Underground (Chalk Farm to Brent Cross)

There are two warlocks sat across from me, with sharp suits, sharp beards and even sharper nails.

Their familiar sits slumped in one of the priority seats, its snout buried in a three day old copy of the Evening Standard. 

The warlocks are each holding a candle, and the wax cascades down into their laps.

The train stops and the lights fail and the candles burn green and gold in the gloom. Shapes move in the airless darkness behind the window, big and hunched with tiny yellow eyes.  Over the tannoy, the driver’s voice begins to explain that we are being held at a red signal, but he is cut off with a thud and a muffled tearing sound. I can something panting behind me, and the train begins to rock back and forth.

“Christ.” Says one warlock to the other. “We’re gonna be late for pilates. Reckon you can get any signal down here?”

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