkes was the first to speak.

"Whatever you want it to," said Trotter.

"Walk it around the room," I said. "I want to see if it obeys."

Trotter flexed his hands, like a puppeteer, and the spectre began to walk on stiff legs around him, the bones, and the candles. He directed it closer to us, and I could see its essence flickering in places, like a hole in its chest. There was another where its right eye should have been.

"What are those holes?" Naomi asked hoarsely.

"Wounds, looks like," Wilkes said. Then to Trotter, he said, "How good is Father at maintaining this, exactly?"

"As far as I know, your father has become better than me in the years we haven't seen each other," Trotter answered, pulling the spectre towards him. "Blood-binding's not something to be taken lightly, son. Did he not tell you that?"

"No, he didn't," Wilkes said. "Why would he want to do this, anyway?"

"Listen, Langdon, son." Trotter clapped his hands together again and the specter disappeared in a puff of white smoke. "I only knew your father as a student at the Institute. After we graduated we went our separate ways and I only saw him occasionally over the years. But if he has been practising — perhaps perfecting — his blood-binding, it means something is very wrong. Perhaps not with him...but within the hierarchy of the creatures we hunt."

I saw Wilkes nod, like he knew what Trotter meant, but I'd never heard of any such hierarchy. Creatures were creatures, and once they were gone, they were all the same. I suspected it had to do with the Institute, where those stuffy old men insisted on categorising and ranking everything.

"Perhaps we ought to do some more digging?" I asked once we were out in the daylight again. It felt good to be breathing fresh air, after the staleness of Trotter's house. "That can't be it."

"It certainly isn't," said Naomi, glancing back at Trotter's front door. I saw his pale face, just barely poking through the curtains at the dining room window. "But we don't know how deep it goes is the problem."

"Do we go back to the Institute?" Wilkes asked, rubbing the back of his head. "See if we can find anything?"

"We can't risk it again," I said. "Too many people know us now. You could do some searching, Wilkes. Naomi and I will have to take a different route."

"Such as?" Naomi raised an eyebrow at me.

"There's the Guild in Bromley" I said, wondering why I hadn't thought of it before. "Surely they've got something on blood-bonds."

Naomi glanced between me and Wilkes. "Then I suppose we're all doing some research, aren't we?"

Wilkes shrugged. "Suppose we are."

—

12 April.

The Bromley Hunters' Guild had a personal connection to us: our father had joined it for a few years when he finished school, but eventually he'd gotten tired of the routine way they did things and had struck out on his own. Which was the reason we carried on his work in the same way.

Aside from that, it was only one of two guilds that could trace their roots back to the Wars of the Roses, its founder apparently a captain of King Edward IV's guard and had carried the pennant of the York House. The other was in Norwich, falling on the side of the Lancaster House. Father had said once that it was no mystery why they were always competing, even more than four hundred years later. It was also the largest Guild in London, and only one of three that had any real rule-making power in the hunting world. Bromley was run by the Sellings, a hunter family with roots that stretched as far back into the past as Wilkes's did.

"I hope they didn't part on bad terms," Naomi said, as we stood outside its columned entrance, looking up at it.

"With Father, you never know." I shrugged. From what I'd heard from other people, at least, our father had burned a lot of bridges when he was young.

"I suppose we'd better go in," she said, tugging at one sleeve of her dress, then the other. "We'll only waste more time out here."

I climbed up the three steps to the front double doors, Naomi close behind, and used the large brass ring in the hooked beak of the griffin in the middle to knock three times. For a moment, nothing happened, and I gave Naomi a questioning glance. She only shrugged in reply.

Then one of the doors creaked open, just barely, and through the crevice I saw a bright blue eye and curls of sandy hair. The eye blinked as it flicked between us.

"Hello?" I said, leaning forward just slightly. "My name's Wells Hudson, and this is my sister Naomi. We were hoping—"

"Hudson?" The blue eye narrowed. "Your father's Septimus Hudson, isn't he?"

"Yes," Naomi answered. "But we're only—"

"We don't want the likes of you around here—"

The door swung wider, so suddenly I had to jump back a step to avoid being hit by it. Inside stood two men, both in shirtsleeves and waistcoats: one of them the blue-eyed, sandy-haired bloke who we'd been speaking to, and a taller, dark-haired man about Father's age. Father wasn't old, nor was he senile. But the ghosts had stolen his sanity, making him seem old and young all at the same time.

