"The man in charge of the case there was Chief Inspector Michael Blood and he, too, claimed to have suffered some sort of amnesia from the injuries he had sustained, but I was convinced that he was holding something back from me. I could see it in his aura. I pressed him, and when I asked him if the words 'living triangle' meant anything to him, he became visibly distressed. I pressed him further and asked him if he knew anything about three enchanted runestones or anyone named Wyrdrune or Kira and then it all came spilling out.

"He had all the answers I'd been seeking," Thanatos continued, "only he hadn't told anyone for fear that no one would believe him. The missing runestones were keys to an ancient and powerful spell that had held the Dark Ones prisoner in a hidden chamber deep beneath the earth. During the Annendale dig, Al'Hassan had found the hidden chamber and he had removed the runestones, in effect taking the keys out of the lock. What remained was to open the door, but Al'Hassan lacked the power to do that and he had lost possession of the runestones. They wound up among the artifacts to be sold at auction. Al'Hassan had planned to buy them back, through Mustafa Sharif, but before he could do that, the stones were stolen."

"By Wyrdrune and Kira," Slater said.

"Precisely. According to Blood, who had spoken with them, they claimed they were compelled to steal the stones, compelled by the runestones themselves, which are in some magical sense alive, the repository of the life forces of the Old Ones who had imprisoned the Dark Ones ages ago. And the runestones had chosen them because of their descent from one of the Old Ones, from whom Merlin was descended, as well. Somehow, the runestones had . . . linked up with them, joined their life energies with theirs to resist the Dark Ones, who had finally been released by Al'Hassan. That was the reason for that cataclysmic spell of his, to utilize all the energy of those thousands of lost lives to enable the Dark Ones tobreak free of their confinement. They are loose upon the world now, and I believe that at least one of them is here in Los Angeles. And that means that the three runestones must be here, as well, or soon will be."

"You said there were three people that the runestones had linked up with," Slater said. ' "This young wizard, Wyrdrune, the cat burglar, Kira ... but who's the third?"

"Morpheus," said Thanatos.

"Morpheus? Why Morpheus?" said Slater.

"Because he is descended from the Old Ones, too," said Thanatos."Morpheus is none other than Modred, son of King Arthur Pendragon and the sorceress, Morgan Le Fay, whom I had known as agent Fay Morgan. Al'Hassan had killed her and Morpheus killed Al'Hassan, but he was too late. The Dark Ones had already been released."

Slater simply stared at him

"You don't believe me," Thanatos said.

Slater exhaled heavily. "Well, you have to admit it's a pretty incredible story. I mean, if Morpheus was really who you say he is, then he'd have to be about two thousand years old!"

"How old was Merlin?" Thanatos countered.

"Well, all right, but that wasn't exactly the same thing," Slater said. "Merlin was placed under a spell. He was sort of in suspended animation all those years."

"Yet he was nevertheless alive," said Thanatos. "Look, Ben, prior to the Collapse, no one believed in magic, and yet it was around them all the time. They simply didn't know how to utilize the natural thaumaturgic forces. Or at least most of them didn't. There were some who did it unconsciously. Some people were able to develop extrasensory perception. Others had fatal diseases that suddenly, inexplicably went into remission. There were individuals who seemed to be able to do things that others couldn't, such as inducing spontaneous combustion or moving objects with the power of their minds. All these things are documented, Ben. Why is it that some people live so much longer than others and never seem to get sick? And why is it that today, even with the same thaumaturgic training available to everyone, most people who try simply can't accomplish very much and some can't do it at all, while others simply seem to have a natural affinity for magic?"

"I don't know, why do some people have artistic talent and others don't?" countered Slater. "Why are some people better athletes or better mathematicians? It's a matter of genetics."

"Exactly, Ben! Don't you see, centuries ago, the Old Ones must have interbred with us! Eventually, all that was left of them were the legends. Examine the folklore of the ancients and you will inevitably find recurring, common threads, stories of an older, godlike race of beings. The Celts called them the Old Ones. The Egyptians and the Greeks worshiped them as gods. The Arabic tribes knew them as the Djinn and the American Indians called them Kachina. Look at all the myths that have been handed down to us, stories of witches, warlocks, shapechangers, and vampires. What was really behind the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem witch trials? Were those people merely the victims of primitive superstition or did they know something we've forgotten?"

"Why are you telling me all this?" asked Slater. "If it's really true, then I should think the last thing you'd want to do would be to tell the press."

Thanatos smiled. "That's exactly how Gorman feels, but you see, Gorman hasn't really thought it through. To be sure, if this story were to come out, there'd be mass hysteria, especially after what Al'Hassan did. On the other hand, I don't think you'll print it."

"Why not?" said Slater. "It would be the biggest damn news story in the world. I'd be crazy not to print it."

"But where's your proof?" said Thanatos. "I would simply deny that this conversation ever took place. I'd say you fabricated the whole thing."

"What if I had you on tape?"

"You don't," said Thanatos. "And if you were carrying a recorder, do you seriously think I'd have told you all this without taking precautions? Even if someone were eavesdropping on us at this very moment with directional microphones, all they'd hear would the meaningless gibberish. And if I chose to, I could easily cast a spell of forgetfulness upon you so that you would not even remember meeting me."

"Like they did to that New York cop who saw something," Slater mused. "Only they didn't do it to your English detective, what's the name, Blood? Why not him?"

"I'm not sure," said Thanatos. "I can only guess. Perhaps they belatedly realized that if Blood told all he knew, it would sound so incredible that odds were no one would believe him. Perhaps they thought they could use his help again."

"You said there were at least seven people who shared this secret," Slater said.

Thanatos nodded. "The two thieves, Wyrdrune and Kira, Morpheus or Modred, Chief Inspector Blood, a Frenchwoman named Jaqueline Monet, a somewhat eccentric professor named Sebastian Makepeace, who claims to be a fairy—"

"A what?"

"A fairy," said Thanatos. He cleared his throat. "Not the kind you think. According to my information, he actually believes himself to be a sprite."

"You mean like in Peter Pan?" said Slater.

"Uh, yes, only somewhat larger. Professor Makepeace weighs about three hundred pounds."

"A three-hundred-pound fairy?" Slater said. "Are you putting me on?"

"I'm not, but perhaps Professor Makepeace is," said Thanatos. "He cuts a very flamboyant figure at New York University and in the cafe society of the Village. One would never suspect such a man of having connections in deep-cover government intelligence."

"Which he does?" said Slater.

"He does, indeed."

"All right, but that's still only six," said Slater.

"The seventh is a cockney boy named Billy Slade," said Thanatos. "A street urchin of thirteen who's already been in more than his share of trouble. And according to Chief Inspector Blood, young Billy Slade is the most fascinating of the bunch."

"Why's that?"

"He's possessed."

"Possessed," repeated Slater, not sure he'd heard correctly. "You mean like in speaking in tongues, puking green slime, and throwing furniture around?"

"Well, perhaps not quite that dramatic," Thanatos said, "but if it's true, it's dramatic enough. Blood claims he's possessed by the spirit of Merlin Ambrosius."

"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Slater. "What the hell are you feeding me here? You actually expect me to believe all this?"

Thanatos regarded Slater with a steady stare. "You see what I mean, Ben? I told you that you were never going to print this. You don't even believe it yourself. How would you expect your editors, much less your readers, to believe it?"

"They wouldn't, of course," said Slater. "Not without proof, anyway."

"Which is why I'm telling you all this," said Thanatos. "I also need proof. Chief Inspector Blood refused to testify, not that I can blame him. He knows very well that without proof, he'd be laughed off the police force. I believe him, but I need to find proof to convince my superiors. And to do that, Ben, I need your help."

"Why me?"

"Because you know this city. As the old saying goes, you know where all the bodies are buried. I'm a stranger here, whereas you have contacts. You could save me a great deal of time and time is of the essence."

Slater sighed and shook his head. "Well, I've heard some pretty wild stories in my time, but nothing to match this. Assuming it's all true—and mind you, I'm not assuming anything at this point—then this is the biggest story to come along since Merlin was released from his enchantment. What makes you think you can trust me to keep quiet about this? I am a reporter, after all."

"And one with a great deal of credibility, from what I hear," said Thanatos. "Which is precisely why I don't want you to keep quiet about it. I want the story to be told, but first we need incontrovertible proof. One of the greatest assets that the Dark Ones have is that no one knows about them. Gorman is a bureaucrat and, unfortunately, he thinks like one. He doesn't know the full extent of what I've told you just now. He thinks we're faced with a renegade sorcerer practicing necromancy and his first instinct is to keep it covered up, both to keep from warning the perpetrator that we're on to him and to keep the public from being panicked. Can you imagine how he'd react if I told him what I've just told you?"

"He'd either think you've lost it or he'd go over your head and bring the entire B.O.T. and your superiors at the I.T.C. down on your neck," said Slater with a grimace. "Typical bureaucrat mentality. C.Y.A."

Thanatos frowned. "C.Y.A.?"

"First rule of bureaucracy," said Slater."Cover Your Ass. They're all the same. Or at least most of them are. You seem to be an exception. Why is that?"

"Because first and foremost, I am a sorcerer, not a bureaucrat," said Thanatos. "If I was interested in money, I would have remained in corporate sorcery, but that held little fascination for me. In fact, it bored me to tears and I found that I was constitutionally incapable of playing corporate politics. I joined the I.T.C. not because I was interested in power or position, but because I wanted to do something constructive. I've seen far too many abuses of thaumaturgy in my time. And I wanted to do something about it. I suppose that makes me sort of a policeman."

