“How do you do that?”
Thomas turns, quenching the werelight, shaping defensive formae before it registers that the voice belongs to a small, blond, unkempt boy. “Do what?”
“There was a light. Was it magic?”
“Bollocks,” the boy says casually.
Sound stern, Thomas remembers from his prefect days, and change the subject. “You'd better run along home. It's dangerous, being out at night.” There's no trace here of the rumoured vampire, but the boy could break his neck in this old bomb site. “Go on.”
Retreating, the boy mutters audibly, “But it was magic.”
John is waiting for his chips when he feels magic walk in the door. He braces himself, but it's just two plainclothes coppers. White and black, middle-aged and young, both good-looking. Isaacs, as cast by Hollywood.
For no reason John's got an uneasy feeling, and glancing over again he finds the older, white one looking at him.
“Do I know you?” asks the Isaac in a posh voice.
“No, mate.” But John recognises something, the feel of him, something down at the root of John's magic before it meant demons, and in the hot greasy air, John shivers.