Magic, Lizzie thought, was more trouble than it was worth. Though governments liked to appear in control, the writing painted every wall—the Circle was the world’s true superpower. Each of the Twelve Families had their own territory. A swathe of land—roughly equal to the others—which they were to administrate and ‘protect’.

She didn’t see much protection, though.

Thank Christ they haven’t touched here, she thought, glancing at Lydia as the diminutive woman helped Dr. Wen pry open the HARDON console. Yet.

Lizzie stood with Amanda—who had returned to her regular form—analysing Rooney’s tracings of the circuits from the machine’s edges. These seemed to be energy buffers, designed to prevent catastrophic interactions between internal and external sources.

Fat lot of good it had done.

They were by the door, across from where the phone box spewed smoke into the office. Jack sat at his desk, sighing intermittently as he presumably lamented his inability to do anything. He was too hard on himself, she thought—delegation counted as a skill.

On the sofas, Jack’s assistant—Hannah, if she recalled—quizzed Rooney on his findings, animated and alight as they discussed the nature of magic and runes. It was nice to see that kind of enthusiasm. If only Jack had ever shown it, when they were that age.

Rooney, to his credit, was even more enthusiastic than she was. The Faerie had always loved runes and their applications, all the way back to when they’d met in the Sidhe Wars. She’d even helped him defect from the Seelie and set up his shop in Blackpool.

The MSG had been his idea. A response to the onset of Armageddon and rumours of Unseelie scheming. Poor bastard wanted to defeat evil with the power of science. Like this was Dr. Stone, or some shit.

Still, better than doing nothing.

Of course, for all her knowledge and education, this situation was almost beyond her. While she could identify individual components, she couldn’t see how they fit together. It would require hours of study.

Fortunately, it was a time machine. Dr. Wen wouldn’t be losing any time—only they would, and perhaps their sanity with it.

With an aggravated sigh, she scrunched up the paper in her hand. Meaningless. Amanda looked to her, curious, and cocked her head.

“Everything all right?” she said, blowing the brunette fringe out of her eyes.

“Half left, actually.” Lizzie rubbed her face.

“Really?” called Jack, peering over, “puns all ready?”

“Shut up. Ye’re just mad aboot hoo useless y’are.”

He baulked and went silent, pressing his lips into a line. Oh. Perhaps she should have chosen her words better, but it was done now. It didn’t look like he’d listen to an apology; his eyes had glazed over, like his mind occupied some other space.

She turned back to Amanda and nodded, smiling. “I’m fine, Mandy. It’s just really confusin’.”

Smiling back, the Doppelganger returned to her work. She, Lizzie considered, was almost as confusing as the futuristic runes they studied. Most Doppelgangers chose a human form as their identity, but that didn’t take away their ability to assume others—though the law would refuse to recognise them.

Lizzie still hadn’t worked the woman out. At first, she seemed shy, and quiet enough you might forget she was in the room after long enough. But was that a quirk of the shape she held? Others Lizzie had met changed personalities based on their current form. Maybe that was a survival instinct, though.

Rooney had recruited her, unable to ignore a talented runesmith wasting away on the street. Lizzie didn’t mind: the more members, the quicker the research would go.

Lydia yelped as something crackled and sparked, Dr. Wen taking the full brunt and convulsing before he pulled away. More smoke poured from the HARDON, and everyone coughed. It smelled like a cross between an electrical fire and raw sewage.

“Well,” said Lydia, grimacing, “it’s open.”

Eying her, Lizzie felt glad the woman had relocated, leaving the Blackwells behind. She actually liked Lydia when they were free of the toxicity of their families. It was nice to have a peer.

Her father had always been obsessed with the rivalry, even though nobody else cared anymore. She had to be better than Lydia at everything. She wasn’t allowed to be friends with the younger girl, because that might foster love instead of hatred.

Ludicrous.

Lydia seemed happier, like this. And so was Lizzie. That was what mattered, right?

Despite the acridity, they swarmed around the box—aside from Jack, who stroked his beard with a face like a slapped ass.

Sometimes, it was hard to believe he was any different from the boy she’d found in a car park.

***

Eleven Years Ago

Elizabeth sat on a bench, chewing thoughtfully on a Big Mag. It was the first she’d ever eaten; her father considered fast food ‘a plebeian excuse not to learn life skills’, like they didn’t eat in restaurants once a week and have staff to do all the cooking for them. Just another way to look down on others, she thought.

She hadn’t been missing much. The burger, if it could reasonably be called such, tasted of some kind of cardboard mush. The salad would have been better served as part of a child’s play-set, plastic as it was. And the fries were soggy and lukewarm.

Still, she couldn’t complain. Food was food, and she couldn’t afford much better now she’d given up the McCann name. She’d syphoned some of her allowances to a savings account, of course, but she’d barely managed five figures. That wouldn’t even last her a year. She needed to scrimp.