Slater nodded. "What it makes you is a street cop. And that's something I can understand, even if your beat is in the Twilight Zone." He grinned. "Okay, I guess I'm in. Where do we start?"

A waiter approached their table. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "is you name Thanatos?"

"Yes?"

"There is a call for you from a gentleman named Gorman. He says it's very urgent."

"Thank you." Thanatos glanced at Slater. "Excuse me, I'll be right back."

A moment later, he returned, a grim expression on his face.

"Let's go," he said. "Our friend has struck again."

Slater got up quickly. "What happened?"

"The suspect in the death of Sarah Tracy," Thanatos said. "Her boyfriend, Victor Cameron. He was just discovered torn to pieces in his cell."

CHAPTER Five

The red and blue paragriffin in the palm tree behind their table was stuck on the first chorus of "Memories," singing it over and over again in a plaintive, squawking voice. The broom reached for the bowl of fruit in the center of the table and pitched a nectarine at it with unerring accuracy. The paragriffin gave a loud yelp and fell to the ground like stone, its silvery scales clinking on the patio tile. The broom shuffled over to the unconscious creature and swept it underneath a bush.

"I don't know about this," said Rydell, gazing dubiously at the broom.

"Listen, if I want schmaltzy singing at the table, I'll go to Little Italy," the broom said. It picked up a menu and perused it quickly. "What kinda menu is this, I ask you? What is this duck pizza? Who needs a greasy bird mucking up the mozzarella? Don't people in Los Angeles eat any normal food?"

"You don't even eat, so what do you care?" Wyrdrune said.

"Nu? So I don't eat. Someone's got to watch out for your digestion, boychik. I promised your mother I'd take care of you, may she rest in peace. Here, this is what you need, the club special, a nice chicken salad sandwich—wait a minute. With raisins? Gevalt! Who puts raisins in chicken salad?"

"Come on, Broom, relax, will you please?" said Wyrdrune, taking the menu away from it. "I'm just going to have a hamburger and some fries."

"What do they put in the hamburger, glazed fruit bits?"

"Broom. . . ."

"You ask for ketchup, they probably give you some kinda sauce made from peach brandy—"

"Will you put a lid on it, please?"

"Fine. Eat this chaloshes, get an ulcer, see what I care."

"That thing sounds just like my mother," said Rydell. "Its spooky."

"I know, but it sorta grows on you," said Wyrdrune.

"Yeah, like a fungus," Kira said wryly.

"You should get a festering boil on your tuchis," said the broom.

"Listen here, stick—"

"Will you stop?" said Wyrdrune. "Broom, why don't you go clean up our rooms, make yourself useful."

"So, all of a sudden, I'm a maid," the Broom said, leaving with a sniff, which was somewhat incongruous, since it didn't have a nose. "Fine. That's all I'm good for. You work your bristles down to the nubs and this is the thanks you get. ..."

Rydell shook his head with amazement. "I've never seen anything like it," he said. You know, maybe we could use it in the film."

"Bite your tongue," said Wyrdrune. "It's hard enough to live with as it is."

Rydell glanced at his watch, "Well, they ought to be here by now," he said, "but knowing Jessica, she'll show up just a little late. Not enough to piss you off, but enough to make you notice. She's refined it to an art. And of course, Landau can't possibly arrive before Jessica, even though he's probably been waiting in the parking lot for the past half hour, so they'll be coming in together whenever she arrives."

He glanced around at them. "Okay, now here's how it's going to go. Jerry's going to talk a lot. He always does. He's going to come on like he's the biggest name in the business and act as if you're not going to get him cheap, but you're going to get him cheap because I made him and he needs the work. He's just wrapped my latest picture yesterday and since I always control postproduction and the final cut, he's got nothing to do, besides which, he's probably broke already. I don't know what the hell he does with all his money, but he never seems to have any. Jessica is going to play a slightly different game. She's going to come on as if she's got about a dozen offers because she's this year's reigning sex symbol and she may actually have a few. However, she'll be dying to do this film because I've had word leak out that it's going to be a quality picture and she wants to show the world that she can do more than just wet her lips and breathe hard. She's also going to try to figure out which one of you she can manipulate and whoever she decides that is, she'll start coming on to you, hard. She can really put it out, but take my word for it, it's a control thing and nothing more than that." He grimaced. "Half the guys in the country fantasize about Jessie Blaine. If they only knew that all they'd have to do is ask. ... If you want my advice, if she gives you the come-hither, you'll shine her on, because she's trouble. However, she is box office, so we'll use her."

"What part did you have in mind for her?" asked Wyrdrune.

"She'll want Morgan Le Fay, but she's going to get Queen Guinevere," Rydell said.

Modred glanced at him and raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"Typecasting," Merlin mumbled.

"You keep quiet!" Billy said.

"What?" Rydell said. "Ah, never mind, here they come. Fashionably late, as usual."

Johnny Landau and Jessica Blaine took their time strolling across the lounge, making sure that everybody had a good opportunity to notice them. And just in case anyone forgot to look, Landau made a big show of scanning the tables, spotting Rydell and calling out, "Yo, Ron!" and waving.

"When they come to the table, don't get up," Rydell said, so that only they could hear.

"Why not?" said Wyrdrune, looking puzzled.

"It's a power thing. If you get up for them, you give up some power. Look, you've got the money, right? That makes you king. Kings don't get up for anybody."

They all remained seated as Landau and Jessica came up to the table.

"Ron, darling! I hope we're not too late," gushed Jessica, quickly positioning herself so that Landau could pull out a chair for her and she could go through the introductions sitting down. She immediately reached her hand across to Wyrdrune and flashed a dazzling smile. "Hi, I'm Jessie Blaine."

Landau was now left hanging and had to stand awkwardly as Rydell performed the introductions.

"Jessica Blaine, Johnny Landau, this is Mel Karpinsky, Michael Cornwall, and their associates, Kira ... uh. ..."

"Just Kira."

"Right. And ... . uh. . . ."

Billy just sat there, kicked back with his boots up on the table.

"Billy Slade," said Wyrdrune, indicating Billy.

Landau shook hands all around, but when he got to Billy, Billy just stared at his outstretched hand. After an awkward moment, Landau let his hand drop.

Jessica stared at Billy for a moment, not quite knowing what to make of him or what to say. She finally settled on, "Cute hair."

Billy growled at her.

Wrydrune reached over and shoved his feet off the table. "You'll have to excuse Billy," he said. "He's not quite housebroken."

"Look, Ron," said Landau, "before we go any further, I have to tell you that I absolutely love your concept. As you know, we just wrapped Blood of the Necromancer and I've already got about eight new projects on my desk, but I can tell that what you've got here is something really special. It's exciting. It's focused. It's sexy. It sounds like the sort of thing I could really get my teeth into. That, plus working with you again, well, what can I say? I haven't actually committed to anything yet, although we've reached the serious discussion stage of this one deal, but hell, you and I have got some history, right? That's gotta count for something. Still I've practically given my word. ..."

"Well, that's all right, Johnny, I understand," Rydell said. "If your plate is full, your plate is full. I wouldn't want you to back out of any deals for my sake."

A look of alarm came into Landau's eyes.

"Well, now I haven't actually made any firm commitments, yet. True, there are one or two projects I find pretty interesting, but if the deal's right, I think we might be able to work something out."

"Well, I suppose we can talk about it," Rydell said, abruptly switching gears and turning to Jessica. "What did you think of the script, Jessie?"

"I thought it was wonderful," she said. "Morgan Le Fay is a fascinating part. I see her as sort of—"

"Actually, I was thinking of you for Guinevere," Rydell said.

"Guinevere?" said Jessica, her smile slipping.

"Oh yes. She was the central figure in the Arthurian saga, you know."

"But this film is about Merlin. In this script, Guinevere is a much smaller part than Morgan Le Fay."

"Well," Rydell said with a shrug, "it's still not the final draft, you know."

"Who were you thinking of for Morgan Le Fay?"

"I was thinking of maybe using an unknown," Rydell said.

"An unknown? In the starring role?"

"Well, Merlin is the starring role," Rydell said.

"Who have you got in mind for Merlin?" Landau said quickly, anxious to get back into the conversation.

"Burton Clive."

"Burton Clive? Really?"

"He really likes the script," Rydell said. "He wants to do it. Anyway, the casting isn't entirely up to me, you know. Our backers have a say in this. After all, it's their money, right, Michael?"

"That's right, Ron," said Modred, picking up his cue and moving his leg out of reach of Jessica's foot beneath the table. "We all agreed from the beginning that casting is something that has to be very carefully considered. And the choice of director is important, too. In fact, it's vital. If Mr. Landau's already made other commitments, then perhaps that other fellow you were suggesting, what was his name?"

"You mean Bob Tomasini?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"Tomasini?" Landau said, a look of panic in his eyes. "On a project of this scope? Hell, Ron, he's just a kid! You can't be serious."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, Johnny," said Rydell. "You're telling me that you've got all these other projects and you're taking meetings left and right and it sounds like you've got a deal that's going to go through at any minute—"

"Well, yes, but I haven't actually made any firm commitments, you understand. ..."

By the time the meeting was over, Rydell had practically reduced Landau to begging that he be allowed to direct the film and he had convinced Jessica that while Morgan Le Fay was the larger female role, the part of Guinevere was in fact the meatier one and would get her the most favorable attention from the critics.

