The window had exited out into an overgrown walkway between hospital buildings. Beneath her feet, only the remnants of gravel poking up from the hard-packed dirt halted a complete weed annexation. The low sun didn't reach down here, and Maisie shivered, suddenly feeling the evening chill.

When it was first built back in the mid-1900s, the hospital had comprised only two buildings, but as Briston's population had grown and grants poured in, more units sprung up in haphazard clusters, creating unplanned gaps like this one.

It was difficult to orientate herself from the outside of the complex. She tried to recall the layout she'd looked at earlier but drew a blank. The identical red brick walls didn't hold any clues either, and every window she could see had the blinds drawn down. Not much of a view for the patients in these wards.

She picked a direction at random and started limping down it. At the bottom, she hit another building, the ally branching out into a T. One way was partially blocked by a row of industrial-sized bins, exuding a sickly sweet stench that burned the back of her nostrils. Beyond them, she could see cars.

Trying not to imagine what the source of the smell could be, she edged passed, wincing every time her coat brushed one of the lips. Just don't breathe in. Almost there.

Blurgh.

And she was through. She came out into a car park. A large map below a sign that read Car Park D told her she was on the opposite side from the main entrance.

She rested on one of the bollards lining the kerb. The long walk back through town was as appealing a prospect as drinking rancid milk. Alfred would be gone from the house — one blessing, at least — but the thought of sitting alone in her room, dwelling on her hurts and the seemingly impossible task ahead of her, sapped what remained of her strength. Worse, perhaps her father would be back from whatever business he'd been on. He would want to know where she'd been, and she wasn't ready to face him yet.

A simple solution presented itself to her. She was at the hospital. She could go check on Samson. It would give her a reason for being here, and maybe she could find a way to pick his brains on The Five without arousing too much suspicion. Plus, there was a part of her that wanted to be sure he was okay. They might not have an easy relationship, but he was her brother, and last night he'd actually seemed to care.

The car park wasn't particularly busy, only a couple of people standing at the pay and display machine and a woman in scrubs making her way over to the staff parking area.

Instead of going all the way back to the reception, she walked confidently up to the lady in scrubs and asked her where Samson Arthur was being kept. People gossiped. She'd bet that everyone at the hospital knew where the local hero was.

The doctor was hesitant to tell her anything, even after Maisie told her that she was his sister.

‘Do you have any identification?’

Usually she tried to avoid being recognised. That was coming back to haunt her now. Maisie made a show of searching herself, though inwardly she cursed. Then her hand hit something in the deep recesses of her coat pocket, among the crumpled up tissues and paper clips that had accumulated there. She pulled out her old bus pass from the year before — a bit tattered, but the photo still resembled her.

The doctor examined the picture suspiciously, bobbing her head from the photo to Maisie's bruised and battered face a number of times, trying to match the two together.

Finally, she nodded. ‘He's in the long-term care ward.’

‘What!’ Sure, he'd been a bit battered, but he hadn't seemed that bad.

The doctor read her expression and quickly said, ‘Oh, it's not like that. We just thought he'd be most comfortable there, in one of the nicer rooms.’

And just like that, Maisie's worry turned to resentment. Of course Samson would get special treatment: he was Gifted. She thought the word sarcastically.

She thanked the woman and turned to leave.

‘You'll have to hurry,’ the doctor called out after her. ‘They're discharging him soon.’

Maisie hurried, as much as her hip would let her.

The long-term care ward was a totally different beast to the one that had housed Bobby. Light and modern, surrounded by green shrubbery and a small garden on one side, it looked juxtaposed on the rest of the hospital with its weathered mishmash of red brick blocks, linked by dull grey paving.

She'd barely made it through the doors when a crowd of hospital personnel parted to reveal Samson in a wheelchair, sporting casts on his right arm and leg. An orderly pushed him through the watchers with an air of parade.

Someone tried to pull her out of the way. Maisie resisted, meeting her brother's eyes when he looked up to find the holdup.

Samson held up his hand to halt the orderly, who quickly brought the wheelchair to a standstill. Like a prince. All the old bitterness rose up in her, almost making her forget that she'd been worried about him.

‘Maisie,’ he greeted her, face concerned. ‘What's happened? Why are you here?’

‘I came to see you.’ He looked dubious. To distract him, she quickly followed with a question: ‘You're being discharged? How are you getting home?’

His eyes said that he saw through her, but he didn't call her on it. ‘I'm getting a taxi.’ He nodded to the people around them. ‘Thank you, everyone, for everything you've done to help me. You do important work. This is my sister.’ To her, he said, ‘You mind pushing me to the main entrance? That way we can talk.’

Actually, she did mind. She minded very much, with her hip groaning in protest at each step. But they needed to talk. ‘Sure.’

She took the orderly's position, who moved out of her way rather grudgingly, and began to wheel him down the ramp.

