“Ah, yes.” Clara leaned forward in Corbin’s chair and ran her fingers over the cover of the book. “Trust Corbin to bring to light what has long remained in darkness.”

Flynn leaned over her shoulder and nodded his head, rubbing his stubbly chin as if he could read archaic Latin and had discerned Clara’s cryptic comment. The others crowded into every corner of Briarwood’s library. All except me. I waited in the hall, my anxiety flaring up my spine like needles, stopping me from crossing the threshold into that space that smelled of Corbin. The books from my counting shelf were still scattered across the floor. I couldn’t cross without counting them, not when I was this fired up.

I gritted my teeth as Clara continued to pore over the book. We only had a day left to bring Corbin and Maeve back. Every minute counted, and we’d already lost a precious few waiting for Clara and the others to meet us at the castle. The reporters had returned to camp out outside Ryan’s gates, and they’d been joined by more of their ilk from London and Dublin and Glasgow and Europe. Grainy photos of the demonic riders were blowing up the internet, although the rumor was that it was a publicity stunt from Ryan Raynard.

Aline grinned as she told us how they eventually bested the press by sending Simon out the front gates in Ryan’s car with a bunch of his clothes stuffed under a black hoodie in the passenger seat. The reporters chased the Jaguar into the village, and Aline snuck out behind them in Simon’s own car with the whole crew jammed in the back and Smithers singing ‘Spirit in the Sky’ at the top of his lungs.

I would’ve laughed at the image if not for the fact that the retelling of it took yet more precious minutes.

“What has remained in darkness?” Arthur growled. He was already losing patience. I didn’t blame him. Inside my head, a clock ticked down the seconds until our fourth day was up and we lost our window to save Corbin and Maeve.

“Rumors have circulated over the centuries that if you wore the blood of all three magical creatures – fae, demons, and witches – and knew the proper incantation, you would be able to walk through the worlds unbidden.”

“In non-magical gobbledygook, that means you could be raised back to life from the dead,” Aline said from the her spot beside the globe bar. She tapped her fingernails on the lid in a steady rhythm, as if she too was counting down the seconds.

“You’re not suggesting that we might be able to recover our son and Maeve from the underworld?” Andrew Harris asked, his arms around his wife. His voice was stern, but the lilt at the end of his sentence betrayed his hope.

“That’s what Corbin has led us to believe.” Clara flipped to the page in the book with the picture of the alchemical diagram. “Here, the writer recounts a famous Orthodox tale about Lazarus’ life after he returned from the dead. Apparently he was forced to flee Judea for Cyprus, where he became the first Bishop of Kition. He never smiled in the thirty remaining years of his life, as he was haunted by the visions of the unredeemed souls he’d seen during his four days in the underworld. The only exception was one time when he caught a thief stealing a pot from the market, and he remarked, ‘the clay steals the clay'.”

“Corbin said that,” I whispered, gripping the doorjamb. I tried to force my leg over the threshold, but it wouldn’t budge. “In Maeve’s dream.”

“Some witchcraft scholars believe – and the writer of this page agrees with them – that Lazarus’ comment carried a double meaning. He referred in the first instance to the transience of man, and of life. That in the grand scheme, the thief’s life was no as dirt between the fingers. He was part of a greater whole, a building block of the world, crafted by God for his own divine purpose. The other meaning refers to the mysteries of Lazarus, to the spell that brought Lazarus his eternal life. For as clay is a raw material that must be moulded by a creator, so too is blood in ancient medicine the raw material, the carrier of life. And who was it that granted him this everlasting life? Jesus, the blood of God, who would wash away the sins of the world. The son of God was the clay who stole the clay.” Clara pounded the book with her tiny fist. “Don’t you see?”

I didn’t see anything, except a ticking clock. Arthur frowned. Flynn stroked his beard. Neither of them had a clue, either.

Corbin would’ve got this immediately. It would’ve been so obvious to him, that’s why he said he’d written the spell down for us, even though he clearly gave us nothing but—

“I’ve got it,” I said. “It’s the spell. The clay steals the clay. It’s the incantation to bring them back to life.”

“It’s been right here in this book all this time,” Clara breathed. “And I never saw it. But your Corbin did. He’s a truly gifted witch.”

“He is the most gifted witch of his generation,” beamed Andrew.

“He’s a bloody book nerd—” Arthur leaned over the book, his beard twitching. He jabbed a finger at the page. “What’s this cross here?”

“That’s the cross of Lazarus,” Clara explained. “It was the symbol of a particular chivalric order. The knights tended the sick, and some witches believed they were beings of power themselves, who guarded a store of demon blood they could use to bring worthy souls back to life. At that time, of course, the fae were of this world, so their blood could be easily acquired. But demons do not come to our world, nor ours to theirs, unless something has broken in the universe. Only the fae could travel into the underworld and collect demon blood, and they did so at great sacrifice—”

“I’ve seen this cross before,” Arthur interrupted, his gaze flicking around the room. He bolted across the room and stormed through the door, nearly knocking me over as he stomped down the hallway.