"See, the secret of taking a good meeting is to gang up on 'em," Rydell explained after they left, "and if you can't gang up on 'em, keep 'em off balance. Never do a one-on-one if you can help it. And whatever you do, never deal directly with an agent. Always end run 'em, play the agent off against the talent and vice versa. The talent's always going to be easier because they want the job and the agent simply wants to cut the best deal. So in a situation like that, you play the talent off against the agent, as if you really want the talent, but the agent is the one that's going to queer the deal. The exception is when you're dealing with a big-name talent who won't budge unless you offer the right numbers. There, you play the agent off against the talent, because the agent wants that bottom line commission and you make as if the talent's got an attitude that's going to price 'em right out of the deal. You'd really like to use 'em, but hey, your backers won't allow you to sign a contract that's a budget buster, so your hands are tied."

"So basically, it's just a hustle," Kira said.

"Yeah, it's all a game," Rydell said with shrug.

"And you have to go through this kind of thing every time you make a picture?" Wyrdrune said.

"Every time. Some are worse than others. This one's going to be a snap."

"You've really got Burton Clive for Merlin?" Wyrdrune said.

Rydell grinned. "Impressed? Don't be. Clive's a major talent and one of the biggest names in the business, but the problem with being a major talent and one of the biggest names in the business is that when you get there, you don't get a lot of work. Your whole career becomes much more precarious. The minute you get there, everybody and their mother-in-law starts sending you scripts, but you've got to be very careful about what you choose to do. It's got to be the sort of part that will reinforce your major talent/big-name image and help you build on it if you can. A part that would have allowed you to shine the year before you made it, the kind of part that had critics saying you were going to be a big star simply won't make it anymore because if you play a part like that as a big star, they'll be ten times as tough on you and say it wasn't a part worthy of your stature or that you're taking 'lesser roles.' They'll say you were miscast or, worse yet, 'underutilized.'

"The other thing is the money," Rydell continued, after taking a sip of mineral water. "The minute you start getting the big-name money, you can't ever take one penny less or the whole thing goes out the window. That, plus the thing with the right roles, automatically cuts down on the amount of work you get. And even if you do start getting offered one wonderful script after another, you've still got to be very careful because if you start doing too many pictures, you're going to get overexposed and the next thing you know, you're not getting the good scripts anymore and you're talking about doing a TV series. Burton Clive is in that Neverneverland between a rock and a hard place. He's a big-name star, a major talent, expensive as hell, and difficult to work with. He hasn't done a picture in five years, but he's recently started showing up in all the right places, just being visible to let people know he's still around. That means he's hungry. And I knew if he was hungry, I could cut a deal with him."

"Hungry?" Wyrdrune said. "With all the money he gets, he's hungry? He must be a multimillionaire."

"He probably would be, if he was smart," Rydell replied, "but you don't run into too many actors who are smart. If they were smart, they wouldn't be actors."

"Even so," said Kira, "with the kind of money Burton Clive must make, if all you did was put it in a bank, you could retire and live off the interest."

"Not in this town," Rydell said. "This town is like a Venus flytrap. It eats you alive, especially if you're well known and successful. You bite and claw and scratch your way to the top and then you have to bite and claw and scratch ten times as hard to stay there. What happens is you become extremely visible and everybody judges you by every little thing you do. You've got to buy a ten-million-dollar mansion in Bel Air because that's how someone in your position is supposed to live and if you don't live that way, then everybody starts to wonder if maybe you can't afford it and that's death in this town. If they think you can't afford to go first cabin all the way, then it means you're second-rate. So you've got to drive something that makes a statement about you and you have to wear clothes that reflect your standing in the business, which means you've got to get them from the same overpriced designers as everybody else who's worried about the same thing. You've got to be seen in all the right places, and the right places are all ludicrously expensive. You've got to give a party for all the right people every now and then and make sure that it's catered by the right caterer and protected by the right security agency and the floral arrangements done by the right florist, the bar stocked with whatever the current most unobtainable wine is and so on and so on and so on. It never ends. It's like being a junkie. No matter how much you score, it's never enough."

"If it's such a drag," said Billy, "then why do you do it?"

"Because it beats working, kid," Rydell said with a grin. "And it's kinda fun, playing with all the glitterati and putting them through their paces, but in order to appreciate it, you've got to have the right kind of attitude. See, I was broke for so many years that I learned to get by on very little. I've been blade dancing all my life. There's an old nostalgia song that's got a line that goes, 'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.' Bottom line? If my career fell apart tomorrow, I've still got enough set aside so I can retire to a small cabin in the Colorado Rockies and write books. I won't have a mansion or a chauffeured limo or fancy clothes or tables at all the best restaurants in town, but I could easily do without all that. I regard it all as just the cost of doing business. See, the trap snaps shut on you when you think you can't do without all that stuff, when your material possessions become the measure of your self-esteem. When that happens, you've lost yourself. You've been El Laid and you might as well hit the Strip and be an honest whore. End of sermon. So, you guys ready for a party?"

"Ey, I'm always ready to party," Billy said.

"You'll like the bash, kid," said Rydell. "You'll fit right in. It's at Spago-Pogo. Everybody who's anybody is going to be there."

"Who's the host?" said Modred.

"You are," said Rydell.

"Me?"

"You and your partner, Mel. Its a private party to kick off Warlock Productions and launch pre-publicity for Ambrosius, your new feature presentation."

"Pre-publicity?" said Wrydrune. "What the hell is pre-publicity?"

"That's publicizing the fact that you're going to publicize something," explained Rydell. "The fact that it's a private party ensured that everybody important in this town had to bend over backwards to wrangle an invite."

"When did you have time to send out invitations?" Modred asked.

"What invitations? I booked the club, hired a band, and told the management it was a strictly private deal for Warlock Productions; absolutely no one gets in unless they're on the guest list. The phones in my office started ringing off the hook within twenty minutes, people saying they'd lost their' invitations and wanting to make sure their names were on the list. Of course, they hadn't been invited, but they figured if they hadn't been invited, then whoever was running Warlock must really be worth meeting. So, by noon, we had a guest list and all the phones in town were melting down from people tying to get the scam on Cornwall, Karpinksy, and associates. You wanted to meet the heavyweights in this town?" He snapped his fingers. "Easy. All you had to do was snub them. So tonight, they're all coming to meet you."

 

There was nothing left of Victor Cameron. He had been quite literally torn to pieces and those pieces had been flung all about the jail. Bloody gobbets of fresh and viscera were everywhere, sticking to the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Even his bones had been scattered. It was as if he had exploded. The smell was indescribable. Gorman and Rebecca Farrell were both waiting for them when they got there.

"What the hell is he doing here?" said Gorman when he saw Ben Slater.

"He's with me," said Thanatos. "What happened?"

"With all due respect," said Gorman, "are you sure you know what you're doing? Bringing the press in on this is—"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," said Thanatos. "And I'm not in the habit of explaining myself. The matter is closed. Now what happened here?"

Gorman flushed and gave Slater an unfriendly glance but chose not to risk pursuing the matter any further.

"Nobody saw anything," Rebecca said. "The other prisoners report hearing a sound that some of them described as a loud pop, others described it as 'a sort of whump,' and then they heard Cameron screaming. He screamed once— they said they'd never heard anyone scream like that before—and then the scream was cut off in a gurgle or a 'wet sound.' The guards responded immediately, but it was all over by the time they got here. There were pieces of him all over the place and no sign of whatever did it to him."

"A manifestation," Thanatos said.

Gorman glanced uneasily at Slater. "Either that or he exploded," he said.

"No, a manifestation," Thanatos repeated, staring intently into Cameron's cell. "I can see it."

"What?" said Gorman. "You mean it's still in there?" Involuntarily, he backed away.

"No, it's gone, but I can see the trace emanations of its aura," Thanatos said. "It's fading even as we stand here."

"What does it look like?" Slater said, looking from the interior of the bloody cell to Thanatos. He couldn't see anything in there except the grisly remains of Victor Cameron.

"I can't quite make it out," said Thanatos, staring intently into the cell. "It's like a shadow ... a dark shadow with a faintly glowing border all around it... a figure. . . ..I can't tell. . . ." He sighed. "It's gone now. Let's get out of here."

"Well, so much for your suspect," Slater said with a glance at Rebecca as they left the jail.

She said nothing.

"Slater, what you saw and heard in there was strictly off the record," Gorman said.

"No," said Thanatos. "No, I want him to report exactly what he saw and heard in there."

"I'm not sure that would be wise—" Gorman began, but at a warning glance from Thanatos, he broke off abruptly.

"I don't suppose you want me to mention the aura that you saw in there?" asked Slater.

Thanatos shook his head. "No, I want you to be certain to mention it. But I would avoid drawing any conclusions. I suggest you simply give my name and report that I 'claimed' to have seen an aura in the cell. That way, you wouldn't be reporting hearsay as fact."

"True," said Rebecca. "And he'd also be setting you up."

"I hope so, Captain Farrell," Thanatos said. "I sincerely hope so. Because at the moment, we have hardly anything to go on. Have you come up with anything more on Sarah Tracy?"

"As a matter of fact, we have," Rebecca said. "She had just finished working on a film for Ron Rydell. Ask me what the title was."

"What was the title?"

"Blood of the Necromancer."

Thanatos raised his eyebrows.

"Thought you'd like that," said Rebecca.

"Has anyone spoken with Mr. Rydell yet?" Thanatos said.

"Not yet."

"Well, perhaps we should make his acquaintance. In the meantime, Gorman, I'd like you to find out as much as possible about Mr. Rydell and his films. Especially any adepts who might have been involved in his productions. I'd like all the B.O.T. files on any such individuals."

"I'll get on it right away," said Gorman.

"I'll call the paper and see what the entertainment editor's got on him," said Slater.

"Good idea. It may not get us anywhere," said Thanatos, "but on the other hand, who knows?"

"So long as it doesn't get us to wind up like Victor Cameron," Slater said with a shudder.

