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She raised an eyebrow. “If you were here as a regular customer, Drake, you could take up as much time as you wanted.”

“Sorry, Primrose.” He shook his head. “Tempting, but this is more of a business visit.”

“Come on in, then.” She sighed and closed the door behind him. “I’m going to take a wild guess here. This is about the killings?”

He nodded and took the seat at the front of her desk as she returned to her chair behind it.

“It is. And it comes with a warning, Primrose. Keep a good eye on your girls. On anyone who works here. You know, of course, that we’ve now lost a fae, a bloodkin, and a shifter. It looks as if they’re all young, all from Velvet Houses, and all killed the same way.”

“And...?”

He frowned. “And what?”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Cyrus sighed. “Each killing resulted in the loss of one body part. And I didn’t need to tell you that, since I’m sure it’s all over the streets by now.”

“It is, but I needed you to confirm it.” Primrose stood and walked to her window, looking out on the faintly lightening darkness. “Can you tell me what parts have been taken?”

He shrugged. If that information wasn’t public yet, by the end of the day it probably would be. “Two ribs, a hand, and a fang.”

Primrose turned, her eyes narrowed. “Bones. Teeth. Hard things. Rattling things...” She stared at him, her eyes changing colour from brown to purple. “Spells use such materials. Dark spells.” Her body shuddered.

“Cyrus, I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

He leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. “Does it sound familiar, Primrose? Are there spells you know of that might need those ingredients?”

She crossed the room to the wall behind her desk, touched two different panels and half the wall slid apart, revealing uneven shelving—and books that looked as if they were either a thousand years old...or alive.

*~~*~~*

The 422 Club was cleverly named, realised Maelin, as she looked at the lovely engraving of a massive steam engine on the front door.

Thanks to an early childhood fascination with steam train toys, she knew she was looking at a 4-2-2 steam engine, its enormous driving wheel dominating the beautifully carved machine. The skilled artist had also added a fuel tender heaped with coal, which completed the image.

The temptation to run her fingers over the carving was almost irresistible, but she fought it, knowing she was here for another reason.

Sighing, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The place smelled of books.

Which wasn’t surprising, since the walls were lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The doors in the room had shelves over them, and there were rolling ladders here and there which made all the volumes accessible to anyone without stretching.

Whatever its name suggested, it was considerably more than a club.

A young gentleman sprang to attention as she walked in, straightening his smart black jacket.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he bowed. “How may I be of assistance today?”

Maelin smiled. “I’m looking for my uncle. Lord Theryn, Phineas Theryn?”

“Of course.” He smiled back. “You’d be Lady Maelin. He’s spoken of you quite often. If you’ll follow me?”

He led her down a passageway, around a corner or two, and then indicated another passageway, ending in a dark mahogany door. There had been books everywhere, and even here there were shelves filled with a variety of volumes.

Maelin shook her head. “I never imagined I’d see so many books in one place,” she turned to the lad. “I’d hate to have the job of cataloguing them.”

He shook his head. “Fortunately we don’t have to worry about it. That task—and yes it’s quite a large one—is handled by our tickerkins. And they’re very good indeed.”