Hence sitting on a bench in a commercial estate, eating MgDonalds. Gravel and tarmac surrounded her, various businesses closing up as the sun dropped beneath the horizon, the sky darkening. Cars left, and the park emptied. It still smelled offensively of petrol fumes.

Was this what passed for recreational facilities in this city?

Blackpool. The world’s only city free of the Circle’s control had thus become its paranormal capital. It turned out humans weren’t the only species who hated regulation.

Almost gagging, she dumped the remaining half of her burger in the bin next to the bench, more of an open basket than anything. Let the seagulls have it. Next time, she’d make do with a Pot Noodle.

Probably more nutritious, too.

Glancing around, she sighed, wondering where she went from here. How to survive? What to do with her life? She’d left her family because she wanted some meaning, but where would she find it?

As she looked back, she did a double take. Was that an arm pulling her half-finished meal out of the rubbish?

Peeking over the bench, she saw a man who couldn’t have been twenty yet—a boy, really. Close to her own age, but worlds apart. His wild brown hair was greasy and matted, patches of a beard sprouting on his face. A rope held up tattered trousers, his t-shirt now little more than a collection of strings hanging from his torso—he wore no shoes.

Caught in her gaze, he paused, burger halfway to his mouth. Like a deer in headlights, he stared. Then he shrugged, taking a bite.

She squinted. “Why’re ye eatin’ a burger oot the bin?”

“Why would you throw away a perfectly good burger?” he said, glowering, words muffled by the food.

She considered this. In the past, it hadn’t been a consideration, but now she needed to make everything last. Her upbringing hadn’t taught her to avoid wasting food. But then again, her family was the kind who cared more about reputation than about starving people.

Poverty in the cities? Merits no attention. Sketchy reports of a Redcap? Full mobilisation, even if it eventually turned out to just be a Manchester United fan.

She was sure someone had thrown him in the river anyway.

Thoughts a mess, she chewed her lip. Should she help him? Conventional wisdom told her no, she needed to save every penny.

But if she didn’t, was she any better than the family she’d left behind?

With a smile, she regarded him, and batted the sandwich from his hand and into the bin.

He snapped straight, bunching his fists.

She chuckled, waving him down. “Relax. Why don’t we go inside and get ye somethin’ that’s actually warm?”

Staring at her, he pursed his lips.

Then he bolted.

***

Present Day

Jack suppressed a growl. The day had grown long, the sky outside fading to black, and they were no closer to repairing the HARDON and getting the damned thing out of his living room. A cold breeze stirred through the open window, making him shiver. At least the smoke had cleared.

The smell, however, had not.

His stomach rumbled.

Perhaps he could replace the smell with a better one. Since his cupboards were bare, that would require calling out, which presented its own problem.

He looked around: Lizzie and Amanda sat on one sofa, conferring about the complex circuits within the phone box. Hannah and Dr. Wen were across from them, listening. Lydia stood outside the HARDON, her expression pinched as she pulled different components aside, as directed by Rooney.

She did not appear pleased. Her knowledge of runes was akin to his ability to play the flute by farting.

A competition to win might cheer her up, he thought. That was something she could never resist.

“Right,” he said, being sure not to look at her any longer than the others. “Who fancies a pizza?”

The key here lay in the assumption: by offering—without knowing the financial situation of the others—he’d also taken on the responsibility of paying. He couldn’t afford that, of course—he could barely afford to feed himself.

But Lydia would take the opportunity to show off her vast riches and generosity. Adulation was enough food for her.

“I’m paying,” he added. It was a challenge; the skint man has deeper pockets than you. How could your reputation cope?

“A lot of this plan seems to rely on your friend's pettiness.”

You can shut up. Where have you been all chapter?

“Some might say your best friend. Apart from me, naturally.”

Then God help me.

Everyone nodded, agreeing it was probably time for a break.

With a smug grin, Lydia said, “why, isn’t that rather kind of you?”

He started. She peered through him, her eyes lit by understanding. Suppressing a groan, he changed his demeanour, pleading with his eyes that she take the damn bait.

Her returned expression seemed to say, “beg.”

Grumbling, he rose to his feet. There were menus by the front door, he thought—he’d suffer the blow if it meant not bowing his head.

As he walked, he bumped into Rooney—who backed out of the machine, eyes frantic—and clicked his tongue.

“I do believe I’ve fucked up,” said Rooney.

“What’s new?” asked Jack.

The Sidhe swallowed, gripping his desk until his knuckles went white. “I’d advise you to grab onto something.”

A whirring, grinding noise erupted, and everyone did as they were told. The air rushed out of the room and into the HARDON, dragging Jack the short distance toward it. What was happening?

In the air before him, a strange yellow light spiralled, twinkling and glowing and rushing with the air of different worlds. It looked somewhat like a Gate, but not quite. Too sparkly, and too… substantial. Like it was an actual object rather than a rippling of light.

Amanda yelped.

He left his feet, and reached out to grab the closest thing to him.

This was his office chair, which was, unfortunately, on wheels.

To a chorus of his name being screamed, he fell into the portal.