"There are worse things than what happened to Victor Cameron, Ben," said Thanatos grimly. "Much worse."

 

Spago-Pogo was the current "in" club among the chic set of L.A., although one couldn't tell by looking at it. Located on the Strip, it was a blocky and unattractive building, looking like a big, black, windowless cube with a flashing blue sign out front that seemed to jump up and down in a pogo stick effect. Over the years, the building had gone through any number of incarnations, from warehouse to massage parlor to S & M bar and almost all the possible permutations in between. Now it had become an upscale nightclub featuring live entertainment, nostalgic pre-Collapse cuisine, and a colorful celebrity clientele that enjoyed a decadent evening on the Strip. The cover charge varied depending on the featured attraction and on some nights, such as this one, it was impossible to get in at all unless by special invitation.

The place was already jammed by the time they arrived in Rydell's chauffeured limousine. The club's full complement of head-breakers was out in force, controlling the crowd massed around the entrance and keeping out the riffraff. The broom had remained behind in their rented cottage to play solitaire and watch TV, not caring to sample L. A.'s nightlife. Besides, its favorite TV show, "Hobbittmashers," was on. Wyrdrune was relieved. The broom had a nasty habit of always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It simply wasn't to be trusted.

They ran the gauntlet of fans and photographers and then they were inside, where a band was playing, but not so loud that people couldn't talk. Leggy waitresses were threading their way among the tables and there were a few couples on the dance floor, but mostly everyone was busy table-hopping and being seen.

"What are we supposed to do?" asked Wyrdrune as they were being led to their table.

"It's a party," Rydell said. "What do you usually do at parties?"

"Get drunk and bust up the place," said Billy.

"Hey, just look around," Rydell said. "I'm sure you'll find someone to accommodate you. I'll get up and introduce you and from there on, you guys are on your own."

As they were seated, he made his way over to the stage. He spoke briefly to one of the musicians in the band. The musician nodded and gave a signal to the band. They played a couple of flourishes and then he stepped up to the mike and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?" A moment later, after the crowd had quieted down, he added, "Your host for this evening, Mr. Ron Rydell."

The drummer did a roll and a few rim shots as Rydell stepped up to the mike amid the applause. He blew into it several times.

"Hello, this thing working? Can you all hear me out there? Yeah? All right. First of all, on behalf of myself and my new associates, Warlock Productions, I'd like to welcome all of you to the festivities. I see a lot of old familiar faces out there. Hell, I see some people that I've slept with twice!"

Laughter.

"All right, seriously now, as you all know, we're about to start production on a new, big-budget feature which a lot of you have already heard about, I'm sure, and this party is to officially launch our production, so I'd just like to take a moment or two to introduce my new associates at Warlock Productions . . . Michael Cornwall, where are you, Mike? Stand up and take a bow."

Modred stood up to a flourish from the band and applause from the crowd.

"And Mel Karpinsky, ladies and gentlemen, stand up, Mel, don't be shy."

Wyrdrune stood up and waved awkwardly at the crowd as they applauded.

"It's all right, guys, relax, I'm not going to make you give any speeches," said Rydell, and for some reason, the crowd seemed to think that it was funny. Wyrdrune realized that anything Rydell said would be laughed at or applauded, as the occasion seemed to call for, simply because Rydell was footing the bill.

"And speaking of speeches," Rydell went on, "here's a man who's always got one ready, our director, Johnny Landau. Johnny, where are ya, babe? Come on up here and say a few words!"

Landau sprang to his feet and made his way over to the mike amid the applause. He then proceeded to make some fatuous remarks about the "greatness" of Ron Rydell and the "vision" of Warlock Productions in teaming up to make "the greatest story ever told" about "the greatest mage who ever lived." He went on at some length about how "honored and humbled" he was to have been selected from among all the directors who "had fought for the privilege" of making Ambrosius! and how "pleased and delighted" he was at having been "singled out" to work with Ron Rydell once more and that he "had immediately dropped everything" when Rydell phoned him with the concept and so on and so on. He then introduced "the radiant" Jessica Blaine, taking care to refer to her as "our leading lady," despite the fact that hers was not the leading role. Jessica stood up and radiated and then Landau introduced "our star, the one and only, the celebrated Burton Give!"

Clive stood up and was duly celebrated. He was a robust man with a florid face, an aquiline profile, and shaggy, curly dark hair shot through with gray. He bowed with an expansive gesture and it was clear that he had already been doing some celebrating himself, as he was a bit unsteady on his feet. However, he managed to make it back down to his chair more or less intact.

Billy suddenly straightened in his seat. "Good God," said Merlin, "that's the man who's going to play me?"

"He's what Rydell refers to as 'bankable talent,' " Modred said.

"He's what I refer to as a drunk!" said Merlin, pulling out his pipe and packing it with his special sorcerous blend of tobacco, which smelled different with every puff. "Besides, he doesn't look anything like me at all."

"Well, I'll admit that he isn't exactly a wiry five foot four thirteen-year-old with an overly elaborate hairstyle," Modred said, "but I suppose a bit of makeup would fix that."

"Very funny," Billy said, and immediately switched back to Merlin. "You know perfectly well what I meant."

He snapped his fingers and a small jet of flame came out of his thumb. He puffed his pipe alight and clouds of lavender-scented smoke subtly changing to the heady smell of melting chocolate drifted across the table. By the time he got it going, the aroma had changed yet again and now the pipe smelled like a buffalo steak cooking on a grill.

"What difference does it make what he looks like?" Modred said. "For God's sake, Ambrosius, we're not here to make the story of your life. That's only a cover. In case you've forgotten, we're after—"

He suddenly winced with pain and clapped his hand to his chest.

At the same time, Kira gasped and clutched her gloved right hand..

And Wyrdrune felt a sharp, hot, stabbing pain in his forehead.

Khasim had just entered the club.

 

CHAPTER Six

Khasim did not sense that anything was wrong, but from the moment he walked into the club, he felt a vague unease he couldn't quite explain. He glanced around and his gaze fell on the three special effects technicians, Bert Smith, Mort Levine, and Joe Gallico. They were standing together at the bar and staring at him. He could guess why. They all felt threatened by him. They were concerned about their jobs and their dislike of him was obvious. However, he couldn't afford to be bothered by their petty jealousies and insecurities. He had something much more important to be concerned about.

And her name was Jessica Blaine.

He wasn't sure when the idea had first taken form, but he knew the exact moment when it had become an overwhelming obsession. It was the moment when they had filmed the climatic special effects scene in Blood of the Necromancer. In the film, the character that Jessica was playing had been captured by the necromancer and was about to be sacrificed to "the Evil One" when the hero arrived in the nick of time. As the conjured demon leapt at her where she lay helpless on the altar, the hero released the potent charm given to him by the necromancer's jealous mistress and the demon was banished back into the netherworld. Khasim's job in that scene had been to stand in for the actor who played the necromancer and conjure up the demon illusion, then make it disappear as if defeated by the hero's charm. The other scenes had all been filmed already, with the actors playing the necromancer and the hero performing in the scenes occurring immediately before and after the special effects sequence. All that had remained was for Khasim to conjure up the special effect and for Jessica to film her reaction shots. Something had happened to Khasim during the filming of that sequence.

He wondered what the others would have thought if they knew the demon had been real. On a subliminal level, Jessica had sensed it, which was why her terror had been as real as the demonic entity itself, but Khasim had never doubted that he could control it. Since he had started serving his Dark Mistress, his powers had increased a hundredfold. Without her, he was at best an adequate wizard who had barely squeaked through his certification exams. However, from the moment that she first appeared to him in her darkly glowing, featureless state, he had felt his powers increasing exponentially. He had stood for certification as a sorcerer and passed easily. And he was getting stronger still. All it took was the occasional "gift" of a life to the Dark Mistress.

Lately, she required more and more frequent "gifts," but Khasim always obliged her. He always told himself that they were, after all, the sort of lives no one would miss. Street people. Women who held themselves so cheaply that they sold their bodies to any man who happened by.

Khasim did not love women. He did not know what love was. Perhaps he understood love as a concept, intellectually, but he had certainly never felt it. And strangely enough, Khasim did not hate women, either. Both love and hate were emotional extremes that were completely foreign to him. What Khasim lived for was manipulating people, especially women. Using them for his own self-gratification. It was far less a matter of lust than of control. What motivated him was the obsessive desire to exercise power over others. A psychiatrist would have diagnosed him as a sociopath, utterly without a conscience, totally self-centered, and capable of feeling no pain other than his own.

To Khasim, the women that he used were little more than pawns in a bizarre and complicated chess game. In a very real sense, he defined their existence only in terms of the moves that he could put them through. Their feelings, their desires, their rights, even their very humanity were not an issue to him. Some part of him was dead inside ... or perhaps more accurately, it had never even lived. The ability to control the lives of others gave him a feeling of self-worth, a sense of satisfaction and identity that he could achieve no other way.

The Dark Mistress understood this and she had made it easier for him, feeding a hunger that she knew to be insatiable. And in supporting his psychosis, she was doing to him exactly what he did to others. Khasim understood that all too well, yet he had no choice but to accept their strange and frightening symbiosis. And it was something that was easy to accept, since it fed his appetites so well. Only those appetites kept on increasing. The cravings were becoming more and more intense.

When they had filmed that scene and he had stood up on that promontory, looking down at Jessica chained to the altar, a thrill of anticipation had gone through him. He had actually started to tremble. And when he had conjured up the demon, Jessica's terrified reaction had positively galvanized him. The sight of the demonic entity had touched off an instinctive, primal fear in her and watching it had excited Khasim unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He had done that to her! He was the demon who had terrified her so! Watching her scream and thrash in terror on the altar, it was all Khasim could do to make the demon disappear. Part of him had wanted to see her torn apart.