"Don't be ridiculous, boy, the Hudsons are some of my oldest friends," said the dark-haired man. He was good-looking in a rugged way, with the features of a Roman statue and an authoritative bearing about him. His mouth curved up into a smile. "Don't mind my nephew there, you two. He has heard...unsavoury things that colour his opinions."

With that he stepped aside and motioned for us to enter. We did, and the younger man — a boy, really — pushed the door shut behind us with a scowl.

"Your...er...nephew, sir?" I glanced over at him. He looked about my age, now that I could see all of him.

"Yes," said the dark-haired man, motioning to the boy. "This is Cornelius. My brother Solomon's son."

Now I recognised this man, without him even having to introduce himself. He was Augustus Selling, a son of possibly the oldest hunting family I knew of. As long as there was a Selling in the Guild, there would be a guild. Which was probably why their families were so large.

"Mr Selling," I said, straightening my spine and ignoring Cornelius's glares. "Naomi and I have come on a very...sensitive matter. Perhaps we should speak somewhere more private?"

"You mean out of the hearing of this lad," said Selling, clapping his nephew's shoulder so hard the boy winced. "Yes, I understand. His nosy reputation precedes him. Isn't that right, Neely?"

"I told you, Uncle, to not call me that," said Cornelius, through gritted teeth.

"Just make yourself useful for a while." Selling gave the boy a meaningful push towards the partially-open double doors to our right, showing a sliver of boardroom—long table, chairs, chandeliers.

"Mr Selling, sir—" Naomi began, but stopped when he suddenly leaned forward and caught her chin, his eyes narrowing. I felt myself tense. No one had touched her that forwardly before, except for Trotter.

"My stars, child, you look just like her," he said, with a touch of wistful sadness. "Head-over-heels for her, old Timmy was. We all were."

"You mean our mother," I said.

"'Course I do, son." He let go of Naomi and straightened. "Juliette was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. We were all blooming shocked when she accepted Timmy's proposal."

"Is that so surprising?" I asked, following him as he beckoned us after him up the curving staircase that seemed to be supported by nothing at all — just appeared straight out of the floor.

"I'll admit we were all completely smitten," said Selling. "Me, Timmy, all our mates at the Institute at the time. But he was, most of all. Couldn't get the man to talk about anything else."

"Papa loved Mama very much," Naomi said in agreement, and I heard the same wistful sadness in her voice. "So I've been told."

"It was terribly tragic, to hear of her passing," said Selling, reaching the top and turning to us. "And I know of Timmy's being touched by the ghost madness. No one should have to suffer that way. I'm truly sorry, children. If there's anything I or our families can do to help..."

I didn't like being called children when I was eighteen and Naomi close behind, but I appreciated the offer of his help. The history between our families certainly made it seem less like charity and more like genuine concern.

"Of course we'll tell you," I said. "But what we're really concerned about right now is a blood-bond."

Selling, who'd been about to turn away, swivelled back around to face us. His green eyes were alarmed and intrigued. "Surely not...you two haven't turned to black magic now, have you?"

"It has to do with the headmaster of the Institute, Mr Selling sir," said Naomi. "We've been led to believe he has mastered blood-binding the creatures we hunt."

He rubbed the back of his head slowly. "Wilkes? Trenton Wilkes?"

"Yes," I answered quickly. "His son's the one that suspects it, not us. And that came from a book written by his old schoolmate Marcus Trotter."

"I remember Trotter," said Selling. "Arrogant little runt. Thought he knew everything, even though everyone knew he didn't. Bullied Timmy terribly."

Now it made sense why I didn't like him. "We were hoping there'd be something...possibly in your archives...about blood-binding. Or evidence that Trenton Wilkes is behind it. We don't know anything about what he did between his time as an Institute student and the beginning of his term as headmaster."

"Well," Selling sighed heavily. "You may or may not know that all the men in the Wilkes family have become expert vampire hunters. Which, obviously, deals in a lot of blood. The one thing I know about a blood-bond...it's made stronger by mixing the caster's blood and the creature's blood together. So...a very good excuse to make a vampire do your bidding. If Trenton Wilkes is up to something that devious, I would lay odds he used that method."

Naomi and I glanced at each other. This time she was the one with the question in her eyes.

"Show us everything you've got," I said to Selling.

