in

that much of a hurry. We'll get there when we get there, okay?"

Jacqueline glanced at him with a wry grimace but she didn't argue, and the

chauffeur flashed him a grateful look in the rearview mirror. Before long

they

were pulling up in front of the Dorchester Hotel and the doorman was

escorting

them out, to the chauffeur's immense relief. They checked in and found that

among the rooms Jacqueline had reserved for them was the same room from which

Modred had disappeared. As they signed the register Wyrdrune picked up a

complimentary copy of the London Times. The headline read, RIPPER STRIKES

AGAIN.

Chief Inspector Michael Blood was having a nightmare. He was chasing the

killer

through the streets of Whitechapel. Unfortunately he couldn't see what the

Ripper really looked like. The killer always appeared as a shadowy figure in

the

distance, stalking some unwary victim while Blood ran gasping through the

fog-enshrouded streets, his coat flapping behind him as he plunged down one

narrow alleyway after another, always seeing the shadowy form of the Ripper

turning around a corner just ahead of him. And when he arrived upon the spot,

there would be no one there, only a misty courtyard, not a sign of life. He

would stand there breathing hard, wildly looking all around him ... and then

a

throat-rending scream would ring out, shattering the stillness of the night

and

echoing through the deserted, foggy streets. And always, each and every time,

the victim cried out the same thing, and the sound of it would reverberate

like

thunder in the night.

"Michael!"

Over and over and over, it would echo through his mind. "Michael! Michael!

Michael! Michael!" And he would start running once again, chasing phantoms in

the night while terror-stricken voices called his name. "Michael! Michael!

Michael!"

He awoke with a cry, sitting up in bed and gasping for breath, then he sighed

wearily and rubbed his eyes, wondering what time it was. He groped for the

cigarettes on the nightstand, shook one out of the pack, put it between his

lips, and struck his lighter. As the flame flared up, it illuminated the

tatterdemalion figure of Billy Slade, sitting cross-legged in the chair

across

the room.

"\\fe really ought to 'ave another talk, y'know," said Billy. "You're out of

your depth on this one, Mick."

Blood started, the cigarette falling from between his lips. He dropped the

lighter and lunged for the lamp on the nightstand, but when he turned it on,

the

chair was empty. He looked all around the room, but there was no sign of the

boy. He stared at the empty chair for a long moment, then lit the cigarette

with

a shaky hand.