Prologue

"Her name is Katrina Greenberg, age 16, goes to Spaulding High School in Rochester, New Hampshire. Mrs. Harrolds has already bought you a ticket, she has. Your plane leaves in 2 hours," strict brown eyes carefully looked over the teenager sitting opposite him, "and you might think of changing your attire, even though it might be a British settlement, the weather in Rochester isn't exactly London like. I suggest you put away your cloak for the time being."

"Right, sir. And might I ask," the boy spoke in a low and uncaring tone, as if he wasn't at all interested in anything the gentleman had to say, and was asking out of mere need, "what species does it belong to?"

"Oh, I think it might interest you more than the others did, Mr. Webb. You've never brought one of the cambion to us before; they are rare, in fact. Very rare," the man stroked his chin lightly, as if thinking about something important. It was obvious by his gray hair that he was already of great age, but his stature and his body could only tell a different story, he looked very strong and it seemed would remain like that for quite some time.

"The cambion, Mr. Smith, sir?", the boy's voice was clearly surprised upon hearing something new.

"Yes, the cambion - the offspring of a demon and a human. Like I said before, they haven't been spotted very often, I can even tell you that this is the only time we've tracked one since 1967. And it's not that they hide well, there just aren't that many of them," Mr. Smith opened a drawer, and took out a cigar, "Nevertheless, no need to worry, Mr. Webb, no need at all. It's nothing you can't handle, I assure you."

He carefully lit the end of the cigar and before the boy could say another word, gestured at the door, "I suppose it's time for you to leave, don't want to miss our flight, now do we?"

The boy got up and without saying a word headed to the door, but upon reaching it, stopped, "Must I go to Mrs. Harrolds myself, sir?", he asked in a calm and steady voice, his tone back to the way it was, strong but bored, "or will my ticket be delivered to me?"

"It's in your apartment already, Mr. Webb, I presume it was delivered about an hour or so ago," Mr. Smith replied behind the teenager's back.

After the answer came, it seemed he was already about to leave, but stopped his hand halfway to the doorknob, "and my mother?" this time the boy's voice shook a little, showing the biggest emotion than it had in the past 5 minutes of conversation, and it seemed that this question was one of the first he had wanted to ask, or at least the most important one.

"Nothing has changed. We are," Mr. Smith paused to take a whiff of his cigar, "doing our best to help her, like always."

"It's not enough," whispered the teenager very lowly before opening the door and swiftly walking away.

He found the plane ticket and passport on the floor right next to his apartment door, as if the deliverer slipped it under the door. Picking them up and putting them on the coffee table, he passed the little kitchen and bathroom and entered a bedroom. There he opened a wardrobe, took out a duffel bag and stacked all of his clothes into it, then emptied a drawer full of weapons – blades, swords and kinjals, which he put into a separate bag at the bottom of the duffel one. Looking through his apartment one more time, he grabbed the plane ticket and passport and left his apartment, headed to the airport.