"Tell your readers that I'll get their tormentors. They can bet on that. They can bet their lives …"

MR. CREPSLEY pushed the manhole cover up and out of the way, while Harkat and me waited in the darkness below. After checking the street for signs of life, he whispered, "All clear," and we followed him up the ladder and out into fresh air.

"I hate those bloody tunnels," I groaned, slipping off my shoes, which were soaked through with water, mud and other things I didn't want to think about. I'd have to wash them out in the sink when we got back to the hotel and leave them on top of a radiator to dry, as I'd been doing at the end of every night for the past three months.

"I despise them too," Mr. Crepsley agreed, gently prying the remains of a dead rat from the folds of his long red cloak.

"They're not so bad," Harkat chuckled. It was OK for him — he had no nose or sense of smell!

"At least the rain has held off," Mr. Crepsley said.

"Give it another month," I replied sourly. "We'll be wading up to our hips down there by mid-October."

"We will have located and dealt with the vampaneze by then," Mr. Crepsley said, without conviction.

"That's what you said two months ago," I reminded him.

"And last month," Harkat added.

"You wish to call off the search and leave these people to the vampaneze?" Mr. Crepsley asked quietly.

Harkat and me looked at each other, then shook our heads. "Of course not," I sighed. "We're just tired and cranky. Let's get back to the hotel, dry ourselves off and get something warm to eat. We'll be fine after a good day's sleep."

Finding a nearby fire escape, we climbed to the roof of the building and set off across the skylight of the city, where there were no police or soldiers.