The staff waved, calling out goodbyes, and he waved back. That was Samson — always drawing sycophants. But there was a genuineness to his responses that was different from their father's practised charm. She hadn't noticed it before.

‘Keep going,’ he said quietly when they turned the corner. ‘Too many ears to say much here.’

For a couple of minutes, she pushed him along the paved paths that, according to the signs, lead back to the main entrance.

When they reached a quieter stretch, he opened his mouth to say something. She beat him to it. ‘What's the damage?’

He gave her a look, but responded, ‘Broken shoulder.’ He used his left hand to tap his immobile arm. ‘But you probably already guessed that last night.’ He rapped the cast on his leg. ‘And I've got a small fracture to my fibula — probably from landing on a rock. That's the reason I'm in this contraption. They say it shouldn't take too long to heal, though.’

‘Are you going to be okay by yourself?’ she asked. She said it cautiously. He might be on better terms with their father than she was, but he hadn't escaped their childhood without picking up his own small neurosis. Getting around in a wheelchair with only one arm working wouldn't be easy alone and unused to it, but mentioning that might imply a weakness on his part. Samson had it drilled into him from a young age that weakness was bad.

But he didn't seem to mind the question. ‘The guy I’ve been seeing on and off is only a call away, and he’s promised he’ll drop everything and look after me if I need it.’

She had to contain her surprise. He'd asked for help. The brother who'd lived with her only a year ago would never have considered letting someone else that close. ‘That's good,’ she said simply. ‘How long have you been seeing him?’

‘Not long. It’s nothing serious yet. Might never be.’

They walked on for a while, not speaking. The wheelchair was old, the grip on its rubber handles worn smooth by multiple palms. One of its wheels was stiffer than the other, forcing her to constantly correct its direction. She put her head down and leant into the task, falling into a rhythm of sorts: one step, two steps, three steps; give the left side an extra little shove to keep it on track; repeat. It helped her keep her mind off all else.

When her thoughts began to fog over, he broke the silence. ‘So why don't you tell me why you're really here?’

It took her a couple of seconds to process his words. He'd done it deliberately, trying to catch her off guard and get to the truth. Sneaky. But she wouldn't be caught out that easily.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, playing dumb.

‘You want to do it that way? Fine. I heard there was some kind of ruckus in the building Bobby Furlong is being kept. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?’

She widened her eyes, feigning shock. ‘What? What happened?’

‘I don't know. That's why I'm asking you.’

‘Why would I know?’

‘I thought you might have come over here to question him.’

And she was busted. Maisie tried to contain her shock. How had he guessed? Keeping her voice even, she said, ‘What makes you think I would do a thing like that?’

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‘Because you want to know why that raid was different from all the others we've been on. Because half the gang is missing from our tally. Because something happened when you disappeared that made you really freaked.’

Perceptive bastard. She said nothing.

‘Come on, Maisie. You aren't as weak, or as stupid, as Dad and Alfred like to pretend.’

‘Thanks,’ she said dryly.

He sighed. ‘That came out wrong. I want to help, okay? But I can't if I don't know what's going on.’

Again, she felt an overwhelming urge to tell him everything, to lay it all out in his lap and let him deal with it. He'd sort it out. He was a born hero, trained and Gifted. But he also loved their father. And no matter how much she wanted someone to lean on, she couldn't forget all the years they'd spent together as children when he'd bullied and ignored her for not having powers.

When she didn't respond, he looked at her over his shoulder.

‘I hope someday you'll be able to trust me.’

There was sadness in his expression, a regret that he broadcast through his eyes. It made part of her wanted to apologise to him. But she wouldn't. She wasn't ready to bridge that gap yet. Too much history lay between them. Lying came easily to their family, and she wanted Samson to be the older brother she'd dreamed of too much to trust her own judgement.

Maisie made a decision. She might not be willing to put all her cards on the table, but she could test this offer of help a little.

‘What can you tell me about The Five? Aside from Father, obviously.’

He twisted farther in his seat and gave her a penetrating stare. ‘The Five? You think one of them was involved?’

She met his gaze, not saying a word. He wasn't getting any more information out of her. Not yet, at least.

After a second, he seemed to realise that, because he turned back around. ‘Be careful, Maisie. They're powerful.’ His voice was serious.

She snorted. ‘I know. Have you met Father?’

‘Even Dad is wary of the others. He doesn't say it in so many words, but he respects their abilities. And anyone that gives him pause should scare the pants off someone like you.’

She was scared all right. But she resented the subtle reminder of her powerless state. It was always like that. For him, the population was divided into two: people with supernatural abilities, and people without. He would protect normal humans, because that was his role in the world, but ultimately he could never see them as equal.

Keeping her tone light, she said, ‘Duly noted. But that's hardly news. What else do you know?’

