There was a werewolf down here with her. No, make that at least one werewolf. She might as well assume the worst. And her kidnappers might be lurking as well. Or possibly her kidnappers were werewolves. It was like one of those Venn diagrams where all the possible Bad Things intersected to provide a Worst Possible Thing at the centre. But what she’d smelled when they kidnapped her was suggestive.

Irene picked up her pace to a jog as she headed for the light. While it wasn’t quite a terrified run, it was faster than her earlier prowl.

The light was a dimming ether-bulb mounted out of her reach on the wall. As she approached it, it gave enough light for her to see what was written on the wall beneath it.

LONDON UNDERGROUND SAFETY TUNNEL N-112.

A trembling roar came through the walls again, but this time Irene knew what it was. It was a Tube train, passing by out of her sight and out of her reach, while she was locked in these tunnels with the werewolves that laired in them.

She’d heard about this part of London. Vale had warned her and Kai not to wander down there, if they had any other options. The tabloids regularly published INNOCENT STREET URCHINS MAULED BY BLOODTHIRSTY BEASTS headlines – no, wait, that had been the incident with the imported giant rats, not the werewolves.

She realized that her brain was doing its usual thing in a panic situation, which was thinking about anything else, in the hope it would distract from the immediate danger. She needed to be practical. She needed to find a weapon. A weapon larger and more efficient than the knife in her boot.

Irene had no idea where they might be, in relation to London above them. Going onwards would presumably take her to a door, or a ladder, or some other way of getting out of these tunnels. There had to be some sort of maintenance exit, didn’t there? Common sense dictated that there must be a way out. There had to be a way in, for her to be here in the first place.

It was tempting to use the Language to bring down a chunk of ceiling or wall and block the tunnel, or even squash some werewolves. But that might be bad for whatever part of London was above them. Also, once a ceiling collapse had been started, it could be very difficult – even impossible – to stop it. She knew that from personal experience.

Staying here wouldn’t help. She set off down the corridor again, the light throwing her shadow in front of her. Ahead was darkness, but she thought she could see another flicker in the distance: presumably another ether-lamp.

Another howl shuddered through the air behind her: it was closer, and imagination added a gloating edge to it. Look at the poor little fleeing prey, it seemed to say, picking up her skirts and scuttling for cover. But there’s nowhere to run in these corridors, little rabbit, little mouse – there’s no way to escape . . .

Irene found herself smiling unpleasantly. She was not amused. She hoped that very shortly she would be able to explain to these werewolves just how unamused she was.

The passage, fully dark now, came to a crossroads, and Irene halted. She could see dim pinpricks of light in each of the possible directions, so that wasn’t any help.

Sniffing the air, she caught a very faint stink of sewage from the right-hand opening. The London Underground shouldn’t have any open links to sewers, even in the maintenance tunnels. Which meant either some sort of rebuilding in progress or damaged walls. Which meant . . . a possibility.

She headed to the right at an increased pace, her nose wrinkling as the whiffs of sewage became stronger. The next light was still a good distance away, an unfulfilled twinkle in the shadows. Presumably maintenance workers – if any actually came down here – brought their own lanterns.

The tunnel shuddered above her, and dust fell from the ceiling, crusting on the shoulders of her ruined coat. That must be another Tube train, at a right angle to the previous one. She tried to imagine a mental map of the London Tube layout in order to make a guess at her current position, but there were too many possibilities.

Two more howls, one answering another, and both of them close behind her. The penetrating waft of sewage was a stink that went through her nose and drilled all the way to her lungs, but that didn’t seem to be slowing down the werewolves.

In the near-darkness Irene didn’t see the pile of bricks against the wall. She tripped over an outlier, stubbing her toe and measuring her full length on the floor. Irene swore with her nose in the dust. Rolling over, she squinted at the pile. Several dozen loose bricks and a few half-bricks too, intended for the now-obvious hole in the wall, which reached up towards the ceiling. Perfect.

Instead of getting up, she clasped her ankle melodramatically. It’d be much easier if they came within range. ‘No!’ she whimpered, trying to put some genuine pain into it. ‘My ankle!’

Another howl guttered away into a deep, throaty laugh. Movement whispered in the dark junction that Irene had just left. She strained her eyes, but couldn’t see any shapes clearly.

Lesson One of Practical Interrogation: people will gloat and tell you things if they think you’re helpless. ‘Who’s there?’ Irene begged. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

Shadowy forms differentiated themselves from the greater darkness behind, and eyes glinted red in the ether-light. There were four of them: two were fully wolves, moving with the smoothness of natural animals as they prowled towards Irene, while the other two were half-man, half-wolf. They were hunched and clawed, with huge paws that scraped on the brick floor, and jaws that hung open and panted.

None of them answered.

They were less than twenty yards away now. And werewolves could move very fast.