This was it. My breath steamed in the remnants of the early morning chill, mixing with the dew that was rapidly burning off what grass remained on the field. Metal and boots had churned the damp grass to a muddy slurry; everyone looked the same from the knees down. But on our torsos, the colours were still visible. And they mattered.

“Just leave it! Come on, we’re going to be late, it’s fine.”

Richelle, caught in a pool of light from a streetlamp halfway between their gate and the taxi, cast a fretful look back at the front door of their house. Dan, one leg dangling over the taxi’s doorframe, the rest of him already securely seated, scowled at her around fake fangs.

New York was a half-alive ruin; electronic billboards smashed and window displays boarded over, tipped up and trashed. DataVision on 38th looked like a storm had hit it. An empty plastic bag fluttered in the breeze, snagged on a shard of broken glass in one of the windows. A desultory flag for the new age.

The great Houses of magic were not concerned with bloodlines or politics, except in the unescapable mundane sort of way most things are. But at their heart, the Houses considered themselves above such things. Magical heritage did not concern itself with mere genetics; an aptitude was the essential requirement. And, for some Houses, an attitude.

You don’t recognise the car. It’s cool inside, cold even - the air conditioner’s blowing so hard you can feel it against your skin, but you can’t hear it. Everything is silent, in fact. If it wasn’t for the scenery moving past the window, you’d think the car was stopped, the engine dead. Perhaps it’s an electric car?

Shots off the starboard bow at dusk, the captain rosy-red like the sunset sky. The sound of drums carried over the steady grumble of the engines, and lights flickered over the stark white paint of the ship’s sides. The crush of people swirled like the sapphire waves below. Sparkling wine flowed freely – everyone knew fresh water was limited on a ship, so alcohol was the responsible choice to preserve rations.

Andres Paolo was a dead man walking to a hopped up beat, and he knew it. It was hard to say who wanted him dead - or at least who wanted him dead enough to pay assassins. The usual strings of scorned ex-lovers, disgruntled fans and irate club owners were long on ire but generally short on cash and/or real desire to inflict lasting physical harm to his person

here’s lots of things I’m too scared to say. It feels like if I say the words out loud it makes them real - my voice gives them a weight and a dreadful presence that weighs in my gut and fills me with dread. There’s something about the finality of speaking.

Firelight made his eyes ache, even through his eyelids. It flickered and danced, casting lurid shapes across his vision, and Jurian curled himself tighter and tried to ignore the feeling of his skin gradually drying out as the warmth and light sapped his strength. The eternal dusk overhead was gradually lightening as the Pyrds carried him further from the cliff-carved ring city of Dular – soon, they would need no flame to keep him contained.

No-one knew about the Hamelin Sanctuary, or at least no-one talked about it. Gloria stumbled upon it quite by accident, her fur matted and dirty, paws aching, stomach growling. She’d never known there was anyone living in the forest.

The thick smell of horse, hay and creeping damp reminded Dervorgilla of home, but in a larger way. At home, they had one stall and a few boxes with doors half-missing and packed with everything from the plough and harnesses to farming tools to... she’d never looked in the sacks, to be honest. She half-suspected they’d be full of rats. Okay eating, if the winter was bad.

The van’s suspension groaned under Detective Yilmaz’s weight as she ducked into the dimly lit interior. Reported as suspicious three days ago, parked in front of a house, not moving. Dark finish to the paint-job, though this close it was clearly old and flaky, peeling off to reveal rust underneath. Not a matter for the police, but perhaps for the council, towing away abandoned, decrepit or illegally parked vehicles.v

The Galleria dell’Accademia di Firenze appeared utterly unremarkable from the outside, except for the thick iron bars across the windows and, tonight, two old stone gargoyles perched along the guttering. One was laying on the roof above the main door, forelegs crossed and spaded tail curled around its rough-hewn body, and the other was on the southern edge of the building, patrolling. Ti’Dani could track its movements by the faint orange glow of its cigar.

Ihyll drove like he had nothing to lose. Corners were challenges that he went at roaring, tearing down the asphalt in a furious squeal of rubber and smoke. There was something of that even when he was standing still, or leaned up against the wall watching newcomers prep their engines, checking nitrous and ignitions, topping up tanks.

Four days out from Carakko, they passed the first floating outpost. Vemway, still paler than usual and with his perfume not quite hiding the faint aroma of bile, peered across the waves at the towering structure. Half-cut timber bulwarks rose high above the water, their lower sides crusted with salt and seaweed, a few barnacles hanging on for dear life.

They’d tried all the obvious things, of course. Squint-Nose McGee had learned the hard way that the doors closed whip-fast and were made to withstand substantial impacts at speed. He’d been Stan, before.

Big Al, tough, with scars all over his face and one ear mostly missing, had suggested a full-frontal assault. No-one heard, though, him standing only hip high to most of the other bruisers and biters, and they’d spotted a different opportunity.

The sound of the slap echoed around the room. That was how it would be described in a novel, if this was a novel. If Laura had been able to do it. Instead she sank further into her chair and pretended she wasn’t in the room.

All that meant was that the world kept spinning, and the words kept coming.

There was only the road, stretching on towards the horizon, carving its way through the knee-high brush. Grass heavy with seed nodded dozy heads towards the sky, where the sun hid behind clouds and leant the world a queer blue-grey hue. There were footprints in the dust. Shallow indents that marked the slow passing of feet, heavy with dirt and the detritus of a life lived with blood and ended with the same.

Making a painting that followed a viewer with its eyes was a simple task, if you had a modicum of skill and some paint. Or charcoal, chalk, anything that could colour a paper or a canvas. It was just pigment and the human brain confusing itself with a trick of perspective, lies the eyes told the mind and the gullible neurons believed.