“I wish he’d stop doing that,” Flynn sighed. Everyone filed out of the library and followed Arthur as he slammed doors and peered into closets. “Isadora,” he bellowed. “Get your bony arse out here right now!”

“Such language.” Isadora appeared at the doorway of the kitchen. She didn’t even glance up from her phone screen, which she tapped with her red talons.

“Show them your tattoo,” Arthur growled.

“I’d be glad to, as soon as your friends pay my fee.” She waved her phone at him. “Will that be cash or credit card?”

“She has a tattoo of that Lazarus cross on her arse,” Arthur muttered, folding his arms.

“How did you see that?” Flynn grinned at him.

“I walked in on her in the bath. It looked all grody and diseased. Where did you get it?”

Isadora slid her mobile down her impressive cleavage. “I hardly see how that’s any of your business.”

“It’s our business because we’ve got less than a day to bring back Maeve and Corbin.” Venom flashed in Arthur’s eyes. His hands balled into fists. I noticed that he couldn’t quite pull his fingers together on his injured arm. “It was Daigh, wasn’t it? This is something to do with your bargain with him. What secret of yours was Daigh carrying?”

“Isadora, please,” Andrew implored her. “That’s our son down here. We might have a chance to save him and give him a normal life. You have to help us. Please.”

Isadora’s face remained impassive, but her bottom lip quivered. She slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll tell you, but you must swear an oath that you’ll not reveal my secret to anyone. It could destroy the Soho coven.”

“We don’t care about your secrets,” Flynn said. “We just want to get to Maeve. Tell us about the tattoo.”

“Not until you swear it,” Isadora held out her hand. “A witch’s oath is binding.”

“Fine. We’ll swear this oath.” Flynn flicked a knife out of his shoe. He nicked a cut across his palm. Arthur held his hand out for the knife, but instead of handing it to him, Flynn drew the blade across Arthur’s palm, leaving a cut so tiny it barely broke the skin. “You’re not getting your hands on one of these until you prove you can use it responsibly, Aragorn.”

Arthur grumbled something under his breath. Flynn slid the knife into my hands. I gritted my teeth as I cut across my palm, squeezing out a few droplets of blood to make the oath.

Around the circle we went, everyone nicking their hands. Isadora shook with each of us, mingling her blood with ours to bind the oath. When she got to Clara, the women clenched their jaws as they squeezed hard enough to break fingers. Neither would flinch, and finally Ryan had to pull them apart.

The oath done, Isadora sat down at the table. She dug her phone out of her cleavage and placed it beside her, then folded her hands together. Blood smeared across her palms. “There is an ancient chivalric order that comprised many witches and fae, called the Order of Saint Lazarus. They have passed their secrets down through the generations, but since the fae had been banished, there were very few who knew of their work in hospitals and sick rooms, performing the miracles that restore the dead to life. In order to do this, they need both the blood of both demon and fae, and their stores have long since run out. I am a descendant of this order. I know their secrets, but without blood, I could never perform them, not even for myself, not even when my need was great. It was during this need that I met Daigh in a salon in Paris in 1880, during the Belle Époque—”

“1880?” Flynn squealed. “But wouldn’t that make you over a hundred-and-forty years old?”

“You are correct, Irishman, but pray let me continue. By this date, Daigh had amassed enough power to go on extended jaunts into the human realm. Mostly he spent his time with artists, bestowing them with gifts in exchange for their adoration. At this time, I was ill with tuberculosis. I had tried everything to acquire demon or fae blood, but those who kept a small store would not sell to me for all the money I offered, so I was without choice but to die. I raged against my coming doom. In Paris, I numbed my rage in the opium dens and drowned my sorrow in fine French absinthe. The first outward signs of my degeneration were beginning to show, and even in the gloom of the salon the other patrons sat as far from me as possible. All except Daigh. He flopped down beside me. He flattered me and bought me wine and cheese. He asked me to sit for a portrait, and like a fool I accepted. He dressed me in the finest French silks, then painted me as I truly was – the disease seeping through my body, poisoning every part of me. The portrait was hideous. I threw it into the Somme. But the fae king intrigued me. And I intrigued him.”

I suspected there was more to this story than she was telling. A dark flicker in Aline’s eye suggested she thought so as well.

“One night, he proposed our agreement. He knew how badly I wanted to live, so he dangled the offer of rebirth in front of me. Humans have no power over the realm of death, but the Unseelie have often made pacts with the demons there, and Daigh revealed he kept a small store of their blood. He offered some of that blood to me, but I would have to make it worth his while. So I offered him a favor he could redeem in the future.”

“But if Daigh kept you alive, wouldn’t that make you old and decrepit?” Flynn asked.