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘I probably don't know much more than you. The only one I've had much contact with is Emalia, from when we were little and living in London. Don't you remember her? I know you were young, but she... makes an impression.’

That was one way of putting it. Emalia Knight was a blonde Valkyrie of a woman, towering over most men at six feet, with a mind as sharp as her honed body. She was heavily involved in the London political scene, never running for office, but a mainstay on the news cycle, regularly appearing in her well-pressed battle suit alongside the city's movers and shakers.

But Maisie knew most of that from the television. Her own memories were muddied, and when she tried to picture the woman she'd briefly known in her childhood, the picture was vague and inconsistent from the woman she saw on the screen. Which could be down to a number of reasons, not least of which that Maisie had only been five when they'd moved. But Emalia was an illusionist, and there was always a chance that whatever Maisie had seen had been a deliberate manipulation.

‘I can remember bits,’ she said. ‘Mostly, I remember her asking me what I could do. What power had I got? She asked me that every time we came over for dinner. And I remember there being a lot of tension between her and Father.’

‘You’re right about the tension,’ Samson said. ‘I know they were friends once, but it didn't last. I'm pretty certain she was the reason he left London. From what I know, there was a big falling out between them, and pretty soon afterwards we moved to Briston.’

She hadn't known that. ‘You ever asked him about it?’

‘He said the city was too small for two Gifted heroes of their stature. And he wouldn't tell me anything else.’

She tried to imagine what kind of person could force her father out of the capitol. He wouldn't have left easily, not Sterling Arthur, who lived and breathed power, accumulating it in all forms. He knew how to capitalize on his image and status, how to use it to influence events to his advantage. For a man like him to be unseated from the heart of government — that would take something big.

‘Okay. She's one scary woman. Does she still take an active role in apprehending Flight users? I never hear about her fighting on the streets anymore.’

‘I don't know. If she does, she doesn't publicize it. She mainly deals with the upper echelons of law enforcement, if at all. She played an active role in forming Unit S, but that was years ago.’

That didn't give her much to go on. Time to move on. ‘So that's Emalia. What about the other three?’

‘I know even less about them.’

‘Father never spoke about them to you?’

He laughed. ‘Hardly. It's not like they're close. Everyone knows they went their separate ways after the press cooled down.’

That was true. The only ones that had stayed in the spotlight were her father, Emalia and Zuzanna. But something didn't ring right.

They were getting close to the main building now. Instead of going inside and out past the front desk, she turned down another path to go the long way around. They couldn't continue this conversation in the busy hallways of the hospital.

There were more people here, and she lowered her voice. ‘I always thought Father kept tabs on them. He plays power games. Some of the most powerful Gifted in the world are pretty important pieces to lose track of.’

‘You might be right. But he hasn't shared the information with me. Where are we going? The entrance was back that way. Should I be concerned?’

‘Don't worry, I'm not kidnapping you. It's just quieter this way.’

The wheelchair hit a stone and jammed. Maisie had to walk backwards to get around it, losing the rhythm she'd fallen into. Her hip decided to remind her of its presence by shooting white-hot sparks of agony down her leg, like someone had placed a burning coal into the joint. She had to shut her eyes to work through the pain. Getting home was going to be a bitch.

‘Are you okay?’ She opened her eyes to find Samson looking back at her. ‘I forgot it wasn't just your head that was hurt. I should get someone else to push me.’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I'm all right. Isn't there anything else you know?’

‘Nothing that isn't common knowledge. Zuzanna spends most of her time in Europe. There are pictures of her at our parents' wedding, but she'd already left the country by the time I was born. As for Alice Waters and Ishaan Balakrishna? Who knows where they are?’

She knew that Zuzanna Kamińska had returned to her native Poland a few years after the burning of London. The first cases of Flight might have occurred in Britain, but it hadn't remained that way long. When the drug began cutting a swathe through Europe, Zuzanna had followed. That made her an unlikely candidate for Maisie's ‘she’ — a relief, since Zuzanna had a terrifying ability: she could reanimate the dead.

Alice Waters and Ishaan Balakrishna had disappeared from public view almost as soon as the embers had died down. Ishaan's power was a mystery, but Alice Waters, like David Sloan, had been a pyromancer — ironic, considering her last name.

Samson was watching her over his shoulder again. ‘You're going to tell me why you want to know all this now.’ He didn't phrase it as a question.

She took a break from pushing the wheelchair, leaning on the handles to take the weight off her right leg. The sun had reached its magic hour, hanging low and heavy in the sky, setting the world ablaze with golden light. It was too nice a day for death.

Watching a lone cloud cross the blue expanse, she said, ‘Did you ever consider doing anything else?’

‘What do you mean?’ He was caught off balance by the abrupt change of subject.

