Saying sorry would have implied that this was her fault. ‘I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt,’ Irene said as she stood up.

‘I don’t like people bringing their fights into my territory.’ Dawkins was echoed by a rising growl from the surrounding pack. Pieces of shattered metal were embedded in the floor, walls and werewolves, and the throne couldn’t have supported a poodle now. The chandelier was still in one piece, but that was only because none of the flying metal had spun directly upwards.

Irene met his glare. ‘And I don’t like having to come down here to get my property, after your pack attacked me.’

The place stank of blood now, as well as dust, werewolf and heat. If she showed weakness, they’d take her down. So she couldn’t afford to show any weakness. She wasn’t just one human in the middle of a mob of werewolves. She was a Librarian.

Dawkins thought about that, and a little of the fire in his eyes ebbed away. ‘Fair point. So what’s the Library, and who’s Alberich?’

Irene weighed things I should and should not tell outsiders against possibly unfortunate reaction of lead werewolf, if I refuse him in his own den, especially after that explosion. ‘The Library is the organization I belong to,’ she said. ‘Alberich is an enemy of the Library. Mr Dawkins, I ask you: am I really worth your time, when so many people are queuing up to kill me anyhow?’

Dawkins snorted. ‘I have to say that’s not the sort of argument people usually give me.’

‘What do they usually give you?’ Irene asked.

‘Oh, their throats or their bellies, and whimpering about how they don’t want to die. And that’s the oddest thing about you, even for a friend of Mr Vale.’ The brief amusement drained out of his eyes like sunlight from behind stained glass. ‘You’re not scared. You’re in the middle of the home turf of the biggest pack in London, and you’re not stupid, but you’re not scared, either. I’m starting to think that you may be right. Maybe I should let you go.’

‘Mr Dawkins—’ one of his closer followers began, a man in a butcher’s rough clothing and blue apron.

Dawkins lashed out, catching the man by the back of his neck in one suddenly larger and clawed hand. He shook him from side to side, jerking him off his feet until the man’s teeth rattled. ‘Did I ask for opinions? Did I ask for any fucking opinions?’

Nobody moved.

Dawkins released the man, dropping him to the ground. The man rolled over onto his back, panting for breath, and tilted his head back to bare his neck. ‘Right,’ Dawkins said. His voice echoed from wall to wall. ‘I’ve led this pack for five years now. And one reason why we’re the biggest pack in London is that I know when not to get into a fight. Is anyone challenging me on this?’

Dead silence flowed through the room like a living thing. Irene could hear her own breathing. Then, one by one, the werewolves began to flatten themselves on the floor among the fragments of shattered Tube signs, heedless of their clothing or injuries, their heads lowered and obedient.

Dawkins nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’

The woman who’d been sent to find Davey rose and stepped forward, dragging another man by his hair. Her victim stumbled forward, clutching an overcoat and a bagful of items to his chest. ‘This is Davey,’ she said. ‘He’d like to be . . . helpful.’

‘Hand them over,’ Dawkins snarled.

Davey dug into his bag and pulled out the folder. Irene almost snatched it off him, she was so glad to have it back again. She flicked it open and was relieved to see that the papers inside all looked as they ought to, and that the contents listing matched the number of pages.

‘Anything else?’ the woman enquired.

‘The poison he used on me, if you don’t mind,’ Irene said.

Davey reluctantly dug out a small pouch from his bag. ‘Bottle and needle’s in here, miss,’ he said. ‘But we didn’t take none of your money.’

‘Why did you take the folder?’ Irene asked curiously. They’d left her purse on her, so why bother with her papers?

‘Because the woman as hired us, she said not to let you keep any writing material nor papers,’ Davey explained. He glanced nervously at Dawkins.

Dawkins sighed. He reached out and cracked Davey across the face with a backhand slap that knocked the smaller man to his knees. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Any jobs that involve magic, they go through me first.’ He spun to growl at his listening hangers-on. ‘You all hear that? Look what happens when some idiots try to be clever!’ His gesture took in the shattered throne, the numerous injuries and Irene herself.

After a pause that dragged out to almost unbearable lengths, he turned to Irene. ‘You’re going to be walking out of here,’ he said. ‘You’re right, woman. We’ve better things to do with our time than get involved with your business.’

Irene gave him a nod. ‘And I don’t want to further complicate yours,’ she said.

Dawkins snorted. ‘You tell Mr Vale that, and we’ll see if he listens. Celia, show her to the exit.’

Celia stepped away from Davey, who was still kneeling on the floor with the air of someone who hoped nobody would notice he was there, and gestured to Irene. ‘This way, please,’ she said. Other werewolves moved out of their way in a shaggy wave of fur and muttering.

The back of her neck prickled as Celia led her down a passageway, but the other woman didn’t bother conversing with her. She simply pointed at a ladder at the end of the passage. ‘Up there,’ she said. ‘You’ll come out in the basement of a workshop. Make your excuses and leave. Don’t try coming back.’