Ever since that moment, he had not been able to stop thinking about her. Jessica Blaine was different. Very different. She was not some naive runaway or potion addict who struggled for a living on the Strip, someone who would become just another statistic if she disappeared. She was an internationally famous actress, a sex symbol desired by men all over the world, a woman whose standing in the business gave her power and position. And in one magic, blissful moment, he had reduced her to a mewling, frightened little animal. Ever since that moment, the way she looked at him was different. It was there, planted deep down in her psyche, the certain knowledge that he was the one who did that to her and the recognition that he could do it to her again, anytime he chose. The thought intoxicated him and he was sure that it excited her.

And now a new craving had started gnawing at him. He had lost track of all the lives he had presented as "gifts" to the Dark Mistress, but in the past, she had always taken them herself. When he had asked her to claim the life of Victor Cameron, she had demanded one of his captive women as a gift and insisted that he take the life himself. The idea had frightened him at first. And then, as his fingers had closed around the jeweled hilt of the knife that she had given him, that same thrill of anticipation had run through him, much stronger than before. As he held the knife, he realized that here was the ultimate manipulation, the final control. Power over life and death, resting in his hand. He had slit the woman's throat and watched in fascination as the bright red blood welled up in the deep cut and then washed down her throat like water overflowing in a sink. His mouth had gone dry and his breath had caught. He had started to tremble as he shook with the paroxysm of—

The voice of Bert Smith snapped him out of his reverie. "You gonna be workin' on this picture, too, Khasim?"

It took him a moment to focus on the man. "Yes," he replied, after taking a deep breath. "Mr. Landau called the mission earlier and left word that my services would be required."

"Is that so?" said Joe Gallico sourly. "I wonder if there'll be any work left over for us."

"I understand there are going to be quite a few effects sequences in this film," Khasim said, not particularly wanting to pursue the conversation, but the special effects men had hemmed him in.

"Yeah, and you can do all of 'em all by yourself, isn't that right?" said Mort Levine. He was drunk.

"If necessary, yes, I could, but you know as well as I do that it would be far more expensive that way."

"Unless maybe you decided to start cutting your prices so you could pick up all the work," said Mort. "Then where would that leave us?"

"I have no intention of cutting my prices," Khasim said, trying to remain outwardly composed. 'Brother Khasim,' after all, had a certain reputation to maintain. "Why should I do that? I need the funds to support my work at the mission."

"Yeah, only if you dropped your prices for the smaller, less complex effects, you could still charge the full going rate for the big ones you do now and still pick up more funds for your damn mission from the stuff we'd lose out on."

"It almost sounds as if you're trying to talk me into it, Mr. Levine," Khasim said.

Bert gave his colleague a sharp look, then turned back to Khasim. "Nobody's trying to talk anybody into anything," he said. "We're only trying to find out your intentions because our jobs could be at stake."

"That is hardly something I can control, Mr. Smith," Khasim said. "Frankly, I have no intention of pricing you out of your jobs, but a lower grade adept, a wizard, or even a warlock for that matter, could easily undercut your prices and there would be nothing you could do about it. My mission is full of people who mistakenly believed that the world owed them a living. I do what I can to help them, but most of the damage was caused by their own attitudes, you see. In life, there are no guarantees, no promises. Conditions in life are ever changing and a man must know how to adapt to them if he is going to exercise any control over his destiny. If you are concerned about adepts making inroads into your business, then unless you can compete with them, I might suggest that you look into training for some other line of work. And now if you gentlemen will excuse me. . . ."

He had spotted Jessica Blaine.

 

"What is it?" Merlin said, and Billy's face showed his concern.

"He's here!" said Wyrdrune.

"You're certain?"

"There can be no doubt of it," said Modred, anxiously scanning the faces all around them.

"Which one is he?"

"I don't know," said Modred. He glanced at Wyrdrune. "Can you tell?"

"No. But his presence is undeniable." He slipped his headband back briefly to show Modred that his runestone was glowing brightly.

"Kira?"

She shook her head. Unconsciously, she had balled her right hand into a fist.

"We have to find him," Modred said.

At that moment, Ron Rydell came back to rejoin them, bringing several people along with him.

"I brought some folks who'd like to meet you guys," he said, and started performing the introductions. "Mike, allow me to present Sheila Smythe of Celebrity magazine"—he went on to cue him smoothly—"you know that great piece she did on Jessica last month . . . Sheila, Michael Cornwall of Warlock Productions, and this is his partner, Mel Karpinsky. . . ."

"Very pleased to meet you," Modred said in a courtly tone, taking her hand. "We were discussing your piece earlier. I found it very insightful, wouldn't you agree, Ron?"

Rydell smoothly picked up the ball and started dropping a few specifics from the article, so that Sheila Smythe would think they had both read it, when in fact Modred had not only not read it, but also he had never even seen a copy of Celebrity magazine. He had already found out all he needed to know about Sheila Smythe when he touched her hand. She was not the one. As Wyrdrune was being introduced to Sheila, Modred glanced at him and their eyes met. They were both thinking the same thing. There had to be at least several hundred people in the club. How could they possibly sort through them all? And then he noticed that Kira and Billy had both slipped away into the crowd.

 

"Warlock Productions?" Thanatos said.

"That's right," said Slater. He had just gotten off the phone with the paper's entertainment editor. "They're having a big to-do tonight over at Spago-Pogo on the Strip. Private party to kick off a new coproduction venture between Warlock Productions and Rydell, a film about your old professor, Merlin Ambrosius."

"Indeed? How very interesting. And what do we know about Warlock Productions?"

"Nothing," Slater said. "They seem to be a brand-new outfit, came out of nowhere, but word is they've got a lot of money. That party tonight is supposed to be a very hot ticket. Invitation only."

"Perhaps we should attend," said Thanatos.

"They probably won't let us in," said Slater.

Rebecca flashed her shield. "They'll let us in," she said. "Let's go."

 

"Miss Blaine."

"Brother Khasim!"

Jessica Blaine was, as usual, surrounded by a throng of men, none of whom looked very pleased by the addition of yet another rival for her attentions, but they relaxed somewhat when they heard her call him by name and introduce him, for the benefit of those who hadn't heard of him, as the man who ran that wonderful mission down the Strip, doing all that wonderful work with the street people.

"Miss Blaine, I merely wanted to say hello and once again apologize for what happened during the filming of that—"

"Oh, I've forgotten all about it," she said breezily, though her eyes clearly revealed that she hadn't forgotten it at all, that she would never forget it for as long as she lived. "And you really must stop calling me Miss Blaine. I'm Jessie to my friends."

He smiled. "Very well, Jessie. And I am simply Khasim to mine. Being called 'Brother' somehow always makes me feel as if I should be tending a garden in a monastic retreat."

"And you're not a monk, is that what you're telling me?" she said with a mocking smile, but there was challenge in her eyes.

"Well, not exactly," he replied. "Monks are generally cloistered in contemplative isolation, are they not? I don't think they make movies."

"Who knows what they do in there?" she said, grinning. "Anyway, I take it Johnny's got you back to do the effects for Ambrosius!"

"Yes, I haven't actually spoken with him yet, but he called and left a message, asking me to come tonight. He said there would be quite a few effects sequences in this film."

"That's what I hear," she said. "After all, it is about the greatest mage who ever lived. I don't think anyone's actually seen the script yet. Ron's being very secretive about it."

"Which part are you playing?"

" Queen Guinevere."

"Of course. I should have guessed," he said. "A woman of surpassing beauty and overwhelming passion. I would say it's perfect casting. Who is the lucky man who's playing Lancelot?"

"I don't know yet. The part hasn't been cast." She smiled. "Why don't you ask Ron if you could read for it?"

"Me? You're joking, surely."

"Oh, I don't know, why not?" she said. Jessica turned away and, taking his arm, started to drift away from the others, much to everyone's disappointment. "You're about the right age for the part and you're certainly attractive enough to pull it off. Unless you're worried about the love scene."

"The love scene?"

"Mmm-hmm. I understand there's going to be a very torrid love scene between Guinevere and Lancelot." She glanced up at him with a sly smile. "You know, I've always wondered what it would be like to make love with a sorcerer." She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Think of the possibilities.."

"Jessica! There you are!" Johnny Landau came plowing through the crowd like an icebreaker. "Hey, Khasim, glad you could make it! You're going to handle the effects for us, of course? We're going to need some really spectacular sequences on this one."

"Yes, well—"

"Good, good, it's all settled then. Have you met Burton Clive yet?"

"No, I—"

"He's right over there by the bar. Why don't you go up and introduce yourself? You'll be doing a lot of standing in for him. Jessica, there's somebody I want you to meet. ..."

As he pulled her away, she turned and gave Khasim a smoldering look over her shoulder. Khasim thought that before too long, something decidedly unpleasant might happen to Johnny Landau.

 

Kira and Billy worked their way through the crowd, scanning all the faces. Kira had taken off her glove and she held her right hand close to her side, cupping it to cover the glow of the sapphire runestone. It would tell her when they were close. And they were slowly closing in. She could feel it.

"Hey, whoa, darlin'! Don't run by so fast! Stop and say hello!"

A young man grabbed her by the elbow as she went past and spun her around. He was well built and tall and blond and slickly groomed, wearing a silk, laced dueling shirt that was open to his waist. There were several amulets around his neck. His teeth were perfect and he was darkly tanned.

"My name's Lance," he said. "Lance Stevens, Mega-sound Recordings. So, tell me, you watch TV or do you have a job?"