‘I mean did you ever want to be something besides a Gifted vigilante? You're nineteen. You could go to university. You're bright, and people like you — you could do anything you wanted, just about.’ Not like her, who had never excelled academically and was almost universally disliked by her peers.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

He seemed to think it over. ‘Because I have my abilities. I’m uniquely equipped to fight Flight. Honestly, to fight any crime. Not to do so would be wrong. I have an obligation, a duty, to protect people from others who would abuse the powers given to them by Flight.’

It was a pretty answer. And she heard her father's influence in every word.

‘Why not join Unit S?’

‘And wade through bureaucracy while the bad guys thumb their noses at us? Fighting inertia and corruption on my own side? People mad on Flight — you've seen what they can do. I don’t need to say please and thank you before picking my arse up and saving lives.’

‘Who gave you the right to be judge, jury, and executioner?’ she asked quietly.

He drew back, all offended arrogance, and perhaps a touch of hurt. ‘We're endorsed by the Government, Maisie. We are hardly the villains you make us out to be.’

‘Can you honestly tell me that every person hurt or killed by Alfred and Father was a danger to society?’

‘I can tell you that they were either using or involved in dealing Flight!’ He was angry now, the hand that wasn't in the sling gripping the wheelchair's armrest with a white-knuckled grip.

There was nothing she could say that would convince him he was wrong. She smiled at him sadly.

‘I won't tell you anything more. And as long as you think that, I can't ever trust you.’

She began pushing the wheelchair again, while he stewed in silence. They rounded the building, coming out into the main car park.

A taxi waited for him outside the front entrance.

The driver jumped out when he saw them, rushing to shake Samson's hand while gushing effusively about the honour of driving Samson Arthur. Maisie stood back and watched. She felt so tired, the drain of the day, both physical and emotional, turning her body to lead. Samson handled the man well, but she could see the strain her words had put on him in the tight line of his jaw and he smiled and said thank you.

Only when the driver had settled him into the back seat and stowed the wheelchair in the boot, did her brother look up at her.

His eyes still blazed with righteous temper, but it softened slightly as he took in her bruises.

‘You're a mess,’ he said gruffly. ‘Get in. We'll drop you home before going on to my place.’

She didn't argue, though part of her wasn't certain she wanted to be with him right then. There was no way she could face the walk back through town.

They didn't talk on the drive. She looked out the window, not really seeing anything, and reviewed what she knew.

She didn't think Zuzanna was the woman behind the circle. Lethal as she was, a fight between the Gladiators and her reanimated corpses would have lasted longer, and left more of a mess. She could only control them in bulk, and with no thoughts left behind in their bodies, she had to direct their every movement with her mind. They were difficult to kill, but not a sleek machine that could wipe out eleven people in fifteen minutes without leaving a trace.

Alice Waters could be behind it, but again, her power didn't seem suited to this kind of attack. That left Emalia Knight. If Samson was right, and Emalia had been the force that pushed their father out of London, she wouldn't think twice about encroaching on his territory here. And with her illusions, she wouldn't have to move the bodies. They could have been there the whole time, and no one would ever know it.

Maisie shivered. There was a creepy thought.

The car jolted to a stop. They had reached her house.

When she stepped out of the taxi, dusk had fallen, the streetlights just beginning to glow pink as the rooftops became silhouettes against the dimming sky.

‘Maisie, wait.’

She paused in her action of closing the door and turned to face Samson, who was leaning across the seats.

‘What?’

‘If you need help, call me. I might be out of commission for the moment, but I've got some connections. You don't have to trust me. Just if it gets bad, call. And I'll think about what you said. Some of it... some of it may be right.’

He'd actually heard her. Stunned, she said, ‘I haven't got your number.’

‘You haven't?’ He sounded genuinely surprised. Then he sighed. ‘I haven't been the best older brother, have I?’ He looked at the driver. ‘Do you have any paper?’

The man scrabbled in his glove box, eventually pulling out a crumpled receipt. ‘Here!’ he said eagerly.

‘And a pen?’

A bit more scrabbling, and a pen was produced. Samson leant on his cast to write, then passed her the receipt. ‘Please call,’ he said seriously.

He didn't wait for her to respond. The door slammed shut and the car pulled off from the curb. Then she was left standing there on the pavement. She tucked the paper into her pocket, where it joined the number for Officer Stephenson.

And suddenly she felt a little lighter. Maybe she wouldn't have to do this alone.

She walked up the drive. As she passed the ornamental topiary bushes, rendered into shadowy figures by the twilight, the front door opened and a person stepped out.

The outside lights blinked, revealing a strikingly tall woman with an ageless face that could have been anywhere from early thirties to late fifties. She wore a plain black suit, its simplicity only serving to accentuate the obviously expensive cut. Her blonde hair caught the light and shone like a golden halo.

Think of the devil...

Emalia Knight looked up and saw her.