That turned out to be very little. There was no sign of any struggle apart from a bit of broken wall, no sign of forced entry, and no sign that anybody other than Absher had been here. The raid was a total wash. The cops did their jobs while we slunk off in dejected defeat.

Nobody said a word even after we got back to the safe-house. What was there to say? We were all thinking about what we could have done differently, but that's the beauty of hindsight. Absher was dead and we didn't have a clue where to even start looking, no leads, no nothing. What didn't help, was that Clay had now sealed himself in either his workshop or his office, with only seconds of wild sprinting between the two. You could stand outside one of those doors for as long as you wanted but you'd never see him, and as soon as you got bored and turned your back you would hear a few steps tearing off in the opposite direction and as soon as you turned back then there would be no sign of anybody.

For once I was actually somewhat glad, having nothing to do for a while. I had a new toy that I wanted to test out.

Standing in front of the mirror in my little hotel room with my shirt off. The plated scales had grown since I had checked last. They fully covered my top half now, from my collarbone down to my waist. I looked incredible, like something out of a Hollywood blockbuster movie, the red mixed in with darker browns and blacks, all swirling together like an oil painting. The way the lines all came together to make the outline of muscles. I never really had muscles before, never had the time to really visit the gym and work out. But I could see why people did it now, felt very commanding.

I had a few scars before all of this started, mostly unimpressive stuff from falling off things, but now I had some stuff with history. A bunch of small pock-marks across my chest thanks to that Vampire enforcer with the sub-machinegun, and a much bigger one in the middle of my gut, given to me by the sniper that picked up Absher in the van.

That wasn't the important part, however. The important part was the two huge wings I was now sporting. It looked like I had cut a massive raw gemstone and was wearing it on my back, but the way they moved was fluid and natural. I could feel them, too. In the same way that you're always just vaguely aware of your arms and legs. It's difficult to describe since humans don't normally have wings, it was like simply having an extra set of arms, I could move them freely, will them away and back again without having to think about it.

Now we get to the really exciting stuff. Not only could I move them, I could also reshape them. That needed a bit more thought and effort on my part, but no more than throwing a punch usually needed. After a couple of false starts, I managed to pretty reliably swing my fist in a hook and reshape my wing to follow it around in a scythe motion. I reckoned I could do some real damage with a trick like this.

Finally, there was the real test. It took a bit of positioning to get enough space, I was standing at the foot of the bed, facing away from the mirror. I flared up my wings as high and wide as I could get them, easily six foot across from point to point and almost scraping the ceiling of the room. My nerves were suddenly flaring, I'm not sure what exactly I was afraid of, but after taking a long breath to steady my hands and a small fidget of my legs, I swung my wings down hard. Wind swirled around the enclosed room, the bedsheets billowed up and balled against the headboard, an empty glass on the desk toppled over and bounced on the high-pile carpet.

The nerves changed over to a childish giggle, the kind you make when you know that you shouldn't be laughing.

“Okay, one more. One more.” I muttered to myself, winding up again for another swing. This time, I bent my knees slightly, hunching forward and bracing as if I was going to jump. On the downswing, I pushed down hard and jumped.

I lost my balance as soon as I left the ground and made a strange sputtering noise as I flailed my arms. I very narrowly avoided slamming my head into the roof on the way up and only stopped short of head-butting the desk by slamming my hands into it.

That same childish chuckle hit me again. I really had to test this, now. I needed somewhere big and open I could really give it some power and get some height. Outside was dark and with plenty of cloud cover, a sprinkling of light rain meant there wouldn't be many people out on the street. The safe-house was near the centre of town, I could probably make it to one of the parks and back before I was noticed.

Then a pin dropped somewhere, followed by a rush in my lungs that felt way too familiar and a very distinct tingle of magic. But it wasn't even a second long, like the sound of somebody stepping on a squeaky floorboard in the next room when you know you're alone in the house. And sent roughly the same kind of chill up my spine. And just like a squeaky board in an empty house, I couldn't just ignore that it happened, I needed to go and check.

Putting on the first shirt that was in grabbing distance and willing my wings into hiding I poked my head out into the hallway. It was upstairs somewhere on the office floor. I walked like I was sneaking, stooped with my head dipped and putting my feet down without resting my weight on them right away so my footsteps wouldn't make any noise. The next floor was quiet, all I could hear was my own breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioning. My breathing stopped after a few seconds and my focus reached past the air-con until I couldn't hear it any more, reaching through the air to find the dropped pin still dancing on the floor. An impossibly faint ringing sound that the sound of the fluid moving in your inner ear would drown out. Once I had a read on it, the familiarity hit me again. There was something very wrong in the storage room. I needed to get in there now and do something about it. It was all I could focus on. I had to get in there now.

The door was locked, obviously. I would have been more surprised if it wasn't. After all, it had been open every other time I had tried to get in. Didn't matter. All I had to do was make a shard of my wing into a key shape that would fit the lock. I didn't have time to mess around with trying to pick the lock or anything subtle like that. Instead, I just twisted as hard as I could. It took a few tries before the metal even started to flex, but once it finally started bending it only took one good twist before the mechanism broke and one good shunt got the door open. The sensation that was just hitting the edges of my senses before was now hitting me full force in the face. Walking into the room was like walking up to the edge of a building. That rising tension you get in the soles of your feet when you're looking down from a long drop.

On the table was an open black leather briefcase, with a kitchen knife wrapped in a cloth sitting in the middle of it. The sense of familiarity suddenly made...well, sense. The knife that had scarred my hand, the knife that mugged me. This cheap bit of stainless steel had started it all. This briefcase must have belonged to Absher. Now I could finally figure out what was so important about a single kitchen knife. A pile of typed-up papers were set neatly on one side with a scrap of paper on the top reading “DONE”. The top page under the little paper scrap was a formally written letter, the kind of thing usually prefaced with “Dear Sir,”.

I write this knowing full well that should I succeed means almost certain death. But the knowledge alone will be worth it.

I intend to discover the secrets of a dragon's scales, how they are so strong, and how they can be beaten. Just putting the words on paper paints a target on my back. So my time is short. I can only apologize in advance, I have no idea what kind of chaos will follow in the wake of my actions.

Now that's over with, I'm going to address you all directly.

Frank, I know how much of a pain I've been to you. This should make us square. If not, I'll figure something out.

Martha, to say we never got on is putting it lightly. I wouldn't be surprised if you were glad to see me gone.

Simon, you were right. I owe you £50. It's yours if you can find it in all my things.

And to John, all I ask is that you don't let all this get lost a second time.

Thank you, and again, I'm sorry.

Paul Absher – Lorekeeper of the Northern Circle

The rest of the papers only made me angrier. This is what Absher had been working on, every bit of his research in this huge pile. According to all this, and confirmed by my experience, a Dragon's scales were functionally indestructible, but there was a way of getting through them. You needed a very special weapon to do it. Something like Ascalon. But the real trick was making a weapon like that and just like Absher said in his little letter, the know-how on that had been lost a long time ago.

What it needed was actually very simple; any weapon that could hold an edge, and a few drops of blood. Dragon blood. My blood.