"Excuse me—"Kira began, but he interrupted her.

"Excuse you? Oh, now come on, we haven't even had a chance to get to know each other! Loosen up a little."

"I said, excuse me," Kira said, twisting away from him and moving on.

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, sweetheart—" He started after her, but Billy stood in his way.

"Look, piss off, mate, she's with me," said Billy.

Stevens glanced down at Billy with surprise. "What's this? You don't even look old enough to be in here, little man."

"Ey, she ain't interested, right? Get the message? In other words, sod off!"

"What the hell does that mean? You mouthin' off at me, you little shit? Get out of my way before I give you a spanking."

He reached out to shove Billy aside, but as he did so, Billy's hand darted into the pocket of his leather jacket and brought out a butterfly knife. As Lance grabbed him by the coat, Billy snicked the blade out with a quick flick of his wrist and pressed the point into his groin. Lance froze with a surprised expression on his face.

"Don't push it, mate, unless you want to sing soprano. Got me?"

"Why, you little son of a—"

"Ah-ah!" Billy pressed the point home slightly and Lance gasped.

"All right! All right, you little bastard!"

He let him go. Billy backed up, flicked his wrist to close the blade, and put the knife away, but the moment he turned to follow Kira, Stevens lunged at him.

Billy spun around suddenly, only it was no longer Billy. His eyes blazed with blue fire and twin beams of bright blue thaumaturgic energy shot out from them, striking Stevens in the chest. It happened much too quickly for anyone to fully register what had occurred. There was a very brief, incandescent flash and for a fraction of a second, Stevens was wreathed in a bright blue glow, and then he simply stood there, stunned—and stark naked.

Somebody cut loose with a high-pitched scream. Stevens shook his head to clear it and then, with a shock, realized that all his clothes had suddenly disappeared. He yelped and hunched over, covering his privates, but not before everyone around him had seen his shortcomings revealed. He bolted through the laughing crowd, scuttling bent over toward the exit.

Khasim heard the commotion and turned to see what had happened. His gaze fell on Kira, who was coming toward him through the crowd, scanning all the faces around her intently. She hadn't seen him yet.

Khasim's gaze was drawn down to her right hand. There seemed to be some sort of blue glow coming from inside it. He stiffened and his eyes glazed over. He pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head, turned, and started heading quickly and purposefully for the door.

Kira felt the stone start throbbing. She looked quickly to her right and then her left and spotted a hooded figure moving away from her, through the crowd. Suddenly, the runestone in her palm was burning.

"It's him," she said. "Billy, it's him!"

She started pushing her way through the crowd.

 

On any given night, one was apt to see just about anything on Sunset Strip, but neither Thanatos nor Ben Slater nor Rebecca Farrell were quite prepared for the first thing they saw when they pulled up in front of the entrance to the club.

It was the sight of a naked man struggling with a woman dressed in an expensive designer cloak. The cloak seemed to be the object of their altercation. The naked man was desperately trying to get it away from her and had succeeded in yanking it partway off her shoulder, but the woman had paid a small fortune for the cloak and she was hanging on like grim death.

Her companion, another young woman, had joined the fray and as they pulled up, she was in the process of belaboring the naked man about the head and shoulders with her purse. He was attempting to fend her off with one hand while he continued trying to wrest the cloak away from her friend with the other, but he was rapidly losing the contest. In fact, as Slater, Thanatos, and Farrell got out of the police car, the outcome was suddenly decided by a punishing haymaker to the naked man's essentials. He made a sound like a squeaky disc brake and slowly sank down to the sidewalk like a balloon deflating. Lance Stevens was not having a good night.

"All right, nobody move!" Rebecca said. "Police!"

"Don't worry," said the woman with the cloak, "he's not going anywhere."

A crowd was gathering around them. With all the focus of attention upon the writhing naked man and the two angry women standing over him, no one noticed the hooded figure leave the club and duck quickly into the alleyway beside it. Nor did anyone notice when, a moment later, Kira came running out and stopped on the sidewalk in front of the entrance, looking both ways up and down the street. She hesitated, started toward the knot of people on the sidewalk, then abruptly changed her mind and ran to the alley. For a moment, she stood at the mouth of the alleyway, staring into it intently, then she went in.

Billy came shoving through the crowd, ignoring the outraged protests of the people he pushed aside as he made his way to Wyrdrune's side.

"Come on," he said, grabbing Wyrdrune's arm and pulling him away from a studio executive. "Kira's spotted him! Where's Modred?"

"I don't know, he was here just a second ago. I'll use the mind link—"

"No time! Come on!"

They hurried for the door.

Kira walked slowly down the dark alleyway, listening for the slightest sound. She'd been just behind him and there was no sign of him when she came out the door. He had to have come this way. Whatever was going on out in front of the club could be just a diversion or it could have nothing to do with him at all. Either way, she couldn't let him get away. And the runestone throbbing in her palm told her that she was on the right track.

She stopped and listened.

She couldn't hear anything except for the muffled sounds of music coming through the wall of the club. Her right hand was trembling; the runestone seemed to be vibrating in her palm. He was here, close by, waiting for her. She was sure of it. She glanced over her shoulder nervously. Where the hell was Billy? He'd been right behind her when she left the club, or so she thought. She reached inside her leather jacket and felt the bone handle of the commando knife in its sheath, sewn securely into the inside of her jacket. She started to summon up the mind link—

And at that moment, something hit her.

Wyrdrune and Billy came running out of the club and the first thing they saw was a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk. There were two police vehicles at the curb, a patrol unit, and an unmarked car. For a moment, Wyrdrune had the terrible image of Kira stretched out on the sidewalk, dead, but then he saw a man with a blanket draped over him being handed into the patrol car and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Do you see her?" asked Billy.

"No," said Wyrdrune as they both looked up and down the street for any sign of her.

"Kira!" Billy shouted.

Thanatos heard the name and spun around.

And suddenly they heard her scream. "Billy!"

It came from the alleyway. Wyrdrune and Billy took off at a dead run. Thanatos grabbed Slater by the arm.

"Come on, Ben!"

They pushed their way through the crowd of curious onlookers.

The jarring impact on her back had knocked Kira to the ground, but a lifetime of survival on the streets of New York City had given her incredibly quick reflexes in addition to the strength and acrobatic skills she had developed as a cat burglar. She instinctively dropped down to her knees, using her attacker's downward momentum to fling him off her back. As he leapt at her again, she came up quickly with the knife and slashed at her assailant. There was an unearthly howl of pain and Kira froze.

What she was facing wasn't human. The figure in the hooded cloak had two arms and it stood on two legs and it was dressed in human clothing, but there the similarity ended. She couldn't see too clearly in the darkness of the alley, but she could see enough to make out that the creature's face was covered with fur and its mouth was less a mouth than a muzzle, with saliva dripping from its fangs. The eyes were yellow, lambent like a wolf's, and it growled as it crouched before her, clutching itself where she had wounded it.

"Jesus Christ..." she said, and then she heard Wyrdrune call her name.

"Warlock!" she shouted, and as she called to him, the creature came at her again.

It caught her knife hand and slammed her up against the wall. She could feel the warmth of its fetid breath as it snarled, its muzzle inches away from her face, and then the stone in the palm of her right hand flashed brightly, illuminating the alley with its sapphire glow, and a beam of pure thaumaturgic force lanced out from it and struck the creature in the face.

The monster screamed.

"Kira!"

Wyrdrune and Billy came running into the alley. Billy flung out his arm and blue fire crackled around his outstretched fingers as Merlin sent a bolt of thaumaturgic energy flashing toward the creature. It missed and struck a dumpster, causing the metal to soften and run like molten plastic. Wyrdrune tore off his headband and the emerald set into his forehead flashed with green fire, sending a bright green beam of force directly at the creature, but before it could strike home, the creature disappeared. It had thrown up its cloak and simply vanished.

Wyrdrune and Billy came running up to Kira.

"Are you all right?" said Merlin, with concern.

She nodded.

"Okay, hold it right there! Police!"

Rebecca Farrell stood at the mouth of the alley with her gun drawn. There were two other officers beside her, as well as Thanatos and Slater.

"Shit," said Wyrdrune. He grabbed Kira and Billy, quickly mumbled a teleportation spell under his breath, and all three of them disappeared.

The police officers opened fire.

"Hold it! Hold it!" Rebecca shouted. "Cease fire! What the hell are you shooting at?

The two officers looked at her sheepishly and put their guns away.

"What the hell was all that about?" asked Slater.

"Get over to the club," Rebecca said to the two officers. "Cover the backdoor and get some backup over here. I don't want anyone to leave until we've had a chance to ask some questions."

Thanatos simply stood there, staring at the spot where they had stood. There was no longer anybody there, but he could distinctly see two auras . . . one bright blue, and one bright green.

 

CHAPTER Seven

Khasim had never felt such agonizing pain before in his entire life. It burned like fire, no, worse man fire, it felt as if his face had been torn off and then the raw, bloody, throbbing flesh beneath slathered with sulfuric acid. He materialized in his hidden sanctuary underneath the mission and collapsed to his knees, crying out and hammering his head against the floor, his hands covering his ruined face.

"Help me ... help me. . . ."he moaned.

He struggled to his feet, but crashed into a coffee table and fell to the floor again, whimpering and moaning like a wounded animal.

"Help me, Mistress. . . . Help me, please. ..."

His captive, spellbound women came in answer and he grabbed the first one that came near him, pulling her down to the floor. His hood fell back and she saw his face. She screamed.

He raised his hand, a furry paw with long, razor-sharp claws, and brought it down hard, again and again and again, until she screamed no more. And then he lunged at the next one and brought her down as well, tearing at her throat with his teeth.

