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I had the most peculiar sensation around my midriff. Was this the connection Zan claimed I shared with Sil? Was
this
my demon inheritance? Blood that was a vampire narcotic – knocked out anything that bit me – and all the symptoms of typhoid? How rubbish. In the world of superpowers this made me something like Heroin Withdrawal Girl. My father … my blood father, not Brian the ex-teacher now lying in York General Hospital with a dodgy heart, had been able to glamour and to create and use hexes for his own protection. I got an upset stomach and a Class A vascular system. Typical.
    I made my way to Vamp Central through as many shops as possible, to avoid the possibility of reporters, noting, even in my distressed state, that Next had a shoe sale on. Zan was sitting in his office with a screenshot from the newsfeed on his computer. He was staring at the split screen, one half showing the grainy black-and-white image of a street littered with fallen humans; the other half was a portrait photograph of Sil. My heart squeezed. Face half in shadow, mouth unsmiling and hair unnaturally neat, it looked like the kind of pin-up picture that went up inside young girls’ lockers or on bedroom walls. Only I had seen him sprawl into a chair, hook one leg up over the arm and lean his head back, bottle of Synth swinging loose between his fingers. Only I had seen him with his hair swept back and a grin on his face after we’d made the kind of love that made him feel human and me feel special
    â€˜How did this happen, Jessica?’ Zan’s voice was low. ‘How could he allow himself to become so … so
debased
?’ He didn’t take his eyes off the screen, although his fingers toyed with an iPad so up to date that it hadn’t even hit the high street yet. It lay alongside the computer in a pigskin casing.
    â€˜I don’t know. But we need to get real here, Zan.’
    He turned around slowly. He looked, as ever, terrific. Carefully and co-ordinatingly dressed in clothes that all seemed to have their own tactile story to tell, which always made it seem as though he got dressed simply by touch: a white linen shirt and dark brushed cotton trousers with a silk tie cravat thing around his neck. With his dark hair and green eyes it made him look like a Victorian poet. Victorian he may be, but I would have taken bets against there being any poetry in Zan’s heart. ‘I fail to see how I can become any more “real” than is currently the case.’
    My eyes flicked back to the screen. To that image of Sil. ‘If this turns out to be … you know, a thing.’ Zan looked me up and down and gave a tiny shudder, which I think he thought I couldn’t see, or maybe he just didn’t care. ‘If the Hunters … if Sil gets … I mean, if it’s not all some terrible mistake … He’s going to be
dead
, Zan. What are you going to tell people then? There are reporters out there already, asking me how I feel … It’s only a matter of time before they’re offering a reward.’
    Zan was looking at me steadily. His green eyes weren’t at all human, they were cool and looked as though he was measuring everything for size when he spoke. Although, knowing Zan, they’d probably been like that when he was human. ‘I am sorry. I know you care for him, and I’m sorry that I cast off your doubts about his whereabouts.’ He dipped his head a little under the weight of the apology. ‘If I had taken you more seriously, perhaps this could have been averted.’
    â€˜No, don’t say that.’ I moved jerkily, trying to shake off the implications by movement. ‘Don’t, Zan. I don’t want to think that it was going to be any other way. If I start thinking that there’s something we could have done then I …’ I stopped before I choked. Zan’s morbid fear of emotional displays would have