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back to my London flat, I took a shower, sitting on the marble floor and letting the hot water rain down on my head for a long time, trying to wash the alcohol and the warehouse off my skin. I couldn’t even name what I was feeling. Fear? Shame? It was as if I’d woken up into a different life from the one I’d woken up into yesterday, and I was a different person. And this life and I were both suddenly much darker and grosser and more dangerous than I’d realized.
    I soaped up all over, practically feeling the alcohol oozing out of my pores. I washed my hair, automatically avoiding my… it’s not a tattoo. Immortals get tattoos, of course, and they last a long time, maybe about ninety years or so. Other scars heal, fade, and disappear much more quickly and completely than on regular people. A couple of years later, you can’t tell where you were injured or burned.
    Except for me. The mark on the back of my neck was a burn, and I’d had it since I was ten years old. It had never faded, never changed, and the skin was slightly indented, patterned. It was round, about two inches across. It had been caused by a red-hot amulet pressed against my skin 449 years ago. Sure, despite my paranoia, the occasional person had seen it, now and again, over the last four and ahalf centuries. But as far as I knew, no one now living had ever seen it. Except for Incy, last night.
    Finally I got out, all prune-y. I wrapped myself up in a thick robe I’d taken from some hotel, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. Feeling like a ghost, a wraith, I wandered into the living room and saw the London Times on the floor in front of my door, where I’d kicked it. I carried it into the kitchenette, where all I found were an ancient packet of McVitie’s and a bottle of vodka in the freezer. So I sat on my sofa and ate the stale crackers, skimming the Times . It was buried way in the back, before the obits but after, like, Girl Guide meeting announcements. It said, Trevor Hollis, 48, an independent taxicab driver, was attacked last night by one of his fares and suffered a broken spine. He is in the ICU of St. James’s Hospital, undergoing tests. Doctors have said he will likely be paralyzed from the shoulders down. He has been unable to name or describe his attacker. His wife and children have been at his side.
    Paralyzed below the shoulders. If I had called an ambulance, gotten him help sooner, would it have made a difference? How long had he lain on the sidewalk, rigid with pain, unable to scream?
    Why hadn’t I called 999? What was wrong with me? He could have died. Maybe he would have preferred to. He wouldn’t be driving a cab any longer. He had a wife and children. What kind of a husband could he be now? Whatkind of a father? My eyes got blurry, and the stale crackers turned to dust in my throat.
    I had been part of that. I hadn’t helped. I’d probably made it worse.
    What had I become? What had Incy turned into?
    The phone rang and I ignored it. My buzzer sounded three times, and I let the doorman handle it. I’d lost my mobile a couple of days ago and hadn’t gotten around to replacing it, so I didn’t have to worry about that. Finally, at about eight, I got up and went to my bedroom and pulled out my biggest suitcase, the one that could hold a dead pony. (Before you go there, I’ll clarify that it never has.)
    Quickly, with a sense of abrupt urgency, I grabbed armfuls of clothes and whatever and shoved them in, and when it was full, I zipped it up, found a jacket, and headed out. Gopala, the doorman, got me a cab.
    â€œMr. Bawz and Mr. Innosaunce were looking for you, Miss Nastalya,â€

 
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    CHAPTER 3
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    I watched him in the rearview mirror as he walked down the road. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and the way his jeans hugged his butt was a rare treat. As I looked at his back, that feeling of recognition