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       The brotherhood stood in a circle around the centre of the cavernous basement, holding hands tightly as they uttered the incantation they knew was losing its power to control what they held at bay. The heat emanating from the stone carved seal had already begun to scorch their bare feet, the edges of their cassocks smouldering as the temperature increased.

       None of them looked up as Father Jacob entered the chamber, to look him in the eyes would mean failure, an end to all that had been, was and would be. They kept their gaze held on the intricate pattern of the seal and softly sang the words they knew by heart, the words of a long forgotten language.

       Father Jacob ducked under the arms of two of his children and strode into the centre. He looked up at the opening in the ceiling far above, seeing the blackness creep at the edges of the sun.

       "Forgive me for what I do," he cried as he let the blankets of the package unfold to reveal a child, no more than a year old and first born to the King. The baby began to wail as the heat from the seal reached its skin. Jacob blinked away the tears and held the child by one leg, the tiny body swaying from side to side.

       "As my father before me I do what must be done."

       The brotherhood increased the tempo of the chant and raised their hands above their heads, their finger tips touching the ever fading sunlight.

       "This sacrifice is in the service of the many and I freely surrender my place in the Heaven's as part of my duties." Jacob paused for a moment, running a finger over the birthmark on the baby's chest, tracing the demonic foetus shape with a cracked nail.

       Jacob drew the knife and plunged it into the child's stomach and sliced downwards in one, smooth movement. The infant's sobs ceased as its tiny life was expired. As the contents of the tiny frame splashed upon the tablet it sizzled, foul smelling steam rising up around Father Jacob. He didn't try to move. He watched as the blood and freshly spilt innocence was absorbed by the stone seal, cooling the heat that singed his beard and hair.

       The chanting stopped, only to be replaced by an inhuman screaming from somewhere deep beneath the ground.

       Jacob wrapped the corpse within the blankets that had kept it warm during life. He turned and looked around the room before making his choice.

       "Brother Emmanuelle, Brother Constantine," Jacob said, holding out the slaughtered child. "Take the remains and bury them in our hallowed garden."

       "Yes, Father." Emmanuelle took the offering, avoiding Jacob's eyes.

"Make sure he receives fresh flowers every day."

       "Yes, Father." They left the chamber and the others followed slowly, heads lowered in reverence.

       Jacob remained behind, listening as the screams subsided and the room returned to normal. Only then did he crouch down and run his fingers across the inscriptions now darkened by the burned blood of their offering. He followed each ancient letter with his finger tip until he had spelled out their name.

       The fist came in hard and fast from the right, the knuckles level with her temple. She reacted swiftly to the danger, smoothly ducking below the incoming attack and slamming a punch into her foe's armpit. He took a staggered step backwards before regaining his balance.

       She didn't wait and spun on one foot, bringing the other leg up in a high kick intended for impact with his chest. He saw it coming and leaned back at the waist, grabbing her ankle before the blow could connect. She saw the look of triumph on his face a moment before he struck out with his right fist, punching at her exposed inner thigh.

       "Bastard," she cursed, limping away but refusing to concede defeat.

       Pain throbbed in her leg, a tight pulsing that strummed at the muscle and fuelled her desire to win. She held his gaze as they circled the empty room, watching the tell tale sway of his hips as he prepared for his next offensive. They held the stand-off, each waiting for the other to blink.

       The man moved first, taking a half step to the left and then cutting to the right. She was ready and side stepped the attack at the last possible moment, sliding around him with the grace of a finely skilled dancer. As soon as she was behind him she spun around and brought her elbow down hard on the back of his neck.

       His back arched and she heard the painful exhalation of air as he tried to face her. She didn't hesitate in delivering the final blows. She dropped low and, with a sweeping kick, took his legs out from under him. The heavy thump of his back hitting the floor was accompanied by a cry resembling that of a distressed female. She took satisfaction from both.

       She jumped up and took her place beside his prone figure, raising her foot above his chest, ready to bring it down. This time the triumph was in her eyes.

       "Enough," he yelled as her foot came down. "You win." The foot stopped before it crippled him, the heel hovering millimetres from his ribcage.

       "For the hundredth time," she said, lowering the leg and holding out a hand.

       "Thanks." He took the hand and she pulled him upright.

       "Peter, when will you learn that I'm the better fighter?" she teased.

       "Not better. I go easy on you 'cos you're a girl," Peter replied, flashing his best, boyish grin.

       Megan Grant looked at Peter Booth and felt sorry for him. He was clearly in love with her and had been for two years. Unfortunately she didn't feel the same way. Peter was a friend, probably her best friend, but nothing more. Sometimes she wished things could be different between them. Peter was everything a young woman could want in a man. He was good looking – though not handsome, his features too feminine to be ever classed as handsome. He was funny, kind and the most generous person she had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Within a month of their first meeting he had gone as far as proposing marriage, but Megan had turned him down as gently as she could.

       Peter had been hurt and, for a while, they'd not spoken. Eventually they had reached an amicable agreement and had been the best of friends ever since. In fact the fight was part of that friendship, a weekly tradition they both enjoyed. Every Monday evening they attended the class, always staying behind after the other students had left. Peter did it just for the physical contact it afforded him with Megan, but she used the time to work out any pent up frustration and anger. And this is why she always won. Unlike Peter, she wasn't playing.

       Peter walked over to the other side of the room and pulled a towel that had seen better days from his open holdall.

       "You in early in the morning?" he asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

       "Yeah, Zahra is due to drop the cubs and I'm making sure I'm with her all the way," Megan answered.

       "You and those damn cats," Peter scowled. "No wonder you have no social life." Peter stuffed the towel back in his bag and zipped it up.

       "Unlike humans, those cats never try to fuck me over."

       "You wanna bet?" Peter offered. "You let your guard down around that lioness and she'd gut you without flinching and feed your innards to her cubs.

       Megan shook her head and laughed even though Peter's words were very true. Zahra may have been raised in captivity, but inside she was a feral beast with an inbred hunger for the hunt, an undeniable craving for freshly killed meat. And it was this wildness that had captivated Megan at a very young age.

       At the tender age of six Megan had known what she wanted to be when she grew up and she'd steadfastly held on to that ambition. College had been followed by university and then by specialist training under one of the top veterinarians in the country. With each step up Megan had pushed herself harder, always giving one hundred and ten percent in her quest to be the best at what she did. On the day her training was finished she'd accepted the job abroad and left England with only a single suitcase.