As always, four people without whom:

Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it.

Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it.

Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.

Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up.

Then, the senior saints:

To those Witch-Engineers of British publishing who dared to bring the Devils into our dimension, including but by no means limited to Katie Espiner, Anna Valentine, Paul Stark, Paul Hussey, Cait Davies, Jenna Petts, Marcus Gipps, and Brendan Durkin. Then, of course, all those who’ve helped make, publish, publicise, translate, and above all sell my books wherever they may be around the world.

For spreading the one true Church across the sea, aye, even unto the New World: Lindsey Hall and Devi Pillai.

For crimes involving the Black Art of design: Will Staehle.

A dauntless crusader often wounded, never vanquished: Tim Miller.

One of the best three – possibly two – audiobook readers in Europe: Steven Pacey.

For masterful handling of the collection plate: Robert Kirby and Ginger Clark.

Proprietors of that slaughterhouse in Aviles: Diego Garcia Cruz and Jorge Ivan Argiz.

To all the writers whose paths have crossed mine on the internet, at the bar, or in the writers’ room, and who’ve provided help, support, laughs, and plenty of ideas worth the stealing. You know who you are.

And lastly, yet firstly:

Cardinal Redfearn. That the authors may march all one way when the heavenly trumpets ring out a new crusade …