Ash Mistry and the City of Death. Sarwat Chadda

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 true. He was in perfect health. Beyond perfect.

      “You certainly look good.”

      Ash nodded. “Don’t need to sleep, eat, anything like that. I can run a hundred miles a day without feeling tired. Never get ill, not even a cold. There was a super-flu going around a month ago and half the school was off.”

      “I heard about that,” said Parvati. “Made the news back in India.”

      Ash slapped his chest. “Not even a sniffle.” He sat down and picked up an apple.

      “It will fade, over time,” said Parvati. “You’ll return to being… more human. But never quite all the way.”

      “It’s kinda cool being a superhero.”

      Parvati arched her eyebrow. “Just don’t start wearing your underpants outside your trousers. It’s not a good look for you.”

      “Thanks for the fashion tip.”

      “So you’re managing?” She toyed with her sunglasses. “Restraining yourself? Not letting people see exactly who you are? What you are, I should say.”

      “Is that why you’re here? To make sure I haven’t fallen to the Dark Side of the Force?”

      “Probably too late for that.” Parvati laughed, and Ash’s heart quickened. He’d forgotten how her laughter was like the chiming of silver bells. “But no, that’s not why I’m here. I need your help.” She looked towards Elaine. “My friend had best explain.”

      Elaine rummaged around in her pocket and put a postcard on the table. The card was a cheap one that you could get in any tourist shop in London. It showed two bejewelled crowns, a sceptre and a golden orb, each one sitting regally on a red cushion.

      “The Crown Jewels?” said Ash. He’d visited the Tower of London loads of times on school trips. Every school kid in Britain recognised them.

      “You’ve heard of the Koh-i-noor?” asked Parvati.

      “Of course I have.” He looked at the humongous diamond sparkling in the centre of one of the crowns. “The Mountain of Light.”

      “Stolen by the British in the mid-nineteenth century from the maharajah of Lahore,” Parvati said. “It was given to Queen Victoria. The original stone was much bigger than what it is now. The British cut it in half and put the largest piece in here.” She tapped the central image. “The Queen Mother’s Crown.”

      “Not any more,” said Elaine. “It was stolen five days ago.”

      “Impossible. It would have been in the news,” said Ash.

      Elaine shook her head. “No. This sort of news is kept very quiet. Why would the government want to admit a national heirloom has been stolen? You can count on the prime minister’s office to cover this sort of thing up to avoid a scandal.”

      Ash sat down. “Why was it nicked? To sell it?”

      “It is up for sale, that’s for certain,” said Elaine. “It’s the buyer we’re interested in.”

      “It is an aastra, Ash,” Parvati replied.

      “Ah,” said Ash.

      An aastra was anything made by a god – usually weapons. Ash had found one, a golden arrowhead, in an underground chamber in Varanasi, where a splinter of the aastra had entered his thumb. That minute piece of god-forged metal was the source of all his power and all the trouble that had followed: the death of his uncle and aunt, Lucky’s kidnapping and his own demise and return.

      “Will it work? The British cut it in half, didn’t they?” he asked.

      “You only have a fraction of the Kali-aastra, far less than a half, and it’s served you well,” replied Parvati.

      She had a point. Ash peered at his thumb, at the scar marking where the splinter had entered. The sliver of metal was long gone, bound to every atom of his body.

      “Whose aastra is it?” he asked. Each aastra was different, depending on which god had forged it. The aastra of Agni, the fire god, gained power from heat and fire. Could the Koh-i-noor be another Kali-aastra like his? That didn’t bear thinking about.

      Elaine looked down at her boots as she lit another cigarette and gave a slight shrug. “That we don’t know.”

      Ash frowned. “Parvati? Any idea?”

      “No,” she declared. “The Koh-i-noor is exceedingly ancient, but I’ve never known anyone to successfully awaken it.”

      “Awakened or not, we can’t risk letting it fall into the wrong hands,” said Elaine.

      “And