Penn was seething. As they made their way down the hill, Asher could feel the impatience burning into the back of his head, and he was sure if he turned, Penn’s eyes would be burning again. He tried to think of a single way he could track down a lone wolf in a territory full of them, but so much of his effort went into the walk down the hill and trying not to cry at the thought of climbing back up it. Maybe he could track down who the artist was, talk to them or their parents about where they were. He could ask the research experts if they knew anything about territory patterns – though if the creature was really a Nakati that might not have mattered – and call it a push to get the animals under control. He was supposed to be keeping order after all. Even though he’d done nothing so far to keep the peace.

No wonder everyone was starting to grow frustrated with him.

Asher didn’t know if he could really justify what he was doing. Maybe in the bigger picture, trying to get to the bottom of the whole situation, which is what he had told Norrah back at the Manor, but he felt rogue. If he had been an outsider looking in, trying to do his job as a Lieutenant, he would have sent himself back to Ralkuada. With a very stern talking to. At what point had he decided he would go off the path to get answers?

Had he really changed so much so quickly? Or perhaps these were just doubts holding him back. Either way, his goal had to be the same. Get to the bottom of this. He had to find out how the Gate into that horrible world opened, when, and hopefully how to stop it. There were still so many missing people. Thousands of souls either trapped or dead, including the entire royal family. Inculding Navarre. There had to be a way to get them out.

The smithery was smaller than Asher expected, a small house on the end of a quiet street made of the same daub and brick as every other building. It was separated from the others by a spiked iron fence, and attached to the side was a crooked and worn wooden extension. As Asher hobbled closer, the smell of burning metal tinged at his nose, joined with waves of heat that pricked against the otherwise cold air. The extension itself wasn’t very big; a single room with a low, slanted roof and thick iron bars running along the walls. Clattering and rhythmic banging sounded from inside.

Asher knocked on the door into the side room and it swung open without resistance. The inside was dirty and crowded and worn down, most of the space filled with a firepit that sat in the middle of the room. Tools and iron scraps covered the benches and worktables that spread across the rest of the space, covered in rust and heat. Standing in the corner, hammering at a lumpy horse-shoe, was a man twice the size of Asher. Asher had to assume it was Iain, but he was suddenly aware of the pain pulsing through his leg and how much his body ached.

‘Closed,’ the man growled. His torso was as wide as a barrel, his shoulders broad and bulging against a blackened shirt and apron. Dark hair formed a crown around his head, thick around the sides and thin on top, with a thick beard covering the bottom half of his face.

‘I’m looking for Iain Derrian,’ Asher said.

‘You found him,’ the man said. ‘Get out.’

Asher swallowed. It had been a long time since he’d dealt with any situation that he needed to follow up on, and he’d never handled a missing person case before. Yet, this was his only tangible lead so far, and he needed to be firm and authoritative. To a man who was twice the size of him.

‘I don’t mean to bother you,’ he said. ‘My name is Lieutenant Asher—’

‘Lieutenant?’ Iain echoed. ‘You lot can’t wait ten minutes for me to do my work properly? You want me to finish making these shoes, you leave me alone.’

‘That’s not why I’m here,’ Asher said. He really wished the man wasn’t holding a hammer the size of his head.

‘Is that so?’

‘I have a few questions about the disappearance of Hadl—’

The hammer slammed down onto the table hard enough to make the floor shake, and Asher jumped. Iain didn’t turn, but tension rippled through his muscles. ‘She didn’t disappear.’ His voice was tight, low and dangerous. ‘She’s dead. Does that answer all your questions?’

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‘Dead?’ the word burst out before Asher could stop it, and Iain turned.

His brow furrowed and his pale eyes narrow. ‘Were you hoping for something else?’ he demanded. He glanced Asher up and down. ‘What are you doing? Going through old cases because you’re on bedrest?’

‘Not exactly,’ Asher said. He fought the urge to shrink back as Penn eased past him and began wandering through the workshop. Iain glanced at him, then turned back to Asher. ‘Why do you think she’s dead?’

‘Because she’s dead,’ Iain said. ‘What are you doing here?’

Asher wondered how much Iain knew about Hadley, if mentioning witchcraft would give answers or more denial. ‘A lot of people have been going missing recently,’ he said.

‘What about it?’

‘I think it started before Valenda,’ Asher said. ‘And Hadley’s disappearance is one of the odd ones.’

Penn knocked one of the tables at the other end of the room, sending a string of tools clattering to the ground. When he stepped over the mess and kept circling, Iain huffed and shoved past the man to pick it up.

‘Hadley spent too much time around the wrong people,’ Iain said. ‘That’s it. Why don’t you go talk to them about it instead?’

‘You’re talking about Sara and Gershwin?’ Asher asked.

Iain straightened, tossing his tools back onto the table with a heavy thud. ‘So you know. Do you know they’re witches? Why are you bothering me?’

Asher flinched. If he was any other official, that would be enough to condemn both women. ‘Was Hadley a witch?’ Asher asked.

‘What’s it matter?’ Iain asked.

‘He’s a witch,’ Penn said.

Iain whirled on the man, gripping an iron clamp with white knuckles. ‘What the fuck did you just say, boy?’

‘Penn, don’t,’ Asher warned. Penn glared at him, and Asher held his gaze. ‘People here don’t like that.’

‘Is that why they’re all dead?’ Penn asked.

‘A bit, yeah.’

Penn pointed at Iain. ‘He’s a witch. He’s not dead.’

Iain lifted the clamp, and Asher held his hand up, stepping in front of Penn. ‘He’s not from around here,’ he said quickly. ‘No-one’s accusing you, I swear.’

‘If your little serf friend is going to be like that, he can leave,’ Iain said.

‘No,’ Penn said.

‘Get out.’

‘No,’ Penn said. He lifted the parchment he was still holding. ‘I’m looking for the wolf. You’re a witch. Help me find the wolf.’

‘Who do you think you are?’ Iain growled.

‘Penn, stop,’ Asher pressed. ‘Please.’

‘We need to find the wolf!’ Penn cried. ‘If you won’t help, I’ll find a witch who will. He is a witch.’

‘You don’t know—’

Penn held up a chunk of metal, thrusting it at Asher. It was no bigger than his palm, round at the top and pointed at the bottom, with intricate molten silver woven through it. The top was hollow, closed only by a webbing of that silver pattern, revealing an empty inside. A vial.

‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ Asher said.

‘You put that back,’ Iain snapped. ‘Both of you get out. Get out before I smear you both across the floor.’

He stomped forward, and Asher held his hand out, signalling him to wait. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Then, turning to Penn, he realised the man’s eyes were burning again. ‘We’ll find the wolf, I promise,’ he said. ‘But you can’t just take things you need to do it. It just makes things harder. Put it back, and let me talk to the man, please.’

‘We’re not talking,’ Iain said. ‘I want you out too.’

‘We need to find the wolf,’ Penn pressed. He thrust the strange vial at Asher. ‘You do it.’

‘Penn, I know you’re frustrated, but—’

‘You’re useless!’ Penn snapped. ‘Fix it!!

‘Hey!’

‘Help me!’

He shoved the vial at Asher, and Asher snatched it off him with a frustrated shout. The metal stuck fast to his hand.

It then exploded.