the air. “Is Dad smoking again? Mum will go mental if he’s doing it in the house.”
“This is nothing to do with Dad.” Lucky frowned and crossed her arms. Not good. “You’ve got visitors.” Then she spun on her heels and stomped upstairs to her room. The whole house shook as she slammed the door.
Gemma? Had she come over to see him? She did live just down the road. It had to be. He checked that his fly was up and quickly wiped his nose. Then he opened the kitchen door.
So not Gemma. A gaunt old woman leaned against the sink, blowing cigarette smoke out of the half-open window. Her hair would have suited a witch: wild, thick as a bush and grey as slate. She dropped her stub into Ash’s Yoda mug, where it died with a hiss.
The old woman smiled at Ash, her thin lips parting to reveal a row of yellow teeth. It wasn’t pretty. She searched her baggy woollen cardigan and took out a packet of Marlboro Lights. She flicked her Zippo and within two puffs the fresh cigarette was glowing.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” Ash said. He’d been brought up to respect his elders – it was the Indian way – but there was something thoroughly disrespectful about this woman.
“So you’re Ash Mistry,” she said. “The Kali-aastra.”
Ash tensed. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Elaine.”
“I don’t know any Elaines.”
“She’s a friend of mine.”
Ash spun round at the new voice, one he recognised.
An Indian girl stepped out from behind the fridge. That was why he hadn’t seen her, but then she was very good at being invisible. She played with a silver locket as she gazed at him through her big black sunglasses. She wore a pair of dark green trousers and a black cotton shirt, its collar and cuffs embroidered with entwined serpents. Looking at her, a stranger would guess she was about fifteen. They’d only be off by about four thousand years.
She took off her glasses, and her pupils, vertical slits, dilated with sly amusement. The green irises filled out the rest of her eyes, leaving no whites at all. Her lips parted into a smile, and Ash glimpsed a pair of half-extended venomous fangs where her canines should have been.
She looked like a vampire, cold and with a terrible beauty. But no vampire could compare to her. She was the daughter of the demon king and born to end men’s lives.
“Namaste,” said Parvati.
She stepped back and looked at him.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
“For the better, right?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Oh, nice to see you again too, Parvati.
“How have you been?” he asked. “It’s been ages and I haven’t heard anything.”
“You missed me? How nice.”
“I didn’t say that. But I thought you might have dropped me an e-mail at least.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Blimey, Parvati.” He’d forgotten she didn’t do sensitive. “I’m just saying, it’s good to see you.”
“So who’s this Gemma?” she asked. “Found true love, have we?”
“What?” How did she know about Gemma? Ah yes. Because he’d been shouting her name in the hallway. “Er, she’s just a friend.”
“Is she the one you wrote the poem about?”
Despite the cold air coming through the open window, Ash suddenly became very hot. And bothered. “You know about that?”
“I’ve been keeping up to date. Checking the blogs and boards. We do have the Internet in India, in case you didn’t know.”
“What did you think?” He had to ask. “Of the poem?”
Parvati tapped her chin, brow furrowed in contemplation. “Deeply disturbing. On many levels.”
“Thanks, Parvati. A lot.” She obviously knew nothing about poetry. “I assume you’re not here to discuss my literary endeavours, so why are you here?”
Parvati didn’t answer. Her attention was on a photo on the wall. Ash knew exactly which one.
An Indian couple, in black and white, sat stiffly looking at the camera. The man’s hair was glossy ebony with oil. If he’d used any more, it would have been declared an environmental disaster. His black plastic-framed glasses sat firm on his thin nose.
The woman wore a traditional sari and had a puja mark on her forehead. She had a large gold nose ring, and thick kohl circled her deep black eyes.
Uncle Vik and Aunt Anita.
The photo had been taken years and years ago, when they were newlyweds. Had they imagined how their lives would go? How their lives would end?
It had happened in Varanasi, the holiest city in India. Uncle Vik had been an archaeologist, teaching at the university. But there they’d met Lord Alexander Savage. The English aristocrat had asked Uncle Vik to translate some ancient Harappan scrolls, translations that were crucial to Savage’s plans to resurrect Ravana. When Vik ultimately refused, Savage had killed Ash’s uncle and aunt.
Savage was over three hundred years old, and when Ash had first met him, he’d looked it. A living skeleton with skin flaking off his withered flesh, the man was only kept going by his magic, and even that was beginning to fail. His plan had been to resurrect Ravana, the master of all ten sorceries, in the hope that the demon king would give him immortal youth in exchange for bringing him back from the dead. And it had all been going well for him until Ash had turned up and put his fist through Ravana’s chest, ending him once and for ever.
Ash could still picture the young, rejuvenated Savage, fleeing through the chaos that had followed Ravana’s destruction. He had wanted to go after the English sorcerer, but in the end, he knew where his priorities lay. He had a sister, parents and a home. This was where he belonged. It was Parvati’s job to hunt down Savage – she had her own grudge against him. But Ash’s anger was still there. He missed his aunt and uncle, and Savage needed to pay for what he’d done.
“Have you found him?” asked Ash.
“No. But I’m still looking.” Parvati put her hand on Ash’s shoulder. “I will find him. I promise you.” She looked him up and down. “How are you, Ash?”
“Great. Better than great.” That was