Behind him, a darkly glowing figure stood like a three-dimensional shadow outlined in a thin border of bright light, a light that seemed to grow brighter as each unfortunate woman died. Finally, having slaughtered them all, the pain-racked beast that was Khasim huddled on the floor, pawing at the rug with bloody claws and whimpering. The shadowy, dark form stretched an arm out toward him and gradually, the pain began to ebb. Khasim spasmed on the floor as he slowly reverted to his human form. His face was horribly disfigured, but as he lay there, twitching and shaking, gasping for breath, his wounds magically healed. Moments later, there was no trace of the disfigurement caused by the thaumaturgic beam or of the knife wound that Kira had inflicted on him.

Slowly, Khasim got up to his hands and knees, facing the specter in the corner. "Thank you," he said, his voice a ragged croak. "Thank you, Mistress, thank you. ..."

"You failed me, Khasim," she said, her sepulchral voice echoing throughout the room.

"Forgive me, Mistress. I did not think. . . . That is, I meant to. ..." He shook his head, bewildered. "I don't know what happened. I don't know how. . . . Who was that girl?"

"She is my enemy, Khasim. And you let her live."

"I tried, Mistress, but—"

"But you failed."

Khasim hung his head and nodded miserably. "Yes, Mistress. But there were those others—"

"Have I ever failed you, Khasim?"

"No, Mistress. Never."

"Have I not given you everything you ever asked for?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said in a small voice, afraid to look up at her dark, featureless form.

"And yet still you fail me."

"I'm sorry, Mistress," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I won't fail you again."

"If you do, Khasim, I will have your life," she said.

He trembled. "I will find her, Mistress, I swear it. I will find her and make you a present of her life. But who is she? And that blazing jewel, what was it?"

"There are three of them, Khasim, and you can be thankful that you only encountered two of them tonight. When they are all together, the runestones are invincible."

"The runestones?"

"A sapphire, an emerald, and a ruby. Three enchanted gems imbued with untold power. Each is bonded to a different individual, melded with their life force. Without the runestones, they are nothing, but when the three stones are in concert, their power is almost limitless. Yet separately, they can be defeated."

"Then I shall do it, Mistress. I will track them down and I will bring you these enchanted stones."

"No! They must be destroyed!"

"Destroyed? But if they have such power, then surely—"

"Do you question me, Khasim?"

"No, Mistress." For a brief instant, he glanced up at her, then quickly looked away.

"When the time comes, I will tell you how the stones must be destroyed," she said. "But for now, we must prepare. I must make you stronger so that you may deal with them and for that, we need more lives, Khasim. Many more lives."

 

"Look, I don't know what's going on," said Ron Rydell, "but is anybody filing charges here? I mean, has there been some kind of crime committed? What's this all about?"

"We would merely like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Rydell, that's all," Rebecca said. "You wouldn't mind just answering a few questions, would you?"

"Look, Captain, I've got nothing against cooperating with the police, you understand, but I don't really think I'm out of line if I demand to know what the hell is going on. Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for any trouble, but you come in here without any warrants, you interrupt a private party, and you inconvenience a lot of very important people. I sure as hell hope you have a damned good reason for all this! I mean, has somebody been killed, or what?"

"First of all, Mr. Rydell," Rebecca said, "we do not require a warrant to enter public premises—"

"It was a private party—"

"That makes no difference. I'm sorry if your guests are being inconvenienced, we'll try to wrap this up as soon as possible. In fact, if we could proceed, we could finish that much sooner and—"

"Wait a minute," Rydell said, looking at Slater. "I know you. Ben Slater, right? The columnist?"

"Have we met?" said Ben.

"No, I recognized you from your picture. I read your column all the time."

"Thank you."

"You're a hell of a writer."

"Thanks again."

"Could we please get on with this?" Rebecca said, slightly exasperated.

"You usually let newspaper people tag along on your investigations, Captain Farrell?" countered Rydell.

"Mr. Slater is not officially part of this investigation," said Rebecca patiently. "However, he is assisting in an unofficial capacity and . . . why the hell am I explaining this to you?"

"This is where you're supposed to say, I'll ask the questions, Rydell,' " Rydell said with a grin.

Slater tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

"Perhaps I should ask the questions," Thanatos said.

"And who are you?" Rydell said.

Thanatos reached into his coat pocket and took out his I.D. Rydell glanced at it briefly and raised his eyebrows.

"I.T.C., huh? Okay, so I'm impressed." He glanced from Rebecca, to Ben and back to Thanatos. "Precinct captain, big-time investigative columnist, and now a field agent for the I.T.C. Something sure as hell is up. But you guys aren't going to tell me what it is, right?"

"Right," said Thanatos.

Rydell nodded. "Okay. Fine. Then you can take your questions and shove 'em, because I haven't done anything wrong and I'm not saying anything until I know what the hell this is all about. What do you think about that?"

"I think that would be rather ill advised, Mr. Rydell," said Thanatos calmly. "Because, you see, if you refused to cooperate, I could ask Captain Farrell to place you under arrest."

"On what charge?"

"Oh, I'm quite certain she could think of something," Thanatos said nonchalantly. "Of course, it probably wouldn't stick, but by the time your attorney managed to get you released, there would have been plenty of time for me to place you under a spell of compulsion, forcing you to answer any questions I might choose to put to you. Such as, have you anything at all to hide, Mr. Rydell?"

Rydell licked his lips nervously. "You couldn't do that."

"Certainly I could."

"That's illegal."

"Well, in point of fact, the law is somewhat nebulous on that point, since in a case such as this, it becomes a rather complicated question of jurisdiction. However, I could easily avoid potential difficulties by questioning you and then making you forget you'd ever been questioned. In any case, I don't see where it would make a great deal of difference to you either way . . . unless, of course, you had something to hide. But then again, most people do, don't they?"

Rydell turned pale. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "All right, you've made your point. What do you want to know?"

"What was the purpose of this occasion tonight?" asked Thanatos.

"To publicize my next film, Ambrosius!"

"Which you are coproducing with another company, is that correct?" said Thanatos.

Rydell stared at him. "I see you've already asked some questions," he said. "Yeah, that's right. My backers for this film are Warlock Productions."

"And are they here tonight, as well?"

"Well, yeah, it's their party," Rydell said. He looked around. There were a lot of people at the bar, the others were all milling around, watching and talking among themselves, trying to figure out why the police had crashed the party. "I don't see them anywhere," Rydell said, "but they're probably around here someplace."

"Probably?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, I didn't see 'em leave."

"What are their names?"

"What?"

"The principals of Warlock Productions," Thanatos said. "Your new partners. What are their names?"

"Mike Cornwall and Mel Karpinsky."

"I see. There are only those two?"

"Well, there's their . . . uh, executive assistants. . . ."

"And what are their names?"

Rydell hesitated, unsure of where this was leading. Knowing exactly who and what his partner was made him even more uneasy. He wondered how much the I.T.C. man knew.

"Billy Slade and Kira ..." He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know her last name. She never uses it."

"Would she happen to be a striking brunette, about five foot six, slim, with a penchant for wearing black leather jackets and a glove on one hand?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"And would Billy Slade be a teenaged boy with an outlandish hairstyle and a cockney accent?"

"Yeah, but—"

"And Mel Karpinsky, he'd be in his mid-twenties, with long, curly blond hair, usually wearing either a hat or a headband?"

"That's right. Listen, how did you—"

"And Michael Cornwall would be blond, bearded, and muscular, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses, an elegant wardrobe, and a British accent?"

Rydell glanced nervously from Thanatos to Rebecca. "What is this? What's going on?"

Thanatos looked up at Rebecca. "I think we're finished here, Captain Farrell," he said, standing up from the table.

Rebecca seemed surprised. "You don't want to take him in for questioning?"

"No, I don't think that will be necessary. I think Mr. Rydell has told us all he knows. Let's leave him to enjoy his party." He turned back to Rydell. "I'm sorry if we've inconvenienced you and your guests, Mr. Rydell. We're quite finished now, so we'll be leaving. Thank you for your cooperation."

Rydell simply stared at him, not knowing what to say.

Thanatos started to leave, but then he hesitated and turned back. "By the way, I would appreciate it if the next time you see him, you could give your partner, Mr. ... uh ... Cornwall"—he stressed the name ironically—"a message for me. Tell him that an old friend of his mother's said hello."

Once they were outside, he turned to Rebecca and said, "I think Mr. Rydell should be watched closely. I suggest you assign your most experienced detectives to the task, people who are expert at not being spotted. Rydell probably wouldn't spot them in any case, but our Mr. Cornwall, he's a horse of an altogether different color."

"You know a lot more about this case than you've told me, Thanatos," Rebecca said. "I think it's about time you filled me in on all the details. I don't like working in the dark, especially when I know you're telling Slater more than you've told me."

Thanatos paused and seemed to consider for a moment. "You're quite right, Captain Farrell. Please make no mistake, I fully appreciate your position. However, if I've told Ben Slater more than I've told you, it's because he does not have to account to a police administration that may not quite see eye to eye with me when it comes to my methods of handling this case."

"Are you saying you don't trust me?" she said.

"It's not a question of trust," he replied as they headed back toward the car. "You misunderstood me. You may recall that a number of times, I've commented on the jurisdictional problems inherent in this case. Officially, what we have here is a homicide that has occurred within your jurisdiction. Unofficially, we've all acknowledged that necromancy is behind it, which makes it the jurisdiction of the Bureau. However, this case is also directly connected with a series of grisly murders that took place in London last year, as well as a number of other deaths, and that would make it my jurisdiction. Unfortunately, I can't prove that, at least not yet, so officially, I can't take charge of the case. Gorman can at least prove necromancy, but he doesn't want to go public with it, so he won't officially take charge, either. And that, Captain Farrell, leaves you officially in charge, so that you can officially take all the heat while Gorman and I unofficially pursue the case. You see where I'm heading, don't you?"