“That was one part of the spell Daigh hid from me. I returned, but I was never able to age. My mind grows old, but my body remains in this unmoving, immortal shell.” Isadora glanced at Aline. “It is as you experienced. You did not age in your prison, and when you emerged you are the same age as when you went in. Fae magic can never fully restore human life – there is always a corruption.”

Flynn balked at those words, but they filled me with hope. Even if Corbin and Maeve ended up like Isadora, if they never aged, surely it would be better than the alternative?

“The spell requires the blood of all three magical creatures, a likeness of them that shows their true nature, and an incantation. If the person is already dead, which I was not, their restoration also requires a sacrifice, for a soul must be given to the demons in their place. The more magic that is given to the spell, the more life it can bestow. Daigh performed the ritual on his own, giving me a tattoo infused with the blood of fae and demon, but he was much depleted by his presence on earth. He could only manage this bastard of a life. But it was enough for me – eternal youth has suited me well. The tattoo, as that Viking boy saw it, has been his way of communicating with me, of assurring my cooperation.” She winced as her hand skimmed over her thigh.

“What about Aline?” Flynn asked. “She didn’t have a body, and we gave her no blood, and yet she returned after twenty-one years.”

“Images and portraits are part of fae magic,” Isadora said. “Hence their requirement in the ritual. Their ability to create glamours and communicate through mirrors is that same kind of magic. Because of the binding, Aline’s witch blood possessed fae magic, and if she stole power from Daigh in her pendant—”

“Robert Smithers was my magister, so I often gave him the pendant to wear or look after,” Aline said. “I recall before the ritual, he clasped it around my neck and promised it would keep me safe.”

“It kept you safe,” Smithers chimed in. “Rob kept you safe.”

Aline turned to him and kissed his cheek. “Did you put demon blood in that pendant for me? Did you steal it from Daigh? Is that how you trapped me inside the painting? Oh, you clever man!”

Smithers’ dopey smile gave nothing away.

“Maeve’s wearing that pendant now, isn’t she?” Aline’s eyes glinted. “That means she has everything she needs for us to restore her to life.”

“She doesn’t have fae blood,” I reminded.

“Actually, she does,” Flynn said, pulling a crumpled paper out of his pocket. “It’s the DNA results Maeve sent away for. It turns out she’s got the DNA from two fathers, which is scientifically impossible even though it’s right there on those squiggly graphs. Some of Daigh’s DNA runs through her veins.”

“Then we have all the ingredients we need to complete this spell,” Clara hugged the book to her chest, her eyes glinting. “We can bring Maeve and Corbin back. But we must hurry. We’ll need their likenesses. Do you have any photographs of them?”

“I’ve got a ton on my phone,” Arthur said. “We’ll have to go to that camera place in Crooks Worthy to get them printed.”

“Does the painting have to look exactly like the person for this to work?” Flynn asked.

“Not in a photographic sense, but it should represent them. After all, a photograph is only an expression of light, but a painting can reveal more about a person – or the painter.”

“Then I have the images,” Flynn announced. “There’s a painting I did for Maeve in Avebury. It’ll be in her room somewhere, if it didn’t get destroyed…”

“But this ritual requires a fae to perform it,” Isadora said. “And considering you banished them all with the Slaugh, including the amputee, you won’t find a one to help you. Not to mention the sacrifices. Which of you will offer your own life in exchange for theirs?”

“I will,” said Arthur, Flynn, Blake and I in unison. My heart pattered. Tonight, we would bring Maeve and Corbin, but we would still lose someone precious. Our coven would still be broken.

“Don’t be a wanker,” Arthur shoved Flynn. “You’re needed here. You sorted everything while I was lying in the hospital. You didn’t even need me to destroy the Slaugh. I’ll be a sacrifice.”

“It should be me,” I whispered, thinking of what Maeve said before the Slaugh, about how she and Corbin had talked about studying at Oxford together. “I willingly give my life so they will have a future.”

“Boys, don’t be silly.” Clara touched Arthur’s arm. “You are young, and you all have a future ahead of you. I have had many bright years upon this earth. I offer myself willingly as a sacrifice.”

“Mum, no.” Ryan moved in front of her, as if his body shielded her from a death ray.

“I should go,” Andrew offered. “I drove Corbin away after our other son’s death. If it wasn’t for me he’d—”

“Oh, please. All this self-flagellation is sickening. The sacrifice does not have to be complicit. Do you have any enemies?” Isadora asked lazily, staring at her fingernails. “Those two police officers that were poking around earlier would make an excellent offering.”

“They don’t need an enemy, Isadora. They have us.”

I whirled around. In the doorway stood Aline, her arm looped in Smithers’. “Between the two of us, we have all the fae magic you’ll need. And we have the sacrifice, too. Rob and I will go to the underworld in exchange.”