—

We'd been at it for less than an hour before we were bothered again. I'd stripped my coat off, leaving me in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and Naomi had shed her own coat, her gloves, and hat as we'd bent over the stacks of books and papers Selling had gathered for us on the library tables. I heard the door creak open, and straightened up to peep over a teetering pile of books next to me. It was Cornelius Selling, his mouth and jaw set in cold arrogance.

"Cornelius," I said. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I heard about the blood-binding," he said, his blue eyes glinting. "You do know it's impossible, don't you?"

"It's not," said Naomi, without even looking up from the book she was scanning. "We've seen someone do it."

Cornelius glared at the top of Naomi's head as he reached our table and leaned on his hands on the edge. "For someone so comely, you're remarkably naive."

"Are you calling me ignorant, Cornelius?" My sister's voice was sharp as a newly-honed rapier. "Because believe me, that will not turn out well for you if you continue."

"Why? Because it makes your brother shirty? I rather like antagonising him, actually." The boy had the nerve to flash me a self-satisfied grin, and I hated that he was right. I did want to vault over the table and strangle him.

"We can't all have your privilege, you know," Naomi went on. "Some of us have to work to earn things. I doubt you would understand that."

I saw Cornelius bristle. "I don't have privilege."

"Don't you?" I folded my arms across my chest, and I saw him take in the black marks twining up under my rolled-up shirtsleeves. "You're heir to the oldest and largest hunters' Guild in London. You've got a powerful family member who can give you experience and influence. You attend the most elite hunters' school in the whole city. And you're telling us you don't have any advantage?"

Cornelius's lip curled. "You—"

"Don't, Wells," Naomi said softly to me, and then she was on her feet, facing off with Cornelius. "I think you ought to leave now, Cornelius."

"So now you're telling me what to do?" I saw him scowl. "That'll be a fine day, when I obey a woman—"

I must have blacked out. Because the next thing I knew, my hands were fisted in Cornelius's waistcoat front and I had him backed up against the end of a bookshelf. Just like Wilkes, he was my height, but the difference was that I resented him unequivocally. He was a snot and probably knew it too — but he didn't appear to care.

"Wells, please." Naomi's hand was on my shoulder, fingers gripping firmly. "Let go of him."

I yanked Cornelius away from the bookshelf, then shoved him back into it. "You talk to my sister like that again, and I'll clout you into next Sunday. Clear?"

His blue eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. I backed up and pushed him away.

"Leave," I snapped. "You heard Naomi."

Cornelius straightened his coat, waistcoat, and his necktie. He shot daggers at both of us, then turned and stomped out.

"Wells," Naomi said, like I hadn't heard her the first time. "Look at me."

I turned reluctantly. "I'm sorry, Naomi."

"I know." She sighed. "But you've got such a short fuse, I...I worry it's going to get you hurt one day soon. I suppose...with Cornelius, it's easy to see why, but other than that..."

"I don't mean to." I shrugged. "Maybe another thing I inherited from Father?"

"Perhaps. Yes." She rubbed the heel of her hand, hard, into her cheek. "It may interest you to know, however, that I've found something that may help us."

"Did you? What is it?"

She rounded the table again and bent over the book she'd been reading. Her finger ran down the page until she found it, tapping a paragraph halfway down. "This says that vampires are the hardest creatures to blood-bind, because they're technically undead. You can bind a spirit or a ghost just fine, because they have a source that was once living tissue. A werewolf too, for more obvious reasons. But vampires are the most difficult because they're animate but not alive. They've been reborn, in a sense, when they become one."

"Can it be done?" I asked. Because it seemed likely that if Trenton Wilkes was going to use his own son for his evil plans, he would use other creatures too.

"Yes. But it's easier when they're newborn. As they age, they're less human and more vampire, and therefore less living." I saw her brow furrow. "Wouldn't you know, the same thing is true for zombies. A newly-made zombi can be controlled almost like a puppet when blood-bound. Its actions can mimic the caster's completely. But the longer it's a zombi, the harder it is to maintain the bind."

"You don't suppose Wilkes's father...wants to blood-bind Gifford...do you?" It didn't sound so far-fetched, now that we knew this.

"To walk him under Langdon's blade?" Naomi looked up at me, eyes distressed. "Do you...would he do that?"

"I think given his plans for his son, I wouldn't put it past him," I said. "Which means we've got a much bigger problem on our hands. And it isn't just a blood-bound vampire."