"You're saying that what I don't know, I can't be held responsible for," she said.

"Precisely. I knew you'd understand."

"I understand just fine, but I still think it stinks. I don't work that way, Thanatos. If you and Gorman want to cover your asses officially, that's your business, but I take full responsibility for what happens in my precinct and I want to know what's going on."

Thanatos studied her thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Only not here. Where can we go to talk?"

"My place isn't too far from here," said Ben.

"Fine, we can go there. But first, we'd better have someone detailed to keep an eye on Rydell. It's liable to be a very long night and you can be certain that before it's over, people are going to die."

 

Wyrdrune materialized back in their cottage at the The Beverly Hills Hotel with a pop of displaced air.

"Boy, that was close," he said. "We almost got ourselves shot by . . ."

His voice trailed off as he suddenly realized he was alone.

"Oh no," he said, shutting his eyes and bringing his hand up to his forehead. "Don't tell me. ... Kira? Billy?"

He ran over to the closet and opened it.

"Kira?"

There was no one inside.

"Billy?"

He ran to the door and opened it. There was no sign of them outside, either.

"Oh, hell," he said, thinking of all the places he might have accidentally teleported them to. "Now what've I done?"

There was a sudden pop of displaced air and Kira and Billy materialized before him.

Wyrdrune breathed a sigh of relief. "There you are! Where were you?"

"Where were we?" Kira said irately. "Where you teleported us, you bonehead! Up on the roof! If it wasn't for Merlin, we'd still be there!"

Billy shook his head and spoke with Merlin's voice. "I just can't understand it. Why you can't master a simple spell like teleportation. ..."

"He masters it all right when it comes to himself," said Kira sourly. "He arrived where he was supposed to, didn't he? But me he drops into fountains, dumpsters, pops me into closets, up on the roof. . . . One of these days I'm liable to wind up inside a wall and then what do I do?"

"Look, I'm sorry, but I was in a hurry. In case you didn't notice, they were about to start shooting at us!"

"We would have been perfectly safe if you'd left it up to me," said Merlin. "You were always so impetuous, Karpinsky, so impatient! All things considered, it's a miracle that you've survived this long."

"Hey," said Wyrdrune, "I'm not the one who died, remember?"

"Very funny."

"Haven't you two forgotten something?" Kira said. "What about Modred?"

"Modred can take care of himself," said Merlin. "The important thing is, are you all right?"

Kira nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay." She held up her right hand, palm open. "Thanks to this."

"Did you get a good look at him?" asked Wyrdrune.

She shook her head. "No, not before he changed. I took a piece out of him, though."

"That probably won't help us, either," Merlin said. "Unless he's been fatally injured, the Dark One can heal him. It would require a strong infusion of life energy, but the Dark Ones and their acolytes have never hesitated when it came to murder."

Wyrdrune watched as Billy clasped his hands behind his back and slowly started pacing back and forth across the room, the way Merlin always used to do in class.

"What puzzles me is the rather serendipitous arrival of the police," he continued. "Even if someone had reported a disturbance almost immediately, there could not have been enough time for the police to respond so quickly."

"Maybe they just happened to be driving by," said Wyrdrune. "There was some sort of a disturbance outside the club."

"Yes," said Merlin, "only along with the uniformed officers, there were also several in plain clothes. Detectives. Why would detectives respond to a public disturbance?"

The phone rang. Since he was right next to it, Merlin picked it up.

" 'Allo?" said Billy. He listened a moment. "Michael? No, 'e's not. I dunno where 'e is." He paused. "Yeah, 'e's 'ere. 'Old on."

He held the phone out to Wyrdrune. "It's Rydell. 'E sounds a bit frantic."

Wyrdrune took the phone. "Hello, Ron?"

"Where the hell did you guys disappear to?" Rydell said. "The police were just here!"

"The police?" said Wyrdrune, glancing up at the others. He put down the receiver and turned on the speakerphone so they all could hear. "Why? What happened?"

"Suppose you tell me," Rydell said. "The precinct captain herself was here. And Ben Slater, the columnist, was with 'em, too. He's the top investigative reporter in the city, in case you didn't know. And they knew all about you. The guy asking the questions was an agent of the I.T.C., no less."

"Wait a minute," said Wyrdrune. "The I.T.C. was asking questions about us? What did you tell them?"

"I told them we were working on a film together, what was I supposed to tell them? That's all I know! And, believe me, I don't want to know anymore! The I.T.C. guy threatened to take me down to headquarters and put me under a spell of compulsion to answer questions, questions like do I have anything to hide? You tell our friend 'Michael' about that, okay? I don't know how much he's told you, but you tell him it wouldn't look too good for either of us if I was made to answer questions like that!"

"Take it easy," Wyrdrune said. "The man was bluffing. He couldn't question you like that. It's against the law. It's a violation of your rights."

"Yeah, that's what I told him," said Rydell. "And you know what he came back with? He said it didn't matter, because he could put me under a spell to forget it ever happened. Said it calm as you please, right in front of a precinct captain and a newspaperman, no less! And they didn't even bat an eye!"

"What else did they ask you?" Wyrdrune said.

"Nothing. The guy just asked me who the principals of Warlock Productions were and then he described you to me and asked if the descriptions matched."

"Hold it," Wyrdrune said. "He described us to you? You mean you described us to him, don't you?"

"No, man, I mean he described you to me, right down to a 'T.' And he said something else, too. I don't know what the hell it means. He said, 'Tell Mr. Cornwall'—and he said it like he knew it wasn't his real name—'that an old friend of his mother's said hello."

Wyrdrune looked at Kira and Billy with a worried expression. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing. After that, they left. Look, I don't know what you guys are into and like I said, I don't want to know, okay? But whatever it is, do me a favor, just tell me this—does it have anything to do with me and with the film?"

"No," said Wyrdrune. "It has nothing to do with you or with the film."

"You're sure?"

"Ron—"

"Well, look, whatever it is, please, just keep me and the movie out of it. And when you see him, you tell our mutual friend that we've got to talk. No, wait, maybe that's not such a hot idea. I don't want to see anything interfere with the production. We're building sets, we're scouting locations, we're getting ready to do wardrobe, I've got a thousand things to worry about without having the police around, so maybe you guys just shouldn't come around, huh? I don't want to worry about anything happening to shut me down—Jesus, you don't think they'd do that, do you? They wouldn't shut me down?"

"I don't see why, Ron," Wyrdrune said. "You're not doing anything wrong. You're just making a movie."

"Right. Right. So let's keep it that way, okay?"

"Fine, Ron. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

"Ask him who the agent was," said Merlin.

"Oh, Ron? By the way, who was the agent that you spoke to?"

"Foreign guy. He used a mage-name. Thanatos. Why?"

"Nothing, just curious."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Rydell said. "Look, you're not going to get me mixed up in anything, are you? You're not going to pull out and leave me high and dry?"

"What are you worried about, Ron?" said Wyrdrune. "You've already got the money, right?"

"Yeah, right, but—"

"But nothing. Just make your film, Ron. Stop worrying so much. Good-bye."

Wyrdrune hung up the phone and shook his head. "For all he knows, we're wanted for mass murder or something and all he's worried about is his movie."

"That's Hollywood," said Kira.

"He's nobody's fool, that's for certain," said Merlin thoughtfully.

"Who, Rydell?" said Wyrdrune.

"No, no, I was talking about Thanatos," said Merlin.

"The I.T.C. agent?" Kira said. "You know him?"

"I taught him," Merlin said. "His truename is Bryant Winslow. I named him Thanatos because I often joked that he would be the death of me. He was one of my most gifted students, but he was far from zealous in his application." He glanced pointedly at Wyrdrune. "Not unlike some others I could mention."

Wyrdrune grimaced.

"What did he mean with that line about being an old friend of Modred's mother?" Kira asked. "He couldn't possibly know about Modred, could he?"

"Morgana was also an agent of the I.T.C," said Merlin. "And her death was the one loose end that we could not tie off. If Thanatos was assigned to investigate it, it's just possible that somehow he's managed to piece it all together."

"But how?" said Kira.

"There's only one explanation I can think of," Merlin said, fishing his pipe out of his pocket and filling it. "He must have spoken with Chief Inspector Blood."

"I don't believe it," Wyrdrune said. "Blood helped us. He understood what we were up against. Hell, he was there, he saw it! He wouldn't set the I.T.C. on us!"

"No, I don't believe he would," said Merlin, puffing his pipe alight. The pungent aroma of melting rubber wafted across the room. "Unless he believed that he was helping us."

. "How does talking to the I.T.C. help us?" Wyrdrune said wryly. "Al'Hassan was an official of the I.T.C, remember?"

"Yes, I remember all too well," said Merlin, his pipe now giving off an odor of fresh-baked, apple-cinnamon pie. "Still, perhaps the I.T.C. could help us."

"A bunch of sorcerers turned bureaucrats?" said Wyrdrune derisively. "Even if we could get them to believe us, they'd only wind up starting a panic, getting in the way and getting themselves killed. They wouldn't stand a chance against the Dark Ones. You tried to stand against them by yourself and look what happened."

"Please, don't remind me," Merlin said, blowing out a stream of violet-scented smoke. "You think I enjoy being trapped in the body of this prepubescent leather fetishist?"